D A Miller, "The Novel and the Police" (Book Note)

D. A. Miller's The Novel and the Police is a groundbreaking analysis of Victorian novels, arguing that the invisibility of the police in these works is their most compelling feature. Miller argues that the police are invisible not because they are not present, but because the novels have systematically internalized the work of the police within everyday life practices and suppressed the evidence of that operation. This argument is supported by individual readings of familiar texts, which produce an important reassessment of our understanding of the nineteenth-century novel in England.

The novel challenges the idea that the novel is a subversive genre that celebrates and encourages misconduct, and rejects the possibility that the novel emerges out of a dialectic of "authority and molestation." For Miller, these views make a fundamental mistake because they dismiss the "radical entanglement between the nature of the novel and the practice of the police." When the novel promises freedom or originality or lawlessness by disavowing or repudiating the police, it assumes a brilliant disguise. The novel's appearance of subversiveness is, in fact, the most powerful and deceptive weapon it deploys as an enforcer of social discipline.

Miller's arresting interpretations of novels by Dickens, Trollope, and Collins make this case by tracing out the specific ways in which the culture's "policing function" has penetrated the lines of the novel, using fiction to steal into and control the very refuges we have erected to safeguard our privacy - our conceptions of home, family, spirituality, sexuality, and, most importantly, the "self." Like other new historicalist critics who acknowledge Foucault as their inspiration, Miller reveals the ways in which literature serves the interests of certain social institutions and authorities.

Brantlinger's book and the growing field of literature and science can look forward to detailed reconsiderations of Darwinism and social Darwinism, scientific theory, and social telos.

Miller's interpretations of novels by Dickens, Trollope, and Collins reveal the ways in which culture's "policing function" has penetrated the lines of the novel, using fiction to steal into and control the very refuges we have erected to safeguard our privacy. Like other new historicalist critics who acknowledge Foucault as their inspiration, Miller reveals the ways in which literature serves the interests of certain social institutions and authorities. His argument demonstrates how the novel's apparent "delinquency" makes it an especially effective pawn of the "social order whose totalizing power circulates all the more easily for being pulverized"-for being ground down and mixed into the matrix of everyday life. He uncovers this complicity both thematically and formally in a range of representative novelistic genres, from the "massive thematization of social discipline" in Dickens's work to "the two most important inflections" of it in the realist and sensation fiction of Trollope and Collins, respectively.

Miller's analysis of Barchester Towers is representative because it begins with the fact that the police seem completely absent from this novel. He is suspicious of Trollope's containment of the police within the narrator's comic and ironic comparisons of Mr. Slope's tirades about keeping the sabbath to a policeman's pouncing upon a criminal, for example. Such tactics imply that Trollope's is an essentially safe society where "real" police work is unnecessary. However, Miller maintains that the police are negated in this novel only because, in the institutions it represents, in the attitude it encourages toward those institutions, and in the tolerantly omniscient narration it employs, the novel itself is acting as the secret agent of the police.

The obscured disciplining of religious life through Trollope's tolerant representation of it in the realistic novel is performed upon the physical world through the more dramatic tactics of the sensation novel. The themes of physical excitation (like sexual violence or even nervousness), against which the individual normally defines themselves, are inscribed into the individual's "reading body" in the sensation novel, where they can invoke the proper response of repulsion and thus be monitored and "normalized." Miller argues that the morality of sensation fiction lies in its ultimately fulfilled wish to abolish itself: to abandon the grotesque aberrations of character and situation that have typified its representation, which now coincides with the norm of the Victorian household.

For all their imagination and originality, Miller's interpretations of novels can be stunning in a more literal way, tending to constrain our own sense of freedom-as readers and as members of society. The Novel and the Police commits us to an endless labyrinth of double binds in which even our hopes for our own freedom from society's oppressive discipline are exposed as delusive "effects" of that discipline, perpetuating and drawing us further into its all-pervasive power.

The tension between David Miller's individual interpretations and the gloomy implications of his larger argument is the source of this book's peculiar power. Miller argues that even our ideas of freedom are only the effects of our imprisonment, and perhaps the recognition and articulation of that imprisonment may be the first step in effecting a break from it or at least in preserving ourselves within it. This logic may belong more to Freud than to Foucault.

Miller cites Foucault repeatedly and announces his debt to Surveiller et punir in the very first chapter. He mentions Freud twice, but then only in passing, toward the end of the book. Nevertheless, Freud is everywhere present in The Novel and the Police. The book's interests and rhetoric increasingly reveal themselves to be more psychologically oriented than its title suggests.

The novel centers not on the police, but on "less visible, less visibly violent modes of social control," on the subject who has internalized the modes of social discipline and become "habituated to psychic displacements, evacuations, reinvestments." Miller seems to be less interested in the political nature of the unconscious than he is in the fact that the political is itself unconscious. When he sought to explain the disguised and conflicted workings of the psychic agency of censorship, he found in the political writer "a social parallel to this internal event in the mind" to assist him in making his case.

Miller also reaches beyond psychoanalytic paradigms in The Novel and the Police by questioning the very opposition between the "individual" or the "psychological" on the one hand and the "social" or the "institutional" on the other. In his chapter on Collins's The Moonstone, Miller portrays these oppositions as further "effects" of the discourse of power, more seemingly "ordinary practices of the world" which a ghostly, omnipresent "policing power" has produced as disguises for itself to hide behind.

Miller tells essentially the same story of enclosure, betrayal, erasure, and compliance in his chapters on Bleak House, Barchester Towers, The Woman in White, and David Copperfield-each time from an ingeniously different angle. The same regulatory function that orders the detective novel and neutralizes resistance to the police is also performed by the various "representational technologies" of the nineteenth-century social novel, realistic novel, sensation novel, and autobiographical novel. Each chapter raises the dim specter of release from this confinement, in the family, body, and mind.

The Novel and the Police by Robert Miller is a book that aims to challenge the totalization of the subject matter of "the police" through a series of essays. The author believes that to resist the policing power he represents as irresistible, we should emulate the vigor of his essayistic process rather than submit to the accumulating force of his nearly totalizing conclusions. The form of the book seeks to make legible a set of "ambiguities" about our conceptions of ourselves as "liberal subjects."

The form of The Novel and the Police reinforces the suspicion that achieving "legibility" and recognition may not entirely cure or liberate us from the control of the disciplinary powers of social institutions, but it may at least "frustrate" their control. Miller's book begins by treating a novel by Collins, moves on to works by Dickens and Trollope, then returns to Collins, and finally to Dickens. This pattern of progressing by returning is the form Miller gives to his desire to return to (and escape) the unmastered past, to penetrate the barriers that seemed impenetrable in the first treatment, and to make legible what had previously remained invisible.

In his analysis of Bleak House, Miller views the transformation of Bleak House from a novel about a Chancery case to a murder mystery as the necessary consequence of a system that deprives it of all the requirements for its accomplishment. He seeks an interpretative project that would not be so balked, producing "a legible version" of a seemingly unreadable situation.

In his final chapter, Miller addresses the subject of making the self legible in writing, merging the form and themes of The Novel and the Police with those of the novel he subjects to his own evolving "interpretative system." In Copperfield, Miller confesses that David's story is "hopelessly entangled with my own," expressing a desire both to return to and to escape from the entangled condition with which the book began.

In Copperfield, the writer implies the existence of an illegible someone outside the text, an unknown and unknowable self that is safe from surveillance and regulation by any policing power. This final chapter of The Novel and the Police is not Miller's most accessible or best, but it is the most elaborate demonstration of how the novel has superimposed itself upon our life stories and how it has by implication continued to resist the very forces with which it has complied.

In The Novel and the Police, Miller offers a series of original readings that link the work of the novel with the work of culture in surprising and subtle ways. His essay on Bleak House is the most provocative and intelligent piece on Dickens's masterpiece, while his analysis of A Woman in White is one of the most sophisticated treatments of the body as social text and the cultural construction of gender. Miller's implication of himself in these issues reminds us that reading, despite its challenges, is a discipline that matters.

 

Ian Watt's "The Rise of the Novel"

 

In 1957, Ian Watt published "The Rise of the Novel," which marked a departure from the prevailing New Critical viewpoint of the time. Although initially perceived as a challenge to New Critical principles, it was more of an adjustment than a complete rejection of formalism. Watt rejected the notion of the work as an independent entity, asserting that ideas and novels are intertwined and that artists are products of their social and moral environment. In his book, Watt blends historical criticism with formal criticism, illustrating how changes in the intellectual and social landscape of the eighteenth century influenced the development of the novel. Watt links the unique literary characteristics of the novel to the society in which it emerged, showing how factors such as the rise of economic individualism and Protestantism shaped the form and content of major works by authors like Defoe, Richardson, and Fielding. He argues that biographical, sociological, and historical knowledge is essential for understanding the meaning of literary works, enabling readers to grasp both the text's intended message and broader cultural contexts.

 

Watt's methodological approach, offers a framework for interpreting novels beyond their surface content, viewing them as reflections of authors, cultures, and literary histories. He emphasizes the importance of contextualizing each work within the evolution of the art form while preserving the integrity of formal analysis. Watt's extensive knowledge of seventeenth and eighteenth-century culture allows him to demonstrate how works by Defoe, Fielding, and Richardson are shaped by their historical milieu. In contrast to contemporary trends that prioritize reader response or focus solely on the text's formal qualities, Watt's insistence on understanding literature within its historical context remains a valuable corrective. He challenges the notion of the reader as the sole creator of meaning and emphasizes the role of criticism in elucidating the historical conditions that inform a text's production and reception.

 

Ian Watt, alongside influential critics like Leavis, Booth, and Van Ghent, significantly altered the way novels were perceived in both England and America. The importance of Watt's study can be attributed to several key factors:

 

Watt highlights how middle-class writers like Defoe and Richardson challenged Augustan values through their novels, situating this challenge within its historical context. The "rise" of the novel is portrayed as a revolutionary act against traditional class structures, aristocratic dominance, and established literary conventions.

 

By emphasizing the relationship between culture and society, Watt liberated novel criticism from the confines of New Criticism, which had become somewhat stagnant in its search for patterns and unity even in lesser-quality texts.

 

Through a blend of historical scholarship and insightful reading, Watt contributed to establishing the canon of the English novel in the eighteenth century. He notably challenged prevailing views, such as those held by the Chicago Aristotelians, that placed Fielding above Richardson.

 

Watt anticipated the work of later narratologists by viewing novels as attempts to solve formal challenges and explore the possibilities of the genre. He recognized novelists as conducting inquiries into the relationship between art and reality.

 

He argued that readers' desires for vicarious experiences, reflecting their interest in private lives and economic motives, played a significant role in shaping the eighteenth-century novel.

 

Watt conceptualized the development of the novel as a progression from simpler to more complex forms, framing it as an evolutionary process. He saw the eighteenth-century novel as a necessary stage in the advancement of English fiction, leading to later achievements by authors like Austen.

 

He demonstrated that a historical approach was compatible with the aesthetic formalism of the New Criticism, enriching its focus on close reading. Watt used close reading to support his broader historical and sociological analyses.

 

Watt argued against the fashionable reliance on Freud and Jung in understanding authors, asserting that authors and their texts must be studied together within their historical context.

 

Finally, he suggested that there was no absolute division between external and internal approaches to character, exemplified by Fielding's omniscient narrator and Richardson's psychological depth.

In the first chapter of his work, "Realism and the Novel Form," Ian Watt approaches his subject as a social and historical issue that can be examined using factual methods. He views the rise of the novel as a response to specific social and historical conditions, similar to how scholars might study the emergence of universities in medieval Europe or the decline of monasteries in England.

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Watt, influenced by positivist and empiricist principles, believes that scientific and historical inquiry can be applied to the humanities, including literature. He suggests that the novel's emergence was influenced by various factors, such as the Puritan concept of the dignity of labor and the rise of economic individualism. He argues that these conditions helped shape the novel's premise that the individual's daily life is worthy of literary exploration.

 

The concept of realism in novels, according to Watt, stems from philosophical realism, which focuses on studying the particulars of individual experiences without preconceived assumptions. Realism in novels involves presenting life in a detailed and accurate manner, with a strong emphasis on specificity of time, place, and character. Watt refers to this as "formal realism," which he sees as inherent to the novel form itself.

 

However, some issues arise in Watt's discussion. For instance, he doesn't clearly define the narrative procedures that constitute formal realism, making it difficult to identify these strategies in other texts. Additionally, Watt sometimes presents formal realism as both a process and an achieved result, leading to confusion about its nature and value.

 

Despite these challenges, Watt's exploration of realism in novels sheds light on the dynamic relationship between literature and the world it portrays. He suggests that novels allow readers to vicariously experience different realities and engage with complex social issues, ultimately enriching their understanding of the human condition.

 

Ian Watt, drawing upon his life experiences, believes that literature serves as a critique of life itself. He incorporates personal observations of human behavior into his literary criticism, which some may consider sentimental or old-fashioned humanism. However, Watt argues that a literary critic must possess experience and insight into human behavior to effectively analyze literature.

 

Influenced by thinkers like F.R. Leavis and the Scrutiny group, Watt sees the role of the literary critic as both serving the author and defending culture and civilization. He emphasizes moral intensity and profound seriousness in his standards, reflecting Leavis's influence. Watt's approach combines elements of New Criticism, focusing on close reading, with larger questions about authors' values, psychology, and social context.

 

Watt sees characters in novels as both individuals and symbols of historical developments. He examines how novels reflect social conventions and historical issues, using works like Richardson's "Clarissa" as examples. Watt's analysis emphasizes the relationship between literature and cultural context, recognizing the contribution of literary works to cultural change.

 

While Watt's approach aligns with structural explanations and recent narratological perspectives, he also believes in the uniqueness of human character and the capacity for authors and characters to define themselves. His criticism focuses on the English novel tradition, which often centers on individual choices and struggles within society.

 

Watt's emphasis on historical context enriches literary interpretation but does not claim to solve all interpretive problems. For example, while he highlights the tension between rational economic individualism and spiritual redemption in Defoe's works, he acknowledges that some interpretive issues, like Defoe's use of irony, remain unresolved.

 

In his analysis of "Tom Jones," Ian Watt responds to the perspectives of Chicago Aristotelians, particularly R.S. Crane's influential essay, "The Plot of Tom Jones" (1950). Watt suggests that the focus of the Chicago critics, emphasizing the exploration of the soul of the artist and the structures of experience and cultures, might have been too narrow.

 

Watt argues that in the central tradition of the novel, there has been a reversal of the Aristotelian priority of plot over character. He suggests that a new type of formal structure has emerged, where the plot aims to embody the ordinary process of life and becomes highly dependent on characters and the development of their relationships. However, because Fielding was more interested in characters as representative figures rather than their idiosyncrasies, he employs a more traditional plot structure.

 

Watt proposes a rule for a grammar of plot, stating that in novels like "Tom Jones," the importance of the plot is inversely proportional to that of character. He suggests that this principle allows for a greater variety of minor characters to be introduced, as they are less constrained by the roles assigned to them by the narrative design.

 

Crucial to Watt's argument is his distinction between the "realism and presentation" of Richardson and Defoe and the "realism of assessment" of Fielding. He suggests that Fielding brings a responsible wisdom about human affairs to his novels, which influences the deeds and characters within them. This "realism of assessment" plays upon the moral reality depicted in the narrative.

 

However, Watt acknowledges some limitations in his own approach. He realizes that his emphasis on realism of presentation over realism of assessment may have skewed the balance in his analysis. Additionally, he notes the challenge of separating these two forms of realism, as they often occur simultaneously in the reader's interpretation of the text.

 

Overall, while Watt's analysis may not articulate a specific aesthetic of fiction, his exploration of realism as a mode of perception remains essential to understanding the development of the English novel. Despite its limitations, Watt's work is praised for its clarity, subtlety, and elegance, making it a compelling argument and a pleasure to read.