This entry might also be called “Praise Be the Ambleside Book Barn: Part II.” Of course, in line with what Ferg so coherently argued tonight about the conventions surrounding academic article titles, I could also get away with calling it anything, including “Shitting Bricks: The Structure, Function and Epistemic Irregularities of Victorian Discourses in Mary Poovey’s Uneven Developments” (if anyone wants to contradict this, they’re going to have to deal with Jerome Bruner’s arguments about the hermeneutic composability of narratives first. Oh, and Ferg. Wouldn’t mess with that one—she’s a smart un).
Silliness aside, have I mentioned that I wish I had read this book last year? No? Well, I wish I had read this book last year when I was trying to hash out the why and how of reading Victorian parliamentary debates.
Poovey’s ambitions for this book were bigger than mapping out the ideology that gave power to and was driven by the workings of Parliament. Indeed, she sought to draw broad conclusions about Victorian society, and consequently based her reading a variety of texts (Hansard transcripts, pamphlets, medical books, literature, training manuals, Royal Commissions) and sites (the controversy over chlorophorm, rise of anaesthesia, divorce, work). More specifically, she sought to demonstrate that society varies the rights and responsibilities it devolves to people based on how it argues they are different.
Poovey argued that, in the case of gender, there seemed to be an ethical consensus that the prevailing distinction between the roles of men and women was correct. However, the logic from which people drew their ethical argument was inadequate. To offer one example, Poovey showed in the first chapter that doctors were unable to justify their authority over women’s bodies with their putative physiological expertise (try as they might in this time when midwives, clergy, and doctors competed for epistemological sovereignty over women’s bodies... I’m sure there was a less pretentious way to say that). Instead, doctors’ arguments hinged on moral points that sounded clerical (not clinical).
Poovey clearly wrote clearly insofar as my puny brain could keep track of her overarching argument as I read her work. Having said that, while I was making my way through the chapters, sometimes I found it hard to connect/remember and follow the many subpoints she made. While outlined her argument well, my lack of familiarity with her knowledge register (e.g., discussions of political economy) made it hard for me to follow it point-by-point at times. But don’t worry, Mary Poovey, it’s ok; I forgive you for my ignorance. Haha.
Another reason I think it was sometimes hard to follow her argument was because she didn’t set out her chapters like a line-drawing, moving down the line of argument to the other, point-by-point. Instead, she began each chapter with an overview of the issue she sought to illustrate, and then in the subchapters she sketched out the particular parts. To use her chapter “David Copperfield and the Professional Writer” as an example, in the first part Poovey began with a close reading of DC in which she laid out evidence suggesting that men were envisioned as dynamic characters who had the sense to make ethical choices. Women were static, but were integral to structuring the kinds of choices men faced. In part II of this chapter, she abruptly shifts from this microethnographic perspective to one that pans the social landscape in which this story was embedded. It was disorienting immediately moving to an analysis of the debates over the book industry and copy right. Nevertheless, her argument for this part concludes with her demonstration that the rhetoric supporting male authors’ compensation for their intellectual property sounded a lot like her reading of the sexual politics in DC (it hinged on the idea that male authors were moral compasses whose work depended on their ability to support their families, because these authors also depended on the support of their families). The way Poovey arranged her evidence is evocative of Plato’s allegory of the cave; one immediately jumps back and twists around from her position watching the shadow play, and finds herself looking at the necessary background. I really like this style because it highlights for the reader that different parts of an author’s arguments depend on different sources, all of which have different limitations. However, I think this particular juxtaposition might have avoided the same level of mental gymnastics had Poovey bridged these discussions with her consideration of Charles Dickens—the intermediary between these sites (I’m sure Poovey appreciates this constructive criticism. I should send her my masters work because it absolutely never, ever, ever had any questionable transitions).
In any case, I le dug this book. It was fascinating for me to see how she put together her work, and very impressive to see how she interrogated so many different texts and sites. It’s not often that I pick up a book and not only am interested but also feel inspired. However, as I went through Poovey’s work, that’s exactly how I felt.
