Years ago, my mother was looking through a book of letters written by some famous author and felt inspired to write me one. Amongst the many things she said, she lamented the fact that letter-writing is a dying art. While our means of communication are far more convenient nowadays, letters generally required that more thought be put into them. The end result is that now we have volumes of letters written by many accomplished individuals that, although written to a certain individual, can provide insight even for today’s readers. You can even see this in the Bible. Whatever you think of them, Paul’s letters to various groups around the Mediterranean are still widely read and provide edification to Christians today. Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, however, is a more modern example. It kept coming up in conversations I had with friends or professors, which inspired me to give it a read. So, I did, and it was well-worth my time. It’s a short read, but there’s a lot to unpack. His third letter especially, which dealt with criticism, got me thinking…

Rilke describes works of art as “infinitely lonely”. For this reason, he says, “Read as little aesthetic criticism as possible; which comprises either partisan views, petrified and meaningless, hardened and without life, or clever word games in which today this view wins and tomorrow its opposite.” I confess to sympathising with this view: it’s not uncommon for me to read reviews for a work of art (a film, a book, or whatever it may be) in line with my ideological beliefs. It’s tempting for me to evaluate these things through my own lens, seeing messages that perhaps were not intended by the original creators. On the other hand, this is not necessarily a bad thing: I delight in the fact that so often there are ambiguous messages in these fanciful stories since it keeps us thinking. Perhaps that is why so much of Christian media holds little appeal to me (or anyone else for that matter): it’s preachy, it’s unambiguous, and consequently it’s quite unreal.

I couldn’t help but call to mind Anton Ego’s reflection on his work as a critic from the film Ratatouille. He says:

In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face, is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends. Last night, I experienced something new: an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau’s famous motto, “Anyone can cook.” But I realize, only now do I truly understand what he meant. Not everyone can become a great artist; but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau’s, who is, in this critic’s opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau’s soon, hungry for more.

Anton Ego (from Ratatouille)

The defining difference between the work typical of a critic and the work of the chef—the culinary artist, if you will—is the element of risk. It’s easy, after all, to complain and mock with impunity. It’s far harder to create something yourself, to put yourself out there on the line.

Of course, as Ego says, there are times when even a critic risks something in defence of the new. Perhaps, in some ways, Rilke is unkind to criticism. I have said before that criticism can offer an opportunity for artistic refinement, and this is certainly true. It can even contribute to a work by suggesting new ways in which it can be understood. Oscar Wilde, who I’ve quoted once before in this series of reflections, would agree: “The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.”

He is not indiscriminate in his praise of critics, however, saying:

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Grey

So do not shy away from criticism, but be critical of it. Does it seek to tear down or to understand, to develop, to add without subtracting? Perhaps this isn’t the task of an artistic craftsman to understand, but it is a task beholden to anyone who seeks to understand anything. In this way, criticism might even be considered a form of art in itself, as opposed to the automatic nay-saying that we would commonly associate it with. I suppose this is to say, there is a place for criticism that perhaps Rilke is missing, though of course he is writing within the context of a letter to a budding-artist. Nevertheless, I believe it is worthwhile to read criticism widely, for any worthwhile criticism will offer you a perspective that you have perhaps neglected. In a world where people seldom transcend their ideological convictions, this can only mean greater wisdom, understanding, and (perhaps most crucially) empathy.