Foucault's "What is an Author?"

Foucault begins his lecture entitled “What is an Author?” by stating outright that he has no intention whatsoever of answering his posed question: “Far from offering a solution”, he writes, “I will attempt to indicate some of the difficulties related to these questions”.


Foucault’s treatise addresses the issue of “authorship”, a reaction against Barthes’ and Derrida’s theses on the same subject. He immediately demonstrates his argument that authorship is a classification or description, rather than a pronoun, when he casually alludes to Nietzsche; “God and man died a common death”. An immediately recognizable reworking of Nietzsche’s widely-quoted statement, “God is dead” [The Gay Science, 1882], Foucault equates our lost concept of an author with the “death” of Christianity and its values. Moreover, he introduces “author function” – that is, what fuels our insistent interest in the “author” and the subsequent assumptions we make about a text based on its ‘author’ – in referencing the iconic quote and iconic author. “Nietzsche”, just like “Plato”, “Descartes”, or indeed “Foucault”, are not just names, but descriptions of a text’s validity and significance. We attribute an immediate sense of authority and gravitas to their words, a point Foucault conveys acutely.

He then discusses the differences of “author function” between the arts and sciences, and highlights an inevitable truth in comparing the spheres of learning; while scientific writings can have a valid claim to “truth”, or the objective nature of the world, the arts can have no such black-and-while objectivity, and thus ‘authorship’ [which – and this article prompted me to look into it – shares the same etymological root as ‘authority’] will always attract more focus.


It was difficult not to notice Foucault’s bias towards “thinkers” such as himself like Freud and Marx, as opposed to novelists. Comparing Marx and Freud with nineteenth-century writer Ann Radcliffe seems rather unjust. Pitting Radcliffe and her Gothic-Romance novels against the likes of Freud and Marx is hardly a fair contrast, but the example illustrates his attitudes regarding the difference between the author of a literary, fictional text with founders of a discipline/discourse. Radcliffe’s novels influence the genre of nineteenth century Gothic fiction, “various characteristic signs, figures, relationships, and structures that could be integrated into other books”. While the novelist’s function as an author goes beyond her written work (i.e. by developing a certain genre), the “initiators of discursive practices” (and Foucault uses Freud as a paradigmatic example and the subsequent field of psychoanalysis) create a space in which new, different ideas can be introduced, rather than writers following a particular convention; they establish “endless possibility of discourse”. Foucault’s point is convincing and compelling, but I still think its success relies on the examples he chooses. Substituting, say, Ovid, or Shakespeare, or the great Romantic poets for Ann Radcliffe, Foucault would have a more difficult time arguing that writers of literature have not completely revolutionised not only the way we write, but the way we think, and shaped our collective social psyche, just as much as Marx or Freud, with influences which extend far beyond their genres.

All in all, Foucault hopes for a time when our romanticised and overrated focus on “the author” can give way to more insightful questions about literature and discourse. Foucault’s paper is certainly a sophisticated argument, taking the reader through the way we use the most basic language (pronouns and names) and thereby exemplifying how an author is something quite different and abstract. But it may make one wonder whether the benefits of anonymity he preaches are perhaps making a virtue out of necessity. Some of our most canonical “authors” have their authorship or identity in doubt, such as Shakespeare and Homer. While their influences are incontestable, we may never know the truth of their texts’ much debated “authorship”. For such cases, perhaps it would be best to, pragmatically, turn to Foucault’s solution.

And as for his final question, “What matter who’s speaking?” Well, what should we think of this controversial thesis if it weren‘t Foucault’s name atop the page? Being against the idea doesn’t save Foucault from the inevitable fate of authorship.

On Edmondson’s “Against Reading”

Part of the ingenuity of Mark Edmondson’s “Against Reading” is the way he opens; I’ll admit I gave an inward groan seeing the names of Marx, Foucault, Derrida –thinkers whose names are practically unavoidable in the sphere of the arts nowadays. But this is, I think, Edmondson’s very intention. We see the iconic names of these intellectual giants in a sentence which denounces the whole exercise of “reading” works of literary art. He takes the legacy of Western thought, embodied in the names of these thinkers, and turns it on its head with his bold statement: “I wish that’d we declare a moratorium on readings”.


The body of Edmondson’s essay is rich with literary references and examples. His own personal story of enlightenment in reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X enforces his view on literature; a “second chance” for the “socialisation” which is a necessary step on the journey to adulthood, and an encouragement to "befriend the text" in place of academic "readings". Edmondson’s essay writing itself is carefully stylised. He uses Latin etymology (“educare” = “to lead out of”), casual references to Plato whilst discussing pedagogy – in doing so Edmondson creates not just an argument but an overall sense of the richness, colour and history of the literary and pedagogical tradition. His choices of examples are also carefully picked to create the greatest possible contrast between ‘academic’ scrutiny and the intrinsic joy of literature. William Blake, the English Romantic poet, represents literary purity and joy, and is contrasted with Marx, “assumed to be a superior figure”. His quip of “there are in fact any number of Marxist readings of Blake out there; I know of no Blakean readings of Marx” is, I think, with tongue-in-cheek, but he certainly raises a well-thought idea that not only does a “Marxist reading” detract from Blake, but from Marx as well. Neither of their works are able to be seen in their own light, for their own merit. In this sense, Edmondson presentation of his argument is sophisticated and well thought out.

My main qualm with Edmondson’s thesis is his conclusion about the field of literary criticism. Edmondson presents a highly idealised, romanticized and uplifting picture of books and their merit. The books written by academics today, he criticises, “are composed as performances”. Unlike the texts that professors teach, the texts they write are “could not conceivably be meant to provide spiritual or intellectual nourishment”. He includes himself in this category: “our books are written not from love but from need”. Edmondson critiques the sense of audience modern academics ‘perform’ for. But it’s inconceivable to say that the greatest works of literature – those indeed which have inspired generations to come – are highly conscious of their audience and how their art will be received. If we think back to the very beginnings of poetry, the Ancient oral tradition, the travelling bard was entirely dependent on pleasing his audience; the epics of Homer or Virgil is extremely self-reflexive. Later on, the Renaissance writers worked under the patronage of aristocrats, or for theatre companies. The most canonical of texts had this same awareness of audience – Edmondson’s ideal of writing as a free expression of one’s soul is a product of the Romantic period, and however charming and seductive it may be, we can’t forget that it is a relatively new ideology, which leads back to figures like Marx and Foucault, who remind us that social and cultural ideas are forever changing. This leads me, at least, to wonder whether it is really possible (however desirable) to “give readings a rest” as Edmondson wishes after all.

The Secret History

This is just a test post, never blogged before. But for something to say, I've finished reading Donna Tartt's The Secret History and absolutely loved it. Such a contrast in both style and matter to Henry James. A haunting and highly intelligent story, especially it's dealing with lost languages and the mysticism of the ancient world. Am now very inspired to learn Ancient Greek.