If the editor had done a proper job, his introductory rhetoric would have been superfluous. Indeed in the second fit of hubris immediately consequent upon the heady act of initiating CRITICAL INQUIRY, its coeditors agreed that the success of our venture must be measured by the precise degree to which this issue was self-defining. Our goals would be fully explained by our accomplishment. Our commitment to reasoned inquiry into significant creations of the human spirit would be transformed from proclamation to (...) actuality—revealed as less, and therefore more, than pompous aspiration—by a collection of essays, individually excellent, which, when viewed together, would represent the full range of interests and values implicit in our commitment. (shrink)

The publication in this issue of Leonard B. Meyer’s superbly detailed analysis of the Trio of Mozart’s G Minor Symphony became the occasion of us to reexamine and restate some of the general aims of Critical Inquiry. From its inception Critical Inquiry was based on the assumption that we can indeed understand each other, at least to the point where critical exchange becomes meaningful and fruitful. It is this belief, for example, that has led us to eschew the more fiery (...) debates and to concentrate instead on articles in which distinguished critics of all the arts attempt to explore the issues that divide them—the correspondence between Gombrich and Bell, for example, Booth’s attempt to represent his understanding of Abrams followed by Abrams’ representation of how he understands his own work, or, similarly, the exchange between Angus Fletcher and Northrop Frye. Even in our more heated Critical Response section, we have tended to reject those arguments that reflect primarily the egos of the disputants in favor of discourse that reveals the actual issues that separate them. We have been fully conscious that such a focus eliminates some of the excitement of fiery battle, and we are aware as well that we have not always succeeded in our attempt. (shrink)

For example, in the traditional "who done it" , the basic pleasure is in the creation and solution of the riddle itself - somewhat akin to the pleasure of solving a difficult crossword puzzle. In such works the riddle itself must be sufficiently ingenious to surprise us but never so labyrinthine as to destroy the illusion that we may beat the professional to the solution. In no case may necessary clues be withheld for, failing to solve the riddle ourselves, we (...) must at the very least see how we should have been able to solve it with the same information as the professional; given an unreliable narrator, we will feel deceived rather than pleasantly surprised. It is clear that in such instances the value judgments, as opposed to the riddle, should be as unoriginal and conventional as possible. The agents or agent whose initial act caused the riddle might best perform an act of murder for obvious gain or because he wants to replace a current wife with a beautiful mistress. Complexity of thought and judgment must never reach the point where it distracts our attention from the pleasure of the riddle itself; ethical values must merely be minimally consonant with our desire to see the riddle solved in terms that prevent moral indignation. The detective in turn may be given minimal idiosyncrasies that define him as a character, but again since, in this kind of work, the alteration of circumstances of who commits the crime is merely pro forma—usually he is merely caught and his future in prison or the electric chair is unstressed—the traits possessed by the detective are almost solely restricted to those that allow him to solve the riddle that we should have been able to solve ourselves. It is this kind of work that is frequently advertised by plaintive requests "please don't reveal the ending." We rarely read such works a second time. We are completely remote from the pursuit of Lew Archer. (shrink)