I couldn’t disagree more. Very few books of criticism are as much fun to read as “What is Art”. A critic should be judged on whether his critiques are stimulating, enjoyable, and illuminating. To call Tolstoy “one of the worst critics of art ever” is, I think, to completely misunderstand what good criticism comprises. However much most of us may disagree with Tolstoy’s theory of art, or his ratings of Dante, Beethoven, Shakespeare, the Greek playwrights, Michaelangelo, and Raphael, “What is Art” is a classic.
If you read the entire book (I looked through it quickly again last night) you’ll see that Tolstoy does complain about trite plot twists and saccharine efforts at stirring the emotions. He particularly dislikes derivative art – art that either copies the techniques of other works (he despises art schools), or art that infects others with inauthentic emotions (for example emotions that derive from other art).
I’ll agree that Tolstoy was a crotchety old man (he wrote “What is Art” in 1896, I think, when he was pushing 70 years of age. He may or may not have been “infuriated by the fame… of others.” However, his motives or psychological profile are irrelevant to the quality of his criticism. Tolstoy is guilty (like stluke) of the “personal heresy”. He thinks that how the work of art gets done is important to the quality of the work – and he goes overboard in descrying works of art because of the motives and tactics of the artists rather than because of the quality of the work itself. He goes on about how Beethoven’s later work suffers from the composer’s deafness (he actually likes some early Beethoven).
As seen in the Beethoven passage stluke quotes above, Tolstoy compares one form of “false art” with hypnosis. It is, he thinks, a parlor trick (perhaps a very well done parlor trick) rather than true art. He also thinks that universal art that creates holy feelings is superior to more prosaic and mundane art. (I’m not describing this exactly right, Tolstoy’s religious feelings were complicated – he believed in God as an abstraction, not as a personal deity, and he denied the divinity of Jesus, although he considered himself a Christian.)
However, stluke is, like Tolstoy, guilty of the personal heresy. Whether Tolstoy was jealous, or a “grumpy old fart”, is irrelevant to the quality of “What is Art”. Plenty of grumpy old farts are great writers, and Tolstoy was one of them. In addition, such universally acclaimed critics as George B. Shaw shared Tolstoy’s opinion of Shakespeare. Surely the extent to which a critic’s taste coincides with our own is of little relevance to the quality of his critiques.
I think Tolstoy’s theory of the nature and purpose of art is incorrect (even preposterous) – but it is never dull. I think Tolstoy’s judgments about the quality of other artists are wrong – but they are always fascinating. Stluke has stated that he doesn’t like Joyce. Does the fact that he dislikes the writer generally considered the greatest English novelist of the 20th century make him “one of the worst critics of art ever.” I don’t think so. We may look for a newspaper movie reviewer who shares our tastes, but surely a critic should be expected to offer us something more stimulating. Tolstoy does.



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