Only when I rescued myself from the paradoxical circle of academic acquisition could I have a little time to spare and ponder the nuances of literature, without any fear of flunking an examination or listening to the rants of learned professors (who offered freedom to express one’s opinion about liberal arts only to an extent that satisfied their presumptions and did not defy the “standards” established by esteemed heroes of the past). This rescue did not arrive as an act of rebellion but as an intellectual exhaustion with conformity masquerading as scholarship. Academic structures, despite their noble intent, often cultivate a subtle obedience in which curiosity is permitted only within sanctioned limits. The student learns early that interpretation is welcome so long as it aligns with the lineage of accepted voices. Anything beyond that risks being labelled eccentric, irresponsible, or worse, incorrect. In such a climate, literature ceases to be an exploration and becomes an exercise in compliance.
By ‘nuances of literature,’ expressed in the first line, I simply mean the voices that were allowed to be heard and those the authors silenced. This distinction, though seemingly simple, forms the crux of meaningful criticism. Literature is never a neutral space. Every narrative is a site of selection, where certain experiences are foregrounded, and others pushed to the margins. Silence in literature is rarely accidental. It is often the result of ideological, cultural, psychological, or aesthetic choices made consciously or unconsciously by the author. To attend to these silences is not to diminish the work, but to deepen our engagement with it. Quid est veritas if not the courage to look beyond what is comfortably visible?
Charlotte’s Bertha could only howl; Hardy’s Boldwood could only scarcely express his thoughts; Keats’ ‘bald head philosopher’ was crucified with his philosophy on the altar of romantic imagination; the question is, without citing many other examples, why certain characters would not have their say? These examples are not isolated literary curiosities but symptomatic of a broader narrative economy where voice is distributed unevenly. Bertha Mason’s madness, Boldwood’s repression, and the philosopher’s silencing reveal how literature often mirrors social hierarchies and anxieties. To question why these figures are denied articulate expression is to interrogate the ethics of representation itself. It compels us to ask whether literature merely reflects reality or actively participates in sustaining its inequities. Cui bono becomes an unavoidable inquiry. Who benefits when some voices remain muted?
As a student of literature, the academic circle limits the flight of critical thinking only to the extent that things do not go beyond the ‘accepted norms’. These norms, though presented as intellectual safeguards, frequently function as invisible fences. They regulate interpretation, domesticate dissent, and reward repetition. Students are trained to recognise what has already been said rather than to notice what has been ignored. Over time, this conditioning produces critics who are technically proficient but intellectually timid. Literature, which should unsettle and provoke, is reduced to a catalogue of themes and character types that can be safely reproduced in examinations.
However, once the same student starts freelancing in the ‘business of literature,’ the frontiers pave the way themselves. Or, if I rephrase it with another set of words, a little more than usual reading, teaching, lecturing, and a proper exposure to theory and criticism empowers anyone to question the silence of characters, moments, occasions and implicit points of view in literature. Independence from institutional evaluation introduces both freedom and responsibility. Without the protective scaffolding of syllabi and examiners, the critic must rely on intellectual honesty and methodological rigour. Theory, when approached not as doctrine but as a lens, sharpens this vision. Structuralism, feminism, postcolonialism, psychoanalysis, and reader-response criticism all offer tools for listening to what texts refuse to say openly. Used judiciously, these frameworks do not impose meaning but excavate it.
Only then may one start questioning the bias of a novelist, the presumption of a poet, the omission of an essayist or even the deliberate ignorance of facts by a critic. Such questioning is not an act of hostility but an act of fidelity to literature itself. Writers are not prophets immune to error. They are historical beings shaped by their times, privileges, and blind spots. To acknowledge this is not to undermine their artistry but to situate it honestly. Veritas non auctoritas facit legem. Authority alone cannot sanctify interpretation.
Paradoxically, the critics cited by professors of literature often limit the free play of the act of criticism. Students frequently get overwhelmed by the barrage of narratives about ‘loud characters’ and forget to consider the mute narrative in a work. Canonical criticism, when treated as immutable truth, becomes another form of silencing. The loud characters, already privileged by the narrative, receive further amplification through lectures and notes, while marginal figures fade into obscurity. Literary works on the examination sheets always end up being a game of tennis played between the protagonist and antagonist. The promise of a literary football match where defenders, midfielders, strikers and even goalkeepers matter falter in no time. Such reductive binaries simplify evaluation but impoverish understanding. Literature thrives in ambiguity, not in neatly opposed roles.
Therefore, it is safe to say that the academic pursuit of literature as a student can never be the same as that of a literary critic who is not obliged to be judged by professors. Does it matter? One might ask, and not anticipate the answer either way – affirmative or negative. Practice makes a man. Freedom, which arrives later in the periphery of an independent critic, shakes and breaks the frontiers that were applied earlier. Once again, it makes us confront another paradox. Freedom liberates thought, yet it also exposes the critic’s own limitations. Without external constraints, prejudices often surface more clearly. The mature critic learns that freedom is not the absence of discipline but its refinement.
Coming to the crucial issue of loud and mute characters, other than the ones we have been debating hitherto, of liberty and academic anxiety in the practice of literary criticism, it demands scrutiny. The more done by the freshly sprung critics, the better it should be. The student who comes out, unshackling himself from the chains of academic anxiety and the pressure of winning the approval of his examiners, must feel charged to execute the newly realised freedom. It must be put to the task. Once he begins examining the texts from the perspectives of those whose voices have been silenced by the authors, novelists and poets, it certainly promises interesting and revealing outcomes. Such criticism has the potential to reanimate texts, to reveal submerged tensions and forgotten possibilities. It transforms reading from consumption into dialogue.
This transformation is neither immediate nor effortless. The habit of reading literature as a closed system, one that neatly resolves itself within the boundaries of plot, character, and theme, is deeply ingrained through years of academic conditioning. To read otherwise requires unlearning before learning anew. The critic must train himself to dwell in pauses, to linger over narrative absences, and to ask why certain experiences are merely hinted at while others are elaborately dramatised. Silence, in this sense, becomes a text within the text, demanding interpretation not through conjecture but through attentive and responsible reading.
Moreover, attending to mute characters does not necessarily imply privileging them at the expense of dominant voices. Rather, it calls for a widening of critical vision. Literature is a complex ecology in which meaning is produced through the interaction between the spoken and the unspoken. The critic’s task is not to overturn the visible structure of the work but to illuminate its less visible scaffolding. When done with intellectual humility and textual sensitivity, such criticism enriches rather than destabilises the literary experience.
It is also worth noting that freshly independent critics often approach this task with a sense of urgency that borders on impatience. While this energy is valuable, it must be tempered with methodological discipline. Not every silence is an act of oppression, and not every marginal figure is meant to be central. Some silences are aesthetic choices, others are psychological necessities, and still others emerge from the limitations of form and genre. The critic must therefore distinguish between interpretive possibility and interpretive excess. This discernment marks the difference between insight and indulgence.
However, let me warn our newly hammered literary critics. Neither the text nor the author should be judged merely because of the other! Yes, one might seek patterns or similarities and try resolving literary quests. However, crucifying one at the cost of another is never an ethical practice of literary criticism. At the same time, searching for the aspects that are not apparent, non-existent, or implicit should not, in any way, affect the existing ones. Inadequate substantial proofs, verbose linguistic practices, a clumsy pattern of writing that comes in full circles, and personal biases of the critic must not hinder the objective analysis of the text. It is like punishing someone for the crime committed in dreams. Ethical criticism requires balance, patience, and restraint. It resists sensational conclusions and values evidence over speculation.
This warning cannot be overstated, especially in an intellectual climate that often rewards provocation more than precision. The temptation to produce radical readings without sufficient grounding is strong, particularly when novelty is mistaken for depth. Yet, criticism that thrives on exaggeration or selective reading ultimately undermines its own credibility. To read responsibly is to accept the limits of interpretation alongside its possibilities. The critic must acknowledge when the text resists certain readings and must be willing to withdraw a hypothesis that cannot be sustained by textual evidence.
Equally important is the recognition that authors, like critics, are fallible human beings shaped by their historical, cultural, and personal circumstances. To read a text solely as a moral indictment of its author is to reduce literature to a courtroom drama. While ethical inquiry has its place in criticism, it must not eclipse aesthetic appreciation or historical understanding. The aim of criticism is not to pass judgment but to cultivate understanding. When criticism degenerates into moral posturing, it forfeits its intellectual seriousness.
Furthermore, the language of criticism itself demands scrutiny. Excessive verbosity often masks conceptual uncertainty, while circular arguments betray a lack of interpretive clarity. A mature critic learns that restraint in language reflects confidence in thought. Precision, not proliferation, lends authority to analysis. The ethical critic remains vigilant not only about what is being said but also about how it is being said.
To conclude, literary criticism must venture into the dark streets of the unconscious and the mildly lit subconscious of the characters and the authors. However, it must not ignore the aesthetic and the apparent value of a literary work. A serious, valuable and meaningful contribution to the literary community should be an act of criticism that maintains a balance between what an ordinary reader sees and misses while reading a book! Actions, the motivation behind the action, the action taken and the one not taken, what could be done, and what other consequences could arise… everything matters and should be on a critic’s radar. Nevertheless, the quest for the subconscious and the unconscious must not be shaped by the critic’s own prejudices and vanity, hidden safely in the layers of his personal subconscious. It will, undoubtedly, derail the entire exercise! At the same time, no one can guarantee it will not happen. Ironically, it happens more than we could spot. This is the paradox of literary criticism – one’s prejudices signalling out another’s. On the authors’ part, while it is almost inevitable, literary critics must make efforts to minimise the impact their prejudices have on the exercise of criticism.
Dr Alok Mishra
Poet, Literary Critic and Assistant Professor of English Literature at Nava Nalanda Mahavihara
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