(tried to keep it short)

It’s obvious to me that Williams is extremely knowledgeable in the field he is describing. If nothing else his extensive referencing reflects an unimaginably comprehensive literature review that I’m glad I’ll never have to index.

Unfortunately as a reader, that’s all I felt this work was, an extensive literature review.

Now, as a master’s student in the LCS program, it may seem like a cheap shot to criticize Williams on the grounds of style (though I imagine our friends and neighbors in the Rhetoric department would counter with something like “how you say something is often more important than what you are saying”). And I admit that it is often easier to point to flaws in a given work in order to invalidate it rather than attempt to understand something in its full complexity. But when I read these excerpts from The Sociology of Culture, I felt as though I could hear the Ben Stein of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off lecturing to me.

I wanted to scream, “Where is your passion? What do you care about?” and perhaps more importantly, “Why should I care?”

I’m not saying that the information Williams has synthesized is of no use, though I admit I struggle to find an application personally; I doubt I was his intended audience when he wrote this. I am saying that, when I find myself asking what the stakes of his project are, it worries me that a lack of effective communication, or perhaps creative communication, could undermine an important piece of research.

I grant you that my criticism is superficial at best and that this post is yet another venting of frustration. Not that not everything needs to be overtly political shouted from a righteous soapbox (though in cultural studies, it might behoove one). We all must unfortunately read many a dry work to add those precious letters to the ends of our names. But it seems somehow better to express my frustrations in a blog post than let them infiltrate class discussion or heaven forbid a paper.

I guess all I’m saying is give me the passion of Gramcsci and Hoggart, even the dire pessimism of Adorno any day over the stale triscuit that is Raymond Williams.