Deconstructing Darwin’s Theory of Literary (R)evolution

Darwin’s assertion seems solely based on his lack of reading poetry in his later years. Before the age of thirty he read the likes of Byron, Wordsworth, Shelley, Shakespeare, and many more. But as he has progressed in years, he has lost his interest in such poets, and even finds Shakespeare “intolerably dull.” In describing this “curious and lamentable loss of higher aesthetic tastes,” Darwin suggests a hierarchy in which poetry ranks higher than the novel. I find this assumption absolutely ridiculous. His claims are purely based on personal taste, and he never gives any specific reasoning for this outlook. Darwin—though accomplished, highly educated and eloquent—has no business deciding which literary form is best, or, as he calls it, “first class.” However, his suggestion could certainly change the way one approaches a text. Deeming poetry as instantly superior to the novel sets up a lofty expectation of the former, though Darwin’s prospects are terribly degrading to the poetic form.

In order to clarify Darwin’s expectations of poetry, I must first explain that of novels, the three specifics of which he details more thoroughly. And assuming that his expectations of novels are opposite or nearly so of poetry, I subsequently explain how and why my chosen case study, The Philanthropist and the Jelly-fish, fill these expectations.

He first contrasts poetry to the novel, describing the latter as “works of the imagination.” This leaves the reader to assume that poetry in itself is unimaginative. The Philanthropist and the Jelly-fish certainly fits this mold with such a supposition in mind. The poem describes an antagonist who wants to “rescue” a beached jelly-fish from certain death. The creature refuses his gesture, relaying that her demise is simply how things are. This is a response to natural selection and society’s opposition to the idea. Since the poem is based on Darwin’s own theory of evolution, it is clearly unoriginal and unimaginative.

The next must-have detail of a novel is a happy ending. Darwin does not contrast this aspect to poetry as he did previously, so the reader should not presume a poem should have a happy ending. While the reader could debate either way, The Philanthropist’s end is neither outright happy nor melancholic. It furthermore fills Darwin’s increasingly blasé expectations of poetry.

Lastly, a novel also must contain “some person whom one can thoroughly love.” This aspect is debatable in The Philanthropist. While I find the jelly-fish more agreeable—though I would not venture to say loveable—than the philanthropist, Darwin specifically writes that a “person,” not a character, must be found in a novel. The philanthropist is certainly not to be loved; he disrupts natural order. The jelly-fish seems to understand the world more so than he, therefore the reader does not even sympathize with him. Furthermore, Darwin writes that if such a person were a pretty woman, “all the better.” Though the jelly-fish is a female, she is not a person. The philanthropist is assumed to be male, but nonetheless remains genderless, therefore this detail is moot.

With these expectations of poetry explained, it seems more likely that novels, instead, are of the “higher order.” The Philanthropist and the Jelly-fish—as well as all other poetry—is unimaginative, unhappy, and sans loveable persons, at least from Darwin’s perspective. Why, then, is poetry of a higher order? Is it because Darwin assumes that it takes higher intellect to appreciate and digest poetry? I think that the answer goes back to my previous notion of taste. This “natural selection” of literary forms simply stems from a change in preference. I think what he suggests—that one form of literature is better than another—is dangerous and uninformed. To dismiss poetics as dull and unimaginative is to toss aside millennia of literary canon.