Below is a Sunday Times Review by John Carey on Duncan Wu's 'vigorous' biography of William Hazlitt- a biography of doubtful veracity it seems. The article doesn't really review the book but offers interesting details about the life of Hazlitt, a great over view for those, like myself, who know very little about - perhaps - the severest critic of the Romantic period.
It can be found here:
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/books/non-fiction/article4954754.ece
William Hazlitt: The First Modern Man by Duncan Wu
The Sunday Times review by John Carey
William Hazlitt's collected writings fill 22 volumes. He was a literary critic, an art critic, a theatre critic, a philosopher and a polemicist, and his works The Plain Speaker (a collection of essays) and The Spirit of the Age (a survey of the writers of the Romantic period, most of them known to him personally) used to be revered as classics. Nowadays he is scarcely known, and Duncan Wu's vigorous biography, the fruit of 10 years' labour in the archives, is an attempt to put that right. The Hazlitt he brings to light, however, is unlikely to win a place in his readers' affections. He was a tormented, bitter man, who excelled at resentment.
His father, an Irish dissenting minister of heretical views, had taught him to hate all institutions, whether of church or state, and since human society is based on institutions this was an important first step towards his son's unhappiness. Born in 1778, young Hazlitt greeted the French revolution with frenzied enthusiasm. He idolised Napoleon, and was filled with hope that the victorious French would put an end to Britain and its constitution, an event that, Wu tells us, both Hazlitt and his father had long wished for.
The defeat of his hero at Waterloo was a devastating blow. He did not wash or shave for weeks and got drunk every night. As a teenager he had much admired Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey, and sought their friendship, joyful that they shared his revolutionary ardour. However, the reign of terror, followed by the imminent threat of a French invasion, drastically modified the three poets' political views. They supported the British government's repressive measures against suspected revolutionaries, and Wordsworth even enlisted in the Grasmere volunteers, a unit that was fortunately not cast in a combat role.
Hazlitt never forgave them. He denounced them as turncoats and pursued them with derision and vituperation. Reviewing Coleridge's poems in 1816 he dismissed Kubla Khan as “nonsense verses” and Christabel as “utterly destitute of value”. Wu says that he knew perfectly well they were works of genius, but lied about them to get his own back on Coleridge - behaviour that Wu is inclined to condone. It seems questionable, though, whether changing one's political allegiance is necessarily as heinous as Wu seems to feel. In the last resort, the poets' sin was merely that they were less keen to see the end of Britain and its constitution than Hazlitt was.
However, Hazlitt's rancour was implacable, and its source was not only political. In 1803 a strange episode took place that permanently poisoned relations between him and his former friends. He was staying in Coleridge's house at Keswick, and went out one evening to the local tavern, where a girl he tried to chat up made an impudent remark. His response was, Wu says, “characteristic”: “He threw her over his knee, lifted her petticoats, and spanked her on the bottom.” He then fled to Coleridge's house, where news arrived that a gang of locals was on its way to wreak vengeance. Coleridge and Southey rapidly smuggled him out of Keswick to Dove Cottage, where Wordsworth took him in, supplying him next morning with money and clothes so that he could get away.
Since the three poets quite possibly saved his life, it might be expected that he would repay them with thanks. On the contrary, he began to feel that he had been unnecessarily humiliated, and came to see himself as the victim, and his rescuers as malicious persecutors. As usual, Wu takes his side. “Hazlitt was not an embittered or grudgeful man,” he maintains, “but the treatment he suffered at the hands of Wordsworth and Coleridge was to rankle for the rest of his life.” Hazlitt's extraordinary capacity for feeling hard done-by was also apparent in the matter of his first marriage. His wife was the sister of a successful barrister, John Stoddart, and since Hazlitt was a penniless journalist, and often in debt, Stoddart generously set up a trust to make the newlyweds an annual allowance. Far from being grateful, Hazlitt saw this as a “mammoth humiliation”. It “filled him with disgust for years to come”, Wu testifies, and was one of the “corrosive forces” that destroyed the marriage. Hazlitt repaid his benefactor by describing him, in a newspaper article, as a “stupid, senseless, vulgar person”, and likened The Times, of which Stoddart was editor, to a “water closet”.
Another corrosive force that destabilised the marriage was Hazlitt's fondness for the company of prostitutes. He gave them free run of his lodgings, which inevitably fuelled scandal and also distressed his young son, who was so appalled on one occasion by the noises coming from his father's bedroom that he intervened physically. Pathologically shy and tongue-tied in company, Hazlitt seems to have found sexual satisfaction only with women he felt superior to socially. He fell madly in love with his landlady's daughter, Sarah Walker, who was, apparently, willing to engage in lengthy petting sessions, but refused to have sex. He persuaded his wife to divorce him, in the hope that this would win Sarah over, but she still resisted, and he vented his thwarted lust and rage in a detailed account of the affair published in 1823 as Liber Amoris, which mingles feelings of contempt based on social class with sexual loathing and hysterical denunciation. He describes himself as “glued to a bitch, a little damned incubus”, and Sarah as “a common lodging-house drab” with “an itch for being slabbered and felt”. Wu endorses Hazlitt's judgments. Sarah was, he assures us, “exactly what he feared: a snake, a succubus”, and feminist critics show their “stupidity” by accusing Hazlitt of sexual harassment. All the same, they seem to have a point. When Sarah finally rejected him he persuaded a friend to move into the Walkers' lodging house with the express intention of seducing her. The friend reported back to Hazlitt, who noted his accomplice's progress in a diary. He appeared naked before Sarah, and kissed her on several occasions, but apparently got no further.
Publishing Liber Amoris was an act of self-destruction. The Tory press seized on it with delight, execrating its author as a libertine and whoremaster, and Hazlitt's reputation was in ruins. He died in poverty. Wu's biography is, like its subject, passionately partisan, and throws objectivity to the winds. He gleefully applauds Hazlitt's “rabble-rousing” tirades, and lambasts his enemies as blackguards and liars. At times he verges on fiction by inventing conversations that he feels must have taken place, but which do not occur in the historical record. This may attract scholarly frowns, but it undoubtedly livens up his writing.
For all that, the claims he makes are wildly extravagant. The reader blinks to learn that Hazlitt possessed “laser-like intelligence” and “an almost godlike perspective”. Such estimates cut no ice unless backed by the kind of analysis that Tom Paulin attempted in The Day-Star of Liberty, and Wu never gets near that critical terrain. The samples of Hazlitt's essays, art criticism and lectures that he offers seem verbose, far from incisive, and not always notable for intelligence. What sort of intelligence concludes (in Characteristics) that “Women have as little imagination as they have reason; they are pure egoists”? Nor is it clear why Wu considers Hazlitt the first modern man. All it seems to amount to is that Hazlitt was a journalist, so foreshadowed the power of the mass media. But, to qualify as modern men, competitors must have had ideas we still use in our thinking. Among Hazlitt's predecessors Montaigne, Newton and Rousseau all did that. Among his contemporaries, Wordsworth and the protosocialist Robert Owen, whom he dismissed as insignificant, did so, too. Hazlitt did not.
And no one is thinking about the teachers! What about the teachers? Teaching a classroom of ten year olds the basics of sex could have a detrimental effect on their sex life! Little money, no peace, and now no sex. There goes a generation of potential teachers. Think of the hot flushes in the classroom. The staff room gossip - 'My year 4s asked me to demonstrate penetration'. And I guarantee you one cheeky ten year old will ask 'Sir, do you have sex? How often?'
