John Middleton Murry, aged thirty-two, had already achieved prominence as a critic through editing a series of literary journals, most notably The Athenaeum, when he was invited to give six lectures at Oxford in the summer term 1921. They are reprinted here.
In the first lecture, appropriately enough, Murry grapples with the question of what we mean by style. Style, Murry asserts, is a term often used vaguely. He outlines three senses of the term. The most basic is the simple ability to marshal what you want to say in a way readers can follow. One with no sense of formulating a sentence or organizing a paragraph has no style, we say. Then there is style as idiosyncrasy (which Murry actually treats first). Show me one paragraph selected at random written by Karl Barth and I can identify the author. Readers more skilled than I will invariably not only do the same with Henry James, but tell you if it’s from his early, middle, or late period. Finally, there is what Murry calls Style Absolute; “a complete fusion of the personal and the universal.” This, Murry tells us, is the highest achievement of literature.
The absolute master of Style Absolute is (spoiler alert not necessary) Shakespeare. Also highly rated is Keats and, among authors active in Murry’s day, Hardy.
This doesn’t strike me as controversial, but apparently at the time this was an unabashedly elitist position, taken in opposition to those who decried style as unnecessary ornament and who advocated a flat style.
Not until the fourth lecture, however, does Murry deal with what he calls the central problem of style. This is the application of qualities of other art forms (rhythm from music and visual imagery from painting). These can also be qualities of written style, Murry concedes, but they are subordinate. The essential quality, however, is precision, also called crystallization. It seemed surprising at first that one means of achieving this, according to Murry, is metaphor. Rather than being an ornament, it is at times the most effective way to convey emotion (which he values—in the case of literature—above intellectual precision). And “in literature,” he assures us, “thought is always the handmaid of emotion.”
In the end, it seems, style is not technique. It comes from clear thought and honest feeling. As Murry writes: even “the smallest writer can do something to ensure that his individuality is not lost, by trying to make sure that he feels what he thinks he feels;—that he thinks what he thinks he thinks, that his words mean what he thinks they mean.” ( )