Arnold’s primary argument in “The Study of Poetry” is fundamentally an elitist one: reading poetry, he claims, is a better way of spending one’s time than other, more popular pursuits, and within poetry itself there is a group of “classic” poets, such as Dante and Shakespeare, who are to be regarded as clearly superior to all others. What’s more, Arnold makes it clear that it is not enough simply to read poetry in order to receive its benefits; one must hold oneself to the highest standards and constantly return to “poetry of a high order of excellence.” Indeed, Arnold even implies that schooling itself is not the way to become a true reader of poetry, since it causes students to spend too much time learning the “groundwork” and not enough time enjoying “the best”—perhaps implying that one must somehow have a natural proclivity toward understanding and appreciating poetry.
On the other hand, Arnold clearly views the spread of democratic values—and the “dissolution” of tradition that he sees as accompanying them—with apprehension. He takes a somewhat dim view of the masses and the popular culture that they enjoy, noting, “We are often told that an era is opening in which we are to see multitudes of a common sort of readers, and masses of a common sort of literature,” and that such readers are not likely to be readers of poetry. Still, Arnold does not have outright contempt for these masses and their popular culture; he merely reserves the right to enjoy poetry on his own terms and argues that eventually others will, by necessity, come around to his way of thinking. Thus, Arnold’s juxtaposition of poetry as an elite pursuit with democratic culture is not necessarily a hostile pairing but can be seen as an expression of his aspiration for a nobler culture—an idea that requires the survival of an elite, noble ideal.
Elitism, Democracy, and Popular Culture ThemeTracker
Elitism, Democracy, and Popular Culture Quotes in The Study of Poetry
‘The future of poetry is immense, because in poetry, where it is worthy of its high destinies, our race, as time goes on, will find an ever surer and surer stay. There is not a creed which is not shaken, not an accredited dogma which is not shown to be questionable, not a received tradition which does not threaten to dissolve.’
We are often told that an era is opening in which we are to see multitudes of a common sort of readers, and masses of a common sort of literature; that such readers do not want and could not relish anything better than such literature, and that to provide it is becoming a vast and profitable industry. Even if good literature entirely lost currency with the world, it would still be abundantly worth while to continue to enjoy it by oneself. But it never will lose currency with the world, in spite of momentary appearances; it never will lose supremacy. Currency and supremacy are insured to it… by the instinct of self-preservation in humanity.