f41 CHRONICLESnthe male image of God as the biggest disappointment in hernlife, etc. Why these wild speculations which all but strip thenpoet of her essential and mysterious humanity? It is thentheme of a book just out. Lunacy of Light (Southern IllinoisnUniversity Press), by one Wendy Baker, that in the poetry ofnEmily Dickinson all references to light are basically derivednfrom images of male “sun-power” against which a darknfemale creativity must strive in order to attain a viablenidentity of the Woman as Poet. One can almost take this asnfairly acceptable, but not when it tends to put such an onusnon what, in many instances, must have been an ingenuousnand candid act of love’s elan in Emily’s praise of light.nAside from this, it may be all to the good that feministncriticism has very justifiably appropriated Emily Dickinsonnto both its own interests and the larger literary interest. Itnseems obvious that even the best of male criticism on EmilynDickinson has failed to deal adequately with her status —nand indeed her stature — as woman and poet. The womannas writer, and especially as critic, is the new perceptor in anfield of letters heretofore the exclusive domain of the malenacademician. It is no detriment to present feminist criticism,nas such, to suggest that much of its excess and rashnoverstatement will eventually fall by the wayside in a newnprogression toward a fuller and therefore more humanenunderstanding of great writing and writers. It has alreadynrecognized in Emily Dickinson a truly original poeticngenius, one of the few women in art who can accommodatensuch a claim, and it is a tribute to her toughness and strengthnof mind — as against the myth of her spinsterism—that innthe midst of mediocrity around her, she did not go mad fornwant of recognition among those presumed to be hernbetters. The fact is she had no peers, let alone betters, andnon this particular matter it is an ironic delight that womennwill have had the last word.nPROPHET OF THE LEFT by George WatsonnIfirst met my future colleague Raymond Williams inn1959, when I was a young lecturer in English literature atnCambridge and he still a tutor in adult education in Oxford.nGeorge Watson is a Fellow in English at St. John’snCollege, Cambridge, and author of Politics & Literaturenin Modern Britain and The Idea of Liberalism (St.nMartin’s).nnnHis best-known book. Culture and Society 1780-1950n(1958), had just appeared—a late-Marxist interpretation ofnEnglish intellectual life since the French Revolution — andnwhat I principally remember from that first encounter wasnhis glowing pride in the commercial success of the booknwhich (as he explained) had greatly surprised his publisher,nbut not himself. “He is taking me to better restaurants fornlunch now,” he remarked, exuding pleasure.nIn the almost-30 years that I knew him, down to his deathnin January 1988 at the age of 66, that paradoxical note wasnto be struck again and again: a fierce pride in capitalisticnsuccess and its consumer rewards, coupled with a fiercenhatred of capitalism itself and its political and culturalnpretensions. By mid-career in Cambridge, which he hadnreached as a Fellow of Jesus College in 1961 (the year ThenLong Revolution appeared), he was to become the proudnowner of two country houses—one in England and one innhis native mid-Wales—and the talk was much of hi-fi,nwall-to-wall carpets, swimming pools, and color TV, whilenhis chief passion seemed to be for American musicals —nespecially if they starred Sammy Davis Jr. or Doris .Day.nBut the usual jibes about parlor-socialists do not fit himnexactly. He was so utterly open about being rich, asnacademics go, and about wanting to be richer. In any casenthere was nothing remotely grand or aristocratic about hisnstyle of life, as there was with his friend and rival, the Marxistnhistorian E.P. Thompson. Williams was unpretentiouslynbourgeois; his talk was of shopping and brand names, notndeer-parks and country mansions. Few I have known havenenjoyed the delights of the consumer society so much; none,nI believe, so frankly. (Indeed, he was fond of telling hisnCambridge classes that people often bought things afternwatching TV commercials; and when their mouths puckeredninto attitudes of stereotypical disdain, he would addndisconcertingly: “And so have I. Often.”)nHollywood might call it The Williams Story: from rags tonriches and proud of it. It is a story that amply illustrates whatn