Xhe preceding page carries a vignette by Warren Chappell,nthe illustrious American artist, letterer, calligrapher and typendesigner. It is a pictorial comment on Laurence Sterne’s opinionnof critics (Tristram Shandy, Book III, Chap. 12). We can safelynassume that the corruption of the critic, which Sterne calledncant, has deepened since his days. No changes in humannnature have caused this decline, rather it was the transformationnof the cultural role of a critic which gave him newnpossibilities for influencing and manipulating larger areas ofnsocial reality. In Sterne’s epoch, a critic tormented only thenwriters. In ours, he torments everybody. To be sure, he does itnnot by the mere force of his personality—there are not criticsnin our day of a stature to sway the fate of literature as oncenBoileau or Sainte Beuve did. The difference is that the modernncritic is the beneficiary of a concentration of cultural powersnbrought about by our civilizational and social organizationnand by technological advance.nModern culture is energetic. It is shaped by methodology,nresearch and the dynamics of huge cultural systems—not bynthe contemplation or speculative inquiry of individuals. SaintnAugustine, Erasmus and Voltaire owed their great influencento nothing but their own powers. However, during the 19thncentury it became clear that ideas, artistic intuition andnintellectual endeavor could no longer achieve prominence onntheir own merits; no creative impetus could subsist alone;nneither the Muses nor predestination were enough to producena genius, a creator, or a prophet; no achievement in philosophy,nliterature or science could henceforth be given high visibilitynand flourish in culture other than through comment, interpretationnand publicity—that is without the help of a criticnand a journalist. To be sure, even the medieval Churchnanticipated these solutions: it built a successful public relationsnsystem by employing exegetes and apologists.nIn our time, the critic in conjunction with the journalistnhave created a new alchemy; they are able to turn nothing intonsomething by sleight of hand. They have become inquisitors,njudges and policemen of mass sensitivity.The literary magazinesnthrough which the critic operates may seem to carry littlenweight in a commercialized society, but this is an illusion:nthey are the shapers of mass-consciousness. The journalistntakes on their verdicts, simplifies them, and with the help ofnnewspaper copy, camera and microphone diffuses them, innrunted versions to every corner of our consciousness.nStendhal’s lot is a notable example of the omnipotence ofnthe critic-journalist partnership: in his time, he was scornednChronicles of CulturenCommentnnnby critics and ignored by journalists; he died in bitterness andnloneliness; a century later, French critics had a change ofnheart; today, he is justly acknowledged as a genius. In ourncentury we see the phenomenon of cultural majesties entirelyncreated by literary periodicals. In high-brow parlance suchncreations and their authorities are attributed to the gap betweenntwo cultures—the mass, or popular, culture and the elitistnone. What counts, however, is the obvious circumstance thatnalthough not many have read Proust, Kafka, Eliot, Pound,nEinstein, Freud and Bertrand Russell—everybody seems tonknow about them as a result of the efforts of the Critic &nJournalist combine. The critics and interpreters chose themnas “the greats” and the reporters fashioned them into universalnicons—most often understanding nothing of their wisdom.nThis complex, but not too subtle, mechanism has currentlynfallen into the hands of an Establishment in America. It callsnitself a Liberal Establishment and it is dedicated to an unrestrictednfreedom of expression. Under one condition: inasmuchnas everything can be expressed, only what the Establishmentndesignates as worthwhile will be commented on bynthe critic and widely circulated by the journalist. They themselvesnare members of the Establishment and see to it that nonharm is inflicted upon its edifices and its ideas. And here isnwhere the cant comes in, and Laurence Sterne appears to usnour contemporary.nAhis Establishment is not based on political or financialnpower. It is not a creation of the whimsicality of social elites. Itnis far from being crude and vulgar, from rewarding only thosenwho slavishly follow its line and predilections. Walker Percy,nwhose novel Lancelot we review in this issue, shares neitherntenets nor penchants with the Liberal Establishment: hennevertheless was widely reviewed and fairly praised in thenEstablishment’s media. But he did not get the kind of supportnthat Jessica Mitford, another author mentioned in these pages,nreceived for her memoirs. In them, she describes her membershipnin the Communist Party as a sort of accident caused bynher intellectual myopia, but at the same time as a preciousnmanifestation of moral rectitude, and as a great option for thenliberal conscience. Percy is a Catholic who sees in his faith anninstrument for a difficult salvation. Mitford is a formerncommunist and unreformed radical (for quite silly and pettyn