Life and Opinions

One of the more frustratingly ubiquitous words of late, irony – or as it is apparently synonymous with, sarcasm – is increasingly infiltrating every sphere of popular culture. In Southern America, young artists are ‘ironically’ painting in the style of an out-dated aesthetic movement. In television, Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock is defined by his caustically ‘ironic’ wit. In literature, Jonathan Coe ‘ironically’ borrows tropes from Sterne’s ‘The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman’ – the 18^th century forefather of post-modernism, “before modernism was even posted”. The question I pose is why – why the newfound (is it even that?) taste for all things subversive?

I am not worldly enough to comment on all these spheres, so will confine my analysis to that with which I am most comfortable; that tempting abyss of anonymity, escape and indulgence, books. First and foremost, sarcasm must be defined. Sarcasm – derived from the Greek for ‘tearing flesh’ – is when one says something that one does not mean, and indeed often the opposite is meant instead. To give the example of Mr Rochester, when he speaks, ‘you cannot be always sure whether he is in jest or earnest, whether he is pleased or the contrary’. As for irony, this seems to be the far less clear-cut. The best explanation I have been told, which has stuck with me, is that ‘irony is funny – but not ‘ha ha’ funny’. That most internet dictionaries define irony with the nuance of the opposite being implied is, I think, too simplifying – irony can imply any number of things, not necessarily the opposite. The two words are not interchangeable: few words are truly synonymous. But that’s a different essay.

The culture of irony is not a new one. I am going to propose that it truly leapt onto the world stage with the advent of the Modernist movement, spearheaded by the prolific Ford Madox Ford and Joseph Conrad. This was the movement of allusion – the oft-cited, quintessential modernist poem ‘The Wasteland’ by T. S. Eliot is filled with allusions to other works, other poems and other writers, as revealed by the notes ceded (unwillingly) by Eliot to early readers. This is, in my opinion, a branch of irony, which essentially consists of writer knowing more than reader, and revelling in this self-indulgent erudition by dropping in subtle hints at every corner. The irony lies in the hidden meanings – this site’s title is per se  explanatory, but to those familiar with Sterne it dredges up thoughts of so much more. The words make sense with or without quotation, but the beauty of such allusion lies in the layers of meaning.

‘Dramatic irony’ is a term any GCSE student is familiar with, meaning ‘when the audience knows something the characters do not’. This is another clear example of this kind of ‘ironic’ one-upmanship - often employed by Shakespeare to heighten tension in his plays, as the audience is at its most emotionally charged when it wants to intervene, yet feels utterly powerless to. It seems that this brand of irony is making a comeback onto the world stage, perhaps because the advent of television so easily lends itself to revealing details to he eager eye of the viewer that are not divulged to all onscreen. The irony of allusion also seems increasingly popular, as an elitist way of tickling the fancy of those well-read enough to spot it, and there is a sense of self-congratulation when you recognise a link that a writer has, either consciously or subconsciously, made. For instance: while watching the final instalment of the Harry Potter saga, I felt alone in realising that the scene played out in the (albeit spotless) King’s Cross owed much to Forster, who, through the medium of Margaret Schlegel, opines that ‘the station of King’s Cross had always suggested infinity’. To me, herein lies the true worth of a familiarity with literature, however scant, as by knowing what others before you have done with the same words that unthinkingly glide from your lips, there is much to be gained. Irony is definitely becoming almost fashionable, not only in the world of literature, perhaps driven by a surge of those seeking reassurance of their education - yet this is no bad thing if done properly. It may be self-indulgent and supercilious to employ irony of this sort, but it seems improper not to acknowledge the vast reservoir of work that has gone before, and to doff your cap to ‘il miglior fabbro’.

December 2011