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Aspects of the Novel, or E.M. Forster’s (In)formal Criticism

Portrait du critique en parasite: Aspects of the Novel d’E.M. Forster.
Catherine Lanone


Largement connu mais tout aussi largement décrié, l’essai critique publié en 1927 par E.M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel, est coupable d’irrévérence et de choix irréfléchis, plaçant parmi le canon littéraires les textes aujourd’hui justement oubliés, commis par des amis de l’auteur. Mais il est regrettable de juger le texte entier à l’aune de ces dérapages, car la critique de Forster est plus pertinente qu’il n’y paraît de prime abord. Il s’agit de revenir ici sur la posture excentrée choisie par Forster, à la lumière du parasite défini par Michel Serres. Se plaçant en marge du monde universitaire sans pour autant, comme Virginia Woolf, le remettre totalement en question, Forster amorce une réflexion sur la voix, le rythme, l’écho, s’éloignant du réalisme victorien pour proposer des catégories plus novatrices, modernistes. La métaphore incongrue du parasite devient la clef d’une tentative souple pour abattre les barrières, s’intéresser au parasitage intertextuel et au croisement des voix, voire au bégaiement, dans une étude de Melville qui approche le devenir-étranger de la langue. Cherchant non la clôture mais l’ouverture, Forster prône dans le roman ce qu’il appelle le chant, et Deleuze la ligne de fuite.

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1Since its publication in 1927, E.M. Forster’s critical essay Aspects of the Novel has fared both rather well and rather badly. The book was first conceived as a series of lectures which were delivered at Trinity College, Cambridge—unexpectedly leading to Forster’s subsequent election as a Fellow of King’s College, where he was to remain for the rest of his life. Aspects of the Novel still haunts academic discourse today, since the inevitable mention of flat and round characters entails a compulsory footnote on Forster. Yet the book also triggered unfavourable responses from the start, from F.R. Leavis who thought the lectures appallingly bad to Ford Madox Ford who was infuriated by Forster’s callous reference to literature as ‘the whole caboodle’ (Forster 95). For Ford, this was as bad as if a priest had elevated the Host in order to discuss the way in which bread is baked, little less than sacrilege. For such lectures, coming from Forster, who was at best a shy public figure, to arouse such anger, suggests that there was something a little heretical in the book’s approach to literature, and we may wish to have a look at Forster’s unconventional attempt, which does lead him astray at times, but which also produces a few ground-breaking intuitions.

2Yes—oh dear yes—Aspects of the Novel is E.M. Forster’s version of criticism. There is no denying that, in many ways, Aspects of the Novel is old-ashioned. In postmodern days, characterization no longer appears as a crucial tool to assess a book’s worth. Equally embarrassing are Forster’s subjective value judgments, dismissing Jane Eyre as a ‘little mansion’, not a great literary edifice, on a par with Cranford or The Ordeal of Richard Feverel, or placing James Joyce’s Ulysses side by side with such supposedly unforgettable books as The Magic Flute by Goldsworthy Lowes Dickinson or Flecker’s Magic by Norman Matson. Indeed, with stubborn emphasis, Forster actually sums up and quotes Flecker’s Magic for three and a half pages, which, compared with the half line devoted to Jane Eyre, seems hardly forgivable.

3But this provocative subjective stance also allows Forster to remain on the periphery of the Academic Establishment, and the fact that the book was first conceived as a series of lectures is a crucial element. Such intrusive parasitic references, such obvious errors and distorsions, allow Forster to pay lip service to his friends (like Dickinson) or fellow Kingsmen (like Lubbock), but they also reveal, more positively, a refusal of the model, a wish not to sit quietly at the Master’s table. Forster refrains from adopting the dogmatic posture of a scholar, or, more surprisingly, of a writer. He prefers to position himself as a common reader, a trespasser who challenges the formal assumptions of academic discourse. The short preface highlights the change of posture, as he reminds his reader that he has decided to keep the ‘informal, indeed talkative’ style of the original lectures: ‘Words such as ‘I’, ‘you’, ‘one’, ‘we’, ‘curiously enough’, ‘so to speak’, ‘only imagine’ and ‘of course’ will consequently occur on every page and rightly distress the sensitive reader’ (Forster xxxi). We may guess from the tongue-in-cheek, conversational preface that Forster is out to ruffle a few feathers if he can (and he certainly did annoy Dr Leavis).

4For Forster is wary of the way literature may be force-fed and transformed into exam-fodder. He mistrusts the university mould, hence his unexpected opening and captatio benevolentiae. Having been chosen as the first novelist to deliver the Clark lectures, Forster quotes Clark’s Spanish guidebook Gazpacho—rather than his scholarly study of Shakespeare—as an alibi which allows him to proceed freely, instead of having to describe ‘a period or periods of English literature’, as he was bidden. The key word is freedom, as opposed to dogmatic discourse: ‘And I have chosen the title ‘Aspects’ because it is unscientific and vague, because it leaves the maximum of freedom’ (39). However much he may have loved Cambridge as an undergraduate, Forster mistrusts all institutions where literature is concerned, especially exams, mere ‘gateways to employment’, disconnecting the student from the texts which he is supposed to study: ‘The economic pressure he feels is more often subconscious, and he goes to his exam merely feeling that a paper on King Lear is a very tempestuous and terrible experience’ (39).

5Forster’s wry humour is double-edged. He is intensely aware of the situation of enunciation, of his own temporary vantage point as a lecturer. No lecture is possible without a proper channel, some context or frame, even some apparatus. Communication never takes place freely, across neutral space. The set-up always deflects or deforms the message, there is always noise on the line:

A course, like any other collection of words, generates an atmosphere. It has its own apparatus—a lecturer, an audience or provision for one, it occurs at regular intervals, it is announced by printed notices, and it has a financial side, though this last is tactfully concealed. Thus it tends in its parasitic way to lead a life of its own [. . .]. (101)

6Although Forster is no rebel locked out of the main university system, like Virginia Woolf, he still presents himself as a parasite, etymologically a dinner guest or sponger, but also an organism that grows and feeds upon a different organism while contributing nothing to the survival of its host. Michel Serres considers that the introduction of a parasite entails destruction, disorder, but it may also jumble things up, create momentum, and turn into a positive dynamic factor of change or improvement. For Michel Serres, parasites create discrepancies, noise, static, thus disturbing official messages and discourse: ‘Le parasite a relation non point à la station mais à la relation. Et il la met en porte-à-faux’ (Serres 67).

7In Forster’s text, such a parasitic vibration may often be detected, as when the speaker subverts the use of pronouns and distances himself from respectable, genuine scholars:

Most of us are pseudo-scholars, and I want to consider our characteristics with sympathy and respect, for we are a very large and quite a powerful class, eminent in Church and State, we control the education of the Empire, we lend to the Press such distinction as it consents to receive, and we are a welcome asset at dinner-parties. (Forster 28)

8The pronoun ‘we’, which seems to connote empathy between speaker and audience, leads the reader astray, forcing him to question the connection between education and the Empire. Forster’s sudden shift might be described today in terms of Bourdieu’s definition of ‘habitus’, the way in which mental structures and systems of behaviour are transmitted by society through education. The use of ‘we’ becomes illocutionary, arousing unease, prompting the listeners to reflect on the way in which ‘learning is connected with earning’ (29), a provocative aphorism. Such slippery shifts lead us far from a comfortable panoramic view of English literature.

9The sentence ends with an ironic evocation of social rituals and dinner-parties, implicitly recalling the notion of the parasite: ‘Le parasite est une inclinaison au trouble, au changement de phase d’un système. Il est un petit trublion’ (Serres 353). Forster may not wish to dynamite the system, like Virginia Woolf, but his lectures remain a balancing act, seeking to resist the authority of academic discourse and introduce a degree of free play through humour.

10Whereas Woolf is deliberately agonistic in her essays, Forster is therefore more irenic, a mediator connecting, moving between contrasting elements, seeking change through interference rather than drastic confrontation. His relation to formalism can best be described as ambivalent. On the one hand, he mocks the academic obsession with taxonomies and pseudo-scientific close reading. The case in point is Clayton Hamilton’s study of literature in terms of the representation of the weather, from The Mill on the Floss to The Last Days of Pompei. The argument is too systematic, neat and ‘scientific’, and with a touch of sarcasm Forster insists on the case of non-existent weather (incidentally, for the sake of satire, he changes the order of the text, since Hamilton mentions this in the beginning of his argument, not at the end). On the other hand, Forster is fascinated by the pre-structuralist insistence on coherence and style, rather than historicity. He strays from the Modernist concern with tradition, referring to T.S. Eliot but begging to be excused from such a diachronic approach, on the mock-humble grounds of sheer ignorance. He advocates instead the universality of certain structural types. The demonstration is based on a series of quotations, which the reader must compare and contrast on stylistic grounds only, since the names of the writers are at first withdrawn. Such coupling is deliberately provocative, juxtaposing Wells and Dickens, Sterne and Woolf, or, almost nonsensically, Richardson and James. Reading should be autonomous, not impaired by considerations beyond itself; names are discarded precisely because names bring associations with them, ‘dates, gossip, all the furniture of the method we are discarding’ (31). Encyclopaedic knowledge is replaced by hermeneutics—grasping the text in terms of tone, pattern, plot, characters, rhythmical effects, an unsystematic interplay between the parts and the whole which involves the reader’s active participation, so that chronology becomes a useless, irrelevant concept: ‘we must exorcise that demon of chronology’ (31). The famous British Museum metaphor replaces contextual analysis with sheer sensitivity to the text, and nothing but the text, as Forster imagines that writers of all times may sit together in the British Museum Library, with their pens in their hands.

11Such an approach ran the risk of infuriating believers in the literary canon of the great British tradition like F.R. Leavis, but also gender-conscious readers and writers like Virginia Woolf, who were well aware that sitting, reading and writing in the room of the British Museum is all very well, if you are a man. In many ways, A Room of One’s Own responds to Forster’s forceful metaphor. Although the refusal of historical perspective can only be seen as problematic today, it entails a positive blurring of boundaries which tends to decentre the map of literature. Famous writers are denied their peaks or pedestals. The literary landscape is turned into a marsh with multiple rivulets and bits of grass on which one may find, say, Jane Austen or James Joyce. The tree of tradition is replaced by the random rhizomatic structure of roots or rather rivulets connecting at random. Evading jingoistic pride, Forster refuses to bound his literary landscape, including references to French and Russian literature.

12Besides, the commitment to structural reading also mistrusts systematic grids. Of course, Forster does devise a system of his own, as he distinguishes between ‘Homo Fictus’ and ‘Homo Sapiens’ (63) and separates round characters like Jane Austen’s protagonists from flat characters like Dickens’s Mrs Micawber, who will never desert Mr. Micawber—and who will never do or say anything more than that. But Forster is wary of Lubbock’s analysis of viewpoint, however fruitful it may be, and there is more about Forster’s presentation of point of view than first meets the eye. Virginia Woolf, for instance, was baffled by what she saw as Forster’s allegiance to Lubbock. Not only does he praise Lubbock’s obscure novel, but he apparently lionizes his 1921 classic, ground-breaking study The Craft of Fiction, which ‘examines various points of view with genius and insight’ (81). But Woolf misconstrued Forster’s barbed civilities. For he instantly goes on to say that his own ‘ramshackly survey’ can never provide readers with such solid (monolithic?) foundations. Indeed, Lubbock uses as a single model Henry James, arguing that his dramatic method (the perception of events through a central consciousness) is the only key to real art. A counter-argument runs through Forster’s text, stressing the importance of shifting viewpoints from Dickens to Tolstoi. As Rukun Advani has it, ‘his specific use of War and Peace as the greatest example of a vast, discursive, undramatic and musically ordered novel are a refutation of Lubbock’s idealization of James’s fictional method’ (Advani 129). Should the obsession with self-conscious method overrule all other interests, atmosphere vanishes: for Forster ‘a heavy drop in the emotional thermometer results’ (83). Rather than a single method, Forster admires shifts and variations, the writer’s prerogative which Lubbock admits but dismisses as peripheral, whereas for Forster it is essential: ‘I should put it plum in the centre. Look how Dickens bounces us in Bleak House’ (82). The colloquial tone and the repeated use of the verb ‘bounce’ enhance Forster’s delight as both reader and critic. Such an analysis paves the way for later, more challenging critical work; unlike Woolf, Gérard Genette noticed the impact of Forster’s criticism of Lubbock, an indictment of rigidity which he mentions, along with Booth, in Figures III: ‘Forster et Booth ont bien montré la vanité des règles pseudo-jamesiennes’ (Genette 211).

13Unlike Lubbock’s, Forster’s criticism is definitely reader-oriented: ‘Our easiest approach to a definition of any aspect of fiction is always by considering the sort of demand that it makes on the reader’ (103). He therefore gives up focalisation and characterization in order to present an alternative paradigm. Just as Eco was later to rely on the categories of fabula (the content of the story) and sjuzet (the story as it is actually told), Forster points out that one must analyse in specific terms the reader’s activity and distinguish the story from the plot. The first category, which he labels ‘story’, corresponds to the self-indulgent delight in storytelling. For Forster, this is a deep, ancestral instinct, since all cultures have been storytelling cultures. He o ffers a new allegory of the cave, evoking cavemen gathered round a fire and breathlessly listening to the storyteller. The teller whets the listener’s appetite, prompting his avid curiosity, as he yearns to learn what happened next. The process is also presented as a matter of life and death, since the storyteller is killed as soon as he fails to maintain suspense (literally or metaphorically, if the audience falls asleep), so that the archetypal caveman evolves into the archetypal Scheherazade.

14But for all the brief tribute paid to the ancestral ritual of the oral tradition, the primal instinct from which all literature issues, the blinded cavemen must be dragged out of the cave towards critical light, in a Neo-Platonic progression from story to plot, from sheer suspense and fluid oral storytelling to the intellectual complexities of temporal structures, the subtlety of narrative strategies and shifts in voice or purpose. Provocatively, Forster reverts to parasitic metaphors to locate his concept of ‘plot’ as opposed to ‘story’. As a chronological narrative of events, the story begins and ends arbitrarily, often with clichés, hence ‘that idiotic use of marriage as a finale’ (50). The story-line, therefore, is nothing but ‘the lowest and simplest of literary organisms’ (42), which, should the critic extract it with a forceps, would resemble something like a tapeworm. It wriggles on, to be cut here or there. Communication occurs, but it crawls, remaining stubborn and slow for all the sensational suspense. This is where interference comes about, disturbing the medium so that it may travel differently, with sensitivity and responsiveness. Exposure to interference is what makes it work, what turns the message into a passage. Just as Virginia Woolf selects Walter Scott to epitomize Mr. Ramsay’s masculine hubris in To the Lighthouse (published in the same year as Aspects of the Novel), Forster chooses to paraphrase—the word is his—Scott’s novel, The Antiquary, to illustrate his point. The novel which may be boiled down to a story, and nothing but a story, no longer passes the test of analysis. On the contrary, value is placed on strategies which demand the reader’s more active involvement, as he needs to re-member, to piece the elements together: ‘a plot demands intelligence and memory also’ (87). Retrospective assessment must be fused with affect: the memory of the reader ‘will constantly arrange and reconsider’ (89) and reading becomes both a conscious and an unconscious activity (as memory creates the ‘dull glow of the mind’ 88). Thus we might distinguish two tones of voice in Forster’s lectures on literature. On the one hand, we hear the humorous, somewhat patronizing liberal, whose key phrases fail to age well: ‘Yes—oh dear yes—the novel tells a story’ (40). On the other hand, Forster offers true insights, dividing the figure of the reader into separate entities, allying passive enjoyment with dynamic, active awareness: ‘[P]art of the mind must be left behind, brooding, while the other part goes marching on’ (88). Mutatis mutandis, this foreshadows more recent configurations of the reader and of the temporality of the novel, such as Picard’s distinction between the ‘liseur’ (who remains aware of the real world), the ‘lu’ (passively yielding to affect and unconscious emotions) and the ‘lectant’ (the reader’s most active part whose memory is involved and who plays the reading game).

15But the most interesting aspect of Forster’s book may well lie in the last three chapters, leading from fantasy to prophecy, pattern and rhythm. The discussion of ‘pattern’ echoes Roger Fry’s ‘significant form’, but Forster is keen to introduce different, more musical concepts. The category ‘fantasy’ curiously mingles satire and the supernatural. Forster vindicates the whimsical world of imagination:

[. . .] on behalf of fantasy let us now invoke all beings who inhabit the lower air, the shallow water and the small hills, all Fauns and Dryads and slips of the memory, all verbal coincidences, Pans and puns. (104)

16Fantasy thus mingles the symptoms of the subconscious (Freudian slips), humour, and the flight into make-believe mythological realms; with its ‘Pans and puns’, the definition does not take itself seriously. The balance has shifted from comfortable taxonomy (characters and viewpoint) to poetic creation, to the more elusive, fluctuating fringe of illusion. The passage towards fantasy is set under the sign of Hermes: ‘let us call upon Hermes—messenger, thief, and conductor of souls to a not-too-terrible hereafter’ (105). Although Forster makes rather curious value judgments in this section (this is where he quotes Dickinson and Matson) he lays emphasis on the reader’s suspension of disbelief, and therefore on the price which must be paid in order to reach fantasy (‘So fantasy asks us to pay something extra’ [104]). This crucial in-betweenness highlights the changing pact of fiction. Interestingly enough, he also includes parody within fantasy, since the text is haunted, as it were, by the hypotext which it subverts. The paradigm of the positive parasite necessarily reappears as James Joyce’s Ulysses is chosen as the epitome of intertextual fantasy, a ‘remarkable affair,—perhaps the most interesting literary experiment of our day’ (113). It is as if Forster had needed the safe, unchallenging friendly guidelines of Dickinson and Matson, before venturing on the fascinating but deeply disturbing subtleties of Joycean territory. Forster’s admiration and uneasiness can be measured in equal terms as he attempts to assess Joyce’s art in terms of satire, an ‘epic of grubbiness and disillusion’ (114) feeding on the Odyssey, spanning the intertextual gap to make it grind, scrape, clang, sing with a new meaning, quickening it to a new life with the demonic vibration of interference. One has to wait for Serres for the paradigm to be fully articulated, but a concept—although he fails to push it further—lurks in Forster’s unusual choice of metaphors: ‘and here—and indeed throughout—smaller mythologies swarm and pullulate, like vermin between the scales of a poisonous snake’ (114).

17With prophecy and rhythm, Forster seems to move away from the parasitic frame or the traditional categories of characters. He now seeks to define literature in terms of voice, that is to say, rhythm and music. Whereas structures, like the necessary conclusions of endings, appear regressive and hamper the creative flow, Forster longs to define the novel in terms of sheer intensity, a process of opening out, a becoming-music of the text:

Expansion. That is the idea the novelist must cling to. Not completion. Not rounding off but opening out. When the symphony is over we feel that the notes and tunes composing it have been liberated, they have found in the rhythm of the whole their individual freedom. Cannot the novel be like that? (149)

18The mimetic purpose dissolves, the novel is only ‘spasmodically realistic’, it must give instead the ‘sensation of a song or of sound’ (125). The ‘song’ is operatic. Forster defines rhythm in Proustian terms, using Vinteuil’s ‘little phrase’ as the epitome of rhythmic fiction. The dynamic vibration goes beyond mere repetition. The Wagnerian motif is transposed and gains a textual life of its own, creating a melodic landscape with areas of intensity. In terms which go beyond Bergson, Forster shifts from visual art as a paradigm for fiction to music, longing for lines of flight. Not only do such refrains stitch the text together internally, but they open it up in bursts of intensity:

What will interest us today—what we must respond to, for interest now becomes an inappropriate word—is an accent in the novelist’s voice [. . .] His theme is the universe, or something universal, but he is not necessarily going to ‘say’ anything about the universe; he proposes to sing, and the strangeness of song arising in the halls of fiction is bound to give us a shock. (116)

19The rhetoric is indeed ‘inappropriate’, as he explores rhythm, the becoming-music of language, but also this tone of voice which he calls, in Romantic terms, ‘prophecy’, might be re-read as an early instance of deterritorialization. He thus draws a distinction between George Eliot and Dostoyevsky, opposing two prison scenes, since Eliot is a preacher whereas Dostoyevsky reaches beyond the individual (this is what Deleuze will define as individuation without a subject, when tragedy becomes a line of flight as well as a line of death). Forster struggles with words, attempting to conceptualize this ‘tone of voice’; he chooses four examples, and four only, and this time he makes no mistake—D.H. Lawrence (who rises from preacher to prophet, though not always) Emily Brontë (who plays with realism and temporal structures in order to reach sheer intensity), Dostoyevsky and Melville. Forster points out that in Wuthering Heights characterization cannot be separated from both affect and landscape: ‘My answer is that the emotions of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw function differently from other emotions in fiction. Instead of inhabiting the characters, they surround them like thunder clouds [. . .]. No wonder they ‘walk’; what else could such beings do?’ (131-132) In other words, climate, winds, seasons become part of what Deleuze defines as ‘haecceity’, not ‘a decor or backdrop that situates subjects’, but ‘the entire assemblage’, defined by a longitude and a latitude, speeds and affects, when climates, winds, seasons, are not of another nature than the animal and people populating the landscape (Deleuze and Guattari 262-3). Brontë’s characters go across, get out, break through, their haunting ‘walking’ creating a powerful line of flight. Similarly, Melville fascinates Forster. Indeed, for him, Melville is prophetic not simply because he is rhapsodic, like Lawrence, but because Moby Dick is all contest and all fluidity: ‘The essential in Moby Dick, its prophetic song, flows athwart the action and the surface morality like an undercurrent’ (126). Something runs there which cannot be trapped in words, for Deleuze a process of becoming, for Forster sheer song. And Forster is one of the first critics to pay close attention to Billy Budd, where song and stutter are fused (he was later to call Britten’s attention to it and write the libretto for the opera with Eric Crozier). This choice shows a close affinity with Critique et clinique, where Forster’s all-too-brief critical insight about the eerie connection between stutter and deterritorializing song is transmuted into an exploration of the otherness of language pushed to the limit. To conclude, Aspects of the Novel has often been dismissed as a light piece of work, an old-fashioned but shallow good read. In Cambridge Forster plays the part of the parasite making the audience laugh, paying his meal with puns. One remembers certain jokes, such as grief coming to Jane Austen’s female characters, elopement, ‘far worse than the Napoleonic wars’ (78), or certain concepts like round and flat characters. But the interest of the book may well lie in the concepts which he tried to articulate, like prophecy and song, which try to break down barriers and territories and reach beyond categories, Blake’s ‘Single vision’ and ‘Newton’s sleep’ (in Forster 132), however tentative the formal steps may be. Such terms have long been used to comment on Forster’s own attempt to use rhythm and echoing structures in A Passage to India, striving to reach the very otherness at the heart of sound in the Marabar Caves, seeking to break down the barren ideological frames of British India. But these concepts may also be seen as an imperfect attempt to articulate a more creative kind of criticism, paving the way (a very modest way in this case, for Forster has no hubris as a critic) for modern readers like Deleuze, hoping that criticism too might be all opening out, no constriction or completion.

As Aspects progresses, Forster moves away from the doctrine of nineteenth-century realism that novels must be imitations of life and begins to introduce categories that his classically-trained lecture audience would have found innovative and exciting, if at times provocatively idiosyncratic, whimsical, and even bizarre. By introducing those categories and by refusing to restrict himself to what can be seen and analysed within a novel, Forster re-introduced an imaginative and creative strain to criticism that Lubbock’s more positivistic approach had denied. (Schwarz 53)

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Advani, Rukun, E.M. Forster as Critic, London: Croom Helm, 1984.

Deleuze, Gilles & Guattari, Félix, A Thousand Plateaus, trans. Brian Massumi, London: Athlone Press, 1987.

Deleuze, Gilles, Critique et clinique, Paris: Minuit, 1993.

Ford, Ford Madox, ‘Cambridge on the Caboodle’, Saturday Review of Literature 17, December 1927: 449–450.

Forster, E.M, Aspects of the Novel (1927), eds. Oliver Stallybrass and Frank Kermode, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2005.

Forster, E.M, A Passage to India (1924), Harmondsworth: Penguin, 2000.

Fry, Roger, Vision and Design (1920), Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990.

Genette, Gérard, Figures III, Paris: Seuil, 1972.

Lubbock, Percy, The Craft of Fiction (1921), New York: Viking, 1957.

Picard, Michel, Lire le temps, Paris: Minuit, 1989.

Schwartz, Daniel R., Humanistic Heritage: Critical Theories of the English Novel from James to Hillis Miller, University of Pennsylvania Press, 1986.

Serres, Michel, Le Parasite, Paris: Hachette, 1980.

Woolf, Virginia, A Room of One’s Own (1929), Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1993.

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Catherine Lanone, « Aspects of the Novel, or E.M. Forster’s (In)formal Criticism »Études britanniques contemporaines [En ligne], 33 | 2008, mis en ligne le 21 juillet 2020, consulté le 15 juillet 2024. URL : ; DOI :

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Catherine Lanone

Université Toulouse 2-Le Mirail

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