Picture this: a towering figure who masterfully navigated the shrinking gap between the ivory towers of academic English literature and the bustling arena of literary journalism. John Carey, who passed away at the age of 91, embodied this bridge like a legendary giant, leaving an indelible mark on both worlds. His impressive career as an Oxford professor for over four decades—including 25 years as the Merton professor of English literature—was seamlessly intertwined with a lifelong commitment to reviewing books for the Sunday Times. This dual path earned him a reputation as one of the most knowledgeable and fiercely opinionated critics of his time. But here's where it gets controversial: Carey's no-holds-barred style in literary journalism, which he brought to bear early in his career, set him apart as a champion against elitism, making him a thorn in the side of many establishment figures. And this is the part most people miss—his approach wasn't just about criticism; it was a passionate defense of everyday readers, challenging anything he saw as dismissive of their tastes or barriers to enjoying literature.
Carey's unapologetic stance against elitism and his disdain for the Bloomsbury Group—along with anything else that he believed condescended to ordinary folks—defined his early forays into journalism. He wielded his pen with the sharpness of a blade, cutting through pretensions to foster a more inclusive appreciation of books. For instance, his critiques didn't just analyze; they dismantled, ensuring that literature remained accessible and enjoyable for all, not just the privileged few. This approach drew both admiration and backlash, sparking debates about whether such fierceness elevated or overshadowed the works he reviewed.
A prime example of his biting wit comes from his review of Clive James's collection of journalism, The Metropolitan Critic, published in 1974. Even three decades later, James recalled the experience with a mix of shock and respect, describing how Carey's words 'chased down, bitten through the back of the neck and dined off' his bold opinions. What made it sting even more, James noted, was that Carey possessed genuine writing talent—his critiques were not only devastating but beautifully crafted, turning criticism into an art form that demanded attention.
On another notable occasion, Carey kicked off his review of Martin Green's book Children of the Sun—a 1976 exploration of interwar 'decadence'—with a blunt declaration: 'This book is richly stocked with people whom any person of decent instincts will find loathsome.' This directness highlighted his belief that literature should reflect moral clarity, and it often left readers pondering the boundaries of acceptable content in books.
As for the roots of Carey's intense dedication to his craft, it's fascinating to connect it to his background, much like Anthony Powell—a writer he didn't particularly admire—might have described as a matter of upbringing. Born into a family of six in Barnes, southwest London, the Careys were a classic middle-class household whose fortunes took a hit during the Great Depression. His father, Charles, a well-regarded accountant whom John adored, saw his firm collapse, forcing the family into a modest lifestyle by the mid-1930s. Yet, it was young John, the brightest and most diligent of the siblings, who seemed poised to turn things around. He attended Richmond and East Sheen grammar school, earned a scholarship to St John's College, Oxford—though his studies were delayed by two years of national service in the East Surrey Regiment—and graduated in 1957 with a prestigious first-class degree in English literature.
This experience sharpened Carey's awareness of class dynamics, especially after a year substituting for an absent tutor at Christ Church, where the eminent economist Sir Roy Harrod refused to acknowledge him entirely. This episode likely fueled his lifelong skepticism toward elitist attitudes. Eventually, in 1960, he became a fellow at Keble College before returning to his beloved St John's. Around this time, he married Gill Booth, whom he'd met during an undergraduate lecture, and together they raised two sons, Leo and Thomas.
Carey's early fame stemmed from his expertise in Milton, but by the early 1970s, he shifted his focus to the Victorian era, producing groundbreaking works like The Violent Effigy (1973), an innovative analysis of Charles Dickens's imagery, and Thackeray: Prodigal Genius (1977). These publications flanked his appointment at just 42 to the Merton chair of English literature, a position he held until retiring in 2001. For beginners diving into literary studies, think of these books as gateways: The Violent Effigy, for example, dissects how Dickens used symbols and metaphors to convey violence and emotion in his stories, making complex narratives more approachable.
Parallel to his academic life, Carey built a reputation as an essayist and reviewer, contributing frequently to the Sunday Times—becoming its chief book critic in 1977—and lesser-known outlets like Ian Hamilton's influential monthly, the New Review. While he praised worthy books, his primary role was as a debunker, arguing that 20th-century British culture was often a scheme where everyday people were misled by self-appointed arbiters of taste obsessed with modernism. These views shaped his influential book The Intellectuals and the Masses (1992) and, to some extent, What Good Are the Arts? (2005), where he questioned the value of art in society, prompting readers to rethink elitism in cultural institutions.
In his 1974 essay 'Down With the Dons,' Carey launched a scathing attack on academia itself—an ironic twist, as some critics pointed out, since it came from someone deeply entrenched in the very system he criticized. This self-reflective critique added layers to his persona, challenging whether true reform could come from within.
Over his career, Carey authored, edited, or assembled over two dozen books, spanning curated collections like The Faber Book of Reportage (1987) and The Faber Book of Science (1995)—which introduced readers to compelling real-world stories and scientific wonders, respectively—to his acclaimed biography of John Donne (John Donne: Life, Mind and Art, 1981) and a later biography of William Golding (William Golding: The Man Who Wrote Lord of the Flies, 2009). The latter, which explored Golding's life and the novel that brought him fame, resonated with Carey due to a shared sense of being an outsider; Golding had been deemed 'not quite a gentleman' by Oxford's appointments board, much like Carey felt about class barriers. This biography even won the 2010 James Tait Black Memorial Prize, a testament to its depth and insight.
Physically, Carey was tall, slender, wore glasses, and had an ascetic demeanor that sometimes betrayed his impatience with dissent. A memorable incident occurred during his chairmanship of the 2003 Man Booker Prize—he'd first led the panel in 1982—when he passionately recited excerpts from Martin Amis's Yellow Dog to sway the judges, only for two of them to burst into laughter. Yet, beneath this stern exterior, he was kind and respectful, adored by students for his meticulous guidance and held in high esteem by peers in an era of shrinking media spaces, as the ultimate bridge between old-school academia and modern criticism. His accolades included fellowship in the Royal Society of Literature in 1982 and the British Academy in 1996.
Carey leaves behind his wife Gill and his sons Leo and Thomas. His legacy invites us to reflect: Did his combative style truly democratize literature, or did it sometimes stifle nuanced discussions? Was his anti-elitism a noble crusade, or did it overlook the value of expertise in the arts? And here's a controversial take—what if his criticisms, while liberating for many, inadvertently dismissed the complexities of modernist works that could enrich readers in unexpected ways? We'd love to hear your thoughts: Do you side with Carey's populist approach, or do you think he went too far in his debunking? Share your opinions in the comments below—agreement, disagreement, or counterpoints are all welcome!
