Hannibal Lecter (The Silence of the Lambs) may seem an unlikely fairy godmother, but as Bruce Robbins establishes, in a groundbreaking work of political literary criticism, as far as Clarice Starling is concerned that is what he is, a benevolent patron bestowing his magic help in the cause of her advancement. Lecter is typical of the figure of the benefactor, essential in narratives of upward mobility, exemplifying the historical shift from marriageable masters to unmarriageable mentors. Pairings of this nature are passionate but highly ambiguous, denaturalizing heterosexual normativity in relationships which are usually provisional, frustrating, or unfulfilled. Whereas in Europe pairings of older women and younger men figure prominently, America develops the model of the older criminal (Magwitch or Vautrin) as the benefactor situated between two worlds, linking professional advancement to social benevolence and thus laying the groundwork of the welfare state.

The welfare state and upward mobility are usually seen as opposed (think Clarence Thomas and his myth of his “welfare queen” sister, beautifully demolished here). Robbins, however, advances a highly original, subtly nuanced and convincing thesis, which challenges the dominant anti-statist view of welfare as a form of domination based upon surveillance. He is no utopian. The welfare state is seen, warts and all, as a means of managing capitalism from within. But the argument makes a decisive intervention in favour of the possibilities of cross-class sympathy. Why, after all, do readers not find these stories utterly repulsive? In brief, Robbins argues that upward-mobility stories are an example of the political importance of literature, in that they have helped America and Europe make the transition from an ethic of individual responsibility to one of collective accountability. They also suggest why society remains fascinated by cases of sexual abuse by figures of authority. Upward-mobility stories reveal that, rather than demonstrating rugged independence, every successful individual relies on others. Indeed sociability is often a key element in their rise, as the fascinating accounts of Dreiser's Frank Cowperwood and Carrie demonstrate here. As one might expect from the author of Feeling Global (1999), the range is transatlantic, offering suggestive pairings of European and American works, and closing with a discussion of the international division of labour, in the figure of the postcolonial female migrant (Bharati Mukherjee and Jamaica Kincaid). For Americanists there are rich rewards in five of the six major chapters, in the substantial discussions of works by Dreiser, Alger, John Edgar Wideman, Budd Schulberg, E. L. Doctorow, Tillie Olsen, and Richard Rodriguez, plus autobiographies and films. Good Will Hunting, for example, in which the hero lacks the will to leave his class behind, exemplifies the ways in which “limited liability” is central to both the welfare state (the “no-fault” view of poverty) and corporate capitalism. Wideman and Rodriguez give accounts of their rise with one eye firmly on those who were left behind, in Wideman's case his brother, serving a life sentence for murder. (There is a tendency for murder and upward mobility to go together.) The social worker is not always the enemy. In Unafraid of the Dark Rosemary Bray is happier once her violent father has left by the back door and been replaced by the “Aid to Families with Dependent Children” programme. Debra Dickerson (An American Story) is equally grateful to the university and the US Air Force. Hyperresponsibility often emerges as the problem rather than the rugged solution, as in Olsen's “I Stand Here Ironing.” In Erin Brockovich the heroine's rise depends on solving the problems of excessive self-reliance. Robbins admits candidly to his motivation, reacting against the dismantling of the welfare state in the age of Reaganite sado-monetarism, but he is no friend to notions of therapeutic culture, or to the welfare state as anger-management mechanism. Anger can be legitimate and despite his elegant and nuanced argument Robbins does not abandon it. His discussion of sociology as a combat sport, focussed on the upward-mobility narratives of several distinguished sociologists, and on lowly origins as cultural capital, makes trenchant reading. Reservations? The influence of social Darwinism, with its emphasis on adaptation, needed more attention in relation to Dreiser, and the concept of survival guilt might have been useful in relation to working-class autobiographies. The argument probably underplays the degree to which the welfare state reinforces heterosexual norms (“hard-working families”). And given Alger's pederasty he makes a slightly ambiguous example. But these are very minor cavils in relation to one of the more important books of the decade.