Speaking of Criticism: Who Owns Meaning?

So, everybody’s a critic, right? No, seriously: right. Readers invest their time, money, and imagination in everything they read. So, yes, that earns them the critical right to, as the godfather of modern criticism, Matthew Arnold, declaims, “say what the thing in itself really is.”

I can already hear the shrill protests from literary purists who insist that real textual authority belongs to the writer, not the reader. Further, they argue that we, as readers, must uncover the writer’s intentions and context in order to discover the real “meaning” of any written work.

CRITICI disagree.

Does anyone really believe Edgar Allan Poe expected readers in perpetuity to somehow comprehend the dreary, cocaine-infused 1845 context in which he wrote The Raven? And what about James Joyce’s critically acclaimed Ulysses, which has slightly different endings in various editions of the book? Shortly before Joyce died, he was asked which version was his intended ending. He confessed, “I don’t remember.”

That’s why I ask my university students on our first day of English class to summarize the theme of Romeo and Juliet. Answers range from “a love story” to “a tragedy” to an “OG soap opera,” and they’re not wrong. But in fact, Shakespeare wrote the play to connect with 16th-century Elizabethans, driving home one major point to their kids: if you defy your parents, you’ll die a fool’s death. Arranged marriage? Shut up and color.

Not very romantic then, but most certainly poignant, tragic, and emotionally charged today. That, I believe, would be all that mattered to Bill Shakespeare anyway: sell tickets, fill the Globe Theatre, pay the rent.

Still, literature gets more complex. Consider Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children, which drags readers through a main character’s heart-wrenching death march, only to begin the next chapter with, “No, that’s not what happened …” Plus, Guatemalan activist and Nobel Laureate Rigoberta Menchú, writing in English, promises on page one, “You’ll never understand what I mean.” Menchú and Rushdie are “oppositional writers”: their goal isn’t to hand you their meaning. Rather, you have to fight them for it. There are also “diachronic” writers who bend time, as in Olive Schreiner’s The Story of an African Farm. Schreiner’s protest against established rules of time and place mirrors the feminist struggle against masculinist priorities.

Literally, it’s a jungle out there. But don’t despair: we have ways of making books talk. That’s what this column is about—practical, useful, essential keys that will allow you to judge writing and distill meaning in what you choose to read. We’ll take an incisive, simplified, authentic, and meaningful look at poetry, fiction, and nonfiction, taking the watch apart, seeing how the works function, and why. It’s your right as a reader.

I’ll share the essential critical tools that will help you unlock the meaning of what you read so you can share it with others and own it for yourself. You climb that mountain; I’ll be the Sherpa. I’ll provide the critical tools—I know the way. How about a glimpse?

Here is one of my favorite Lone Star Literary reviews, along with my latest analysis of Falomo’s new poetry collection, Autobiomythography Of. Check them out, then let’s meet again here next issue. Grab a cup of coffee, roll up your sleeves—let’s get to work and determine “what the thing in itself really is.”

See you then,
CM