The tyranny of Meaning: why your interpretation really matters

 

It is a remarkable fact of life that we can keep holding on to beliefs while professing we’re not. As Michel Foucault once said, we claim we believe in equality but deep down, we don’t, not really. We believe ourselves when we say it, we certainly do mean it, but there’s a nagging doubt at the back of our minds: is it true? Do I really believe that?

It doesn’t have to be about something big, or important, or moral – it can be as general as saying everyone should be free to do what they want while not quite believing that some people should choose to do that.

I mean: really? That’s how you spend your time? Well, ok, if that’s what you like…

It reminds me of that bit of dialogue in the majestic, out-of-this-world-fantastic Penelope Fitzgerald’s novel ‘The beginning of spring’. Two people are talking: Frank, the main character and a woman he’s met through their social circles. They didn’t take to each other, and Frank sees her as a traditionalist living in the past. They’ve just met, had an argument, and Fitzgerald writes this:

‘She’s going to pieces, Frank thought.
“No hard feelings”, he said, and in her contempt for such a commonplace remark, she began to feel better, so that they parted almost on friendly terms’.

How wonderfully can you describe someone without describing her? That 'she began to feel better', linked with 'commonplace', is such a gem!

The point, though, is that ‘she’ may well believe everyone’s free and equal but deep down, she only has contempt for those using a certain type of language. And of course, it could have been his taste in cheese, in trousers or his favourite pastime. Being on Twitter or not; using Tiktok; liking milk.

We’re a bit like that, all of us: we’re happily contradicting ourselves now and again, professing A while thinking B – the old Do as I say, not as I do syndrome.

I was reminded of that while talking to a group of students some time ago. We started discussing a basic tenet of reading: Meaning vs interpretation, and I asked what the role of the reader was – is it to find the meaning of the text or to interpret it in different ways?

Because our students have been introduced to that dichotomy before, they knew what to answer:

‘There is no one meaning, but there are multiple interpretations!’
‘Everyone is free is interpret the text in a way that makes sense to them, resonates with them’.
'The reader is king/queen'.

Fair enough, I thought, we’re going somewhere – after all, the biggest trap for teachers is that of Meaning, and moving away from the assumption that each text has a meaning (i.e. One meaning) is difficult, it takes time…and it takes courage, too, since as a teacher you’re not on ultra-solid ground anymore.

But then, as a test, I asked: ‘So, what do you think the writer is trying to say in this text?’, and immediately students started giving answers: ‘The author is saying that…’; ‘The author is trying to explain that’…and others of the same ilk.

And that, my friends, is the Tyranny of Meaning, leading readers to contradict themselves: it is not possible to fully embrace both sides – the reader is free AND the writer dictates the meaning. You must choose.

So yes, we may say one thing and believe another; we may make one claim and yet not trust it entirely.

If you go to Margaret Atwood’s website, you’ll find – in the FAQs section – this bit in answer to the question ‘Can you tell me what a particular poem/novel ending/symbol means?’. Atwood writes:

'There are two points to be made about this sort of questions.
First, what I think about what happened is already in the book.
Secondly, I’m not comfortable giving interpretations of my work. If I were to provide one, it would become the definitive interpretation, inhibiting readers from finding their own meanings’.

And yet the fact she has that question/answer on her site is proof enough that the tyranny of meaning still continues even among those who would probably claim that the reader is free, that the text belongs to the reader and that, as Borges said, a text has no real existence until it is opened and read and given life by the reader.

But we all know that’s easier said than done.

There is the problem of confidence, for example – confidence that your reading and interpreting matter just as much as the writing. In other words, that what you make of the text is at least as important – if not much more important – than whatever the writer was trying to do.

There is the problem of hierarchy: while it seems that the writer comes first and therefore you second, you must reverse that relationship – and that’s difficult.

And ultimately there is the problem of knowledge and experience: interpretation must be built, and patiently so. It necessitates different types of questions, an openness of mind and eyes and brain and heart, an alertness to nuances, and a desire to think along.

Not be carried along by the story: to think along with it, with its characters, with its plot and twists and turns. Not to follow blindly but to think for yourself.

That’s hard work most of the time, it’s risky work, it’s self-affirming work – and it’s also the only valuable work you can do if you want to fully benefit from your reading.

Don’t let the tyrant rule over you: there is meaning, yes, and in fact there are meanings. But those are yours, ultimately: do take charge – think for yourself, and don’t just try to reconstruct someone’s else thinking. And certainly never stop there: beyond the writer is a whole world of ideas.

Your duty is to inhabit that world, and really, to (co-)create it.

 

• https://margaretatwood.ca/faqs/
• Penelope Fitzgerald. The beginning of spring. London: Penguin, 1988.