Crosman, Hirsch, and Mailloux all make valid arguments about meaning, but I would agree with Crosman’s idea that the reader makes the ultimate meaning. A reader’s understanding of a poem can be completely different from the author’s intention.

I especially saw this matter in our think aloud project, where J.J, Matt, and Edith would go back and forth discussing whether this poem relied on the story “Hansel and Gretel”, or whether it was referring to Nazi Germany. I realized that both these analysis required previous knowledge whether about the story or about history. Their final discussions on whether this poem is about abuse derived from these matters. For someone who does not have this knowledge however, the poem can mean something completely different. Different techniques also come into play when trying to understand the author’s poem.

Again as presented in the two Think aloud projects, one reader and or group may focus too much on the history and background of the author and how it relates to the poem, and another may just focus on the word choices and how they relate to each other and to the poem as a whole. With me for example, even though I did have previous knowledge about both issues Group 1 brought up, when I first read the poem those were not my impressions about the poem. I tend to focus first on the words of a poem, or format the poem is written, like an indentation or the number of lines. Of course once we discussed the poem as a class I would enjoy writing about the significance of the poem. So I would argue that because readers each choose different manners to tackle a poem first hand, they can come up with their own meaning of the poem, each valid on their own terms.

With less experienced English students I agree with Leana that many students dislike doubts, and that is why they do not enjoy Literature. I remember wanting to contact the author when I was in high school to find out the “true” meaning of a poem, it was like solving a mystery. But I think as we mature in our reading experience we naturally overcome that phase and begin to look into how a poem or story relates to our own lives.

Admittedly, it was late when I sat down to read the articles on New Criticism and Reader-Response, but I have a background in literary theory and criticism (although it has been several years since I have practically applied any of this background), yet these were very difficult articles to follow – insert tab A into slot Z – wait a minute where is slot Z – oh it is hidden in the Eliot paragraphs.

It also made me remember my Modern Poetry seminar class. I had a professor who was a New Critic, and although it pained me, I did learn a great deal about the practice of close reading from him. However, I did have many headaches upon leaving his class because all of the butting of heads we did over interpretations of poems read/discussed. In fact, his class more than any other turned me off of the idea that there is one single solitary interpretation of a poem or prose for that matter (yes, even nonfiction).  This may seem contradictory – taught me a lot about close reading – turned me off of single interpretations. Well, at one point in my life, I fancied myself a poet – and as such I took many poetry/writing workshops. It was in one of these workshops that I first heard someone’s recycled words (because in actuality there are on original words or stories – we’re just telling the same story differently – right?) that as a poet/writer as soon as you put your work out there – you lose all control of meaning – people are going to apply their own meaning even if it is not your intended meaning. How can we as poets/writers stop this? We can’t, but we can infuse our work with diliberate choices to help guide our readers to our intended meaning, but ultimately they may not reach that meaning, and may reach an equally significant meaning we hadn’t thought of. I feel Crosman brings this to light in his discussion of Pound’s In a Station of the Metro.

What can differentiate a poems meaning? Well, our experience will definitely influence our understanding of a literary work as well as our beliefs. How many wars have been fought over interpretations of the Bible? Without an understanding or at least a little bit of knowledge of Homer’s Odyssey, or that Ulysses is the Roman equivalent would they come away with the same interpretation of Tennyson’s poem? I do not think so, especially considering some of the specfic vocabulary choices like lees(7).

For me, all of this points to a more reader as meaning maker approach. However, I still feel that there are some gaps in the article on Reader-Response theory because I felt like it was saying that an interpretation is only as good as the interpreter’s interpretation fits with his/her groups intretative guidelines. My feelings are that these guidelines must not be static and should change depending on what we are reading and when in our lives we are reading.

 Just a couple of comments because my school’s firewall will not let me post comments to other’s posts:

Renee – I agree that questions in the book are of little more value than elementary recall and paraphrase. However, textbook makers are publisihing for a large audience and are limited in their knowledge of the knowledge of individual teachers and/or students. I typically use them as starting points to get the discussion rolling. However, as Edith mentioned in class some textbooks include those open ended questions (like the Norton – in our discussion about Cathedral) with no answers – better questions – but sometimes more frustrating.

Edith – Your comment about the meaning being created between the writer and reader – I agree, but what about cases like Emily Dickinson who ‘apparently’ wrote for only herself? We as readers find a great deal of meaning in her poems, but when no audience is indicated how is the meaning created? More questions than answers – isn’t that always the case.

Franciso – There is a certain allure to having only 1 right answer – I have several students who will attest to this fact.

Since most text is begun without a clear intent as to the eventual meaning or significance of the final product, it’s a fair assumption that meaning is not constructed via meticulous consideration before the pen is even put to paper or finger to keyboard—not that pre-written deliberation is entirely absent from a completed text. Writing is thinking put to paper; subsequent drafts of a poem or story reflect upon this process of evolving thought. Writers let the writing make the meaning; doing otherwise imprisons them within an original line of thought perhaps only on the periphery of what they were originally trying to convey.

This constant self-interpretation affords them a unique perspective on the meaning of their work, but by no means gives them final word. Novels would need no editors if the writer were perpetually capable of perfect economy of meaning—or overcoming the personal shortcomings and biases that undermine that meaning. I don’t believe it to be so much a matter of “making” meaning, however, as it is a matter of “finding” it.

There are, of course, pluralities of meanings that can be found in any text. Wordsworth may be conflicted over the death in “Lucy.” He rejoices, considering his pantheistic views, but as a human being also seems unable to avoid some measure of fatalism. But the act of “making” meaning carries with it the stigma of diluting the initial text by equating it with every conceivable interpretation imaginable. It is this anarchy—an anarchy of pointless, nebulous, even stupid ideas—that I believe Hirsch resists, albeit too stringently. Is Hirsch’s viewpoint to narrow-minded? Yes. But then, was Ezra Pound really writing about dairy farming?

As Crosman poses the question—“Do Readers Make Meaning?”—the answer is that they do. But the worry is not that there should be a suppression of opinion but discernment as to the validity of multiple opinions. I could read Wordsworth’s poem and think, “Why, this is a pre-Victorian presentation of early zombie fiction. Wordsworth is clearly playing upon the fear of social—if not actual—demise, by dramatizing the awakening of a newly created ghoul; he equates death of the individual with the birth of the undead.” I could support this contention with evidence; that does not make it any less ludicrous.

Perhaps just such a contemporary reading—by a George Romero fan for whom zombie films have deep social significance—could speak volumes to an individual. But this is less a matter of making meaning, or even finding meaning, than it is a matter of understanding meaning via personal taste. If the emotion initially intended by the poem is evoked, or even a legitimate alternative, than success is arrived upon. But throw zombies a non-horror fan and they’ll look at you like you’re insane. Meaning should be universal, no matter how you arrive upon it.

My; that post went off the rails.

-Matt

Last week’s Think Aloud, paired with the written analysis of the exercise, helped me better understand how my students must feel when I urge them to master the uncertain skill of interpreting literature. I chose to analyze the Think Aloud that I participated in, and in my analysis, I realized that acquiring knowledge truly is a process. I was surprised that our group analysis during the Think Aloud fluctuated from literal to figurative meaning and then back to literal understanding; the cyclical nature of our analysis did not produce a concrete understanding of Williams’ poem.

As a lifelong reader of poetry, I feel uneasy when I cannot unearth poetic meaning. In my secondary and undergraduate education (even many graduate classes), I have assumed that a close reading and analysis of poetry will uncover the poet’s intended meaning. After the Think Aloud, I am left questioning the certainty of knowing. If knowledge is indeed a process, and the poem a living organism that changes with time, what can the reader conclude about the permanence of poetic meaning? Perhaps poetic meaning isn’t permanent. A poem, by nature, seems to riddle the reader with metaphorical and figurative imagery, while giving away little more than the literal words on the page. Williams’ intended meaning in “Between Walls” could live in the world of the Imagist movement, where the essence of the thing described creates the central focus of the poem. The image represented in the poem could hold the meaning of the poem. How could a reader unarmed with knowledge of the Imagist movement, or the Modernist movement that followed it, truly understand Williams’ poetry? How can I expect my young students to correctly analyze poetry when I doubt the certainty of poetic knowledge? Should this uncertainty and difficulty pinning down meaning pervade the analysis of literature? Should I teach uncertainty?

After struggling through the Think Aloud exercise, writing the analysis, and reading this week’s poetry selections, I feel comfortable advocating uncertainty. The Norton Introduction to Literature offers some suggestions (pg. 407) that I found helpful when analyzing poetry, though I think these suggestions could apply to all literature as well. The most comforting suggest was “assume there is a reason for everything.” When I analyze a poem, trusting the artistic vision of the poet becomes paramount. As a teacher, I hope advocating this authorial trust will transfer patience and understanding to my students.

As an undergraduate, my literary criticism class was one of my most difficult. It wasn’t necessarily that the material itself was difficult, but moreso that it was dense, and I seemed to get Teflon-brain every time I tried to retain it. As I started reading the two Johns Hopkins articles, I was struggling to recall the slightest bit of information. I was hoping it would come to me, but it took the digging out of my trusty Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism for me to have that “duh” moment of “oh yes, THAT one.”  In the end though, neither of those articles really interested me in the same way that the Crosman article did.

Because the title is posed as a question, I immediately tried to answer it. “Of course readers make meaning,” I thought. “We just do it in different ways depending on who we are and where we come from.” By the end of the first paragraph, I was already prepared to revise my answer. Implicitly, I guess I always had this intrinsic understanding that there was more than one way to define meaning, but I had all those definitions boxed up together, and never really got around to choosing to unpack them. I had to have another “duh” moment while reading this article and think about all the “meanings” of meaning. This one common word can mean so many things, from intention to a definition, a synonym to a value. So often, the way we choose to understand it is as significance, but we don’t necessarily mean what we say. We haven’t really unpacked all those definitions yet.

So now let me revisit the title. Do readers make meaning? Well, if by ‘meaning,’ we’re talking about authorial intent, then no. In that instance, the author is the one who is shaping the literature. They’re the ones who are putting the pieces together to create something with meaning.  That meaning is, though, open to interpretation. Even the author can’t always necessarily get back to the exact same place he or she was when the piece was written. Or perhaps there was never a written account of what the piece was about, and so authorial intent is, in some ways, skewed and/or lost. However, if we’re talking about sense or understanding, then yes. The reader has to make some sort of understanding of what he or she reads. An interpretation is formed. In that way, the reader DOES make meaning. Furthermore, through readings that are of an imagist or affective nature, we’re able to use our imaginations to make every story, in some way, our own. This is, I think, partially why I have so much trouble wrapping my mind around the idea of New Criticism. From my perspective, it limits me too much in my thinking. It restricts me to a close reading, but I don’t feel that it allows me to consider things from multiple angles, necessarily.

If nothing else, this week’s readings taught me that I have to come up with a better plan for my students than using those awful questions in the text book. I know they’re awful, but I continue to use them anyway. But when I think about it, it seems like maybe those questions are coming from a New Critic’s approach because they ask the students to examine carefully certain passages in order to answer the questions. And of course, there is only ever one right answer, which, as we see in the Crosman article, isn’t necessarily so. I get really angry when people tell me that my interpretation is wrong because, by the very definition of the word, an interpretation can’t be wrong. It’s just my understanding of something – the way I’m reading it. Therefore, I don’t think it’s very fair of me to give these questions to my students and imply that there is only one right answer and one correct way to read the story. If more teachers would do that, I wonder how many more students would like reading?

    Robert Crosman’s Do Readers Make Meaning is a powerful rebuke of New Criticism and the idea of a close reading of the text.  Crosman is clearly denouncing the idea that a text as a universal meaning that an educated reader can eventually uncover.  He favors the idea that the reader brings at least as much meaning to the text as the actual writing itself.  In a sense, Crosman is challenging the idea of a universal truth although he expressly limits that debate to the field of literary studies.  From my experience as a reader and a teacher, a middle ground between the text and the reader must be reached for meaning to be valuable.

I remember studying New Criticism as an undergraduate.  I was immediately drawn to the appeal of a “close reading”.  After all, my years in high school consisted of readings and bizarre interpretations.  It was a world where every interpretation is valid.  That seemed a bit far-fetched to me, so the idea of uncovering truth was instantly appealing.  However, it becomes immediately apparent that meaning does not exist in the text alone.  Once a reader begins discussing literature with other learners, several different interpretations appear.  In a purely New Critical model, only one of those interpretations would be valid.  This is where Crosman makes a point in denouncing the idea of a single meaning.  How can we possibly decide which “meaning” is the universal truth?

I notice this issue first hand when I read Othello.  Most essays, teachers, and readers immediately jump on the themes of love and pride.  In truth, these are central to the context of the play and its appeal.  However, I have always been fascinated by Othello’s refusal to promote his trusted lieutenant, Iago.  Othello trusts him completely, yet the promotion is given to another person.  He never explains the rationale to Iago or provides compensation.  Some have argued that Othello had suspicions about Iago, but I see no evidence in the text.  Consequently, my reading of the play always takes on a slightly different approach.  I do not view Othello as the great and noble hero from the play’s outset.  He already has a flaw. Is my reading unjustified and false?

This is where evidence and textual support come into play.  As long as the reader can cite several examples and build a coherent case, then the interpretation must be accepted as valid.  This is an essential part of meaning.  If evidence is allowed to be weak and flimsy, then my high school experiences of free-for-all meaning will resurface.  It is a half-truth to say that a text means something.  It is also a half-truth to say that a reader creates meaning.  Both the reader and text are necessary.  Evidence is the key to determining validity.

–Francois Guidry

 The Searle article on New Criticism quotes I. A. Richards as saying “that poetry could be an intellectually respectable substitute for religion in an emerging age of science” and that poetry had the power to “change our attitudes without requiring us to believe in the Magical View found in traditional religion.”  Examples of such religious language make their way into literary criticisms frequently.  The New Critic, Cleanth Brooks decried the reduction of poetry to a prose restatement of its theme or plot as the “Heresy of Paraphrase,” as if one was violating rules of orthodox interpretation, which, of course, did not exist.  The Goldstein article quotes Wolfgang Iser: Readers’ “controlled observation of themselves allows them to escape this fallen world and improve their lives.  The literary text can move the reader to adopt positive values and redemptive beliefs.  I believe this idea of literature as a substitute religion is also evidenced in Crosman’s ideas on readers making meaning.

            Crosman works very hard to justify the coexistence of mutually exclusive interpretations of a text.  Believing that “the idea that Truth is One-unambiguous, self-consistent, and knowable– . . . may now have outlived its usefulness,” he campaigns for peace and harmony through tolerance, which he equates with plurality of meaning in texts. In refuting Hirsch’s position that the author is the one who creates meaning, Crosman depicts those who recognize Truth as narrow minded and judgmental (believing “the mass of our fellow men are stupid or perverse”) and commits the fallacy of either/or when he says people who believe they possess Truth can either “turn [their] backs on [those who do not] in cynical contempt, or try to force them to see the light.”            

Crosman admits that Hirsch never said a text could have only one meaning, rather that it is an unstated assumption.  Perhaps it is Crosman who is making the assumption based on his biases against determinable meaning.  He accuses Hirsch of making a social and political argument for univocality, but Crosman’s position is just as socially and politically motivated as he demonstrates with his plea for peace and harmony.

            Crosman claims that if Hirsch is correct in his historical approach to interpreting Wordsworth’s “Lucy,” “we would have to convict Wordsworth of inability to say what he meant.”  Crosman’s conclusion again denies alternative motivations for Wordsworth’s chosen mode of expression.  The accusation leveled at Hirsch by Crosman that his assumptions flawed his interpretations is equally true of Crosman, and Crosman assumes that Truth is an archaic concept and society is best served by embracing contradiction.

            Certainly Crosman speaks correctly when he points out that the ambiguity of words complicates the transference of meaning from the author to the reader. Readers do have to make their best guess on the intended meaning of the words by putting them into a larger context, but if we cannot do so with a fairly high degree of accuracy, there is no meaning at all.  Naomi

I never imagined that so much effort, time and analytical thought went into understanding the purpose of text.  In not being familiar with the academic approach, I found the two entries from John Hopkins Guide to Literary Theory and Criticism rather tough to chew, swallow and absorb.  What did make sense was Richard’s experiment in giving students poems to summarize, for it is the students who are learning, not the critics, and without knowing the direction the students take, how can reading of literature be effectively taught.  Unless the author writes the true intent, interpretation would be influenced by the reader.  So in that regard, I would have to agree with Robert Crosman in that reading is translation and since translation is personal, there is no “one” or “the” meaning.  Needless to say, I did find the Crosman article an easier read. 

This doesn’t mean though that I  disagree with Hirsh. If he believes that meaning exists in printed words only, thus eliminating intention, well that could apply to some poems and literature based upon the author’s  word selection.  But then if literature is viewed as “equipment for living” than this reverts back to reader interpretation and the emotion and meaning that the words evoke.  So then Hirsh chooses verbal meaning over textual meaning? But then even printed words can have many meaning just like the word meaning has, which started off the Crosman article.  So where does this leave a teacher and (forgive me) but how important are these theories outside of a university setting?  As an undergrad, I don’t recall hearing about these assorted criticisms.  So again I would agree with Crosman that critics should lend usefulness, not authority.

Sure, some poets do use language to sway social values, explore religion, and spout politics, but then we as readers have free will. (I’m not sure about teachers.Who decides what poems/literature are taught?)  Ransom discussed “logical structure” and “local texture.”  But isn’t that subjective too?  I feel like I’m asking more questions rather than solving the truth. It’s so variable.

  On another note, I used annotation with this week’s assignment of poems.  I found it helpful in getting off the literal track I tend to stay on.  And since I had read the sketches on tone, etc., I looked for that as well, and found that I enjoyed dong these “exercises” as a reader.  Actually, as a more in-depth reader.

Susan 

Frankly, I find the discussion about meaning tiresome. It’s obvious to me that meaning comes both from the author and the reader. Can’t we accept that and move on? (And as Crosman points out, we naturally feel our opinions are the right ones. So, I’m right. Let’s move on. Hmm… Actually, I am rarely confident that my opinion is correct. Even when I am right, it’s quiet natural for me to doubt myself. — Wait, am I contradicting myself? What’s my point? Where am I going?)

While I’d like to dismiss the debate with the conclusion that meaning is generated both by the author and the reader, Crosman has added some depth and breadth to my understanding of the issue. Perhaps most strikingly by showing how rarely I carry what I know to be true of the writing process over to the reading process. While I tend to start writing with no idea where I am going, with no solid or brilliant meaning to convey, I seem to go into reading believing that this is what authors do: they write with fixed meaning. But as Crosman points out, writers actually tend to make their meaning not only as they go along (developing their ideas) but as they read what they have written. They interpret what they’ve written and rewrite/continue to write accordingly. Certainly most recorded reflections on what they’ve written usually comes in their own re-reading/interpretation of their text. This in itself can be flawed, as not only are our memories faulty, but writing often taps the subconscious in ways the writer may not be fully aware of. For example, a critic in a writer’s workshop may point out a meaning the writer had not considered, and the writer may say, “Brilliant, yes, that’s a huge issue in my life. I hadn’t even realized it, but subconsciously, the meaning was there.” While I had thought of the author’s intended meaning as the most objective meaning to pursue, Crosman points out just how equivocal even that meaning may be.

And the question: What do we mean, by “meaning.” I love the question. Asking people to define a word they use is one of my favorite conversational tendencies. If someone asks if I want coffee, it’s very conceivable that my response will be a slow and cautious: “Define coffee.” Do they mean drive through McDonalds? The sludge that’s been sitting on the burner in the cafeteria for three hours? An hour in the cafeteria going over some work-related issue? A couple hours at Starbucks chatting about life? A casual, easy-to-propose date? Or … do they want me to interpret it and lead the way, leaving me in control of what, exactly, I am saying “Yes,” to.

So often we think we know what someone means, when we have no idea. As discussed last week, our interpretive mechanisms are very biased.

Acknowledging the complexity of meaning seems to be the most helpful thing we can do for students. Crosman points out three ways we tend to use the word when discussing the “meaning” of a text: the author’s intent, the reader’s understanding, and the value. Considering our previous readings on starting with what the student knows, validating their understanding of the text (what they see in it and can connect with) as a legitimate meaning, and then adding to that with the meaning we think was intended by the author (building their connections to historical and other contexts), and then discussing the value/weight of the text (adding significance to these connections) seems like a good way to help students to progress along the stages between novice and expert.

 Do Readers Make Meaning was a terrific read.  Tying it together with the thinking aloud exercise drove the points made in the article home.  I focused on the Gretel poem, and throughout the reading exercise, the students made their own meaning.  The funny thing was how intent they were and we all tend to be on finding the “correct” meaning.  According to Crosman, there is none, really.  There may be the accepted interpretation, but here we are, daily, searching for the “right” meaning, and what a relief it is to think about and relax into the idea that there may not be a right meaning.  Certainly, as he mentions, there are the far-fetched ideas that some people bring to the table, but even those may be entertained and perhaps some part of the idea accepted.

When Edith focused in on the idea that Gretel may be about Nazi Europe, I sat up a little straighter.  I wondered, could that be.  I liked her reference to those events and how she tied them into the poem.  (Not to talk about you like you aren’t here, Edith)  I do not know the accepted meaning in the poem or accepted analysis, but I like the way the Crosman discussed analysis and the search for meaning.  Edith’s analysis, right or wrong according to experts, held water.  The group listened to her.  She supported her ideas.  They were real and based on her knowledge of the poet, the poetry of the time and genre. 

I think that as students and I guess teachers, we tend to want to be right, and there is a time for sticking to the mainstream concept of a thing.  We gather meaning based on our experience, expertise and insight into a certain subject.  We do reflect on and place meaning on certain readings.  We are not always spot on according to the mainstream but our ideas have validity. 

Crosman says “The text, in other words, supplies me with words, ideas, images, sounds, rhythms, but I make the poem’s meaning by a process of translation.  That is what reading is, in fact: translation.”  During the poetry reading, the group did in fact translate.  JJ asked questions about meaning throughout the discussion.  So did Edith.  They reached for meaning and discovered meaning.  They used their expert and common knowledge to work together in their exploration of meaning.  Crosman talks about giving an Ezra Pound poem to a dairy farmer, finding out what that guy thinks.  He wonders if the dairyman’s interpretation will include his expertise, milk.  He says that we all bring to the table what we know and that knowledge develops the meaning in each work for us.

The expert brings different and rich knowledge to the table.  The expert brings with him or her the ability to decipher through expert means.  The decisions made about a text by an expert will be different than the decisions made by a novice reader.  Nonetheless, the novice reader has put his own meaning into the text or rather, pulled from the text whatever meaning he can.

According to Crosman even the author’s own interpretation of his own work may be ambiguous.  That drives home the point that the article makes: that meaning comes as the poem or work is read.  A poet begins, as Crosman says of himself, with one idea that morphs as the writing ensues.  So then, does the meaning.  So then, does what the reader takes from the reading. 

Laurel Chinn

As I read the Crosman article, my mind kept returning to the poem by William Wordsworth, Nuns Fret Not, that is part of the section in Norton on External Form. Wordsworth conveys the comfort that can be found in confinement. To me, reading poetry is the same. The poet confines me to a certain amount of space, a space large enough to allow me to explore, but small enough to provide focus and definition to my self-searching.

Poetry itself is a medium that lends itself to multiple meanings, emotions more than facts and that is open to interpretation, perhaps more than any other form of writing. If the intended meaning of the author was all the author wanted his reader to gain from reading his work, why not choose a medium that lends itself to detailed explanations and a purpose of informing readers rather than instigating thought? An essay seems a more appropriate choice, or a technical manual. I don’t want to believe that, as a reader, even as a critical reader, that my purpose in reading a poem is only to identify the intended meaning of the author.

At a particularly difficult time in my life, I read a poem that held significant meaning for me. It helped me deal with some tough things and after coming through the other side of my dark tunnel, I read the poem again and began to research some of the literary criticism associated with it. Because of the context and historical setting of the poem, I truly doubt that what I gained from the poem is the meaning the author intended, but that is still the meaning it held for me, and I am still grateful to that author for providing the solace I needed.

As a writer, if my poetry touches someone else and allows them to come to grips with something difficult or provides an epiphany, do I care if it is what I meant when I wrote the poem? No. For me, the intention of writing poetry is to process, to focus, to explore. If a reader gains that from my writing, then they have experienced the intended meaning of the author. I would like to think that accomplished poets feel the same way–that the intention of poetry is not to decree something or other, but to focus both the author and reader so they are able to risk exploration within the boundaries of the poem.

When I write poetry, it is almost always to explore conflicting feelings or thoughts that I would like to better understand. If the poem brings an understanding of my emotions, it rarely means that my feelings no longer conflict with one another. On the contrary, the poem often helps me come to grips with accepting the duality of my feelings, so having a single meaning of the poem denies the true sentiment. Crosman presents Hirsch’s example of the Wordsworth poem, Lucy, in which Hirsch shows “two diametrically opposed interpretations of the poem.” How many human beings experience death and do not experience diametrically opposed emotions relating to it – anger that someone is gone, guilt that they still have life and the person they loved does not, a hope that the loved one is happy in an afterlife and sadness that the loved one is no longer sharing life with them. Why does Wordsworth have to be rejoicing or sorrowful? Isn’t it more likely that he was experiencing both, and that the plurality of feeling is what held meaning for Wordsworth in writing the poem?

It is a sad thought to me to diminish poetry so that it should have only one meaning. Additionally, Hirsch’s belief that it is only the author’s meaning that is valid denies the human connection between reader and writer, which for me is one of the most significant reasons for both writing and reading–and living. Human emotion and beliefs typically do not have one simple meaning; why reduce this medium so rich in its ability to convey the plurality of humanity, to a single, narrow view?

Reading through Crosman’s essay, I found myself in complete agreement with his thesis.  Readers do make meaning, but there are multiple meanings within a text.  Individual “translation” can only be viewed as wrong if the interpretation does not logically fit within a wider context.  As Crosman points out in discussing In a Station, the average reader does not look for meaning beyond the literal level.  It is only within critical circles, universities, and classrooms that readers seek a deeper meaning.  The case with most students, though, is that they are average readers.  They typically do not look for meaning beyond the literal level.  It is up to as teachers, then, to revive that natural sense of curiosity.

If I may take a step back for a moment, reading is indeed translation; we take what the author writes and make it our own.  There have been numerous times that while reading a novel I have created specific images of characters in my mind – only to be disappointed by someone else’s interpretation when the work is translated into film.  The Think-Aloud groups demonstrated this act: they gave meaning to the poem by connecting various words to images.  Like Crosman indicates, the group members filled in information where it was lacking and provided a context for the images in the poem.  For example, Naomi connected the green bottle to a medicinal flask.  It follows logically, then, that multiple meanings can, and do, exist when individual readers translate the text in different ways.

The danger here is that students might take this “there is no one right answer” theory and run with it.  I can clearly envision a ninth grader sitting down to plow through a text, shouting “I’m done!” and writing “This means X, and I’m right because you said there is no one correct answer”, then tearing off into the next assignment scribbled into their homework pad.  The trick is to teach our students to think critically, in opposition to Hirsch’s antiquated view.  Hirsch views teachers and professor as supreme knowledge-givers, ready to fill up empty minds with as much institutionally approved information as possible before it begins leaking out of their students’ ears.  The question thus presents itself – why bother teaching students to think critically when traditional higher education seems to eschew such skill?  Fortunately not all lit professors are like this (and I think they are becoming the exception rather than the norm), nor are high school English teachers.  I used to tell my students the story of a paper I wrote in undergrad for my Contemporary American Novel course.  I took a position completely contrary to that of my professor, one upon which she had actually written her doctoral dissertation.  But because I placed my translation of Glasgow’s Barren Ground within a logical context, I received an A on the paper.  The message to my students was clear – no answer is wrong as long as it is provable within a valid framework.  Then, to help avoid assertions that A Tale of Two Cities was really about the American Civil War (shades of Professor Sample’s anecdote regarding The Flea), we practiced making statements of meaning and supporting them with text. 

I found, though, that the concept of ambiguous meaning was difficult for some of my students to grasp.  As Karen revealed, they want an answer and generally dislike uncertainty.  Their beliefs are dictated by traditional schooling mores – in their minds, the teacher is (like Hirsch’s view) the supreme knowledge-giver.  The student’s goal is to find what the teacher wants and present it accordingly.  The “schoolish behavior” lens causes them to do what Crosman says; they create the truths of their academic universe in concert with their “ethical, social, or political needs or wants” (163). In other words, years of fetching brings about academic misconceptions clung to as though they were the absolute truth. 

And so we are left to ponder – how do we open up our students’ minds?  The answer is simple: by opening our own, first.  We must accept multiple readings of a text and understand that all of us – writers and readers alike – make meaning.  We must also accept the responsibility of cultivating deeper thinkers and helping our students learn to ask good questions.  Because from good questions come good answers, and at the end of the day, isn’t that we really want?

Ginny

“There is no such thing as the meaning”.Crosman, Robert.  “Do Readers Make Meaning” Reader in the Text.  Princeton:  Princeton University Press, 1980. 154.

          Crosman’s analysis on finding meaning in a text reminded me of the class discussions that surfaced in my tenth-grade class today after conducting a Think Aloud.  (I was so enthused after observing the Think Aloud activity last night that I decided to try it out on my own students today.  I have to admit that I’m quite enjoying using my tenth-graders as guinea pigs for the various strategies I’ve learned about in class, and they have all seemed quite successful so far.)  But before making connections between his article and my “experiment,” let me first discuss how our Think Aloud worked.

            Though I was a bit nervous that my students would be intimidated by the process of not only cold-responding to a poem, but doing so in front of their peers, my fears were soon assuaged.  All I had to do was ask for “three courageous volunteers” and I had several hands go up.  Because I knew most of them would be familiar with the fairy tale Hansel and Gretel, I decided to use Louise Gluck’s “Gretel in Darkness” poem we examined last night.  Interestingly, my students remembered details of the plot of the fairy tale much more clearly than we had been able to; this is perhaps because it’s been fewer years since they’ve read the story.  The three participants focused first on clearing up vocabulary issues; the words “kiln,” “firs,” and “spires” stumped at least one of the students.  They jumped around a lot, looking at bits and pieces of the poem; they were particularly drawn to the image of the shriveling tongue.  To my astonishment, after only about eight or ten minutes, my students had voiced many of the same insights and comments as our participants last night.  Of course they noticed the connection to the fairy tale, but they also suggested that Gretel might be suffering from some type of insanity, that the absent step-mother might actually be present in the poem as the witch, and that through the characters of Gretel and Hansel the poem illustrated the theme of holding on vs. letting go (of the past, of fear).  I was impressed. 

            The class discussion that followed was just as interesting.  Students came up with at least five different, supportable interpretations of the poem, but the kept asking me for the “right” answer:  What does it really mean?  Which one of us has the right answer?  Is it really about the Holocaust?  Or is it simply a retelling of a fairy tale?  Are you holding back on us?  Can I look on Wikipedia to find out the REAL meaning?  If only I’d read Crosman’s article earlier, I could have told them “there is no such thing as the meaning of [the] poem” (154).  But I essentially told them the same thing:  as long as you can logically support your argument, you have a valid interpretation.  I insisted that I had only seen the poem for the first time last night and that I wasn’t “holding back on them.”  They seemed to relish the idea that their thoughts were just as valid as the teacher’s.  That I didn’t necessarily hold the key, the “right” answer, the final judgment.  They insisted that we practice this activity again, with the caveat that I choose another poem that I’m not familiar with so we can “figure it out together”.  Imagine, I’m in cahoots with my students, at their request, to figure out the possible meanings of poems.  I never would have believed it….