As a teacher of composition with virtually no experience with literature beyond introduction to literature and a Shakespeare class in my undergraduate program more than 25 years ago, I appreciated the practicality of Sheridan Blau’s The Literature Workshop. I teach freshman composition as an adjunct at a very small college with no full time English instructors, but the college is required by the accrediting agency to add fulltime professors and course offerings each year, and I am likely to be the next person they add to their faculty. As the sole member of the English department, I will certainly be teaching any literature courses they add, so I appreciated the book’s theoretical base at least as much as its practical applications.

The Think Aloud activities we conducted in class were very much like one of Blau’s workshops, in which he provided opportunities for students to read and reread a text, and then discuss the difficult parts with their peers to determine what the text was saying. My observation of that activity confirmed what Blau says about the power of rereading to clarify a text. As we read the poems again and again, the “lightbulb” became increasingly brighter. However, I have to say that I never achieved the satisfaction of feeling that I really understood what the poem was saying. And that leads me to question two things about Blau’s workshop on interpretation: 1) What if the students are not able to figure out what the poem is saying? and 2) How is relying on peers to tell me what the poem means any different from relying on the instructor to do the same thing? Either way, I conclude that finding meaning is a mystical power I do not possess. I certainly had that feeling from reading the discussion about the poem “Pitcher,” because I do not believe I would have seen a metaphorical meaning in the poem if I had read it 100 times. I felt much better when Blau admitted that someone had to point it out to him, too.

I can fully identify with the students who feel that their inability to understand a text is a measure of their incompetence as a reader, and simple tools such as rereading, providing necessary background and pretexts, and old-fashioned experience with literature can make a huge difference. I may not have seen the metaphorical reading of “Pitcher,” but with enough experience reading poetry, I may learn to look for metaphorical interpretations. Additionally, I have never heard an English professor candidly confess, as Blau did, to not understanding lines in many difficult poems that he has studied and taught for years. I wonder if my Romantic poetry professor had similar experiences with the poem “Julian and Maddalo,” a poem I admitted out loud in class that I did not finish reading because I did not understand one word. The student next to me who said she thought it was “beautiful” did not help a bit, but I suspect now that she didn’t understand it either.

I had never thought about it much, really – my purpose in life as an English teacher. That is I never realized that I needed to think about it until I found myself at the optometrist for an annual eye exam. In a darkened room, perched uncomfortably in a metal and leather space-chair with a phoroptor pressed against my face, I concentrated on figuring out just which lens was clearer…one or two? As he switched attachments and fiddled with the settings, the doctor casually inquired exactly what it was I did for a living.

“I’m a high school English teacher,” I said, squinting slightly at the squiggly black lines on the opposite wall.

“An English teacher, eh?” came the reply. “Can I ask you a question?”

Still attempting to decipher the stubborn hieroglyphics, I absentmindedly answered, “Sure.”

“What exactly is the point of English class?” he began, and I felt my neck stiffen. “I mean really, why did I need to learn about the themes and symbolism in Moby Dick when it had absolutely nothing to do with what I’m doing now?”

Now this is a question one would not normally expect from a grown man. A teenager, yes – but an adult with an advanced degree? Several responses flooded my mind, including some choice words which will not be repeated. But I thought better of myself and answered, “Well, it’s not just about recognizing a theme or a symbol and being able to spit it back out. It’s about developing critical thinking skills and learning how to express yourself in both oral and written language.”

I don’t remember what he said in response, or what happened during the rest of the appointment, but I do remember that moment as the beginning of something much greater than a new prescription for my contact lenses. I suddenly realized that my efforts in the classroom were integral to my student’s lives. That even though a large number of them would never go into a literary field, they would need to analyze, evaluate and, most importantly, express themselves clearly and professionally. I had to ask myself – were my lessons and assignments preparing my students for life outside the classroom walls? I wasn’t sure. This epiphany led me to apply for the Northern Virginia Writing Project’s Summer Institute and, upon completion of the program, a completely new way of looking at the teaching of writing and literature.

I had all but forgotten about this moment until I started reading Blau’s Literature Workshop. He reiterates my realization at the eye doctor when he notes that

“in teaching the operations of mind that are fundamental to the study of literature, we are also teaching and providing students with regular practice in a process of evidentiary reasoning that is the basis for effective intellectual work in any academic field or profession they might enter, and that also defines critical thinking in every enterprise of business, civic, or private life” (53).

Blau (and Wilner as well, as I will discuss momentarily) understands what behaviors lie at the heart of effective teaching. What I would like to do, therefore, is highlight the habits of effective teachers as indicated by Blau and Wilner.

1. An effective teacher recognizes the importance of communities of learning and applies such pedagogical thought in the classroom. Blau reminds us that one of the best ways to learn something is to teach it, begging the question – what does this mean for our students? Just as teachers benefit from programs like the Writing Project where teachers teach and learn from one another, students benefit from an environment in which they are teaching and learning from another as well. I began using a classroom blog in the Spring of 2005 with one of my freshman English classes. The assignment required once a week posts on topics of interest from the reading. After posting, the students were expected to comment on one another’s posts, cultivating a dialogue about the topic at hand. My intent was to provide as little guidance here as necessary, though I must admit I was a tad concerned about the end product. I needn’t have worried, however – the students crafted some of the most thoughtful, engaging discussions of literature I had seen since entering the classroom five years earlier. This explosion of critical thought spilled over into the classroom: textual discussions were more vibrant; quiet students who previously said little suddenly came alive with brilliant insights. My students recognized this as well. As one of them posted at the end of the year:

“[P]osting on the blog…has allowed us to have some really interesting and analytical discussions. We were able to start conversations and carry them back and forth from the internet to the class. I appreciated the chance to not only voice my own thoughts and opinions but to hear everyone else’s, including those of you outside [our class].”

2. An effective teacher identifies and supports the balance between guided practice and cautious revelation of background information. As Blau indicates in the Mora workshop (and as we have discovered during class discussion regarding critical theory), there is a fine line between providing too much and just enough historical context for a literary text. Professor Sample’s handout on “The Flea” showed us the benefit of thoughtfully placing a text within its environmental framework. But we also discovered that knowing too much (or too little, as Blau discusses in Chapter 4) about a text’s or author’s background can lock students into a particular interpretation that may or may not be appropriate. An effective teacher, then, determines how much information is suitable for the situation, providing the most favorable conditions for the development of true critical thinking in the explication of a text.

3. An effective teacher not only crafts instruction based on his or her own academic knowledge, but considers the perceptions and prior knowledge of the students as well when designing appropriate lesson plans. I found Blau’s ability to consider the implications of particular teaching practices highly enlightening. I never would have considered, for instance, that skipping over difficult lines might indicate to a group of students that they are “too stupid” to figure them out on their own (27). He also appreciates the vast body of cultural knowledge (or in some cases, lack thereof) a student might bring to a text and how this would affect individual readings. Wilner, too, exhibits this ability, and I was inspired by her willingness to revamp an already developed curriculum in order to help her students work through a knee-jerk response. By embracing activities that were neither part of her original curriculum nor traditionally used in a collegiate setting, Wilner helped her students craft critical responses that dug beneath the surface of their novitiate interpretations.

4. An effective teacher uses writing about literature as a means to foster critical thinking. Relevant writing assignments allow students to explore their own processes for making meaning. An effective teacher guides students in code-switching and the development of an individual voice tailored to the needs of the writing environment. In addition, an effective teacher emphasizes critical thinking skills necessary for constructing suitable analytical content over archaic and unnecessary “rules” for writing such as the avoidance of first person and “to be” verbs.

Effective teachers, then, create communities of learning in which student and teacher are partners in the construction and expression of thoughtful, relevant meaning. They understand their role in preparing students for life as thinkers and seekers of knowledge and, like Blau and Wilner, teach confidently in the face of questions like, “What’s the point of English class, anyway?”

-Ginny

Sheridan Blau’s The Literature Workshop is a two-pronged approach to address the various issues encountered in a literature course.  The author begins by analyzing the various challenges that arise when students and teachers interact with a given text.  Having explored those difficulties, the author moves on to provide concrete examples of assignments and activities for teachers and learners.  However, I found the discussion in Chapter 3 to be particularly interesting and insightful.  Blau brings up some of the difficulties with asserting that a single meaning is “correct” when dealing with a specific text.

Blau uses Roethke’s My Papa’s Waltz to illustrate the cultural effects on literary interpretation.  Before the 1980s, most students tended to view the poem as an expression of warmth and a fond recollection of the past.  Students growing up in the 1980s and today generally read the poem as symbolizing abuse.  This is a compelling argument against the idea of a single meaning within a text.  To a large extent, the reader is a result of his or her cultural background.  I remember reading this poem in the 1980s.  At the time, I thought it was clearly about the author’s love for his father.  Predictably, half of the class brought up issues of abuse or the idea of a strained relationship.  Even more frustrating was the teacher’s decision to move on to another text without any discussion. These clashes in interpretation are at the heart of literature.  Discussions are vital whenever a text is explored; otherwise, students tend to file the poem away as simply “something else they had to read”.  In my case, the potential for learning was never realized.

Blau’s comparison of the literary field to other disciplines is also enlightening.  This is the first time I’ve seen this particular argument made, and it mirrors my own views on learning.  Blau implies a number of interesting parallels between literature and other fields, such as law.  Courts are considered the final word on a particular issue, usually an interpretation of a piece of law.  However, these courts often have split decisions with nearly half of the judges voting against the majority.  It should come as no surprise that the idea of finding a universal and singular meaning from any text is problematic.  Yet many instructors fail to recognize this parallel and continue to teach the “correct interpretation” of a particular text.  This argument strikes me as especially powerful because it broadens the definition of a text.  Most students view literature as a specific field, but the reality is that every piece of writing can be considered a text.

My view on the matter of a “single interpretation” is close to Blau’s argument.  When I was an undergraduate, many of my literature courses were straightforward lecture-and-repeat classes.  The meaning of the text was explained, and my task was to recite this meaning on the test using textual examples as support.  I didn’t see a problem with this approach because I simply used the so-called “single meaning” provided by the instructor as a springboard to arrive at my own personal interpretation.  On the tests, I simply repeated what was expected.  Internally, my views on a specific text were often different than the accepted “single meaning”.

As a teacher, I realize that students have different learning styles and may not be able to use the “single meaning” to internally create their ideas.  Interpretations should be weighed and discussed during class, and the emphasis on any one reading of a text should be debated.  It seems to me that the goal of the literature classroom is similar to the goal of courts: an interpretation must be made based on textual evidence.  One of the overarching aims of college is to encourage students to think critically, and the multiple meanings derived from text serve as a perfect opportunity.

–Francois Guidry

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.