Replies to Against Theory, Part 1

Two weeks ago I blogged about Knapp and Michael’s “Against Theory.” I’ve started going through the book Against Theory: Literary Studies and the New Pragmatism, which is a compilation of all the major papers arguing for/against the points brought up in “Against Theory.”

Here’s the main point of Knapp-Michaels, which I never articulated in a clear way. All theory is effectively an illusion based on making distinctions that don’t actually exist (meaning/intention; true belief/knowledge). Thus, the only thing we should do is “practice” (i.e. read/interpret), and we may as well skip out on the unnecessary “theory” part.

One of the most interesting things about these articles is that no one has mentioned the point I raised (so far), but many, many other issues are raised. The first response is titled “Revisionary Madness: The Prospects of American Literary Theory at the Present Time” by Daniel T. O’Hara. It is quite good but hard to summarize, since it’s points are made rhetorically through satire.

The next one is Hirsch’s “Against Theory?” This was the piece I was most excited to read, because I wanted to hear how Hirsch defended himself. He begins by reiterating that Knapp and Michaels seem to firmly agree with him, and it is somewhat odd that they took so much effort to call him out over what appear to be misunderstandings.

Hirsch reiterates that intentionalists never imagine a moment of interpretation before intention. That is the whole point of this school of thought! One must have intention for there to be a meaning to interpret. Hirsch also agrees with them that intentionalists choose among a range of possible speakers. He takes it for granted that this avoids the intentionless meaning issue, but I think this grants Knapp-Michaels too much ground.

I diverge from Hirsch here, because this is such a bizarre way to frame what an intentionalists does. I still like my analogy. When one works out the answer to 2583 x 3921, one doesn’t posit a range of plausible answers in order to choose the correct one. There is only ever one correct answer, and just because you don’t know it at first glance doesn’t mean there are other possibilities you are “choosing between.”

The interesting thing about this example is that it shows how both practice and theory can be necessary even if there is only ever one right answer. Deriving the correct answer is “practice.” But you won’t know the derivation gave the correct answer without the “theory” to ground the method.

Under this framing, intentionless meaning is avoided. The collection of symbols on the page only ever has the meaning the author intended. You may have to do work to find that meaning, but you don’t have to posit a bunch of meanings by fictional people to choose among to do it.

Hirsch’s main criticism of Knapp-Michaels is with their leap from “intention and meaning have no distinction” to “intention has no theoretical interest” (also a point I alluded to in my post). He claims some semantic slight of hand goes on here by pointing out that text-authorship and meaning-authorship are not the same. In other words, there’s no theoretical interest if a text only means what “its” author intends, but there is theoretical interest if a text can mean what “an” author intends.

Again, this feels slippery to me, because I think Knapp-Michaels do have a point if one allows “theoretical” intention to be relevant. I’m not sure Hirsch really wants to allow this either, because it basically nullifies the whole point of the intentionalist project. This would allow all of the New Criticism in, which Hirsch wholeheartedly wanted to reject with his book. So I think I must be misunderstanding his point here.

Hirsch also brings up the distinction between “what an author intends” and “what an author intended,” another scary distinction for intentionalists in my view. It seems to me that in an attempt to refute Knapp-Michaels, Hirsch is almost bringing on more problems than he solves. I think there was a section in his book about this, but it again seems scary to think intention can change at the whim of the author twenty years after writing something. Surely intention must mean: by the author at the time of writing; otherwise, it doesn’t seem to mean anything.

Against Against Theory

I’ve been getting a lot of hits on my critical theory posts and the ones on Hirsch’s Validity in Interpretation. I thought I’d do some more on famous papers on related issues. Probably the most important and influential is Steven Knapp and Walter Benn Michaels’ Against Theory. It appeared in the Summer 1982 issue of Critical Inquiry.

My initial goal was to provide a synopsis of this paper in a similar way I did to Hirsch’s book. Unfortunately, I’m either so confused by what they are trying to argue, or their argument is fundamentally flawed. So I’m going argue against its main point.

The entire second section of the paper is based around debunking Hirsch’s defense of intentionalism. If you’ll recall, Hirsch’s book is centered on the idea that the only valid interpretation of a work is the one the author intended. Then he spends the book constructing a theoretical framework for reconstructing the author’s intended meaning.

For some reason, Knapp and Michaels think they will succeed in their argument against theory if they prove there is no such thing as intentionless meaning, i.e. a text cannot have meaning if there is no authorial intent.

I think everyone on the authorial intent side of things (including Hirsch) is in agreement here. It is quite a bizarre thing to focus on. The crux of the paper ought to be an argument for why there is no need for theory if authorial intent is the only thing that matters. They just assert, without argument, the truth of this claim. But it’s the only claim in the paper that seems to need justification!

I’ll try to lay out my case for why theory still matters. First, Knapp and Michaels seem to believe that theory is the attempt to relate authorial intent to meaning. I’m not sure where this comes from, but it takes a narrow view of theory that actually excludes Hirsch’s book. So I’m not sure why they even talk about that book if this is their view (I know they separate the ontological and epistemological parts of theory; more on that later).

Theory, as seen in practice, is almost always an attempt to relate authorial intent to interpretation. This creates no conflict with equating authorial intent and meaning. It doesn’t posit a need for intentionless meaning.

It is a fact that language is inherently ambiguous. So even though there is only one valid interpretation, a reader may not know what that is. This makes interpretation necessary. This means there must be tools for the reader to discover the meaning of the text. The grounding of these tools in a theoretical framework is what is usually meant by “theory.” Thus theory is needed.

One way I could see arguing against theory is to claim that Hirsch provides all the theoretical framework we need, and so there is no point to continue the enterprise. I’d almost be able to get on board with that. Unfortunately, they seem to be arguing against Hirsch, and so they are creating a hole that needs to be filled with more theory!

Here’s an example to illustrate the point. Suppose you have a math problem. It has one right answer. This doesn’t eliminate the usefulness of a theoretical framework for arriving at the correct answer. Once you have a way to get to the correct answer, more theory can be created to get to the correct answer more accurately or more quickly. You never have to posit “other answers” for this to be true. There is only ever one correct answer through the whole process, but it is still possible for someone to make a mistake and get a “wrong answer.”

Hopefully you see where this is going. Knapp and Michaels claim that theory is not needed if a text’s meaning only ever has the correct interpretation of the author’s intent. But the above example shows this not to be the case. A person can look at a math problem and not immediately see the answer, but after some derivation come to the correct answer. Similarly, a person can read a sentence and not immediately ascertain the author’s intention, but after some interpretation can come to the meaning. It is in that interpretation step that theory still has a function.

I’m actually still extraordinarily confused at how Knapp and Michaels didn’t think of this or how they could read Hirsch’s book and think it was about an intention/meaning distinction rather than a book about how to interpret correctly. It is called Validity in Interpretation for goodness sake, not “Validity in Meaning.”

I’ll just reiterate how bizarre it is that they want to assume theory is only about an intention/meaning distinction and then engage Hirsch’s book which clearly is not about this at all. You can’t insist his book is theory and hold to the idea that theory is only about intention/meaning.

They must be aware of this, because in section 3 they say, “For Hirsch and Juhl, the goal of theory is to provide an objectively valid method of literary interpretation.” So far, so good. They continue, “To make method possible, both are forced to imagine intentionless meanings or, in more general terms, to imagine a separation between language and speech acts.”

That’s where they lose me. It may be the case that Hirsch and Juhl abstractly talk about this in their works (though I don’t recall because of how minor it is to their theory), but as I pointed out above, it isn’t a necessary component. You never have to imagine intentionless meanings for Hirsch. The only thing you have to imagine is that the reader doesn’t immediately know the author’s intention, which is almost a tautology of how reading works. If you don’t believe this, think of the math problem. We never had to imagine wrong answers to still have to do work to get to the right one.

Sorry for harping on this point over and over, but it is exactly what the paper does. This makes no sense to me, because this “problem” (which I don’t see to be a problem at all; please make an argument!) is tangential to the question of theory at best and a non-issue at worst. How this paper became so important is beyond me when they seem to have offered a long-winded, purely semantic strawman.

I have the book Against Theory: Literary Studies and the New Pragmatism on its way, so hopefully that will provide some more answers and clarification.

The Second Section of Purity as Franzen’s “Westward the Course of Empire Takes Its Way”

That title is quite the mouthful. Here’s what it means. A year and a half ago I wrote a post explaining how David Foster Wallace’s short story/novella “Westward the Course of Empire Takes its Way” was a parody of Barth’s “Lost in the Funhouse” in order to describe his philosophy of literature. What I want to write here is an interpretation of Franzen’s second section of his latest book, Purity, arguing that this describes Franzen’s philosophy of literature.

If you’ve been reading this blog for any significant amount of time, you probably know I subscribe to the idea of valid interpretations of literature. If we consider any well-supported interpretation as valid, then all interpretations are valid making all interpretation meaningless. So I want to give some background context before I start in order to make my case stronger. I really believe this was Franzen’s intent with the section.

Franzen has been describing his philosophy for quite some time in essays and interviews (see this article for more background on this). I’ve either become more aware of it or he has become more vocal or a shift has occurred. In any case, his views seem mostly in line with what DFW described in “Westward” which had to do with love, the relationship between writer and reader, and how to build that relationship. As far as I can tell, he’s never actually included this philosophy in his fiction like DFW did with “Westward.” This makes it plausible that the time has come for such an undertaking.

One of the key points is the similarity in material from Barth and DFW for this section. The most common interpretation of “Lost in the Funhouse” is that the funhouse is about Ambrose’s first sexual encounter. The second section of Purity is framed around various sexual experiences of youths be they lusftful, loving, abusive, and so on. If not taken as metaphor, the whole section comes across as strange and out of place. The wording and detail provided seem excessive and unnecessary as backstory (presumably most readers will read it that way). As metaphor, all these details make sense and certain bizarrely specific sentences point to the interpretation I’m going to give.

Lastly, the section is titled “Republic of Bad Taste.” One learns in the section what this refers to, but as a primer to the section it seems to indicate that the section is about taste, bad taste, and maybe what would make good taste. In other words, the section as metaphor for literature itself. I understand that each of the pieces of context are weak in and of themselves, but I think taken as a whole along with how tight this interpretation is gives sufficient evidence for this as an intended interpretation.

Warning: The content below contains minor spoilers. It will not cover beyond the second section, so if you are planning on reading the book, no major plot points are revealed that aren’t alluded to in the inside flap description. Also, this content is NSFW due to sexually explicit material.

For those who haven’t read the novel, we need a starting point. Here’s a synopsis of the section. Andreas lives in Stasi controlled Germany (probably East Berlin, I can’t recall if this was specified). His father is a somewhat high ranking Stasi officer. His mother sleeps around and Andreas finds out someone else might be his father. He writes subversive poetry which shames his parents, and he breaks off relations. He goes and lives in a church and runs sessions to help at-risk youth. He sleeps with tons of them (none underage). Here he meets Annagret. She tells him about being abused in the past, and he falls in love with her. They carry out the murder of the abuser and then separate for years to not get caught.

First, there is a clear “Anxiety of Influence” dynamic established with the parents. Andreas’s mother and father exert great influence over him, yet he wants to do his own thing. He also meets a person who claims to be his real father. Andreas tries to deny this out of embarrassment, but deep down he knows it’s true. Within this interpretation, we should read this as when someone points out influences in your writing you aren’t proud of.

The other main idea presented in the section is of what art is for. Andreas as a child drew pictures of naked women to masturbate to. This couldn’t be less subtle. He literally creates masturbatory drawings; a way to say we all go through a youthful phase where we only create art for our own pleasure.

Most current aesthetic theory shuns this form of creation. As with DFW, the post-modernists like Barth provided useful fodder, but ultimately got it wrong. The language games of these writers were neat, but didn’t connect with people. Franzen even has his character Andreas write a poem, “Muttersprache/Mother Tongue,” which is a language game itself about influence.

Franzen’s character states this frankly as, “I’m worried there’s something wrong with me. All I want to do is masturbate.” The reply he gets suggests that we are to view this type of art as immature and all great artists eventually grow out of it: “You’re only fifteen. That’s very young to be having sex with another person.” This whole exchange makes very little sense as a defining moment of backstory, but framed in this interpretation as a metaphor for artistic creation, it comes across as necessary to drive the point home.

Andreas then tries to strike out on his own and leave his influences behind. The feeling is so strong, he wants to kill his parents. “It didn’t speak well of his sanity that he actually had to squelch the impulse to run after her and kill her with whatever came to hand.”

He finally evolves into a better person when he meets Annagret. He falls in love with her as she tells him a story that he can intimately identify with. This brings us exactly to DFW’s idea that literature is important because it teaches us we are not alone. Just as Andreas hears a story familiar to his own experiences which causes him to fall in love with the author, we are to read Purity and find traces of our own weird and terrible lives that bring us comfort and fall in love with the author.

Annagret is under the control of her abuser, and Andreas decides to free her by killing him. This is like the author/reader relationship that DFW idealized. After the deed is done, Andreas admits his love for Annagret and she replies, “I barely even know you.” Well of course! We as readers are Andreas who have fallen in love with Franzen/Annagret who is telling the story. We may feel something, but he certainly doesn’t know us.

In a moment where the metaphor goes so far that I have to wonder how anyone could overlook it, Andreas has to bury the body while it is raining outside. This makes the ground wet, and he keeps leaving his footprints all over the muddy ground. To put it as a blunt cliché, he leaves his footprints all over the work he is doing for her.

The author/reader relationship is summarized in another line that must seem strange if the story is read as realistic, but fits perfectly into this interpretation. “He had a confusing twinned sense of her closeness and complete otherness. Together they’d killed a man, but she had her own thoughts, her own motives, so close to him and yet so separate.” This is exactly how great literature works. You feel close to the characters and author, yet you remain completely separate.

[Sorry if there are more typos than normal. I had a teething puppy nipping at me while editing.]

On Sontag’s “Against Interpretation”

I meant to do this a while ago as a contrast after the series on Hirsch’s Validity in Interpretation. If you are unfamiliar, Susan Sontag was a well-known cultural critic and essayist (among other things). She started publishing in the mid 60’s and continued all the way into the 2000’s. “Against Interpretation” was published in 1966.

The context here is interesting. Hirsch reacted to the New Criticism as somehow being too loose. You could make anything mean anything through a close reading. He wanted only certain narrow, well-justified interpretations to be valid. In “Against Interpretation” Sontag also reacts to the New Criticism, but in the opposite direction: the whole idea of interpretation is wrong-headed.

She begins by lamenting for a time when we weren’t so inundated with theory. She argues that we’ve become too obsessed with content. We tend to approach a work of art ready to interpret and extract its content. We start pulling out symbols and translating these into some meaning before we even have a chance to experience the work.

Art is supposed to be messy, complicated, and uncomfortable at times. The act of interpretation clears out the mess, simplifies it, and makes it comfortable. We often feel an overwhelming urge that works of art must be about something. How often do you hear, “I’ve heard of that book. What is it about?”

It is even possible that the artist intended certain objects to be interpreted as symbols, but the meaning is not what gives art its merit. Abstract art tries to be all form and no content in order to resist the destruction of interpretation. But artists shouldn’t have to flee from interpreters in order to escape.

In the seventh section of the essay, Sontag makes a startling prediction. “The fact that films have not been overrun by interpreters is in part due simply to the newness of cinema as an art.” I think from our vantage point, 50 years later, we can say she was correct. Open any newspaper or go to a film blog or find an academic journal of film studies. Cinema gets dissected through interpretation as much as any other art form.

She ends the essay with a solution to this problem of over-interpretation. Commentary and criticism are both possible and necessary. We need to switch from our obsession with content and talk more about form. She points to Barthes and others for people who have given solid formal analysis. We could also try to “reveal the sensuous surface of art without mucking about in it.” We can focus on description rather than on what you think the description means.

When we interpret, we take the sensory experience for granted. The purpose of art is to be experienced, not over-analyzed. “Our task is to cut back content so that we can see the thing at all.” The goal of criticism should be to make works of art more real to us. “The function of criticism should be to show how it is what it is, even that it is what it is, rather than to show what it means.”

Now that I’ve summarized the essay, I’ll comment on it. I think this is in some sense an overreaction or maybe even a straw man argument. For example, Hirsch, who values the author’s intent, would probably say that if the author intended for the work to be a purely visceral experience with no excess symbolism in it, then to read that symbolism in it would be an invalid interpretation.

More specifically, genre matters. Some genres call for detailed, complicated interpretation and some call for no interpretation. Sontag’s essay seems to call for a complete rejection of interpretation whereas the other side seems to argue that if you want to interpret, then here are some tools for it.

Maybe this is the 50 year gap, but I don’t know anyone that calls for always interpreting all the time. Even the most analytic of critics would admit that it is perfectly valid to just experience a work sometimes. So I guess I’m somewhat confused at what this essay is really arguing against.

On the other hand, I fully agree that we often over-analyze and reach for interpretations without first experiencing a work. I absolutely hate the question: what is that about? Romance novels can be about something. A TV sitcom can be about something (or in a particularly famous case about nothing). Essays can be about something. Great art stops being art if you try to reduce it to some five sentence plot line. The thing that it is about is not the thing that makes it worth experiencing.

Validity in Interpretation Chapter 5

You know the drill by now. These are just notes from my reading of E.D. Hirsch, Jr.’s Validity in Interpretation. We have finally reached the last chapter. The main thrust of this last chapter is on how to tell whether our interpretation is valid. It rehashes a lot of stuff we’ve already covered, and it gives some examples of putting the theory to use.

The first point is that we can often trick ourselves into self-validating an invalid interpretation. Hirsch doesn’t use the term, but this is a direct rephrasing of confirmation bias to literary interpretation. If we go into a text thinking it must mean something, then try to find confirmation of this interpretation, we will always find it and will overlook conflicting evidence. This is not the correct way to validate an interpretation (or anything for that matter!).

We are led back to the hermeneutic circle, because some of the evidence will only appear after a hypothesis about the interpretation has been formed. In the next section, Hirsch doesn’t say this, but he essentially argues for a Bayesian theory of interpretation. The process of validation is to take all the hypotheses and then figure out which one is most likely correct based on the evidence. As new evidence comes in, we revise our view.

All that matters are the relative probabilities. Sometimes two interpretations are equally likely, and then we say both are valid. The point is not to have one victorious theory, but to have a way to measure how likely each is in terms of the others.

Personal Note: Whenever someone brings up probabilistic reasoning in the arts (or even history) the same sorts of objections get raised. The assignment of a probability is arbitrary. You can make up whatever priors you want to skew the results in favor of your pet interpretation. These are very recent debates that came decades after this book was published. Surprisingly, Hirsch gives the same answers to these objections that we still give.

First, we already speak in probabilities when analyzing interpretations. I think it is “extremely unlikely” that the word “plastic” means the modern substance in this 1744 poem, because it hadn’t been invented yet. It is “likely” that this poem is about the death of a loved one, because much of Donne’s work is about death. These statements assign relative probabilities to the likelihood of the interpretation, but they try to mask this.

By clearly stating what we are doing, and coming up with actual quantities that can be disputed and argued for, we make our reasoning more explicit and less likely to error. If we pretend that we are not dealing with probabilities, then our arguments and reasoning become sloppy.

As usual, when determining probabilities, we need to figure out the narrowest class that the work under consideration fits in. A good clarifying example is the broad classification of women vs men. Women live longer on average than men. But when we pick a specific woman and a specific man, it would be insane to argue that the woman will probably live longer based only on that broad class. If we note that the woman is a sedentary smoker with lung cancer, and the man is an Olympic marathon runner, then these narrower classes improve our probability judgments.

This was the point of having an entire chapter on genre. We must analyze the intrinsic genre of a work to find the narrowest class that it fits in. This gives us a prior probability for certain types of interpretation. Then we can continue the analysis, updating our views as we encounter more or less evidence.

Hirsch then goes on to talk about the principle of falsifiability as we know it from science. Rather than confirming our hypothesis, we should come up with plausible evidence that would conclusively falsify the interpretation. He goes on to give a bunch of subtle examples that would take a lot of time to explain here. For simplicity, we could go back to the plastic example. If a poem dates before 1907, then any interpretation that requires the substance meaning of the word plastic is false.

He ends the section by reminding us that we always have to think in context. There are no rules of interpretation that can be stated generally and be practical in all situations. There are always exceptions. The interpretive theory in this book is meant as a starting point or provisional guide. This is also true of all methods of interpretation (think of people who always do a “Marxist reading” or “feminist reading” of a text).

I’ll end with a quote:

“While there is not and cannot be any method or model of correct interpretation, there can be a ruthlessly critical process of validation to which many skills and many hands may contribute. Just as any individual act of interpretation comprises both a hypothetical and a critical function, so the discipline of interpretation also comprises the having of ideas and the testing of them.”

Validity in Interpretation Chapter 4

We are back with the next set of notes on E.D. Hirsch, Jr.’s Validity in Interpretation. This chapter is on Understanding, Interpretation, and Criticism. I found it to be the least interesting as a whole. It mostly involved clarifying some terms related to interpretation.

The first section is about the diversity of interpretations. If there is a notion of valid/invalid for an interpretation, how can there be so many? Is only one correct? The answer is that we should welcome these diverse interpretations, because they all contribute to understanding. A key idea that is repeated throughout this chapter is that understanding comes before interpretation. We must understand what the author means before we can put our explanation into words.

Different interpretations can agree on the author’s meaning, in which case our understanding is deepened. Conflict only arises when two interpretations disagree on what the author means. Sometimes the difference might only be aspects of the same traits. Hirsch gives an example of two people looking at the same building from different angles. They might describe the building in radically different ways, but they are still describing the same thing.

The next two sections are where the terminology begins. I’ll distill the definitions here.

Understanding: The construction of meaning. A silent, internal affair.

Interpretation: The explanation of meaning. This almost always contains criticism and significance claims, but should be kept separate as a theoretical matter. Interpretation is an art, because the interpreter must convey their understanding accurately using terms that are familiar to their audience.

Significance: A perceived relationship between the verbal meaning and something else. We usually cannot artificially isolate significance from the above two acts, because these relationships aid us in coming to an understanding of a text.

Criticism: The explanation of significance. Thus, criticism is to significance as interpretation is to understanding.

Judgment: The act of perceiving significance. “One understands meaning; one judges significance.” This can include value judgments, but could also be purely descriptive.

Even though Hirsch is largely concerned with interpretation for the book, he emphasizes that criticism is important because it shows us why a work has value. He turns to the idea of intrinsic criticism for the next section. This starts with a brief retrospective. After the early 20th century logical positivists took hold of criticism, the literary community rebelled and tried to formulate a literary form of criticism. This was a useful advancement, but Hirsch wants to do better.

The theorists argued that the only way to properly judge a literary work is on literary grounds. For example, it is wrongheaded to judge the value of a poem on how well it would serve as a newspaper headline. The only fair way to judge a poem is in how well it succeeds as a poem. New problem: this is not a good way to judge a poem, because there is no agreed upon notion of what a poem is.

This is where intrinsic criticism comes in. We must make our judgments according to the nature of the work, but we cannot come into the work assuming we know what those standards are. We must look to the work itself to determine its nature. Judging by extrinsic criteria will be called extrinsic criticism. The theorists argue that extrinsic criticism is always wrongheaded.

Hirsch points out that it can be a useful tool sometimes. Being forced to limit yourself to intrinsic criticism is, well, limiting. The critic has a duty to judge by extrinsic criteria if she believes the purpose of the author to be misguided. For example, an essay may be extremely unclear and vague, but the arguments of the author well-known. If the intended argument is faulty, then it is reasonable to critique it. This is extrinsic, because the intended argument cannot be parsed from the poorly written essay itself.

A more concrete example is Gadamer’s famous work on interpretation Truth and Method. Gadamer wrote about how the historicity of understanding affects interpretation. Hirsch criticizes it for not concerning itself with validity. This form of extrinsic criticism is judging the assumptions on which the work was written. Hirsch believes Gadamer succeeded in his intended purpose, but that his purpose was faulty in this matter.

He ends with a plea for critical freedom. At the time this was written, the established schools of thought argued for a very limited “literary” internal criticism (*cough* New Criticism). The main point they try to make is that anyone is free to criticize a work using any method, but it is not valid to evaluate the work on the arbitrary grounds that the critic makes up. For example, one should not evaluate Paradise Lost as a poor work on the grounds that it does not contribute to the history of mathematics.

Hirsch gets around this by saying that extrinsic criticism shouldn’t be arbitrary. A good critic understands what the intent and values of the author are, and can make a case for a reweighing of those priorities. This isn’t a question of limiting the critic, but merely one of appropriateness. To totally ignore the purpose of the author is to misunderstand the work, and hence you cannot possibly present a valid interpretation (the explanation of your understanding). A critic must found their argument on valid interpretation.

Validity in Interpretation Chapter 3

Today we will look at the third chapter of E.D. Hirsch, Jr.’s Validity in Interpretation. In case you haven’t read the early posts, these are notes I’ve taken while reading it. I’ll make it clear when I’m inserting personal comments.

He opens up by recalling a few basic ideas from the philosophy of language, notably Saussure and Wittgenstein. He points out that some of the ideas from Chapter two relate to Saussure’s idea of parole vs langue or actuality vs possibility. The more important idea comes from Wittgenstein’s language games.

This chapter is about the importance of genre in interpretation. He illustrates this by pointing out that even if all people knew all the rules for all the games, they could still disagree on which game they were playing. Thus, identifying the language game (i.e. genre) is of utmost importance.

He gives an anecdote. His students misunderstand a Donne poem they think is about death. They come in with a genre preconception, and everything they find in the poem supports it. This skews their interpretation. One must determine the genre first, otherwise you will fulfill your expectations and miss the intended meaning.

Hirsch also points to a study done where students analyzed poems with no title or author given. There were as many interpretations as students. The author pinpoints a time period and style, and the title helps further specify the genre. These markers are important for interpretation.

He then discusses the standard hermeneutic paradox: to understand a part, you must understand the whole in which it resides; but to understand the whole, you must understand the individual parts that make up the whole. Of course, many people try to escape the hermeneutic circle by saying you can keep circling from part to whole to part to whole getting a little bit better understanding of each until you develop a deep understanding.

Hirsch claims that using the terms “trait” and “genre” rather than “part” and “whole” solves the paradox, but then admits a similar problem persists: genre “is apparently not something stable, but something that varies in the process of understanding.”

In the next section, he goes on to describe something called “intrinsic genre.” “Understanding can occur only if the interpreter proceeds under the same system of expectations, and this shared generic conception, constitutive both of meaning and of understanding, is the intrinsic genre of the utterance.”

Hirsch takes the opening lines of Paradise Lost for an example. He gives an alternate way to phrase part of it. This altered phrase has a subtly altered verbal meaning, yet the intrinsic genre stays the same. This illustrates that the same intrinsic genre can have several verbal meanings associated to it. He goes on to refine the definition: “It is the sense of the whole by means of which an interpreter can correctly understand any part in its determinacy.”

He describes extrinsic genre as the more familiar use of the term genre. It is a broad starting heuristic such as calling Paradise Lost a Christian-humanist epic poem. One of the main tasks of interpreting is rejecting the extrinsic genre for the more nuanced intrinsic genre by examining what is written.

The next section is about genre in solving the problem of implication. This is vital, because interpretive disagreements tend to be centered on whether a meaning is implied. Since implied meanings are logical implications (if P, then Q), we can rephrase the disagreement in terms of intrinsic genre. If P is the correct intrinsic genre, then the words imply Q.

Hirsch admits we can never be sure we have grasped the correct intrinsic genre, but this rephrasing of implication at least lets us have the right conversation in our disagreements. Personal example: If this statement is ironic, then the literal interpretation is incorrect. Everyone agrees to that. Now the discussion is on the internal evidence to tell whether the intrinsic genre of that sentence is irony.

Each intrinsic genre has a set of conventions attached which help in interpretation. Hirsch gives the interesting example of someone who took a sentence of prose from a source and inserted line breaks to make the same words into a poem. Some say the words are the same, so they must have the same meaning. Others say (including Hirsch) the intrinsic genres are different, and hence the same words must be interpreted in different ways. Interpretation depends on genre.

The next section is on the historicity of genres. New genres come from combining earlier ones or from sudden insight by changing conventions. Sometimes genre is a useful tool for interpreters that wasn’t in the thoughts of the writer. Often this is not the case. For example, a poet who writes a sonnet did not do it on accident. The conventions and implications that go with a sonnet were part of the poet’s intention.

Genre in broad terms is the “common elements in a narrow group of texts which have direct historical relationships.” Personal note: historical relationship is key here. Think of early modernist poetry where poets used the form and content of the sonnet in subversive ways. One cannot interpret those in the same way you would a sonnet of Shakespeare.

The last section argues that this intrinsic genre idea is not just a hodge-podge method where every text must be interpreted using different procedures. The proposal fits under one unifying principle. “…the proper categories are nevertheless always determined by a universal principle–namely, their appropriateness to the intrinsic genre of a text… To be more blunt, there is no such thing as the philosophical interpretation of philosophy or the literary interpretation of literature, but there emphatically is such a thing as the intrinsic interpretation of a text.”

Hirsch gives a good example from a math text. He gives two passages that consist of the same math statements, but one has been rewritten in a different style. He points out that a valid literary analysis interprets them as having different meanings, because stylistic concerns affect meaning in literature. The one is authoritative, cold, and forceful with its active verbs and clean prose. The other is passive and timid with stray, sloppy words.

This is an example of an incorrect interpretation due to the intrinsic genre. Maybe one of the two is preferable, but they have the same meaning. In the intrinsic genre, indicated by phrases like “areas of triangles,” we must understand the intended verbal meaning consists of the mathematical statements being made. The style is not intended to have content that affects the meaning.

To bring this back to the terminology of Chapter 2, the fact that the author changes to passive voice and includes extraneous words is a symptomatic implication which must be rejected in interpretation. The symptom stems from the author wanting to change the prose to not sound so repetitive. He didn’t intend it to affect the meaning.

The last two examples are also enlightening, but this post is getting long. The first asks whether the Freudian interpretation of Hamlet is valid. Hirsch says no, because Hamlet does not want to sleep with his mother under Shakespeare’s willed type. Important Note: Hirsch does not reject the Freudian interpretation on the grounds that Freud’s theory came after Shakespeare, and so could not be part of the willed type.

It is possible that part of an author’s intended meaning encompasses things that do not exist yet. An example is a legal document that says all wheeled vehicles using a public road must come to a stop at a red light. If in the future hover cars without wheels are using a public road, the intended meaning of “wheeled vehicles” encompasses them. To go back to the original example, pre-Freud characters can be interpreted through Freud if the internal evidence points to the character wanting to sleep with their mother.

Lastly, recall from Chapter 2 the discussion of the role of implication. Part of Shakespeare’s intent was to embrace the widest possible range of implications about human nature. Thus the Oedipal interpretation could be valid. The mistake comes from forcing Oedipal implications that do not exist intrinsically as part of the willed type.

Validity in Interpretation Chapter 2

I thought my last post would be the only one on this topic. Then I realized, if I’m reading the book, why not just take notes on it and post them? My goal is to give a good enough summary so that later, if I want to recall what was in a particular chapter, I can figure it out from this. I’ll also try to be explicit where I’m adding my own thoughts (which should be minimal).

Chapter 2 begins with a positive argument for developing a notion of validity in interpretation. The first chapter addressed common objections. This one begins by pointing out that one major purpose of art is to expand your mind with other people’s thoughts and actions and to feel what others have felt. If we take the usual modern approach that anything can mean anything to anyone, then you have a Rorschach inkblot test and will only encounter yourself.

Chapter 2 is all about showing that the author’s intended verbal meaning provides a viable principle for measuring the validity of an interpretation. Hirsch states that such a principle must be determinate, reproducible, and able to deal with the problem of implication. The subsections of the chapter deal with each of these.

First, we need to know what is meant by verbal meaning. Hirsch says, “Verbal meaning is whatever someone has willed to convey by a particular sequence of linguistic signs and which can be conveyed (shared) by means of those linguistic signs.” He explains how verbal meaning is variable and context dependent, but not indeterminate. For example, we should be careful of “the Humpty-Dumpty effect” (based on the scene in Through the Looking Glass where Humpty-Dumpty insists his name means the shape that he has). We can’t just say words at random and expect them to mean something because we claim they do.

The next section is on whether we can actually reproduce the intended meaning. First, he admits that interpreters can misunderstand an intended meaning, but the fact that mistakes happen does not invalidate the idea of reproducibility. It is a logical fallacy to argue that something is impossible in theory by pointing to a specific example. The person that objects has to demonstrate that such misunderstandings always occur. Hirsch points out that we will never know such a thing, and hence it cannot be used as a valid objection.

The most common objection to reproducibility comes from the empirico-psychologistic notion of perception which says that we never encounter anything in real life. We merely encounter our perception of things. For example: That isn’t a table you see, but your perception of the table. This type of objection disappears if you are careful in distinguishing meaning vs significance (a central theme of the whole book). Verbal meaning is the thing itself (the table or the author’s intended meaning), and significance is your relationship to the thing (your perception of the table or your particular reading of the text).

There is also a radical historical skepticist objection to reproducibility which says that we can never understand the writings of a different time period, because we do not have the linguistic, cultural, and so on perspective for a proper understanding of the verbal meaning. This radical form of criticism should not be confused with the healthy version (which Hirsch admits is true) that an interpreter will always encounter some difficulties if the culture is too far removed.

Personal note: The odd thing about the radical skeptic view is how backwards it has often proved to be in reality. How many times have we seen a poet or writer be completely misinterpreted and torn down by their contemporaries only to be better understood by later generations? This is especially true of really old texts in which we have a good general understanding of the culture and etymology of words that people living at that time never could have known.

The next concept Hirsch moves to is determinacy. Determinacy is necessary to share meaning, because something without boundaries would have no identity to share with someone. He upgrades his terminology, “Now verbal meaning can be defined more particularly as a willed type which an author expresses by linguistic symbols and which can be understood by another through those symbols.”

A type is defined to be something that has boundary and can be fully understood through one instance, but can always be represented by more than one instance. My example: The concept of snow is a type, because the word “snow” is an instance that has that verbal meaning. Another, different instance would be “that white stuff that falls from the sky in winter.” Both instances have the same verbal meaning, and the verbal meaning can be recovered in full from any instance.

Personal note: I think of this in terms of computer science. You can make a class in object oriented programming, and you can make instances of that class. One instance may not have enough information to recover what the class contains, so this is not a type…it is a class (Hirsch uses the same terms but isn’t thinking of computer science).

The next section is about the difference between unconscious and symptomatic meanings. The main point is that verbal meaning may contain things that come subconsciously. Verbal meaning does not contain things are unintended due to symptoms of something else. The example is a boy who has a tell when he lies. The tell is symptomatic of not wanting to lie, but it is not part of the verbal meaning of the lie. The tell changes our interpretation to something that was not verbally intended by the boy, and that’s why we should not include it.

Personal note: Something makes me feel funny about this section. Even though the example makes it clear why we do not want symptomatic meaning to influence our interpretation, nothing will be that clear in pure writing. I’m not sure in practice it is ever possible to determine the difference between symptomatic and unconscious meaning. Suppose a story has sexist undertones the author is not aware of. Do we consider this symptomatic of the author’s sexism or is it an unconscious intended part of the story? Since we are allowed to include symptomatic meaning in the significance of the work, maybe this doesn’t matter very much.

There is then another section on the difference between meaning and subject matter which we discussed last time. The last section is about implication. (Personal note:) This seems a thorny issue given little space, so I hope it comes up again later. The main point is that implication is a learned convention, because it relies on the reader’s past experience with a given shared type. He explains it by analogy: an implication belongs to a meaning as a trait belongs to a type.

That ends the chapter. The next chapter is about genre and context which should be interesting.

On Validity in Interpretation

I have two volumes of critical theory, and an excerpt that appears in both of them is a selection from E.D. Hirsch, Jr.’s Validy in Interpretation. I just got the full book, because I’m fascinated by the argument. This is one of those things where I’ve made a complete reversal of opinion over the course of this blog. Let’s start at the beginning.

If you’re unfamiliar academic literary criticism, there was a period of time starting around the early 40’s (still kind of going on) where literary theorists thought a text could stand on its own. It began with Wimsatt and Beardsley’s The Intentional Fallacy, which argued that the intention of the author shouldn’t matter when interpreting a text. The text would make you feel something. The symbols and themes would mean something to you. And that was how it should be, since you were the one doing the interpreting.

That description is an oversimplification, because these were complicated academic papers making these arguments. The nail in the coffin of the author came a bit later with Barthe’s Death of the Author. This school of thought was roughly associated with something called “New Criticism.” The New Critics argued for doing close readings of a text, and this came to dominate the scene so much that we were all taught this as the only way to analyze literature.

It is extremely difficult to get out of this mode of thinking, because we were taught to think this way in school. When talking about literature, we are told there are no wrong answers. We can come up with a theory of what the book is about and then find passages to support it. We get an A if we do this successfully. What is interesting is that despite the fact that this is what people will publicly espouse, everyone secretly believes that there are wrong answers.

The whole point of this post was to point out that we recognize some interpretations as nonsense even if they are well-supported. But we’ve been taught this New Criticism stuff so thoroughly that it becomes impossible to call someone out on it. This is because most people aren’t familiar with a philosophy of literature that allows you to talk about valid versus invalid interpretations. Isn’t the whole point of an interpretation that it is personal and can change from person to person? I say no. If a text can mean anything to anyone, then it doesn’t really mean anything.

Hirsch gives us a way out of this bind with Validity in Interpretation, published in 1967. The excerpt I’ve read is the first chapter, and it is brilliant. Before going on to describe a positive theory of validity, he first goes through and dispels the common objections to a notion of validity for interpretation. That’s what the rest of this post will be. Note that Hirsch’s argument is a whole chapter of a book, so I can’t do it justice here. I just want to give an overview.

Counterargument 1: The meaning of the text changes (throughout time), even to the author. Thus, the original intention of the author should be irrelevant.

This is obviously nonsense. The example used to support this is of authors that reject their old work. But it isn’t the meaning of the text that has changed, but the author’s attitudes or opinions. If the meaning had changed with the author, then the author would have no need to reject it. In this example, the changed author still recognizes the original meaning as the meaning.

Counterargument 2: It doesn’t matter what the author means, only what the text says.

To expand on this argument a bit, it often appears in a different form: an author may intend something, but not have the technique to effectively convey that meaning. This is part of the argument in The Intentionally Fallacy. A text must be evaluated on what it does and not on what the author intends it to do.

We must pull apart a few distinct concepts here. If the point is evaluation, then the intention is important. We can’t evaluate whether the author effectively conveyed their meaning without first knowing their intended meaning. The other concept is meaning.

The only way to successfully argue that authorial intent doesn’t matter is to find examples where there is a consensus that a text meant one thing and the author intended something different. The New Critics use this example as a thought experiment, but in reality no such example exists. Even if these examples were abundant, then we wouldn’t need to have a theory of interpretation at all, because everyone would agree to the valid interpretation confirming the fact of validity in interpretation.

Counterargument 3: We can never truly know what the author meant, because we are not the author.

Implicitly, this argument is asking: why bother trying something that is an impossibility? First, we don’t have to be the author to claim that a certain proposed meaning is highly improbable. To take Beardsley’s own example, a poem in 1744 in reference to God, “He raised his plastic arm.” We know beyond all doubt that “plastic” was not intended to mean the material that wasn’t invented yet.

All a theory of validity involving authorial intent is trying to do is bring up a range of possible valid meanings. There can be interpretations that hit every part of the spectrum from highly likely to literally impossible (as the above example). We get around the problem of knowledge of the author’s internal states by using probabilities.

One more thing. Certainty is also impossible in science, but that doesn’t mean it is not worthwhile to try to understand what is happening in the universe around us. Similarly, being certain of what the author intended is impossible, but it is still worthwhile to try to reconstruct the possible intentions.

Counterargument 4: The author often doesn’t even know what they mean.

The example given is that Kant claimed to understand Plato better than Plato himself. This is a subject/meaning confusion. Kant doesn’t understand what Plato meant better than Plato. He better understands the subject matter.

The other example is where someone makes a compelling case that an author had an unconscious meaning that came out in the artistic process, but was not intended. Hirsch beautifully counters by asking, “How can an author mean something he did not mean?” In other words, things that come out from subconscious processes are still part of the author’s meaning.

That’s it. All common objections to authorial intent and validity in interpretation have been dealt with. Hirsch can proceed to constructing the theory. I’m quite excited to read it!