On Intention
What role does an author’s intention play in our effort to make sense of a text? Does intention determine meaning? Is intention amusing trivia? Can
“meaning” or “effect” exceed an author’s intention?
It’s useful to read a text in light of the
author’s commentary, theories, or
self-analysis, but don’t let intention
have the last word.
Too often when we discuss possible interpretations we throw
our hands into the air and say, “I’m sure the author didn’t intend
that” or “Only the author really knows what the story means.”
For many readers, intention governs and determines meaning.
The text only means what the author consciously thought at
the time of production. I suggest that you reject this argument
for a couple reasons.
First, intention can never settle or validate meaning because a
pure manifestation of intention is never accessible to us. We
rarely know what an author intended, and how can we ever
know all that the author intended. Sure, we could call up an
author every time we read a story (and some wouldn’t tell us
anything), and if an author is dead, we can hunt down diaries,
original drafts, comments made to friends, etc. Still, this process is not very productive or complete.
In other words, there is a huge gap
between intention and performance,
between desire and actual effect. We
see the truth of this insight every day:
“I meant to write a good paper. I
didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I
only wanted to make you happy. I
didn’t mean to shoot her. I meant to
shoot him.” Yea, but who is bleeding?
Second, even if an author said, “I meant to say X,” or “No, I
didn’t mean that,” it does not mean that a text cannot “mean”
more than what an author intended, for the process of “making
meaning” is complex. Authors have been known to change their
mind about their own work, so asking, “What did you mean at
the moment when you wrote the story ” may not be very helpful. We should consider the idea of the subconscious or unconscious which may allow alternative meanings to surface in a
text. We know as well that texts can signify more than one
thing, so iťs unrealistic to assume that only one “right” meaning
exists. What the author says about her own text is nothing
more than a reader’s response and therefore no more valid than
another reader’s response. More importantly, we are keenly
aware that what we want to do does not always coincide with
what we actually do.
For example, a Levi ad may intend to
just sell jeans, but the ad may also
(whether the makers know it or not)
define qualities of “masculine” and
“feminine.” Did the creators of the ad
intend to do those things. Let’s say
no. But what they intended just
doesn’t matter. What they actually
did matters. And what they “did” is a
matter of argument and persuasion.
What I have said here doesn’t mean that we should never consider intention. If you are interested in making a moral judgment or evaluation of someone, then intention seems valuable.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that I was being racist.” “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean to make you feel small.” We consider intention all
the time when we judge a person’s moral character (but whether
we believe them is another matter.) We could also consider intention if we want to note the gap between intention and performance. We could listen to or read what a writer wanted to
say or do, and then we could look at what was produced, noting
the difference between the two and perhaps offer suggestions.
Writing courses are full of these kinds of considerations.
If we don’t want to judge someone or list the gaps between intention and performance, then we have little need to consider
intention. All we need is a text, a context (which includes the
identify of the author, the time period of the texťs production,
and a keen awareness of history) and a keen eye on effect or
function. Scholes reminds us that readers and writers are immersed in a specific historical moment along with its accompanying system of values, beliefs, attitudes, hierarchies, and linguistic codes. For example, John Donne’s context differs remarkably from ours, not only in terms of time and space, but
also language and values. “A text is always read by a historical
person, a person, that is, located at a specific point in a cultural
tradition. This actual person—you, me, our students—tries
(should try, must try) to decode the signs that constitute the
text by connecting those signs to the semantic fields that are
appropriate to them. The appropriate fields must be those that
were operating at the time of the production of the text, operative for its producer.”
i.e. Calling someone “gay” 100 years
ago doesn’t reveal sexual orientation.
The “linguistic coding” was different
then.
In other words, historical context limits interpretation to a degree, but it also insists on interpretation because we must ferret
out those codes, etc. operating at the time the author was writing The further away we are from the original context the more
we have to work to make sense of a text. The “difficulty” of a
text coincides with the familiarity of the codes.
For example, it’s much easier to make
sense of a contemporary Hollywood
film than it is to make sense of a
European experimental film created
in the 30s. I didn’t know how to
make sense of contemporary experimental writing until I learned more
about postmodernism. (Perhaps it’s
more accurate to say that before I
learned about postmodernism, I tried
to use an old lens to make sense of
contemporary experimental writing,
a lens which prevented me from
identifying contemporary writing’s
goals, techniques, and value.
Importantly, we should also dismiss the idea of “personal” opinion, for there is nothing “personal” about our opinions. Why?
We construct our opinions by interacting within a specific cultural and historic context. We believe what we believe because
of our educational, family, religious, regional, educational, cultural, etc. context. Sure, there is a sense of individuality, for we
all don’t share the exact beliefs, but keep in mind that our opinions are constrained by frameworks we inherit. Put yet another
way, whether we know it or not, whether we like it or not, we
are always and inevitably part of a group.
As John Lye points out, “although we have different experiences
in our lives and different temperaments and interests, we will
interpret the world according to social norms and cultural
meanings.” For example, you can’t interpret “The Use of Force”
the way an Australian aboriginal would unless you are an aboriginal or have studied their interpretive frameworks. Or, the
meaning or significance of the color “white” is shaped by the
interpretive frameworks our specific context provides. To have
a “personal opinion,” one would have to claim that one would
have those same opinions even if one were born in another context (in another time and space). So, don’t become an uncritical
relativist and say, “Iťs just your opinion. Nobody is wrong.” Instead, ask yourself, “Why do I have this opinion? How has my
training, conditioning, interpretive frameworks, and context led
me to this opinion? What larger interests does my opinion
serve? In what group does my opinion place me?
In short, iťs useful to a degree to make sense of a text within
the context of an author’s own commentary and self-analysis.
However, don’t conclude that an author controls the complete
meaning or function of a text.