Chasing Shadows

(Author's note: Chasing Shadows was written as a part of my undergraduate study in literary theory and criticism, and considers where meaning emerges in the reader's encounter with a text. )

When approaching a text, it's natural to assume that it contains some meaning; it was written with an intention, and the author made specific choices in order to shape how the meaning appears in the reader's mind. Approaching a text from a critical angle, however, immediately reveals that meaning isn't a property of the text, but a product of the reader's encounter with it. The act of reading produces meaning, in the same way that light interacts with an object to produce a shadow. Meaning is a shadow produced in the reader's encounter with the text; this shadow is a composite image of authorial intent, the form of the text, the reader's experience, and their historical moment.

We start with the author in order to establish the limit of what a text can recover about them: Even an honest autobiography, a text whose prime concern is self-representation, is incapable of fully capturing the author. The system of language itself constrains them, creating space for interpretation; the author appears in a selective, mediated form. If the author isn't fully accessible in a genre explicitly oriented toward self-representation, it undercuts an author-focused interpretation of the text, and gravity shifts towards the reader's encounter with the text.

Tracing how authorship's importance is displaced from the production of meaning clarifies where the shadow of meaning differs from the authorial intent. Before an author even writes the first word of their text, a great deal of ground work has already been done to shape the text. First, the author has the whole of their previous experience; from the values they were raised with to the specific events that shaped their life. There are, additionally, repressed components of their psyche that influence their choices. Freud suggests that the author is of two minds: The conscious, and the unconscious. Lacan extends Freud's Interpretation of Dreams: "the efficacy of the unconscious does not cease in the waking state" (Lacan 456). The conscious mind chooses to write a text, while the unconscious (often subtly) influences how ideas are expressed within the text. What emerges from the author is a positive shape of their desire, but it's distorted: Unconscious desire cannot be fully symbolized, and the author is likewise incapable of fully articulating it.

Situated at the interface of unconscious desire and language is the author's conscious desire: The things which an author wants. This could be material desire—money, capital, goods—or immaterial: Power, connection, recognition. This is the authorial intent: the meaning the author believes they are constructing. Choices such as genre, characters, message, tropes, and other overt features of the text are formulated here. Because the intent is shaped by unconscious desires that can't be symbolized, and because it has to be expressed in finite language, it can't be fully captured by the text. Lacan reminds us "the task is made no easier by the fact that we are at the mercy of a thread woven with allusions, quotations, puns, and equivocations" (Lacan 459), meaning even the tools used to express ideas introduce slippage and distortion. In effect, the author wants to draw a shape, but their mind and the tools available to them warp, distort, and perforate it, creating gaps that become negative space where the author's intent can be displaced by external forces.

The most immediate external pressure that shapes the author's text is their linguistic community: Shared practices, ideas, customs, and sets of social relations. Saussure is clear on the point that language is a social phenomenon: "spread throughout society and manipulated by it, language is something used daily by all" (Saussure 212). Language reflects patterns of social interaction; take "afternoon tea" as an example: It's a ritual practice, offering comfort, warmth, and a sense of hospitality. That, however, is a shadow cast by one particular vantage point—British heritage—relative to the practice. A postcolonial view might see it as a symbol of imperial oppression, or a Marxist view one of commodification; the meaning fractures outside of the author. Regardless of the author's intent, meaning is only partially within their control. Their culture has internalized a particular viewpoint, but they cannot dictate that the signifier be evaluated from that viewpoint; the author can build around this and suggest a particular reading, but culture often overrides anything that strays too far from its preferred vantage point.

Here, we move from the internal state to the external: The author is situated in a specific place, in a specific time, and subject to specific external pressures that shape the author's ideas. Many of these influences are mundane—common sense conceptions of how the world works—but Althusser points at ideological state apparatuses as major contributors to the author's system of values: "The individual in question behaves in such and such a way, adopts such and such a practical attitude, and, what is more, participates in certain regular practices which are those of the ideological apparatus on which "depend" the ideas which he has in all consciousness freely chosen as a subject" (Althusser 916). Most notably, these apparatuses create norms; ideas which appear natural, but are the result of institutional forces. Norms prevent the appearance of ideas that don't fit the narrative of the apparatus; if they appear at all, they're limited to fringe spaces. This is a self-perpetuating system: Because chilled ideas don't show up in the mainstream, they don't propagate as far, and remain at the edges of public consciousness. The state, really any institutional authority, causes the author to self-censor, shaping the text as an external force.

Barthes reminds us that the author loses sovereignty over the text's meaning as soon as the word is on the page: "disjunction occurs, the voice loses its origin, the author enters his own death, writing begins" (Barthes 634). In a very real way, a text is functionally independent of the author—though it can still be readily interpreted with the author as context. Once the text leaves the author's control—most obviously at publication—any authorial intent falls out of the equation. This makes sense, in an intuitive way: A text can easily be read without understanding anything about the author. The author is simply another dimension which can be analyzed: A historical entity, situated in a particular place and a particular set of social relations. The text, however, can outlive that entity, providing only an impression of the author in passing. Its meaning does not rely on the author in the same way a finished building continues existing long after the engineer designs it. The building's structure directs future occupants, informs what ways the space can be used, but a temporal disconnect between design and use opens the door for uses that weren't imagined or captured by the original design.

The materiality of a text is a series of signifiers; units of language, unmoored from the author, but connected to the wider structure of language. They've been chosen, ordered, and placed with precision, but there is potential for a plurality of possible meanings; the author had hopes for what those signifiers would mean, but those hopes are not enough to settle them into a single meaning. The text is not encountered alongside the author, but it is always already part of a linguistic system. Derrida tells us meaning in that system derives from différance: the difference between signifiers creates a space where meaning is deferred, and meaning never fully stabilizes. Meaning doesn't take root in one particular place, but is chained across signifiers, never anchored in any one of them. Even seemingly simple signifiers illustrate this chain: One might think of a color and say, 'red', but then the concept of red relies on prior distinctions—'color', 'shade', 'hue'—which are themselves chains of signification. The text attaches itself to these chains, building off of and extending them, but never finalizing them.

It's worth noting how signs are able to appear as if they do stabilize: "every means of expression used in society is based, in principle, on collective behavior or -- what amounts to the same thing -- on convention" (Saussure 208). Signs do not naturally align to any particular meaning; they have historical weight, but that's only by convention. Nothing about the sign compels adherence to any specific convention, historical use of the sign, or authorial intent; any perception of natural stability is an illusion. The chain of signification is fully capable of descending down the same path as the author originally imagined, but no more so than an entirely new path, or someone else's pre-existing path. Uprooted from its origin and transplanted into a new place, the stability of the original meaning fractures, alienating the text from the author's intended meaning in a novel manner.

Before the reader encounters the text they are hailed by its paratext, be it through genre expectation, publisher, venue, or format; these features remain within the author's realm of influence. The reader, if they accept the hail, becomes subject to the text, allowing it to situate them within its context. There's an asymmetry, here: The reader—sometimes unknowingly—adopts the position prescribed by the text; they are led by the text into it. This is a function of language and convention; rhetorical strategy and literary devices signal the stance the text invites the reader to inhabit. In a similar manner to how the author built the text, the reader processes it—their two-minded self uses its experiences, needs, desires, cultural patterns, ideology, and more, to transform the text into a collection of ideas.

Because the reader has their own culture, past, preferences, and ideological influences, there's no guarantee that they will recognize the signs within the text. The reader's worldview will tend to overwrite or mediate that of the text, but depending on which associations the reader attaches to a symbol, the reader might experience different levels of friction with the text. As an example, a car driving on the left side of the road builds an image with two completely opposite connotations depending on the reader's geographical location. The scene is either completely safe, or recklessly dangerous. For a subtler interpretive mismatch, consider a doorway with a red light above it. This could be an active darkroom, a room with an active radiation source, or a live film set; the reader will choose unconsciously unless they are told otherwise.

Especially relevant to the unconscious in the reader's encounter with the text are the places where the text leaves a gap; these aren't just spaces the author didn't fill in, but also voids that language cannot fully specify. This is the space where the reader's unconscious does the most work: where the text doesn't specify, the reader does. Here, the reader expresses their interior desires; the reader will find themselves—not the author—through projection, misrecognition, and fantasization. Undetermined signifiers and signifiers which the reader doesn't recognize become locations where ideas are generated.

Consider this sentence in isolation: "That was, at the very least, familiar." Immediately, the reader is met with "that", a signifier that can't stabilize without context; the object of the sentence is left to the reader's imagination. The verb "was" positions the sentence as retrospective observation. The hedge "at the very least" creates negative space by defining the object through a minimal commitment while withholding anything more, opening the door for the reader to fill the space. The affective evaluation "familiar" supplies a stance, but the valence of it depends on the reader. One possible reading of this sentence sees the familiarity as comfort, and another sees it as uncanny.

If "that" stabilizes as a sensation associated with nostalgia, a comforting reading of the sentence plays out: because the hedge sets the floor of what can be claimed, the sensation becomes a foothold amidst uncertainty. The sentence allows for this reading, but the reader supplies the associations to make it possible. A different encounter with the text could just as easily produce an entirely new shadow that shares some of the same shapes but is cast in a different light.

In an alternative reading, the same hedge and what the sentence withholds make "familiar" appear out of place. Against a strange background, familiarity starts to appear disturbing as the reader's preconceptions are challenged by the juxtaposition. Again, the reader has supplied connections to create meaning that fits within what the text makes possible.

In their encounter with the sentence, the reader has produced something new from the text instead of recovering the author; further, this new image reflects the reader more than the author. The reader's unique situation shines a particular light on the text, producing an image that integrates reader and text.

All of this culminates in the reader's impression of the text: A shadow, cast by the text in the flickering light of the reader's internality—what Derrida might call a meaning that only appears as a trace. This is a one-time event, bound temporally by the act of reading which irrevocably alters the reader. Even without the reader's life proceeding as they read, the text itself changes them, sign by sign; just as one cannot enter the same river twice, a text cannot be read by the same reader twice. This is the shadow of the text: A transient event, fleeting in nature and uniquely situated. Lacan anticipates this: The reader is searching for a meaning in the text, something stable they imagine was once present but which never truly existed. Consider this sentence again: "That was, at the very least, familiar." There is no stable meaning; whatever meaning that does emerge from the text belongs to the reader alone, and only for a brief moment.

The reader's moment falls apart as soon as it is imagined; every moment successive to it builds on the pattern, and from this pattern meaning begins to emerge. The reader's mind stitches together glimpses of the shadow into a composite image, and at every moment their mind demolishes the old image and rebuilds it with a single sign added to the chain. At the end of a sentence, the process stops for a moment. This gives the reader space to integrate a concept, before moving on to the next.

Let us walk through this process as it occurs in Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest; specifically, Gwendolen's introduction in the first act invites the reader to supply a number of details that materially change the tone and trajectory of the interaction. Here is the moment in question so that we can establish a first-pass interpretation of it:

Algernon.

[To Gwendolen.] Dear me, you are smart!

Gwendolen.

I am always smart! Aren't I, Mr. Worthing?

Jack.

You're quite perfect, Miss Fairfax.

Gwendolen.

Oh! I hope I am not that. It would leave no

room for developments, and I intend to develop in

many directions. (Wilde 17)

Briefly interpreted, Algernon compliments Gwendolen, Gwendolen responds confidently, Jack escalates to "perfect", and Gwendolen refuses the fixed identity and reframes herself as ongoing. This brief exchange has several distinct points where the reader has to insert their own ideas to determine the overall effect of the interaction.

First, the meaning of "smart" here is unstable—both Algernon's and Gwendolen's use of the word. The reader can, understanding the context, recognize this as clever, fashionable, or socially keen. The reader might additionally decide that Algernon and Gwendolen don't have the same concept in mind; this changes the register of the interaction from a flattering exchange to something asymmetric and potentially socially aggressive, if the reader sees Algernon as the type to try and assert social dominance. A charitable read of Algernon will find charming politeness, but it's plausible to see this as Algernon subtly teasing Gwendolen or even Jack; if Algernon is recognized here as claiming the social interaction and Gwendolen as seeking Jack's confirmation, the tone of Jack's escalation is different than if Algernon is seen as simply charismatic.

Second, Jack's "you're quite perfect" can be read as sincere, flirting, or possibly performative. Notably, there is no stage direction here that might indicate tone or affect, but the choice to say "quite perfect" and end with "Miss Fairfax" provide cues that will accept a variety of interpretations. The play shows us that Jack and Gwendolen have a comfortable rapport, but the nature of his affection has yet to be explored; this line asks the reader to decide how Jack feels, and that depends on how the reader has characterized not only Jack, but the conversation as a whole. Jack might genuinely believe Gwendolen is perfect, and the statement is delivered with confidence; alternatively, Jack might be performing for the social interaction where Algernon has already framed Gwendolen, which demands that he upstage Algernon's compliment.

Third, Gwendolen's "I intend to develop in many directions" reframes the compliments, and she attempts to position herself as ongoing. The meaning of "develop in many directions" is open-ended, and the general shape the reader perceives depends on the experience they bring into the scene and how they project it onto Gwendolen. It's already been established that Gwendolen is "smart", which makes interpreting Gwendolen as meaning to develop intellectually plausible, but "develop" doesn't inherently suggest it. More importantly, "many directions" asks the reader to imagine more than one axis of development; taste, style, and reputation are equally likely targets. The scene is particularly slanted towards social development, and especially romantic development, by the circumstances of Jack's imminent proposal, but it isn't contingent on the reader choosing that reading. The text gives the shadow its basic shape, while the reader's experience fills in the details as they read.

The shadow, wherever it falls, irrespective of the angle, will always be an incomplete, distorted image. Even the background on which it falls—the reader's historical moment—will alter the shape of the shadow. The shape reflects back to the reader, altering their shape, too. The shadow generates new ideas and new relations, but also changes existing relations between existing ideas in the reader's mind. This happens regardless of the reader's comprehension (though it is mediated by comprehension—the more the reader understands, the more they are changed), and primarily in the unconscious. Whatever that reflected image looks like to the reader, the text itself can only be partially seen in it; the reader's illumination is unique and, relative to the text, incomplete. Since the text cannot fully capture the author's ideas, it too is an incomplete, distorted, and misunderstood image of those ideas. The author's intent shaped the text, but only leaves a residue of their interiority. The author can try to imagine how the shadow the reader sees will look, but ends up chasing their own shadow.

Works Cited

Althusser, Louis. "Ideology and the Ideological State Apparatuses." Literary Theory: An Anthology, edited by Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 3rd ed., Chichester, West Sussex, Uk, Wiley Blackwell, 2017.

Barthes, Roland. "The Death of the Author." Literary Theory: An Anthology, edited by Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 3rd ed., Chichester, West Sussex, Uk, Wiley Blackwell, 2017.

Derrida, Jacques. "Différence." Literary Theory: An Anthology, edited by Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 3rd ed., Chichester, West Sussex, Uk, Wiley Blackwell, 2017.

Freud, Sigmund. "The Interpretation of Dreams." Literary Theory: An Anthology, edited by Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 3rd ed., Chichester, West Sussex, Uk, Wiley Blackwell, 2017.

Lacan, Jacques. "The Instance of the Letter in the Unconscious." Literary Theory: An Anthology, edited by Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 2nd ed., Malden, Ma, Blackwell Publishing, 2004.

---. "The Mirror Stage." Literary Theory: An Anthology, edited by Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 3rd ed., Chichester, West Sussex, Uk, Wiley Blackwell, 2017.

Saussure, Ferdinand. "Course in General Linguistics." Literary Theory: An Anthology, edited by Julie Rivkin and Michael Ryan, 3rd ed., Chichester, West Sussex, Uk, Wiley Blackwell, 2017.

Wilde, Oscar. The Importance of Being Earnest. Internet Archive, Boston : W.H. Baker, 1920, archive.org/details/importanceofbein1920wild/page/n3/mode/2up.