The Death of the Author
Much of the excitement of the last sixty years in literary theory and literary criticism has been about the proper relationship between authors, the texts they write, and the readers who read the texts. In 1946, in an influential essay called The Intentional Fallacy, two critics named William K. Wimsatt Jr. and Monroe C. Beardsley argued that the design or intention of the author is neither available nor desirable as a standard for judging the success of a work of literary art. 1 They further stated:
The poem is [
] not the authors (it is detached from the author at birth and goes about the world beyond his power to intend about it or control it). The poem belongs to the public.2
This general idea was expressed in more vivid terms by Roland Barthes in his 1967 essay The Death of the Author: we know that to restore to writing its future, we must reverse its myth: the birth of the reader must be ransomed by the death of the Author. 3 Or, as the concept is more commonly expressed: the author is dead.
Of course, the proponents of this idea and there are many of them, as this is a dominant idea in current literary theory are not so foolish as to literally believe that authors are zombies, or that they drop dead the moment they finish writing. But they do believe that in terms of having anything useful or helpful to say about their own works, authors might as well be dead. The only intention of the author that counts is what is contained in the text, as understood by readers who interact with it. Any interpretation the author might care to share about his or her own works is, at best, no more relevant than the interpretation of any other reader. Or, to put it in proper literary jargon, the authors intent is not privileged above other interpretations. (I hope that Wimsatt, Beardsley, Barthes, et al expressed themselves clearly in their original essays, because anything they might have tried to explain later would, by their own precepts, be irrelevant in determining the meaning of what they wrote.)
It is generally agreed that the authors role is finished when the work is completed and published. After that point, the text must speak for itself or, at the most, those few remaining critics who have not altogether abandoned authorial intent might ask the author to clarify what he or she intended (note the past tense) by including certain elements in the text. The writers contribution is frozen at the point of time that he or she finished writing.
But it seems that nobody has informed the authors of that. Authors, being people, have responses to their own works and they also have responses to the readers who read their works. Just as readers and critics judge authors by how they write, writers judge readers by how they read, and critics by how they criticize. Authors may change their feelings and beliefs about their own work after seeing how the audience responds to it. Many authors are disposed to defend their work against criticism, answer questions, clarify what they see as misunderstandings, and in general do whatever they think will help to enhance reader enjoyment and guide critical discussion into what they see as fruitful paths.
It is no use to say that authors ought not to do this; the fact is that they do do this, have always done so, and probably always will. One might argue that readers and critics ought not to listen to them, but the fact is that whether we respond with uncritical acceptance, scornful disagreement, or something in between, we generally do listen. One might argue that these author outpourings are ephemeral and future generations will have the opportunity to confront the text in a pure and untainted form, but in fact many of these post-textual authorial contributions are preserved and handed down. We know that Jane Austen said that Pride and Prejudice was light and bright and sparkling, 4 that J.R.R. Tolkien insisted that The Lord of the Rings was not an allegory,5 and that William Wordsworth said poetry ought to be the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings from emotions recollected in tranquility. 6 It is hard to calculate how much these authorial comments and others like them might have influenced our collective understanding of these authors works, but it would be very surprising if they have had no effect at all. The very fact that the words are still remembered and discussed argues otherwise.
In this context, we can regard J.K. Rowlings communications with her readers in interviews and question-and-answer sessions, in the two supplemental books, and on her own website as part of an ongoing struggle for control over how the Harry Potter books will be read and understood. Not acknowledging that she is dead, not accepting that her opinions about her own books are considered to be inapplicable and irrelevant in most modern literary theories, not being content to send her books out into the world and otherwise keep her mouth shut, J.K. Rowling uses the tools at her command creativity, humor, and her absolutely unique knowledge about the world she has created to guide and shape how readers (and critics) respond to her works. This essay will examine how that works.
Why the Author Speaks
In brazen defiance of the Intentional Fallacy, I am going to speculate on what motivates J.K. Rowling to give information to her fans outside the books. I suspect that if we asked her, Rowling would say that she gives information to her fans primarily because they want it. Every day she must receive dozens or hundreds of letters brimming with questions and requests. Reporters want to interview her. Her publishers and agent probably encourage her to do publicity why sell only 22 million copies of a book when with a little more effort from the author you can sell 25 million? It is easy to imagine that to her it seems like the world at large is constantly demanding that she give us more information about her books.
The situation is complicated by the Harry Potter series being a work in progress, even though each published individual book is a finished work. Readers anxious to know what will happen next and eagerly seeking clues to solve a mystery will naturally ask even more questions than readers of a self-contained finished work. And even those literary theorists who most resolutely avoid the intentional fallacy will admit that while a writers intention may be irrelevant in interpreting her finished work, it is certainly not irrelevant when it comes to what she will write next. For most of us, receiving clarification about exactly what Rowling meant in the first six books is not simply a matter of interest; it is something we feel we need to fuel our speculations, form our theories, feed our hopes, and calm our fears about the seventh book.
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