So much of the critical apparatus we use to help us understand literature is assumed knowledge, as if it entered our consciousness by some unseen process of osmosis that we had little or no part of. So it’s small wonder our ideas of how meaning is organized within a text are a little, shall we say, diffuse, our terms so interchangeable as to be almost meaningless. Which, as students of meaning, is ironic.
So I vote we take the most useful terms from what we’ve inherited just to keep ourselves vaguely orientated within the critical tradition, and then clarify them with the odd new one that better reflects what’s going on with the actual meaning in the text, if that’s all right with you.
So let’s begin with a neutral coinage, an ecumenical sort of beige term indicating those places in texts where meaning accumulates - let’s call them ‘nodes’.
A node can be a word, an idea, an image, a character, a phrase - any point where there is dialogue between any or all of these four elements: the writer, the text, the context and the reader. How, why and where these events occur cannot necessarily be predicted, nor the outcome of the dialogue necessarily known. And that is one of the joys of literature - its ability to surprise and adapt itself, to be many things to many people in many periods in many places. Both the writer and reader supply the catalytic input: the writer, of course, provides the text, the reader his attention, both of which are filtered through their cumulative experience, knowledge and taste. The writer also brings what he’s learned of his craft. So even the simplest nodes can be the sum of many lesser reactions.
A second point to stress is that most of this chemistry may pass unnoticed by both parties - the writer because he’s too involved with the act of writing, and may be externalizing an experience so intrinsic to himself he doesn’t realize there’s anything remarkable or noteworthy about it; the reader because he may be unresponsive, uninterested, or simply because he’s wrapped up in the forward momentum of enjoyment,/stimulation/education - whatever benefit he’s getting from his reading.
Individual nodes may stand alone, or be arranged in patterns, or be linked in such a way that they form themes and textual structures that reinforce, elucidate or counterpoint what’s going on around them. These patterns may possess an elemental simplicity, or a perplexing intricacy - but simplicity of structure or organization is not necessarily indicative of a simple meaning, nor is a problematic structure a token of a complex message.
Nodes may occur and be forgotten, only to be recalled when reading works entirely unconnected to them, forging links across schools and genres of writing, epochs and continents. Both the writer and the reader therefore have the entire history of meaning at their disposal in creating their texts and informing their reading.
What all nodes share is the capacity to be identified, and thus, to be interpreted. And that’s quite enough theory for now. Tedious I know, but necessary to purge any dogma about meaning that may be hanging on in our systems. So now it’s time to start peering beneath the text, and looking at the various clottings of meaning that occur within literary texts. Because some examples overlap or merge into one another, they’re in a sort of ordered sequence, although it’s not crucial what order we take them in:
a) Adjectives/Adverbs - Perhaps the simplest nodes are flagged by adjectives and adverbs. By attaching additional descriptors to nouns, the writer is momentarily slowing the forward momentum of the narrative to elaborate on something that’s caught his compositional eye (unless, of course, he’s being paid by the word and will pile on as many as he can get away with). So, for example, instead of just referring to a car, the writer takes the trouble to tell us it’s a red 1957 Chevy Impala with unfeasibly large tail fins, he’s not only helping us create a mental picture of the landscape of his work, he’s making sure we know it’s a particular car. He may have any number of reasons for alerting us to these details: he may simply love the look of that specific model (I’m with him there); if it was driving around the streets of London in 1957, it might be used to contrast the car’s British counterparts which would have been small, boring, black Ford Populars with only three forward gears - which speaks volumes about the respective national characters that produced these vehicles, and the economic conditions that prevailed in both countries at the time; if it’s a crime thriller, the colour might be significant, or one notable feature might distinguish the car as being the one the murderer drove; or it might be used to imply something about the sort of person that would own such a flash set of wheels. It should be reasonably obvious from the context which, if any of these possibilities is the most likely. The most important thing the reader has to decide is what that kind of car’s doing there, and why the writer’s chosen to draw our attention to it. It may be something or nothing. And all that from a few adjectives.
Now I’m not suggesting that everything in a text has to mean something, or is pointing to some quality beyond its literal presence. That sort of ‘meaning paranoia’ the best way to ruin your reading, or the well-trodden route to being a successful literary academic. I’ll never forget the example of a friend’s friend who was giving a university lecture on the theme of ‘Doors in Hamlet’. He’d noticed (and he may be right, I just haven’t picked up on it), that Shakespeare mentions doors a lot, or that doors feature disproportionately in the action. From this, he deduced, doors=concealment; when gays come out, it’s commonly referred to ‘coming out of the closet’; closets have doors, and therefore, ladies and gentlemen, conclusive proof that Hamlet is gay.
If, as a result of reading this book, you start thinking in this tortuous (and downright wrong) way about meaning, I shall be very displeased. I will have provided you with no excuse for doing so and therefore wash my hands of your folly.
Anyway, back to adjectives. As we noted earlier, nodes have long been used to create structures within a text, and the humble adjective is no exception - Homer was the master of the sophisticated use of adjectival repetition typical in cultures where poetry is more often performed than written down. Perhaps the best-known example of this technique occurs throughout ‘The Odyssey’ where the ‘oinopa ponton’ (‘the wine-dark sea’) crops up again and again. Once the modern reader has accepted this stylistic device, he can appreciate how masterfully Homer uses it to perform two basic functions: first, formulaic sections of verse, no matter how short, give the performer (who usually worked from memory) space to gather his thoughts and address what’s coming next; second (and more significantly for our purposes) repetition simply and effectively establishes the sea as a brooding presence behind the immediate action of the plot, a regular prompt that creates a pervasive theme and mood - the sea is forever mysterious and hostile, yet at the same time intoxicating. After a while, what may seem to the modern ear an irritating affectation, seduces you with its alliterative rhythm, underpinning what happens above it. It’s almost like the individual nodes join up, as if the text has been ‘thickened’ by this additional layer running beneath it. Even so, I think I prefer Viv Stanshall’s deathless image of ‘the marmalade fingers of dawn’ creeping across the morning sky (even though he’s indebted to Homer’s oft-recurring ‘rosy-fingered dawn’ for his original inspiration).
And this technique needn’t be confined to a single work; those tireless compilers of concordances are of enormous help in charting the use and frequency of individual words throughout a particular canon, helping to tease out themes and patterns of imagery that reoccur throughout the writer’s imaginative life, creating a sort of lexical biography as they do so.
So what we’re examining here are simply clues and pointers to a writer’s meaning, but useful ones nonetheless. They can also be called motifs or leitmotifs.
b) Similes/ Comparisons -
‘How easily and cleverly do I write just now! I am really pleased with myself; words come skipping to me like lambs upon Moffatt Hill . . . There’s fancy! There’s simile! In short, I am at present a genius: in that does my opulence consist, and not in base metal.’
Samuel Boswell, ‘London Journal’
Ah! Boswell the alchemist! A second type of simple node is the comparison, usually signed by the prepositions ‘as’ and ‘like’. It’s usually referred to as a ‘simile’, and as there’s not a huge scope for misunderstanding, we’ll let it keep it’s usual title.
The simile is like a casual sexual encounter; two parties briefly come together on the pretext of having something in common, only to go their separate ways as soon as they’ve had their way with one another. Unlike the previous example, this node is not a compound of noun + adjective(s) where two elements merge; Party (1) and Party (2) remain separate and distinct throughout their brief juxtaposition. If time, for example, is like an ever-flowing stream, it partakes of certain stream-like qualities (inexorable movement in a single direction). But time isn’t only like that (it isn’t wet for a start), and it isn’t necessarily always like that (sometimes time appears to stand still). It’s a contingent arrangement sometimes used to elaborate on an intangible quality using a familiar physical image. It’s like the serving suggestion on a cereal packet; you don’t have to serve it like that, but here’s what it could look like. If you could be arsed.
Which is not to say that nodes (a) and (b) necessarily contribute to any resolution of meaning - they can just as easily travel in the opposite direction down the meaning line into significance.
If, like William Faulkner, I were to liken the evening sunset to a violet dog, you might get the colour reference, but not the ‘dog’ bit - it’s too personal - or perhaps, knowing Faulkner, mischievous for widespread comprehension. But being simple aggregations of meaning, similes can give the author practically limitless scope for play and experimentation; unless they form part of developed sequences or patterns of imagery, their meaning can be both self-contained and short-lived. As such, they can give a lightness, humour and elasticity to prose, adding elements of the unexpected, and of ambiguity and even irony, which is one of the most elegant and economical ways of saying two things at once. And, like the casual sexual encounter, the writer is under no obligation to take the relationship to the next stage, which is . . .
