Feeling Equals Meaning?

(This posting consists of the opening two paragraphs of the thesis I most wanted to write--a thesis that theorized the analytical process by which the feeling(s) evoked by a literary work become sites of recognizable, articulable meaning; in other words, a thesis that theorizes the ideal process of literary interpretation, that wide world before Contextualization in which text and reader 'cruise' one another...like two nocturnal creatures clumsily, wilily, groping each other in the shadows. Alas, a one-year master's program is too condensed to allow one to tackle a subject so vast. But I haven't given up--I think this blog and the underlying concept of an Academy of Readers represents an attempt to articulate the relationship between feeling and meaning in the experience of literature. It frustrated me that these two paragraphs were shut away in a folder, and so I decided finally to expose them in their original state to the sunshine of the World Wide Web.)

In the arts, feeling is always meaning....

When the art is great, then the reader does quite half the work.

--Henry James

Henry James’ maxim that “feeling is always meaning” seems straightforward enough, but how does it work? This question is apt, because James’ verb “is” cannot be interpreted as the equivalent of “equals”; if it could—if feeling and meaning existed simultaneously as the same thing—one would have no need for art, or for communication in general. James describes reading as “work,” and thus implies that in the arts, feeling is meaning only as the result of a process. The reader carries out “half” of this process, but only if inspired to do so by the author’s art. The work must inspire feeling in the reader (the other “half” of the process), and the reader uses this feeling to probe deeper into the work, to discover the specific elements that elicited the feeling and thus gradually uncover—voila!—at least part of the work’s meaning. Recently I experienced numerous close encounters with this voila! moment, in a graduate literature course at The University of X. The professor wrote James’ maxim on the chalkboard during the first class, as a way of introducing the subject of close reading as the course’s central concern. He modeled in each class what he called an “arc of argument,” in which he pursued a question elicited by the text, seeking answers first in form, second in content, and last in the pertinent psychological and historical contexts. He, of course, already knew the sites in the text that were the richest in clues as to plausible answers to the question, but he goaded us to discover them on our own—he bent our heads over the texts and made us scrutinize word, syntax, and punctuation as though our eyes were microscope lenses. When we offered our findings, he would often remind us that “feeling is always meaning” to encourage us to be more specific. And, voila! It was as though James’ maxim were an incantation: what began as a vague impression—“It seems that…”; “There’s something strange about…”; “There’s a way in which…”—immediately transformed into an observation as sharp and often as convincing as a rebus solution. Still more extraordinary was how a series of particularly astute observations, each building on the one preceding it, would cause the text to give in, to yield its secrets like chrysalises releasing hundreds of butterflies into the open air, fluttering around us, surrounding us with colorful significance. In other words, the text sprang to life; its reality shed its cloak of fiction and emerged as part of our lived experience, all through our combined close reading and invocation of James’ maxim.

Most literature courses do not explicitly revolve around James’ maxim. They do not refute the correlation between feeling and meaning, but they do not invoke it. In fact, the word “feeling” rarely is uttered in literature courses. This omission may contribute to the fact that, although many facets of the texts on the syllabi are illuminated, and theoretical tools and historical knowledge are acquired that enable students to illuminate the texts further on their own, the texts do not often spring to life in the classroom. The difference between illuminating a text and a text springing to life is one of degree: to illuminate a text is to ‘possess’ it by means of one’s understanding of it—to pin it down as a specimen or case study of the aspect one understands and thus to monumentalize, or freeze it as fact—whereas when a text springs to life, it displays its secrets like plumage, it spreads its colorful wings and reveals its bold patterns of meaning, but though it flutters near to one’s understanding, it forever eludes a conclusive grasp. I do not suggest by this that analysis, contextualization and the use of theory for the illumination of a text deaden the text. What often happens is that a text’s historical or cultural context and the theories that illuminate the text eventually capture more attention than the text itself—but this does not deaden the text so much as stifle its evocative power. Further, these approaches to texts are fruitful and necessary. What I do suggest, however, is that these approaches are secondary. They cannot accomplish sufficient work on their own; they must be coupled with ongoing attention to the feelings the text evokes. It seems that feeling requires encouragement to ascend to the role of a guide in the study of a text, as evinced by the results achieved by The University of X professor’s constant reminder that “feeling is always meaning.” Feeling is shy, owing to its wayward logic and refusal to be encapsulated easily in language. But without the employment of feeling as a guide, there is no reason to read fiction at all—it is better to read biography, history, literary theory, criticism, or for that matter, nothing at all, in lieu of fiction. If feeling is always meaning in the arts, then any interpretive process that does not consciously employ feeling as part of its methodology, however interesting on its own, will fail to enable the text to spring to life. Indeed, the feeling a work elicits in the reader not only guides but also transcends the interpretive act—in the end it is feeling that unleashes the mystery and power of a literary work to germinate with the possibilities of the present.