"Desire is neither the appetite for satisfaction nor the demand for love, but the difference that results from the subtraction of the first from the second." --Jacques Lacan

Recently I have been doing some thinking on the nature of reading and writing. This thinking has been informed by JM Coetzee, Paul Auster, and Umberto Eco among others. I'd like to start by making an analogy for the human mind by comparing it to a 3D jigsaw puzzle like the one below.



Usually these puzzles, in their completed form, represent some kind of famous structure, such as the Notre Dame cathedral, the White House, the Taj Mahal, etc. Just as the architecture of each of these buildings reflects the culture from which it arises, so the human mind reflects the environment in which it is shaped. If we considered the mind of a Tibetan Buddhist, for instance, perhaps the most analogous structure for her mind might be a high-altitude monastery.



Comprising this mind-monastery are innumerable puzzle pieces of varying size and shape. Some of these pieces are very foundational, used to support the entire structure. Others are small pieces which, once employed to build the structure, are more or less forgotten, as they become swallowed up by the pieces surrounding them. Still others are chiefly ornamental, used to adorn, to stir up complements or controversy. In terms of the human mind each of these pieces represents an idea, a concept, a tiny particle of thought.

Where my analogy begins to depart from the idea of the 3D puzzle is that with a traditional puzzle you are given a set number of puzzle pieces which can only be used to buttress or adorn the final structure in a very specific way. The thought-pieces of the mind-puzzle, however, are in a more or less constant state of flux, with certain pieces (especially surface-level pieces) being discarded or added on a regular basis. This constant changing or re-arranging of pieces, however, is always done with the final product in mind. Changing pieces or adding new pieces is always done in terms of the preexisting structure. Our Tibetan monk, for instance, with little or no exposure to Western architecture, would be mostly uninterested in installing on her mind-puzzle fluted columns with capitols. Such ideas don't resonate with her. Instead she will install the things which "go well" with her monastery, such as gilded, upward tilting roof tiles.

Another manner in which my analogy departs from the traditional puzzle is the way in which mind puzzles are produced. Where the traditional puzzle is mass produced in a puzzle factory such that each puzzle box displays the same finished product on the front and contains the exact same pieces, the mind-puzzle cannot be mass produced. The closest approximation to such mass production is what we call brain washing and systemic indoctrination. For the most part, each mind puzzle is entirely unique, consisting of thoughts or concepts which, though potentially acquired through something as concrete as a culturally shared mathematic proof, will always be subjective, always colored by previously acquired thought-pieces, by an unquantifiable emotive state, by the mental faculties of the receiver, and by the manner in which the information is presented.



The result is that no matter how similar two people's culture and upbringing, they will each be entirely unique, will each acquire new information from a distinct slant.

Having drawn a crude sketch of the human mind using the metaphor of a puzzle, I will next speak of communication between two minds, or more specifically, language. One might define language to be a collection of words which mean something. What, exactly, do these words mean? One answer is that words correspond to objects in the world. The word "rock" for instance, refers to the small, hard objects that children pick up and use to smash windows. Or does it? Doesn't it also refer to a style of music, or the motion a boat makes when passing over a wave? And what, exactly does the word love refer to? And so we see that words do not refer to objects in the world. Instead, words are signs which correspond in the mind of the speaker to puzzle pieces (or groups of puzzle pieces). Due to the nature of the unique puzzle pieces in each person's mind, this means there is no guarantee that the words will be received with the same intended meaning as the author. In fact, words are never fully received in the manner they are intended. For this to happen, the minds of the author and reader would have to be exactly the same, an impossible situation.

To call attention to the amorphous, subjective nature of the human mind, to note the fact that words do not correspond to objects in the world, and to conclude that messages are never received with the full intent of their author is one of the objectives of the postmodern project. This has been an important step for those who still subscribe to the human project. For sometimes it is necessary, on a millennia long journey, to stop the car, turn off the engine, pop the hood, and disassemble (then reassemble) the engine so that it might run more efficiently. Post-structuralism, modernism, and postmodernism have successfully disassembled the engine. It is our job, as the heirs of a broken motor, to innovate a new kind of motor, whose very construction takes into account (and even expects) future deconstruction. To rely once again on analogy, we must affix engine parts to one another with Velcro, not with welded metal. We must punctuate very statement of fact with an implicit question mark. But unless we resign ourselves to paralysis, unless we give up the human project and toss out the idea of progress, we must keep affixing, we must keep making statements, we must keep journeying down our millennia-long road in the best direction we can discern.

In terms of language, the act of reassembly, from the perspective of the author, might look like being bold enough to make absolute, totalizing statements, but to make them hypothetically, in order that their implications might be explored, tested, and employed to revise the original statement. This might also look like, as much as possible, placing statements within a context by constructing a narrative framework, giving examples, and explicitly laying out the implications of an idea through plot. Consider, for instance, the parables of Jesus. Each parable makes a statement placed within the context of a narrative. A narrative can most simply be described as introduction, conflict, and resolution: a structural manifestation of the most universal human experience: Desire.



If Desire is indeed universal, the narrative becomes the most universal structure, the means by which to deliver clues about the intent of the author across cultures and unique human minds bound by time, distance, and disparate environments. Consider specifically Christ's parable of the shrewd manager found in Luke 16:1-15. In this parable a man appears to gain the favor of God through dishonest behavior. The core statement of the parable is found in verse 9: "I tell you, use worldly wealth to gain friends for yourselves, so that when it is gone, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings." In a vacuum, left outside of its narrative context, the statement seems to be advocating something like bribery. Via the narrative context we learn that the money being exchanged for favors doesn't even belong to the manager, it belongs to his boss. We also learn that the boss is a wealthy land owner, and the people who owe him money (whose bills the manager is slashing) are tenant farmers. The narrative alone has not solved our problems. We are left with Christ advocating the actions of a man who is a dishonest thief.

Without any narrative clues at all, however, we would not have learned that our shrewd manager is caught between a wealthy landowner and his tenant farmers. With some surface level research into the socio-economic history of the first century, we learn that when the Roman Empire conquered Jerusalem, it imposed its taxes on otherwise self-sufficient farmers. These farmers were forced to either abdicate their land to the Roman Empire or sell their land to Jewish landowners and become tenant farmers, an arrangement under which they were typically exploited. In this light, suddenly other sayings of Christ become relevant. "Blessed are the poor," "you brood of vipers" (referring to the Pharisees), "I desire mercy, not sacrifice." Suddenly it becomes clear that, like David allowing himself and his men to violate the temple by stealing its food, or like Christ himself who gathered wheat for his disciples on the Sabbath, the manager is allowing social justice to override penal justice; the law of the land is being trumped by the law of Christ's Kingdom. This is an ethical situation which has Kant rolling in his grave. Christ, however, is not Kantian. He desires mercy, not sacrifice; an awareness of context, not categorical imperatives.

This examination of a parable began as an example of how an author might embed a statement in narrative in order to deliver clues about an intention that might have otherwise never been recovered. The exercise ended, however, in the kind of reading I would now like to advocate:

• Be creative.


• Be context sensitive.


• Begin by giving the author the benefit of the doubt.


• Understand that while no reading is ever absolute or totalizing, bold statements need to be made.

Of the bullet points above, the third would likely be most contested. Much has been made of Roland Barthes "Death of the Author," a seminal essay whose main thrust was to emphasize the irrelevance of an author's biography to the meaning of a text. According to Barthes, if fragments of the author's original intent can be recovered, it doesn't matter, because this original intent limits the potential for other meanings. I certainly agree with Barthes. There is no contract between author and reader. Once a text leaves the author's desk, it becomes words on a page to be construed however the reader sees fit.

Instead of a contract, however, might we imagine a more dialectic relationship between author and reader? If fragments of the author's original intent can be recovered, might we declare the author innocent until proven guilty? To rely yet again on analogy, a text is like a mechanism purchased at an electronics store--a complicated instrument with an integrated circuit board.

The authors intention (to the extent that it can be recovered), is like the instruction manual accompanying the gadget. A 'reader' of the gadget might set about trying to determine all of the possible uses for this gadget by flicking switches at random, twisting arbitrary dials, and tediously recording each result. An expert reader might even remove the plastic casing and, using a voltmeter, trace the flow of electricity down every possible path.

Another way to begin would be to consult the instruction manual, not as a definitive, absolute, totalizing reading of the gadget, but as a shortcut, an important initial reading of the gadget which serves as a platform to either tear down or build upon. The author's claim on the text is placed on trial and declared innocent until proven guilty. And just as hackers discover new and unintended uses for gadgets, so must readers unlock new and unintended readings for a text. But declaring the author and her intentions dead is as foolish as tossing the instruction manual in the trash bin.