In “The Death of the Author,” Roland Barthes argues that we should remove ideas about the author from our interpretation of a work. He claims that by acknowledging a text’s author, we limit the text; and I think he’s right. If I were to read a text knowing it was written by a politician I abhor, I would naturally come at it with a negative predisposition. Alternatively, if I thought it had been written by a politician I admire, I would be likely to try to find ways to agree with the text.
I’ve often found an author I enjoy and read all of her books. Perhaps the third and fourth books weren’t as engaging as the first and second, but I’d persist because I believe in the author’s ability to write engaging work. I might even go so far as to convince myself that something I wouldn’t otherwise enjoy is brilliant simply because it was written by a favorite author. For example, I love most of J.D. Salinger’s work. His short story, “Hapworth 16, 1924,” which appeared in The New Yorker on 19 June 1965, is, I admit reluctantly, an exception. It rambles, defies logic, and is generally smug and pretentious. I don’t want to believe that, but I do. And the reason I don’t want to believe it? I love J.D. Salinger in all his reclusive, brooding, perpetual adolescence. He feels like an old friend, and I don’t want to dislike my friend’s story.
With that in mind, yes, I agree with Barthes. By associating good old J.D. with his work, I make it difficult for myself to even know that I dislike it. But unlike Barthes, I’m not sure that my presence in or ownership of a work is precludes the author’s. I think there is room for a reader and an author, and there must be! Because so often it is impossible to separate the text from its author; and in those cases the reader must simply be self-aware and keep her biases in mind as she reads.