Roland Barthes’ famed essay “The Death of the Author” suggests an eradication of every voice and subject in order to fulfill the definitional intransitivity of writing. Or, in non-pretentious French literary theorist jargon, we must separate the author’s identity from a text in order to free it from the limitations of interpretive tyranny.
Barthes argues against a privatized ownership (right on, comrade) of texts and champions writing and writing’s future as constructed by readers and their active generation of meaning when engaging with literary works.
However, this necessary truth that “the birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author” opens up some questions about our processes as identity-sacrificing (definitely not egotistical) martyrs. What of memoirs? Or personal narratives? Or spoken-word? Or R-Kelly?
My take is as follows: This “death” is not denying us the capacity to insert ourselves into writing, rather, it is the recognition of a canonical history of intertextuality that was itself derived from those reading and responding to writing. No voice becomes all voices, and omitting the notion of self lets everyone else in. The authorial authority lies in creating a landscape for engagement and inviting anyone to the party.
But the same goes for readers.
Because this is a BYOB function. And that bottle should be full of comprehension and self rather than an entitled handling of our privileged agency. As readers, we must abolish this instinctual predilection to deconstruct from an ad hominem perspective. There cannot exist a double-consciousness when interpreting writing because that in itself prevents our interpretive construction of meaning.
Basically, we nix the classical (toxic) relationship of authorial ownership, and end up in a healthy interdependent partnership. On both sides of the page, we need to know the other’s love language. Be you reader or writer, the only intention you should be worrying about is your own. The former in the sense of giving up identity and writing for writing’s sake, with readers in mind. And the latter through shedding the resentful god-complex disguising a fear of inferiority. This is what makes art infinite.
And thus, in a cyclical fashion, the birth of the author must be at the cost of the death of the reader. Sheeeesh.
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