Interesting book from Umberto Eco about as it says in the title interpreting things, and sometimes over interpreting things. Literary criticism from an Italian genius. Here are the best bits:
Western thought of ideas of 'secret' meanings, encoded in language in ways which escape the attention of all but the initiated few.
American philosophers like William James and John Dewey, in which we are enjoined rather to think of our concepts as tools we employ for certain purposes rather than as bits of a jig-saw which represent How the World Really Is.
Lionel Trilling observed that since my own interests lead me to see literary situations as cultural situations, and cultural situations as great elaborate fights about "moral issues, and moral issues as having something to do with gratuitously chosen images of personal being, and images of personal being as having something to do with literary style, I felt free to begin with what for me was a first concern, the animus of the author, the objects of his will, the things he wants or wants to have happen
Some contemporary theories of criticism assert that the only reliable reading of a text is a misreading, that the only existence of a text is given by the chain of responses it elicits, and that, as maliciously suggested by Todorov (quoting Lichtenberg à propos of Boehme), a text is only a picnic where the author brings the words and the readers bring the sense.
Classical rationalism identified barbarians with those who could not even speak properly (that is actually the etymology of barbaros- one who stutters).
Before the unknown, man's natural impulse to idealize and his natural fearfulness cooperate toward the same goal: to intensify the unknown through imagination, and to pay attention to it with an emphasis that is not usually accorded to patent reality.
To salvage the text - that is, to transform it from an illusion of meaning to the awareness that meaning is infinite - the reader must suspect that every line of it conceals another secret meaning; words, instead of saying, hide the untold; the glory of the reader is to discover that texts can say everything, except what their author wanted them to mean; as soon as a pretended meaning is allegedly discovered, we are sure that it is not the real one; the real one is the further one and so on and so forth; the hylics - the losers - are those who end the process by saying 'I understood'.
Before the un-known, man's natural impulse to idealize and his natural fearfulness cooperate toward the same goal: to intensify the unknown through imagination, and to pay attention to it with an emphasis that is not usually accorded to patent reality?
the glory of the reader is to discover that texts can say everything, except what their author wanted them to mean; as soon as a pretended meaning is allegedly discovered, we are sure that it is not the real one; the real one is the further one and so on and so forth; the hylics - the losers - are those who end the process by saying 'I understood'.
The justice of God has centuries at its disposal.
Helena, Costiucovic before translating to Russian, mostly the name of the rRose, wrote a long essay on it. 5 At a certain point she remarks that there exists a book by Emile Henroit (La rose de Bratislava,
1946) in which can be found the hunting of a mysterious manuscript and a final fire in a library. The story takes place in Prague, and at the beginning of my novel I mention Prague. Moreover, one of my librarians is named Berengar, and one of the librarians of Henroit was named Berngard Marre.
The supreme happiness lies in having what you have.
Oh my God. I knew that song very well, even though I did not remember a single word of it. It was sung, in the mid-fifties, by a girl with whom I was in love. She was Latin American, and very beautiful. She was not Brazilian, not Marxist, not black, not hysterical, as Amparo is, but it is clear that, when inventing a Latin American charming girl, I unconsciously thought of that other image of my youth, when I was the same age as Casaubon. I thought of that song, and in some way the name Amparo (that I had completely forgotten) transmigrated from my unconscious to the page. This story is entirely irrelevant for the interpretation of my text. As far as the text is concerned Amparo is Amparo is Amparo is Amparo.
Interpretation itself needs no defence; it is with us always, but like most intellectual activities, interpretation is interesting only when it is extreme. Moderate interpretation, which articulates a consensus, though it may have value in some circumstances, is of little interest.
All stories, he says, as intruding, author, are haunted by the ghosts of the stories they might have been.
Sylvie by Gérard de Nerval and I was fascinated by it. During my life I have re-read it many times, and the fascination increased every time. When I read Proust's analysis I realized that the most mysterious feature of Sylvie was its ability to create a continuous 'fog effect', an 'effet de brouillard', by which we never exactly understand whether Nerval is speaking of the past or of the present, whether the Narrator is speaking about a factual or a remembered experience, and the readers are compelled to turn over the pages backwards to see where they are - their curiosity being always defeated.