Sunday, July 26, 2009

The trouble with English majors.

The thing about Literature (with a capital L) is, there's always more than one answer.

People say that there are no wrong answers, which is absolutely not true. But there certainly can be a plethora of right answers. There is always more than one way to read something, always more than one way to interpret this line or that, this reference or that combination of words that may or may not be a hidden reference. There's a whole world of possibility in every book, in every paragraph, and every interpretation can be argued and defended and appear equally right.

It's infuriating, really.

I got to a point in college when I longed for logic. A math class, a formula. Numbers, a right and a wrong answer. Results.

Sometimes the only way to know an author's true intention is to hear it from the horse's mouth, as it were. But what if s/he is long since dead and gone? Hope to hell they told someone else what they really meant? Or try to be content with the not knowing?

I myself don't really like the not knowing.

I should've majored in math.

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