Not Theirs But Ours: What the "Death of the Author" Means in Fiction

Who defines how a book is meant to be read—the author or the reader? In this article, we explore the "death of the author" and the significance of this theory in modern-day reading, as inspired by the Creatinuum Podcast episode "What Defines Author(ity): On the Death of the Author in Fiction."

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In 1967, French literary critic Roland Barthes put forward a theory worth chewing on: the "ultimate meaning" of a text is not according to its author's intention but rather according to its reader's interpretation. As such, in his words, "[t]o give a text an author . . . is to impose a limit on that text." Nowadays, this literary theory is known as "the death of the author," and despite its rigidity in keeping the author out of the picture, it has broadened the horizons of literary criticism to this day.

This theory goes hand in hand with the concept of "intentional fallacy," wherein a reader can't fully derive a text's "true" meaning if they take the author's intention in writing it into consideration. If anything, such consideration severely limits how that reader would interpret the text, and by extension, this would mean that a book, any book, is meant to be read as it is, without the author's interference.

Suffice it to say that we consider this to be a literary theory worth considering while reading any sort of text, a fair lens through which we can examine a book and determine its meaning. The "death of the author" entails a reader infusing their "creativity" into their interpretation of a narrative, for example, without having to fuss over the context in which the story was written or the circumstances of the author when they were writing it, whether in recent memory or centuries ago.

In this way, there is indeed some truth to "setting" a text "free" by releasing it from its bind with its writer. The beauty of literature and why it has stood the test of time is due to the "timelessness" of its themes, and while the finer details of some classic narratives remain frozen in time, their core themes carry over countless decades to touch the hearts of even the most contemporary readers. Moby Dick was penned by Herman Melville in the mid-nineteenth century, and sure, it mentions much about the outdated diction and nautical practices of that era, but more importantly, it touches upon the still-resonant ideas of greed and ambition as well as their bitter and long-lasting consequences.

Another way to interpret how this theory works nowadays is by considering how the readers of a well-read novel, for instance, have their respective ways of expanding upon the world of this story, of "filling in the gaps" of this world with their own creative ideas and arcs (in popular fandom lingo, these would be known as "headcanons"). This is a more uplifting scenario of readership and community to consider than one wherein several readers argue about "what the author really meant by writing this or that." In more ways that one, it takes the stress off a person's shoulders to believe that when a book is published, it is no longer the author's sole property; it now belongs to the world to enjoy, to pick apart, to both criticize and praise and to enrich for years to come, whether it be through in-depth essays or gleefully spun fanfiction.

Why is this theory so important to explore and uphold when it comes to reading literature today? In a world where famous literary authors (who still live and breathe) are often put on a pedestal and regarded as paragons of their respective genres, it is paramount to remember that these people are flawed human beings and not gods who have a right to "dictate" how their works should be consumed.

One of the more severe cases to consider is when a well-renowned author uses their platform to voice out ideas that harm minorities and put their perception and well-being at risk—ironically opposite the themes of inclusivity and acceptance in their own stories. It truly is a dangerous thing when a writer underestimates how significant their influence is, how far-reaching the consequences of their harmful opinions can be. Equally, it is truly freeing for a reader to realize that how they interpret a story, which has inspired them and compelled them to create works related to the narrative or even original works, needn't be saddled on the author's intentions and even adlibs. These, we collectively voice out, are "irrelevent to our enjoyment of the text."

Still, that's not to say that the "death of the author" should be used to completely disregard whatever harmful words or actions an author has dealt to their readers, the public, or any unfortunate marginalized group. They would still need to be held accountable for all this, and in fact, sometimes even knowing that a text's author is fallible rather than infallible lends further context for a reader to interpret it and even "reclaim" it.

So what can we take away from our discussion of this theory? We'd say that as readers of different kinds of books and texts, we have more claim over how we enjoy these texts than we believe. A novel, for example, is a boundless thing; it is only limited by the love and creative compulsions of its readers, and authors who acknowledge this mindset themselves are worth our admiration and respect. "This work is no longer just mine," such a writer would say. "It belongs to all of you. Whatever you believe to be true about the story, its characters, its world, and its themes is true indeed."