Owing to spatial constraints, the scope of this section is limited to only three areas of comics scholarship which are the focus of current debate: word/image parity, status anxiety, and sequentiality versus network, or ‘braiding’. Finally, I have explained why page layout is not considered in this study.
One of the most hotly contested issues in comics scholarship is undoubtedly the relationship between word and image. Most comics theorists will have some kind of take on this issue, but psychologist Neil Cohn is one of the most vocal and vociferous supporters of word/image parity and the establishment of a ‘visual language’ of comics (2013). Compelling though his arguments might be, his theories of a visual language system are perhaps better suited to Japanese manga comics which feature a highly codified set of images. Cohn’s choice of examples are often created by himself for the purposes of his argument; examples taken from real texts are limited in scope and not applicable to any graphic narrative which does not make use of the symbols discussed. Hannah Miodrag praises Cohn’s linguistic awareness over that of other critics (Miodrag, 2013: 109), but she is very clear on her position that words and images belong to two different systems, one arbitrary and the other motivated.
Miodrag’s book is a refreshing addition to comics scholarship in that she boldly debunks some dubious but widely-accepted claims. She holds that the all-too frequent comparisons between literature and comics have come about as a result of needless status anxiety, and notes that this approach takes no account of the specificities of comics as a medium. Along with word/image parity, Miodrag rejects the emphasis on sequentiality so beloved of Scott McCloud and his followers, and privileges instead the web or jigsaw approach over linear progression; this position is much more in keeping with Thierry Groensteen’s influential work on braiding (Groensteen, 2007, 2013).
The fragmentary nature of comics and the format of page and panels is another area which attracts a great deal of critical comment. McCloud’s notion of closure relating to the gutters has generated some lively discussion on the subject of narrative time in comics, much of it in rebuttal of McCloud’s rather limited theories. While the subject of page and panel layout is a fascinating one, I do not intend to pursue it here for the following reason. RachaelBall posted a single panel from TIW online, on a daily basis, as part of her search for a publisher, and the book’s final appearance – over 70% of its pages feature only one panel – is a result of this activity. When more than one panel appears on a page in TIW, this is the result of an editorial decision. While I do not wish to argue that it is therefore impossible to comment on the aesthetic effect of layout given the circumstances of production, it would be disingenuous to claim that these effects were the result of authorial intention, and given the spatial constraints of this essay, I will turn instead to a discussion of other medium-specific considerations which in the case of this particular text more closely reflect the outcome of an artistic process.
This section explores the contextual background of TIW and will consider the following topics in turn: the genres of graphic medicine and autobiography; public discourses surrounding cancer and other comics which deal with the same subject; and finally, the book’s critical reception and real reader responses to the character of Iris.
The contextual background of TIW is relevant to the purposes of this study in that the character whose fictional consciousness is under discussion is an avatar of an author writing through the comics medium about her experience of cancer. TIW therefore belongs to two genres: its subject matter places it within the genre of graphic medicine, and its basis in lived experience means the book cannot help but be considered autobiographical. Iris as character stands in not just for the author, however, but for all those who are living with cancer; as a cancer patient, Iris signifies on a level beyond the personal. Naturally, the reader’s experience with public discourse surrounding cancer will encourage a certain amount of projection onto the character, and the nature of this projection is arguably pre-determined by narratives which are sanctioned through repetition to the exclusion of other narratives which do not fit the pattern. Any negative reader-response to Iris could well be the result of the pre-conditioning occasioned by the prevalence of entrenched and regulated cancer narratives. Reviews from critics and real readers are included in this section to gauge the kind of reaction and response to the character of Iris on the publication of TIW, but, by way of a tangential observation, it should be noted that the critical response highlights the inadequacy of language used about comics: professional reviewers were struggling even to follow the plot in some cases, and comments proffered as insightful reveal only a lack of engagement with the medium. Real reader responses to the character oscillated between whole-hearted acceptance and disappointment.
Stories of trauma, loss or illness expressed through the medium of comics has become such a popular and rapidly growing trend that ‘graphic medicine’ is now fully recognised as a separate genre. Baetens and Frey offer the observation that ‘the graphic novel seems to have an elective affinity with stories of the self, the self in crisis because of history or trauma, maybe because…the self is harder to remove when a work is drawn as well as narrated’ (2015: 177). Personal experiences dealt with to date in this medium have included epilepsy (David B’s Epileptic), obsessive compulsive disorder (Ian Williams’ The Bad Doctor), grief (Nicola Streeten’s Billy, Me & You), eating disorders and sexual abuse (Katie Green’s Lighter Than My Shadow), rape (Ravi Thornton and Andy Hixon’s The Tale of Brin and Bent and Minno Marylebone), depression (John Stuart Clark’s Depresso), and cancer (Miriam Engelberg’s Cancer Made Me A Shallower Person and Marisa Acocella Marchetto’s Cancer Vixen). Rachael Ball’s novel is positively identified as a contribution to this genre in Andy Oliver’s review for the online blog Broken Frontier, in whichhe describes the novel as ‘a visionary entry in the graphic medicine canon’ (2017).
Many publications categorised as ‘graphic medicine’, including those listed above, are autobiographical accounts, and Ball’s novel is no exception. TIW recounts Ball’s own experience of breast cancer, mastectomy, and the process of reconstruction which is referred to in the book’s title. Rocío Davis notes that ‘the subjects of the autobiographical comics are, most often, graphic artists themselves. The reader is privileged to participate in the performance of both memory and art, and the complex interaction between them’ (2005: 269), and Martha Kuhlman, who provides an overview of some important contributions to the genre in her 2017 essay, writes that ‘[l]ines drawn by hand register the state of mind of the cartoonist, and thus represent the subjective nature of one’s changing sense of self in the grip of illness’ (119). This observation has relevance for any discussion of artistic style as a carrier of meaning, and it underlines the very personal nature of the experience of producing this book, because Iris, Ball’s stand-in, has to be continually re-drawn.
In his 2007 book This Book Contains Graphic Language, Rocco Versaci devotes a chapter to the ‘special reality’ created by comics memoirists, the phrase itself taken from Will Eisner’s autobiographical work To the Heart of the Storm: ‘fact and fiction became blended with selective recall and result in a special reality. I came to rely on the truthfulness of visceral memory’ (Eisner, 1991: xi). Versaci pursues Eisner’s comments in his discussion of the relationship between memoir and the representation of the truth. He references the work of Hayden White, who has famously claimed that history is fiction in his Tropics of Discourse, and notes that Paul Eakin makes similar arguments with respect to the practice of autobiography in How Our Lives Become Stories (Versaci, 2007: 57). Expressions of the past are not unfiltered and narratives retold in the present become coloured by the operations of perspective and re-creation. Versaci summarises this very succinctly: ‘the “facts” of a life are altered by their translation into some representational medium [and] “telling the truth” in memoir is not always a straightforward process’ (57).
Versaci notes that a variety of first-person perspectives are available to memoirists, and that comics memoirs ‘have additional ways to express and layer the first-person perspective’ (48), including an additional signifier, namely the artistic style of images. He claims that ‘the visual component…allows…memoirists to represent the complicated and shifting nature of the self’ (49). This shifting self can include a split self, a self as defined by others, or a self as constructed by a culture and social community.
In her work on split selves in fiction, Catherine Emmott comments that this split ‘commonly occurs at times of personal crisis’ (2002: 153), and she examines research on metaphor analysis in the portrayal of a split self. For example, Emmott mentions Lakoff’s container metaphors (156) and there is an example of exactly this sort of metaphor in TIW (see figure 1 below). When Iris has been brought to her lowest point, she no longer recognises herself and describes herself as ‘a hollow thing’, similar to an empty container.
Figure 1 TIW p. 436-437
In section 4.4 below, I examine pictorial metaphor as a way of expressing one’s own truth. The visual depiction of a metaphor or an analogy to express emotion is widely-used in comics and it presents no problem to habitual readers of such texts: Versaci perceptively notes that ‘readers already view comic books as “unreal,” so any further distortion of reality becomes a mere extension of the form’ (2007: 76).Leigh Gilmore explores the limitations of language in the expression of trauma and asserts that trauma survivors, in repeatedly testifying verbally to their emotional experience, create ‘a conscious language that can be repeated in structured settings’ (2001: 7), but which is inimical to the unconscious lived experience of trauma. This telling of pre-determined stories in a sanctioned setting is reflected in Judy Segal’s research on the public discourse surrounding cancer narratives.
In the context of an article on the subject of Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, an autobiographical account of Satrapi’s own experience of the Iran-Iraq war (2008), Rocío Davis writes that ‘autobiographical comics cannot…be read solely as a personal account, the cultural connotations of the stories and the narrative choices signifying on the level of national drama and attesting to the complex interweaving of the strategies of meaning’ (2005: 270). Similarly, cancer narratives contribute to an existing public discourse on illness. In studies published in 2007 and 2012, Segal investigates the more sinister side of cancer narratives. She concludes that personal narratives often take on standard plots and features of existing cancer stories which have already been rehearsed many times, such as an opening scene in which a lump is discovered (this is indeed true of TIW). These stories focus on the cure rather than the cause, and the cancer sufferer is often described metaphorically as a warrior in battle against an implacable enemy. The problems inherent in these stories are manifold, not least of which is the entailment that the cancer patient who does not recover is in some way to blame for simply not fighting hard enough. Segal focuses on the regulatory function of these stories, and how one of their most insidious effects is the sidelining of other narratives which do not follow the prescribed pattern. The accepted stories provide information for sufferers, but they also evaluate and govern. Naturally, the generic and conventionalised ways in which illness is discussed generates reader expectations with regard to such narratives and reader response can be dictated by the extent to which the story matches these expectations.
Other cancer narratives in comics format include Miriam Engelberg’s Cancer Made Me A Shallower Person (2006) and Marisa Acocella Marchetto’s Cancer Vixen (2006), both of which have gained some critical attention (Segal, 2007, 2012; Stoddard Holmes, 2014; Tensuan, 2011). Ball’s novel is very different from these two publications in many respects, the most obvious departure being that the protagonist, Iris Pink-Percy, is an avatar for the author, whereas Engelberg and Marchetto draw representations of their physical selves (a very flattering one in Marchetto’s case). Iris’ diagnosis, treatment and recovery are expressed through metaphor, caricature and grotesque mockery, which is indicative of mental activity either on Iris’ part or on the part of her creator. As such, the purpose of the book feels different to that of the other two titles mentioned: Marchetto’s book is genuinely informative about the disease, as is Engelberg’s to a lesser extent. Ball’s novel is less a self-help guide than a genuine attempt to capture the experience of illness and to express it in a unique way. The comics medium both permits and invites the exploitation of the interplay of verbal and visual layers as a way of evoking experience. Martha Stoddard Holmes notes that a minimalist representation of characters allows for the depiction of an unstable self (2014: 148), and Andy Oliver notes in his very perceptive review that Ball’s ‘forceful visual symbolism…uses an ever shifting sense of warped perspective to underline those moments when Iris feels dehumanised or overawed by the realities of her situation’. Oliver writes that ‘as readers we become fully invested in Iris…as she adapts to the challenges ahead’ (2017).
Amongst the many reviews of TIW, Oliver’s is by far the most perceptive. Many reviewers produced overly-simplistic assessments or a selection of catch-all statements which will hardly satisfy a competent comics reader. Sarah Gilmartin writing for the Irish Times produced the observation that ‘[p]encil drawings against a black background highlight Iris’s predicament as the world turns bleak around her’ while blithely ignoring the fact that the only colour sequence in the book is Iris’ terrifying vision of the paper dolls coming to attack her, all of whom are bleeding red from the breast. Michelle Martinez (The New York Journal of Books) recognises that the book is unlike other comics on the same theme; however, this particular reviewer’s response is interesting because her confusion around Henry’s online catfishing reveals that she has not understood the scene in which Henry rows his boat towards shore after his date with Iris and drives away in a car, which tells the reader that Henry is not the lighthouse keeper he pretends to be. As a consequence, perhaps, of her lack of experience in reading comics, Martinez does not consider Iris to be a fully-rounded character. She comments, ‘[f]urther attention to building Iris as a character would have created stronger engagement in this fast-paced story’.
Reviews written by the book’s audience rather than its critics appear on the Goodreads site (https://www.goodreads.com). Most of these reviews are very positive, with many readers extolling the artwork. One reader comments on the use of pictorial metaphor (see section 4.3 below) as follows: ‘Powerful symbolism is incorporated, such as illustration of train = giving up while emergency stop pull = will to live’ (see figure 2 below). Another reader writes about their response to the character of Iris: ‘Iris, the protagonist, is someone you connect with instantly, even if she may not be relatable’; however, a third reader found their expectations disappointed: ‘a technically decent book, I was hard pressed to find its heart’.
The expansion of Anglo-American comics scholarship in recent years derives in part from a long-overdue recognition that comics deserve study as a medium in their own right. A more enlightened generation of comics scholars have voiced protests against the conflation of comics with literature because such comparisons are misguided, unhelpful, and ultimately stem from an unnecessary anxiety about the status of comics as a fitting subject for study at higher educational levels. Comics are often subject to the criticism that their medium-specific immediacy renders them ill-suited for the kind of intellectual and critical analysis to which purely verbal texts lend themselves. Instead of treating comics as an inferior subset of literature as it is represented by prose narratives, a more productive line of enquiry involves a rejection of the assumption that narrative is independent of the medium in which it appears and to develop analytical approaches and frameworks which enable the scholar to focus on storytelling as dictated by the constraints and possibilities of the medium in which the story is told. The study of narrative across media is today led by such luminaries as Marie-Laure Ryan and David Herman, and it opens up opportunities for interdisciplinary exploration and academic collaboration with scholars from other fields of enquiry such as film, art, psychology, and the cognitive sciences.
This study takes for its focus the creation of fictional consciousness in comics and explores aspects of visual storytelling in order to account for how a comics reader ascribes a mind to a visually-rendered character. Focalization is central to the study of fictional consciousness and comics scholarship brings a fresh perspective to this concept, one which has occasioned much debate in the study of prose narratives. The application of previous focalization research to a different medium expands the scope of the discussion and entails the possibility of fresh insights. I begin by placing the primary text under discussion in its context as a member of the canon of publications in the genre of graphic medicine, and its status as an autobiographical text. I discuss how genre and public discussions surrounding cancer discourse might affect or even dictate reader expectations, and to complement this discussion I examine the book’s critical reception and real reader responses to the character of Iris. There follows a very brief discussion of current debates in comics scholarship and a cautionary note regarding the omission of any discussion of page layout in this study; discussion of the same features heavily in most comics scholarships, but is not pursued here. I then turn to a more detailed exploration of three areas which contribute to character construction in comics: the depiction of face and body, speech and thought representation, and pictorial metaphor. The final section investigates the concept of focalization in relation to the construction of a fictional mind and endorses the suggestion from film theory that images can simultaneously display several levels of narration.
The primary text for this study is Rachael Ball’s The Inflatable Woman (hereafter TIW) published by Bloomsbury in 2015. Where illustrations are featured to support the argument, all page references are to this edition. The author of this study is a reader in the Western tradition, hence comments relating to reader response to images and reading paths should be understood within the conventions of this tradition. There are numerous terms used for the kind of narrative under discussion here, many of which are tainted by the value judgements of those who coined them; for example, ‘graphic novel’ has become popular with publishers who wish to capitalise on adult enthusiasm for such narratives, but who do not wish to use the descriptor ‘comics’ for fear that this term is associated with publications aimed for consumption by children and superheroes enthusiasts. I have no problem with the word ‘comics’ and I use it wherever possible throughout, as a catch-all term which encompasses every kind of graphic storytelling, including the text under discussion.
Summary of the story (*spoilers*)
Zookeeper Iris discovers two lumps in her right breast and is diagnosed with cancer. While Iris is undergoing a mastectomy and receiving treatment, she enters into an online correspondence with ‘sailorbuoy-39’, or Henry, who describes himself as a lighthouse keeper. Iris, or ‘balletgirl42’, tells him that she is a prima ballerina. Iris and Henry meet for a date, following which Iris buys a wedding veil. Iris’ friend Maud urges her to tell Henry how she feels, but when Iris writes to Henry that she loves him, Henry responds with the news that he has been posted to a lighthouse in the North Pole with no internet or telephone reception and he must say farewell forever. Iris breaks down during her next hospital appointment.
Maud and Granma Suggs drive Iris to The Helping Hand, an alternative clinic for cancer sufferers. Iris finds it impossible to communicate with the other women present, inspiring those running the clinic to take drastic action: Plan X, or The Early Death Experience. The women dig a huge hole in the garden, and Iris is tricked into spending the night there. Polly, one of the other patients, arrives with wine and talks to Iris about the purpose of the exercise. Iris is visited in the night by all the nightmarish visions which have haunted her throughout her illness, but emerges from the hole the next day to cheers and congratulations. Iris leaves the clinic and takes the train back to the zoo. The journey is peaceful until Iris spots Henry standing at a station. He calls and waves to her, and she waves back as the train pulls out, but she knows the dream has gone: as the reader is already aware, Henry is not a lighthouse keeper after all.
The story closes a year later, when crowds fill the zoo for a sold-out World Tour: Maud plays the violin while the penguins perform acrobatics, and Iris, dressed in a tutu, leaps onto the stage to tumultuous applause.
Contextual frame theory explains ‘how readers track reference to characters and events through the process of reading’ (Stockwell, 2002: 155). To summarise the essence of this approach, the reader constructs mental images, or ‘contextual frames’, containing characters and objects which are said to be ‘bound’ to that frame. The binding process enables the reader to monitor who and what appears in a particular textual location. Characters and objects become ‘primed’, however, when they form the focus of the reader’s attention, and ‘textually overt’ when mentioned (Emmott, 1997). As new information is received, the reader must perform various revisions, such as adding to or amending entity representations for characters and locations. Frame modifications are necessary when characters enter or leave the frame; frame repairs occur when the reader learns that s/he has made an incorrect assumption, such as, for example, the gender of the protagonist; frame replacements (Stockwell, 2002: 158) are an extreme version of the latter in which an entire frame must be revised or scrapped altogether. In this essay I use contextual frame theory to explore one of Shirley Jackson’s most Gothic stories. I begin by examining the Gothic trope of the splintered self in the context of entity representations. I show how the orientational information necessary to contextual frame theory is repurposed to bewilder instead of guide, and I examine how contextual frame theory can explain the calculated deception practised on the reader. I contend that contextual frame theory runs into difficulties when presented with an unreliable narrator, but the necessary repair-work is nevertheless integral to the experience of reading and forms part of the story’s meaning.
‘A Visit’ (1950) appears in a collection of Jackson’s work entitled Come Along With Me and was also anthologised as ‘The Lovely House’ in American Gothic Tales, edited by Joyce Carol Oates, herself a writer in the same tradition.1 Jackson achieved fame as a writer of the Gothic, and given both the identity of the writer and the context of publication, it is crucial that the Gothic genre is taken into account in any discussion of this story. Gothic genre conventions dictate reader expectations: there is, after all, some truth in Kosofsky Sedgwick’s playful comment that ‘[o]nce you know that a novel is of the Gothic kind…you can predict its contents with an unnerving certainty’ (1986: 9). Many readers of the Gothic, and the Female Gothic in particular (Fleenor, 1983; Wallace and Smith, 2009; Wallace, 2013) will be familiar with the themes and tropes of Jackson’s story, including an imprisoned female protagonist, a splintered or fractured self, live burial and a labyrinthine dwelling, but few perhaps will foresee the twist in Jackson’s tale, and most readers will have to perform frame repairs and replacements. A first reading of the story will therefore be an entirely different experience to every subsequent reading. Readings other than the first will draw on repaired and modified frames in the light of acquired knowledge.
The story is narrated in the third person, but there are no scenes in which Margaret is not present and the reader follows Margaret’s subjectivity throughout. The reader has access to Margaret’s thoughts, but the minds of the other characters are kept closed except for what the reader can infer from their reactions and behaviour. The story begins when school-friends Margaret and Carla arrive at Carla’s home, where Margaret is to spend the summer months, and together Margaret and Carla explore the seemingly endless rooms. Carla speaks of the time when her brother will visit and when Paul and the captain arrive, the reader is led to believe that Paul is Carla’s brother. However, when the time comes for the men to depart, the reader discovers that it is the captain who is Carla’s brother. Neither Paul nor great-aunt Margaret in the tower have ever been present, and the very nature of their existence is brought into question.
Plausible readings of the story within the context of the Gothic genre include the possibility that the main female character is the subject of a split personality, and that the house and its occupants represent different facets of just one fractured mentality. For example, Bowman’s ‘structuralist inquiry’ into the work of Victoria Holt asserts that the characters surrounding the Gothic heroine represent ‘projections of her inner ambivalences’ (Bowman, 1983: 69), and similarly, Punter and Byron suggest that the architecture in Gothic fiction embodies an externalisation of a character’s emotions (2004: 179). If the house and its characters represent aspects of Margaret’s unconscious self, it should be noted in addition that there exist at least five versions of the character ‘Margaret’, all of whom may or may not be the same person. Hattenhauer does not doubt that the great-aunt is an older version of Margaret, and suggests that ‘[w]hen the madwoman in the attic appears as Margaret’s double, the theme of Margaret trapped in the history of her disunity as a subject emerges’ (2003: 56). The various Margarets can be identified as follows. The first is Carla’s school-friend, the Margaret who has a mother and sisters, who is embroidering a pair of slippers for a friend and who has a home to send to for more clothes. This Margaret is referred to, but never seen in the narrative. The second is the Margaret who visits Carla at her home during the school summer holidays. The third is the Margaret whose face is depicted on the floor of the tile room, the Margaret who died for love. The fourth is the great-aunt, the Margaret in the tower, and the fifth is the image of Margaret that Mrs Rhodes is preparing to weave into her tapestry at the end of the story. The shared name should not be overlooked: Punter and Byron suggest that ‘repetitions of names…produces a doubling that repeatedly works against any sense of narrative division’ (2004: 213)2. According to contextual frame theory, the reader uses details provided in the text to construct a character, or an ‘entity representation’ (Emmott, 1997). The doubling provoked by the naming of the tiled image and the great-aunt prompts the reader to conflate the various Margarets into one entity representation. As Margaret’s growing fondness for Paul becomes evident, it becomes more likely that she will indeed turn out to be the Margaret who died for love, and whose tiled image now resides permanently in a tiled image of the tower. This conflation of the entity representation with a mosaic image rendered from chips of the very materials from which the house has been constructed provides a valuable clue as to the true nature of the house and its occupants, to which I shall return in due course.
In her full-length study of contextual monitoring, Emmott notes that the reader retrieves ‘orientational information’ from the text, including details such as where and when the action is located (1997: 103). However, both the temporal and spatial locations of ‘A Visit’ are difficult to identify with any certainty. There are very few clues available, for example, to enable the reader to place the events of the story within a historical timeframe. Margaret arrives with Carla at the house, but no indication is provided of the girls’ means of travel, whether by rail, car, or horse and carriage; the reader is merely told that Margaret ‘alighted with Carla’ (Jackson, 2013 : 101)3. Paul appears in uniform, and the presence of the ‘captain’ leads the reader to infer that the uniform is a military one and the two men are soldiers; beyond this, however, no further assumptions can be conclusively drawn. As the story progresses, the reader’s sense of temporal disorientation is compounded by elements of narrative repetition, particularly in the dialogue. When Margaret grasps the hands of her namesake in the tower, she hears the words that will be spoken and heard again on Paul’s departure. Carla speaks often of what they will do when her brother arrives, and she begins this refrain again almost as soon as he has departed. The pattern of arrival and departure established in relation to the two men means that by the end of the narrative, it is unclear whether the title of the story refers to Margaret’s visit, the captain’s, or Paul’s.
The confusion caused by the narrative’s circular temporality is compounded by the maze-like spatial location within which the action takes place. The house, with its many rooms and corridors, is an unimaginable space. It is not a home but an anthropomorphised construction with its ‘long-boned structure’ (101); it is also an endlessly repeated exhibit of itself. In a fairy-tale like episode, Carla shows Margaret two identical rooms, one in gold and one in silver, and when Margaret enquires who uses the rooms, Carla replies ‘No one’ (103). (One expects the third room in this sequence to be of bronze, but instead it is the room of mirrors.) In sum, both the spatial and temporal details provided can be described, with some justification, as deliberately unhelpful.
In the section which follows, I refer to contextual frame theory to demonstrate how it is that the reader of Jackson’s story is so comprehensively hoodwinked into believing that Paul exists and that he is Carla’s brother. Emmott’s work with contextual frames shows how readers use the information stored in these frames to correctly identify the referent of pronouns (1997). Margaret is the focaliser of the story, but the depth to which the ostensibly third-person narrative is immersed in Margaret’s consciousness is not immediately evident to the reader. Only at the end of the story is the reader made aware that Paul and the great-aunt exist only for Margaret, prompting many frame repairs; in addition, the reader realises that the scene in the tower could not have taken place when the tower is described (for the first and only time) as ‘ruined’ (124). The reader must then perform a frame replacement and substitute instead a scene in which Margaret tries the door of the tower but is unable to gain entry. From the moment Paul arrives, the reader is led to believe that he is Carla’s brother:
…and Carla said, “Brother, here is Margaret.”
He was tall and haughty in uniform… Next to him stood his friend, a captain (108, my emphasis).
The ‘He’ which follows on immediately from Carla’s introduction refers to a man who is not the captain. Moreover, the captain is never referred to by name, which allows the reader to assume that Carla means Paul whenever she refers to her brother. In the scenes which follow Paul’s arrival before Margaret’s visit to the tower, a pattern is established in which the characters are scrupulously bound into every frame in careful descriptions such as the following: ‘They went for a picnic, Carla and the captain and Paul and Margaret, and Mrs. Rhodes waved to them from the doorway as they left, and Mr. Rhodes came to his study window and lifted his hand to them’ (111). In this sentence, all the characters mentioned by name are primed, bound and textually overt. Mr and Mrs Rhodes, however, will not be present for the picnic and are bound out of the frame from this point onwards. Paul, however, remains bound, and is textually overt in his conversations with Margaret. In the reader’s mind, Paul exists as much as Margaret, Carla and the captain. On subsequent readings, the reader must perform frame repairs in striking each of Paul’s utterances and considering how the scene plays out without him. Textual clues previously unnoticed become evident: for example, Carla refers to Margaret as ‘odd’ and looks at her ‘strangely’, and the reason for this is that she does not hear Paul’s remarks, such as his offer to show Margaret the rose garden. Carla, in her refusal to respond to Margaret’s curiosity regarding the tower, is established as someone with a habit of ignoring the utterances of others when it does not suit her to reply; as such, her lack of response to Paul’s conversational turns is not sufficient on a first reading to alert the reader to any possible anomaly. There are other clues in sentences such as the following: ‘After dinner they played charades, and even Mrs. Rhodes did Achilles with Mr. Rhodes, holding his heel and both of them laughing and glancing at Carla and Margaret and the captain’ (109). The reader assumes ‘they’ to refer to Paul as well as the named characters in this sentence, so even though he is not textually overt as the others are, he is still bound and primed into the frame, and in fact becomes textually overt in the sentence which follows when he speaks to Margaret. There is another example of the same tactic here: ‘And they played word games in the evening, and Margaret and Paul won, and everyone said Margaret was so clever’ (109). The ‘everyone’ in this sentence is assumed to include Paul, so he remains bound and primed to the frame, even though his own cleverness has apparently been ignored by those assembled. The most blatant clue, however, is provided in the scene in which Margaret is watching Mrs Rhodes sew while ‘Carla and the captain bent over a book together’. Paul is not bound into this frame and is therefore assumed not to be present. Carla gently rebukes Margaret with the words, ‘Margaret, do come and look, here. Mother is always at her work, but my brother is rarely home’ (110). If the reader weren’t convinced by this stage that Paul is Carla’s brother, this is a clear indication that Carla is referring to the captain. On a first reading, the reader might perhaps believe that Carla’s intention is to criticise Margaret’s inattention to the other guests in the house and thus Paul and the captain are included together in her reference to ‘my brother’. When the narrative reaches its conclusion and the captain is positively identified as Carla’s brother, the resulting confusion renders indecipherable the pronouns used by Paul in his closing remarks before departure. He claims to ‘care for [the house] constantly, even when they forget’, and states that nothing in the house can be replaced: ‘All we can do is add to it’ (123, emphases in original). It would seem that Paul is referring to himself and the Rhodes family, but in touching Mrs Rhodes’ embroidery frame as he speaks, he appears to imply that Mrs Rhodes adds to the house as she embroiders its image. If Paul is including the Rhodes family in his ‘we’, then Carla and the others presumably share the same status as Paul, who claims that without the house he ‘could not exist’ (123). Epistemological uncertainty reaches such a peak at this point that contextual frame theory cannot help the reader sort through the increasingly tangled jumble of what is to be believed and what can be discredited.
There is textual evidence to support the reading that the house and its occupants, including Margaret, are nothing but figures woven into a tapestry. Margaret witnesses the creation of ‘doors and windows, carvings and cornices’ under Mrs Rhodes’ hands, and indeed, Margaret’s own entrapment: ‘[t]he small thread of days and sunlight…that bound Margaret to the house, was woven here as she watched’ (110). The grounds of the house are included: the ‘proper forest’ with its ‘neat trees’ and too-green moss is also part of a tapestry on display in the breakfast room (111). Margaret is afraid of the room of mirrors because ‘it was so difficult for her to tell what was in it and what was not’ (104). The objects in this room such as the table and the wooden bowl which are bound, primed and textually overt may not have any tangible presence at all, and, of course, as elements in a fictional text, the table and bowl exist only as signifiers to evoke an image of the signified in the mind of the reader. Margaret partially guesses the truth when she uses a metaphor of the house as a story: ‘perhaps, she thought, from halfway up the stairway this great hall, and perhaps the whole house, is visible, as a complete body of story together, all joined and in sequence’ (102). Coupled with this metaphor are numerous references to patterns and images that are too large to be seen except from far away, just as one must read the whole story to understand its import. In another scene, an anthropomorphism connected with Margaret’s world-view hints at the possibility of conscious life in inanimate images: ‘Margaret felt surely that she could stay happily and watch the small painted people playing’ (107). The same device is used in the scene depicting the morning after the ball:
the gay confusion of helping one another dress…seemed all to have happened longer ago than memory, to be perhaps a dream that might never have happened at all, as perhaps the figures in the tapestries on the walls in the dining room might remember, secretly, an imagined process of dressing themselves and coming with laughter and light voices to sit on the lawn where they were woven (121).
In the final scene, both Carla and Margaret are still wearing their ball gowns, and Carla – laughing – invites Margaret to sit beside her on the lawn as models for Mrs Rhodes’ tapestry.
This discussion has made use of contextual frame theory to account for the numerous adjustments the reader is required to make on reading ‘A Visit’, and has suggested a possible reading in which the house and its occupants are no more than figures in a tapestry. It has been noted how contextual frame theory falters when confronted with unreliable narration and the resulting epistemological uncertainty. However, it should be noted that frame repairs and replacements do not efface original impressions and the reader is left with the idea of a living consciousness trapped within a woven image. To place the story in its Gothic context once more, the conventions of this genre are employed here to express the living death experienced by women expected to immerse themselves in the home and devote their lives to it. Wallace writes of the civil death which was the legal status of married women in 1765 (2013: 2) and Jackson herself struggled with the domesticity expected of women in post-war America (Smith, 2009). Margaret’s ‘death’, therefore, can be read figuratively not as a physical death from a broken heart, but as the death of what Margaret’s life might have been had she not been bound to the house.
1 Carla’s family name appears as ‘Rhodes’ in the version published in the 2013 Penguin edition, and ‘Montague’ in the Oates anthology. I have used the name ‘Rhodes’ throughout.
2 This comment appears in a discussion of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, a novel that, along with Charlotte’s Jane Eyre, operates as a Gothic ur-text which has inspired many imitations (Stoneman, 1996). Cf. Hattenhauer’s reference to the great-aunt in the tower as ‘the madwoman in the attic’ (2003: 56).
3 All subsequent references are to this edition.
List of references
Bowman, B. (1983) Victoria Holt’s Gothic Romances: A Structuralist Inquiry. In J. E. Fleenor (ed). The Female Gothic. Montréal: Eden Press, 69–81.
Emmott, C. (1997) Narrative Comprehension: A Discourse Perspective. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Fleenor, J.E. (ed). (1983) The Female Gothic. Montréal: Eden Press.
Hattenhauer, D. (2003) Shirley Jackson’s American Gothic. Albany: State University of New York Press.
Jackson, S. (1996 ) The Lovely House. In J. C. Oates (ed). American Gothic Tales. New York: Plume, 204–225.
Jackson, S. (2013 ) A Visit. In S. E. Hyman (ed). Come Along With Me: Classic Short Stories and an Unfinished Novel. New York: Penguin, 101–125.
Kosofsky Sedgwick, E. (1986) The Coherence of Gothic Conventions. New York: Methuen.
Punter, D. & Byron, G. (2004) The Gothic. Oxford: Blackwell.
Smith, A. (2009) Children of the Night: Shirley Jackson’s Domestic Female Gothic. In The Female Gothic: New Directions. London: Palgrave, 152–165.
Stockwell, P. (2002) Cognitive Poetics: An Introduction. London: Routledge.
Stoneman, P. (1996) Brontë Transformations: The Cultural Dissemination of ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Wuthering Heights’. London: Prentice Hall.
Wallace, D. (2013) Female Gothic Histories: Gender, History and the Gothic. Cardiff: Cardiff University Press.
Wallace, D. & Smith, A. (eds). (2009) The Female Gothic: New Directions. London: Palgrave.
In this final chapter I wish to focus entirely on the reader and the reader’s role in relation to the various levels of discourse existing in a text. The factors affecting the reader’s understanding of the text can be roughly organised into three categories as follows. Firstly, the organisation of the text or its physical form, that is, the words and sentences on the page and the way in which these sentences are punctuated and arranged. I took a brief look at punctuation in chapter two and syntactic arrangement in chapter three; in this chapter I take a closer look at lexical choice. The second factor affecting a reader’s understanding is that of her empirical knowledge of the world. The reader brings to the text a vast store of background knowledge which enables her to give shape and meaning to the words on the page. The final factor is that of education: readers are distinguished by their varying levels of literary competence. In order to answer the question of how a reader makes sense of a text, I shall be exploring the following four areas in turn: a) individual word meaning, in which I hope to demonstrate that a reader’s understanding of lexical items constitutes far more than a simple dictionary definition; b) schemata, frames and scripts show how a reader applies her knowledge of the world to the texts she reads; c) literary competence adds the more specific dimension of the reader’s knowledge of other texts, of which d) literary allusion is an even more specialised instance. Categories c) and d) carry important implications for the questions proposed in this thesis. The extent to which linguistics can be of service to the literary critic is compromised by the necessity of a high degree of literary competence in order to fully appreciate and understand a literary text; but it was never my intention to assert that linguistics alone is sufficient to achieve such an understanding. The specialised knowledge of the critic comes into play where it is vital, for instance, to be able to accurately identify a literary allusion or to be able to situate a text within a particular genre; I will be investigating these questions in more detail, pertaining to problematic allusions in Brontë’s Wuthering Heights – allusions which arguably contain the key to a fuller understanding of the text. As for the question of form and content, I stand by my conviction that they are inseparable but I concede that once the reader is taken into account the definition of ‘content’ becomes more complicated; however, I feel that the arguments presented here add weight to the assertion that literary language functions differently rather than detracting from the proposition that form and content are one and the same.
Before addressing the question of how a reader makes sense of a text, I intend to take a brief overview of the development of reader-response criticism and to comment further on the roles of author and reader as respective producer and consumer of texts.
In 1959 Michael Riffaterre wrote a paper entitled ‘Criteria for Style Analysis’ in which he suggests that since we cannot know the author’s intentions, it is better to focus on the response of the reader. Riffaterre recognised early on the displaced interaction that distinguishes the literary text from other types of text, and he writes that the author has a more difficult task than the speaker due to the absence of extra-linguistic means of expression: the author has limited graphological means at his disposal – for instance, the examples from Pratchett’s work in chapter two – but these means are a poor substitute for the expressive capabilities of tone, gesture, volume, pitch, et cetera. The author, writes Riffaterre, is therefore more conscious of the message, and he introduces unpredictable elements, or stylistic devices, into his work in order to ensure that the message is decoded as he intended. These stylistic devices, according to Riffaterre, can be identified by the average reader (AR); however, Riffaterre reserves the right to correct that which the AR finds and he classifies typical AR errors as faults of omission or addition.
Stanley Fish also deplores the exclusion of the reader in literary history, but he parts company with Riffaterre in that he does not believe it possible to divide a text up into utterances that may or may not have a literary effect. Fish has made several important contributions to reader-response criticism through the formulation of his ‘affective stylistics’. He argues that meaning cannot be extracted from a literary work, but is to be found in the reader’s experience of reading it: he writes that the experience of an utterance is its meaning. Fish’s method involves ‘an analysis of the developing responses of the reader in relation to the words as they succeed one another in time’, and this basic premise means that at times his arguments come dangerously close to the idea of form enacting content; nevertheless, the value of Fish’s work should not be underestimated. Fish’s method compels the critic to ask what a certain text or part of a text does, rather than what it means, a question that reflects Fish’s focus on experience rather than extraction; in addition, Fish draws attention to the temporality of the reading experience, in that the reader responds to a temporal flow in a left to right direction, at least in texts written in English. The effect of this reading experience is lost in the activity of criticism, writes Fish, and he states that it is criticism, not reading, that loses sight of the text. The temporal model posited by Fish among others has at least one ramification for the form/content argument: if content is produced by the reader’s experience of reading in a temporal framework, then some content is inevitably lost if the reader does decide what the text ‘is about’; the clues, false trails and red herrings, are, for Fish, part of the meaning of the text in that they constitute part of the reading experience. Carole Berger writes in support of this argument in her paper on Jane Austen’s villains:
although the spatial metaphor of recent decades has produced much useful criticism, it has obscured the fact that form also has a temporal dimension, manifest in the reader’s sequential experience of a work. My analysis depends on the assumption that meaning is generated not only by the interpretation of a character’s qualities and development in relation to the work as a whole, but also through the process of apprehending a character as we read.
Berger adds a useful footnote: ‘to the extent that the effects described depend on the reader’s ignorance of future developments, they obviously apply only to a first reading. Subsequent readings yield different pleasures’. One is only fooled by Willoughby and Frank Churchill once!
Another critic interested in reader response is Steven Mailloux, who provides a useful overview of reader-response criticism in his paper ‘Learning to Read: Interpretation and Reader-Response Criticism’. Mailloux summarises the work of various critics including Wolfgang Iser and Stephen Booth, and he adds to their arguments his own premise that
every critical approach embodies a set of interpretive conventions used to make sense of literary texts. Such interpretive conventions are shared procedures for creating meaning, and they consist of interpretive assumptions manifested in specific critical moves.
Indeed, in a separate paper Mailloux demonstrates how critics have made sense of a ‘maimed’ text; the fact that they were able to do so at all indicates how powerful these interpretive conventions can be. According to Mailloux’s reasoning, the reader/critic is a member of an interpretive community, and the ‘history of literary criticism is a chronicle of the changes in…shared interpretive strategies’. Furthermore, Mailloux neatly summarises the different roles assigned to the reader: she is in the text as narratee, or she dominates over the text as the creator of meaning, or she produces meaning by interacting with the text. The reader has also collected an assortment of epithets: she is implied, educated, ideal, informed, et cetera. The implied reader is a product of the displaced interaction between addresser and addressee, and she is defined by Leech and Short as follows:
because the author can assume knowledge which any particular reader might not necessarily have, we have to conclude that the addressee in literary communication is not the reader, but…the IMPLIED READER; a hypothetical personage who shares with the author not just background knowledge but also a set of presuppositions, sympathies and standards of what is pleasant and unpleasant, good and bad, right and wrong.
Authorial correspondence, drafts, and so on, reveal some authors’ concern that the reader should resemble the implied reader as closely as possible. One authorial strategy with this aim in mind is to refer directly to the reader – Fielding’s guiding hand in Tom Jones is an oft-quoted example. The reader shares a relationship not only with the author, but also with the narrator and/or the characters; often the reader is called upon to judge the characters, and by extension, herself. The technique of encouraging self-judgment is an authorial means for educating the reader, assuming that the role of literature is to edify. Mailloux’s reader is an active participant, not a passive observer, and Mailloux parts company from Fish and Riffaterre in his refusal to separate reader from critic:
it is true that reader-response criticism claims to approximate closely the content of reading experiences that are always assumed to pre-exist the critical performance. But what in fact takes place is quite different: the critical performance fills those reading experiences with its own interpretive moves.
Mailloux asserts that it is impossible to separate the two activities of reading and criticism and that one activity necessarily entails the other.
Meaning is created from an elaborate network of integration and cooperation between author, reader, and text. To ignore the reader would be to place the creation of meaning squarely at the point of production, that is, at the feet of the author. Alternatively, one could remove both author and reader from the equation as the American New Critics did, and argue instead that meaning is inherent in the text itself. But to treat the text as aesthetic object instead of discourse is a viewpoint that is currently unfashionable amongst practitioners of stylistics. Fowler notes that if a text is treated as discourse, this represents a ‘corrective to the…traditional claim in literary criticism that texts are objects rather than interactions…. But ‘literary’ texts…do speak: they participate in society’s world-view and social structure’. In stylistic analysis, the text has come to be regarded as a message, a communication which passes between author and reader, and bearing in mind the emphasis this kind of analysis places on the text as discourse in both its production and reception, it would seem to be an unpardonable omission to ignore the recipient of the ‘text as message’, the reader himself. As Wimsatt and Beardsley have noted, the production of a literary work may be private, but its consumption is public: ‘the poem belongs to the public. It is embodied in language, the peculiar possession of the public’.
The history of the author has been a chequered one: she has been put on a pedestal, only to be later declared irrelevant and finally proclaimed dead. In a paper entitled ‘Against Theory’, Steven Knapp and Walter Benn Michaels have reinstated –or resuscitated! – the author, but only by simultaneously removing the need to consider authorial intention: ‘once it is seen that the meaning of a text is simply identical to the author’s intended meaning, the project of grounding meaning in intention becomes incoherent’. Knapp and Michaels suggest that we should believe that the author meant what she wrote – a reasonable enough approach that brings us back to the guiding or manipulative author who steers the reader towards an intended meaning. Iser bases his theory of reader-response criticism on the premise that the reader fills in the textual gaps left deliberately by this author-guide: the text (or the author through the text) provides instructions for the production of meaning but these instructions are not exhaustively explicit, thus allowing the reader some interpretive freedom – indeed, the plurality of a text, its openness to a number of readings, is one of the possible hallmarks of a literary text – but the reader is not given carte blanche to create meaning at will. According to Iser, what the text contains is not meaning, but a set of directions for assembling that meaning; my contention in proposing that form and content are inseparable is that a different set of directions leads to a different meaning.
ii) How Does a Reader Make Sense of a Text?
a) Individual Word Meaning: an investigation into the perceived meaning of the words tourist and traveller.
tourist…n. a person making a visit or tour as a holiday; a traveller, esp. abroad…
traveller…n. 1 a person who travels or is travelling. 2 a travelling salesman. 3 a Gypsy…
Leech and Short invite their reader to compare two alternative translations of the opening passages of Franz Kafka’s The Trial. In the first translation by Willa and Edwin Muir, the man who has come to inform Joseph K. of his arrest is likened to, or linked with, a tourist, and in the second translation by Douglas Scott and Chris Waller, he has become a traveller. A small difference, perhaps, but I decided to conduct a small-scale survey, in order to discover for myself the possible associations of each of these words in the minds of various readers. The results were quite surprising, and from the data collected I was able to conclude that word meaning is exceptionally fragile, and can alter considerably according to factors such as the age of the respondent, or even the time of year.
A total of 37 people were surveyed from two different age groups, as follows:
Age group of respondents (in years):
Number of responses:
13 – 19
20 – 60
Each respondent was asked to write down the first words or phrases which came to mind on hearing the word tourist; the same exercise was performed with the word traveller. The responses were anonymous. To begin with I have summarised the most frequent responses to each word in turn before adding a few words of caution with regard to the overall interpretation of the survey’s results; finally, I have written a general overview of the similarities and differences between the two words as recorded by the respondents surveyed. Words appearing in italics are those written by the respondents.
The word tourist produced surprisingly few references to holiday: only four were found. By far the greatest number of references – a total of 16 – were to vehicles in which a tourist might travel, and the increased volume of traffic as a result. Thirteen references were made to items a tourist might wear or carry, including five references to camera. Twelve references, 11 of which came from the 13 – 19 age group, were to people of Asian descent; 11 references were made to activities a tourist might undertake, such as bungee jumping; eight references were made to geographical features (for example, waterfall); six references were made to travel or travelling and six references were made to specific places tourists might visit (for example, Germany, Amsterdam, Rotorua); finally, there were four references apiece for holiday and Barmy Army.
The most frequent responses to the word traveller were as follows: a total of 21 respondents wrote the words hitch-hiker,biker or backpacker; 19 references were made to vehicles in which a traveller might travel; 12 references were made to journeys and eight references, seven of which came from the older age group, made mention of the traveller’s occupation, for example salesperson or business suit.
In analysing these results, I found it important to bear in mind the following points.
1) The respondents were all either staff members or students at Cheviot Area School and they were all native speakers of English with the exception of two, one from each age group: one student from year 12 was bilingual and his first language was Maori; one staff member was a fluent English speaker but her first language was German.
2) An English woman – myself – asking a group of mostly New Zealanders for a response to these two words in particular inevitably drew some references to Poms!
3) The survey took place during the Lions’ tour of New Zealand, hence the proliferation of references to the Barmy Army, campervans, slow traffic, et cetera; in addition to this, a recent news report had detailed the death of one woman in a road accident caused by a Lions supporter, which perhaps explains the references to death and accidents.
4) Some of those surveyed wrote paragraphs instead of individual words and phrases – possibly I had not issued clear instructions – and I may have misrepresented these responses.
5) I cannot judge the effect of asking for a response to these words in succession; possibly the results would have differed if I had left more time in between each request for a response. Having been asked for a response to the word tourist, the respondent would already be thinking within and around this particular topic, and the response to traveller may therefore be coloured by the previous response. The respondents were always given the word tourist first, and there was some overlap of ideas with traveller, particularly among the 13 – 19 age group, who seemed to experience some difficulty in distinguishing between the two. There were frequent instances of repetition, which were duly noted.
6) Of particular note was the frequent number of references to the word Asian among the 13 – 19 age group in response to tourist; one respondent even wrote lousyAsians. Such unabashed racism is difficult to account for, especially in a community with very few Asian residents. A similar attitude was not in evidence from the responses assembled from the staff of the school.
7) In collating the results, I was aware that the responses would have been different had I surveyed a group of people from the UK, like myself, instead of from New Zealand. There would perhaps have been references to ‘Germans’ and ‘towels’ in response to tourist, and the response to traveller would almost certainly have included some very negative comments about nomadic groups previously referred to as gypsies, but now more commonly referred to as travellers.
I would like to begin this overview of perceived similarities and differences by noting those references which appeared in response to both words. Both lists contained many references to vehicles, so clearly the idea of travelling, or of making a journey (travelling in other countries, overseas or travelling the world), is connected to both words, although as we shall see later on, there were differences perceived in the type of travel undertaken and the method of journeying. Responses to tourist and traveller both incorporated ideas of equipment needed, notably camera for tourist and water bottle for traveller. Tourists and travellers alike were referred to as visitors, but only the responses to traveller allowed of visitors being either foreign or fellow countrymen. Both sets of responses made reference to lots of people and lots of money; references to fun and excitement, Poms and the Barmy Army, carrying a backpack and accidents also appeared frequently in response to both words. The words tourist and traveller themselves cropped up in definition of each other, as did the idea of holidays, but travellers were seen to travel for reasons other than being on holiday, an idea which was absent from the responses to tourist.
The differences between the responses to these two words can be briefly summarised as follows. Those surveyed did not consider themselves to be tourists if they were in New Zealand; the prevalent idea was that a traveller can travel abroad or at home, but a New Zealander is not a tourist in New Zealand (and perhaps we can assume that people from other nations would think similarly; I would find it difficult to think of myself as a tourist in England, even if I were doing the things tourists do, such as visiting the Tower of London, and so on). A tourist, therefore, is someone who has come to your country from abroad; a traveller is usually someone who ventures forth to foreign parts. The overwhelming feeling gained from reading the resulting lists was that tourists invade, but travellers explore. The idea of long-distance travel was more prevalent in those responses to traveller than to tourist, and it was interesting to note that while both lists contained references to geographical features, there was a distinct difference between the kinds of features mentioned: tourist elicited the words waterfall and countryside, but traveller elicited desert: the traveller therefore, is connected with a harsh and adventurous terrain, whereas the tourist is placed in comfortable, easy surroundings. One response worth mentioning – although it is perhaps of limited significance, being only one response – is that the traveller seeks, while the tourist just sees. It was interesting to discover also that the traveller is defined by age where the tourist is defined by race; there were numerous references to young person for traveller, but nothing similar for tourist; the tourist was identified by where he had come from, for example, Chinese, Pom, Asian and American. It would not be misleading to say that respondents seemed to have a much clearer idea of what a tourist should look like – race, costume, objects carried, et cetera – but the traveller was not so clearly identifiable. Where the tourists were seen to come from specific places, the travellers were more generic – anybody could be a traveller. Travellers were seen to go camping, or to do it on the cheap; in comparison, tourists spent a lot of money. As previously mentioned, the traveller often had an occupation, such as salesperson, gypsy, or fruit-picker, but the tourist did not. The tourists undertook many activities (sightseeing, bungee jumping) but the travellers just travelled. The travellers got to know the country at grass-roots level, compared to the tourists who were just passing through. Finally, although this summary is by no means exhaustive, the idea of tourist incorporated the idea of planning – the tourist was an idiot with a map who carried a suitcase instead of a rucksack – and the traveller was linked with notions of spontaneity and exploration. The tourist had an agenda, a plan, whereas the travellers just upped and went whenever the urge took them.
It is quite clear then, even from this very inconclusive survey, that these two words are not interchangeable, and that they each carry a certain set of associations in the mind of the reader. To link Kafka’s warder with a tourist is to set up a comparison which differs from linking him with a traveller. To cite a different example, one might respond to Shelley’s famous poem very differently if the first line read ‘I met a tourist from an antique land…’!
In conclusion, what has become clear is that readers do not store words in isolation, and that in discussing the meaning of a word it is probably more useful to take the holistic over the localist view. Words are not stored in the mind in the same way they are stored in a dictionary: words are mentally linked to other words, and one word is capable of invoking a whole host of associations. Jean Aitchison discusses the importance of the quality of the links that form between words in Words in the Mind. She notes that ‘the quality of the links in each case is probably more important than the exact location of the various pieces of information’. Indeed, one of the words currently under discussion provides a very neat example of this point: the word backpack has become so closely linked with the word traveller that when the suffix –er is added to the word backpack, the new word formed – backpacker – is a synonym of traveller.
To all of the above must be added the important factor of context. It is quite probable that a reader will respond differently to the same word in different contexts, and of course, literary writing is arguably a context in itself. A word appearing in a poem derives its meaning from many sources other than its dictionary definition: it will gather associations from those words with which it is linked phonologically and syntactically within the poem itself; it will perhaps spark recollections in the reader’s mind of its appearance in other poems which will add yet another meaning dimension. Within the confines of a single text, a word can gather associations and resonances that do not apply when that word appears elsewhere: for example, in Muriel Spark’s The Driver’s Seat, we learn at the beginning of chapter three that Lise ‘will be found tomorrow morning dead from multiple stab-wounds, her wrists bound with a silk scarf and her ankles bound with a man’s necktie, in the grounds of an empty villa’. From this point onwards, the reader is exceptionally sensitive to the words ‘silk scarf’ and ‘necktie’ since these items have been implicated in Lise’s murder, and the word ‘villa’ now takes on the additional meaning of ‘scene of the crime’. The word ‘villa’ appearing in a holiday brochure is unlikely to have the same resonance: it would simply indicate a form of available accommodation.
b) Schemata: Frames and Scripts
Leech and Short provide a clear statement about the shared knowledge between author and reader:
although the author of a novel is in the dark about his reader from many points of view, he can of course assume that he shares with his readers a common fund of knowledge and experience…quite a lot of general background knowledge of the world about us is needed to interpret even the simplest of sentences in a novel.
Every day people are bombarded with vast quantities of information, and the way in which we cope with our experience of the world about us is to organise our observations into little packages, referred to as schemata. Fowler notes that schemata are mechanisms by which memory is facilitated and ordered: ‘we store our ideas and experiences in terms of what is typical, what we take to be the usual attributes of an event or an idea’. Schemata are organised into frames and scripts. Frames are clusters of typical features. Fowler gives the example of a child’s birthday party: the features of this particular frame include jelly and ice cream, and blowing out the candles on a cake. Scripts are stories: they have a sequential ordering, either temporal or logical. When at a wedding, the groom should be in the church before the bride arrives, and the best man has to make an embarrassing speech at the reception that follows, and so on. Schemata are packages of knowledge shared by members of a community, and this knowledge is acquired through a process of socialisation that begins at birth. Schemata help us to organise mentally our experience of living in the world, and they also help us to make sense of written texts. When faced with a text, ‘readers will recognize, through cues, what kind of text it is, and deploy appropriate conventional schemata’. In the case of literary texts, schemata consist of knowledge of typical story-lines, frames for typical narrative situations and settings, and so on. Jean Aitchison provides a very nice example from literature:
consider the conversation between Ackroyd and Boothroyd, two characters who visit a ruined abbey in Alan Bennett’s play A Day Out:
Ackroyd: They were Cistercian monks here…
Boothroyd: It’s an unnatural life, separating yourself off like that…There wouldn’t be any kids, would there? And allus getting down on their knees. It’s no sort of life…
Here, the word monk…has triggered a whole situation, in which Boothroyd imagines silent corridors and monks praying.
It is easy to see how a reader can apply her world knowledge to fictional texts in such instances, but how does the reader cope when the fictional world bears little or no resemblance to the world she inhabits? Distance between reader and text can manifest itself in various forms: texts can be difficult for the reader to access because they were written hundreds of years ago, or because they depict an alien culture. Stories written within the fantasy and science fiction genres are often set in a world other than the reader’s own:
most fictional texts create their fictional worlds through a relatively standard use of presupposition, schematic assumption and the like. But some texts…create special effects by assuming ‘facts’ that are so at odds with our normal assumptions that we cannot ‘take them on’, in the normal way.
Leech and Short make the observation that readers can and do cope with such texts, provided they are consistent: ‘CONSISTENCY is an important aid to credibility: an unfamiliar reality which obeys its own set of laws is more credible than one which does not’. The world of Peake’s Gormenghast is at first glance bewildering and disorientating, but the reader soon learns how to construct a version of this alternate reality. Our first glimpse into this strange world lights upon the curator Rottcodd in the Hall of the Bright Carvings, endlessly dusting the beautiful carvings that no one ever sees. We learn that while he knows it is ‘the eighth day of the eighth month’, he is ‘uncertain about the year’. The apparent futility of Rottcodd’s existence and his peculiar indifference to the passage of time soon make perfect sense to us once we have immersed ourselves more fully in the eccentric world of Peake’s enormous castle and the lives of its curious inhabitants.
But what of those other texts mentioned previously, those that are distanced from the reader temporally? Riffaterre argues for an analytical approach that combines synchrony and diachrony: he notes that the message survives as the author –or encoder – intended, but ‘the decoders’ linguistic frame of reference changes with the passing of time; the moment may even come when there is nothing left in common between the code to which the message refers and the code used by its readers’. Before the reader can decode the message distant from him in time, it is necessary for him to acquire some specialised knowledge. Short writes that ‘one important aspect of the work of English departments revolves around giving students the requisite schematic knowledge-base for responding sensitively to texts distant from them historically and/or culturally’. It goes without saying that departments of linguistics can also offer a great deal of knowledge concerning the historical development of languages.
c) Literary Competence
Linguistic competence is what enables the language user both to construct and to understand an infinite number of sentences in his native language, and it is this ability that generative grammar attempts to document. By contrast, literary competence ‘is schematized knowledge possessed by those people who have had a literary education’. Linguistic competence will undoubtedly vary from individual to individual, but the variation in literary competence will be much greater. Those who read English at university will probably attain a far higher level of literary competence than those who leave school at sixteen, for example. The extent of an individual’s literary competence has a great deal of bearing on what sort of reader he is. To give a very simple example, the word raven may mean many different things to different readers. At one end of the scale, the reader may not recognise the word at all and for him, the marks on the page will have no significance – or signified – whatsoever. A reader a little further up the scale may know that the raven is a big, black bird; another reader may connect the word raven with stories about the Tower of London. Further still up the scale, the reader may make the connection with Edgar Allan Poe (or at least with that episode of The Simpsons!). The next reader might recognise the raven as a symbol or omen of death, which will colour his reading of the text. It is a simple example, but it is plain nevertheless that the reader who recognises the raven in the text as an ill omen will continue reading in a different frame of mind to the reader who thinks of the raven as just a type of crow.
Knowledge related to genre and other texts within that genre is also a feature of literary competence. It has already been noted that the reader of The Yellow Wall-Paper will, having read the opening paragraphs, be expecting to read a ghost story, once she has been informed of the house’s cheap rent and lack of recent tenants. Readers of Wuthering Heights who are familiar with the novels of Sir Walter Scott will be expecting that Lockwood, a young man plunged into strange and sinister surroundings, should encounter a ghost during his enforced stay at the Heights, as indeed he does.
To possess literary competence is to be familiar with literary schemata. The reader with literary competence is knowledgeable about various literary genres, which are stored in the head as frames: ghost stories should have creaking doors, guttering candles, strange noises, and a fatally curious protagonist; westerns should have swinging saloon doors, pistol-duels at dawn, whisky and sawdust, and a drunken or dastardly sheriff. The reader with literary competence knows what the story should have in it, and roughly how the storyline should run. A more specialised form of literary competence is the ability in the reader to recognise literary allusion.
d) Literary Allusion
To refer in the wording of one text to the wording or storyline of another text, either directly or indirectly, is to bring to the original text all the associations connected with the other. Thus when Lockwood refers to the brindled cat Grimalkin on the morning after his tortured night spent at the Heights, the reader familiar with Macbeth will no doubt recall the witches’ chants of Act I scene (i), ‘I come, Graymalkin!’, and Act IV scene (i), ‘Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d’.Macbeth is a play with more than its fair share of murder, ghosts, witchcraft and death, and the reader alert to these references will continue her reading of WutheringHeights with all these associations in mind. The young Catherine has already taunted Joseph with her supposed dabbling in witchcraft; Cathy’s ghost replaces that of Banquo’s, and Heathcliff, like Macbeth, is arguably a murderer. The notion of ‘content’ is complicated by the authorial use of allusion in that the borrowed phrases carry with them the baggage of the text alluded to – provided, of course, that the reader is able to detect and identify the reference in the first place. F. W. Bateson and B. Shakevitch write in their essay on Katherine Mansfield’s The Fly:
as flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, they kill us for their sport. If the victim did not show some spirit, the gods would lose their sport. (A half-consciousness of Gloucester’s dictum is no doubt expected in the reader.) 
The reader who does not pick up on this allusion will perhaps not form as complete a picture of the boss’ character as will a reader who does recognise this reference from Shakespeare’s King Lear.
Allusion, literary or otherwise, has an even greater role to play in allegorical texts such as Pratchett’s Discworld novels, and in this particular case the reader who misses the allusion will often miss the joke. A reader who is also a banker explained via the monthly electronic Discworld newsletter the reference, already mentioned in chapter two, to the repeated phrase twelve and a half per cent uttered by Reacher Gilt’s parrot. Other readers wrote in to shed light on the Discworld’s clacks system:
the Discworld’s clacks system has…origins in a system devised by Claude Chappe which spanned 17th century France. It encountered opposition from peasants who thought that the ‘clacking’ noises were demonic and burned down the towers (think Borogravians in Monstrous Regiment).
the clacks towers were actually based on…well, clacks towers!… From 1808-1814 during the Napoleonic war, it was used by the Admiralty as a semaphore station. This was operated by a shutter system and could help relay a message to or from Yarmouth in five minutes.
Another reader was sagacious enough to recognise the following literary reference:
I was re-reading Sourcery recently and I noticed a remarkable similarity between the poetry by Creosote and several verses from Edward Fitzgerald’s translation of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam…. For example, the first verse of the Rubaiyat begins, ‘Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight.’ and one of Creosote’s poems begins, ‘Get up! For morning in the cup of day, has dropped the spoon that scares the stars away.’
Not being familiar with the Rubaiyat myself, this pleasant joke was completely lost on me until I read the above letter.
Much depends on the reader’s ability in the first instance to accurately identify an allusion: the danger is that an incorrectly identified allusion may lead to a redundant reading of the text. In order to reach a full understanding of the significance of Lockwood’s first dream in Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, one has to recognise the biblical allusion in Branderham’s sermon. In 1958, Ruth Adams published an article entitled ‘Wuthering Heights: the Land East of Eden’, in which she identifies the source of the sermon as that of Genesis IV:24: ‘If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold, truly Lamech seventy and sevenfold.’ The biblical text Adams supplies refers the reader to the story of Cain, who, following the murder of his brother, moves to a land east of Eden, and whose mark serves as a warning to other men not to kill the slayer of Abel. Adams notes that the ‘mark of Cain does not identify the condemned murderer. Rather it is protective’. Cain’s descendants likewise are not subject to retribution for their crimes and therefore, writes Adams, ‘the race dwelling east of Eden can work its evils in the assurance that no conventional consequence of punishment will follow’. This, Adams argues, is the world of Wuthering Heights and its inhabitants, and the function of Lockwood’s first dream is to introduce the reader to this world:
Wuthering Heights…is a book without conventional ethics or morality. Emily Brontë, aware of the adjustment such a pattern demanded of her readers, undertook to assist them from the very beginning. Thus, with Lockwood’s dream of Banderham’s [sic] sermon, she indicated that readers were to travel east of Eden, in the company of those alienated from God and paradoxically protected by him against the punishing consequences of their deeds.
There is much that is enticing in this reading: Adams’ explanation of the dream’s function is coherent and persuasive. I noted in chapter one that the two worlds of Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange represent, for the reader, the entire reality of the text. Characters come and go – Heathcliff and Hindley both enjoy an absence of three years – but the reader never leaves the moors. The inhabitants of these two residences therefore appear to be a law unto themselves, distinct and separate from the world of law, justice and punishment which exists beyond, just as Cain lives free from retribution in the land of Nod.
There are at least two problems with Adams’ reading, leaving aside the claim that Wuthering Heights is ‘a book without conventional ethics or morality’. Firstly, Edgar Shannon argues that the allusion has been incorrectly identified, and secondly, Adams’ explication of the allusion makes no reference to the fact that Cain is kept alive as a punishment, a fact that would surely have some relevance to her reading. I shall deal with the second of these objections first, being, as it is, the least consequential of the two. It is not entirely true that the inhabitants of Wuthering Heights – by whom I suppose Adams to mean Heathcliff and Hindley – commit crimes happily in the knowledge that no punishment will be forthcoming. Both men suffer cruelly following the deaths of their loved ones. Hindley survives Frances by six years, and Heathcliff lives through eighteen years of separation from Cathy. The suffering of these two men is in turn visited upon those around them. Adams is wrong, I think, to compare the inhabitants of the land of Nod with those of Wuthering Heights and to subsequently neglect this aspect of Cain’s story. The mark of Cain may be protective, but it is also what is keeping him alive to suffer:
And Cain said unto the Lord, My punishment is greater than I can bear.
Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me.
And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.
Cain is made to wander the earth, a ‘fugitive’ and an outcast; never again is he to be allowed in the presence in the Lord. His crops will never grow, forcing him to beg for food. Adams could have compared the suffering of Cain to the suffering of Heathcliff, forced to endure eighteen years in a world without Cathy: ‘The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I have lost her!’ But why should Heathcliff be made to suffer as Cain did? At the time of Cathy’s death, his only crime is his elopement with Isabella, and she is an all-too-willing party to this act. It makes more sense, especially given the events of Lockwood’s second dream, to equate the figure of Cain with that of Catherine Earnshaw. In 1959, Edgar Shannon wrote a response to Adams’ article in which he pointed out that Adams had firstly mistaken the allusion, and secondly, that she had made the error of explicating the book in terms of the first nightmare alone; Shannon argues that ‘the two dreams are inextricably linked’. He considers that Genesis IV:24 has ‘no relevance whatever to Branderham’s pious discourse’, and suggests that the correct source of the allusion is Matthew XVIII:21-22:
Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times?
Jesus said unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven.
Shannon argues that this allusion is more likely to be the one Brontë had in mind for two reasons. Firstly, Branderham’s sermon consists of four hundred and ninety parts, which is ‘the product of seventy times seven’. Secondly, Shannon notes that Lockwood specifically refers to ‘the hypothetical brother of Peter’s question’: ‘it seemed necessary the brother should sin different sins on every occasion’. I mentioned in chapter one Cathy’s bemusement at being admonished for making herself comfortable when she hides in the dresser with Heathcliff. To name four hundred and ninety separate sins, one would have to see small sins everywhere, including the sin of making oneself comfortable on a Sunday. If, as I have suggested, Lockwood has changed places with Cathy during this first dream-sequence, then the reader sees that he, like Cathy, is bemused by both the number and nature of the sins, and, again like Cathy, he is finally punished for being bored by the ‘good book’.
Shannon writes that the correct interpretation of the sermon ‘advances the idea of an unpardonable sin beyond the ordinary scale of human wrongs’. Cathy is the one who has apparently committed such an offence, and in Lockwood’s second dream, the reader sees the consequences of her actions: Cathy is the Wandering Jew, the Cain-like figure, condemned to wander the earth for twenty years. But what is the nature of her offence? Shannon suggests that the atmosphere of Gothic tradition in conjunction with a second biblical allusion in Lockwood’s first dream identifies the crime as adultery. He writes that Branderham’s words to Lockwood, “Thou art the man! ”, are ‘the words of Nathan the prophet when he delivers God’s rebuke to David for appropriating Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite.’ If Lockwood has taken Cathy’s place in this dream, then the charge of adultery is laid at Cathy’s feet: she had been given Heathcliff but she took Edgar Linton instead. One may argue at this point that Heathcliff and Cathy do not actually commit adultery; but, says Shannon, Cathy’s ‘sin is marrying Edgar Linton, when she loves Heathcliff with a love that springs from a natural and elemental affinity between them’.
To sum up: Lockwood’s dreams contain two allusions that must be considered jointly if they are to be fully understood. The first allusion refers to a story in the New Testament in which the virtue of forgiveness for crimes committed is extolled and the second allusion identifies the crime as that of adultery. Cathy, having changed places with Lockwood in his dream, is charged with having committed adultery in abandoning the man she truly loved to marry another.
Lockwood’s dreams are recounted at the beginning of the book but chronologically speaking the events related take place near the very end of Heathcliff’s story. The key to understanding his story lies perhaps in the interpretation one places on the allusions in these dreams. It seems entirely possible that Shannon has correctly identified the two allusions. However, it is arguable that Adams’ mistake is not entirely baseless: the fact that the wording does recall the Old Testament story of Cain may have some significance. In the text identified by Shannon, Jesus makes the point that forgiveness is better than vengeance and the reader is perhaps intended to recall the vengeance of Cain and his punishment for being unable to forgive his brother Abel. At the end of Wuthering Heights, it is Heathcliff who finally forgives Cathy, abandoning his plans of vengeance directed at her remaining family, and his reward is to join her in death. In this reading, both Heathcliff and Cathy are likened to the figure of Cain: both are excluded from the world or sphere they wish to inhabit until Heathcliff can learn forgiveness and abandon his plans for vengeance.
In my brief overview of reader-response criticism it was noted that Fish places a great deal of emphasis on the role of the reader in his affective stylistics. Fish advocates the study of the reader’s experience of reading rather than any attempt to extract meaning from the text, and he claims that it is imperative that one take into account the temporal left to right flow of the reading experience. Mailloux presents an argument that focuses on the reader less as an individual and more as a member of a reading community. He differs from Fish in his assertion that one cannot be a reader without also being a critic and that textual interpretation is the product of shared meaning-producing strategies.
It was seen that the displaced interaction between the encoder of the message, the author, and its decoder, the reader, is arguably one of the hallmarks of the literary text, as is the text’s potential for supporting a plurality of interpretations. This potential is not limitless, however; the author takes pains to ensure that her message is decoded more or less as she intended, and to this end she acts as a guide for the reader. This argument is not incompatible with Iser’s contention that the reader fills in textual gaps: this is indeed what happens, but the reader is not allowed to fill the gaps at random and is provided instead with hints and clues. Knapp and Michaels suggest that textual meaning and authorial meaning are one and the same and that it does not make sense to search for any additional meaning with reference to the author’s biography or personal psychology: it suffices to believe that the author wrote what she meant! This argument can, I think, be cited in support of the claim that form and content are inseparable.
My investigation into the factors affecting reader response to individual word meaning also supports the claim that form = content in that it was demonstrated that words are not simply interchangeable. At first glance, it may appear that there is little difference between the words ‘tourist’ and ‘traveller’, but my small survey showed otherwise. Lexical choice is therefore as important in determining meaning as other textual factors such as syntactic arrangement and punctuation. A paraphrase of a literary work involves changes to these factors, resulting in an undesirable loss of the original’s meaning. Furthermore, I hope to have demonstrated that psycholinguistic study into the meaning of individual words can prove very useful to the student of literature. I discovered that the following factors have some bearing on word meaning: the reader’s age, gender, nationality and attitudes; the time of year; current events; priming; the meaning of other, related words; the distance in time between the original encoding and the subsequent decoding – material for a diachronic study; and finally, the context in which the word appears.
The boundaries of what is understood by the ‘content’ of a literary text are stretched when it comes to a consideration of literary competence. It has been seen that specialised literary knowledge such as knowledge of literary schemata, genre, storylines, frames, and other texts is occasionally required to bridge the distance between the reader and the text. Linguistic research can help the student of literature in the study of the historical development of a language, which may sometimes be necessary to pinpoint the most likely meaning of a word or phrase at the time of writing, but leaving diachronic study aside, this is the area where the literary critic comes into his own. It must be concluded therefore, that the stylistic study of literary texts has to incorporate literary as well as linguistic analysis. For a full understanding of the text, linguistic analysis must be supported by specialised literary knowledge.
 Michael Riffaterre, ‘Criteria for Style Analysis’ in Word (1959), pp. 154-174.
 Stanley Fish, ‘Literature in the Reader: Affective Stylistics’ in New Literary History (1970), p. 131.
 The fact that a reader responds to a left to right temporal flow has some very interesting implications for graphic novels and comic books in particular; indeed, in Tintin: The Complete Companion, Michael Farr notes that ‘when…Tintin bursts into the cabin to find Bobby Smiles already gone on page 18 of the colour edition, he logically rushes out to the right; in the black and white version he had dashed out to the left, disrupting the natural flow of left to right dictated by the reader’s eye’ (p. 36). I also think it important that the effects of peripheral vision should not be overlooked – I remember as a child covering up the last paragraph of the ghost stories I used to read, so that I wouldn’t glimpse the spooky ending before I wanted to!
 Carole Berger, ‘The Rake and the Reader in Jane Austen’s Novels’ in Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900 (1975), p. 544.
 Steven Mailloux, ‘Learning to Read: Interpretation and Reader-Response Criticism’ in Studies in the Literary Imagination (1979), p. 93.
 Steven Mailloux, ‘ “The Red Badge of Courage” and Interpretive Conventions: Critical Response to a Maimed Text’ in Studies in the Novel (1978), pp. 48-63. A bowdlerised version of Stephen Crane’s book was published by Appleton & Co. in 1895, and its critics fell into three camps: those who used existing interpretive conventions relating to that particular genre at that particular time and who arrived at a misreading; those who dismissed the text as incoherent; and finally those who, because of a greater sensitivity to those conventions, arrived at a reading which reflected more accurately the text in its completed state. Mailloux concludes that this critical activity demonstrates ‘how traditional literary conventions function as interpretive conventions – shared strategies for making sense of texts’ (p. 49). It is noteworthy that most critics fell into the first camp, and that they were those who simply ignored the conflicting evidence of the expurgated text, while the more sensitive critics in the third camp did not.
 Steven Mailloux, ‘Learning to Read: Interpretation and Reader-Response Criticism’ in Studies in the Literary Imagination (1979), p. 93. Mailloux’s paper, written in 1979, reflects the contemporary reaction against the intentional and affective fallacies of Wimsatt and Beardsley.
 G. Leech and M. Short, Style in Fiction (1981), p. 259.
 Steven Mailloux, ‘Learning to Read: Interpretation and Reader-Response Criticism’ in Studies in the Literary Imagination (1979), p. 107.
 In their influential essay, ‘The Intentional Fallacy’ (1954), Wimsatt and Beardsley argue that authorial intention should not be the standard by which a literary work is measured, and that even if the author can and does give a straight answer as to her intended meaning, this answer still has little to do with the actual work. Wimsatt and Beardsley do not go so far as to place the reader at the forefront of critical attention, however – indeed, their companion essay to the essay mentioned above, ‘The Affective Fallacy’ (1954), hotly denies such a position in its firm assertion of the supremacy of the text. Wimsatt and Beardsley appear anxious to prove that the exegesis of a poem cannot be arrived at via an examination of emotions evoked in the reader of that poem: ‘the report of some readers…that a poem or story induces in them vivid images, intense feelings, or heightened consciousness, is neither anything which can be refuted nor anything which it is possible for the objective critic to take into account’ (ibid., p. 32). This is true, but does not, I think, adequately address or explore the suggestion that the reader gives meaning to the text: the reader’s emotional response to a literary work is only a small part of the equation. The authors are keen to argue that meaning resides solely in the text, concluding as they do that ‘though cultures have changed and will change, poems remain and explain’ (ibid., p. 39). This last conclusion seems to me to be overly-optimistic: it is hardly difficult to find instances of texts – certain passages in Shakespeare, for example – which make little sense to modern readers owing to changes in the code itself over the passage of time, and it is in these instances that a diachronic knowledge of the code is invaluable.
 R. Fowler, Linguistic Criticism (1996), p. 130.
 W. K. Wimsatt and Monroe C. Beardsley, The Intentional Fallacy in The Verbal Icon (1954), p. 5.
 S. Knapp and W. B. Michaels, ‘Against Theory’ in Critical Inquiry (1982), p. 724.
 Iser’s arguments are summarised and discussed in Stanley Fish, ‘Who’s Afraid of Wolfgang Iser?’ in Diacritics (1981), pp. 2-13.
 The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Current English, 8th edition (1990).
 G. Leech and M. Short, Style in Fiction (1981), pp. 352-354.
 Undoubtedly the gender of the reader also creates differences in the perceived meaning of words, but I cannot comment on this particular issue in relation to my survey because the respondents were not asked to identify themselves as male or female. I can, however, quote a personal instance in which I disagreed with a male reader over the interpretation of the phrase ‘well-developed’. Angua from Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series is described as such, and while I, a female reader, imagined the character to have large breasts, my male friend insisted that the phrase meant she was muscular. I have to say there is a great deal of other textual evidence to support my own interpretation!
 This constitutes an instance of priming: ‘preactivating a listener’s attention…is known as “priming”, the assumption being that if a word “primes” another (facilitates the processing of another), the two are likely to be closely connected.’ J. Aitchison, Words in the Mind (2003), p. 25.
 In chapter five of Meaning in Language (2000), Alan Cruse describes the localist and holistic views of word meaning as follows: the localist view is that the meaning of a word can be finitely specified, in isolation from the meanings of other words in the language, whereas the holistic approach holds that the meaning of a word cannot be known without taking into account the meanings of all the other words in a language.
 J. Aitchison, Words in the Mind (2003), p. 245.
 In addition, literary texts are rife with invented words – the many and various neologisms of Gerard Manley Hopkins, for instance – and yet the reader can still make sense of these words simply by drawing on what he knows of other words, and how the separate components of lexical items function in the grammar of his native language. The creation of new words is the subject of chapter 15 of Jean Aitchison’s book, in which she discusses ‘four types of word-formation process which are common in English: compounding, conversion, affixation and re-analysis.’ Words in the Mind (2003), p. 186.
 Muriel Spark, The Driver’s Seat (1970), Penguin Modern Classics edition, p. 25.
 G. Leech and M. Short, Style in Fiction (1981), p. 259.
 R. Fowler, Linguistic Criticism (1996), p. 239.
 Although this outer world does occasionally show its face from time to time: Heathcliff prevents Edgar from changing his will, and the lawyers can do nothing to help Hareton following Hindley’s death, to cite just two examples.
 To be excluded forever from the presence of God having once been welcomed into His presence is Mephostophilis’ definition of hell in Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus: ‘Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it./Think’st thou that I that saw the face of God/And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,/Am not tormented with ten thousand hells/In being deprived of everlasting bliss?’ Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus, Act I, scene (iii), Penguin Classics edition (1969), p. 275.
 Genesis IV:12: ‘When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength’.
 Edgar F. Shannon, ‘Lockwood’s Dreams and the Exegesis of “Wuthering Heights”’ (1959), p. 99.
 In Volume I, chapter 9, Cathy tells Nelly of her dream in which the angels, angry because Cathy is unhappy in heaven, fling her back to earth. It seems here that Cathy chooses to be an outcast, and in view of later events her dream can perhaps be read as a premonition: Cathy wishes to be back on earth because Heathcliff is there.
 Edgar F. Shannon, ‘Lockwood’s Dreams and the Exegesis of “Wuthering Heights”’ (1959), p. 100.