Citation de lanard
Let us remember Jorge Luis Borges's interpretation of Kafka's letter to Max Brod, in which Kafka asked that all his unpublished manuscripts be burned. As Borges put it: When Kafka sent these instructions to Brod, he thought that Brod would not actually burn his manuscripts. Brod, in turn, thought that Kafka was thinking that he was thinking exactly that. And Kafka was thinking that Brod was thinking that he was thinking... ad infinitum.
The ambiguity about which parts of the novel are based on experience and which parts are imagined puts the reader and the writer in a situation similar to this. At every detail, the writer thinks the reader will think that this detail was experienced. And the reader thinks that the writer wrote with the thought that the reader will think that it has been experienced. The writer, in turn, thinks that the reader will have thoughts of this, too. This play of mirrors is valid for the writer's imagination as well. When a writer composes a sentence, he assumes that the reader will (rightly or wrongly) think he has made up this detail. The reader also assumes this, and thinks that the writer assumes that he will likewise think this detail was imaginary. And in the same way, the writer assumes... and so on.
Our reading of novels is colored by the uncertainty resulting from this play of mirrors. Just as we cannot agree on what part of the novel is based on experience and what part is imagined, the reader and writer can never agree on the fictionality of the novel. We explain this disagreement by referring to culture, and the difference between the reader's and the writer's understanding of the novel. We complain that almost three hundred years that have passed since Robinson Crusoe, a common understanding of fiction has still not been established between novelist and readers. But our complaints do not entirely ring true. They lack authenticity; they remind us that they are made in bad faith. Because in a corner of our mind we know that this lack of perfect agreement between the reader and the writer is the driving force of novels.
The ambiguity about which parts of the novel are based on experience and which parts are imagined puts the reader and the writer in a situation similar to this. At every detail, the writer thinks the reader will think that this detail was experienced. And the reader thinks that the writer wrote with the thought that the reader will think that it has been experienced. The writer, in turn, thinks that the reader will have thoughts of this, too. This play of mirrors is valid for the writer's imagination as well. When a writer composes a sentence, he assumes that the reader will (rightly or wrongly) think he has made up this detail. The reader also assumes this, and thinks that the writer assumes that he will likewise think this detail was imaginary. And in the same way, the writer assumes... and so on.
Our reading of novels is colored by the uncertainty resulting from this play of mirrors. Just as we cannot agree on what part of the novel is based on experience and what part is imagined, the reader and writer can never agree on the fictionality of the novel. We explain this disagreement by referring to culture, and the difference between the reader's and the writer's understanding of the novel. We complain that almost three hundred years that have passed since Robinson Crusoe, a common understanding of fiction has still not been established between novelist and readers. But our complaints do not entirely ring true. They lack authenticity; they remind us that they are made in bad faith. Because in a corner of our mind we know that this lack of perfect agreement between the reader and the writer is the driving force of novels.