Symbolism isn’t a substitution cipher
It is popular to read a book, and say that whenever we read some word x, it really stands for y, and so to understand the book, we must replace all instances of x with y, and then it will make sense. Such an algorithm might be called an “interpretation,” and sometimes one might get away with passing off such an algorithm as semi-serious literary criticism.
Very often, the end result of reading a book in this way is that the book is made to want to convince us of some specific thing; very often, this thing is an already widely accepted and somewhat inane truism. For example, a 500-page book that is rich in symbolism and metaphors may be reduced to saying, “treat others well.”
Breaking the cipher can be fun. It turns a work of art into a puzzle where one has to fit all the pieces together to find the right solution. We know we have found the right solution when what remains of the original book is no longer challenging, or deep, or new to us. Thus, this mode of interpretation is another way of reducing a rich, whole ecosystem into a series of fractured individuals, each of which is powerless and far removed from reality. It transforms a fictional work of art into a non-fictional work stated in obscure language.
“another way”. link to note complex on atomization (in art) etc, maybe see anti-realism.
Useless ciphers
Perhaps there are even certain books for which this procedure does actually work. Such books are not worth reading. The people who write such books should rather write non-fiction or essays, and just tell us what they mean directly. (And there is no shame in doing so. It is what I am doing right now! Occasionally, when I need to say a little more than would be possible in this mode, I might insert a slightly more lyrical expression,1 but this is not something that I am especially talented at.)
Of course, there are certain exceptional instances where using a substitution cipher is appropriate, such as when one wants to write something disparaging about a powerful person or group of people who might prevent one from publishing one’s book. It is also the case that sometimes a phrase must be stated in a different medium—for example, if one wishes to use a certain word in a film without embedding it in the dialogue, that word must be given some visual representation; in this case, the substitution does not add anything to the film, but it is a necessary concession to the restrictions of the medium.
Useful symbolism
What is a symbol really? A symbol is one half of a broken piece of ceramic pottery. Therefore, a symbol is one half of a whole thing, and it indicates the whole thing. In fiction, the thing we want to speak about is ineffable in its entirety, but we can break off a little piece of it that can be mentioned by name—this is the symbol. Then, we use the symbol to refer to the whole thing, and this is symbolism.
Sure, we could glue two words together, then break off one of the words, and use that word to stand in for the other—but this would be a waste of everyone’s time, and would not accomplish anything useful. It is useful to employ symbolism only insofar as it refers back to something ineffable.
Many of the best artists (but also some of the worst) who use symbolism in the work will claim that they don’t, or that their symbols “stand for themselves,” or something along these lines. I think David Lynch has said something along these lines. I take them to mean essentially what I have tried to say here: it is not possible to say, “x stands for y,” because this y does not have a name—or rather, the best known name for y is precisely x; indeed, if there were a better name available, then the artist would have picked that one instead. This is the sense in which a symbol can stand for itself and not “mean” anything.
Divinely inspired art is revealed in a flash, all at once. It is not constructed piece by piece. Therefore, the so-called author of a work cannot know what the symbols “really mean.” The symbols do exist, and they are a means whereby the work works, but to the extent that they are effective, they are also invisible, or at least ineffable—and anyway, their presence is discovered only when reading, not when writing. When writing a poem, one does not make up symbols voluntarily; they are given from outside. Or else, if one does artificially construct a symbology, then it would have been better to write something other than poetry.
See also
this article would really benefit from some examples...
- For example, I wrote elsewhere on the role of dreams in Twin Peaks that, “as in reality, ‘dreaming’ is another place that happens simultaneously with wakefulness. The red room is always there. The people I see in dreams gossip about me while I am awake.” The last phrase here is something that I got from elsewhere (i.e. from outside, i.e. the gods, dreams, inspiration); I contributed the specific phrasing (which is necessarily somewhat inaccurate), but the motif (or: vision, image, narrative) was there already intact, and I only transcribed it as accurately as I could. ↩