To Whom Does a Text Belong?

On Tuesday we discussed W.H. Auden's September 1, 1939, a Modernist poem which has had an interesting textual history. Written on the occasion of Germany's invasion of Poland, it's been constantly reinterpreted and regenerated, but especially so after September 11, 2001, due to its allusions to New York City, grief, and death. One of the most interesting aspects of this text is that the author himself attempted to excise certain lines that were published anyway, rewrote portions to reflect his changed ideology, and eventually asked that it not be included among his collected works. On the surface these actions seem to be a writer's simple attempt to perfect his work over time, however, they in fact have lasting and irreversible effects on the reception of the text. Not only do Auden’s attempts to edit alter the text a reader has access do, but his intervention also changes the context in which the reader experiences the poem, the accessibility of the text itself, and the relationship the poem has to the rest of Auden’s oeuvre. The fact that Auden attempts these alterations long after the initial act of writing raises important questions about the ownership of a text.

Auden’s attempts to alter his text and limit its consumption after the initial production raise difficult questions about the nature of the text. To whom does the text belong? Is there ever a transfer of ownership from writer to publisher and even to reader? If so, when does this transfer occur?

Many assume that the text belongs to an author in eternity—which, to an extent, it does. The poem is attributed to the author who, according to our system of laws, has at least some right to control its usage. However, a text cannot be manufactured without a publisher or editor who in many cases makes significant decisions about both dialectic and physical attributes of the text: excise/inclusion and arrangement of lines, use of punctuation, typeface, location on the page, binding, cover, etc. This is a more obvious aspect of the shared ownership of a text.

Nevertheless, once the poem enters the public sphere to be disseminated, interpreted, and regenerated, the readers themselves might claim some ownership, especially of the ways the poem can be read—in the context of papers, theses, discussions, and redistribution, the readers can be the most important determinants in what the text comes to mean. This is especially true in the case of internet publication. The internet allows for instantaneous and unregulated redistribution of a work, often enabling the reinterpretations and regenerations of the poem. For example, would the increased popularity and reinterpretation of Auden’s September 1, 1939 after 9/11 have occurred without the use of the internet and e-mail? It seems unlikely.

If both publishers and readers at the very least seem to have some ownership claim on a text, the question remains, “to whom does a text belong?” Does the author reserve the right to alter a text one, ten, even fifty years after publication? Such revisions aren’t so uncommon—for example, when studying Frankenstein, we read either Shelley’s 1818 or her 1831 edition. Even in other media, such as film, revisions can have significant and often unintended interpretive effects on the text. For example, in Stephen Spielberg’s 2002 re-release of E.T., The Extra-Terrestrial, among other edits, a policeman’s shotgun is replaced with a radio due to Spielberg’s discomfort with the image of police brandishing guns near children. However, for many viewers, this edit awkwardly draws attention to itself—a computerized replacement for a filmed object which for many would have been insignificant were it left alone. Though Spielberg owns the legal right to do with his text whatever he wishes, his editing results in a regeneration of the film’s meaning by its viewers. Now viewers watch the film conscious of its 2002 alterations—supposed “improvements” which many believe damage the quality of the original. So, was Spielberg’s alteration justified? Does he still reserve the right to revise his movies, even when its distribution, interpretation, and regeneration now occurs almost exclusively in the homes of its viewers?

When it comes to video games as texts, the question of ownership is even more complicated. Arguably, there is no unified "author," but a team of writers, designers, and programmers working together. Furthermore, the text is disseminated through a specific gaming platform, becoming a part of a nexus of associated games, thereby altering the nature of its interpretation. So, in a way, the platform manufacturer can claim some ownership of the text and the way it's understood. And, finally, by placing the text in the hands of a user who in many cases determines how, when, and to what extent the narrative unfolds, the specific experience of a single player results in a unique text. Finally, as a medium designed for entertainment, which attempts to create fun for the player rather than achieving an agenda for expression by an author, the game's purpose seems to be weighted away from the creator and toward the player. So, like other texts, the question of ownership of video games is complicated and frequently inscrutable.

Mystified

Well, I went to the library to find the reserve text for tomorrow, but was informed that it was unavailable. Apparently it’s been checked out from the Lewis Library, and the Cudahy reserves desk does not have Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts in their system. So, in lieu of a commentary on that text, a few words about Myst: first, a progress report. Using some of the tricks I learned back when I first played the game, I’ve taken the rocket ship out of the first age. Starting to play again reminds me exactly why I quit playing the first time back in grade school—it can be very spooky. The mysterious islands are confusing and barren, with twists, turns and somewhat disturbing imagery. While the dentist-chair in the observatory and the burned books in the library are creepy, they pale in comparison to the faces pressing in and out of the static in the nearby red and blue books—picture books gone very, very wrong.

But what significance do the books in Myst hold? Books, or more appropriately, texts, are the only form of human contact offered to the player as he or she attempts to unlock the secrets of this bleak and disconcertingly empty world. The texts in Myst (signs, diagrams, books, etc.) are the only means by which players can advance through the game, providing the necessary information to unlock the puzzles scattered throughout the world of Myst, and acting as portals to other worlds. By turning the figurative concept of a book as an invented world literally into another world, Myst expands the possibilities of texts. Texts contain worlds, people (Atrus, Achenar, and Sirrus), images, and of course, language. However, they carry with them more meaning than simply the words contained in them. Their varying physical conditions reveal information about their backgrounds and histories, and their relationships to one another do more than the words alone to reveal the underlying “plot” of Myst. In fact, the “plot” of Myst seems to actually be the story of the books in the library. It will be interesting to finally learn how all of the books interconnect, when and how they were written, and what they mean as a collection.