Poll: Who is the idiot?

One of the best books I have ever read in my life is East of Eden by one of my favourite authors of all time, John Steinbeck.

I have read the book three times from cover to cover — the first of those times as a wide-eyed, innocent 18-year-old. The book resonated with me on a level that no other book had before. I thought that Steinbeck had managed to crystallise some of my own hazy ideas on what drives people to be either “good” or “evil”. I was particularly fascinated with the “villain” in the book — a character called Kate — and what it is that drove her.

Fast forward six years during which I referred to the book a gazillion times in philosophical and religious discussions — and then I read the book again. This time around, as a 24-year-old, the overriding theme of the book, I concluded, was around the word, timshel, extracted from the Hebrew version of the Torah, meaning “you may triumph over sin”. In summary, argues Lee the Chinaman, timshel was never accurately translated into most versions of the Bible (Genesis 4:7) and ended up being either a command in the New American standard version (“but you must master it”) or a promise in the King James version (“thou shalt rule over”).

After the third time I read the book, two years ago, I had concluded that the true point of this book was to argue that human beings are mostly victims of cause and effect — or the laws of causality. That, in fact, our free will is to a great extent overridden by the sheer power of our genetic code. None of this is actually important. But out of sheer interest, this is the summary of the several versions of my understanding of East of Eden.

1. 18-year-old version: Good triumphs over evil.
2. 24-year-old version: Timshel — the triumph of free will.
3. 33-year-old version: Causality pisses all over free will.

Three versions of the same book. Suffice to say, I think I can reasonably predict that when I read the book again in a few years, I am likely to have a fourth interpretation of it. In short, what I understand about anything I read is largely a function of my experiences, my own limitations or even my mood. Granted, this is also influenced to a large extent with the degree of layering of the writing itself.

Take the Steinbeck example above. I do not believe that any of the versions I have cited are wrong per se. All of the three themes are, in fact, embedded in the book — and I acknowledge that they have a thread linking them. The differences in my interpretation are a function of the limitations or emphasis in my own mind. In other words, Steinbeck wrote a multilayered novel in the fashion of the onion and I have been peeling it over 17 years.

My example is just a dramatic way to illustrate the existence of a phenomenon we all observe on a daily basis. How many times has this happened to you? You’ve been having a really crappy day and it seems that the whole world is against you. At about 4.45pm you receive an email that proves to be the proverbial straw that snaps the camel’s hump. Blinded by your fury (and righteous indignation) you type an angry response, press the “Send” button, and copy the whole world and their cousins.

The following morning you receive an email from a third party who suggests that perhaps you overreacted. So you reread the email. And, of course, the original email just doesn’t elicit the same reaction inside of you. As a matter of fact, it seems that there are a few nuances you might have glossed over. The more you think about it, the invective contained in your response seems completely irrational and uncalled for — a case of shooting at a rat with a rocket launcher. In other words, the tirade contained in your response is really aimed at your own misinterpretation of the original email.

I have observed this very phenomenon in some of the clever writing in animated feature movies from Hollywood. I have thoroughly enjoyed movies such as Ants, Shrek and Finding Nemo. But so has my two-year-old. He insists on watching Finding Nemo at least once a week and loves it. But we have vastly different levels of understanding of the same movie. The scriptwriters of these animated movies cleverly write movies that both parents and their kids can “get”. The stuff I laugh at when I watch Shrek sail right past the head of my two-year-old — which is OK since he’s got his own gems in there.

This brings me to my point. I was having drinks with Linda, my friend with the girly name (MFWTGN), and two other people this past weekend. Within 10 minutes we were predictably at each other’s throats, locked in a retarded debate — alcohol has the effect of invoking latent passions in people. Since my book was published, he has taken on the role of interpreter of what I wrote. He lives for it. That’s why I love him like a brother, bless his compulsively argumentative heart.

We were revisiting a debate we’d had a few weeks before about the content of the book. At that time he had inquired as to what my father thought of the chapter in which I write about “how your father hates women and children”. No, I responded, I do not have a chapter in the book where I make any such utterance, what I wrote was … It is at this point that we found ourselves in this retarded waltz. I have asked him to write a piece explaining his own point of view of this (and other) points of contention between us and he has respectfully declined. So I am forced to try to do so on his behalf:

MFWTGN says: It is immaterial what you, Ndumiso, meant to convey in your writing. Once your writing is out there, it takes a life of its own and people are at liberty to interpret it any way that they please. Stop being an overly sensitive prick and just accept that the several versions that exist in people’s minds of what you wrote are just as valid as your own version. I am not interested in what you meant to convey; I am merely telling you what I read you to be saying. This is true of any art form. It is immaterial what the artist meant to convey in any piece of sculpture. People will look at it and make up their own Just grow up and stop being a sensitive arsehole.

Overly sensitive pricks says: I absolutely agree with the notion that people will interpret my writing differently from what I meant to convey, based on their own paradigmatic stations. No one could possibly see the world the way that I see it. However, when you direct a question/comment at me about what I wrote, the only thing I can do is to engage with you on what I meant to convey. Otherwise I become a mute whore who nods at everyone’s version of my pieces. It is my prerogative … my duty to share honestly what it is that I was saying if they show an interest. Isn’t it also your responsibility to use your privileged position as friend and intellectual whipping boy of the author to gain some kind of insight into what was going on in his mind? This is, I believe, the gist of the interviews I have been doing on the book.

I fully expect MFWTGN to chip in with one of his lengthy comments and tell the whole world how I have distorted his argument. (My misinterpretation of his words? The irony.) My ploy is rather transparent, isn’t it? I’m trying to elicit such outrage inside of him that he will be forced to write his own 1 500-word rebuttal that I will post verbatim here.

As mentioned before, when we were having this debate there were two other people at the table — who just happened to have read the book. They took my side and MFWTGN dismissed their contribution as immaterial — “This is not a popularity contest. It doesn’t matter how many people side with you.” He might even have used the word “nuthugger” to characterise them.

Please allow me this self-indulgence. Who you think is right and who is wrong? In other words, in my example above, does it matter what Steinbeck intended to put across in his novel? But most importantly, who is the idiot between my friend with the girly name and I? Bonus points will, of course, be awarded to anyone who has actually read the book and ventures an opinion on the chapter in question.

Choose wisely, my sheeple.

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