Category Archives: Literature
The Hardest Choice
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 7)
Two days later, Kath asked that we not speak over the weekend. Her church had an important Sunday activity, and she needed time alone to think.
I gave her the silence she asked for, but filled it with visions of the life I believed we would finally claim. By then, I understood that Jay was not the greatest obstacle between us. Something far more powerful had already begun calling her back.
Kath called on Sunday night. Her eyes were swollen.
Her laptop was on the study table again, not on the bed. The change was small but deliberate. She had moved our conversation away from the place where we had surrendered to desire, as though furniture and distance could help her recover the boundary we had erased.
“I’m not all right,” she said. “The sermon struck me again.”
She told me that every service since our affair became serious had felt directed at her. Every time we undressed for each other, every time she chose my call over Jay’s, she felt the distance between her desire and her faith widening.
Her Christianity was not a convenient device she discovered at the end of our affair. It had shaped the marriage she chose to repair, the community in which she served, and the understanding of herself she wanted to preserve. Loving me had not erased those commitments. It had divided her against them.
“Doesn’t what we’re doing trouble you?” she asked.
I believed in God, though I was not devout in the way she was. I had asked for forgiveness and understanding, but desire had thrown my conscience aside. All I wanted was Kath.
“We love each other,” I said. “That is what matters.”
“Stop using love to make this right. It isn’t right. Are we supposed to live permanently in sin?”
“Would it be less sinful to remain with people we do not love?”
Kath wiped her eyes. “You keep speaking as if Anna and Jay are merely mistakes standing between two rightful lovers. They are people, Marco. We made promises to them. Our children did not choose this. Love does not make them disappear.”
I had no answer that did not return to what I wanted.
Even as I said it, I heard the convenience in my reasoning.
“It has to end,” she said. “Before Jay, Anna, or anyone else discovers us.”
“Kath—”
“I am not choosing between you and Jay. I am choosing between what is right and what is wrong.”
The sentence was not a denial of her feelings. That was why it hurt. If she had stopped loving me, I could have blamed time or distance. Instead, she was refusing precisely because the love remained powerful enough to destroy what she believed she was called to protect.
There it was: the rival I could not charm, outwait, or defeat.
“We can still be friends,” she continued. “We can exchange messages occasionally, but no more calls.”
“Let me call sometimes.”
“We both know what will happen. If you call, I will block you. If you use your phone, I will block your number. Please help me do this. I have grown used to your presence, and you know how weak I am when it comes to you.”
I had pushed against every boundary she had drawn because I believed persistence was proof of love. Now the only loving act left to me was the one I least wanted to perform: allow the boundary to remain.
“Jay will call soon,” she said. “I asked him to. Instead of talking to you, I should be talking to my husband.”
The words hurt more than I expected.
“Is there anything else you want to say?”
I shook my head.
“Then let me say this one last time. I love you, Marco. But I have to learn to forget you. I hope you understand why.”
“I love you too, Kath.”
“Goodbye. Please try to love Anna. I wish both of you well.”
The screen went dark.
For several minutes, my own reflection remained on the screen. The apartment was unchanged: the cup beside me, the winter lights outside, the empty room waiting for another film or another sleepless night. Yet the space felt altered because I had allowed Kath’s presence to occupy it so completely.
I thought of Anna, who had forgiven betrayals I would have struggled to forgive and still remembered to ask whether I had eaten. I thought of Kenneth, whose failure to answer my call I had dismissed so easily, without considering how much of his life I had already missed. I thought of Jay at sea, trusting that his wife would be there when he called. For the first time since Kath’s birthday, I understood that what we had called our private story had never belonged only to us. We had made it private by pushing everyone else beyond its borders, even though they would have borne the consequences of every choice we made.
I had spent all that time thinking of Jay as my rival. But I had not lost Kath to him. In the end, she had not chosen one man over another.
She had chosen her faith—and the person she still wanted to be.
It was difficult to compete with God.
Against Him, I never had a chance.
Perhaps Kath had been right all along.
Perhaps we were never meant to be.
— END —
Beyond the Screen
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 6)
After that, we spoke almost every night. If our affair were a voyage, we had sailed so far from shore that neither of us could see where we had begun—or decide whether we still wanted to return.
Our conversations developed rituals. I messaged first to ask whether the children were asleep. She checked whether Anna might call. We used earphones, lowered our voices, and deleted exchanges that could expose us. Secrecy itself became intimacy: every precaution reminded us that there was an us important enough to hide.
One evening, Kath returned to the claim she had never completely believed.
“You still expect me to believe that you lived without sex for eight years?”
“I already told you. I never paid anyone, and I never found a girlfriend.”
“Not even once?”
“Not even once.”
“Then how did you manage?”
“A selfie,” I said, making her laugh. “Twice a week. I tell myself regular release is good for a man’s health.”
“Do you need stimulation?”
I admitted to visiting adult websites.
“Disgusting,” she said, although she was still laughing.
“They would become unnecessary if I had something better to look at.”
Her laughter disappeared. “Don’t start, Marco.”
“I haven’t started anything.”
“Your voice changes whenever you want something.”
“And you recognize it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Then I asked whether she ever touched herself.
“No. Jay and I once tried doing something online when he first returned to sea, but it didn’t work for me. We never tried again.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t the distance.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it was the person on the other side of the screen.”
She stared at me without answering.
The conversation changed the air between us. Her teasing smile faded, but she did not look away. I heard her breathing through my earphones, each quiet breath making the thousands of kilometers between us seem less real.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I feel like taking a selfie.”
She understood. “Then take one.”
“I need inspiration.”
“Visit one of your disgusting websites.”
“I would rather look at you.”
Silence.
I removed my shirt first. Beneath it, I was wearing a white undershirt. Kath shook her head, but the faint smile at the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
“You are shameless.”
“Your turn.”
“No.”
“Then why haven’t you ended the call?”
She could have. Her finger hovered near the touchpad, and for several seconds I believed she would make the choice neither of us had been strong enough to make. Instead, she leaned back.
Her hand moved slowly over her chest, almost unconsciously at first, then stopped when she realized I was watching.
“Marco, what is happening to me?”
“Nothing you don’t want.”
“Don’t pretend you know what I want.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
“I have been telling you that from the beginning.”
The answer should have ended everything. Instead, neither of us moved.
“Please,” I whispered.
Kath closed her eyes. When she opened them again, fear and desire occupied the same expression.
“Why are you so difficult to resist?”
She carried the laptop to her bed. I did the same. Before setting it down, she changed into a thin undershirt and returned beneath the sheet.
“This is all you are going to see,” she warned.
“For now.”
“Don’t push me.”
But she remained.
The two rooms, thousands of kilometers apart, became one private space of restrained movements, uneven breathing, exposed shoulders, and whispered names. We watched each other without touching, yet every movement seemed answered by another on the opposite side of the screen.
Kath hesitated several times. Each pause gave us an opportunity to stop; each time, I asked her whether she wanted to continue. Sometimes she said no while remaining in front of the camera. Once she covered herself completely, and I thought the moment had ended. Then her face reappeared.
When she finally chose to continue, the surrender was mutual, but it was not free of pressure, guilt, or fear. The screen protected us from physical touch while permitting us to pretend that what happened through it was somehow less real.
That night, we crossed the boundary Kath had refused to cross eight years earlier.
It was not the last time. Soon, many of our late-night calls ended the same way. We began our conversations sitting at desks and finished them in bed. What we called friendship had become impossible to defend, even to ourselves.
Afterward, Kath sometimes covered herself quickly and avoided my eyes. At other times she laughed with the shy happiness of the younger woman I remembered. I preferred those moments. Her guilt threatened the future I was constructing, so I answered it with assurances: no one had forced us, our marriages were already incomplete, and love could not be evil simply because it arrived at the wrong time. The arguments comforted me because they began with the conclusion I wanted.
Yet the more we possessed of one another through our screens, the less sufficient the screen became. I wanted to return to the Philippines. I wanted to hold her without glass, pixels, or distance between us.
One night, Kath asked, “What exactly do you intend to do about us?”
I had waited for that question.
“First, answer something. Whom do you love more—Jay or me?”
“That is a ridiculous question.”
“Why?”
“Do you remember the crisis Jay and I went through before you left for Korea?”
I nodded.
“You were the reason. I told him everything about us. He asked whom I loved more, and I answered honestly: you. He threatened to leave me. That was why I came to you that day. I expected warmth, some sign that you still wanted me. Instead, you advised me to reconcile with him. You pushed me back into his arms.”
Her revelation rearranged eight years of memory. I had believed Kath chose Jay because she loved him more or because what existed between us had been insignificant to her. Now I learned that she had once approached me on the edge of choosing—and I, absorbed by my own crisis, had failed to recognize it. The lost possibility became more intoxicating than any future we could realistically build.
Had I known, I thought, I might never have boarded the plane to Korea.
“When Jay apologized and promised to help me forget you, I accepted. But did he erase you? Look at me, Marco. I talk to you instead of him. I want to see you all the time. You ask whom I love more?”
“I understand.”
“No. Say it.”
“You love me more.”
“You fool. You are the only man I love. I needed Jay because you were not there. I was learning to love him. Then you returned.”
She began to cry.
“Perhaps we decide whether we are meant to be,” I said. “Leave Jay. I will leave Anna. Come with me.”
Kath lifted her tear-streaked face.
“And my children?”
“I will accept them as my own.”
We discussed separation, secrecy, scandal, custody, and sacrifice. She had far more to lose than I did, but I was confident she would choose me.
I proposed that we keep our relationship hidden even after separating from our spouses. If Jay discovered that I was the reason Kath left, he might fight for custody or prevent the children from seeing her. Anna would have to face another betrayal, Kenneth would have to understand why his parents’ marriage ended, and both families would endure gossip and anger. I spoke of these consequences as obstacles we could manage, not wounds other people would suffer.
Kath listened, but the practical future made her quieter than the romantic one. It was easy to say she would leave everything for love while we were safely separated by thousands of kilometers. It was harder to imagine telling her children that the man on her laptop would replace the father they knew.
“Give me time,” she said. “I love you, but I don’t know what to do.”
I heard only the words I wanted to hear: I love you. I treated everything that followed as uncertainty time would eventually overcome.
PART 7 – The Hardest Choice
It Has Always Been You
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 5)
“It’s you, Kath. It has always been you.”
“Stop, Marco.”
“I should have waited. I should never have rushed into marriage with Anna. I should not have listened to my mother. I should have taken you to Cebu.”
“I said stop.”
“I stayed with Anna because there was nowhere else to go. There was no Kath waiting for me. If I ever love someone again, it can only be you. I never stopped loving you.”
Kath stood and moved away from the laptop. When she returned, she looked shaken.
“Do you know what you are doing?”
“I’m being honest.”
“No. You are disturbing my peaceful life. You did it before, and you are doing it again.”
She ended the call.
For a moment, clarity pierced my certainty. She had entered my office years ago wanting nothing more than to begin a career. I had allowed her feelings to deepen while knowing I was married and held authority over her future. Now, after she had built a family and repaired her marriage, I had returned carrying the same disruption.
Kath had not been innocent, but neither was she merely an equal reflection of me. I sent the birthday greeting, insisted on the first video call, revived the old questions, and pushed every answer toward the conclusion I wanted. Each time she said friendship, I searched for a way to make the word contain romance. Each time she asked me to stop, I treated the request as fear to overcome rather than a decision to honor.
Yet even as I recognized the harm, part of me wondered only whether I had moved too quickly. Perhaps I should have revealed my feelings gradually. Perhaps I had frightened her by forcing the issue.
Near midnight, I sent an apology. I promised that I would never call again.
Kath called.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I never intended to disturb your life.”
“But you did. You disturbed my mind.”
I wanted to ask why, but I believed I already knew.
“All I wanted was to reconnect,” I said. “To talk to you again.”
“Can’t you talk to Anna?”
“I can. But I don’t merely want conversation from you. I long for your presence. I want to see you.”
She shook her head. “Why can’t you leave me alone? Forget me.”
“I tried. God knows I tried. I failed.”
“I cannot control what you feel. But expect nothing from me. We are married. We have children. What we can have is friendship.”
“Then let me call once a week.”
She sighed. “Once a week.”
“Thank you. I love you.”
“We are friends, Marco.”
“Friends can say ‘I love you.’”
“Always a loophole.”
“Say it.”
She looked into the camera. “I love you too, my friend.”
The word friend should have ended the matter. Instead, it became permission.
Over the next two weeks, our weekly call became twice a week, sometimes three times. We told each other what had happened during the eight years apart. Kath spoke about her Christian community and the worship services she attended with Jay whenever he was home. I told her that I had begun taking my writing seriously and had created a website.
We also spoke about ordinary things—the children’s classes, groceries, weather, books, films, and the inconveniences of pandemic life. Those conversations were perhaps more dangerous than the declarations. They allowed us to rehearse companionship. We began imagining not only kisses and escape but breakfast, errands, shared jokes, and growing old within reach of each other. Desire entered through nostalgia; domestic fantasy persuaded it to stay.
“I know,” she admitted. “I read your stories and poems.”
“Then you know some are about you.”
“I didn’t want to assume.”
“Whenever I need to write love, joy, longing, or pain, I think of our memories. I think of the us that never happened.”
She asked about the white rose in one of my poems.
“You,” I said. “Obviously.”
“You must have prepared that speech to make me fall in love with you again.”
“Again? Are you saying you aren’t in love now?”
“Friends, Marco. Nothing more, nothing less.”
But soon she began calling me during the day. She knew the hour of my coffee break and the days I left work early. Once, when she noticed a woman behind me in a café, jealousy sharpened her voice.
At home, Kath waited until her children had gone to their rooms before answering my calls. Sometimes one of them knocked, and her entire expression changed as she turned away from the screen and became their mother. Those brief interruptions should have restored perspective. Instead, I waited impatiently for her to return, as though her family were intruding upon time that belonged to me.
“Make sure she isn’t with you.”
“No, baby. I don’t even know her.”
“Baby?”
“May I call you that?”
“Do whatever you want.”
I treated her refusal to refuse as consent.
That night, however, she did not answer my messages. At midnight, I called.
“Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “We have to stop this.”
“Why?”
“The pastor’s sermon struck me hard tonight. I realized that I long for your presence more than I long for Jay’s. I used to talk to him almost every night. Now I would rather talk to you.”
Jay was somewhere at sea, trusting the wife who had told him years earlier about me and had chosen to rebuild their marriage. I knew that history, yet I regarded his absence as an opening. Because Kath and I shared language, humor, and emotional intimacy, I treated compatibility as a superior claim. I rarely asked what promises Jay had kept during the years when I had been absent from her life.
Her confession filled me with joy even as I watched it frighten her.
“Why are you doing this to me again?” she cried. “I had become peaceful. I could have ended our first conversation, but I stayed. I answered your calls. When it comes to you, I am so weak.”
“I love you, baby.”
She looked directly into the camera.
“I love you too, Marco. May God forgive me, but I love you.”
PART 6 – Beyond the Screen
The Line Between Us
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 4)
Two days later, I opened Kath’s profile again. I looked through her photographs until restraint felt more dishonest than desire.
That was the explanation I gave myself: restraint was dishonesty. I did not call my silence respect for her boundary or loyalty to my wife. I called it denial. By changing the name of the act, I made surrender sound courageous.
“Hello, Kath. Busy?”
“Not really. Just reading to kill time.”
“Can I call?”
“Why? Didn’t we discuss everything two nights ago?”
“Please. Just for a few minutes.”
“Why, Marco?”
I told her the truth. “I miss you. I only want to see you again.”
The message remained marked Seen for several minutes. Then she called me.
“Thank you,” I said as her face appeared.
“Don’t thank me. You are still impossible to refuse.”
She was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts. When she noticed where my gaze had settled, she adjusted the camera.
“I’m looking at your face,” I protested.
“Of course you are.”
I asked whether she missed me. She tried to evade the question, then surrendered.
“Yes. I miss you too. Are you happy now?”
“Very.”
Her expression grew serious. “Let me make something clear. We are both married. We both have children. I am talking to you because we are friends and because we shared a past. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Loud and clear.”
She told me it would be our last video call. I asked for one call a week. She refused, and I knew—or convinced myself—that she would answer the next time anyway.
When she mentioned that Jay might not return until the following year, I asked when she expected me to visit the Philippines.
“You must miss Anna,” she said.
“I miss everyone I love.”
“Including your wife?”
“Why do you always bring her into our conversation?”
“Who should I mention—Mayette?”
Her teasing turned coarse. She asked whether I missed the sex I had had with Mayette. Irritated, I blurted out that I had not slept with anyone in Korea—not once in eight years.
She laughed. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Marco, you have needs. Are you telling me that in eight years, you never once paid a woman there for one night of sex?”
“Never.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I would never pay a woman for sex.”
“And why should I believe that?”
“Because if I ever sleep with a woman, I want it to happen because we both want it—not because I paid her. There should be desire on both sides and something real between us, even if neither of us knows where it will lead.”
Kath gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “That sounds very principled for someone with your history.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Where was all that concern about what a woman wanted when you kissed me in your office and then—”
She stopped, leaving the rest suspended between us.
“And afterward?” she continued. “When you went home to Anna, did you kiss her too?”
“Kath—”
“Did you hold her the way you had just held me? Did you tell her you loved her?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Of course not. It never is when you are the one explaining it.”
I could have reminded her that I stopped when she pulled away. I could have insisted that what happened between us had never been entirely one-sided. But neither answer would erase the truth beneath her questions: I had wanted honesty from her while living dishonestly with both women.
“Believe whatever you want.”
“And Anna? What happens when you go home?”
I told her that Anna and I had not had sex since Kenneth was born. Diabetes had diminished her desire, and intercourse had become painful for her. We did not even share a bedroom during my visits.
“I’m sorry,” Kath said quietly.
“We found an arrangement that preserves our marriage and gives both of us peace.”
The arrangement was difficult to explain. Anna and I had forgiven many things without becoming truly compatible. The distance created by my work in Korea had probably saved us from the daily disagreements that once exhausted us.
Kenneth gave us another reason to remain a family, although I rarely admitted how much of the emotional labor of raising him Anna carried while I lived abroad. I called from Korea, sent money, came home when my schedule allowed, and told myself that provision was presence. The unanswered video call earlier that evening should have reminded me of the distance between my son and me. Instead, I had spent the night trying to erase the distance between Kath and me.
“Then why stay?” Kath asked.
“What else should I have done—find another Mayette?”
“I don’t know.”
“In Korea, I finally understood who I should have married. If I ever begin another relationship, I want it with only one person. If I cannot have her, I would rather have no one.”
The declaration sounded noble in my own ears. It converted years of infidelity into evidence of constancy: I had betrayed Anna with other women, yet because none of them mattered as Kath did, I could still imagine myself faithful to one great love. I did not ask whether devotion to an idealized woman could excuse disloyalty to the real woman I had married.
Kath turned partly away. “Who is she?”
“You know.”
“Say it.”
PART 5 – It Has Always Been You
What We Left Unsaid
(Were We Ever Meant to Be – Part 2)
“Do you really need to ask me that?”
“You can refuse to answer.”
“Why are you asking?”
Why was I? What difference would the answer make now? What if she admitted that she had loved me—or that she still did?
“Because there are things we never clarified,” I said. “Every time we met after you resigned, we avoided them. Maybe we were afraid. Maybe we knew nothing good could come from talking about them.”
She lowered her eyes.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” I added. “Perhaps I only imagined that something important had happened between us.”
“What was your question again?”
“Did you really love me?”
“Of course I do—I mean, I did. Did.”
I could not suppress a smile.
“What are you grinning at?”
“So it’s did, not do.”
“You heard me.”
“Meaning you don’t love me anymore?”
“You are unbelievable, Marco. Some questions are better left unanswered.”
I let the silence answer for her.
“I’m happy when I see photographs of you and Anna,” she said. “You look happy together.”
“So you check my Facebook page.”
“Don’t you check mine?”
I admitted that I did. Then I asked what she had wanted to ask me.
“You already know,” she said. “But I want an honest answer.”
“Which question—did I love you then, or do I still love you now?”
She smiled. “Both.”
“Do you really need to ask me that?”
She laughed at hearing her own words returned to her.
“I loved you then, Kath.”
“And now?”
“Some questions are better left unanswered.”
“I can read between the lines, Marco.”
“So can I.”
When she left briefly to use the bathroom, memories crowded into the silence. We had once spent nearly every working day together. At first, while she was my intern, we had been strictly professional. Then our conversations became personal. I told her about my difficulties with Anna; she told me about Jay, who was then still courting her.
One night, while we were working overtime, I held her hand and kissed her. The kiss lasted longer than either of us could excuse. After that, affection became part of our secret routine. Sometimes a kiss welcomed one of us into the office. Sometimes I whispered that I missed her or loved her. At night, behind a closed door, we kissed until restraint was the only thing keeping us from going further.
Kath never allowed us to cross that final boundary. She never once said she loved me. And because Anna worked in the next office, we made certain no colleague noticed anything unusual.
Kath returned to the call and settled on a sofa. She wore shorts and a thin shirt, and when she reclined I had to remind myself not to stare.
The years had altered her less than I expected. There were faint lines around her eyes now, but they made her beauty feel lived in rather than diminished. She had become a mother, a wife, and a woman who spoke with greater certainty than the young intern I remembered. Yet when she smiled at something foolish I said, I could still see the twenty-something woman who used to enter my office carrying two cups of coffee and pretend not to notice that I had been waiting for her.
The memory pleased me, but it also carried a fact I preferred not to examine: back then I had been her supervisor. My recommendation had helped determine whether she would be hired. I had told myself that her affection was freely given—and perhaps it was—but I had never asked what my authority might have meant to a young woman beginning her career. It was easier to remember the kisses than the imbalance surrounding them.
“Careful, Marco. Your eyes might fall out.”
“You’ve attracted me for a long time.”
“There goes the charmer again.”
“You’re still very attractive.”
“I know.”
We laughed, but the ease did not last.
“I have another question,” she said. “Do you know someone named Mayette?”
PART 3 – THE TRUTH ABOUT THEM
Informal Criticism of Literary Works
People often react to a literary work quite differently. Their reactions and opinions may vary even if they enjoy reading the same story. These reactions may also depend on whether or not they have knowledge of literature and literary criticism. But that notwithstanding, people will naturally want to say something about a story after reading it. Such a reaction is instinctive and indicates that literary criticism is a natural response to any literary work.
A critique of a literary work may be done either formally or informally. Formal criticism has a definite objective and direction. This kind of analysis adheres to the established standards of literary criticism and is anchored on a certain literary theory. This may be done in the classroom as a course requirement, in a journal or magazine for publication, or on a website.
Conversely, the informal version is a simple discussion of the merits and demerits of a certain work in prose or poetry, perhaps done by friends in a cafeteria while sipping coffee or even while riding on public transport or in a private vehicle. If two people have read the same story or watched the same movie, expect a discussion to ensue.
Technological advances have allowed writers to reach their audience and increase their readership. The invention of social networking sites, blogs, and websites has provided writers more platforms to post their stories, essays, and poems. Most writers have their own websites and accounts on Facebook where they promote their literary works.
This has also given literary criticism a new dimension from which to operate. Friends and followers of certain writers can easily turn into critics or supporters and have the opportunity to say something about their writings. Such comments are considered informal criticism of such work. Whatever may be said about a story or a poem is essentially an evaluation of those written materials.
But we tend to think that an informal analysis of a literary work is only a personal expression of views bereft of any academic worth, for literary theories are not used to guide a reader in developing well-informed arguments. We dismiss informal analysis of a story or a poem, especially if it’s made by people unfamiliar with the nitty-gritty details of literary criticism, as being purely misguided opinions, which are basically subjective and disorganized.
However, when we carefully scrutinize people’s comments and expressed opinions related to literary works, they are actually, but perhaps unknowingly, toeing the line of the established literary theories just the same.
For instance, if an author pens a story or a poem about “sadness,” his readers, especially those who know him personally, would readily think he has a problem. If it’s about “separation,” the presumption would be made that the creator just “called it quits” with someone. If such a write-up were posted on any social network, we would expect that it would generate a thread of comments asking what had happened or expressing sympathy in some way.
The assertions in the previous paragraph are a case of “analyzing the author through his work.” This in literary criticism is called “Psychoanalytic theory.” The theory maintains that a story or poem gives insight into the author’s mental processes. Things read in a writer’s work are believed to reveal his feelings and thoughts. Those who subscribe to this theory maintain that separating the author from his work is difficult. This means that any literary work is said to be a mirror of the author’s state of mind and emotions.
In reality, only the creator of the sad story or a separation poem knows if his emotions and thoughts are being discussed in the piece.
Other readers would say, “It is a good story (or poem) but sad.” In the foregoing remark, the focus was on the work or text itself. The author was not part of the equation.
This approach to literary criticism is called Formalism. The theory of Formalism tells us that a literary work has its own intrinsic value. The words weaved together to form meaning divorced from the author’s and reader’s state of mind and emotions. The poem or story should be scrutinized from within, not consider socio-cultural influences, authorship, or historical background. The focus of the analysis should be on the words in the literary work and not related to its author. The things considered should be the story’s or poem’s structural elements, including linguistic devices, literary devices, style, imagery, tone, and genre.
I have essays, stories, and poems posted on Facebook (and other socials), eliciting varied comments from friends and random netizens. Such comments include “That’s what you call irony!” and “Enchanting words woven together to almost perfection to which every poet can relate.” These are examples of “formalistic” reactions.
A surprising comment one of my works received was, “I like green thoughts sleep furiously.” This is about CHOMSKY’s Syntactic Structure. Obviously, the one who commented has a solid background in linguistics. Such goes beyond “Formalism” but touches the outskirts of “Structuralism.” But a reader who has a limited background (or none at all) in literature, much less literary criticism, will find it difficult to use these lenses (“Formalism” and “Structuralism”) when critiquing a literary work. Rare are the informal criticisms that focus on a poem or story’s linguistic and literary structures.
Normally, readers’ reactions to informal criticism would be based on their schema (prior knowledge) activated as they interact with the writer’s words. Each person has a wealth of knowledge and experiences that control their thoughts and decisions. It can also be assumed that the schema enables a reader to give the text its meaning or the author’s own meaning.
There’s also a theory that holds that readers are the ones who give meaning to the literary work. The body of words the author has created is meaningless until the readers read and interpret it. This theory is called the Reader-Response theory.
The proponents of this theory contend that both poems and stories are not considered finished until they’re read and interpreted. And the meaning of the literary piece is what the reader brings to it. This means that a reader interprets literary works as his schema dictates.
If the reader has it, the role of a background theory or philosophy is to moderate his interpretation. But even without a background in literary criticism, whatever a reader says about a literary work will always have philosophical underpinnings that may be connected to a literary theory.
Ultimately, how to react to a literary work is always a matter of choice (and a matter of whim) for the reader. The reader can be any of the following: psychoanalytic, judging the author through his work; formalist, accepting that words put together have a meaning divorced from the author and the environment; or a subjective reader, giving the work his personal meaning.
Furthermore, a reader can be a Feminist or a Marxist in his informal criticism. A reader with a strong grounding in literature and linguistics may opt to be a Structuralist. There are also other hats in literary theory that can be worn if one wishes to. But even if readers may not be bridled by any theory when responding to a literary work, it doesn’t matter, for literary criticism is more of a natural human response to literature than an intellectual undertaking.
As it has always been, readers respond naturally to literary works and express opinions evoked by their knowledge and experiences, sometimes informed by their biases and prejudices. Objectively or subjectively crafted, their opinions are their own. However, readers should never cross the line of propriety and decency when crafting their criticism.
Reunion
(A Short Story in Filipino)
Dalawampu’t limang taon bago muling nagkita-kita ang magkakaybigang sina Jay, Chris, Mario at Mon. Masaya sila sa dahilang muli silang nagkasama-sama. Sila’y buong sabik na nagkumustahan at nagkuwentuhan.
Katulad ng dati ay nandoon ang kantiyawan at tawanan. At siyempre, hindi naiwasan na mapag-usapan din nila ang mga seryosong bagay – ang mga pagsubok at mga alalahanin, ang kanilang mga kabiguan at tagumpay, at ang kinahinatnan ng kanilang mga pangarap sa buhay.
At kadalasang pagkatapos ng reunion o pagkikita ng mga magkakaybigan o magka-klase ay malalaman kung sino sa kanila ang totoong nagtagumpay. At papaano ba susukatin ang tunay na tagumpay? Ano ang batayang gagamitin mo para sabihing nagtagumpay sa buhay ang mga kaybigan at mga kaklase mo?
M.A.D. L I G A Y A 