Undeath of The Author: JKR and the Era of Authorial Twitter Zombiism
In 2021, masturbatory thinkpieces boasting laboured bastardisations of “Death of the Author” may be as played out as dragging J.K. Rowling on the internet.
Alas, I will persist in both practices, because I can, and it’s fun.
[and besides, if I were about to start giving quarter to transphobes, I wouldn’t begin with the millionaires]
For anyone who hasn’t sat through an Intro To Literary Theory lecture, “The Death of the Author” is a phenomenon observed by the French critic Roland Barthes in his popular 1967 essay of the same name.
The full text of the essay can be found here, but if you want the relevant highlights, it boils down to an argument against biographical criticism: the idea that the “meaning” of a text can be gleaned through the in-depth study of the author’s life.
For Barthes, the author’s identity - and, by extension, his intentions - become irrelevant in the instant of creation, as the text itself constitutes a sort of self-contained, neutral territory onto which each new reader projects their own interpretation:
“as soon as a fact is narrated no longer with a view to acting directly on reality but intransitively...this disconnection occurs, the voice loses its origin, the author enters into his own death, writing begins.”
Whether or not you agree with Barthes, you can see why an argument in favour of separating the art from the artist has been renewed and recontextualised with the rise of “cancel culture” in recent years. When an artist’s problematic actions (re)surface, the moral dilemma follows: can I still enjoy their work without condoning their actions?
If the author is (literally) dead, the answer appears to be yes, especially in the sphere of high literature. After all, nobody is trying to posthumously cancel Virginia Woolf for that time she went out in blackface and impersonated Abyssinian royalty in order to gain access to the battleship HMS Dreadnought in 1910. Rather, the transgression gets swept under the Product Of Its Time Rug™ , and modern readers are exonerated by the knowledge that their book purchases are not financially benefitting the culpable author.
However, things get a little thornier when the author is still alive. In this instance, J.K. Rowling is actually a useful example, on the basis that her problematic social commentary didn’t really start up until after her success was well-cemented: there’s a good chance you already owned and enjoyed all the Harry Potter books and/or films before JKR was making headlines for racism or homophobia or transphobia. And if you’ve already financially committed, how else can you meaningfully direct your disapproval?
Let the series collect dust on your bookshelf?
Stop buying official Ravenclaw merch?
Preemptively commit to boycotting the inevitable Netflix reboot?
Take your Hogwarts house out of your Tinder bio?
[on second thoughts, feel free to let that red flag fly - modern dating is enough of a minefield as it is]
Realistically, the Woke Police are not going to come kicking down the door the second you crack open Chamber of Secrets. I do think you can enjoy a book and still think critically about its themes and cultural impact (looking at you, Lolita). And quite frankly, I don’t think there is anything we as individuals can do that will put a dent in Rowling’s net worth at this point, especially since her supposed “cancellation” hasn’t impeded the boom in Harry Potter book sales during the pandemic.
As far as Barthes goes, it seems fairly obvious to me that the views you harbour will, invariably, make their appearance in your work (overtly or subtextually, intentionally or unintentionally), being that we are all products of our environments, and art is not created in a vacuum. That’s not to say that I believe you can work backwards to make an inference about an author, based solely on your interpretation of their work. But if it’s a recurrent theme, or the author’s stated opinion aligns with your interpretation, then that’s as valid a criticism as any.
I can see how this reads like a natural segue into the many ethical failings of the Harry Potter series, and I get how I come across as the kind of person who would gladly devote time to fine-tooth-combing the entire Rowling corpus for racist/classist/ableist/homophobic subtext (which…fair?) But - believe it or not - I’m actually looking into new and exciting ways to disappoint my parents, seeing as the literature degree wasn’t the nail in the coffin you might’ve expected. Besides, it’s been done before, and done better, and that’s not actually the point I’m trying to make.
At the end of the day, if the early 2000s being Product Of Its Time Rug™ material is the hill you want to die on, then be my guest.
However, what’s often overlooked in modern “Death of the Author” discourse’s fixation on the separation of author and text, is the way in which the contemporary literary landscape so readily foregrounds the author’s intentions.
In context, Barthes’ criticism doesn’t come off as particularly outlandish. After all, in the 60s you would have to go reasonably out of your way to decode an author’s explicit intentions if you were to become hung up on a novel’s symbolism: a diary or letter published after their death; a fortuitous magazine interview; subjecting yourself to the indignity of writing actual, physical fanmail, and waiting for a response that may never come.
Fast-forward to the present day, and the age of the Reclusive Author seems to be over. The rise of social media in the last decade has granted writers a new kind of visibility: a platform from which to promote their work, yes, but also an opportunity to cultivate a “brand”, a carefully curated public persona that is accessible to all (think: John Green’s golden-era Tumblr phase; Neil Gaiman’s wry Twitter clapbacks).
Today, if you have a question about a book, it’s the work of moments to directly contact the author, and have the answer displayed for the whole world to see. Returning to Ms Rowling once more, we see the way fans have continued to engage with the Harry Potter series in this way years after publication.
You may recall the confirmation that Jewish students did attend Hogwarts in 2014, followed up with:
This example fits into the larger pattern of Rowling taking fans’ queries and explicitly rewriting canon in her responses, going on to offer up details nobody was asking for, including but not limited to: LGBT students attended Hogwarts; Hermione was (never-explicitly-not-) black; Voldemort’s snake, Nagini, was actually an Asian woman trapped in snake form; Dumbledore and Grindelwald enjoyed an “incredibly intense” sexual relationship. And so the “No-one:/JKR:” meme was born.
To clarify, I don’t begrudge the fans their questions. I would argue that part of the series’ success can be attributed to the interactivity of its setup, as in the appeal of the personality-based house sorting system, and world-building in the fantasy genre will always leave conspicuous blanks (no doubt Tolkien rests easy knowing what he’s missed).
Moreover, I can only speak from my own experience, but I think it’s fairly common for people who didn’t get to see themselves in the media they consumed as children to read and enjoy a book - while recognising their absence within it - then growing up to see more representation, and feeling slighted by that perceived absence.
That said, J.K. Rowling demonstrates how normalising interactions between author and reader can empower the former, lending writers a potentially harmful level of agency. Critics have rightly slated Rowling for the retroactive representation previously discussed, taking credit for diversity that is never explicitly discussed in the text, and simultaneously turning a profit off of that ambiguity in refusing to alienate conservative audiences/markets.
The re-deification of the author as Supreme Authoriser and Authenticator of Canon would, in Barthesian terms, render the author immortal. This platform and interaction ensures that the author will never truly die, as the text can never truly be finished or fixed. Every tweet reads like the author’s decaying fist thrust up through the soil of a recently-filled grave.
In turn, the question is no longer whether the author is dead, but rather how do we kill them?