Sex In Every Story
Freshman english.
We were given assignments to read and we would discuss them in the next class. The professor drove us to critically examine and interpret the work.
After the discussion, he would give his interpretation. Everything he spun in some sexual way. Everything. He saw penises and vaginas and breasts and sex and lust in everything we read.
It was the same thing week after week.
We thought we had a dirty old guy as a professor.
Finally a girl in the back called him on it, “Certainly everything we’ve read can’t be about sex. Why do you interpret everything in a sexual way?”
“I’m glad someone finally asked. I do it because I can. Because it’s fun. Because all literature is about the reader’s interpretation and not the author’s experience.”
It’s the only thing I remember from any of my college english classes. It still gives me great freedom when I read — I don’t have to worry about what the author meant, only what it means to me. I also keep it in mind when I write — I always have the reader in mind.
And for the record, Mr. Dirty Old English Prof stopped with sexual interpretations after that. The lesson was taught.
