Well, we've reached the end of the line, classwise. I have actually been very stimulated by this course and have learned a great many things about literature, and life in general. I began this semester pondering the status of critics, wondering if they were comparable to people who wanted to be artists but couldn't draw. I'm not sure if this observation is completely untrue(particularly regarding much of the idiocy that attempts to pass for authentic criticism), but I have to understand that there are different possibilities for what criticism can be: attempts to articulate why art and beauty and stories matter like they do, and how it is possible to be touched by them.


But the class closed with an important observation that both critics and those who disparage critics(which means the rest of us)would do best to note: You cannot make something mean whatever you want. Meaning must be able to have some bearing or relation upon the work itself. Because then that results in anarchy, in which nothing has any order. And if there is anything which one has learned this semester, it is that rage for order is blessed.