After reading the chapter 4, Jonathan mention that literature has three dimensions of meaning, the meaning of word that comes from the things they might do in utterances, the meaning of an utterance which is an act by a speaker and meaning of a text which represents an unknown speaker making an utterance. Language doesn’t provide labels for pre-existing categories as it generates its own categories speakers and readers can be brought to see through and around the settings of their language, in order to see alternate reality. Meaning is directed to a great extent by setting and experiences. What one individual says may mean something completely unique to someone else. Similarly, as the meaning of life is relative, the meaning of words we utilized relies upon the context, our intent and other’s understanding. The idea taken from the poem by Robert Frost, strikes me as interesting regarding the relationship between language and meaning. There’s a difference between asking about the meaning of text and the meaning of word. In other hand, Saussure defines linguistics as the study of language and as the study of the manifestations of human speech. He says that linguistics is also concerned with the history of language and with the social or cultural influences that develop the shape of language. Language have been a major issue for recent theory. We really need to understand the language and meaning.

By reading the fourth chapter of Culler, I learned some of the relationships between language and meaning. I found that the meaning of language is its usage. When used in different contexts, different words have different meanings. As culler mentioned “a word. We can say that dance means “rhythmic and regular movement”, but what does this sentence mean?” It has both superficial and deep meanings. Therefore, when we are reading or studying, we must analyze and connect the semantic meaning of the context to analyze what the author wants to say and what it means. In life too, we have to analyze what others want to express based on the context of the time. The relationship between language art, language, and meaning makes me very interested in research and learning.

“The Sea is History”
by Derek Walcott

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that grey vault. The sea. The sea
has locked them up. The sea is History.

First, there was the heaving oil,
heavy as chaos;
then, like a light at the end of a tunnel,

the lantern of a caravel,
and that was Genesis.
Then there were the packed cries,
the shit, the moaning:

Exodus.
Bone soldered by coral to bone,
mosaics
mantled by the benediction of the shark’s shadow,

that was the Ark of the Covenant.
Then came from the plucked wires
of sunlight on the sea floor

the plangent harps of the Babylonian bondage,
as the white cowries clustered like manacles
on the drowned women,

and those were the ivory bracelets
of the Song of Solomon,
but the ocean kept turning blank pages

looking for History.
Then came the men with eyes heavy as anchors
who sank without tombs,

brigands who barbecued cattle,
leaving their charred ribs like palm leaves on the shore,
then the foaming, rabid maw

of the tidal wave swallowing Port Royal,
and that was Jonah,
but where is your Renaissance?

Sir, it is locked in them sea-sands
out there past the reef’s moiling shelf,
where the men-o’-war floated down;

strop on these goggles, I’ll guide you there myself.
It’s all subtle and submarine,
through colonnades of coral,

past the gothic windows of sea-fans
to where the crusty grouper, onyx-eyed,
blinks, weighted by its jewels, like a bald queen;

and these groined caves with barnacles
pitted like stone
are our cathedrals,

and the furnace before the hurricanes:
Gomorrah. Bones ground by windmills
into marl and cornmeal,

and that was Lamentations—
that was just Lamentations,
it was not History;

then came, like scum on the river’s drying lip,
the brown reeds of villages
mantling and congealing into towns,

and at evening, the midges’ choirs,
and above them, the spires
lancing the side of God

as His son set, and that was the New Testament.

Then came the white sisters clapping
to the waves’ progress,
and that was Emancipation—

jubilation, O jubilation—
vanishing swiftly
as the sea’s lace dries in the sun,

but that was not History,
that was only faith,
and then each rock broke into its own nation;

then came the synod of flies,
then came the secretarial heron,
then came the bullfrog bellowing for a vote,

fireflies with bright ideas
and bats like jetting ambassadors
and the mantis, like khaki police,

and the furred caterpillars of judges
examining each case closely,
and then in the dark ears of ferns

and in the salt chuckle of rocks
with their sea pools, there was the sound
like a rumour without any echo

of History, really beginning.

“Diving into the Wreck”
by Adrienne Rich

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.

Annotation Question

In these two poems Emily Dickinson takes up the subject of “truth”: how it is produced, what it means, etc. As you read through these poems, annotate one place in each where you see an interesting representation of this theme. What is interesting about it?

“This world is not conclusion”–(501)
by Emily Dickinson

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond —
Invisible, as Music —
But positive, as Sound —
It beckons, and it baffles —
Philosophy — don’t know —
And through a Riddle, at the last —
Sagacity, must go —
To guess it, puzzles scholars —
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown —
Faith slips — and laughs, and rallies —
Blushes, if any see —
Plucks at a twig of Evidence —
And asks a Vane, the way —
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit —
Strong Hallelujahs roll —
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul —

Tell all the truth but tell it slant — (1263)
by Emily Dickinson

Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

In chapter 2 of “What is Literature and Does it Matter?” by Jonathon Culler, he defines literature from different angles and believes that literature can be shaped in various ways depending on everyone’s individual choices. when talking about fictional literature, Culler has mentioned that these types of literature give more freedom to the reader to make their own imagination and understanding instead of forcing only one explanation to the readers. As Culler has said that the meaning of every fictional reading “explicitly leaves open the question of what the fiction is really about”. This proves that the reader gets to make build their own context fo the reading through their understanding. some fictions even leave the ending for the readers to make their own ending story instead of informing them everything points by points.