(Or Why I Don't Believe Critics Anymore)
Apparently, I'm feeling brave today. Maybe. Not really. But I'm still going to go and disagree with all the established interpretations of all those high-and-mighty literary critics or whatever they were. Seriously. It's almost bizarre how many life-altering symbols people tend to find in pieces of art in which the author did nothing more than talk about a lazy afternoon that wouldn't leave their mind for months, or a death scene from a film (that will make everybody wonder who the hell died in the author's life that he should write such sad poetry), or whatever. I'm not really a fan of all that deeper meaning mumbo jumbo (unless it's about fandoms. Then I'm all for it). I usually don't waste my time with it, either.
