Authorial Presence in Poetry
Authorial Presence in Poetry
Authorial Presence in Poetry
Margaret H. Freeman
Myrifield Institute for Cognition and the Arts
Mary Thomas Crane, Shakespeare’s Brain: Reading with Cognitive Theory. Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001. x 1 265 pp.
Jed Deppman, Trying to Think with Emily Dickinson. Amherst: University of Massa-
chusetts Press, 2008. x 1 278 pp.
Norman N. Holland, The Brain of Robert Frost: A Cognitive Approach to Literature.
New York: Routledge, 1988. viii 1 200 pp.
Elżbieta Wójcik-Leese, Cognitive Poetic Readings in Elizabeth Bishop: Portrait of a
Mind Thinking. Berlin: De Gruyter Mouton, 2010. viii 1317 pp.
ing his own beliefs and attitudes in his poems, is in effect presenting an
idealized version of himself in his literary works.
This idealized version has been variously identified as a writer’s “second
self ” or as an “implied author.” In his essay on George Eliot, Edward
Dowden (1872: 403) writes of
that second self who writes her books, and lives and speaks through them. Such a
second self of an author is perhaps more substantial than any mere human per-
sonality encumbered with the accidents of flesh and blood and daily living. It
stands at some distance from the primary self, and differs considerably from its
fellow. It presents its person to us with fewer reserves; it is independent of local and
temporary motives of speech or of silence; it knows no man after the flesh; it is more
than an individual; it utters secrets, but secrets which all men of all ages are to
catch; while, behind it, lurks well pleased the veritable historical self secure from
impertinent observation and criticism. With this second self of George Eliot it is,
not with the actual historical person, that we have to do.
The question of this idealized version of the author does not only occur when
considering prose narrative. Emily Dickinson was at pains to point out in an
1862 letter to Thomas Wentworth Higginson that “when I state myself, as the
Representative of the Verse — it does not mean — me — but a supposed per-
son” ( Johnson 1965, 2:412, L268).4
Another issue that arises as a consequence of readers’ responses to or
constructions of authorial presence is the question of authorial intentionality:
how readers interpret what an author “means” to say. The intentional falla-
cy, as it is now widely known, was very much the product of the New Critics,
who believed in the autonomy of the literary text. It was originally formulated
by William K. Wimsatt Jr. and Monroe C. Beardsley (1946: 468; 1954: 3)
to caution against using authorial intention to judge quality: “The design or
such an assumption, H. Porter Abbott (2011) makes a persuasive case for differing levels of
intentionality: an author is real and singular; authorial intentions are potential and multiple.
4. Dickinson’s letters are customarily cited by number.
embrace one or the other is, according to William Irwin (2002), both an
implicit and an explicit injunction.
These historical debates have been exhaustively treated over the past
century. It is not my goal to rehearse their complex arguments, since they
all adopt a too narrow perspective on interpretation and meaning, focusing
on either a reader-oriented or an author-oriented approach to the exclusion
of, in Sternberg’s (2012: 432) words, “the functional mode of communication:
the one because it fails to recognize authorial control as cause and guide of
our response, the other because it fails to start from and correlate with the
reader’s response as effect.” Either focus is ultimately reductive in failing to
recognize Sternberg’s “Proteus Principle”: the flexibility of the mind to make
many-to-many connections among functions and forms, the inherent ambi-
guity of text-to-world mimesis, the double motivations of “artistic function
and imaged reality,” among others (ibid.: 458 – 63). Rather, I raise the ques-
tion to what extent current research based on cognitive science method-
ologies can contribute new perspectives to the long-standing problems of
discerning authorial presence in literary texts.6
Sternberg’s approach considers the full protean dimensions of human
“minding” (Freeman 2009). The term intention used in reference to creative
writers should not be understood simply as the communication of meaning
“intended” by the author but rather in its meaning of intensity, in the signaling
of emotional and sensory experiences, which, if successful, evoke affective
responses in the reader. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, under the
entry for intent: “Intent and intense are etymologically doublets, intentus and
intensus being two forms of the [Latin participle]; but in [Latin] intensus was
(like the simple tensus) more restricted to the physical sense ‘stretched,
strained’, hence ‘intense, violent’, while intentus was extended to the notion
of ‘mentally or nervously on the stretch, intent, eager, attentive’. In the
modern [languages] this differentiation has been made more complete. So
with intention, intension.”7
In literary studies I understand intention not as what the author means to
communicate (“I intend to go to class tonight”) but rather in the sense of
intensity of attention or intent observation, as in John Locke’s (1947 [1690]:
105 – 6) sense: “ When the mind with great earnestness, and of choice, fixes its
view on any idea, considers it on all sides, and will not be called off by the
6. I distinguish, as I trust the following discussion will make clear, between the author’s rep-
resentation of a particular stance or point of view, which can take many forms, such as adopting
the perspective of a character or a narrator, and authorial presence, which may reflect the
author’s own beliefs, opinions, and attitudes.
7. The Compact Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed., s.v. “intent.”
8. And not just poets either but artists in general. For example, in a presentation to members of
the Emily Dickinson Reading Circle of her score of four poems by Dickinson commissioned by
the National Choral Directors’ Association of America, the composer Alice Parker explained
that the work would be performed by school choirs in seven areas of the country. She noted that
her intentions for the piece would not necessarily be realized in the performances; much would
depend on how well the choral directors interpreted her intentions through the tones, rhythms,
and silences of the score. Intention for Parker refers not to interpretive meaning but to expressive
experience (Emily Dickinson Reading Circle, Myrifield Institute for Cognition and the Arts,
Heath, MA, September 13, 2013).
9. The other writers are G. K. Chesterton, Oscar Wilde, Sidney Webb, Beatrice Webb, Ber-
trand Russell, and W. B. Yeats. In an appendix Ohmann provides twenty statistical tables of
common features he found in samples of twenty-six hundred words from all six writers. He
reports that Shaw’s usage consistently exceeds that of the control group: “I sought passages that
were roughly comparable in subject matter to those by Shaw, giving emphasis to social com-
mentary, philosophy, and the like” (Ohmann 1962: 170). Even though Ohmann (ibid.) con-
cedes problems associated with his sampling, he nevertheless claims that “the set of tables as a
whole gives reasonable proof that my critical reading of Shaw has been sound.”
of life, so that the most general of his attitudes and ideas find expression just as
characteristically in his style as in his matter, though less overtly. Style, in this view,
far from being intellectually peripheral ornament, is what I have called “epistemic
choice,” and the study of style can lead to insight into the writer’s most confirmed
epistemic stances.
For Ohmann (ibid.: 22 – 23), authors’ attitudes and values, their so-called
epistemology, determine their choice of style: “Stylistic preferences reflect
cognitive preference. . . . Shaw’s style offers strong evidence of a cognitive
system whose crux is similarity and neat, lawful categories. And indeed his
stylistic search for order has some recognizable parallels in the most central
of his explicit beliefs. His attitudes toward knowledge and discovery, to name
the most central, rest on a profound assumption of order.” From Ohmann’s
perspective, the recognition of authorial presence occurs not merely through
authorial intention, whether or not intention influences meaning, but
through an author’s stylistic preferences.10 Ohmann’s focus on style as a
way of revealing how Shaw’s mind thinks thus introduces a way of charac-
terizing authorial character not through communicative intention as com-
monly understood but through expressive “intent” that reveals sensory-
emotional authorial motivation. Although Ohmann’s study is restricted to
Shaw’s nonfictional works, in which authorial presence is paramount, it
suggests that stylistic preferences may indeed lead to an understanding
of authorial presence in literary works as well. By interrelating stylistic choice
and cognitive preference, thereby metaphorically mapping between the
domains of concrete language expressions and abstract thought processes,
Ohmann’s study anticipated the development of cognitive linguistics in the
latter half of the twentieth century that led to a so-called revolution in the way
metaphor is perceived. The development of cognitive metaphor theory thus
opened another way of discerning authorial presence in literature (Freeman
1995).
But what does subsequent interdisciplinary research in cognitive approach-
es to literature contribute to Ohmann’s study of style as a means of iden-
tifying an author’s “epistemic stances”? To what extent do cognitive-oriented
researchers adopt one or more of the various theories and methodologies of
literary criticism concerning authorial presence? Do they shed any light on
whether the cognitive processes activated by author and reader are the same
or different? And if different, then different how? How might approaches
based on the formulations of recent cognitive science in the workings of the
10. James’s (2012) comment on Larkin, that one can totally suppress one’s own “beliefs and
attitudes” in one’s writings, seemingly contradicts Ohmann’s (1962) hypothesis that “the style is
the man.”
creative processes in both writer and reader. Using Frost as his case study,
Holland thus develops a complex feedback theory to explain how readers
interact with authorial attitudes and beliefs, given the fact that each individ-
ual brain develops differently.
According to neuroscientific feedback theory, our brains do not passively
respond to the stimuli of our environment. Rather, we bring to our experi-
ences a “set” of expectations that contribute to the way we respond to situ-
ations we experience and that therefore “govern” our behavior. These
responses depend upon a personal “identity” that governs a hierarchy of
feedback operations. Holland (1988: 72 – 77) introduces his feedback theory
by describing the way we would negotiate our physiological, emotional, and
rational responses in driving on a dangerous mountain road in Crete. He
identifies four points that are important for his application of this generalized
feedback theory of human activity to literary reading: (1) the feedback
responses we make are usually automatic in determining sensory input, in
comparing perception and desired outcome, and in adopting a standard of
accomplishment; (2) in feedback operations our behavior controls our per-
ceptions and not vice versa;15 (3) feedback operation is guided by our
emotions; and (4) this generalized feedback loop is common to all human
behavior (77 – 80). These four elements of feedback theory explain, according
to Holland, how individual readings may differ yet be constrained by the text,
how our own emotions guide our individual responses, and finally, how, in
spite of these individual differences, we all share the common activity of
testing hypotheses in moving toward an understanding of the text.
In his chapter “Thoughts about Brains” Holland starts with the neurologi-
cal fact that the brain “grows” and “ungrows” in early childhood (1 – 15). He
explains how each person’s brain, in addition to sharing similarities with all
other brains, develops individually as a result of external experiential and
internal emotional interactions with its environment. These differences that
develop amount to an individual’s personality or style: what Holland prefers
to call “identity,” which governs an author’s “unique expression of self ”
(138). When we read the literary work of an author like Frost, Holland claims,
15. Holland’s use of the term behavior here may be misleading. He writes, “ We usually think that
perception controls behavior, and in a limited sense it does, but if you think in terms of a total
feedback loop it is really the other way around” (Holland 1988: 78). What Holland is referring
to, I think, is defined elsewhere as “transactional theory” after terminology developed by John
Dewey and Arthur Bentley (1949: 121 – 39). For example, the optical experiments of Adelbert
Ames Jr. (1955) and Hadley Cantril (1960) showed that viewers who see a trapezoidal or
irregularly shaped room as rectangular have to adjust their perceptions as they attempt to
find their orientations within the room. As Louise M. Rosenblatt (1978: 18) explains, these
experiments “demonstrate how much perception depends on the selection and organization of
cues according to past experiences and expectations.”
we create hypotheses from our own identities concerning the author’s iden-
tity as represented in the text. In consequence, no one’s reading of an author’s
work is quite the same as anyone else’s, as Holland concludes from the
empirical evidence of forty-six different responses (including his own and
Frost’s) to Edward Arlington Robinson’s poem “The Mill” (51 – 68).16
If we all respond differently, Holland asks, how then is it possible to share
similar views in arriving at “right and wrong interpretations”? (71) The
answer, he claims, lies in the operation of the hierarchy of multiple feedback
loops that neuroscientists have discovered to be the way the brain works (see
Bloom 1994): “ Within this picture of an identity governing feedbacks, we
can distinguish different levels in the process of reading literature . . . : one’s
personal identity; canons chosen from the culture’s repertoire because they
suit one’s identity; codes learned willy-nilly from the culture regardless of
identity; physical and physiological limits imposed by one’s body and the real
world . . . regardless of identity” (Holland 1988: 110).
Holland distinguishes between codes, “the rules governing letters of the
alphabet, numbers, grammar, recognizing a given word as that word, in
general, rules that are absolutely fixed for all the people in a given culture”
(101), and canons, which “express politics or values or beliefs, a person’s
‘philosophy’ in the loose sense, a mental ‘set’” or “the intellectual climate
of an era” (104). He further distinguishes background canons, which “reflect
heritage, education, and life experiences,” from viewpoint canons, which
“reflect opinions and beliefs” and are thus easier to change. These canons
arise, Holland argues, from “important aspects of personality,” such as “one’s
physiological sense of oneself,” and constitute a kind of “internalized cultural
system” looping “between mind and physiology” (104). This distinction
between codes and canons accounts for Holland’s theory of sameness and
difference in reader response: the fact that readers respond in similar ways
to the linguistic codes of a text but have different feelings and senses of what
the text means.
The fact that we can all come up with different readings of the same text
indicates that we apply our own individual background and viewpoint
canons to our reading. However, in contrast to postmodern theories that
reject the idea of authorial presence (see note 4), these differences do not
mean that we cannot garner some knowledge of authorial identity as pre-
sented in the text. Holland’s theory involves a complex series of feedback
loops that include the way authors create literary works from their own
16. Notably, when authors read and evaluate their own work, they also interpret their own
identities as represented in the texts. What this means, Holland (1988: 149) notes, is that
“ultimate self-knowledge is as impossible as ultimate knowledge of another person.”
identities and the additional feedback loops that occur as readers adopt
the same processes from their own identities in developing psychological
hypotheses about the author. Readers create these hypotheses, Holland
argues, from two main sources: knowledge of the author’s life history and
certain thematic patterns repeated in words and phrases throughout the
author’s work. From these two sources readers construct a psychological
profile of the author’s identity.
Holland defines “identity” in the text as a “sameness” that occurs “in a self
in time and in different activities” that form a unified sense of consciousness
(37). For Holland, identity is deeply integrated with emotions, since they
“stem from one of the most ancient parts of the brain: the limbic system,
and they affect all our ideas, even the most abstract and intellectual” (80). He
discovers in Frost’s thematic patterns words and phrases that indicate an
emotional commitment to balance and control.17 In his readings of the
poems “Once by the Pacific” and “Mending Wall,” Holland shows Frost’s
tendency toward establishing control by pairings that balance opposites. This
thematic pattern can be discerned throughout Frost’s writings, as the poet
“sets up the world as paired opposites: matter and spirit, humor and sorrow,
little thing and larger thing, part and whole, the goddess and the hem of her
dress” (35).
This strategy for reading the presence of authorial identity in Frost’s poetry
through the thematic patterns of balance and control is supplemented by
Holland’s consideration of the poet’s life. Frost’s relation to his parents, his
playfulness, or his attempts to deal with his tendency to anger, for example,
indicate the presence of “background” and “viewpoint” canons in his writ-
ings. In challenging the postmodern claim that literary texts are cut loose
from authorial agency, Holland notes:
We can combine brain science, cognitive psychology, and psychoanalytic theory
into one model: a personal identity governing a hierarchy of feedbacks that use
shared codes, canons, and physical realities to make experiences, literature among
them. Then we can use such a picture of the human being to address writers and
readers in both their individuality and the qualities they share with some or all of
the rest of us. When we do, it seems to me, we have to re-examine some of the
assumptions literary critics cling to most tenaciously. The idea that texts mean
apart from some emotional human being making them mean, the idea of the “free
play of language,” the idea that codes or other symbolic orders can be isolated
from the human being using them — these we need to rethink in the light of what
we know about human psychology and the human brain (179).
17. Another way of looking at the notions of balance and control is to see them as orientation
and causative schemata, following Mark Johnson’s (1987) theory of schemata underlying con-
ceptual metaphors (see also Freeman 2002b).
While she recognizes that the relation between the physical brain and mental
behavior is still little understood, Crane (2001: 17) suggests that “cognitivist
mental concepts seem to be ‘material’ in three ways; (1) they emerge from and
consist in the neural matter of the brain; (2) they are shaped by perceptions of
physical ‘reality’ and by the experience of living in the body; and (3) they use
metaphor to extend concepts derived from material experience to immaterial
abstractions.”
This materiality of the embodied mind enables Crane to develop meth-
odologies to show how the physiological brain thinks through the orthodoxies
and ideologies of contemporary culture and society. In exploring the ways
William Shakespeare’s use of words both resulted from the physiological
experience of his own body in space and responded to cultural, social, and
political changes in his time, Crane suggests that these methodologies might
enable access to the actual brain processes experienced by the historical
person we know as Shakespeare.
Crane begins her study by attempting an accommodation with two critical
theories dominant in the late twentieth century: postmodern theories that
challenge the notion of authorial identity and a New Historicism that focuses
on contemporary cultural meanings. She compares her own approach with
Patricia Parker’s (1996) New Historicist study of Shakespeare’s word use in
relation to his culture and claims to provide a more theoretical account of an
individual human brain thinking than Parker does. This is because she focus-
es on language use that “reflects the clash of physiological and cultural con-
straints.” She accommodates her theory to the postmodern view that “some
common conceptions of human agency are problematized by the structures
of cognition as they are reflected in language” (Crane 2001: 32) by adopting
cognitive semantic theories that assume that one person’s word associations
can be differentiated from those manifested by others (see Taylor 1995).18
Her strategy throughout is to confirm, critique, or complicate the findings of
postmodern and literary studies of Shakespeare’s plays by identifying, in both
text and performance, unique characteristics of authorial presence. Focusing
on certain words as they occur in six plays, Crane (2001: 4) explores the
various ways they reflect “the patterns and connections of Shakespeare’s
mental lexicon” in responding to the changing social and cultural attitudes
of his time.
Authorial presence for Crane is thus constituted by the ways Shakespeare
manipulates his characters’ polysemous language use and the physical stag-
ing of his plays. Starting with the idea of the brain as material site, Crane’s
discussion of The Comedy of Errors focuses on two aspects of contemporary
culture: the use of related words for house, home, and mart and the contempo-
rary staging of domestic spaces in the play. Historically, the movement
toward a bourgeois lifestyle is evidenced by a shift in contemporary termi-
nological usage that “reflects a change from viewing a house as an economic
unit to viewing it as essentially a place for private domestic life apart from
work” (43). This shift from an external view of house, home, and mart to a more
interior sense of private containment, Crane argues, characterizes Shake-
speare’s deployment of verbal associations to depict an increasing interiority
of the spatial self: “ We can see Shakespeare working out how best to represent
18. Science in Life (2013) identifies some of these theories: “the theory of characteristics, the
theory of prototypes, the classical model of semantic networks, schematic representation the-
ory, adaptive control theory of semantic networks, theory of hierarchical semantic memory
networks, theory of concept spaces described by coordinates consisting of certain fundamental
characteristics, etc.” See also Lamb 1998.
semantic networks throughout the plays is that the use of the word act in
Hamlet “resembles Hamlet’s imagined pliable matter reflecting the form and
pressure of culture, as well as the cognitive systems within Shakespeare’s
brain” (154). This emphasis on both culture and cognition in Shakespeare’s
cognitive processes is continued in Crane’s discussion of the word pregnant in
Measure for Measure and in her final chapter on The Tempest, which is a summary
conclusion to themes of sound and space running throughout her discussions
of the six plays:
Prospero’s — and here I also want to say Shakespeare’s — idiosyncratic linking of
pinch, pitch, pine, and pen, in expressing an imagined relation to the landscape of the
island, reflects subterranean cognitive structuring principles. The words delineate
for us a way of thinking about space that is itself structured by sound and by spatial
concepts derived from experiences of containment and invasion. The weird col-
location of these words suggests that however we try to turn our concepts of space
into “places,” mental categories with firm boundaries and clear internal logic, a
preconceptual spatial sense works to complicate and undermine our rationality.
The Tempest, then, shows us that the relationship between places and systems of
knowledge is complex and reciprocal and that although human discursive para-
digms (such as colonialism) are indeed powerful, they are necessarily and imper-
fectly composed of the very environmental and cognitive structures that they
attempt to harness and control (209).
19. Lakoff and Johnson (1980) introduced the typology of small capital letters to indicate
reference to conceptual metaphor structures as distinct from linguistic expressions of them.
This practice has been adopted by all researchers in cognitive metaphor research.
20. Johnson (1987) provides an extensive study of how schemata structure human meaning both
in general and metaphorically. In what he calls a “highly selective” list, he identifies twenty-
seven such schemata (ibid.: 126). These schemata may be understood to structure Ohmann’s
“epistemic stances.”
Leese develops her analysis through the six focal points of Bishop’s “mind
thinking” in the remaining six case studies. The section “Elizabeth Bishop’s
Idea of ‘Knowledge’ ” studies the way the poet achieves conceptual knowl-
edge through the five senses in her poem “At the Fishhouses.” “Pointing Out
Santos” focuses on space as a construct of Bishop’s perceiving mind in “Arriv-
al at Santos.” “Mapping Travel and Its Images” studies Bishop as traveler-
conceptualizer in “Questions of Travel.” “Understanding as Sandpiper’s
Seeing” analyzes Bishop’s acknowledged self-identification with the bird as
a looker and mover in “The Sandpiper.” “The Simple Path of a Life’s Jour-
ney and Its Story” identifies our experience of movement through space in
“The Moose.” Finally, “Patterning the Walk of the Mind” traces Bishop’s
authorial presence in the enaction of the mind thinking in her poem “The
End of March.”
“The End of March,” where the poet describes a walk she took with friends
along a beach in early spring, incorporates the three licensing stories of
looking, exploration, and seascape that organized the previously discussed
poems. Wójcik-Leese places “The End of March” in the genre of the “walk
poem” (Gilbert 1991: 4). She shows how a cognitive analysis provides a
systematic explanation of the genre and identifies Bishop’s distinctive instan-
tiation of it in the poem. As the reader has by now come to expect, Wójcik-
Leese (2010: 246) characterizes the poem in terms of her overall thesis of
Bishop’s poetics by relating the poet’s thinking “to the bodily experience of
movement through space”:
Within the poet’s conceptual universe, circumscribed by the metaphor MENTAL
LIFE/POETIC CREATIVITY IS AN EXPLORATION IN LANDSCAPE/OF A VISUAL
FIELD , walking along and across the boundary fosters alertness to the mental
landscape — it encourages the mind’s forward drive. The end of the march
becomes once again subverted: the destination is not reached. It should not be
reached. The march must continue, because the conceptual periphery constantly
intrigues with its shifts. This mental motion — originated in the mover’s interaction
with the environment and the poet’s interaction with the literary tradition —
embodies the mind thinking. It portrays the incessant process rather than its
destination: a completed thought. (262)
approach suggests that the methodologies she uses — her six focal points —
can also contribute to determining authorial presence in other poets’ works.
In her epilogue, “Portrait of a Mind Reading,” Wójcik-Leese turns to the
question raised earlier in this essay, especially by Holland: How is it possible
for readers to access a writer’s cognitive processes and intentions? Holland’s
study focuses on the feedback mechanisms occurring among writer, text, and
reader to show how such access might be possible. Interestingly, in his chapter
“A Digression on Metaphors” Holland (1988: 112 – 34) contrasts his feedback
theory with conceptual metaphor theory, arguing that his theory “fits better
with what we think we know about” the brain and the world, the psychology
of reading, and “does better” in describing how readers respond differently to
literary texts (133). But Wójcik-Leese shows convincingly that the conceptual
metaphors of cognitive theory provide us with a means for exploring in and
through the language of a text the processes of a particular poet thinking.
The strength of Wójcik-Leese’s study lies in showing, as she discusses the
various cognitive strategies at work in Bishop’s poetry, how her cognitive
methodology also explains the analyses of other literary critics. Wójcik-
Leese’s detailed explications of the eight poems provide an instructive meth-
od for reading and understanding a poet’s conceptual structure. As regards
scope, her study does not include the role of the emotions in a poet’s thinking,
nor does it take into consideration the role prosodic features play in cognitive
processing. Nevertheless, her study shows persuasively how a cognitive
approach that employs multiple methodologies can contribute to character-
izing authorial presence in poetry.
The studies I have discussed in this essay thus diverge from postmodern,
deconstructive approaches in assuming authorial presence in literature and
in focusing on functional communication between author and reader rather
than on interpretation and meaning. All four studies are not so much con-
cerned with the debates on authorial representation and intention as they are
with how literary texts might reveal an author’s cognitive processes at work in
their production. They analyze these processes with different methodologies.
Two of the four — Deppman’s and Crane’s — are situated in relation to the
historical context and the postmodern paradigm, revealing well how literary
expertise and cognitive criticism can complement each other (Richardson
and Spolsky 2004: 25). Deppman’s study, as its title indicates, concerns the
way readers of a Dickinson poem align their literary backgrounds and experi-
ences with those of the author. Crane’s study is similar in focus but more
cognitively oriented in adopting associationist network theory to show Shake-
speare responding to the changing cultural attitudes of his time. Interested in
discovering how linguistic features may indicate authorial cognition at work,
Crane entirely bypasses the question of “real” authorship in the debates on
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