Interpretation of Music vs Literature

[thriller]

I have been pondering something lately. I've always believed that music (with or without lyrics) and the artists meaning is pointless, basically artist intentionality is irrelevant. But when it comes to writing, either literature such as Tolstoy and Hemingway or theory such as Marx and even Smith, the writers intentions are so important that people deliberate over every detail as to whether what the author intended a theme or idea to mean. If you don't agree with me on the music part, my question is irrelevant, but if you do, than riddle me this: why is music's meaning left up to the audience, where as a book or essay's meaning is analyzed to show what the authors meaning is, and if the audience doesn't agree, they are missing the point?

[RedAnarchist]

Literature tends to be longer and goes into more detail about a story, whilst a song is limited to a few verses, a chorus and usually a fairly simple story. I do think that the audience is not necessarily missing the point if they don't agree with what the author meant, as I think a lot of literature is not meant to be analysed as much as it is.

[Ose]

Literature is composed solely of words. Words have meaning, and without that meaning (of which intentionality is an important element) they are, well, meaningless. It's fine to listen to a piece of music and think 'that sounds nice; I like it', but if you read some prose and appreciate only the fact that the words sound nice or look nice on the page, without understanding their meaning, then you're completely missing the point. Musical appreciation is primarily aesthetic; literary appreciation cannot be, as all its substance is in its meaning.

Programme music of all kinds, from opera to hip hop, can be appreciated in both ways, but the aesthetic aspect tends to be the more salient.

[Ose]

Poetry falls somewhere in the middle, e.g.



Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon cœur
D'une langueur
Monotone

Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Qui m'emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.