LIT 200 Final Project
Title of the First Chosen Passage: Maya Angelou, “And Still I Rise” (American, 1978)
Interpreting Literature
In this analysis, I chose to adopt a postcolonial critical approach, drawing on key terms such as colonial discourse, othering, subaltern voice, hybridity, resistance, and hegemony. Postcolonial criticism examines the lingering cultural, political, and psychological effects of imperial rule and centers formerly colonized subjects as agents of meaning rather than passive victims. Postcolonial criticism centers on how colonial discourse—the narratives and practices that justified imperial domination—constructed the colonized as inferior and the colonizer as a civilizing force, often through processes of othering that mark colonized peoples as alien and threatening. It foregrounds the subaltern, those marginalized voices systematically erased from dominant histories, insisting they be heard. Hybridity describes the cultural blending that occurs when colonizer and colonized interact, destabilizing pure identities and producing new, insurgent forms of expression. Resistance encompasses both overt and symbolic acts by which the colonized reclaim agency and self-definition against imperial power. Hegemony, drawn from Gramsci, explains how colonial rule was maintained not just through force but by manufacturing consent via language, education, and cultural norms. Postcolonial criticism of “And Still I Rise” hinges on its interrogation of power relations and the reclamation of identity through rhetorical defiance. Angelou’s repeated refrain “I rise” transforms the poem into a manifesto of resistance, subverting colonial hegemony by refusing the inferiority imposed upon Black women. The pointed question “Does my sassiness upset you?” directly confronts the colonial gaze that othered and silenced her ancestors, reclaiming a subaltern voice in the face of historical erasure. By invoking metaphors of extraction—“I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, / Welling and swelling I bear in the tide”—she repurposes images of colonial exploitation (oil wells, gold mines, diamonds) into symbols of personal and collective worth. The poem’s blend of African American oral traditions—its song-like rhythm and call-and-response cadences—with Western poetic forms exemplifies hybridity, destabilizing monolithic identity categories and forging a syncretic voice that defies imperial boundaries. Finally, her imperatives—“Bring on the books… Write it down!”—function as both declarations of agency and acts of discursive resistance, demonstrating how postcolonial texts serve as emancipatory spaces where formerly colonized subjects assert self-definition and power.
Choosing a Lens
I chose the postcolonial approach because it foregrounds the power dynamics and historical legacies that shape Maya Angelou’s “And Still I Rise.” By examining how the poem responds to colonial hierarchies—through its defiant refrains, reclaimed metaphors, and hybrid rhythms—we uncover layers of resistance that a purely formal or biographical reading might miss. This lens positions the poem not just as personal triumph, but as a collective rejoinder to centuries of silencing and extraction. As a result, the interpretation becomes an exploration of how language itself becomes a site of decolonization and identity formation.
The postcolonial approach offers a powerful framework for interpreting Maya Angelou’s “And Still I Rise” by illuminating the poem’s engagement with imperial histories and the legacies of colonial domination. It underscores how Angelou’s language actively disrupts colonial narratives and situates her refrain of “rising” within a broader tradition of anticolonial struggle, deepening our sense of communal solidarity and shared resistance. By tracing the interplay between African American oral traditions and Western poetic forms, this approach foregrounds the poem’s cultural hybridity and celebrates the syncretic fusion that emerges when formerly colonized voices assert themselves. Moreover, reading the poem through a postcolonial lens empowers marginalized perspectives by treating the text as a site of discursive resistance and self‐definition, and it connects literary analysis to urgent, real‐world issues of inequality, making the interpretation both politically resonant and socially relevant.
However, the postcolonial approach also carries certain limitations when applied to literary interpretation. Its strong focus on ideology and historical critique can underplay purely aesthetic or formal qualities—such as Angelou’s masterful use of meter, sound patterns, and vivid imagery—by reading them primarily as vehicles of anti‐imperial rhetoric. There is a risk of overreading, where every poetic feature is construed as a deliberate act of resistance, even though some elements may serve other artistic or personal purposes. This lens may also narrow the poem’s broader human resonance by emphasizing colonial context at the expense of universal themes of resilience, and it can subsume Angelou’s individual voice under collective theory, minimizing biographical nuances of her personal evolution. Finally, privileging historical critique can sometimes overshadow the emotional and psychological dimensions of the speaker’s experience, leaving aspects of healing and personal affirmation less fully explored.
Close Reading
Reading “And Still I Rise” through a postcolonial lens reveals how Angelou’s language actively dismantles colonial power structures. For instance, when she asks, “Does my sassiness upset you? / Why are you beset with gloom?” she’s not merely play-acting confidence but directly confronting the imperial gaze that deemed Black defiance unacceptable. Likewise, the image “I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, / Welling and swelling I bear in the tide” transforms metaphors of extraction—oil, gold, diamonds—into symbols of ancestral abundance and collective worth, repudiating centuries of resource plunder. By privileging historical and power dynamics, the postcolonial approach re-casts each “I rise” refrain as an act of decolonization rather than a private triumph. The poem’s repetition becomes a drumbeat of anticolonial resistance, insisting that language itself can reverse erasure and reclaim agency. Under this lens, Angelou’s commands—“Bring on the books / Write it down!”—are understood not simply as motivational exhortations but as strategic calls to document and preserve marginalized narratives against imperial archives. A formalist reading would foreground the poem’s sonic and structural features—its anaphoric “I rise,” its iambic rhythm, its vivid imagery—treating them as cohesive artistic techniques rather than political interventions. In that case, “I rise” functions chiefly as a unifying refrain that builds musical momentum, and the rhetorics of defiance read primarily as lyric devices, downplaying the poem’s engagement with colonial histories and collective struggle.
Making Connections
The postcolonial approach emerged in the wake of mid-20th-century decolonization movements across Asia and Africa, when newly independent nations reclaimed their histories and languages from imperial narratives. Scholars like Frantz Fanon and Edward Said responded to the psychological and cultural trauma of colonial rule by critiquing Eurocentric scholarship and highlighting the silenced voices of the colonized. As universities in the Global South and West began offering courses in postcolonial studies, literature curricula shifted to include authors from formerly colonized regions, reshaping academic canons. This shift spurred broader cultural initiatives—literary festivals, translation projects, museum exhibits—that questioned established power structures and promoted diversity in the arts. Consequently, postcolonial criticism not only reflected a world in political flux but also influenced public discourse by validating marginalized perspectives and redefining national and cultural identities.
Postcolonial criticism shares intellectual roots with Marxist and structuralist theories in its focus on power, language, and ideology, but it diverges by centering race, empire, and the legacy of colonization rather than class struggle alone. Structuralism’s emphasis on underlying systems of meaning inspired postcolonial scholars to analyze colonial discourse as a complex network of signs that legitimized domination. Meanwhile, Marxism’s critique of economic exploitation informed postcolonial attention to resource extraction and labor dynamics in colonial contexts. New Historicism later built on these insights by embedding literary texts within the power relations of their historical moment, a move postcolonial critics adapted to foreground empire and resistance. The similarities—attention to ideology and discourse—reflect a shared commitment to unveiling hidden structures, while the differences—postcolonialism’s insistence on racial and cultural specificity—address gaps in earlier frameworks that often overlooked colonial legacies.
Literary theory equips readers with conceptual tools to uncover the ideological forces that shape texts, from notions of race and empire to class and gender. By applying a theoretical lens, we move beyond surface-level enjoyment of narrative and engage critically with how language constructs reality, identity, and power. Theory fosters nuanced readings that link literary works to broader social, historical, and political currents, transforming interpretation into an act of cultural inquiry and social advocacy. Engaging with multiple theoretical perspectives prevents reductive readings and encourages dialogue across disciplines, enriching our understanding of literature’s role in shaping—and challenging—human experience. Ultimately, investing time in theory deepens our appreciation of texts as dynamic sites of meaning rather than static artifacts.
Title of the second chosen passage: From Peter Shaffer’s Equus
Interpreting Literature
Psychoanalytic criticism, grounded in the foundational theories of Sigmund Freud, Carl Jung, and subsequent thinkers, delves into the unconscious motivations, repressed desires, and internal psychic conflicts of both characters and authors. This interpretive lens is especially fitting for Peter Shaffer’s Equus, a play that intensely examines themes of repression, desire, identity, and symbolic behavior. Central to this approach are key concepts such as unconscious drives, repression and sublimation, the dynamic interplay of the id, ego, and superego, libidinal energy, the Oedipal complex, and mechanisms like projection and transference. Additionally, psychoanalytic critics often analyze how trauma or desire is symbolically represented within the narrative, offering deeper insight into the psychological undercurrents shaping the characters’ actions and the play’s dramatic tension.
Psychoanalytic criticism offers several foundational concepts that illuminate the psychological depth of Equus. The unconscious, which houses desires and memories inaccessible to conscious thought, is evident in Alan’s worship of horses and his erotic fixation on Nugget—suggesting unresolved childhood trauma and religious guilt. Repression, the act of pushing distressing thoughts into the unconscious, manifests in Alan’s violent outburst and ritualistic behavior, both of which reflect buried sexual and spiritual urges. Through sublimation, Alan transforms these unacceptable impulses into socially acceptable actions, turning his passion for horses into a sacred ritual that channels erotic and spiritual longing. The concept of transference—redirecting feelings from one person to another—is also present, as Dysart projects his own existential dissatisfaction onto Alan’s case. Finally, symbolism plays a crucial role in psychoanalytic interpretation, with the horse serving as a complex symbol of power, sexuality, freedom, and divinity, embodying Alan’s unconscious desires and internal conflicts.
Equus exemplifies psychoanalytic criticism through its exploration of desire, identity, and psychic fragmentation. Dysart’s conflicted envy of Alan’s passion reflects the Freudian tension between id and superego, while Alan’s symbolic worship of the horse—both god and lover—projects his unconscious turmoil. The play subverts traditional roles by making the therapist a subject of analysis; Dysart’s admission that he wears “that horse’s head” reveals his own repression. The conflict between rationality and passion surfaces in Dysart’s lament about being bound by “old language,” echoing Freud’s view of civilization as a force of repression. Finally, the play’s dreamlike, fragmented structure—non-linear scenes, surreal lighting, and ritualistic tone—evokes the workings of the unconscious more than realist drama.
Choosing a Lens
Psychoanalytic criticism is especially apt for Equus, a play steeped in psychological tension, symbolic behavior, and unconscious desire. Alan and Dysart function less as characters than as case studies in repression, projection, and existential crisis. Dysart’s opening monologue exposes his psychic fragmentation—he envies Alan’s raw passion yet fears its intensity, and his metaphor of “wearing the horse’s head” signals entrapment within societal norms and repressed longing. Through this lens, Alan’s erotic worship of horses becomes a sublimation of forbidden desire, Dysart’s despair reflects psychic repression and professional disillusionment, and the horse itself emerges as a symbol of the unconscious—instinctual, powerful, and unknowable. Psychoanalytic theory thus unveils the play’s deeper architecture, where trauma and desire shape identity and drive action.
Psychoanalytic criticism brings powerful advantages to interpreting literature like Equus, offering deep insight into character psychology by uncovering hidden motivations and internal conflicts that make figures like Alan and Dysart feel psychologically rich. It equips readers to decode symbolic elements—such as the horse, bit, and tunnel—as expressions of unconscious desire, trauma, or repression. This approach also embraces taboo themes like sexuality, violence, and madness not as moral failings but as manifestations of psychic struggle. By mirroring the therapeutic process, it invites introspection into our own unconscious drives and societal constraints. Crucially, it interrogates authority itself: Dysart’s role as psychiatrist is destabilized, revealing that even the healer harbors wounds and that institutional power may repress more than it heals.
While psychoanalytic criticism offers valuable insights, it also carries notable limitations. Its tendency toward reductionism can oversimplify characters by attributing all behavior to unconscious drives, often neglecting broader social, historical, or cultural contexts. The approach is inherently speculative, relying heavily on interpretation rather than concrete textual evidence, which can result in subjective or unfalsifiable claims. It may also neglect form and structure, prioritizing psychological content over literary techniques, genre, or style. Freudian analysis in particular risks overemphasizing sexuality, potentially distorting authorial intent or the reader’s experience. Finally, there’s a risk of pathologizing, where characters are treated as clinical cases rather than complex individuals, reducing their agency to diagnostic labels.
Close Reading
Psychoanalytic criticism delves into unconscious desires, repressions, and symbolic expressions, making it especially powerful in interpreting Equus, a play that dramatizes the clash between societal norms and primal instinct. Alan’s intimate pose with Nugget—head pressed against the horse, hands exploring its face—suggests not only tenderness but a transgressive eroticism, while Dysart’s fixation on the horse rather than the boy reveals a displacement of desire and projection of his own repressed longings. His metaphor of “wearing that horse’s head” signals a psychic identification with Alan’s passion and a yearning to escape repression. The horse itself symbolizes the id—raw, instinctual energy—while Dysart, as psychiatrist, embodies the superego’s societal control. Alan’s ritualistic worship becomes a sublimation of forbidden sexual and spiritual desire. Through this lens, the characters’ actions are reframed not as moral failings but as expressions of deep psychological conflict.
Psychoanalytic criticism enriches our reading of the passage by decoding its symbolic language and emotional subtext, revealing Dysart’s despair as more than professional fatigue—it is a crisis of identity rooted in repression. His inability to “jump clean-hoofed on to a whole new track of being” reflects psychic paralysis, shaped by internalized norms and fear of desire. Through this lens, Dysart’s envy of Alan becomes a yearning for psychic liberation, even as he pathologizes it. Alan’s communion with Nugget embodies a fusion of eros and thanatos—love and death—suggesting a layered interplay of pleasure, guilt, and transcendence. The horse’s “chained mouth” emerges as a metaphor for silenced desire, symbolizing the shared suffering of beings denied expression. Psychoanalytic criticism thus reframes the scene as a meditation on repression, projection, and the fragile boundary between sanity and sublimity.
Postcolonial criticism reorients the interpretation of Equus from individual psychology to broader systems of power, identity, and cultural domination. Though not overtly colonial, the play can be read as a critique of Western norms—particularly psychiatric authority—that regulate bodies, desires, and expressions deemed “irrational” or “primitive.” Dysart’s role as psychiatrist becomes emblematic of colonial authority, diagnosing and disciplining Alan’s non-normative behavior. Alan’s ritual with Nugget may be seen as resistance to cultural hegemony, reclaiming spiritual and bodily autonomy beyond Western rationalism. The horse itself could symbolize indigenous or non-Western spirituality, suppressed by modernity and institutional control. This lens reframes Alan’s extremity not as madness but as defiance against imposed norms, challenging the presumed neutrality or superiority of Dysart’s worldview and exposing its role in silencing alternative ways of being.
Making Connections
Critical approaches often shape the way society understands itself, especially through the lens of culture, identity, and power. When a literary theory gains traction, it can influence broader societal conversations by reframing dominant narratives and exposing hidden structures. Feminist Criticism, rising alongside second-wave feminism in the 1960s–70s, didn’t just analyze literature—it helped shift societal views on gender roles, authorship, and representation. By challenging the male-dominated literary canon and foregrounding women’s voices, it influenced education, publishing, and media, encouraging more inclusive storytelling and policy debates around gender equity. Postcolonial Criticism, emerging in the wake of decolonization, reshaped how societies viewed history, identity, and cultural authority. It challenged Eurocentric narratives and validated indigenous perspectives, influencing curricula, museum practices, and international relations. Writers like Chinua Achebe and Salman Rushdie became cultural touchstones, not just literary figures. These approaches act as cultural catalysts, helping societies reimagine who belongs, whose stories matter, and how power operates.
Critical theories are born from the intellectual and political ferment of their time. They respond to urgent questions raised by social movements, historical shifts, and cultural anxieties. Marxist Criticism, shaped by the rise of industrial capitalism and class struggle, emerged as a response to economic inequality. It interpreted literature as a reflection of material conditions and ideological control, aligning with labor movements and socialist thought. Ecocriticism, gaining momentum in the late 20th century, was directly influenced by environmental activism and climate awareness. As societies grappled with ecological collapse, literary scholars began analyzing how texts represent nature, sustainability, and human-nonhuman relationships. These approaches don’t exist in a vacuum—they are forged in the crucible of societal change, offering tools to critique and reimagine the world
Literary theories are not isolated silos—they evolve through dialogue, tension, and synthesis. A powerful example is the connection between Feminist Criticism and Postcolonial Criticism. Both challenge dominant power structures—patriarchy and colonialism—and seek to recover marginalized voices. Black Feminist Criticism, as developed by scholars like bell hooks and Audre Lorde, bridges these approaches by addressing the intersection of race, gender, and class. It critiques the whiteness of mainstream feminism and the gender blindness of some postcolonial theory. In literary interpretation, this intersectional lens allows us to read texts like Beloved by Toni Morrison or Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys with attention to how colonial trauma and gendered oppression intertwine. This interconnectedness enriches interpretation by revealing layered systems of meaning—how identity, history, and power converge in narrative form.
Why Theory Matters
Literary theory serves as a dynamic lens—at times a microscope, at others a kaleidoscope—through which we explore texts not merely for their content, but for the deeper mechanisms and motivations behind their expression. It equips us with interpretive frameworks that expose hidden structures, challenge dominant assumptions, and uncover the ideological, emotional, and cultural forces woven into language. Psychoanalytic theory, for instance, allows us to delve into characters’ unconscious desires and symbolic actions, transforming straightforward narratives into psychological excavations. Postcolonial theory reveals how literature both reflects and resists imperial power, prompting us to examine whose voices are amplified and whose are marginalized. Black feminist theory further deepens this inquiry by highlighting the intersections of race, gender, and trauma, offering strategies to reclaim visibility and agency within literary form. Ultimately, theory elevates reading into a layered, critical act—one that embraces complexity, foregrounds context, and affirms resistance.
Literary theory doesn’t just change how we read—it changes what we see. It shifts literature from a passive experience to an active dialogue. Engaging with theory initiates our inquiry into asking an array of questions such as “What power dynamics are at play?,” “Whose perspective is privileged or erased?,” and “What cultural assumptions shape the narrative?” For instance, reading Jane Eyre through a feminist lens highlights Jane’s struggle for autonomy; through a postcolonial lens, it exposes the racialized portrayal of Bertha Mason and the colonial backdrop of Rochester’s wealth. Each lens reveals a different truth, expanding our understanding from character to culture, from plot to politics. Theory also invites us to bring our own lived experience into the interpretive process, making literature not just something we consume, but something we co-create meaning from.
Applying literary theory is a pursuit of both intellectual rigor and emotional equity. In a few meaningful ways. Theory enriches our understanding of others, deepening empathy through layered insights into identity, context, and experience. It refines our analytical lens—teaching us to question appearances, critique power structures, and uncover hidden assumptions. It strengthens our voice by helping us tell our own stories and stand with others whose voices have been ignored. It links literature to lived experience, showing how stories both mirror and mold social, cultural, and political realities. Ultimately, theory is not a barrier to enjoyment—it’s a bridge to meaning. It allows us to read not just with our eyes, but with our whole selves: critically, creatively, and compassionately.