متن زیر را به فارسی ترجمه کن

So, dialogism. The idea here is that texts have an ongoing conversation, that
echoes, citations, parodies, and reiterations will alter both the newer and older
novels—even when the writer has never read the historically prior text. You’ll
notice an emphasis on “texts,” which is the term favored by late twentieth￾century (and even later) criticism of the schools lumped together as
“poststructuralist theory.” This gets away from “works” and the inevitable
implication that if there is a work, then someone must have done said work, what
we could call the teleological argument for the existence of the author. The
notion of texts and “scriptors,” as Roland Barthes calls them, as against some
sort of quasi-divine “author,” goes back to his essay “The Death of the Author”
(1967), in which he argues for a greater importance for the reader in the
construction of meaning. Elevating the reader for him necessarily demotes the
writer, particularly the writer as a sort of tin-pot despot of meaning, a minor god
who packs everything in that readers should be so lucky as to unpack at the other
end. Rather, Barthes is suggesting that there are things going on in texts of which
even the authors may be unaware but which readers may discern. Can a writer
know everything that may have influenced her choices? Probably not. Readers
may actually be better situated to notice such details. So Barthes impishly kills
off the notion of the Writer as the site of meaning and the font of signification,
shifting it to the Text and, ultimately, to the Reader. Don’t you feel honored?
Does it matter, really, whether we focus on texts or authors? At most levels,
probably not. At the level of Barthes and his followers (and detractors), very
much. Barthes’s program in the essay is to establish the reader, and the act of
reading, as the site of meaning. I’m not against that, although I find the writer￾reader opposition a false dichotomy for a host of reasons. Here’s the one that
matters here: writers are readers, too. Texts don’t simply spring into life out of
thin air; they’re the product of a succession of writers encountering earlier
works, among other things they encounter. They read and reread and invent from
their reading of what others have read and reread and invented. Is that confusing
enough for everyone?
Here’s what I mean about reading and rereading. Who’s the single greatest
influence in American popular music during the last half century? You might get
some argument here, but most people in the business are likely to tell you it’s
Bob Dylan. And who are his influences? Woody Guthrie, for sure. Hank
Williams, Elvis Presley, Lead Belly, Buddy Holly. And in turn, he has influenced
all kinds of people—The Band, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, Don McLean
(whose “American Pie” anthem identifies “the Jester” Dylan as supplanting “the
King,” Elvis). In any event, this is a pretty specific tradition of the singer￾songwriter, with a twang. So naturally, in 2007, an album of Dylan covers came
out from…Bryan Ferry. You know, English guy. Roxy Music, proto–New Wave
with synthesizers and excellent grooming. That sounds like Dylan, doesn’t it?
On first glance, this might seem one of those weird high-concept disks where
Billy Idol sings Irving Berlin or AC/DC goes Gershwin. Yet this project is not,
as one might suspect, the product of some marketing genius at the studio. Ferry
means it. He’s a Dylan fan who in interviews shows knowledge and great respect
for this tradition that isn’t quite his. The CD is interesting for the way it brings
two different styles, two different approaches really, together. It likely won’t
convert any nonfans of either Ferry or Dylan, but what it will do is make
listeners reconsider the two changes. The questions that arise are not simply of
the what-did-we-miss-about-Brian-Ferry sort. The most important ones have to
do with what we missed about Dylan. For instance, what did he learn from Tin
Pan Alley? Were George and Irving and Yip as important as Hank and Woody
and Elvis? Is there a secret crooner under the nasal, atonal song-talker? But the
questions spread out in all directions. Is the stage of the Grand Ole Opry all that
far away from Broadway? Does the Great American Songbook also contain
“Your Cheatin’ Heart” and “Lay Lady Lay”? And finally, where do all those
threads in the web of song extend to, out there in space and time?
What we ultimately learn from the Ferry-Dylan pairing is that listening, like
reading, is expansive. Ordinary fans of a genre or performer hear only one thing
at work; often, they listen to only one sort of music. The apotheosis of this
tendency would be the outrage when Dylan went electric. In retrospect, that shift
seems inevitable if we look at Dylan’s influences and predilections, but at the
time, many hard-core folkies were appalled. Musicians, on the other hand, listen
to all sorts of music. Okay, I don’t know that Angus Young does love George
Gershwin, but I wouldn’t be shocked if he did. They both write great hooks. The
point is, musicians can appreciate music even when it comes from very different
traditions from their own.