Early in my life I read Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. Seeing it as an assignment, however, I could not fully understand how to make judgment on its subject matter, nor could I appreciate the novel. Then, required only to decide whether I like it, my answer was simple: "It was all right." However, I have since learned to think more deeply about parts not only of novels I read but also of the world in which I live. To borrow a term from literary critic Wayne Booth, I have recently "revisited" The Scarlet Letter and have learned that my passive attitude toward the novel has matured beyond like versus dislike. Not only can I decide whether I accept the novel, but I can also establish my reasons with concrete evidence. My "revisit" to Hawthorne's novel was not only a test to see how my thought pattern has changed, but it has also taught me that a novel involves much more than reading. Learning from Booth that an implied author has a responsibility to his readers casts a new light on literature. He must not only put words onto paper but must also create a pattern of desire. Because that pattern functions differently for individual readers and authors must negotiate those many differences, literature becomes even more beautiful than I once thought.
             During my most recent reading of The Scarlet Letter, I did not want to put the book down until I had read the final page. Though I already knew the ending, I wanted to become more intimate with the characters, especially Hester Prynne, and see how they reacted to their situations. After turning the last page and closing the book, I remained satisfied because Hester is not labeled an adulteress after she returns to Salem and since Arthur Dimmesdale admits his guilt before he dies. Ten minutes later, however, I became appalled and ashamed at my own satisfied reaction. Had my Sunday school teacher not just taught a lesson on adultery an its conseq...