I like to think of texts (a term a define broadly as anything that can be read, where read means consumed and interpreted, so books, film, TV, songs, etc. are all texts in one way or another) as creatures that speaks to each other if you let them. This probably stems from any critical work I've ever done: I don't believe in writing on a text by itself. There always has to be another text to let it talk to. Blame this on my college experience. Hampshire doesn't just read books. Hampshire reads books in context of other books. Change the context, and the entire experience of a novel shifts. Typical assignment: read your assigned novel of the week and come up with an essay topic, then look for articles supporting your thesis; if there are articles supporting your thesis, pick a new topic. This is how you keep critical work from stemming only from the hybridization of two formerly held notions about a text.
I got into a conversation recently about graduate school. (I have a lot of these higher education talks while half-daydreaming at my minimum wage barista job. Call it wishful thinking.) My conversation partner seemed to believe that holding an advanced degree meant you were some kind of brilliant, original thinker. If only. I've met plenty of people with advanced degrees who aren't worth the paper their diploma was printed on. And here's why: a PhD program can't teach you to be an original thinker; it can only teach you to organize your thoughts in an academically acceptable scaffolding. No one needs to be brilliant to be called, "Doctor". They only need to be observant enough to find where critical lines about any given topic intersect, then point out those intersections and move the conversations about the given topic a slight stumble forward. Simple and plain, most dissertations do little to advance their fields other than repackage information.
But the fact remains, I get dizzy when I imagine completing a doctoral program. Something about being not only allowed, but required, to spend that amount of time rooting around in a library looking for unarticulated truths reminds me of Indiana Jones. In a much more musty, sedentary way. But the adventure is still there. Conversation between two texts assists in interpretation of both. Conversation between more than two texts creates an exciting web of interconnected ideas that helps sift out new things from my brain, and also helps mine for images I didn't know I had in me. Textual excavation is also a process of self-discovery. Regardless of the acceptable critical perspective on literature or any text, my own favored method of interpretation has always been emotional. How does a piece of art make me feel? It is that gut tug that makes any piece of art resonate past the year it's written in.
Back to orchids. They grow in the most strange ways, latched onto the sides of trees and the edges of cliffs, roots dangling in the air. They don't bloom for their first seven years of life. They have odd, ugly faces, wear funny hats, die easily when removed from their misanthropic swamps. How like artists. We know little about how or why they grow the way they do, but the more strange and rare they are, the more eagerly they're pursued.