I FIRST ENCOUNTERED what literary critics call "literary theory," "critical theory," or just plain "theory" in a class titled "Contemporary Literary Theory" taught by what must have been the world's most patient professor. Each week we studied a different approach to reading, moving from formalism to structuralism to Marxism to feminism to deconstruction to postcolonialism and beyond. Every new theory presented itself as the true method of interpretation, the one that would lead me through the smoke screens and false fronts that obscured the meanings of works of literature, or what I learned to call "texts." Structuralism was the answer to all possible questions, it seemed, until I learned about Marxism, which was supplanted by feminism and so on. "Now I've really got it," I would think each week, only to be disabused of my former faith when the next theory showed me the true path to meaning. Reading, it turned out, was not simply following the story or argument or imagery. It was a complex process whereby text and context, words and their worlds had to be decoded like hieroglyphs. I came to think of "theory" as a kind of shorthand term for the many different approaches to deciphering these hieroglyphs, and I realized that the world of literary studies I was so eager to join was subdivided into camps. The Marxists wanted to talk about class, while the postcolonialists wanted to talk about empire.