All the world's a page, And all the texts merely readings

During the discussion after a talk I gave at a literary conference, I happened to say that I analysed a translation of T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" as if it was a reading of the poem. Many from the audience agreed. This made me think. What if the so-called original text is also nothing more than a reading of the literary work we are supposed to be reading?