After reading "In the Gloaming" and "The Sunday Following Mother's Day," I was struck by how much more successful I found the 3rd person POV in Dark's piece than in Jones'. I guess Jones is dealing with a greater span of time and multiple perspectives, which already stacks the cards against this story. I felt disconnected from the characters by these POV shifts, rather than getting a fuller understanding of the story's meaning. I'm wondering if this was because the story is already tackling a span of many years, and then trying to show the impact of those years on multiple characters in such a short space. "In the Gloaming," however, felt very balanced between its showing and telling in comparison, and the POV felt justified, more successful. How did other people compare these stories?
Also, I'm still amazed that Junot Diaz managed to make me feel sympathetic towards his narrator by the end of "The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars." I'm not quite sure how he managed that yet...
Dunning talks briefly in the Omniscience essay about the equation of the omniscient narrator with the storyteller or the author, and I found this very intriguing—I would personally be very reluctant to assign any voice in a story (even the omniscient narrator) to the author. I wondered how much people were conscious of this idea of authorial artifice, the presence of the author in the work, and how we manage it in our writing. The use of unreliable narrators and similar artifices seem most prevalent in first person, but do people play with this sort of thing in the various third-person and “omniscient” modes?
I'm also curious about this idea of authorial presence in the omniscient (or, indeed, any) narrator. Indeed, I have difficulty thinking of any narrator more general than first person or third unified as a discrete and entire person as much as I would any of the characters in the story. To me, the most effective use of a third-person usually comes out of an effort to distance the reader from the characters and the situation in order to enable the kind of moral or perspectival dissonance that both Miller and Burroway talk about. In this case, to imagine an authorial presence into this mixture--really, to include another self in the roster of perspectives--seems like it would needlessly complicate this distancing. How much do people really think about the author as an actualised self driving the narration? Is there a case in fiction in which this kind of actualisation might be productive?
I accidentally read "A Container of Multitudes," but am glad I did, because I really appreciated Miller's distinction between central and peripheral first-person POVs. I'd never made this distinction before. (For anyone who didn't read the article, central 1st-person POV is what we usually think of when we think of 1st-person POV: the 1st-person speaker/narrator is central to the narrative; it's his/her story (e.g. "The Sun, The Moon, The Stars"), whereas with peripheral 1st-person the narrator is telling someone else's story (e.g. The Great Gatsby or "Why Antichrist?")
In that Ten Rules For Writing Fiction article that seems to be going around these days like Swine Flu (whoops, sorry: H1N1), Franzen says of POV: "Write in the third person unless a really distinctive first-person voice offers itself irresistibly." Far be it from Franzen to mince words, but is there any truth to this? Perhaps he's speaking of the central first-person POV only. I got to thinking, why tell "Why Antichrist?" in first-person rather than third? Same question for Gatsby. Neither have distinct voices; what is gained and what is lost by telling each story in 1st-person peripheral? Looking back, it seems Gatsby could just as successfully have been told by a third person narrator; Nick never once asserts himself or does anything but relate the tale to us. He's completely innocuous, so what do we gain from having Nick's 1st-person POV? Gatsby is essentially a 3rd-person narrative, except that it's not. Also, assuming Franzen is speaking only of central 1st-person and not of peripheral, do you think he's right? Must a 1st person narrator have a distinct voice?
(To respond to Gillian's and Joseph's question about authorial presence, if I'm interpreting the question correctly (I may not be), you seem to be describing a technique that was really popular with the postmodernists, but isn't so popular anymore. Paul Auster does it a ton, to varying degrees of success, gives the writer of a piece a presence in the piece itself, Tim O'Brien also does it a lot. Anymore, this can have a cutesy self-conscious tricky-tricky effect, and at this point in literary history we've kind of heard it all before, thanks. It definitely plays up or points to the artifice of a piece. There's a crazy David Foster Wallace piece in Brief Interviews called "Octet," which is a series of like pop quizzes that probe various philosophical topics etc. The quizzes seem to be not really working, they either come off as trite or else the narrator outright admits that "this one just isn't working after all, unfortunately," type thing. By Pop Quiz #9 Wallace comes right out with it and calls attention to himself and his failings at these pop quizzes, only he maintains the quiz pretense and assigns the authorial voice to the second person (the reader). Pop Quiz #9 starts with "You are, unfortunately, a fiction writer. You are attempting a cycle of very short belletristic pieces..." and goes on to describe the difficult process of creating this "Octet" piece. The effect here is kind of mind-blowing, because you're wondering is he being disingenuous and this was all a plan etc. etc. or is he really lamenting his failings with the piece? He also conflates author with reader, which, dang. Anyway, like I said, I think authorial presence has kind of a dime-store cutesy effect, and isn't done much anymore. It's never something I consider doing when writing.)
I agree with Lindsay on the third person POV in "In the Gloaming" and "The Sunday Following Mother's Day." It's interesting how you said you still felt sympathetic with the narrator at the end of Diaz's piece, which I also did, but at the end of Jones's I only felt sympathy towards the father's character. I think that story could have used a first person POV from either Madeleine or Maddie (those names were confusing me for a sec at the beginning). I felt something was missing emotionally to make me sympathize with her anger, which I could understand, but I was slightly turned off by.I think this is what Williams means when "too many points are offered we may be undercutting, and underdeveloping, the one or two points of view that are most necessary to tell." Was there maybe someone else's point of view you wanted to see it from? I also thought that by changing the POV then I would loose the sympathy that I had for the father at the end.
On the other hand, Janet and Laird's relationship benefited from the 3rd person unified. We get a wider perspective of this touching and intimate relationship that would seem maybe too close for comfort in a first person POV. Does anyone else think it might have been off putting to see it in first person? This story felt like it was examining the four different kinds of love (agape, eros, philia and storge) that are possible, in the ancient Greek sense at least. And I felt this mother and son relationship was that true eros love, or platonic love, which needed a wider lens to see it.
I have heard before the idea Paul mentions, that one should only use a first person narrator if a distinctive voice presents itself to tell the story. That being said I love, love, love a first-person narrator (to write and to read), perhaps because, as Miller says, "first person seduces." I was immediately seduced by "Why Anti-Christ" and would argue that the *consciousness* is distinctive (although not, perhaps, the *voice*) because we have a protagonist whose dad is dead, who is accused/convinced of being the Anti-Christ and who seems to have a unique take on both of those things. I think too, based on Burroway's and Miller's ideas about distance, part of the reason "Why Anti-Christ" has to be first person (and not third) is because of this idea of claustrophobia, because of the limited nature of this perspective. First-person seems like the perfect point of view for a teenaged character because of the limitations it puts on perspective. That's kind of the whole tragedy of being a teenager, right?
I, like Paul, was also really interested in the distinction Miller makes between first person central and peripheral. Unlike Paul, I would argue that Gatsby *has* to be told as first-person peripheral because part of the point of the novel is how everyone is seduced by Gatsby, everyone is seduced by the American Dream Gatsby symbolizes, even Nick who is, ostensibly, an "objective" narrator, a narrator who has one foot into the "old money" world and should therefore sympathize with Daisy etc. It also allows us, as readers, to see that Daisy isn't just a flighty woman being seduced by a handsome man because heck, even Nick is seduced by him, even Nick who doesn't really care about the parties Gatsby throws. By inhabiting Nick's POV and experiencing Gatsby through his eyes, we are seduced by Gatsby, by the promise of the American Dream, and we see the shallow carelessness of "old money," right?
Wow. Sorry. I just reverted to my former Lit major/English teacher self for a minute there.
So, I was really fascinated by Miller's idea that "The fictionalized "I" is always an enactment" and that "The lack of mediation is an illusion." I kept thinking about the idea of "suturing in": if a piece becomes too writerly or too mediated then I don't suture in or, as Burroway puts it, I don't "accept the essential attitudes and judgments of the author, even if only provisionally." How is this idea of suturing in or of believing the illusion or accepting attitudes and judgments different for a first-person narrator versus a third-person narrator (esp. unified)? Is it just that in first person narration we're less aware of the enactment and the mediation? Shouldn't a successful story give the illusion of a lack of mediation, no matter what perspective it's told from?
Addendum(b): Hm. Just thought about my question for a minute. I guess I'm making a distinction between a story that's successful as a story versus a story that's successful as a commentary (ala post-modernists... meta-fiction...), which I guess also goes to the author's purpose for writing.
One thing I just thought about that I wish the handouts regarding Point of View would have discussed is audience. It struck me when Burroway said at the end of her piece that "Your central problem as a writer might prove to be the choosing (of point of view)." I never really considered that, but I think she's mostly right. I see point of view, the voice you're going to use to tell your story like the palette a visual artist will work with.
That said, when I'm concocting a piece and deciding what point of view to use, I tend to consider 1. what tone I want the piece to have (I think it was Ryan who said, last week, that you "score" your piece before you write it; I totally got that and do the same) and 2. who my audience is. I read the beginning of Steinbeck's "Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters" and was struck when he said that when he sat down to write the book, he primarily intended it for his sons. Then he went on to say that a writer should have a specific audience in mind when initial decisions like POV are made, and that makes a lot of sense to me.
So my question to the group is if you consider your audience when you decide upon Point of View. If you do, does it help to imagine a specific audience when deciding upon your narrative perspective (like an ex when you're writing about your relationship that didn't work out, so 2nd person, then, would be an advantageous POV/palette to work with in carving a piece that is a dialogue with that person)?
The problem with this blog is that there are always too many good questions and smart thoughts to comment upon. But that's a problem I can live with. Anyway... Gillian, Joseph, and Paul discussed this idea of authorial presence within fictional narrative, and I'm wondering if you really are equating the third omniscient with the author. I certainly think it's true in some cases, or at the very least, you get a clear sense of the author's personal world views played out in the narrative (sometimes faithfully, sometimes ironically). I'm thinking of Austen, Chekov. But with more contemporary omniscient narrators, are you seeing this as well? Thinking of the Jones story, I also think of what Dunning says in her essay: "...shouldn't we also consider the possibility that a story originates in a narrator; a storyteller who knows more than the characters?" In the Jones story, do some of you equate the narrator with Jones? I don't know that I do, but I do believe that this narrator is trying to tell us a story, that this voice consciously leaps around in time (look at those opening pages), juxtaposes in-scene details with crucial information given expositionally, as only a third person omniscient narrator could tell us ("She noticed that already he was getting too big for the pants Maddie had purchased only the month before...she thought they would see him that evening, but in fact he was gone fifteen years and eight months."). Like others have said, I don't know how attached I felt to these characters, but then I don't know that I was meant to--this was a case where I didn't mind feeling that the characters were being positioned and re-positioned in order to tell a larger story, one that went beyond character conflict. But if so, then what is the narrator's story in "The Sunday Following Mother's Day?" If we have an omniscient narrator trying to convey meaning to the reader, something greater than the life of a single character, what is it? And does that make for a satisfying read? (I'm guessing more people will find emotional payoff with "Gloaming" which is understandable--we're so rooted in the mother's head).
As for the 1st and 3rd discussion: I'm naturally drawn to first person. When writing, I tend to conceptualize and being in first person as well. I'm trying to break that habit, if only to mix it up a bit. But I like Erin's distinction between voice and consciousness in "Why Anti-Christ?" Often, we gravitate toward first person because it feels intimate, confessional. But that's only interesting insofar as the person telling the story tells it in an interesting way. But when I think of it, as Erin suggests, as a "consciousness," as a narrator substantiated by experience, then that might also explain why I'm drawn to this POV.
That said, I think we should all try writing in omniscient more, if only for sake of practice. There's just so much you can do, as evidenced by Jones.
The problem with this blog is that there are always too many good questions and smart thoughts to comment upon. But that's a problem I can live with. Anyway... Gillian, Joseph, and Paul discussed this idea of authorial presence within fictional narrative, and I'm wondering if you really are equating the third omniscient with the author. I certainly think it's true in some cases, or at the very least, you get a clear sense of the author's personal world views played out in the narrative (sometimes faithfully, sometimes ironically). I'm thinking of Austen, Chekov. But with more contemporary omniscient narrators, are you seeing this as well? Thinking of the Jones story, I also think of what Dunning says in her essay: "...shouldn't we also consider the possibility that a story originates in a narrator; a storyteller who knows more than the characters?" In the Jones story, do some of you equate the narrator with Jones? I don't know that I do, but I do believe that this narrator is trying to tell us a story, that this voice consciously leaps around in time (look at those opening pages), juxtaposes in-scene details with crucial information given expositionally, as only a third person omniscient narrator could tell us ("She noticed that already he was getting too big for the pants Maddie had purchased only the month before...she thought they would see him that evening, but in fact he was gone fifteen years and eight months."). Like others have said, I don't know how attached I felt to these characters, but then I don't know that I was meant to--this was a case where I didn't mind feeling that the characters were being positioned and re-positioned in order to tell a larger story, one that went beyond character conflict. But if so, then what is the narrator's story in "The Sunday Following Mother's Day?" If we have an omniscient narrator trying to convey meaning to the reader, something greater than the life of a single character, what is it? And does that make for a satisfying read? (I'm guessing more people will find emotional payoff with "Gloaming" which is understandable--we're so rooted in the mother's head).
Honestly y'all, my brain hurts. Going from first to third, bypassing second...Can't you get tagged out for that?
What struck me in the Williams piece was the notion of making a decision on POV based on "the conviction that we cannot see the story unfold properly from a single perspective." Does one have to paint one's self into a corner to find this out? Do most folks determine at the outset (when you must decide, as Dunning says) where the story comes from --does it originate from a narrator, a "storyteller who knows more than the characters," or from a single character?
As far third-person unified, where everything, "even the 'telling' that goes on in expostion, is filtered through the point-of-view character's consciousness" -- it sounds like walking on a wire to me. I wonder if anyone has attempted this POV in their writing.
This may be too off-topic, but. It appears on the syllabus as if we aren't going to have a formal discussion of present vs. past tense narration, so I guess a discussion of POV is as good a time as any to ask this. I read an interesting article last semester about the "Absentee Narratee," in which the author discussed the problems inherent with the first-person, present-tense narrator. The article talked a lot about the Frank Bascombe novels, is why I read it, and the main question was: To whom is a first-person, present-tense narrator speaking? Is this just too conceptual, just-chill-out-and-read-the-damn-book, or does anyone find this question relevant? I certainly don't wonder about it when I read first-person present-tense fiction, though there does seem to be a bit of a disconnect between narrator and audience; DelConte (the author of the essay) points to a passage in Independence Day where the narrator says "No one [is] here or anywhere to say this to." The narrator is alone, in other words. Only if that's the case, how are we getting the story? This isn't a problem in past-tense first-person narration, nor in present-tense third person. It's kind of like if a first-person narrator kills him/herself at the end of a past-tense story. Suddenly you're like, Wait a second, if you just . . . then how am I . . . ? Anyway, too conceptual? Too political? Sorry, that last bit was a Rushmore reference. OMG I'm totally showing my age.
And, to answer Juan's question, I never, ever consider an audience when writing. Is this weird? I do sometimes read back through a piece pretending I'm one specific person, to imagine how that person would react to this specific piece (and I do this a lot; is this weird?). If you're writing a non-fiction piece, you might have a specific audience in mind, but what's the benefit with a piece of fiction? Shouldn't a successful piece of fiction appeal to anyone? Maybe I'm misinterpreting the question. Sigh, maybe I'm just too old for this.
It's not on the syllabus, Paul, but we should DEFINITELY discuss tense tomorrow. It's an absolutely critical choice to make when writing. If I don't bring it up tomorrow, please feel free.
Further to much of what's already been said about "The Sunday Following Mother's Day," I'm wondering about the effect of getting so much information on the various characters' perspectives, thoughts, emotions, etc., while at the same time getting practically nothing on the motivation for the two homicides, one central and one kind of peripheral. What's the effect of that on me, on other readers?
I actually have always felt really resistant to the idea of 'choosing' a point of view before beginning a story. That dictum has even caused me to turn away from the idea of writing fiction...Is there any way around it? Do you fiction people ALWAYS consider and select a POV before commencing? It feels so daunting to me, feels as if I know what I'm doing or should know. Maybe it's that 'planning' thing that I hate in all genres (and need to learn probably to embrace...) Williams says "Once a point-of-view decision is made, the writer creating the story can begin to find his way into the developing narrative; point-of-view choice influences virtually every other decision to be made...but its first importance may be how it draws us, as writers, deeper and deeper into the material, making us see the possibilities." This way of explaining it, I can get on board for. The idea of what will draw us deeper into the material. 'Who' should tell the story that needs to be told...I found the 'Why AntiChrist' narrator interesting for the reason someone (Erin?) stated, the feeling of claustrophobia, that we didn't know, until he gives in to his impulses, how he is even feeling about Cindy, about Paul. The tension rises and he is our roller coaster car, we can't get ahead of him, must follow him on the ride. I want to say that I found 'In the Gloaming particularly effective. Moving, poignant, tragic...I loved the writing...
And speaking of Risa's first to third comment, what about second person? It is bypassed in the articles like it doesn't exist, and although I only know of Lorrie Moore who does it well, I am sure there are other authors who take up the challenge and are successful. So how about it, writers, up to the challenge of writing in the second person. You should try it sometime.
Well, seems most of the questions that came to mind while doing the reading have already been explored, so I guess I'll start by addressing one of Lindsey's comments and see where I end up. She mentioned that she was amazed that Diaz managed to make her feel sympathy for the narrator by the end but wasn't sure why. I also came to sympathize with the narrator, but I think much earlier than the end. I think this narrator is a perfect example of the type of unreliable narrator that is reliable in some areas of value and unreliable in others. The first thing he does is try to defend his character from judgement, but recognizes that this is what he is doing. "I know how that sounds-defensive, unscrupulous." The self awareness immediately allows the possibility for us to trust him. And although he seems sort of angry at Magda rather than apologetic, he has moments that illustrate he is resistant to immoral behavior and is capable of sincere love. While his boys advise him to deny what he has done, he tells her the truth. While his boys say, "Fuck her, don't sweat that bitch," he confesses, "I was into Magda for real." I could go on and on, but I think it's worth mentioning something else about the unreliable narrator that isn't mentioned in the assorted liars essay or in Miller's essay. I think an unreliable narrator, especially when told from the first person perspective, is easier to trust in the same way that if one of our friends is telling us about, say, an argument he/she had with his/her significant other, we tend to side with him/her without even really caring what the other person's version of the story was. We're with this person, so we want to side with him/her. I think the very presence of the first person narrator, the fact that there's someone who is relaying events to us, for us, is sympathetic because we want to sympathize with whomever is nearest to us. Junot's narrator creates very little distance between himself and the reader, which right there may be cause enough to sympathize. Does anyone else think this is true or is it just me?
Another thing about the Diaz piece: man, does he jump around with his tenses or what? I thought these jumps were almost always masterfully rendered, used at moments of emotional stress to increase the immediacy of the drama, like going from "A nice rhythm we had going. But then the Letter hits like a Star Trek grenade...", and other times to point to truths that the narrator, being unreliable, won't reveal. At the bottom of 17, the narrator begins, "About a month later, she started making the sort of changes that would have alarmed a paranoid nigger. Cuts her hair, buys better makeup, rocks new clothes..." The switch to present tense suddenly lends gravity to the things she does, indicating subtly that was alarmed and paranoid, despite the insinuation of the first sentence that he's not. These changes, though there were many, seemed very controlled to me throughout the piece and I wonder if they bothered anybody else?
Chris, I too avoid trying to choose a point of view when beginning a story. All this information is enlightening yet still so overwhelming all at the same time. I usually know the direction I want to take my piece but I never consider the POV.
I really found the Burroway article so interesting when she brought up the topic of tense. When she said, "tense shifts send a signal to readers and editors that the writer is not in control of the craft," I just thought, damn. This is one of my biggest issues. I think my biggest problem as a writer is trying to create a successful tense shift. Instead, I make a huge mess. What I would like to know is how to "give past the immediacy of the present" and "reduce distance."
Paul, I try not to write with an audience in mind either, but sometimes it's hard to silence those workshop voices. The tense question is a good one and one I've been thinking about lately, too. I often just write in past tense because present seems kind of trendy, but I'm probably being too judgmental in regards to tense. While I'm on the workshop topic I found it very refreshing that Adrian didn't feel the need to give us physical descriptions of either of the main characters in "Why Antichrist?".. This seems to come up a lot in workshop and I find it frustrating. If the writing is good enough, like Adrian's, the reader should know enough about the particulars of the characters without: "He had brown hair and blue eyes."
Edward P. Jones sure slathered it on thick-How many people are named Sam in the story? ( i know the answer) And Maddie and Madeleine-confused me in the beginning. So why does Jones do it? Is there something more true to life? I felt like I was sitting next to someone on a bus, at moments, listening to their life story, trying to connect the dots while spacing out.
Jenny Dunning states, "We tend to hold the single perspective, the voice of wisdom, suspect, but the omniscient narrator is inherently trusthworthy." I wonder if people find this true? A strong voice certainly has the power to pull the reader in like a best friend.
I was thinking about Williams's discussion of the variety of frameworks for 1st 2nd and 3rd person narration, as well as the Dunning piece, in terms of distance and limitation. This may be trite, but what I took from these articles was a discussion of the way in which frameworks for perspective work (both with each other and within themselves) to create tension in the mind of the reader. The tension that any reader experiences in a given narrative is between intimacy and a more retrospective or hermeneutical process. I feel that a good story manages to capitalize on this tension.
And this is not to say that an omniscient narrator who throws in some brilliantly wrought "free indirect discourse" can provide more tension that a first person or a first person peripheral narrator. I mean that as we've said before, for example, a reader will have a more tenuous relationship with a first person narrator, as in Antichrist, because we already are questioning reliability. And in Antichrist, the first person (peripheral?) narrative works to disorient the reader's concept of reality in a way an omniscient or 3rd person narrative would be--and I will venture a bold statement--incapable of achieving.
I would also venture to say that any story, even the most determined first person narrative, already intrinsically includes multiple perspectives, and that the mere existence of a reader compounds further that multiplicity. I was thinking of maybe any Virginia Woolf, and specifically the poly-vocal narrative of The Waves which highlights the multi-perspective quality of narrative. And I was thinking of the way in which any person/pronoun is in some way paradigmatically poly-vocal. In our poetry class last week we thought of the ways in which we, each of us, converse with ourselves, and what exactly a self or pronoun contends with in the world, and I will digress.
My thought though is that these articles seem to acknowledge the inherent multiplicity of not only perspective but also the reading experience, and recognize this as a fundamental source of tension in stories.
Maybe a short question rather than a long post is: in what ways does the 1st person narrative of Antichrist invite intimacy and distance in comparison to the 3rd person narrative of Gloaming?
In Antichrist the intimacy works toward a more condensed climax, whereas in Gloaming my sympathy for the mother (and for the son, et al) is more leveled throughout the story.
In Gloaming I seem to sympathize with the characters as if I have stepped into the world that they, all of them, occupy. Whereas in Antichrist I think there is something to be said for the shock and vulnerable state of the reading "I" who has been asked to conceptually secede to a foreign "I."
Please forgive my comment this week being short, but after dealing with flight layovers and turbulence, this day didn't turn out quite like I excepted it to.
First of all, I am the opposite of you, Lysley, I find myself usually drawn to third person and was surprised when I read Miller's claim that first person seems the most natural pint of view (like Paul I read it on accident as well). I think that writing in first can be enjoyable and can make for interesting fiction, but if I sit down to write it feels more natural to begin in third. I was wondering what other people were drawn to and if this was just a personal rule for Miller as a writer, or if most people found themselves drawn to writing in the third person?
I was also interested in this idea of claustrophobia and what it might do to one's reading of a story. Williams talked about it as if it was something to avoid, or at least minimize when considering point of view. When I read this I had a hard time with it, because I believe that it is up to the writer whither or not they want to write a claustrophobic piece. Can't such an element be considered a literary tool? When reading something like Testing, I feel quite claustrophobic, yet because of its short length and the fact that a story did emerge out of the static for me, I was able to get lost in what feelings I got when reading the piece and that when done felt like I had just been bombarded by the story. Even so, I feel that that was an important part of the piece. Once again pulling from the Miller essay, this idea of claustrophobia is addressed once again. She talks about writer's going for the "claustrophobic effect" and even mentions a story named Jealously that uses it to set the tone of the piece. It seems for Miller that it is just another way to tell the story, while Williams seems to view it as a con in choosing what type of point of view to go with. I am on Miller's side. I feel it is important to have as many tools in your writing toolbox as possible. Is it possible for others to enjoy a piece that makes you feel a bit overwhelmed if that is the intent of the author?
Ok, I guess that wasn't as short as I thought it might be.
Man, I'm late to the party... Oh, well. At least all my thoughts will seem fresh in class.
Lindsey, I'm not surprised at all that Diaz left you feeling sympathy towards his narrator. As others have pointed out, but Ian specifically touched upon, there's something not just seductive about the first-person stance, but potentially very humanizing. Or not at all. Consider a novel like American Psycho, told from the titular character's point of view. At the end of it, we're left with a profound understanding of just how empty and evil Patrick Bateman's character is. There are a few moments where Patrick demonstrates some human weakness or reveals some secret about his past that would normally elicit sympathy, but the contexts in which we receive the revelations are usually so disturbing, the emotions with which he relates them so alien that it creates repulsion where there would normally be attraction. In contrast, Diaz's narrator is as Ian describes him; rough around the edges and of questionable reliability, but he acknowledges these things. At the very least, he recognizes them as aspects of his personality and that paints him in a better light. If he can be honest about that, then perhaps he can be sincere in relating the story. He gives us details that he'd likely leave out if all he were concerned with were portraying himself in the best light possible, such as how much he really loved Magda or how he cried as he was dangled over the cave.
I think as an authorial tool, first-person-narration presents a distinct advantage over third-person in that it allows the author to more subtly guide the reader's impression of the character. Gillian mentioned that third-person allows for moral or perspectival dissonance; first-person allows the author the same effect, but with less obvious moralizing (which isn't to say that third-person narratives are inherently moralizing, or anything; just that the ability to comment on the actions as an outsider makes it possible.)
I've sort of forgotten my point, but I'm really looking forward to discussion today.
After reading "In the Gloaming" and "The Sunday Following Mother's Day," I was struck by how much more successful I found the 3rd person POV in Dark's piece than in Jones'. I guess Jones is dealing with a greater span of time and multiple perspectives, which already stacks the cards against this story. I felt disconnected from the characters by these POV shifts, rather than getting a fuller understanding of the story's meaning. I'm wondering if this was because the story is already tackling a span of many years, and then trying to show the impact of those years on multiple characters in such a short space. "In the Gloaming," however, felt very balanced between its showing and telling in comparison, and the POV felt justified, more successful. How did other people compare these stories?
ReplyDeleteAlso, I'm still amazed that Junot Diaz managed to make me feel sympathetic towards his narrator by the end of "The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars." I'm not quite sure how he managed that yet...
Dunning talks briefly in the Omniscience essay about the equation of the omniscient narrator with the storyteller or the author, and I found this very intriguing—I would personally be very reluctant to assign any voice in a story (even the omniscient narrator) to the author. I wondered how much people were conscious of this idea of authorial artifice, the presence of the author in the work, and how we manage it in our writing. The use of unreliable narrators and similar artifices seem most prevalent in first person, but do people play with this sort of thing in the various third-person and “omniscient” modes?
ReplyDeleteI'm also curious about this idea of authorial presence in the omniscient (or, indeed, any) narrator. Indeed, I have difficulty thinking of any narrator more general than first person or third unified as a discrete and entire person as much as I would any of the characters in the story. To me, the most effective use of a third-person usually comes out of an effort to distance the reader from the characters and the situation in order to enable the kind of moral or perspectival dissonance that both Miller and Burroway talk about. In this case, to imagine an authorial presence into this mixture--really, to include another self in the roster of perspectives--seems like it would needlessly complicate this distancing. How much do people really think about the author as an actualised self driving the narration? Is there a case in fiction in which this kind of actualisation might be productive?
ReplyDeleteI accidentally read "A Container of Multitudes," but am glad I did, because I really appreciated Miller's distinction between central and peripheral first-person POVs. I'd never made this distinction before. (For anyone who didn't read the article, central 1st-person POV is what we usually think of when we think of 1st-person POV: the 1st-person speaker/narrator is central to the narrative; it's his/her story (e.g. "The Sun, The Moon, The Stars"), whereas with peripheral 1st-person the narrator is telling someone else's story (e.g. The Great Gatsby or "Why Antichrist?")
ReplyDeleteIn that Ten Rules For Writing Fiction article that seems to be going around these days like Swine Flu (whoops, sorry: H1N1), Franzen says of POV: "Write in the third person unless a really distinctive first-person voice offers itself irresistibly." Far be it from Franzen to mince words, but is there any truth to this? Perhaps he's speaking of the central first-person POV only. I got to thinking, why tell "Why Antichrist?" in first-person rather than third? Same question for Gatsby. Neither have distinct voices; what is gained and what is lost by telling each story in 1st-person peripheral? Looking back, it seems Gatsby could just as successfully have been told by a third person narrator; Nick never once asserts himself or does anything but relate the tale to us. He's completely innocuous, so what do we gain from having Nick's 1st-person POV? Gatsby is essentially a 3rd-person narrative, except that it's not. Also, assuming Franzen is speaking only of central 1st-person and not of peripheral, do you think he's right? Must a 1st person narrator have a distinct voice?
(To respond to Gillian's and Joseph's question about authorial presence, if I'm interpreting the question correctly (I may not be), you seem to be describing a technique that was really popular with the postmodernists, but isn't so popular anymore. Paul Auster does it a ton, to varying degrees of success, gives the writer of a piece a presence in the piece itself, Tim O'Brien also does it a lot. Anymore, this can have a cutesy self-conscious tricky-tricky effect, and at this point in literary history we've kind of heard it all before, thanks. It definitely plays up or points to the artifice of a piece. There's a crazy David Foster Wallace piece in Brief Interviews called "Octet," which is a series of like pop quizzes that probe various philosophical topics etc. The quizzes seem to be not really working, they either come off as trite or else the narrator outright admits that "this one just isn't working after all, unfortunately," type thing. By Pop Quiz #9 Wallace comes right out with it and calls attention to himself and his failings at these pop quizzes, only he maintains the quiz pretense and assigns the authorial voice to the second person (the reader). Pop Quiz #9 starts with "You are, unfortunately, a fiction writer. You are attempting a cycle of very short belletristic pieces..." and goes on to describe the difficult process of creating this "Octet" piece. The effect here is kind of mind-blowing, because you're wondering is he being disingenuous and this was all a plan etc. etc. or is he really lamenting his failings with the piece? He also conflates author with reader, which, dang. Anyway, like I said, I think authorial presence has kind of a dime-store cutesy effect, and isn't done much anymore. It's never something I consider doing when writing.)
I agree with Lindsay on the third person POV in "In the Gloaming" and "The Sunday Following Mother's Day." It's interesting how you said you still felt sympathetic with the narrator at the end of Diaz's piece, which I also did, but at the end of Jones's I only felt sympathy towards the father's character. I think that story could have used a first person POV from either Madeleine or Maddie (those names were confusing me for a sec at the beginning). I felt something was missing emotionally to make me sympathize with her anger, which I could understand, but I was slightly turned off by.I think this is what Williams means when "too many points are offered we may be undercutting, and underdeveloping, the one or two points of view that are most necessary to tell." Was there maybe someone else's point of view you wanted to see it from? I also thought that by changing the POV then I would loose the sympathy that I had for the father at the end.
ReplyDeleteOn the other hand, Janet and Laird's relationship benefited from the 3rd person unified. We get a wider perspective of this touching and intimate relationship that would seem maybe too close for comfort in a first person POV. Does anyone else think it might have been off putting to see it in first person? This story felt like it was examining the four different kinds of love (agape, eros, philia and storge) that are possible, in the ancient Greek sense at least. And I felt this mother and son relationship was that true eros love, or platonic love, which needed a wider lens to see it.
I have heard before the idea Paul mentions, that one should only use a first person narrator if a distinctive voice presents itself to tell the story. That being said I love, love, love a first-person narrator (to write and to read), perhaps because, as Miller says, "first person seduces." I was immediately seduced by "Why Anti-Christ" and would argue that the *consciousness* is distinctive (although not, perhaps, the *voice*) because we have a protagonist whose dad is dead, who is accused/convinced of being the Anti-Christ and who seems to have a unique take on both of those things. I think too, based on Burroway's and Miller's ideas about distance, part of the reason "Why Anti-Christ" has to be first person (and not third) is because of this idea of claustrophobia, because of the limited nature of this perspective. First-person seems like the perfect point of view for a teenaged character because of the limitations it puts on perspective. That's kind of the whole tragedy of being a teenager, right?
ReplyDeleteI, like Paul, was also really interested in the distinction Miller makes between first person central and peripheral. Unlike Paul, I would argue that Gatsby *has* to be told as first-person peripheral because part of the point of the novel is how everyone is seduced by Gatsby, everyone is seduced by the American Dream Gatsby symbolizes, even Nick who is, ostensibly, an "objective" narrator, a narrator who has one foot into the "old money" world and should therefore sympathize with Daisy etc. It also allows us, as readers, to see that Daisy isn't just a flighty woman being seduced by a handsome man because heck, even Nick is seduced by him, even Nick who doesn't really care about the parties Gatsby throws. By inhabiting Nick's POV and experiencing Gatsby through his eyes, we are seduced by Gatsby, by the promise of the American Dream, and we see the shallow carelessness of "old money," right?
Wow. Sorry. I just reverted to my former Lit major/English teacher self for a minute there.
So, I was really fascinated by Miller's idea that "The fictionalized "I" is always an enactment" and that "The lack of mediation is an illusion." I kept thinking about the idea of "suturing in": if a piece becomes too writerly or too mediated then I don't suture in or, as Burroway puts it, I don't "accept the essential attitudes and judgments of the author, even if only provisionally." How is this idea of suturing in or of believing the illusion or accepting attitudes and judgments different for a first-person narrator versus a third-person narrator (esp. unified)? Is it just that in first person narration we're less aware of the enactment and the mediation? Shouldn't a successful story give the illusion of a lack of mediation, no matter what perspective it's told from?
Addendum(b): Hm. Just thought about my question for a minute. I guess I'm making a distinction between a story that's successful as a story versus a story that's successful as a commentary (ala post-modernists... meta-fiction...), which I guess also goes to the author's purpose for writing.
ReplyDeleteOne thing I just thought about that I wish the handouts regarding Point of View would have discussed is audience. It struck me when Burroway said at the end of her piece that "Your central problem as a writer might prove to be the choosing (of point of view)." I never really considered that, but I think she's mostly right. I see point of view, the voice you're going to use to tell your story like the palette a visual artist will work with.
ReplyDeleteThat said, when I'm concocting a piece and deciding what point of view to use, I tend to consider 1. what tone I want the piece to have (I think it was Ryan who said, last week, that you "score" your piece before you write it; I totally got that and do the same) and 2. who my audience is. I read the beginning of Steinbeck's "Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters" and was struck when he said that when he sat down to write the book, he primarily intended it for his sons. Then he went on to say that a writer should have a specific audience in mind when initial decisions like POV are made, and that makes a lot of sense to me.
So my question to the group is if you consider your audience when you decide upon Point of View. If you do, does it help to imagine a specific audience when deciding upon your narrative perspective (like an ex when you're writing about your relationship that didn't work out, so 2nd person, then, would be an advantageous POV/palette to work with in carving a piece that is a dialogue with that person)?
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ReplyDeleteThe problem with this blog is that there are always too many good questions and smart thoughts to comment upon. But that's a problem I can live with. Anyway... Gillian, Joseph, and Paul discussed this idea of authorial presence within fictional narrative, and I'm wondering if you really are equating the third omniscient with the author. I certainly think it's true in some cases, or at the very least, you get a clear sense of the author's personal world views played out in the narrative (sometimes faithfully, sometimes ironically). I'm thinking of Austen, Chekov. But with more contemporary omniscient narrators, are you seeing this as well? Thinking of the Jones story, I also think of what Dunning says in her essay: "...shouldn't we also consider the possibility that a story originates in a narrator; a storyteller who knows more than the characters?" In the Jones story, do some of you equate the narrator with Jones? I don't know that I do, but I do believe that this narrator is trying to tell us a story, that this voice consciously leaps around in time (look at those opening pages), juxtaposes in-scene details with crucial information given expositionally, as only a third person omniscient narrator could tell us ("She noticed that already he was getting too big for the pants Maddie had purchased only the month before...she thought they would see him that evening, but in fact he was gone fifteen years and eight months."). Like others have said, I don't know how attached I felt to these characters, but then I don't know that I was meant to--this was a case where I didn't mind feeling that the characters were being positioned and re-positioned in order to tell a larger story, one that went beyond character conflict. But if so, then what is the narrator's story in "The Sunday Following Mother's Day?" If we have an omniscient narrator trying to convey meaning to the reader, something greater than the life of a single character, what is it? And does that make for a satisfying read? (I'm guessing more people will find emotional payoff with "Gloaming" which is understandable--we're so rooted in the mother's head).
ReplyDeleteAs for the 1st and 3rd discussion: I'm naturally drawn to first person. When writing, I tend to conceptualize and being in first person as well. I'm trying to break that habit, if only to mix it up a bit. But I like Erin's distinction between voice and consciousness in "Why Anti-Christ?" Often, we gravitate toward first person because it feels intimate, confessional. But that's only interesting insofar as the person telling the story tells it in an interesting way. But when I think of it, as Erin suggests, as a "consciousness," as a narrator substantiated by experience, then that might also explain why I'm drawn to this POV.
That said, I think we should all try writing in omniscient more, if only for sake of practice. There's just so much you can do, as evidenced by Jones.
The problem with this blog is that there are always too many good questions and smart thoughts to comment upon. But that's a problem I can live with. Anyway... Gillian, Joseph, and Paul discussed this idea of authorial presence within fictional narrative, and I'm wondering if you really are equating the third omniscient with the author. I certainly think it's true in some cases, or at the very least, you get a clear sense of the author's personal world views played out in the narrative (sometimes faithfully, sometimes ironically). I'm thinking of Austen, Chekov. But with more contemporary omniscient narrators, are you seeing this as well? Thinking of the Jones story, I also think of what Dunning says in her essay: "...shouldn't we also consider the possibility that a story originates in a narrator; a storyteller who knows more than the characters?" In the Jones story, do some of you equate the narrator with Jones? I don't know that I do, but I do believe that this narrator is trying to tell us a story, that this voice consciously leaps around in time (look at those opening pages), juxtaposes in-scene details with crucial information given expositionally, as only a third person omniscient narrator could tell us ("She noticed that already he was getting too big for the pants Maddie had purchased only the month before...she thought they would see him that evening, but in fact he was gone fifteen years and eight months."). Like others have said, I don't know how attached I felt to these characters, but then I don't know that I was meant to--this was a case where I didn't mind feeling that the characters were being positioned and re-positioned in order to tell a larger story, one that went beyond character conflict. But if so, then what is the narrator's story in "The Sunday Following Mother's Day?" If we have an omniscient narrator trying to convey meaning to the reader, something greater than the life of a single character, what is it? And does that make for a satisfying read? (I'm guessing more people will find emotional payoff with "Gloaming" which is understandable--we're so rooted in the mother's head).
ReplyDeleteHonestly y'all, my brain hurts. Going from first to third, bypassing second...Can't you get tagged out for that?
ReplyDeleteWhat struck me in the Williams piece was the notion of making a decision on POV based on "the conviction that we cannot see the story unfold properly from a single perspective." Does one have to paint one's self into a corner to find this out? Do most folks determine at the outset (when you must decide, as Dunning says) where the story comes from --does it originate from a narrator, a "storyteller who knows more than the characters," or from a single character?
As far third-person unified, where everything, "even the 'telling' that goes on in expostion, is filtered through the point-of-view character's consciousness" -- it sounds like walking on a wire to me. I wonder if anyone has attempted this POV in their writing.
This may be too off-topic, but. It appears on the syllabus as if we aren't going to have a formal discussion of present vs. past tense narration, so I guess a discussion of POV is as good a time as any to ask this. I read an interesting article last semester about the "Absentee Narratee," in which the author discussed the problems inherent with the first-person, present-tense narrator. The article talked a lot about the Frank Bascombe novels, is why I read it, and the main question was: To whom is a first-person, present-tense narrator speaking? Is this just too conceptual, just-chill-out-and-read-the-damn-book, or does anyone find this question relevant? I certainly don't wonder about it when I read first-person present-tense fiction, though there does seem to be a bit of a disconnect between narrator and audience; DelConte (the author of the essay) points to a passage in Independence Day where the narrator says "No one [is] here or anywhere to say this to." The narrator is alone, in other words. Only if that's the case, how are we getting the story? This isn't a problem in past-tense first-person narration, nor in present-tense third person. It's kind of like if a first-person narrator kills him/herself at the end of a past-tense story. Suddenly you're like, Wait a second, if you just . . . then how am I . . . ? Anyway, too conceptual? Too political? Sorry, that last bit was a Rushmore reference. OMG I'm totally showing my age.
ReplyDeleteAnd, to answer Juan's question, I never, ever consider an audience when writing. Is this weird? I do sometimes read back through a piece pretending I'm one specific person, to imagine how that person would react to this specific piece (and I do this a lot; is this weird?). If you're writing a non-fiction piece, you might have a specific audience in mind, but what's the benefit with a piece of fiction? Shouldn't a successful piece of fiction appeal to anyone? Maybe I'm misinterpreting the question. Sigh, maybe I'm just too old for this.
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ReplyDeleteIt's not on the syllabus, Paul, but we should DEFINITELY discuss tense tomorrow. It's an absolutely critical choice to make when writing. If I don't bring it up tomorrow, please feel free.
ReplyDeleteFurther to much of what's already been said about "The Sunday Following Mother's Day," I'm wondering about the effect of getting so much information on the various characters' perspectives, thoughts, emotions, etc., while at the same time getting practically nothing on the motivation for the two homicides, one central and one kind of peripheral. What's the effect of that on me, on other readers?
ReplyDeleteI actually have always felt really resistant to the idea of 'choosing' a point of view before beginning a story. That dictum has even caused me to turn away from the idea of writing fiction...Is there any way around it? Do you fiction people ALWAYS consider and select a POV before commencing? It feels so daunting to me, feels as if I know what I'm doing or should know. Maybe it's that 'planning' thing that I hate in all genres (and need to learn probably to embrace...) Williams says "Once a point-of-view decision is made, the writer creating the story can begin to find his way into the developing narrative; point-of-view choice influences virtually every other decision to be made...but its first importance may be how it draws us, as writers, deeper and deeper into the material, making us see the possibilities." This way of explaining it, I can get on board for. The idea of what will draw us deeper into the material. 'Who' should tell the story that needs to be told...I found the 'Why AntiChrist' narrator interesting for the reason someone (Erin?) stated, the feeling of claustrophobia, that we didn't know, until he gives in to his impulses, how he is even feeling about Cindy, about Paul. The tension rises and he is our roller coaster car, we can't get ahead of him, must follow him on the ride. I want to say that I found 'In the Gloaming particularly effective. Moving, poignant, tragic...I loved the writing...
ReplyDeleteAnd speaking of Risa's first to third comment, what about second person? It is bypassed in the articles like it doesn't exist, and although I only know of Lorrie Moore who does it well, I am sure there are other authors who take up the challenge and are successful. So how about it, writers, up to the challenge of writing in the second person. You should try it sometime.
ReplyDeleteWell, seems most of the questions that came to mind while doing the reading have already been explored, so I guess I'll start by addressing one of Lindsey's comments and see where I end up. She mentioned that she was amazed that Diaz managed to make her feel sympathy for the narrator by the end but wasn't sure why. I also came to sympathize with the narrator, but I think much earlier than the end. I think this narrator is a perfect example of the type of unreliable narrator that is reliable in some areas of value and unreliable in others. The first thing he does is try to defend his character from judgement, but recognizes that this is what he is doing. "I know how that sounds-defensive, unscrupulous." The self awareness immediately allows the possibility for us to trust him. And although he seems sort of angry at Magda rather than apologetic, he has moments that illustrate he is resistant to immoral behavior and is capable of sincere love. While his boys advise him to deny what he has done, he tells her the truth. While his boys say, "Fuck her, don't sweat that bitch," he confesses, "I was into Magda for real." I could go on and on, but I think it's worth mentioning something else about the unreliable narrator that isn't mentioned in the assorted liars essay or in Miller's essay. I think an unreliable narrator, especially when told from the first person perspective, is easier to trust in the same way that if one of our friends is telling us about, say, an argument he/she had with his/her significant other, we tend to side with him/her without even really caring what the other person's version of the story was. We're with this person, so we want to side with him/her. I think the very presence of the first person narrator, the fact that there's someone who is relaying events to us, for us, is sympathetic because we want to sympathize with whomever is nearest to us. Junot's narrator creates very little distance between himself and the reader, which right there may be cause enough to sympathize. Does anyone else think this is true or is it just me?
ReplyDeleteAnother thing about the Diaz piece: man, does he jump around with his tenses or what? I thought these jumps were almost always masterfully rendered, used at moments of emotional stress to increase the immediacy of the drama, like going from "A nice rhythm we had going. But then the Letter hits like a Star Trek grenade...", and other times to point to truths that the narrator, being unreliable, won't reveal. At the bottom of 17, the narrator begins, "About a month later, she started making the sort of changes that would have alarmed a paranoid nigger. Cuts her hair, buys better makeup, rocks new clothes..." The switch to present tense suddenly lends gravity to the things she does, indicating subtly that was alarmed and paranoid, despite the insinuation of the first sentence that he's not. These changes, though there were many, seemed very controlled to me throughout the piece and I wonder if they bothered anybody else?
Chris, I too avoid trying to choose a point of view when beginning a story. All this information is enlightening yet still so overwhelming all at the same time. I usually know the direction I want to take my piece but I never consider the POV.
ReplyDeleteI really found the Burroway article so interesting when she brought up the topic of tense. When she said, "tense shifts send a signal to readers and editors that the writer is not in control of the craft," I just thought, damn. This is one of my biggest issues. I think my biggest problem as a writer is trying to create a successful tense shift. Instead, I make a huge mess. What I would like to know is how to "give past the immediacy of the present" and "reduce distance."
Paul, I try not to write with an audience in mind either, but sometimes it's hard to silence those workshop voices. The tense question is a good one and one I've been thinking about lately, too. I often just write in past tense because present seems kind of trendy, but I'm probably being too judgmental in regards to tense. While I'm on the workshop topic I found it very refreshing that Adrian didn't feel the need to give us physical descriptions of either of the main characters in "Why Antichrist?".. This seems to come up a lot in workshop and I find it frustrating. If the writing is good enough, like Adrian's, the reader should know enough about the particulars of the characters without: "He had brown hair and blue eyes."
ReplyDeleteEdward P. Jones sure slathered it on thick-How many people are named Sam in the story? ( i know the answer) And Maddie and Madeleine-confused me in the beginning. So why does Jones do it? Is there something more true to life? I felt like I was sitting next to someone on a bus, at moments, listening to their life story, trying to connect the dots while spacing out.
ReplyDeleteJenny Dunning states, "We tend to hold the single perspective, the voice of wisdom, suspect, but the omniscient narrator is inherently trusthworthy." I wonder if people find this true? A strong voice certainly has the power to pull the reader in like a best friend.
I apologize for the late post...
ReplyDeleteI was thinking about Williams's discussion of the variety of frameworks for 1st 2nd and 3rd person narration, as well as the Dunning piece, in terms of distance and limitation. This may be trite, but what I took from these articles was a discussion of the way in which frameworks for perspective work (both with each other and within themselves) to create tension in the mind of the reader. The tension that any reader experiences in a given narrative is between intimacy and a more retrospective or hermeneutical process. I feel that a good story manages to capitalize on this tension.
And this is not to say that an omniscient narrator who throws in some brilliantly wrought "free indirect discourse" can provide more tension that a first person or a first person peripheral narrator. I mean that as we've said before, for example, a reader will have a more tenuous relationship with a first person narrator, as in Antichrist, because we already are questioning reliability. And in Antichrist, the first person (peripheral?) narrative works to disorient the reader's concept of reality in a way an omniscient or 3rd person narrative would be--and I will venture a bold statement--incapable of achieving.
I would also venture to say that any story, even the most determined first person narrative, already intrinsically includes multiple perspectives, and that the mere existence of a reader compounds further that multiplicity. I was thinking of maybe any Virginia Woolf, and specifically the poly-vocal narrative of The Waves which highlights the multi-perspective quality of narrative. And I was thinking of the way in which any person/pronoun is in some way paradigmatically poly-vocal. In our poetry class last week we thought of the ways in which we, each of us, converse with ourselves, and what exactly a self or pronoun contends with in the world, and I will digress.
My thought though is that these articles seem to acknowledge the inherent multiplicity of not only perspective but also the reading experience, and recognize this as a fundamental source of tension in stories.
Maybe a short question rather than a long post is: in what ways does the 1st person narrative of Antichrist invite intimacy and distance in comparison to the 3rd person narrative of Gloaming?
ReplyDeleteIn Antichrist the intimacy works toward a more condensed climax, whereas in Gloaming my sympathy for the mother (and for the son, et al) is more leveled throughout the story.
In Gloaming I seem to sympathize with the characters as if I have stepped into the world that they, all of them, occupy. Whereas in Antichrist I think there is something to be said for the shock and vulnerable state of the reading "I" who has been asked to conceptually secede to a foreign "I."
Please forgive my comment this week being short, but after dealing with flight layovers and turbulence, this day didn't turn out quite like I excepted it to.
ReplyDeleteFirst of all, I am the opposite of you, Lysley, I find myself usually drawn to third person and was surprised when I read Miller's claim that first person seems the most natural pint of view (like Paul I read it on accident as well). I think that writing in first can be enjoyable and can make for interesting fiction, but if I sit down to write it feels more natural to begin in third. I was wondering what other people were drawn to and if this was just a personal rule for Miller as a writer, or if most people found themselves drawn to writing in the third person?
I was also interested in this idea of claustrophobia and what it might do to one's reading of a story. Williams talked about it as if it was something to avoid, or at least minimize when considering point of view. When I read this I had a hard time with it, because I believe that it is up to the writer whither or not they want to write a claustrophobic piece. Can't such an element be considered a literary tool? When reading something like Testing, I feel quite claustrophobic, yet because of its short length and the fact that a story did emerge out of the static for me, I was able to get lost in what feelings I got when reading the piece and that when done felt like I had just been bombarded by the story. Even so, I feel that that was an important part of the piece. Once again pulling from the Miller essay, this idea of claustrophobia is addressed once again. She talks about writer's going for the "claustrophobic effect" and even mentions a story named Jealously that uses it to set the tone of the piece. It seems for Miller that it is just another way to tell the story, while Williams seems to view it as a con in choosing what type of point of view to go with. I am on Miller's side. I feel it is important to have as many tools in your writing toolbox as possible. Is it possible for others to enjoy a piece that makes you feel a bit overwhelmed if that is the intent of the author?
Ok, I guess that wasn't as short as I thought it might be.
Man, I'm late to the party... Oh, well. At least all my thoughts will seem fresh in class.
ReplyDeleteLindsey, I'm not surprised at all that Diaz left you feeling sympathy towards his narrator. As others have pointed out, but Ian specifically touched upon, there's something not just seductive about the first-person stance, but potentially very humanizing. Or not at all. Consider a novel like American Psycho, told from the titular character's point of view. At the end of it, we're left with a profound understanding of just how empty and evil Patrick Bateman's character is. There are a few moments where Patrick demonstrates some human weakness or reveals some secret about his past that would normally elicit sympathy, but the contexts in which we receive the revelations are usually so disturbing, the emotions with which he relates them so alien that it creates repulsion where there would normally be attraction. In contrast, Diaz's narrator is as Ian describes him; rough around the edges and of questionable reliability, but he acknowledges these things. At the very least, he recognizes them as aspects of his personality and that paints him in a better light. If he can be honest about that, then perhaps he can be sincere in relating the story. He gives us details that he'd likely leave out if all he were concerned with were portraying himself in the best light possible, such as how much he really loved Magda or how he cried as he was dangled over the cave.
I think as an authorial tool, first-person-narration presents a distinct advantage over third-person in that it allows the author to more subtly guide the reader's impression of the character. Gillian mentioned that third-person allows for moral or perspectival dissonance; first-person allows the author the same effect, but with less obvious moralizing (which isn't to say that third-person narratives are inherently moralizing, or anything; just that the ability to comment on the actions as an outsider makes it possible.)
I've sort of forgotten my point, but I'm really looking forward to discussion today.