Are We Stories? Do We Want to Be? November 26, 2014Posted by Nina Rosenstand in Nina Rosenstand's Posts, Philosophy, Philosophy of Human Nature, Philosophy of Literature.
Tags: Alasdair MacIntyre, Daniel Dennett, Martha Nussbaum, narrative philosophy, narratology, Paul Ricoeur, storytelling
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Every student of mine will know that sooner or later I will be introducing them to some story which illustrates some philosophical idea to perfection. And I am indeed a firm believer in the ability of good stories–film as well as literature–to provide the “meat” for the “bones” of a dry or complicated philosophical theory, especially in moral philosophy. Just think of Ursula Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas” as a critical expose of utilitarianism. The film Extreme Measures, same thing. Ethical relativism, look no further than Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible. And my latest addition to the moral universe of fiction: The television series Longmire, with Sheriff Walt Longmire being the most Kantian of heroes since Will Kane in High Noon. But rarely do we get into the core of narratology, the notion of personhood being inexorably linked with the ability of a person to tell his or her own story; it is really only in my Phil 111, Philosophy in Literature class that we have the luxury of getting into that corner of philosophy and storytelling. But this is where the field first saw the light of day, in the 1980s and 1990s, with philosophers such as Alasdair MacIntyre, Paul Ricoeur, Martha Nussbaum, Daniel Dennett, and a number of literature people such as Wayne Booth and David Carr. The idea that we become who we are because of our capacity to “connect the dots” in our lives into a narrative whole has caught on so that narratology today has two distinct areas, an epistemological/ontological side where the personal narrative becomes our human mode of being, and the ethical one where gathering one’s events into a story becomes a moral requirement in order to be a human being with care and direction.
But now there are voices, questioning the truth of “humans being storytelling animals,” at least as far as our own stories go. Because when we tell the story of our life, we are (like Ricoeur said) always in the middle, we don’t remember our beginning, and we won’t be able to tell the story of our end. In New Philosopher 11/25/2014 Patrick Stokes writes,
Biographers can describe a human life in narrative terms quite successfully, but they can only do so successfully from a certain distance, leaving out lots of trivial everyday detail. Zoom in close enough, and the ‘story’ of a human life starts to look like a pretty ineptly-scripted one, full of abandoned subplots and details that signify nothing and go nowhere.
Our lives don’t always resolve across a neat five-act structure either. 17th century French philosopher Blaise Pascal noted that the final act is always bloody, but very often that final act comes out of nowhere, a jarring interruption to the narrative coherence of our lives rather than a neat conclusion. And even if our lives are stories, we won’t be around to find out how they end.
That’s a problem for narrativists, because how stories end is central to their meaning. An alternative version of Romeo and Juliet where the protagonists survive isn’t the same story with a different ending – it’s a completely different story. The narrative meaning of everything leading up to the end turns out to be very different.
Stories have narrative shape, and only things with boundaries can have a shape. How a story begins and ends is an integral part of its narrative meaning and trajectory. But we have no idea how our lives will end, and quite possibly won’t know about it when they do. If that happens, we won’t ever have access to the final narrative meaning of our lives, we will never have known whether it was a tragic story of star-crossed loves or a tale of triumph. It’s like we’re watching a movie where we actually have some direct control of the plot, but realise we might never find out how it ends.
The HYPE Virus May 2, 2009Posted by Nina Rosenstand in Current Events, Ethics, Nina Rosenstand's Posts.
Tags: Alasdair MacIntyre, gossip, media ethics, Swine flu; H1N1 virus; storytelling animal
For the past week I think many would agree that we have been under a mental siege, with no physical restrictions or symptoms (unless you are one of the few confirmed cases of Swine/H1N1 flu in San Diego), but with a threat of a flu pandemic looming. Toward the end of the week we heard the medical assessment that the (newly renamed H1N1, for the sake of the pork industry) flu virus may be spreading, but with less lethal results than we feared in the beginning of the week—less lethal than even a normal flu. Barring the possibility of a quick mutation, that’s very good news. And the upside of what may become known as the “Swine Flu Scare of 2009,” condescendingly, because hindsight is so safe, is that the oblivious among us have now also acquired good germ etiquette: Wash your hands often, cough and sneeze into your elbow (if you don’t have a tissue—and for goodness sake, remember to wash that sweater!), and maybe the most valuable advice of all, stay home if you’re feeling sick. There is no laudable work ethic involved in bravely showing up for work or school with a contagious illness when you’re risking the health of other people. We workaholics can learn from that little lesson (aside from Dwight’s well-taken point below that some people just don’t have doctors to go to, or sick leave).
That being said, what has concerned me greatly, other than the chilly thought of the pandemic possibility, is the way the news has been treated and spread by the media: Fat headlines about pandemics and deaths, most of which turned out to be exaggerated or false—so far. Some of you will remember the Avian flu and SARS scare a few years ago, the Anthrax scare right after 9/11, and even further back, the Alar scare, the Tylenol scare, and so forth. Some of those phenomena were worthy of our concern, others weren’t nearly as much, but in all those cases our concern was fueled, not alleviated, by media hype. The media world is undergoing a transformation these days: some media formats are struggling to stay alive, others are thriving on controversies and fears, and the Internet is no longer just an Information Super-Highway, but also a Highway of mis- and disinformation. But aside from that, why do these stories grow to such monstrous proportions? For a number of reasons: Existentially, we are storytelling animals, as Alasdair MacIntyre has said. We construct stories in order to get a grip on our very chaotic reality. If we want to look at the evolutionary angle, we come from small populations of people who knew, or tried to know everything about each other, so we could establish a group hierarchy—so gossip is a perennial human pastime. And now that our global reality is so overwhelmingly close and beyond our control at the same time, we react with our deepest primitive emotions: fear combined with curiosity. So that’s who we are. But that doesn’t mean that is who we also must be. We can decide to be different.
Can we pampered, well-fed people get it into our heads that there is no such thing as a safe life? Safer, and less safe, yes. To a great extent depending on the philosophy of the government and the constitution. And let’s not forget good foresight, and plain old luck. But there is such a thing as a responsible life, and how we deal with news concerning our health and safety is one of the things we can do something about. It is a question of media ethics, but it is also a question of how we conduct ourselves individually and in groups. Some dangers are real, and should not be overlooked, underplayed, or forgotten. Others have dangerous potentials—but we are not doing ourselves any favor if we fall prey to the gossip gene that we all share, and let the hype virus spread, because it will spread faster than any flu virus, and undermine rational thinking. If we give in to the temptation to gossip, and to the emotional rush of fear, fed by our talent for storytelling, we’ll find that we waste a lot of good time on being uselessly afraid—and, since we are storytelling animals, we might also heed the lesson of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf”: If we Cry Wolf too often, will we then be able to recognize a real emergency, and act on it, when we need to?