July 21, 2014

"Story" is Subjective, Temporality is not

I've been enjoying David Herman's work on the Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory and I'm now beginning the Cambridge Companion to Narrative, where the Introduction sparks a noteworthy quibble, which cuts to the heart of why defining "narrative" is problematic. The post title is your spoiler. Here's the nitty gritty. 

In Herman's noble effort to delineate three "design principles that, when fully actualized, result in central examples of the category narrative", we observe the dilemma:


(i) a structured time-course of particularized events which introduces

(ii) disruption or disequilibrium of the storytellers' and interpreters' mental model of the world... conveying

(iii) what it's like to live through that disruption... subjective awareness...

[end quote]

While the subjectivity of point three is apparent, I find point one subjective in its overlap with point two. What is the difference between "events" and a "disruption"? Objectively, we cannot define events to be non-disruptive. Granted, in colloquial speech we experience non-disruptive events all the time, but such terminology is inherently subjective. Every action, every movement, every change - from waking up and showering to eating and traveling to work to meeting new people and attending functions or presentations - every engagement with temporality, even St. Augustine's famous example of reading a psalm, is a disruption. Something about our physical and or mental state becomes different, or some particular facet of our perceived "equilibrium" has been overturned. Technically, measurably, and objectively speaking, the only way human beings can perceive temporality, let alone understand and discuss temporal experience, is because we observe change. Both "events" and "disruption" are essentially subjective terminology for discussing and classifying the experience of change.

Therefore, in contrast to observable change, scholars of narrative theory like Herman have decided they must focus only on changes of significance. The dilemma is quite understandable. But the difficulty, I find, is not in building a definition that depends on subjectivity. It's that the definition itself becomes rather subjective.

Does narrative require mere temporality, or an elaboration of "plot"? Technically, there's a miniscule difference between temporality (change) and plot (a series of connected changes). Actually, the difference is, arguably, pure semantics. To describe temporality as change is to imply connectedness. Even to invoke temporality is to imply an ongoing sense of time, which is itself meaningless without considering a further development of continuing change, or, in fact, a series of particular changes. Again, where is the objective distinction between temporality and plot? There cannot be any differentiation at all, unless we lean upon the subjectivity of individual perspective. 

I'm actually delighted to do this, but it does call to question Naratology's attempt to set terms for discussion with any semblance of objectivity. Again, the subjective discussion is wonderful to explore, but the desire for an objective baseline of narrativity - or at least the attempt to lay out "design principles" in lieu of definitions - may not be on solid ground to begin with temporality and then proceed to significance. As long as subjectivity is the critical foundation for understanding what defines "narrative", why not skip "temporality" and just go straight to what's actually required. 

Apparently, what story-plus-discourse fundamentally requires is a storyteller, and/or an interpreter. In other words, maybe what narrative is truly defined by is merely any personal act of narration. Or perhaps, we might say, what gives "narrative" meaning is the fact that a temporal sequence of change merely happens to be looked upon by any personal arbiter of meaning. The daily stock market ticker is a mere chronicle of development, but to different interested observers it may tell a variety of stories, some much more significant than others.

Again, I simply point out the dilemma. Logic seems to demand jettisoning one or the other, either subjectivity or temporality, in defining what makes a story a story, or at least what makes a story a "narrative". 

If we're truly relying on points two and three, in Herman's account, then point one serves no purpose. It's a vestigal genuflection toward older theories of narrative. On the other hand, if the noble attempt at objectivity is worth preserving at all, then temporality itself - that being change of any caliber or significance, whether external or internal - must be the definitive standard. In that case, narratologists might wind up with less to talk about, but also - quite possibly - more 'significant' things to say.

In a basic sense, I suppose the real problem here is how to define "narrative" as the combination of "story" and "discourse". But that is precisely my point. If Herman's first point is a fair representation of "story", then what defines an "event"? The idea seems to be that story without discourse is supposed to be the objective part of a "narrative", but even the so-called "chronicle" undergirding a "history" represents a selection of past changes, judged as worthy of being significant events. An objective criteria, subjectively chosen, represents... well, what exactally? The lines don't blur so much as cease to exist.

There is no such thing as uninterpreted facts, and there is no "story" without a bit of subjectivity about "events". 

Or... is there?

All measurement is relative. Before standards can be instituted, we make countless individual comparisons. That aggregate experience is the basis for standardization. What is an inch? A mile? Even the metric system? Objectivity, according to standards, is based on the aggregate experience of multiple subjectivities. What makes 9/11 undeniably an "event" is not a conceptual matter. Our objective standard on this is as relative as all standards. Just as 6'11" is considered tall for a person, because of an aggregation of the relative perspectives of multiple subjects, 9/11 is significant precisely because it happened to be so impactful to a large number of individuals. In philosophical terms, one disruption is as good as another. In human terms, the number of people affected, or the aggregate number of effects, is what makes an "event" undeniably significant.

This illustration leads me to a suggestion which I plan to develop much more fully in the very near future.

All of time, all of change, all disruption, all events - indeed, all of human experience - is uniformly beyond the dichotomy of equilibrium and disruption. Between absolute zero and the Hiroshima catastrophe, there is an endless differentiation, a sliding scale of eventfulness. Every experience in life, according to some aspect or another of human existence, is an imperfect and indefinably measurable *mixture* of both continuities and contingencies. A continuous walk is a series of disruptive steps. One ongoing discussion is composed of countless interjections. A war, obviously, is only singular in conception, and in retrospect. Despite this confusion, this static-dynamic variability, I state repeatedly that all measurement is objective by an aggregation of subjective comparisons. Therefore, what makes some things "eventful" is both common sense and completely disputable. Some changes are more significant than others because, comparitively, some changes proliferate more aggressively. All rocks make rippes in the pond, but a larger rock creates more ripples. So, eventfulness remains subjective, but might be relatively objective depending on measurable impact. We cannot measure the size of the rock, which has gone underwater, but we can still see and estimate the distance and size of its ripples.

This is historical theory, but it can be applied to narrative also, I suspect.

At the moment, however, there is only one conclusion worth reaching, in the argument of this post. That is, simply, its title. Defining "narrative" is subjective, but "temporality" is not. Somewhere within that inescapable contrast, I suggest, narratologists face a decision. My personal hope would be to ground the inevitable subjectivity somehow in the aggregate of perspectives - to somehow approach a standardization of relative human experiences. Some contingent dynamics are more impactful than others. At any rate, even pending further ground work, this idea may still be too concrete at the moment for a discipline which remains largely captivated by "fiction", in 2014, but who knows? So much else could be said...

One last note for today:

Serendipitiously, it was just this weekend I came across Lakoff and Johnson's book, Philosophy in the Flesh. True to my interests, I went immediately to their discusison of time, very pleasantly surprised and a bit thrilled to find someone articulating so well that time is an idea. In their words, time is merely a word for a human concept, helpful and necessary but not a thing in itself. Time is a metaphor or a metonymy, but those who take the metaphor literally can get caugt up in "silliness". If Narratologists are going to define literature in terms of temporality, it might be good to realize where the metaphor of temporality ends and where the representation begins.

Which - finally - reminds me very happily of a precious gem in last year's Understanding Historical Fiction. In the chapter on irony, Hamish Dalley described "Time" as "a narrative effect whose ideological implications are often obscured when it is treated as a fact of nature". 


Go, now. Proceed, carry on, continue, persist, and make way...

But continue to self-narrativize on these things... 

July 18, 2014

Memory & Narrative, 5

Causality tends to be a central feature of memorable stories. To have a plot, to say that A led to B led to C, enhances the efficiency project by which narrative accomodates memory, because causality links A, B, and C into one unit, the connected backbone of a unified story. "I slipped, and I fell down, and I landed." Is that three events? Or is that one event? While details may be added (slipped on what? fell how far? landed which way?) the unmistakably contingent relationship of a slip, fall, and landing provides a mnemonic advantage in remembering this sequence as one story.

Causality, the memorable aspect of Plot, is a narrative device.

Causation, on the other hand, is a more dubious proposition.

The philosopher David Hume observed that perceiving cause & effect would enhance memorability, but ultimately refused to stipulate whether human beings were capable of absolutely delineating any actual cause. In other words, we might basically say, Causation is a matter of Physics and Causality is an aspect of Literature. That's okay for starters. But then, at the intersection of Science and Literature we find History.

In general, historians are well practiced at treating causation with a hefty dollop of dubiousness. We trust that causation exists, and deserves its proper due as we attempt to account for the past, but in narrating the causalities which might explain some historical transition, historians discuss context, conditions, and multiple causes. Like high school graduates who begin college Physics, we've learned that we *do* have to account for friction and wind resistance in reconstructing reasonable scenarios. Occam's razor is frequently found to be moot. When historians dig hard enough, we find causes multiplying, but not unnecessarily.

In short, historians deal with complexity. We make attempts to generalize, relativize and prioritize multiple causes. In the non-fiction narratives of professional historians, the plot is rarely oversimplified. Most historians do not reduce complex causes to categorical dependence on one factor. Cleopatra's beauty might have been one reason she wooed and won over Julius Caesar and Marc Antony, but it was not the only reason. A pretty face might have been one "necessary" cause for her bedding of two autocrats. It was not a "sufficient" enough cause to explain those relationships.

Historians are usually careful to build narratives that feature complex causality.

But Memory (collective, social, and personal) more often does quite the opposite.

In the popular memory of Abraham Lincoln, he single-handedly freed the American slaves. In some social group's memories of Ronald Reagan, he gets the almost full credit for ending the cold war. And so on. Elvis Presley started Rock and Roll. John F. Kennedy was elected because of TV. Yoko Ono broke up the Beatles. Mary Magdalene was a prostitute who married Jesus, or at least wanted to. True or false, these narratives all predominate in a significant bulk of the popular memory. What they all have in common is a simplified causality.

In narratological terms, the discourse proves to be less memorable than the story. (Or, the "fabula" proves to be more memorable than the detailed explanation of basic points in the plot line.) As Chatman saw, when presented with sequence, most readers perceive consequence, even if no consequence is implied. But Chatman and others put this effect down to familiarity with literature.

As I suspect you'll agree, this dynamic of imagining causation goes far beyond stories of literature.

It's been plausibly suggested that the largest religion of the world is actually superstition. If I do the right things in life, I'll get better parking spots at the grocery. If I yell at my sister, I might go to hell. Causality. Plot. Karma. Pennance. My sports team usually wins if I stay home and watch on TV. Mom got cancer so God could bring us closer together. We go through life looking for reasons and inventing those reasons more often than not. The most terrifying thing about Kafka's stories, observed E. H. Carr, was their complete lack of discernible causes. Nothing you do guarantees good fortune and bad people are not always punished. That's horrifying and disturbing. People prefer to think differently.

Aside from subconscious preference, however, I believe there are practical dynamics that encourage these types of perceptions to reach beyond short-term memory and become anchors of memorable stories.

The primary contentions of this series so far are (1) that memory requires efficiency, (2) that story is a phenomenon which reduces experience efficiently, and (3) that causality in particular is an excellent tool for maximizing efficient remembering.

What are some ways that causality focuses memory?

One of the most common historical fallacies is "post hoc, ergo propter hoc", but why is it so common? Hasn't it been beaten into us well enough? Why do so many of us still need to keep being reminded that B following A doesn't prove A caused B? The ubiquity of this fallacy, itself, requires some explanation.

Likewise, the "Great Man" theory of history is an overwhelmingly popular method of oversimplifying causality. It's a common mistake because it's a common perception. Not that it's strictly proper to describe any of this as a 'perception'.(*) At any rate, these are two common ways, that are causally based, by which people tend to mis-remember the past.

By the way... What if, instead of superstition and inflated causality being merely typical features of popular story-construction... What if it's somehow causality that's driving these memory processes? That is, instead of the human tendency to need "reasons for things" being a prima facie instinct from birth... What if our fixation on causality is something that became psychologically dominant only after our mnemonic needs allowed Plot do predominate our storied understanding of the world?(*)

(*)Note my "only after" makes this "necessary". I'm not claiming it to be sufficient. Causes usually are complex. At any rate, this sidebar is somewhat ancillary to my interests, so I've bumped some deeper thoughts about it to the bottom. See below.(*)

Let's not spend too much time asking why we ask why. That's one too many chicken/egg questions. Causality may have had a strong hand in developing Story - that is, the experience of cause and effect may be one reason we learned how to build stories(*) - but that's beyond my scope at the moment. The one thing I'm confident about is that causality is a primary factor in making stories more memorable.

That key idea is where I'm going to keep building this camp.

There's too much in the past, to remember it all. A story is a method for remembering efficiently. Causality is the most efficient kind of rememberable storying. We can observe patterns in the way causality serves as the focus of memories.

So far, so good?

In my next post, I plan to focus on more specific examples of how Memory tends to inflate "necessary causation" into "sufficient causality".

Anon, then...


Do these "misperceptions" of memory & story actually occur to our minds in the gestalt, as immediate perception? I don't think so. Although conventions of thinking accrue until we're eventually quite quick about perceiving occurrences and immediately placing them into pre-processed patterns of understanding, I think we have more grounds to see this as a two stage process no matter how quickly it happens. Furthermore, I must suppose each human child necessarily goes through the same process of developing a capacity for story-production - and this may also be the same process, in some ways, that ancient and/or prehistoric humans must have gone through in discovering narrative, so many ages ago.

Consider. We perceive things, those perceptions become short-term memories, and then we draw upon that material in constructing a story. At dinner you may be asked, "What did you do today?" The immediate (short-term) memories present themselves and you draw upon those in extemporaneously composing a ten second summary of your complex, multifaceted, twelve to fourteen hour long experience. Or, sometimes there's a particular anecdote which may be prepared and rehearsed for this dinner before arriving at home. In both cases, however, you necessarily take some moments to engage in a process of narrative composure, drawing upon the short term memories, which are based on recent perceptions of what we call your "lived experience".

You don't perceive life as a story immediately. You compose a story from memories.

As I said, this process may happen very quickly but I suspect it can only be profitably analyzed in this way, as a two stage process. Regardless, however, whatever it is that you do in those moments of composure, you construct a story by reduction as much or more than by positive "construction". You spent two hours at home depot. You narrate that in a few seconds. "Traffic was terrible." That's 45 minutes in three words. This is more than language. This is reduction, from memory, into story. The Memory comes first. The Story comes later.

At any rate, the manner and method in which you make these selections - the ways in which we build a personal story afresh by drawing from recent and/or immediate memories - that's a topic I may try to address more carefully in future posts of this series. Today, I'm just saying all that to lead up to what follows, now, here.

Regarding the issue of why we ask why, or why we fixate on reasons, or why we over-perceive "cause"...

Here is my initial hypothesis:

Aside from "efficient storying to accomodate memory", I do think there are two other significant factors which help explain our deep psychological interest in causality. One is that the ability to observe correlations in nature is a survival advantage, because natural correlations - things like seasons, sundown, storm clouds and high tide - often prove to be reliably predictable, and helpful indicators for knowing when to hunt, when to fish, when to store food, when to seek shelter, etc. Another key factor that explains our deeply felt need to express reasons for things is probably the legacy of primitive cultures in their emphasis on honor/shame. Causality enables survival and causality allows social judo, as we learn to influence others by giving credit and/or assigning blame. And of course, I may be missing other factors as well. These are two (or three) of the big ones.

However, even within these two big dynamics - survival and honor/shame - my basic thesis may not be unrelated.

If causality enables memorability in storying, it may be that discovering causality through nature's correlative aspects was a key factor that helped teach human beings how to create stories in our earliest existence. More directly, the process of forming predictions is, itself, a kind of narrative construction. A story is built by considering memories. Many times the hunting was better when the men began before dawn, but a "pattern" is not what gets formed in the mind. First, the memories accumulate. Second, a consistent sequence is observed. Third, a causal relationship is entertained. From that kind of experience - inflating sequence into consequence - it may be that causality was first "invented". Fourth, the causality enabled a simplified storying - the sequence simplified into one plot point. "Kill deer before dawn." The implied story, expanded: "When we go out before dawn, we're better at killing deer." Or something like that!

At any rate, that early process of forming predictions was probably a construction of narrative from short-term memories of lived experience. Likewise, the effective consignment of honor and shame requires a construction of narrative, based on remembered perceptions. Finally, the experience of conveying honor and shame taught, in turn, that inflicting a social judgment could itself produce certain social effects.

But try to think about these dynamics in their most original developing. Did human beings learn how to give credit and assign blame before or after we learned how to construct stories worth sharing with others? Did human beings learn how to anticipate causes (predict natural occurrences) before or after we learned how to narrate stories with cause & effect?

My guess would be that observing nature is what taught us to predict consequence based on correlation. The second development would be that predicting cause & effect was a key factor in teaching us how to tell stories. Third, our budding story-ability was soon applied to effect honor/shame classifications. It must have been a strange day when people first figured out that shaming someone could produce more social power than merely hitting somebody. But at this point, I'm far beyond the bounds of my inquiry.

One final note: if someone would protest my prioritizing above on the basis that non-human animals are well able to shame and defer to one another, I would counter-argue that animal behavior of such type tends to rely upon physical dominance. In contrast, the classical formulation of honor/shame culture tends to focus on personal agency, giving credit and locating blame, which is causality, which requires a sense of causality and the ability to narrate these concepts. So for this hypothesis, I'll keep honor/shame confidently in third place. My guess is that we observed causality in nature, learned how to tell stories with plots, and then began using our narrative abilities to win social battles - in that particular order. But if the ongoing development of these three trends was actually somewhat parallel, I'd still guess the origin of each process first arose 1-2-3, as I've listed them here.

Or maybe something like that...

July 13, 2014

Memory & Narrative, 4

Stories, like maps, always bear some distortion. A key difference, however, is that maps are generally made very carefully on paper, by teams with specialized research and tools, whereas stories were first invented at a time when human beings were still 99 to 100% reliant on conversation and memory. Genesis says Abraham built a pillar of stones to commemorate meeting God. That represents, I suppose, someone’s early attempt at an ode or a sonnet. Stones aren't literature, but such stones could do one thing that we might call "literary". Stones could anchor a story.

Today's post is about how we use major plot points as the mnemonic anchors of stories, and how well those anchor points do or don't hold together, from generation to generation.

In post #3, on causality/plot, I suggested that stories sometimes or often embrace distortion on purpose, to enhance memorability. If we decide the queen died of bereavement, that causality embeds sequence and coherence. An entire story can be remembered in one plot point. In contrast, “The king died and the queen died” requires an additional super structure to produce memorability. Without causality, we would need to remember the two facts, plus their sequence, plus (somehow) that these two facts make one story. Therefore, it seems one reason we imagine causes and inflate the importance of minor causes, or overstate their significance, is simply and fundamentally because plot is a thing that improves our ability to remember a story.

This may also explain why Narratologist Mieke Bal can define “fabula” as the remembered outline of a story. Just as the storyteller constructs a reduced model of real life, most often including a plot, the listener takes away a reduced version of that told story, and what gets remembered most strongly by the listener afterwards - especially long afterwards - is usually reduced to the plot.

Coincidentally or not, this process also happens to parallel – albeit in reverse – the precise method in which Hayden White pointed out that historians typically work. Beginning with a chronicle of ordered events, the historian must narrate (or “emplot”) her account of what she believes actually (or at least probably) transpired. Whether benevolent or deceitful, the historian’s task is to relate how things advanced in their state “from point A to point B”, and in order to do this she constructs a plausible narrative. In this act of calculated narration, the historian combines "story" with "discourse" (Chatman) and necessarily employs some degree of artistic license in deliberate creativity, perhaps all the while seeking but never obtaining complete objectivity. 

The historian is therefore very much like a cartographer (the preferred metaphor of John Lewis Gaddis) who carefully draws out blue lines next to green and brown patches, artfully distorting some aspects of reality to present other aspects more objectively. By mixing artistry with semi-scientific precision, the historian selects which elements of her story must allow some distortion, hopefully better allowing her to elucidate that which most requires explanation, definition, or simply careful delineation.

While this paradox of artistry and objectivity has gradually (mercifully) become less prohibitive to actual historiographical practice since White’s heyday in the 70’s and 80’s (thanks, partly, to scholars like Arthur Danto, Frank Ankersmit and the aforementioned Gaddis), I think one recurring phenomenon which bears further scrutiny is to ask why the historian’s chronicle is so similar to the narratologist’s fabula.

Plot improves or encapsulates story memorability. Plot underlays and supports narrative construction. Plot is the 'story' to which an historian adds 'discourse'.

Plot is a tool of Story to accommodate Memory. Plot is an essence of Memory that engenders reStorying. Plot is often both the origin and the artifact of Narrative.

In the historiographical sense, what I find most fascinating is that the historian typically (necessarily?) inherits her basic plot points, the infamous “point A” and “point B”, and yet for all her narrative emplotment what the audience is most likely to remember will once more be reduced to those original plot points, the only part of the story, traditionally, which the historian did not strictly emplot. No matter how creatively the historian might script and construct the developments that make up her discourse, her explanation of the journey between points A and B, the inevitable mnemonic fabula to be taken away by the reader has a strong likelihood of retaining a tight relationship to the basic chronicle underlying it all.

Did O.J. Simpson kill his wife? That's still debated, but it sure looked like he did, and that's what everyone remembers most vividly. The image of that white bronco was replayed because it encapsulated the perception of causality. He fled, implying either that he killed her or that he was afraid it would look like he killed her. You and I get to decide. But as long as we remember and re-tell different versions of that story, the basic plot points are going to remain stable, within all variations. (Hat tip to Anthony Le Donne.)

For a better example, consider Spielberg’s movie Lincoln, which reproduced the essence of Doris Kearn’s Goodwin’s Team of Rivals, which offered DKG’s explanation of why America needed the Thirteenth Amendment to abolish slavery, even though father Abraham had already proclaimed emancipation two full years previously. If you read Goodwin’s book or saw Spielberg’s movie, I’ll bet two nickels that your strongest recollection of the History being relayed was the basic plot line: that there was still a need, after Emancipation, for the Ammendment. 

Whether Goodwin’s emplotment is the ideal narrativization which best explains that historical progression is a reasonable subject of debate, but the fact that she bothers to make such a strong argument is precisely what tells us that some explanation is necessary. That leads, epistemologically, to a strong confidence in accepting the historicity of her inherited plot points. Since she’s taking such pains to explain how we got from emancipation (point A) to the Amendment (point B), there must surely have been some progression of time between those two events.

The eventual fabula of Goodwin's narrative, the basic 'story' we remember most of all afterwards, either mimics exactly or reduces very nearly to the original chronicle of major turning points with which Doris Kearns Goodwin began her writing project in the first place - that there was an ongoing process of political development from war-time emancipation to constitutional abolition. [That chronicle gives the "necessary causality" which Goodwin expounds upon (or emplots) for "sufficient causality".] By themselves, those two points are the essence, the plot, the chronology, the major facts, and the 'story' within the 'discourse' of Goodwin and Spielberg's respective literary and film versions of Goodwin's original narrative. For that matter, the same fabula becomes the underlying chronicle for the next historian or filmmaker or arm-chair historian who decides to construct any competing emplotment. [A different writer may otherwise define the sufficient causation, but the newly emplotted narrative remains dependent on the original anchor points of necessary causation.]

The chronicle, the fabula, the plot, is what holds up most consistently in all versions of a story, like a well known part of our past. [There will be variation, but I contend Plot, or to be more precise, the underlying points of some alternate plots, is a key source for identifying the mnemonic stability of all versions.]

Now, please consider again the relationship between Memory and Narrative.

When human storying began – say, roughly, in ancient and/or prehistoric times – there was little or no “literature” being used to record narratives. Men like Abraham could build pillars of rocks. Men like Pharoah could put their face on those rocks. Hieroglyphics and statues and temples and some customs could provide cultural monuments and artifacts that served to anchor repetitive storytelling, but those objects and customs could not re-tell those stories all by themselves. Again, there was what scholars of orality and memory refer to as "variation and stability". At any rate, however, for as long as it took any given tribe, clan, society, or nation to develop feasible methods of literature, each generation of that people-group needed some way to tell and re-tell, to remember those stories. 

We know the physical anchors of story proved helpful. [As did the customary aspects, the dramatically performative habits of cultural traditionalizing.] At some point, Plot also became an anchoring phenomenon. As did other patterns of literary convention - for instance, Character, Conflict, Setting, and Theme. Along with Plot, of course, these are the five elementary components of stories. Each can serve as a mnemonic anchor. Plot just so happens to serve my purposes best at the moment. There is much else to consider.

For now, let's return to the ancient development of these story conventions. Across eons, human beings remembered in order to re-tell. They also re-told in order to remember. But which was the chicken? And which was the egg?

Eventually, conventions of storytelling were developed by oral cultures, which is why Narratology was born from the studies of folklore [Russian Formalism], but if there are any deep structures in today’s conventions of storytelling and narrative, those conventions were formed looooong ago, and their origin belongs to a time when memory and narrative were verrrrrry closely related. But why are memory and narrative so completely intertwined?

My suggestion remains.

The primary problem with remembering the past is that there's too much of it. We require efficiency.

Therefore, Story was invented primarily to accommodate the nature and limitations of Memory.

If this is basically true, it has very deep ramifications.

Here is one possible application.

Consider how the historian's chronicle must contend with an audience's fabula(s), the mnemonic plot points (essentially) remembered* from previously received histories.

Suppose that any Historian who embarks on a public writing project should fail from the outset at consdering what her reading audience is likely to think they remember. Such a project would, arguably, not deserve to be called History. Furthermore, it would not likely win much public approval, much less survive long as literature.

A fair percentage of Goodwin and Spielberg’s U.S. audiences had been told that Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation is the way he freed the slaves. That "fact" certainly gets repeated ad nauseum in elementary, middle and high schools. The "great man" did the big change. But what we failed to remember as clearly was at least printed in the backs of our textbooks, that there was a 13th Amendment written into the constitution. That "plot point" was always apparent, or available for review, except that later generations had collapsed these two points, forgetting the less dramatic (legislation) and re-telling the most compelling (savior motif). The story of slavery's end had embraced distortion to simplify causation, to enhance memorability. 

Deliberate Forgetting is like literary editing, still a big part of what makes remembering efficient.

Deliberate or accidental, or both, American audiences didn’t remember as clearly that Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation wasn’t quite the outlawing of all slavery in America, which is why Hayden White would bless DKG's good sense of proper historical irony! But simply via the perspective of Memory Theory, all this distortion makes perfect sense because that’s what memory is like! Human knowledge about the past, held in human minds, is liable to suffer from all kinds of adjustment. This means not just the distortion of careful historians, who narrate deliberately, working much like cartographers, but the more common experience by far of the natural distortion we all share in human remembering. The fact is that what human beings really do when we think we remember - what memory really does - is a bit different than what we tend to think memory does.

The historian's inherited chronicle cannot always dictate the eventual fabula, but the basic Plot of a History is usually constrained by whatever the current mnemonic impressions might be. The historian-storyteller can "emplot" sufficient causality on top of the necessary causes - because Point A is always a necessary predecessor of Point B - but the historian-storyteller goes most easily awry by failing to address the basic contingencies of an Historical past, in posterity (so to speak), or in the audience's collective, social and or cultural memory. We write History to update or adjust public perception, but we do so against the backdrop of whatever makes up the public's current view of the past.

John Lewis Gaddis: "I would go so far as to define the word 'context' as the dependency of sufficient causes upon necessary causes." In the actual past, real causation works precisely as Gaddis says here. In the actual past, "Context" is the situation of a time. But in the narrated past, context also takes on the wrinkles of memory. The author may define sufficient causes only by depending on the audience's grasp of necessary causes. The context of historical narrative is what an audience thinks they remember of the historical past.

As I say, this is one possible application of all this. There is much more to consider.

Stories distort, sometimes even on purpose, and stories interact with the distortions of previous storying.

Story accomodates Memory, but Historians must grapple with audience memory, first and foremost.

To be continued...

July 12, 2014

Memory & Narrative, 3

We design stories to accommodate mnemonic limitations. We pass on stories that are especially memorable, or ones we hope will at least be "remember-able". We tell stories to impress an audience, to upload our point of view into their personal memory by anchoring a poetic effect to the basic elements of one particular story. But whether or not the nature and limits of memory is what explains how and why human storying developed, it does seem to be these mnemonic concerns have definitely influenced the way narratives take shape and the kinds of things most stories contain.

For today's example, consider Plot, also known as Causality. My thesis here is quite simple:

Plot became a big part of stories and history because plot helps us remember the past more efficiently.

We begin with the literature. It's well established that most written narratives are dominated by plot. The other four basic elements of all stories - character, conflict, setting, and theme - are often determined by plot, or at least revolve entirely around plot. While different plots might bend more towards motive or mayhem, combining personal intentions and cosmic accidents in a series of dependent contingencies, it remains true in all cases that the central element of plot - that being causality - is so ingrained within narrative that literary scholars debate whether narrative is best defined by causality.

E. M. Forster defined plot as the connected causalities within a story. Similarly, Ricoeur said plot is a story's cohesion, the coordination of causes, intentions, and accidents. In short, plot is sequence plus explanation.

Please note, that explanation isn't always what people like to call accurate or true. Nevertheless, whether real or imagined, causality makes a story cohere. All stories are "sticky", but causality seems the most sticky by far.

In Forster's famous example, Story A - "The king died and then the queen died" - is a story with two events, told in chronological sequence. In contrast, Story B - "The king died and then the queen died of grief" - is a story that features a plot. But in Powell's words, "Chatman pushes Forster's argument a step further. The principle of causation is so strong in literature [that] the reader expects it and will in fact infer it when it is not stated." Thus, Forster's first example, "The king died and then the queen died" will most likely imply causality in the minds of the audience.

I agree with this tendency, but Mark Allen Powell and Seymour Chatman seem to put the effect down to long term conditioning. Are we likely to insert causality into a story simply because we're used to seeing causality in other stories, primarily in literature? This seems doubtful, for obvious reasons.

Why do readers infer causality where causation was not implied? While we're at it, what makes people so superstitious in personal experience? You put on a blue shirt, and then your team wins the game. The instinct to conflate sequence and consequence is so strong in most people that we can't be satisfied leaving this inquiry to the realm of literature proper. But with lots more to say about this point in future posts, I have to keep this post on the main topic if possible:

How might causality help illustrate the relationship between memory and narrative?

In earlier posts, I've suggested that conventions of storying are primarily shaped by the limitations of human remembering. If that's true at all then Forster's illustration deserves a mnemonic analysis, aided perhaps by a rudimentary pinch of information theory as well.

In order to memorize Forster's first story, as rendered, there are four points of information which must be recalled.
  1. the king died
  2. the queen died
  3. the two deaths now make one story
  4. the king died first (or, the queen died second)
However, by introducing causality, in Forster's second story, there is now only half as many details that require remembering.
  1. the queen died
  2. because the king died
The reason this shrinks so dramatically is quite simple. Since causality implies both connectedness and order, causality facilitates a more efficient remembering of these multiple details as one story. One simple "because" embeds cause, sequence and coherence, all in a stroke.

In Story A, nothing stipulates why these two events should even be mentioned together. Why is this not two separate stories? (Thus, argue some, narrative may not be defined without causality.) Furthermore, Story A gives us no implicit way to remember whether the king or the queen was the one who died first. (And narrative without causality is defined by event sequence, or "temporality".)

How can the non-causal story have any chance of being remembered? As these lists hopefully show, it takes at least twice as much mental doing. Story B has order and coherence built into each information point by the nature of plot. Story A has order and coherence only by attaching a super-structure to the original remembrances. (By the way, sometimes structuralist theories seem to me like all chicken, no egg. But now I really digress.)

David Hume perhaps said it first and later researchers have observed it for decades, not least within pedagogy & educational psychology. People remember stories better when there's causality involved.

Until now, however, I've always heard this explained as if causality just happens to aid memory, a fortunate fact which still appears to be true any practical teaching perspective. From another angle, today, I have to say I suspect the inverse is even more true. I believe memory is what pushes us towards causality.

Memory theorists have showed that memory distortion is often affected by story construction. My view is that our conventions of story construction often embrace that distortion for the sake of memorability.

It's the nature and limitations of remembering that create such a need for us to perceive sequence as consequence. By inflating "post hoc" to "propter hoc", we embed both sequence and connectedness. Stories become more easily "remember-able". Otherwise, how could we ever remember so much of the past?

As I said in post #1, the primary problem with remembering the past is that there's simply far too much to remember. Efficiency must be a part of the process. And causality accommodates efficient remembering.

And yet, there is much more to consider...

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"If I have ever made any valuable discoveries, it has been owing more to patient observation than to any other reason."

-- Isaac Newton