Narratology - A Guide to the Theory of Narrative.doc

(522 KB) Pobierz
Narratology: A Guide to the Theory of Narrative

Narratology: A Guide to the Theory of Narrative
Manfred Jahn

Full reference: Jahn, Manfred. 2003. Narratology: A Guide to the Theory of Narrative. Part III of Poems, Plays, and Prose: A Guide to the Theory of Literary Genres. English Department, University of Cologne.
Version: 1.7.
Date: 28 July 2003
This page: http://www.uni-koeln.de/~ame02/pppn.htm
Project introductory page: http://www.uni-koeln.de/~ame02/ppp.htm
Email: Manfred.Jahn@Uni-Koeln.de. (Comments and questions of common interest will be published on this project's questions and answer page pppq.htm.)
Homepage: http://www.uni-koeln.de/~ame02/

To facilitate global indexing, all paragraphs in this section are labeled 'N' for 'narratology'. If you quote from this document, use paragraph references (e.g., N5.4) rather than page numbers.

Contents
N1. Getting started
N2. The narratological framework
     N2.1 Background and basics
     N2.2. Narrative genres
     N2.3. Narrative communication
     N2.4. Narrative Levels
N3. Narration, Focalization, and Narrative Situations
     N3.1. Narration (voice)
     N3.2. Focalization (mood)
     N3.3. Narrative situation
N4. Action, story analysis, tellability
N5. Tense, Time, and Narrative Modes
     N5.1. Narrative Tenses
     N5.2. Time Analysis
     N5.3. Narrative Modes
N6. Setting and fictional space
N7. Characters and Characterization
N8. Discourses: representations of speech, thought and consciousness
N9. A Case Study: Alan Sillitoe's "The Fishing Boat Picture"
N10. References.


N1. Getting started

This chapter builds a toolbox of basic narratological concepts and shows how to put it to work in the analysis of fiction. The definitions are based on a number of classical introductions -- specifically, Genette (1980 [1972]; 1988 [1983], key terms: voice, homo- and heterodiegetic, focalization); Chatman (1978, key terms: overtness, covertness), Lanser (1981; key terms: voice, human limitation, omniscience); Stanzel (1984, key terms: narrative situation, authorial, figural, reflector), and Bal (1985, key term: focalizer). In the later chapters of this script, the toolbox will serve as an organizational framework for contextualizing a large number of more specific terms and concepts.

N1.1. Normally, the literature department of a bookshop is subdivided into sections that reflect the traditional genres -- Poetry, Drama, and Fiction. The texts that one finds in the Fiction department are novels and short stories (short stories are usually published in an anthology or a collection). In order to facilitate comparison, all passages quoted in the following are taken from the first chapters of novels. Thus, as a side effect, this section will also be a survey of representative incipits (beginnings). Hey, that's one technical term out of the way already.

The foregoing decision to generalize from a single text type is motivated by purely practical reasons. There is nothing logical or necessary about it; indeed, many theorists prefer to kick off with more "basic" types of narratives, real-world narratives such as anecdotes, news reports, etc., and then work their way "up" to fiction. Here, however, I suggest doing it the other way round. Novels are an extremely rich and varied medium: everything you can find in other types of narrative you find in the novel; most of what you find in the novel you can find in other types of narrative, whether in nonfiction, natural narrative, drama, film, etc. So, let's go to the bookshelf, get out a few novels, open them on page 1, and see what we can do to get an analytical grip on them.

N1.2. First we must define narrative itself. What are the main ingredients of a narrative? What must a narrative have for it to count as narrative? For a simple answer let us say that all narratives have a story. But let us immediately add two additional requirements: (1) any kind of story is not enough; let us stipulate that a story must have an action which involves characters; and (2) let us also assume that all stories come with a story-teller. Actually, our preferred term for a story-teller will be 'narrator'. A narrative has a story based on an action caused and experienced by characters, and a narrator who tells it. Indeed, this getting started section will mainly focus on narrators and characters.

N1.3. In a real-life face-to-face narrative situation, we have a narrator who is a flesh-and-blood person, somebody who sees us, somebody whom we can see and hear. But what do we know of a textual narrator when all we get is lines of print? Can such a narrator have a voice, and if so, how can it become manifest in a text? Consider our first excerpt, from the beginning of J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye (first published 1951).

Chapter One

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have about two haemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They are nice and all -- I'm not saying that -- but they are also touchy as hell. Besides, I'm not going to tell you my whole goddamn autobiography or anything. I'll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me around last Christmas before I got pretty run-down and had to come out here and take it easy. (Salinger, Catcher in the Rye 5)

Even though we cannot actually see or hear the narrator, the text contains a number of elements that project the narrator's voice. Clearly, it is not very hard to read out the passage and give it an appropriate intonation. The characteristic voice projected from the text seems to be voice of a teenage boy, for instance. (If you are familiar with the text you know that the narrator, Holden Caulfield, is actually seventeen.) Much the same happens when you read an email from a friend and her voice projects from some typical expressions -- you can almost "hear her speak"). We will say that all novels project a narrative voice, some more distinct, some less, some to a greater, some to a lesser degree. Because a text can project a narrative voice we will also refer to the text as a narrative discourse. (One of the narratological key texts is Genette 1972, a study entitled Narrative Discourse; another is Chatman 1978, Story and Discourse. So, we are evidently right on target.) We focus our attention on a novel's narrative voice by asking Who speaks? Obviously, the more information we have on a narrator, the more concrete will be our sense of the quality and distinctness of his or her voice.

N1.4. Which textual elements in particular project a narrative voice? Here is an (incomplete) list of the kinds of 'voice markers' to look out for:

·         Content matter -- obviously, there are appropriate voices for sad and happy, comic and tragic subjects (though precise type of intonation never follows automatically). It is clear, however, that the phrasing "my parents would have about two haemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them" (in the passage qtd above) uses a characteristically vocal rhetoric of exaggeration.

·         Subjective expressions -- expressions (or 'expressivity markers') that indicate the narrator's education, his/her beliefs, convictions, interests, values, political and ideological orientation, attitude towards people, events, and things. In Salinger's text, we do not only get an idea about the narrator's age and background, his discourse is full of value judgments, terms of endearment, disparagement, and expletives. In the passage quoted he calls his parents "nice and all" (the word "nice" is rendered as italicized emphasis); he does not want to write a "goddamn autobiography", he alludes to "all that crap" and the "madman stuff" that happened to him, and so on.

·         Pragmatic signals -- expressions that signal the narrator's awareness of an audience and the degree of his/her orientation towards it. Storytelling, like speaking in general, takes place in a communicative setting comprising a speaker and an audience (or, a bit more generally, in order to account for written communication as well, an addresser and an addressee).

N1.5. Further on pragmatic signals. In the Salinger passage, the narrator frequently addresses an addressee using the second person pronoun ("you"). Although this is exactly what we expect in ordinary conversational storytelling, if you look (and listen) closely, you will notice that Holden treats his addressee more as an imagined entity than as somebody who is bodily present. For instance, he is careful to say "if you really want to hear about it [...] you'll probably want to know". This rather sounds as if he is addressing somebody whom he does not know very closely. Nor does the addressee actually say anything. At this point, we cannot tell whether Holden has a particular addressee in mind, or whether he addresses a more general, perhaps merely hypothetical audience. "You" could be either singular or plural. Some critics assume that Holden's addressee is a psychiatrist, and "here", the place where he can "take it easy" after all that "madman stuff", might well refer to a mental hospital. Frankly, I have forgotten whether the question is ever resolved in the novel. Whatever the answer, it is obvious that it can make a difference in principle whether the narrative is uttered as a private or a public communication, to a present or an absent audience.

N1.6. Oddly enough, there is one specific audience that neither Holden Caulfield nor any other narrator in fiction can ever be concretely aware of, and that is us, the audience of real readers. We read Salinger's novel, not Holden's; as a matter of fact, Holden isn't writing a novel at all, he is telling a tale of personal experience. The novel's text projects a narrative voice, but the text's narrator is temporally, spatially, and ontologically distant from us. Ontologically distant means he belongs to a different world, a fictional world. Fictional means invented, imaginary, not real. The narrator, his/her addressee, the characters in the story -- all are fictional beings. Put slightly differently, Holden Caulfield is just a 'paper being' (Barthes) invented by Salinger, the novel's author. And again, Salinger's novel is a novel about somebody telling a story of personal experience; Holden's story is the story of that personal experience.

Just as it is a good idea not to confuse a narrator (Holden, a fictional being) with the author (Salinger, the real person who earned money on the novel), we must not confuse a fictional addressee (the text's "you") with ourselves, the real readers. Holden cannot possibly address us because he does not know we exist. Conversely, we cannot talk to Holden (unless we do it in our imagination) because we know he does not exist. By contrast, the relationship between us and authors is real enough. We can write them a letter, we can ask them to sign our copy (if they are still alive). Even when they are dead, readers who appreciate their work ensure their lasting reputation. There are no such points of contact with Holden. The closest analogy to a real-life scenario is when we read a message which was not intended for our eyes, or when we overhear a conversation whose participants are unaware of the fact that we are (illicitly) listening in. Fiction, one might say, offers the gratification of eavesdropping with impunity.


kommlev1.gif
N1.7. What we have just established is the standard structure of fictional narrative communication. Participants and levels are usually shown in a 'Chinese boxes' model. Basically, communicative contact is possible between (1) author and reader on the level of nonfictional communication, (2) narrator and audience or addressee(s) on the level of fictional mediation, and (3) characters on the level of action. The first level is an 'extratextual level'; levels two and three are 'intratextual'.

N1.8. The beginning of Salinger's novel projects quite a distinctive narrative voice. Other novels project other kinds of voices, and sometimes it may be quite difficult to pinpoint their exact quality. What, for instance, do you make of the following incipit to James Gould Cozzens's A Cure of Flesh (first published 1933)?

ONE

THE snowstorm, which began at dawn on Tuesday, February 17th, and did not stop when darkness came, extended all over New England. It covered the state of Connecticut with more than a foot of snow. As early as noon, Tuesday, United States Highway No. 6W, passing through New Winton, had become practically impassable. Wednesday morning the snow-ploughs were out. Thursday was warmer. The thin coat of snow left by the big scrapers melted off. Thursday night the wind went around west while the surface dried. Friday, under clear, intensely cold skies, US6W's three lane concrete was clear again from Long Island Sound to the Massachusetts line. (Cozzens, A Cure of Flesh 5)

Contrast this narrative discourse to the narrative discourse that we heard in Salinger's text. The Salinger passage gave us plenty of information about the pragmatic parameters of the narrative situation: there was an addressee (a "you") who was spoken to, we had rich indications of the narrator's language and emotional constitution. None of this is to be found in the present passage. Knowing the rest of the novel, I can tell you that we will never learn the narrator's name, he* will never use the first-person pronoun (that is, will never refer to himself), and he will never directly speak to his addressee. Yet we can recognize well enough that this is a narrator who begins his narrative with an intelligible exposition of the setting of the story. This is a text which has a function and a purpose and therefore projects a purposeful voice. As a matter of fact, it is difficult to imagine somebody speaking or writing without using any style at all (we will come to such a case, however). In ordinary circumstances, at any rate, one is required to speak 'co-operatively' (as pragmaticists put it) -- one selects expressions that are suitable to the purpose in hand, and suitable expressions rely on assumptions about possible readers, their informative needs, intellectual capabilities, interests, etc. Speaking, we do that all the time, or at any rate ought to. Approaching the matter from this angle, one can see that Cozzens's narrator presents a sequence of concise and carefully worded statements which very adequately serve a reader's needs. Reading the passage out loud we'd probably give it a neutral or matter-of-fact voice. But, of course, a matter-of-fact voice is definitely more than no voice at all. At the same time, compared to Holden's voice, this narrator's voice is notably less distinctive.

* Lanser's rule (N3.1.3.) will be observed throughout -- if the narrator is nameless, I will use a pronoun that is appropriate for the real-life author. Cozzens is a male author; hence I refer to the covert narrator in the passage as "he".

N1.9. Having established the foregoing difference in distinctiveness, the audibility of a narrative voice is best understood as being a matter of degrees. In fact, following Chatman (1978), narrative theorists often use the oppositional pair overtness and covertness to characterize a narrative voice, adding whichever qualification or gradation is needed. Narrators can be more or less overt, and more or less covert. Both Holden Caulfield and Cozzens's anonymous narrator are overt narrators, but Holden is clearly the more overt of the two.

Covert narrators, now, must clearly have a largely indistinct or indeterminable voice. Although we have yet to meet covert narration as a phenomenon, let us briefly speculate on how it might be possible at all. By simply inverting our definition of overtness, we can say that a covert narrator must be an inconspicuous and indistinct narrator -- a narrator who fades into the background, perhaps, one who camouflages him- or herself, who goes into hiding. What hiding strategies are there? Obviously, one can try not to draw attention to oneself -- hence a narrator who wishes to stay covert will avoid the first-person pronoun, will also avoid a loud or striking voice, and will also avoid any of the pragmatic or expressivity markers mentioned in N1.4. One can also hide behind something; if all else fails, one can hide behind someone. (Keep this in mind; it will get us somewhere.)

N1.10. So far we have been talking about a narrator's voice as projected by textual expressions signaling emotion, subjectivity, pragmatics, rhetoric, etc. Let us now turn to the question of the narrator's relationship to his or her story, more specifically, the question whether the narrator is present or absent in it. (The narrative types that we are going to identify here are said to be based on the 'relation criterion'). Using common terms, we know that any author of fiction (anybody who tells a story, actually) must decide on one of two basic options: whether to present a first-person narrative or a third-person narrative. Considerable debate has raged among theorists about the suitability of these terms, and while 'first-person narrative' is still widely used (we, too, will use it presently), the term third-person narrative has generally been recognized to be misleading. In the following I will therefore adopt the terms suggested by Genette (1972) -- homodiegetic narrative (= roughly, first-person narrative) and heterodiegetic narrative (= third-person narrative). Diegetic here means 'pertaining to narrating'; homo means 'of the same nature', and hetero means 'of a different nature'. The detailed definitions are as follows:

·         In a homodiegetic narrative, the story is told by a (homodiegetic) narrator who is present as a character in the story. The prefix 'homo-' points to the fact that the individual who acts as a narrator is also a character on the level of action.

·         In a heterodiegetic narrative, the story is told by a (heterodiegetic) narrator who is not present as a character in the story. The prefix 'hetero-' alludes to the 'different nature' of the narrator's world as compared to the world of the action.

N1.11. Usually (but not always, and that is a major theoretical problem), Genette's two categorical types correlate with a text's use of first-person and third-person pronouns -- I, me, mine, we, us, our, etc., as opposed to he, she, him, her, they, their, etc. In fact, there is quite a good rule of thumb (but it is only a rule of thumb) to the effect that:

·         a text is homodiegetic if among its story-related action sentences there are some that contain first-person pronouns (I did this; I saw this; this was what happened to me), indicating that the narrator was at least a witness to the events depicted;

·         a text is heterodiegetic if all of its story-related action sentences are third-person sentences (She did this, this was what happened to him).

In yet other words, in order to determine the 'relation' type of a narrative, one must check for the presence or absence of an 'experiencing I' in the story's plain action sentences. Note well, the expression 'plain, story-related action sentence' refers to sentences which present an event involving the characters in the story. For instance, "He jumped from the bridge" (= willful action), and "She fell from the bridge" (= involuntary action), and "I said, 'Hello'" (= speech act) are all plain action sentences. By contrast, "Here comes the sad part of our story", and "It was a dark and stormy night" (i.e., a comment and a description) are not plain action sentences.

Novels make use of many types of sentences, and not all of them are plain action sentences -- for instance, descriptions, quotations, comments, etc., are not. Indeed, as we have already seen, many novels begin with an exposition-oriented prologue (a 'block exposition'), introducing characters and setting, often via descriptive statements. While such prologues tell us a lot about the quality of the narrative voice (cp. the Salinger and the Cozzens passages above), they do not necessarily tell us whether the narrative is going to be homodiegetic or heterodiegetic. It is only when the story itself gets going, employing proper action sentences as defined above, that we get into a position to judge whether the narrator is present or absent as an acting character in the story. Actually, sometimes we have to wait quite a while until we get the full picture of which characters are involved in what ways. Sooner or later, however, a narrator's relation to his or her story should be a decidable question.

N1.12. We have, of course, already discussed a homodiegetic passage, namely Salinger's Catcher in the Rye (if you recall, this is a story about "what happened to me"). At this point, however, an incipit which, for the reasons just mentioned, is a bit more action-oriented can serve as a more straightforward case. Here is the beginning of Margaret Drabble's The Millstone (published 1965).

My career has always been marked by a strange mixture of confidence and cowardice: almost, one might say, made by it. Take for instance, the first time I tried spending a night with a man in a hotel. I was nineteen at the time, an age appropriate for such adventures, and needless to say I was not married. I am still not married, a fact of some significance, but more of that later. The name of the boy, if I remember rightly, was Hamish. I do remember rightly. I really must try not to be deprecating. Confidence, not cowardice, is the part of myself which I admire, after all.

     Hamish and I had just come down from Cambridge at the end of the Christmas term: we had conceived our plan well in advance [...]. (Margaret Drabble, The Millstone 5)

...

Zgłoś jeśli naruszono regulamin