The missing Omniscient Narrator: Part One
In which I pose all kinds of questions about the M.I.A. omniscient narrator and offer no answers... yet.
Happy weekend, everyone!
If you are reading this from somewhere in the U.S., I hope you are warm and cozy and have power. The winter storms careening across the country have left stunning winter views, and millions without power. I hope you are not one of those without power. If you are, I hope you are able to be somewhere warm in the meantime.
Last week I wrote about a story’s narrative distance and the strategy behind it; and how understanding these things is important for discerning the story’s ultimate concerns. This, in turn, directly links to the author’s ultimate concerns.
I also wrote last week that it’s impossible to talk about narrative distance without discussing the omniscient narrator. Which, in turn, is impossible to discuss without wondering about the M.I.A. omniscient narrator in stories written from the mid-20th century on.
Author, Christopher Castellani, explains the move away from the omniscient narrator like this:
At the risk of being reductive, I think it’s say the consensus on the matter is that, in Western literature, the omniscient narrator is too old-fashioned for a fractured world that distrusts authority, has abandoned God, and has little faith in any absolute truth put forth by an individual. Over the past century, as fiction itself has ceded much of its authority to film, television, and the Internet, the credibility of the writer—the novelist in particular—has grown increasingly suspect. The question goes: Who is she to speak for anyone or anything other than herself and her own experience?
And so the consensus goes, relatively few writers dare to take on a godlike omniscience in their work. (The Art of Perspective, p. 66)
This seems pretty straight-forward to me.
It also feels a little tragic.
And also, a little bit like walking on thin ice in terms of discussing some of the questions swirling around it.
As Castellini suggests above, tangled up in the missing omniscient narrator issue are issues of religion; the eroding trust in the institution—from the church all the way down to the family; late-modernity’s suspicion of ultimate claims on truth, goodness, and beauty; and, as a result, elevating personal experience as the ultimate arbitrator of the aforementioned (“my truth,” “if it feels right, it is good,” and “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”) to the same devotional heights that religious faith was once held.
People have opinions on these things. They tend to be strong.
Though I’m fascinated by the cultural and societal movements that lead to the M.I.A omniscient narrator, I’m more interested in the benefits and/or limits of the omniscient narrator for today’s readers. I’m interested in how a novel with multiple narrators telling the story is—and isn’t—different from the omniscient narrator, both from the reader’s p.o.v., and the writer’s p.o.v.
I’m also interested in “vision”: What is the difference in “vision” when it comes to a novel narrated by an omniscient narrator v. limited narrator? How does this difference affect the reader’s vision, not just of the story itself, but as the story’s vision distills itself into the reader? And vice versa, too: How does a reader’s vision of life affect his/her discernment and understanding of the novel’s vision?
Finally, as 21st century writer, I’m especially interested in Castellani’s question above: Whose story am I’m allowed to tell? Whose perspective is it okay for me to inhabit? Am I allowed to inhabit the heart and mind of a character different than my own ethnicity, socioeconomic standing, religion, or gender? What are the benefits of adhering to the supremacy of personal experience in the making of art? What is lost?
And, finally, finally: None of these things, I think, can be considered without considering the fiction writer as artist: As an artist, what is my role? What are my responsibilities? How do all these things inform and instruct my narrative voice, strategy, and ultimate concerns for each story—each work of art—I am laboring to bring forth into life?
So, those are all my questions surrounding the omniscient narrator and its absence in contemporary literature. I do have thoughts on these things.
However, before I offer them, I’d like to give space for all of us—myself included—to consider our own experiences with and opinions of the omniscient narrator. If you’re reading War and Peace with us here on R&W, you have an immediate case study in front of you.
So, here is my assignment, should you choose to accept it:
Spend the next week thinking about the omniscient narrator v. limited point of view. Extra points if you journal your answers. Automatic A+ if you have this conversation with a fellow reading friend. Share your thoughts (some or all) in the comments below.
Here are some questions to get you going:
What books have I read that have an omniscient narrator?
What have I liked about them? What have I found challenging? How emotionally involved was/am I with the characters as I read? Do I feel close to them? Distant? Somewhere in-between?
What recent books have I read with a 1st person p.o.v.? 3rd close (he/she limited to one character)? Free indirect style (moves between a couple characters but settles into one mind)? Multiple limited p.o.v.? (like Crossing the Mangrove, Cloud Cuckoo Land, etc — multiple p.o.v.’s, but each one distinct and given its own distinct space within the narrative)
What do I like about a limited p.o.v.? What do I find challenging? How emotionally involved am I with the characters in a limited p.o.v.? Consider these same questions from the omniscient narrator perspective.
How do I experience the conflicts between characters in an omniscient narrated novel v. a limited p.o.v. novel? Same? Different? How so?
How do I “feel” in the hands of an omniscient narrator v. a limited p.o.v. narrator? Do I trust the story being told in one’s hands over another? If so, why?
How do I pick up on the novel’s vision within each narrative style? Is it distilled to me through the narrator? Through the conflict between characters? In their dialogue? Actions? Something else?
When I read a novel with an omniscient narrator, do I assume the narrator is the author herself? If so, why? Is this an assumption I should make? (Yes, that’s a leading question.)
When I read a novel from a limited p.o.v., do I tend to allow the opinions of the characters to be their own? Or do I conflate them to be the author’s?
What do I think of Castellani’s quote above?
Bonus questions:
Do you think artist writers were responding to Western society’s rejection of authority figures and a distrust of the Institution? Or leading the way? Is the multiple p.o.v. novel a reaction—quiet rebellion, maybe?—against the limitation? Is it all too tangled to tell??
Are you satisfied with contemporary fiction’s rejection of the omniscient narrator? Do you wish the omniscient narrator would make a 21st century comeback? Do you think it’s possible?
As per usual, pick up those questions you want to consider, and leave the ones you don’t.
As I mentioned above, let me know what you’re thinking! I’d love to hear your thoughts, discoveries, or further questions as you do this deep dive into the omniscient narrator waters.
And, you know someone who you think would appreciate this topic and like to join the conversation, Please pass along this post.
I looking forward to hearing from you all.
That’s enough for now. Stay warm everyone! And of course, read wide and read well. :)
Much love,
Shari
Do you think the onset of books with multiple povs is the 21st century writer’s attempt at bringing the omniscient narrative back for the 21st reader?