The unreliable narrator in the age of Trump

Wayne C. Booth is not a household name, but maybe he should be. A respected author, scholar, and distinguished professor of English at the University of Chicago, Booth's work focused on the art of rhetoric in fiction. As The New York Times summed up in its 2005 obituary of Booth: "[he] illuminated the means by which authors seduce, cajole and more than occasionally lie to their readers in the service of narrative."

His most lasting contribution to the study of rhetoric may be the term "unreliable narrator, " which he coined in his 1961 book The Rhetoric of Fiction (University of Chicago Press). The term quickly took hold as a way to describe a character who may not be credible or trusted, but who shapes how a story is told. 

Unreliable narrators often add drama to a plot and tension to a story line. Does the narrator know the real story, or only parts of it? Does a narrator's upbringing, worldview, or mental health sway the narrative in untrustworthy ways? And how do we know exactly which characters are telling the truth? Whose story can we trust?

An unreliable narrator may be apparent early in a story. Think about Forrest Gump, the narrator whose worldview is so naive that we're not sure we can fully trust him at first. As the story unfolds, we see that while Gump's character may not discern complex truths, he's incapable of dishonesty. His narration simply needs a sort of modern-day translation, which we're only too happy to provide because of his sweet, innocent behavior. We go along happily for the ride once we understand how to perceive this character.

More often, the unreliable narrator suffers from a delusion that is self-inflicted (the alcoholic narrator Rachel in The Girl on the Train) or something more sinister (the villain Keyser Söze in The Usual Suspects). As a dramatic device, these unreliable narrators obfuscate, mislead, and string us along as a story unfolds. They're often revealed at the end of a thriller or mystery so we can enjoy an unexpected twist and a satisfying ending.

Then there are dense narratives filled with unreliable narrators whose purpose is to confuse us as much as possible, all of the time. Films like The Matrix or Memento or the television show Lost are good examples. These stories traffic in continual confusion, packaged as entertainment. There is often no real beginning, middle, or end to the story structure. As soon you think you've found a logical story line, it unravels before you. It's a nonstop rollercoaster of illogical logic.

Fast forward to America in 2017. It's a time in which unreliable narrators have spilled over from fiction into the reality of our everyday lives, a by-product of our post-truth culture. Americans are forced to ask themselves pretty much daily: Who is telling the truth and whose narrative can I trust? Can I trust the media? Our president? A friend's latest post on Facebook?

When unreliable narrators abound in real life, it's not entertaining and it's not a thrill ride. It's confusing and exhausting. There are no neat endings to wrap things up. Our rapid-fire technologies don't help. Social media masquerades as fact-based journalism. Artificial intelligence encroaches on our native human decision making. We've even invented a technology, "virtual reality," to create an alternate world that feels like our real one.

Sure, societies have wrestled with warring narratives and disruptive technologies since the beginning of time. But it seems especially treacherous now, doesn't it? Today, conflicting, continually changing "facts" form a sort of 24/7 entertainment that we can't look away from. These untested, untrusted narratives have previously been the bastion of fiction. But now...

A recent article in The Guardian, "The lying game: why unreliable TV narrators matter in the Trump era," showcases how unreliable narrators have made the leap from fiction to real life in unsettling ways. In this article, writer and director Joe Ahearne talks about the dangers of comparing carefully orchestrated fictional constructs to stories told by politicians in offhanded ways. "Great drama comes from when you have two irreconcilable viewpoints, then there’s a battle and somebody wins. But what’s happening now is that facts seem to be irrelevant. Reality is at stake,” he says.

Is it possible that unreliable narrators could help us both diagnosis and cure our cultural whirlpool of truthiness? Maybe it's time to turn back to Booth for answers. Through his lens, we can immerse ourselves in our favorite films, television shows, and novels and learn how unreliable narrators spin a tale to their advantage. If we pay attention, we can recognize how a narrator acts deceptively to pursue his goals, when a narrator is lying to himself, or when a narrator is unreliable through no fault of her own. 

Then comes the hard part. We must take the time to apply this analysis to the rhetoric of Trump and the media to identify how we're being manipulated as consumers of competing narrative views. Because everyone is spinning stories; some with a disregard for context, others with a contempt for indisputable facts. If we can pinpoint the unreliable narrators in our midst, then we can decide for ourselves who is telling the truth. It's time-consuming work; it should be easier to find facts. But this is the era we live in. The truth is out there. It may just be up to us to find it. 

The love/hate business

I listened to a call-in radio show recently about the impact of Trump's presidency on the U.S. economy. Most of the talking points were familiar. Business owners spoke about the regulation rollbacks and hoped-for tax reforms that have already had a positive impact on their businesses. People cited a soaring stock market and approximately 300,000 jobs added in February and March. But one woman called with a surprising anecdote that broke the pattern. A children's book illustrator, she called to say that she'd seen an uptick in her business due to the surge of children's books being created on the subject of "love." 

Love. She didn't spend a lot of time talking about why love was a topic that could be tied to President Trump. No one else on the call refuted why this might be a theme that would emerge in the wake of Trump's election. Whether you're a rural voter whose voice has been marginalized as a know-nothing redneck or a coastal voter tagged as elite and out of touch, there's little love to bridge the differences these days. Instead we throw brash, insulting language at each other, further alienating the very people we need to gather. In this climate, it's easy to see that our society needs a stronger dose of love and understanding, and not just in children's books. Though it's a start.

So I went to my local independent bookstore to check out the socio-political titles and see whether love was in the mix. I expected to find some of the more popular Trump-related books representing different factions, such as Gene Stone's The Trump Survival Guide or Big Agenda: President Trump's Plan to Save America by David Horowitz. These kinds of books were there, alongside more neutral, non-partisan selections, such as David McCullough's The American Spirit: Who We Are and What We Stand For and Nick Licata's Becoming a Citizen Activist. But I found no books focused on the elusive qualities required to love and respect our fellow citizens regardless of their political views. Only love for country was on full display in prescribed ways for select audiences.

I asked the store owners if there were any unexpected books that became popular in the wake of Trump's election. "Oh, the Trump bump," one of the owners said, describing the phenomenon. They said that dystopia had definitely made a comeback. Classics such as George Orwell's 1984, Sinclair Lewis's It Can't Happen Here, and John Steinbeck's The Winter of Our Discontent are prime examples of books whose sales have soared.

When I asked specifically about whether any "love and understanding" books were cutting through the noise, there was no immediate response, except for one. The owner took me back to the table with the political books and showed me one of the bestsellers among them that I'd missed. There it was—The Book of Joy: Lasting Happiness in a Changing World by the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu.

"I decided to put it in among all the political books and it's done really well here," he said. I hadn't noticed that book when I'd browsed this table earlier. I wondered, had I not been looking for a book on joy in the political section?

"Diversity is also doing really well," he continued, walking me over to the children's and young adult section to show me a wide-ranging selection of popular books about women, immigrants, and people of color. These included Kate Schatz's Rad American Women A-Z, Margot Lee Shetterly’s Hidden Figures Young Readers' Edition, and Warren St. John's Outcasts United: The Story of a Refugee Soccer Team That Changed a Town. And (at last!), I perked up when I saw Loving vs. Virginia: A Documentary Novel of the Landmark Civil Rights Case by Patricia Hruby Powell. This book combines the most powerful of love stories, of Richard and Mildred Loving, with a true-life narrative of segregation and prejudice, which led to the Supreme Court ruling that legalized interracial marriage. There's no better example of how a deep understanding of our differences can lead us to slowly and courageously take steps to right a wrong in our country.

Yet I'd come up short in finding the trove of love-thy-neighbor books I'd been seeking that could ease our political mood. I'm sure they exist. Probably they are like the sentiments themselves, difficult to see at first. Maybe bookstore owners should place more of them in the political section where we need them most. Or Amazon could offer them as featured recommendations, regardless of which political book you've searched on their site. A bonus selection for everyone's booklist.

Still I'm heartened that books on joy and diversity have been good for business. And—if the illustrator is to be believed—more books on love should be coming our way soon to meet the demand for a kinder, gentler nation. For those looking for the calm, cool path between the warring factions of pro-Trump and anti-Trump America, it's nice to know that themes of generosity and caring have a foothold in our consciousness. Now there's a business model I can get behind.

On my way out of the bookstore, I noticed something even more encouraging. The ultimate book for every American was sitting at the checkout counter, waiting for an impulse buy: a tiny pocket guide titled The U.S. Constitution and Fascinating Facts About It. A must-have for an informed citizenry. Maybe we can all just start there. 

Them's fighting words

Sitting on an airplane from Manchester, NH, to Philadelphia, I was having a nice conversation with my seatmate Walter, an older gentleman on his way to Florida. We were having plane talk about our kids, our travel plans, the pesky New England weather. Pleasant and harmless. Until I glanced at my phone and Walter pronounced: "If that's Obama calling, tell him he's a bum."

We hadn't been talking about politics. I don't talk to strangers about politics these days unless they've tipped their hand and I'm fairly sure where they stand. Not a single mention of Russia, Obamacare, or Trump had passed our lips. Walter's random quip seemed out of the blue.

"Oh, I doubt he'll be calling," I said while trying to manage a wry grin. Then I clammed up. Went dark. Stayed silent. I was ticked.

Flying at altitude, I figured it wasn't a good time to start the discussion I really wanted to have. I had so many questions for Walter. Why is Obama still on your mind now? And why the perennial dislike of him? Why say that to a stranger? No. What I really wanted to ask was this: What made you think you could say that to me?

I had several minutes to contemplate what to say next because I wasn't sure I wanted to keep talking to Walter at all. I felt my cheeks flush and my body shift nervously against the rigid boundaries of my upright position and locked seat belt. I wanted to respond. Not let the attack go unmet. Because in these times, those are fighting words. An unprovoked attack on President Obama is hard not to interpret as a chest-thumping endorsement of President Trump. And as much as Walter disliked Obama, I dislike Trump. So why not talk about it?

Instead I copped out. I couldn't think of a way to have a meaningful conversation with a plane load of eavesdroppers, so I counted to ten, twenty, thirty, forty. After several moments of what started to feel like an awkward silence, I turned to Walter and asked him some innocuous question that I can't remember, trying to prove to myself that I could overcome my own biases and keep the conversation going.

But turning away from hard conversations isn't really going to help any of us. As uncomfortable as it felt to face a contentious exchange in close quarters, the plane may have been the perfect place to have that discussion, a metaphorical vehicle for traveling through these turbulent times as an indivisible group. Our sole intent to land safely together—as Americans, as citizens, as human beings.

It's an interesting concept. Why not fill a plane (or a bus or a train car) with a diverse group of citizens and force us to talk to each other? We wouldn't be able to storm out. We'd be shoulder-to-shoulder, on a journey together. It might be more constructive and healing than retreating to our own media channels and self-perpetuating lines of reasoning. Some enterprising bipartisan non-profit should have a go at it, you know "talking tours." It could be the ultimate focus group: a roving, border-crossing melting pot. A pipe dream, I know.

During the rest of the flight, Walter had more to say, but I was prepared this time. When he began talking about the latest terrorist gadgets used on planes (another seemingly taboo topic given our circumstances) and how the God he worships is nothing like the God that ISIS worships, I began to feel empathy. Walter felt more scared to me than anything else. Or maybe just perplexed by the world he found himself in. Aren't we all.

What I didn't learn about Walter is vast. What I could have learned will remain unknown. But next time I meet a Walter, I'll be ready. I'll try to be brave enough to ask questions in respectful ways, to maintain my curiosity about differing views of core American values. To listen, hard. To find answers to the troubling question I find at the essential root of it all: Why can't we all just get along?