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. 

Everyday triggers that writers can't resist

A few weeks ago I became obsessed with a sign in front of the Union Congregational Church in my small New Hampshire town. The black sidewalk sign often broadcasts homey messages in blocky, neon pink or yellow hand lettering. It might say, "Thank you God for the rain," or "God loves you, and you, and, yes, even you." It stands next to the church's driveway, clearly intended to attract parishioners, or at least make passersby smile. 

Then, one day, the sign spoke directly to me: "Handbell choir needs ringers." I was mesmerized. I drove by that sign multiple times on my way to the bank, to the bookstore, to coffee with friends. I kept reading the top-hinged sign, front and back, back and front. 

It wasn't because I was a closet handbell ringer. It was the word "ringers." I knew the intent; the church choir needed another person to ring a handbell. But my mind wandered. I thought of dead ringers, or of being put through a wringer. Then I settled on the definition of a ringer as a cheater; someone who is intentionally placed in a strategic position to game an outcome. I envisioned Double Indemnity, imagining Barbara Stanwyck in a handbell choir.

I was fascinated by a phrase. I knew the word "ringer" had to appear in my writing. I'd just need to wait it out and slip it into a sentence when the time was right.

A few days later, I found myself in a fine chocolate and patisserie shop that I often visit for the sheer delight of looking through the glass cases at the hazelnut orange cakes or linzer tortes. The exquisitely crafted delicacies are so beautiful, but oh so expensive. I try to limit my purchases there by buying seconds: the little white chocolate mice with broken ears or dark chocolate truffles that lack just the right amount of raspberry crunch topping. 

After inspecting the entire pastry case, bags of chocolate-dipped pears on the side counters, and perfectly formed bars of chocolate nougat at the back wall, I chased down my quarry. I found the seconds in a little basket lined with gift paper. An elegant sign labeled them as "Imperfect bonbons." I snapped a photo so I wouldn't forget those two little words.

I thought about those imperfect bonbons all the way home. How best to use that phrase? In a poem I was writing about the end of a relationship? In an essay about aging in a culture that idolizes youth? Those words were more delectable than the candy itself. I couldn't wait to showcase them in just the right line, at just the right time, in some piece of unsuspecting work.

Later that same night, I had dinner with a group of writers. We were telling stories over our Savignon Blancs about how and where we grew up. Somehow the conversation turned to cuisine and the food we grew up with. I spoke about the Italian dishes that my mother made: the simmering red sauce with homemade meatballs, the pasta fagioli, the polenta with pheasant. My mom made the occasional blackberry pie or sponge cake, but desserts did not play a huge role in our family kitchen.

"There was not a lot of dessert in my house growing up. There just wasn't enough dessert," I said, smiling, mostly for effect.

A new acquaintance, another writer, had an immediate response. "That's a great line," she said. "You need to write about that."

I let out a giggle. My childhood home was filled with love. It didn't seem like a line that spoke to me in a metaphorical way. It was really just a fact: Italians don't make a lot of big desserts. We're mostly a fruit, nut, and biscotti crowd.

But that line spoke to her. She touched my forearm lightly and stared hard into my eyes to be sure she had my attention. "No, really," she said. "You need to use that line in your writing. Just the way you said it."

She made me realize that writing prompts are like speed bumps that slow you down and demand you take notice. It's important to explore them whether they speak to you (the writer) or to someone else (the reader). Maybe they are those imperfect bonbons that serve to keep writing fresh. Or ringers, even, for the truth.

The scent of cinnamon roses

I bought my first home at 26, romantic, wide-eyed, and ridiculously ecstatic. My husband and I had looked for months for a place to plant our upstate New York roots in the rapidly gentrifying farmlands around Nashua, N.H., a city that was considered one of the best places to live in the country and one we couldn't wait to leave.

We found our love cottage (yes, that is actually what we called it) in Lyndeborough, a gateway from the suburban Nashua sprawl to the Monadnock Region of southwestern New Hampshire. The property had everything we'd coveted: an apple orchard and ten acres for my husband to putter around in and an unspoiled antique cape with a beehive oven and wainscoting that I adored.

What we didn't know when we bought the house could fill a notebook, of course. There was a spring stream that gushed through the basement, resident porcupines that munched on our barn sills, mice that considered themselves part of the family, and a rutted, one-lane dirt road that sharpened my driving skills each mud season.

Not all of the surprises were unhappy ones. Having bought the house in November and moved in January, we had no idea that our 1830s cape with its three-story shingled barn built into a sloping hillside, was home to riotous perennials. They started cropping up in April like small soldiers, straight and proud. I had no idea what they were at first. I couldn't tell the difference between lilies of the valley and daylilies, bearded iris and Siberian iris, rose geranium and flowering sedum. They all announced themselves like old friends that first spring, happily taking whatever our land had to offer, while reaching straight up to the sun.

Our rich soil on Mountain Road grew nearly any plant or tree: raspberries, rhubarb, asparagus, cherries, grapes, peaches, and, of course, apples. The orchard consisted primarily of McIntosh trees with a smattering of Cortland and Baldwin trees, and a Northern Spy, whose pear-tinged flavor was my favorite.

I was most captivated by the flowers, those hardy New England perennials and their changing palette of colors. Over time, I learned how to work with them. I transplanted them to shade or sun, and paired their tones and textures, penciling them in against stone walls, white clapboards, and weathered shingles.

We had flowers everywhere. There was a flower bed behind the breezeway filled with tiger lilies, black-eyed susans, and daylilies in lemon and burnt orange. There was a front garden that pivoted on purple, pinks, and whites with phlox, irises, rose campion, and daises. The snowy hydrangea and lilac bushes occupied large swaths all their own.

But it was the flower patch out back, behind the house, which was my favorite. Turns out that our outdated (yet grandfathered) septic runoff fed a cloud of wild roses in varying shades of pink. Those flowers were so fragrant that when I threw open my kitchen windows, their scent did more than waft in, it settled in our bones.

Those brambly roses grew with the abandon of an unschooled toddler. I liked their princess colors, but it was their spicy-sweet fragrance that I loved best. The creamy rose scent seemed laced with cinnamon. I couldn't wait until they blossomed each year, starting at the end of June. 

When the first blossoms popped, I'd gather all my vases on our picnic table and fill them with the thorny goods, bringing their silky fragrance into every room of the house. I didn't care that the blossoms lasted only a day or two. I'd throw the old ones out, gather new ones, and make the season linger as long as I could. There were ten days or maybe two weeks of delicious rose blooms.

Today, I live thirty minutes and a lifetime away from Lyndeborough. I find myself in another sweet cottage, this time on my own. This spring, my yard was filled with lavender wisteria, scarlet and white peonies, ice blue Siberian iris. In this last week of June, I was surprised by four curving strands of wild roses within sniffing distance of my screen porch. For the past few days, I've gathered burgeoning rose blooms and filled small vases: one for the kitchen, one for the dining room, one for my bedroom.

I notice now when the petals curl up and start their hasty decay, their fragrance deepens with a final intense push. I pick the rumpled petals off all the surfaces they touch: tabletops and dressers and floors. I hate to throw them away. Instead, I collect them in handfuls and toss them out the back door like wedding rice. They remain tissue soft and stained with cotton candy colors when they hit my stone patio. Sometimes I wait and watch a breeze take them on a bouncy trip across the lawn. Most times, it's enough to send them gently into the summer air and walk away.