An essay thingie on storytelling
Mar. 22nd, 2005 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
capri0mniThe following essay started out as something I wrote several years ago for a local Pagan newsletter. But even after its publication, I've not been able to let it go -- there were some ideas I wanted to clarify, others I wanted to downplay or cut. Friends have asked me when I'm going to publish a collection of my stories, and I can't give them an answer yet. But if I do publish said collection, the foreword will be something like this. There's no conclusion written yet -- that will depend on its final context.
For now, let's say the title is
"What seperates humans from animals?" According to the Abrahamic faiths (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) the answer is: "Humans have souls and animals don't." During the Enlightenment, the answer was: "Humans think, and animals don't," but scientific observations in the last half of the Twentieth Century have suggested that's not always true either -- some animals do appear to think (and many humans appear not to... but that's a subject for another time). The answer most in vogue today is: "Humans have language, and animals don't."
Animals communicate, the argument goes, but not with language; all those roars, barks, neighs, twitters, tail lashes and foot-stomps are merely reflexes -- like that scream when someone drops an anvil on your foot. It communicates how you're feeling quite clearly, but "AAAAAUUGGHH!!!!!" is not language. Language is specific, complex, and, most important (they say), abstract. With language, we can talk about what is not there. We can say: "Get my cellphone -- call the doctor! My foot's crushed!" With language, we have been able to teach, cooperate, plan, and take over the world (bwa-ha-ha!).
But I have seen dogs that understand perfectly what "Get your leash -- time for walkies!" means, and who know the difference between "ball" and "squeaky toy" Young puppies react to their name (and what could be more abstract than a name?) even when a stranger uses it, so they're not just responding to a familiar voice. When I was taking riding lessons, my teachers often had to spell what they wanted me to do, because otherwise, the horses would respond to the commands before I could. I once witnessed a horse follow the command: "Go diagonally from F to H and change rein," while his rider was busy adjusting her stirrup. He had learned to associate a complex series of words with a series of physical sensations (pressure from the bridle and the rider's leg) that he was not feeling at that precise moment. I've even seen a hint of language in wild animals. I was sitting outside, waiting for someone to pick me up, and to amuse myself, I tried to follow the sounds of bird calls, and see if I could find individual birds. There were two large crows sitting on a lamppost, but the cawing I heard was coming from another part of the sky -- I followed the sound with my eyes, and saw, not crows, but a pair of mocking birds, who were circling and diving, trying to chase the crows away. Their communication was not some vague screech, but a specific sound that matched the messege to the audience. All this evidence may be circumstantial, but it has convinced me that the potential for language, at least, is not exclusively ours.
However, there is one behavior I've witnessed in humans that I have not seen in any other creature, domestic or wild. Humans are the only ones I've seen who gather in large groups and focus all their attention on one among them, who, alone, does all the speaking. The crowd falls silent. Their eyes get wide. Their jaws go slack. And, except for inching forward to the edge of their seats, they remain motionless. In other words, humans are the only creatures I've seen that engage in storytelling. Even babies and toddlers who have not yet mastered speach sit still longer for a story than for other activities. It's not a phase we outgrow, either -- to our dying day, we find joy in telling and listening to stories. And, just as there is no time in our individual lives when stories do not move us, there is no human culture on Earth without its own, unique body of stories. Since it is both unique to, and universal among, humans, I cannot help but think that is storytelling, rather than language, per se, that seperates us from other animals. Perhaps our languages became so complex and varied because we needed them to be in order to tell better stories. You can tell simple stories, after all, without any language, by acting them out, or drawing a picture. But with language, you have the tools of metaphor, idiom, inflection and rhythm -- all features that give each language on Earth its own distinct beauty, and all features which draw in an audience's attention and holds it.
When we gather for a story (whether literally, as around a campfire, or figuratively, as when we go to the movies, watch T.V. or buy a book), we surrender our imaginations to the storyteller's control. We abandon, for a while, our private worries, speculations, and daydreams, to experience a vision created by someone else. A skilled storyteller can hold and shape our attention, knowing when to fan the flames of our emotion, and when to let them die down, until the balance of energy is just right, until that focused energy is released with the final word. This ability to share our visions, to hold and guide the attention of our comrades must have helped us hunt animals bigger and stronger than ourselves, to plant and gather our crops, and to build our shining cities. The world we live in today has been shaped by the stories told in our past. And the world of our future is being shaped by the stories of today.
Anyway, it's that power of story that makes me so happy Doctor Who is making its way back into mainstream culture -- its range of stories are among the most imaginative and optimistic ever told, while still taking evil and death seriously.
For now, let's say the title is
"What seperates humans from animals?" According to the Abrahamic faiths (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) the answer is: "Humans have souls and animals don't." During the Enlightenment, the answer was: "Humans think, and animals don't," but scientific observations in the last half of the Twentieth Century have suggested that's not always true either -- some animals do appear to think (and many humans appear not to... but that's a subject for another time). The answer most in vogue today is: "Humans have language, and animals don't."
Animals communicate, the argument goes, but not with language; all those roars, barks, neighs, twitters, tail lashes and foot-stomps are merely reflexes -- like that scream when someone drops an anvil on your foot. It communicates how you're feeling quite clearly, but "AAAAAUUGGHH!!!!!" is not language. Language is specific, complex, and, most important (they say), abstract. With language, we can talk about what is not there. We can say: "Get my cellphone -- call the doctor! My foot's crushed!" With language, we have been able to teach, cooperate, plan, and take over the world (bwa-ha-ha!).
But I have seen dogs that understand perfectly what "Get your leash -- time for walkies!" means, and who know the difference between "ball" and "squeaky toy" Young puppies react to their name (and what could be more abstract than a name?) even when a stranger uses it, so they're not just responding to a familiar voice. When I was taking riding lessons, my teachers often had to spell what they wanted me to do, because otherwise, the horses would respond to the commands before I could. I once witnessed a horse follow the command: "Go diagonally from F to H and change rein," while his rider was busy adjusting her stirrup. He had learned to associate a complex series of words with a series of physical sensations (pressure from the bridle and the rider's leg) that he was not feeling at that precise moment. I've even seen a hint of language in wild animals. I was sitting outside, waiting for someone to pick me up, and to amuse myself, I tried to follow the sounds of bird calls, and see if I could find individual birds. There were two large crows sitting on a lamppost, but the cawing I heard was coming from another part of the sky -- I followed the sound with my eyes, and saw, not crows, but a pair of mocking birds, who were circling and diving, trying to chase the crows away. Their communication was not some vague screech, but a specific sound that matched the messege to the audience. All this evidence may be circumstantial, but it has convinced me that the potential for language, at least, is not exclusively ours.
However, there is one behavior I've witnessed in humans that I have not seen in any other creature, domestic or wild. Humans are the only ones I've seen who gather in large groups and focus all their attention on one among them, who, alone, does all the speaking. The crowd falls silent. Their eyes get wide. Their jaws go slack. And, except for inching forward to the edge of their seats, they remain motionless. In other words, humans are the only creatures I've seen that engage in storytelling. Even babies and toddlers who have not yet mastered speach sit still longer for a story than for other activities. It's not a phase we outgrow, either -- to our dying day, we find joy in telling and listening to stories. And, just as there is no time in our individual lives when stories do not move us, there is no human culture on Earth without its own, unique body of stories. Since it is both unique to, and universal among, humans, I cannot help but think that is storytelling, rather than language, per se, that seperates us from other animals. Perhaps our languages became so complex and varied because we needed them to be in order to tell better stories. You can tell simple stories, after all, without any language, by acting them out, or drawing a picture. But with language, you have the tools of metaphor, idiom, inflection and rhythm -- all features that give each language on Earth its own distinct beauty, and all features which draw in an audience's attention and holds it.
When we gather for a story (whether literally, as around a campfire, or figuratively, as when we go to the movies, watch T.V. or buy a book), we surrender our imaginations to the storyteller's control. We abandon, for a while, our private worries, speculations, and daydreams, to experience a vision created by someone else. A skilled storyteller can hold and shape our attention, knowing when to fan the flames of our emotion, and when to let them die down, until the balance of energy is just right, until that focused energy is released with the final word. This ability to share our visions, to hold and guide the attention of our comrades must have helped us hunt animals bigger and stronger than ourselves, to plant and gather our crops, and to build our shining cities. The world we live in today has been shaped by the stories told in our past. And the world of our future is being shaped by the stories of today.
Anyway, it's that power of story that makes me so happy Doctor Who is making its way back into mainstream culture -- its range of stories are among the most imaginative and optimistic ever told, while still taking evil and death seriously.
