May 27, 2012
Can science explain why we tell stories?
Adam Gopnik in The New Yorker:
Of all the indignities visited on the writer’s life these days, none is more undignified than the story or pitch meeting, a ritual to which every writer, from the gazillion-dollar screenwriter to the lowly essayist, will sooner or later submit. “So tell us the story,” the suits say after a few minutes of banter and schmooze, and the writer gulps and jumps in. “Well, uh, it’s sort of, like—it’s sort of a fish out of water story…“and then as one pale incident succeeds the next, the tycoons emit a slow burn of polite disbelief and boredom, ending with a forced smile and a we’ll-get-back-to-you. Sometime. Soon…
And yet something interesting, even encouraging, is revealed in this ritual, all its humiliations aside. Stories, more even than stars or spectacle, are still the currency of life, or commercial entertainment, and look likely to last longer than the euro. There’s no escaping stories, or the pressures to tell them. And so the pathetic story-pitcher turns to pop science—to Jonathan Gottschall’s new book, “The Storytelling Animal,” for instance— for some scientific, or at least speculative, ideas about what makes stories work and why we like them. Gottschall’s encouraging thesis is that human beings are natural storytellers—that they can’t help telling stories, and that they turn things that aren’t really stories into stories because they like narratives so much. Everything—faith, science, love—needs a story for people to find it plausible. No story, no sale.
More here.
Posted by S. Abbas Raza at 02:04 PM | Permalink






















Comments
How timely! This just came up in my surfing yesterday.
http://youtu.be/B6NCF391SX0
Posted by: John Ballard | May 27, 2012 2:10:19 PM
Gopnik bashes predictably, then says he's not against science, it's just that Gottschall is doing bad science, where good science is thusly characterized:
"And it is exactly in that excitement that the real relation of stories and science might be found. Good stories are strange. What strong scientific theories, even those crafted in pop form, have in common with good stories is not some specious universality. It’s that they make claims so astonishing that they seem instantly very different from all the other stories we’ve ever heard. Good stories are startling. A sensitive, educated man is mad with lust for an eleven-year-old girl! Yikes! (Or, Yuck! Which is the same reaction with a slightly different sound.) lt isn’t Miss Havisham who is turning him into a gentleman? It ‘s that convict all the way back from the first chapter? Are you serious? This power to astonish is true even of seemingly long or esoteric stories that no one is said to read: the way to Swann’s house and the way to the Guermantes house turn out to have been the same way all along? It took us so long, and so many long sentences, to find that out—but it was worth it.
Good scientific theories are always startling, too. "
I have rarely seen a more fundamentally wrongheaded statement about scientific theory than this. No doubt it is too much to expect the New Yorker to look upon sciencey investigations favorably, but can't they at least go through the honest toil, or the motions at any rate, of arguing against the ev psych itself instead of publishing such perfect tripe?
Posted by: prasad | Jun 17, 2012 10:10:39 AM
Ah. Mr. Gopnik kept on going. He decided to flesh out his theory of science with scientific examples too:
"Good scientific theories are always startling, too. The narrative excitement of the great scientific theories, far from residing in their reassuring simplicity, lies in their similarly radical exclusions, their shocks: Everything in the whole universe is instantly attracting everything else! Everything! The big earth is dully pulling the apple and the apple is pluckily pulling on the earth. If you raced in your carriage as fast as you could and your friend raced in his carriage alongside yours as fast as he could, there would be absolutely no way for either of you to tell if you were both moving really fast or both just completely standing still! Really. No way at all. But—and here’s the weirdly special sequel, Relativity II—if you went really, really, really fast, so that you were almost moving at the speed of light, and your friend just stayed in his carriage, time would actually slow down all around you! You’d end up younger than he. Or consider this story: the Archbishop of Canterbury is actually the offspring of a little fox with pointy ears that lived in a tree! (The idea, by the way, that evolution is not a “good story” is so bizarre as to be incredible to anyone who knows the history of the reception of evolutionary theory; it was such a good story that, published by Darwin in November, by Christmas every half-educated person in England was telling it, in shock or excitement.) Or simply consider this story: locked inside the nucleus of each little invisible atom is a force so vast it can destroy an entire city!"
If Gottschall were saying anything even a tenth as daft about literature as this about science, I daresay the New Yorker would be loosing its reductionism hounds.
Posted by: prasad | Jun 17, 2012 10:16:09 AM
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