Svelare il mistero. Filosofia e narrazione a confronto [Unveiling Mystery. Philosophy and Narration Compared]

Some have said that man is a being who tells stories and that he does so not just to entertain himself but to understand himself. Telling stories—fiction or nonfiction—is the basis of human formation, of learning what it means to be human. In Jonathan Gottschall’s words (2012, 28):

Story is the glue of social human life—defining groups and holding them together. We live in Neverland because we can’t not live in Neverland. Neverland is our nature. We are the storytelling animal.

As philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre (2007, 212) so compellingly contended in his famous book After Virtue, we tell stories because we live our lives in terms of narratives:

It is because we all live out narratives in our lives and because we understand our own lives in terms of the narratives that we live out that the form of narrative is appropriate for understanding the actions of others.

Antonio Malo’s book Svelare il mistero. Filosofia e narrazione a confronto [Unveiling Mystery. Philosophy and Narration Compared] is, in my opinion, one of the best current works that explores the link between philosophy and narration. Malo, himself both a philosopher and literary theorist, makes this connection through a long conversation with Plato, Aristotle, and modern philosophers such as Heidegger, Kierkegaard, Ricoeur, and Girard, who have used literature as both a source and a parallel for their philosophical thought.

Malo converses with all these authors within the framework of some outstanding literary works: Dostoyevsky’s The Demons and ‘The Grand Inquisitor’ (from The Brothers Karamazov); Camus’ The Stranger; Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray; Dino Buzzati’s The Tartar Steppe; Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings; Somerset Maugham’s The Painted Veil; Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World; Animal Farm and 1984 by George Orwell; Susana Tamaro’s Follow Your Heart; and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Malo also incorporates some movies in his intellectual journey: The Other Son, Father and Son, Rear Window, Joker, Groundhog Day, and Babette’s Feast. I do have a different point of view with regard to his interpretation of Tamaro’s most acclaimed work, Follow Your Heart, but find myself in general agreement with his interpretations of the other books mentioned that I have read, which are almost all of them.

To me, the most original contribution of Malo’s book is that he distinguishes two dimensions in the Aristotelian notion of verisimilitude: material verisimilitude and formal verisimilitude. The first one refers to the construction of the fictitious world, and it includes all the elements that allow the reader or viewer to experience ‘willful suspension of disbelief’—as Samuel Taylor Coleridge called that inner disposition by which we ‘enter into’ the fictional world. In this state, we accept ‘playing along’ or implicitly agree with the rules of the ‘pact between author and reader’ as theorists call this playing along. The stories will be successful if characters are well-formed, their actions align with their characters, their intertwining relationships compel us, and, above all, events and actions occur in the proper order of events and actions. As Aristotle pointed out, these are the essential elements of a successful play.

Formal verisimilitude, according to Malo (105), refers to ‘the relationship between the representation of the true, the good, and the beautiful – or their antonyms – and their communication to the viewer or reader […] When [this verisimilitude] is adequate, it perfects the author and the audience as persons.’ This concept allows the author and the reader to ‘communicate’ through their sharing a common understanding of truth as opposed to deception, good to evil, and beauty to ugliness. Communication, as we know, etymologically comes from the Latin word communio, which is made up of the preposition cum (with) and the noun munis (gift or duty). Therefore, we might ask along with Malo: What is the gift that narrative has to offer and the duty it must fulfill, bringing together fictional worlds and readers’ real lives? As Malo points out (109):

The relationship between narrative, communication, and verisimilitude depends on the author’s ability to find a universal truth in a human story and to represent or tell it in such a way that viewers can grasp, through verisimilitude mimesis, that same truth which, by virtue of being human, is open to every person and can affect each of the audience or readers.

In other words, whether the author is aware of it or not, the overarching goal of the narrative is to reach a representation of human beings as they truly are.

Comparing Philosophy and Narration, as Malo does, is a good way to remind us of the complex relationship between theoretical knowledge and practical knowledge. The first has to do with universal truths, while the second has to do with truth in particular cases. Universal truths appeal to our intellectual mind. Literary works, inasmuch as they are ‘objects’ that convey truths—and falsehoods for that matter—appeal to our capacity for seeing universal truth in particular cases. This is a wonderful way to learn, and one which is available to everyone. It is a kind of learning that does not require an academic degree. Notwithstanding, it is not practical knowledge—the kind of knowledge we gain by deciding, acting, and correcting. The only decision we can make when reading a book or watching a show or movie is to continue giving it our time or to let it go—for whatever reason we decide to do so.

In conclusion, literature can enlarge our inner world and enlighten us, but it does so by appealing to our moral imagination, not by engaging our practical wisdom. Reading good literature does not make us better people. It can certainly inspire us, but it does not shape our character as actions do.

Norberto González Gaitano
School of Church Communications, Pontifical University of the Holy Cross, Rome, Italy
[email protected] https://orcid.org/0000-0002-4243-2317