Why the stories we tell and write about ourselves really matter by Roger Knight
We are all storytellers. We all live in a network of stories. There isn’t a stronger connection between people than storytelling.
Jimmy Neil Smith
We all have a story to tell or write about ourselves. How authentic and accurate it is rests with the listener or reader and their interpretation of it.
The theory of narrative identity, according to the French philosopher and literary critic Paul Ricouer [1913-2005], attempts to answer the question of how persons maintain their identity throughout their lives.
It proposes that who we are is constituted by or formed from the stories we tell about ourselves. We make sense of events and occurrences in our lives through storytelling, particularly those watershed moments that can become cathartic, making ourselves the protagonist perhaps in an irrevocable life-changing event.
By telling or writing this story about ourselves, our sense of self can emerge, one that hopefully might be a bit more insightful, acquiring a more objective understanding of who we really are. This is part of a continuous work of self-interpretation and appraisal, which we can both make and discover through such stories.
Narratives can be seen as testimonies, possibly even confessions where some atonement might be sought. In a way, this may be a means of attempting to make more sense of ourselves, as there is often ongoing revision and editing of our story.
We are all entangled in narratives by which we try continuously to make sense of ourselves and our passing place in the world, and in the end, we may never have a full and final answer to who we really are.
The quest for identity is innate and compelling and is a constant driver to continue writing our story and the many episodes that can encompass it.
As we become more aware of our mortality, there is, I suspect, a wish for our story to endure, to be passed down through generations, like the stories that abound in many ancient communities, as a means of keeping their culture alive.
Such an example is the aboriginal people disclosing their dreaming stories to pass on imperative knowledge, cultural values and traditions to future generations.
Perhaps there is an unconscious, unspoken hope that our stories could still be heard and read after our passing, by successive generations who might be intrigued or even inspired by them. An unrealistic ambition or sheer vanity, perhaps?
In the final analysis for me though, it is simply having the satisfaction that for the most part, my story has already been written, which has given me some degree of existential meaning, making sense of where my life took me, what I chose to do with my allotted time and who I chose to share my journey with.
As well, my stories reflect both adversity and enchantment, situations in which I believe we do discover our true selves, testament to the paradoxical nature of life.
Herman Hesse, I think, expressed this sentiment perfectly, ‘my inner life has been of my own making. I deserve its sweetness and bitterness and accept full responsibility for it.’
RAK
5/24
