POINT-OF-VIEW
Point-of-view is a tool of the writer; it defines character, tone, narrative limitations, time
and space. An event occurs: how it is told, and by whom, depends entirely upon point-ofview. How does this character know this story? Is this character telling the truth? Is the
narrative voice privy to the character’s thoughts and emotions, yet not bound to the
character’s vocabulary? When is the character telling this story? -- as the event is occurring?
a few minutes after? ten, twenty, thirty, eighty years later? Distance from an event
contributes dramatically to the flavoring, the depth, the nuance of any telling. Remember
that point-of-view is the most artificial of the storytelling tools: through the “voice” the
writer achieves a “willing suspension of disbelief.” (Samuel Taylor Coleridge)
How
successful a writer is in convincing her reader to believe her, how complete the illusion she
casts will be, all depend upon the unity created by a logical and consistent point-of-view.
By maintaining a consistent point-of-view the writer achieves an Aristotelian unity
and authority.
The following are the basic established viewpoints and some examples:
FIRST PERSON Present (I)
eg: A woman I don’t know is boiling1 tea the Indian way in my kitchen. There are a lot
of women I don’t know in my kitchen, whispering, and moving tactfully. They open doors,
rummage through the pantry, and try not to ask me where things are kept. They remind me of
when my sons were small, on Mother’s Day or when Vikram and I were tired, and they
would make big, sloppy omelets. I would lie in bed pretending I didn’t hear them.
(Bharati Mukherjee, "The Management of Grief,” The Middleman and other Stories,
Grove Press, 1988.)
FIRST PERSON Past (I)
Italics added for emphasis
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Point-of-View...
eg.: I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. I read it, and I
couldn’t believe it, and I read it again. Then perhaps I just stared at it, at the newsprint spelling
out his name, spelling out the story. I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and
in the faces and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which
roared outside.
(James Baldwin, “Sonny's Blues,”Going to Meet the Man, 1966.)
FIRST PERSON Past Plural (we)
eg.: For a long while we just stood there, looking down at the profound and fleshless
grin. The body had apparently once lain in the attitude of an embrace, but now the long
sleep that outlasts love, that conquers even the grimace of love, had cuckolded him. What
was left of the nightshirt, had become inextricable from the bed in which he lay; and upon
him and upon the pillow beside him lay that even coating of the patient and biding dust.
Then we noticed that in the second pillow was the indentation of a head. One of us lifted
something from it, and leaning forward, that faint and invisible dust dry and acrid in the
nostrils, we saw a long strand of iron-gray hair.
(William Faulkner, “A Rose for Emily,” The Collected Stories of William
Faulkner, 1950.)
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SECOND PERSON Present (you)
eg.: You’re reading the advertisement: an offer like this isn’t made every day. You read
it and reread it. It seems to be addressed to you and nobody else. You don’t even notice
when the ash from your cigarette falls into the cup of tea you ordered in this cheap, dirty cafe.
You read it again.
Point-of-View...
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(Carlos Fuentes, Aura, Noonday/Farrar, Straus, 1965, 1975.)
[Also note Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler, (HBJ, 1979) where the source of the “voice”
is the book itself, rather than an internal character:
eg.: You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s
night a traveler. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world
around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the room. Tell the
others right away, “No, I don’t want to watch TV!” Raise your voice -- they won’t
hear you otherwise -- “I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” Maybe they
haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “I’m beginning Italo
Calvino’s new novel!” Or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you
alone.]
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THIRD PERSON Past Limited [or Dramatic] (he, she, they)
eg.: The two benches in the waiting room were occupied by a pair of women
waiting for the first early-morning train on the branch line. The last train on the
main line had departed for the night. Belatedly, a tall, thin man came into the room.
He had thick eyebrows and closely-cropped hair and was wearing a snug sport shirt.
(Kobo Abe, “Beguiled,” Beyond the Curve, Kodansha, 1991.)
THIRD PERSON Past Omniscient Limited [Or Third Person Objective] (he, she, they)
eg.: Her first name was India -- she was never able to get used to it. It
seemed to her that her parents must have been thinking of someone else when they
named her. Or were they hoping for another sort of daughter? As a child she was
often on the point of inquiring, but time passed, and she never did.
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Point-of-View...
(Evan S. Connell, Mrs. Bridge, 1959.)
THIRD PERSON Past Omniscient (he, she, they)
eg.: That year, it began to rain on the twenty-fourth of May -- a holiday still
called, some thirty years after her death, Queen Victoria’s Birthday. It rained -- this
was Canada -- until the middle of June. The girls, kept indoors, exercising listlessly
in the gym, quarreling over nothing, and complained of headache. Between showers
they walked along spongy gravel paths, knocking against spiraea bushed that
suddenly spattered them with water and white. It was the last lap of term, the dead
period between the end of exams and the start of freedom. Handicrafts and extra art
classes were improvised to keep them busy, but it was hopeless; glooming over their
desks, they quarreled, dreamed of summer, wrote plaintive letters home. Their
raincoats were suddenly hot and heavy, their long black stocking scratchy and damp.
(Mavis Gallant, “Thank You for the Lovely Tea,” Home Truths,
Random House, 1981.)
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STREAM-OF-CONSCIOUSNESS
eg.: Light flashed on her closed eyelids, and a deep roaring shook her.
Cornelia, is that lightning? I hear thunder. There’s going to be a storm. Close all
the windows. Call the children in... “Mother, here we are, all of us.” “Is that you,
Hapsy?” “Oh, no, I’m Lydia. We drove as fast as we could.” Their faces drifted
above her, drifted away. The rosary fell out of her hands and Lydia put it back.
Jimmy tried to help, their hands fumbled together, and Granny closed two fingers
around Jimmy’s thumb. Beads wouldn’t do, it must be something alive. She was so
Point-of-View...
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amazed her thoughts ran round and round. So, my dear Lord, this is my death and I
wasn’t even thinking about it. My children have come to see me die. But I can’t, it’s
not time. Oh, I always hated surprises. I wanted to give Cornelia the amethyst set –
Cornelia, you’re to have the amethyst set, but Hapsy’s to wear it when she wants,
and, Doctor Harry, do shut up. Nobody sent for you. Oh, my dear Lord, do wait a
minute. I meant to do something about the Forty Acres, Jimmy doesn’t need it and
Lydia will later on, with that worthless husband of hers. I meant to finish the altar
cloth and send six bottles of wine to Sister Borgia for her dyspepsia. I want to send
six bottles of wine to Sister Borgia, Father Connolly, now don’t let me forget.
(Katherine Anne Porter, “The Jilting of Granny Weatherall,” The
Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter, 1969.)
* * * * *
REMEMBER: I=YOU=WE=S(HE)=THEY...It’s all an illusion.
Always ask: Where is the Voice coming from?
//rgk.11.05.03