The Importance of Being Empathetic

In last week’s scribbling, I wrote about the necessity for the novelist to boldly present their work as a rival to real experience, and the notion that truth, at least in the reader’s mind, can be found in well-crafted characters as much as it can (and perhaps more so) in real people. It is this latter point that has attracted some attention, in how it perhaps threatens to dehumanise, or at least devalue, the worth of human beings in favour of fictional characters. As such, I would like to take this time to address this criticism, and illustrate how the genuine belief in the truth of fictional character can actually facilitate greater connection to and understanding of people in real life.

The primary task of a writer, at least regarding character, is to at the very least make the reader care about the fate of their protagonist, if not the general wellbeing of all of their prominent cast. It should be stressed that it is not necessary that the reader cares for the protagonist of a literary work— indeed, if the author so chooses, they can make their primary character as dislikeable as possible— but simply that the reader must be interested enough in them to find out where the narrative takes them (or more precisely, where they take the narrative). This emotional investment into the welfare of a fictional character, or in other words the empathy we feel for their plights, is a testament to our interesting ability to connect ourselves with beings who do not actually exist in the material world. We easily form this connection with characters who are inherently likeable, for example Elizabeth Bennett or Silas Marner, who are entertaining and sympathetic enough that we can forgive their flaws and hope that they earn themselves a good ending. But our interests and emotions can also become intwined in the fortunes of characters less appealing, whose transgression render them displeasing or even dislikeable (and who, if we ran into them in real life, we would likely liberate ourselves promptly from their company, let alone read an entire novel about them). Razkolnikov springs to mind, whose questionable views on morality stoke the reader’s intrigue at the beginning of Crime and Punishment, then evoke their horror as he spirals downwards into arrogance, resentment and misanthropy. Mr Henchard, the insufferable, long-suffering protagonist of Hardy’s The Mayor of Casterbridge, also conjures a sense of dismay in the reader, as we watch his vices overcome his virtues and the glimmers of a good man are snuffed out by his intolerance and insecurities.

And yet despite the flawed characters at their hearts, these novels are still rightly revered as masterpieces and loved by many. Indeed, two of the most quintessential works in the Western canon are centred around the sulking stubbornness, then the vengeful rampage of a Grecian hero unmatched in both his warmongering and his hubris, and the fall of the brightest angel in God’s Heaven. Why is it, then, that we invest ourselves into the narratives of fictional characters that we wouldn’t in our right minds tolerate in real life?

Part of the reason, of course, is that these narratives are expertly composed, deftly holding a mirror to the darkest aspects of the human condition while maintaining a swift and sustaining intrigue that compels the reader onward. A further explanation could be that we persist to watch the destruction of these dismal individuals play out in full, revelling in schadenfreude’s bitter thrill as we do so. But this is a dreary theory, and one that does a disservice to the human condition as a whole. Moreover, I fear that such a sociopathic reader would often be greatly disappointed, for only the most macabre of novelists commit their protagonists to the void without providing even the slightest glint of hope for their redemption. Instead, what we learn by watching these complex and troubled characters is that they are never irredeemably wicked; often their narratives begin at a point where they have the potential to be good or bad, and due to the cruel hand of circumstance, they are shepherded in one direction or the other. As such, when we are introduced to a character that otherwise appears wholly despicable, the skilled novelist also reveals enough evidence to believe that they could be better, if they find the willpower to do so. It is this hope that drives the reader to follow the journeys of even the most despondent and disastrous of characters; and we witness the failure to overcome their follies not with sadistic glee, but the heartfelt mourning of empathy.

Perhaps it is easier to invest oneself in the wellbeing of a fictional character, no matter how unpleasant, than it is in that of a real individual. After all, the entire world of that character is enshrined within the pages of a book, and so one can digest their story at leisure, with the entire tapestry of their experience laid out for casual perusal, studied with a scientific detachment like the gods peering down through their clouds for entertainment at the war-torn plains of Troy. There are no real ethical implications of this make-belief strife, and the reader is comforted that their obligation to the woes of these individuals begins and ends with the opening and closing of a cover. There is no worry of hurting the feelings of Pip Pirrip if you abandon Great Expectations halfway through; his narrative exists quite regardless of whether you read it or not. Similarly, Heathcliffe is likely unperturbed by the wealth of unflattering commentaries on his actions (he never seems to rectify them on subsequent readings of Wuthering Heights, anyway). If these were real, living people, of course, they may have a thing or two to say in response— but they are immured safely and securely between the first and last pages of their respective novels, and so the reader can be assured in speaking of them as candidly and carelessly as they wish.

It goes without saying that to concern oneself with the personal life of a real human being to the same extent would be infinitely more complicated. There is no knowledgeable narrator to provide an erudite insight into the minds of others, and the emotional burden of truly taking it upon oneself to gain this understanding is very steep. Why, then, should we bother to seek empathy for other human beings at all, if it is far easier to sidestep such an obligation? The avid reader of literature might have an inkling as to the answer. For they already spend their time immersing themselves in the lives of others, following the narratives of those that they could never meet in reality, and yet experiencing them as if they were their own. They know that the workings of the mind are infinitely more complicated than its manifestation on the surface, and that there is something to sympathise with in even the most malevolent and irredeemable of characters. They know that human life is an intricately woven tapestry of events, successes, and tragedies, and one might even come across common ground. Above all, they are acutely aware that there is a story behind every individual, and the tales that they have to tell might be great novels of their own.

As such, to read widely is to expose oneself to all manner of human lives, no matter how alien to one’s own. Doing so builds our capacity for empathy, and as a result we can turn our gazes from the page to the real world with greater sympathy, tolerance, and understanding. Perhaps, in these times, that would be no bad thing.

Thank you for reading,