Truth in Fiction: Storytelling and Architecture

<p>Current discourse on architectural narrative suggests that a series of events or impressions of space can be ‘read’ through a sequencing of spaces and views within a building. It is presumed that a building is read in the same way as a sequence of shots in a film. In this model, architects set up a narrative which is played out through a careful construction of viewpoints and events. In practice this can lead to the manipulation of spatial experience at the sacrifice of individual interpretation, as maintaining the narrative compromises spatial experience. This stems from the fundamental difference between how we experience architecture as opposed to more traditional narratives in printed or pictorial media. The experience of space is not a linear one, nor is it bound by a strict timeline which follows from cause to effect. Unlike a novel, where the author has complete control over the pacing and focus of each scene, the architect cannot rely on others to interpret his exact intentions, or on his architecture remaining true to a single narrative over time. This research is about storytelling in architecture. Specifically, how we might better use narratives to play to the strengths of our medium. From examining current practices in publicly establishing narratives, to investigating the work of John Hejduk, this work examines how architectural narratives have been constructed in the past, and whether this has been successful. Using an analysis of three works of fiction: The Library of Babel by Jorge Luis Borges, The Castle by Franz Kafka and The House of Leaves by Mark Z Danielewski; I analyse the various uses of the architectural metaphor in fiction and how these fictional spaces have been used as characters within their individual narratives. I use design to develop a process which takes a basic house plan and applies a non-linear narrative to it. This narrative is not concerned with a single interpretation. This process creates spaces imbued with the stories of the novels studied, and of my role as designer. Yet they may also be reinterpreted again by a new viewer to give a kind of immortality to the story. The architecture continually adapts itself to new experiences and understandings. Finally, I argue that we do have the ability to use storytelling within architecture to enrich our spaces without resorting to the manipulation of the user. If we return to the cyclic and layered model of storytelling, as opposed to the linear structure of narrative, then our buildings will not only tell our stories more clearly, but also for longer as they appeal to the changing fashions, experiences and applied narratives of the people who use them, remaining relevant to the world of experience.</p>

Truth in Fiction: Storytelling and Architecture

<p>Current discourse on architectural narrative suggests that a series of events or impressions of space can be ‘read’ through a sequencing of spaces and views within a building. It is presumed that a building is read in the same way as a sequence of shots in a film. In this model, architects set up a narrative which is played out through a careful construction of viewpoints and events. In practice this can lead to the manipulation of spatial experience at the sacrifice of individual interpretation, as maintaining the narrative compromises spatial experience. This stems from the fundamental difference between how we experience architecture as opposed to more traditional narratives in printed or pictorial media. The experience of space is not a linear one, nor is it bound by a strict timeline which follows from cause to effect. Unlike a novel, where the author has complete control over the pacing and focus of each scene, the architect cannot rely on others to interpret his exact intentions, or on his architecture remaining true to a single narrative over time. This research is about storytelling in architecture. Specifically, how we might better use narratives to play to the strengths of our medium. From examining current practices in publicly establishing narratives, to investigating the work of John Hejduk, this work examines how architectural narratives have been constructed in the past, and whether this has been successful. Using an analysis of three works of fiction: The Library of Babel by Jorge Luis Borges, The Castle by Franz Kafka and The House of Leaves by Mark Z Danielewski; I analyse the various uses of the architectural metaphor in fiction and how these fictional spaces have been used as characters within their individual narratives. I use design to develop a process which takes a basic house plan and applies a non-linear narrative to it. This narrative is not concerned with a single interpretation. This process creates spaces imbued with the stories of the novels studied, and of my role as designer. Yet they may also be reinterpreted again by a new viewer to give a kind of immortality to the story. The architecture continually adapts itself to new experiences and understandings. Finally, I argue that we do have the ability to use storytelling within architecture to enrich our spaces without resorting to the manipulation of the user. If we return to the cyclic and layered model of storytelling, as opposed to the linear structure of narrative, then our buildings will not only tell our stories more clearly, but also for longer as they appeal to the changing fashions, experiences and applied narratives of the people who use them, remaining relevant to the world of experience.</p>

Fiction and importation

Importation in fictional discourse is the phenomenon by which audiences include information in the story over and above what is explicitly stated by the narrator. This paper argues that importation is distinct from generation, the phenomenon by which truth in fiction may outstrip what is made explicit, and draws a distinction between fictional truth and fictional records. The latter comprises the audience’s picture of what is true according to the narrator. The paper argues that importation into fictional records operates according to principles that also govern ordinary conversation. An account of fictional records as a species of common ground information is proposed. Two sources of importation are described in detail, presupposition accommodation and conversational implicatures. It is shown that presuppositions are both mandatorily imported and mandatorily generated. By contrast, conversational implicatures are neither mandatorily imported nor mandatorily generated. The paper distinguishes conversational implicatures from contextual inferences. Both rely on background assumptions, yet conversational implicatures moreover depend on assumptions concerning Gricean cooperation.

Excavating the Anarchive

Chapter 1 forms the essential foundation of the book, insofar as it names, describes, and thematises the contents of the anarchive—the cultural productions that have represented, directly or obliquely, the stories of October 17. While anarchive is presented in 3 “waves”--the original scene (1961-1963); the return to the scene (1983-1999); and the post-Papon anarchive (1999-)—the chapter nonetheless seeks to tease out the limits of periodization, calling attention to continuities over time. Chapter 1 also looks at trends and problems within the anarchive, investigating, in particular: the “turn,” in the 3rd wave, to visual representation and performance; debates about demands for historical accuracy and truth in fiction; and the anarchive’s relationship to scholarship on cultural production and memory. This analysis is also infused with a concern for epi-phenomenal and meta-textual matters, how issues of circulation, translation, marketing, authorial status, genre, and medium bear upon interpretation.

Consuming Fictions Part I

Given that we imagine in response to fictions, the key question is whether these imaginings can be understood in more basic folk psychological terms. This chapter argues that we can determine what is true in a fiction without use of sui generis imaginative states. Related arguments from Derek Matravers (2014) and Kathleen Stock (2017) are discussed in some depth. Uses of genre conventions and symbolism by an author to generate fictional truths do not imply any special role for imagination. Moreover, Stock’s “extreme intentionalist” view of what constitutes truth in fiction can be configured to omit any appeal to imagination. The questions of what generates truth in a fiction, of how we come to know those truths, and of what makes something a fiction can all be answered without appeal to an irreducible mental state of imagining.

Truth in Fiction

This book explores a basic paradox about fiction: Whether the fiction in question is a book, film, or television show, fiction is simultaneously unreal and real. Fiction is a simulation of our real social lives. As such, watching a film or television show or reading a book gives people an opportunity to think about who they are, what they value, who they’re connected to, and what really matters to them. Whether they consider themselves a fan of the entire Harry Potter series or they just remember the moment in the story when Harry stood up to his nemesis, people can derive inspiration from a compelling character making choices and facing consequences. Whether they love Game of Thrones, Stranger Things, or another title, when people get lost in a story, they can find themselves.

Finding Truth in Fiction

Being a fan of a popular film, television, or book franchise is something most of us enjoy. But, we may not be familiar with the scientific study of fictional narrative or of fandom. In this book, two media psychologists reveal the sometimes-paradoxical idea that fiction helps us find truth in our real lives. Whether you consider yourself a fan or whether you find yourself thinking of a particular fictional scene for inspiration, you are not alone. Perfectly sane people regularly admit that their favorite stories are important to them. Although journalists sometimes assume that the interest in the fictional world is a sign of trouble, the authors enthusiastically disagree. Because story worlds are social simulations, people use them to work out their values, decide how to handle similar situations, and even decide what kind of person they want to be. Although films and shows are widely spoken of as diversions or as escapism, there are many ways that they aren’t trivial at all. In this book, the authors explore how to understand the identity of a favorite character and the actor who plays the character. Are they the same person? They also delve into the nitty gritty of mental models for story worlds and timeless story arcs such as the hero’s journey. The moments that strike people as important can change as they age and move through different life stages. The authors’ conclusion: fans are not crazy. What fans are is human.