Storytelling Archives - Farther to Go!

You Feel Me?

November 29, 2021 by Joycelyn Campbell 2 Comments

In my previous post on the subject, I sided with a secondary definition of the word empathy, which is:

the projection of one’s own feelings or thoughts onto something else, such as an object in a work of art or a character in a novel or film [or another person].

As it turns out, that’s much closer to the original meaning of the source of the word for empathy, which is a translation of the German Einfühlung. According to a PubMed article:

The term “Einfühlung” literally means “feeling into” and refers to an act of projecting oneself into another body or environment, i.e. …to an imaginary bodily “displacement” (“Versetzung”) of oneself into another body or environment, which is aimed at understanding how it feels to be in that other body or environment.

Kudos for multiple uses of the words “body” and “environment” in a single sentence.

I was surprised to learn that the translation of Einfühlung into empathy didn’t take place until 1908. And even then the word was related to aesthetics rather than to interpersonal relationships (understanding other people). The meaning and application that it has today didn’t begin to develop until the 1930s. That seems really recent until you consider that Theory of Mind didn’t arrive on the scene until the late 70s.

Given this relatively recent—and, in the case of empathy, revisionist—history of these concepts, the extent to which so many people now take them for granted, and at face value, is a little mind-blowing.

Early Days: Telling Stories

Rosalind Dymond, a psychologist at Cornell University, appears to be the first person to have attempted to measure empathy. In 1946, she used a set of cards “depicting images of archetypal personalities and dramatic scenes” and tasked subjects with telling stories about the characters pictured.

The stories were rated good, fair, or poor. Good stories described the thoughts and feelings of the characters. Fair stories only described the characters’ external characteristics. Poor stories simply named the characters. Those individuals whose stories were rated good were found to also have greater insight into their own relationships—the implication being that the better, more in-depth stories people can tell, the more aware they are of themselves and others.

If you’ve read Jonathan Gottschall’s The Storytelling Animal or have seen his Ted Talk, you won’t find this surprising.

According to Susan Lanzoni, author of Empathy: A History:

[Dymond’s] characterization of empathy as the ability to tell in-depth, imaginative stories of another’s feelings and circumstances was closely tied to empathy’s early aesthetic meaning.

We communicate in stories and understand the world in terms of stories. As poet Muriel Rukeyser said, “The universe is made of stories, not of atoms.” I think this early take on empathy was probably the most useful. But it didn’t last.

Later Revisions

Dymond went on to redefine empathy as “the ability to accurately predict how another person saw themselves” and ultimately to be “an accurate appraisal of how someone else felt and thought.”

A little later some psychologists at Dartmouth College determined that subjects were pretty terrible at predicting other people’s preferences, meaning they had little “empathic accuracy.” Dartmouth then began offering a course to “increase students’ sensitivity to the attitudes and feelings of others.”

Many psychologists have gone on to lament the lack of empathy and the dearth of studies of empathy, including Dymond (1949), Gordon Allport (1960), and Kenneth B. Clark (1980). Yet there never has been—and still isn’t—a consensus agreement on what this concept or word refers to or means.

Nor is there agreement as to how we, as individuals, become—or fail to become—empathetic. Some researchers seem to believe empathy is straight-up the result of mirror neurons. Others believe we have genetic predispositions to be more or less empathetic. It has been proposed that we have an empathy circuit in the brain, which can “go down.” Individuals may then experience “empathy erosion.”

According to a 2018 article by Fabrizio Mafessoni and Michael Lachmann in Nature:

Contagious yawning, emotional contagion, and empathy are characterized by the activation of similar neurophysiological states or responses in an observed individual and an observer.

That raises an interesting line of inquiry. Maybe another time.

What’s the Point?

Many people claim that empathy is essential for the survival of our species and possibly the planet, too. But for purposes of survival—from the Pleistocene to today, whether on a one-to-one or group basis—we need to be able to predict what other people are likely to do in a particular situation. The part of the brain that excels at predicting is System 1, the unconscious. Animals do it, too. The only difference between us and animals is that we’re not satisfied with the predictions unless we believe we understand what’s behind them. So we tell stories about what we think is going on with other people, the same way we tell stories about what is going on with us.

Of course, as I’ve been saying for years, there’s no such thing as a true story.

to be continued…

Conspiracy Theories and the
Storytelling Mind
(Conspiracy Part 3)

July 29, 2020 by Joycelyn Campbell Leave a Comment

The most important thing about conspiracy theories isn’t that they aren’t true. They’re stories; of course they aren’t true. There’s no such thing as a “true story.”

We see, understand, and explain the world and other people—including ourselves—in terms of stories, not facts. Stories and the telling of them come naturally. They are easy to formulate and to remember. Facts, on the other hand, don’t come naturally. That’s why much of what we’ve learned, including most of our deeply held beliefs, has been transmitted to us via the stories we’ve heard, read, or watched—beginning with the fairy tales and nursery rhymes of early childhood.

In fact the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves are more important to our sense of self than the actual facts of our lives. What we remember of an experience is a story about it. The details are subject to revision, and we often employ confabulation, in the service of reinforcing a particular emotional state.

Emotion determines what we remember and how we remember. Emotion is what makes an event or an experience compelling. And there’s nothing more compelling than fraught situations, lurking danger, and bad outcomes. That’s because the brain is first and foremost a threat detector—as it should be, since although pleasant things are rewarding, unpleasant things can kill us. We need to know about those things so we can try to avoid them.

Wired for Story

It’s really no surprise that facts don’t persuade people to change their beliefs, especially in regard to conspiracy theories. Facts are not persuasive. Stories, on the other hand, are so persuasive and come to mind so easily that the world seems to present itself to us as a series of stories with beginnings, middles, and endings.

In his highly readable and wide-ranging book The Storytelling Animal, Jonathan Gottschall devotes several pages to a discussion of how conspiracy theories are one outcome of our mind’s tendency to impose the structure of story in places where there is no story.

He prefaces the discussion with the example of a 1940s experiment involving an animated film of geometric shapes. When the psychologists running the experiment, Fritz Heider and Marianne Simmel, asked viewers to describe what they had seen, almost no one said they saw geometric shapes moving around the screen. Instead they related detailed narratives imputing intentions and desires to circles and triangles.

They saw soap operas: doors slamming, courtship dances, the foiling of a predator. —Gottschall

Gottschall says that he, too, saw a very convincing story involving a hero, a heroine, and a villain. Heider and Simmel’s experiment has been replicated, and other similar experiments have been developed since. All have produced the same result.

Ripping Good Yarns

Conspiracy theories connect real data points and imagined data points into a coherent, emotionally satisfying version of reality. Conspiracy theories exert a powerful hold on the human imagination. …They fascinate us because they are ripping good yarns, showcasing classic problem structure and sharply defined good guys and villains. They offer vivid, lurid plots that translate with telling ease into wildly popular entertainment. —Gottschall

Conspiracy theories serve multiple purposes. Via the structure of story, they provide an explanation for why things are bad in the world; they separate the good guys from the bad guys; they tie random events together to weave a seamless whole.

Conspiracy theories…are always consoling in their simplicity. Bad things do not happen because of a wildly complex swirl of abstract historical and social variables. They happen because bad men live to stalk our happiness. And you can fight, and possibly even defeat, bad men. If you can read the hidden story. —Gottschall

Our brain is so good at altering our memories to support and affirm particular emotional states that we can become firmly convinced that something that didn’t happen happened (or vice versa). In the same way, conspiracy theories buttress our worldviews, altering our mental model and our actual experience of reality.

Conspiracy theories are an example of allowing the associative processing of the unconscious (System 1), which is gullible and prone to cognitive biases to run unchecked by the skeptical, critical thinking of System 2. It’s an example of letting our brain use us. And because of the way the brain works, once someone starts down that road, it becomes easier and easier to believe the story, and more and more difficult to question it.

Storying: It’s a Lot Like Breathing

July 2, 2018 by Joycelyn Campbell 1 Comment

Just as breathing is automatic, and you can’t decide to stop breathing, storying is automatic, and you can’t decide to stop storying.

Your unconscious (System 1) monitors and manages your physical functions such as alertness, arousal, breathing, circulation, and digestion. Actions you take, including many of the lifestyle choices you make—as well as the circumstances of your life—can affect these functions.

You can consciously attend to some of them—breathing, for example—some of the time. But you can’t attend to any of them all the time. And you can’t consciously control them because you don’t have enough System 2 bandwidth to handle the job.

In addition to maintaining homeostasis by managing physical functions, System 1 also manages things like your sensory perceptions, your awareness of being located in space and time, your immediate reactions to events, and the vast majority of choices you make each day.

You can consciously attend to some of these functions, too, some of the time. But you can’t prevent System 1 from managing your mental processes and your real-time reactions any more than you can prevent it from managing physical functions. Although you might wish to have more say, moment-to-moment, it’s good that you don’t.

Storying Is Automatic.

One of the mental activities System 1 regularly engages in is weaving your experiences into coherent stories. I call this storying, because there doesn’t seem to be a better word to describe it. Storytelling and narrating both describe relating a story in some manner: either something that already happened or something that is—or is being—made up. Your brain is neither relating a factual account of past or present events, nor is it fabricating your stories out of thin air. Editing may be a more accurate term, but that implies the preexistence of a story to be edited.

The process of storying includes interpreting events and experiences as they occur for meaning and relevance, deciding which details are worth remembering, adding or subtracting for effect and coherence, reorganizing sequences, if necessary, and incorporating the resulting story into your ongoing life story based on your current beliefs and model of the world. Your brain is so good at this and does it with such speed that you aren’t even aware it’s happening.

Just as breathing is automatic, and you can’t decide to stop breathing, storying is automatic, and you can’t decide to stop storying. (Your brain is you, so you are storying, whether or not you’re conscious of doing it.)

There’s No Such Thing as a True Story.

But just as you can consciously focus your attention on your breathing to calm yourself or remind yourself to be present, you can consciously focus your attention on your brain’s storying, at least from time to time. You can learn to be skeptical of the stories your brain spins. You can allow for the possibility that your stories are often interpretations, explanations, rationalizations, and justifications. No matter how satisfying, they are not true, not fact, not an accurate reflection of reality. Your unconscious may be more or less biased than another person’s unconscious, but everyone is biased to one extent or another.

We are the great masterworks of our own storytelling minds—figments of our own imaginations. We think of ourselves as very stable and real. But our memories constrain our self-creation less than we think, and they are constantly being distorted by our hopes and dreams. Until the day we die, we are living the story of our lives. And, like a novel in process, our life stories are always changing and evolving, being edited, rewritten, and embellished by an unreliable narrator. We are, in large part, our personal stories. And those stories are more truthy than true. —Jonathan Gottschall, The Storytelling Animal

Storying doesn’t just help you make sense of your own world; it also helps you make sense of the rest of the world. And you’re not the only person storying. Everyone else is doing it, too. Consider the implications.