To be published in On the Horizon, vol. 14/ issue 3 (Fall
2006)
The Author - Dr.
Boria Sax (Vogelgreif@aol.com) is the author of many
books, most recently Crow.
Storytelling and the “Information Overload”
Abstract:
Methodology/Approach
- This article examines the various functions served by
storytelling, from its origins in prehistoric times to the post-industrial age.
Findings
- Storytelling appears to have developed in archaic times as
a means to organize vast and confusing amounts of information. It retains that
function and becomes particularly important in transitional times such as the
present.
Research
limitations/implications - Historical records are rich in
stories, yet they seldom provide the full social context in which these were
told. This article attempts to reconstruct part of that context on the basis of
anthropological and biological theories.
Practical
Implications - Today, however, neither empirical nor
theoretical analysis is able to cope with the information overload caused by
new electronic media. As traditional markers of identity such as ethnicity and
class become elusive, Individuals, and companies as well, need to articulate
their stories in order to define themselves.
Originality/Value
- This article places storytelling, arguably the most traditional of arts, in
the context of a culture dominated by electronic media, thus helping people and
institutions to use the power of narrative.
Document
Type - Research paper
Keywords
- Storytelling,
Information Overload, Theory, Identity
*
My window at work opens on a field of
grass and some trees, and I have several times seen crows drive away a hawk.
There is probably a crow's nest nearby, though I have not yet found it. At any
rate, they know that the hawk is big and fast but not very maneuverable. As
long as the crows stay slightly higher than the hawk and make a lot of noise,
they are safe. But one day a crow, calling loudly, flew almost directly beneath
the hawk, as though daring the hawk to pounce. When the hawk did not pounce,
the crow rose straight up until it was eye level with the hawk, still calling,
then began to circle loudly around the hawk's head. After another minute, the
hawk left, with the crow, still calling, chasing after it together with a
partner. The behavior of the crow, while obviously purposeful, showed a sort of
reckless courage that seemed to go beyond the prompting of instinct. It was the
boldness of a hero, a quality that is hard to conceive outside of stories.
While certainly animals such as ravens
and bees hint at something analogous to human language, certainly none shows
anything approaching the intricate grammatical distinctions that people use
routinely. Similarly, no animals appear to have anything like the intricate web
of stories that structure human society. We use stories to define ourselves,
both as individuals and as members of groups. Stories also connect us to the
past and direct us towards goals in the future. Each of us represents the
intersection of many stories blending fact and fiction, which tell of family,
gender, nationality and so on.
While it may be impossible to give a
very precise definition of a “story,” some basic characteristics are very
clear. It is a series of connected events in chronological order. It is
centered on a single character, whose life is disrupted by a crisis. He takes
on a monumental task and confronts a powerful adversary. He is often finds a
helper. A story has a clear dramatic structure, in which tension builds to a
climax and is released.
The structure is essentially a set of
conventions with no objective correlate. In “real life,” there is no beginning
or end, let alone a “happily ever after.” There is no hero, around whom
everything that happens revolves. But by imposing a relatively simple structure
on experience, storytelling helps us to make sense of the world. The structure
of stories is an extension of grammar, which also imposes organization on the
chaos of experience.
It may be impossible to know just when
human beings or their ancestors developed the capacity for storytelling. At any
rate, it was fully developed by the invention of writing. The first recorded
stories in
Stories are a means of connecting events
and deciding what is important. Several people may observe the same public incident
- say, a brawl - and come away with several contrasting stories, depending on
what they care about and what they notice. If, however, an observer does not
come away with any story, he will not be able to make sense of, report or
probably even remember what happened. Stories were perhaps developed as a means
to deal with the “information overload,” a contemporary word for what is
actually a very archaic phenomenon.
To use the terminology of the early
twentieth century biologist Jacob von Uexkűll,
stories are part of the “Umwelt” or perceptual world
of human beings. Uexkűll had pointed out that,
while they may appear to share the same landscape, different creatures will
perceive it in entirely different ways (Uexkűll,
1928; Kull, 2001). This is due in part to their use
of different modes of perception. To give one example, horses are color blind,
while bees are able to perceive colors on the ultraviolet end of the spectrum
that is imperceptible to human beings. Thus a horse, a man and a bee may look
at the same field and they will see very different things. Without using its
highly sensitive tactile sense, a horse will not be able to distinguish among
many kinds of vegetation. The bee, however, will be able to see pollen, which is
invisible to people.
Using technologies, human beings can
filter out color, to see more like a horse, or detect ultraviolet light, to see
things more like a bee. We alter and direct our perceptions using a vast array
of tools from the lamps and lenses to megaphones and microscopes. Because our
means of perception are so various and our needs are so complex, our senses are
completely insufficient to filter our experience. Without stories, we would be
overwhelmed by the vast number of things that seem to clamor for our attention.
That was as true in the forests and savannahs of Neolithic times as it is in
the cities of today.
The
Origins of Storytelling
The latter eighteenth through early
twentieth centuries were an era in which classifying and indexing large amounts
of information assumed new importance. As folklorists and anthropologists began
collecting and comparing vast numbers of tales collected around the world, they
quickly noticed certain recurrent patterns and motifs. Tales that had
originated in civilizations that had apparently very little contact might seem
strangely similar. Several attempts have been made to reduce all stories to a
few basic forms, or even a single structure. Joseph Campbell, a neo-Victorian
thinker, tried to reduce mythology to a “monomyth,” in which a hero sacrifices
himself for the redemption of his people (1972). The boldness with which
The most sophisticated of these theories
is that of the Russian folklorist Vladimir Propp, who
attempted to reduce the apparently highly divergent plots of fairy tales to a
single story with seven characters and 31 episodes, which may not always be
complete but is never altered. This led him to conclude that fairy tales are
derived from a lost mythology (1968). Though Propp
worked only with Russian fairy tales of Alexandr Afansiev, other folklorists such as Alan Dundes have simplified his schemata and applied it to tales
of many cultures (1964).
The Swiss classicist Walter Burkert used the model of Propp
to trace storytelling to the experience of hunting, as the chase would be
recounted in evenings around a blazing fire in prehistoric times (1996). He
pointed out that scenes of pursuit are ubiquitous in fairy tales, and one need
only think of such favorites as “Snow White” and “Cinderella to confirm this.
The jealous stepmother pursues her beautiful stepdaughter; the prince pursues
the stranger he met at the dance.
Fascinating as the work of Propp and his followers may be, it is dependent on
elaborate, and insufficiently explained, extrapolations from the texts of the
tales (Tatar, 2003). How does one determine with confidence, for example,
whether two characters from two respective fairy tales are equivalent in their
function or not? Perhaps even more significantly, these reductionist theories
fail to account for the creative element in storytelling, by which tales are
adapted to many audiences, cultures and historical circumstances. If all
stories are ultimately the same, why don’t people simply tell a single one? The
theory of Propp is appropriate to the industrial era,
when traditions of storytelling seemed to be coming to an end, and stories
could be classified and studied like artifacts in a museum. But today, as we
confront a glut of information that cannot be comprehended in abstract terms,
the creative element in storytelling cannot be ignored.
The theory of Burkert,
however poetic, also presents difficulties. Hunting may have been a specialty
even in very archaic societies, and it was never anything close to the sum of
human activity. In Neolithic cultures, people would also have been spinning,
weaving, practicing agriculture, minding the fire, caring for children and
perhaps creating works of art. Why should storytelling have focused exclusively
on the activity of hunting? The telling of tales seems to be a way of relating
to the world that is not, and has probably never been, tied to any single task.
Alternatives
to Storytelling
Storytelling is now only one way amid
several in which human beings can organize, or process, their experience (Blumenburg, 1988). It is not always necessarily the best. Other
ways include, for example, rules of conduct, abstract principles, theory,
traditions, and hierarchies of authority. All of these have their advantages,
and it would probably be impossible to organize our experience on the basis or
storytelling alone. Some people appear to lead lives in which stories are not
even terribly important. They may, for example, live primarily by abstract principles
or by rules and routines. While these people may be missing something, they do
seem to get on well enough in their professional and personal lives.
Stories have a unique ability to
consecrate principles and rules, the Ten Commandments or the Sermon on the
Mount for example. Once these are established, however, stories are not always
so necessary. It is even necessary in the early stages of a science, where
founders are mythologized every bit as much as in religions or governments.
There is
Storytelling does, however, have several
advantages over other means of organizing experience. It has a sensuality that
places it especially close to experience. Tales evoke sights, smells and
sounds, while philosophies and precepts usually do not. For another thing,
storytelling has great flexibility. Narratives can more easily be adjusted to
different eras and circumstances than can rules or ideologies.
Finally,
in addition to being the oldest means by which people organize experience, storytelling
is also the most robust. When neither abstract theory nor religious dogma can
empower us to respond to a crisis, we can return to telling stories. The
process is a bit like taking up a pen and paper, either because word processors
are unavailable or because the older tools seem appropriate to our mood and
inspiration. The toughness and flexibility of storytelling make narrative especially
important in periods of transition, particularly at the origin of new
religions, ideologies, institutions, or technologies.
For individuals as well, stories are
most important during periods of transition such as adolescence, marriage or
the start of a new career. At such key points in our lives, the capacity for
rationality is likely to be challenged by decisions of great practical and
emotional complexity. When familiar expectations and routines are disturbed,
for example by the loss of a job or the end of a romantic relationship, we may
find that analysis is futile. Brooding about the consequences of our acts can
lead into an endless sequence of new questions.
In Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the hero experiences a sort of information overload, as he
decides how to respond to the phantom that claims to be the ghost of his father.
This paralysis may have parallels in other mammals such as rabbits, which often
freeze when being pursued by a predator. People can, however, often move beyond
the crisis of indecision by making significant changes in their lives if they
can describe events as a story.
Storytelling
in Industrial Society
The information overload that we
experience today is not unprecedented in human society. At the end of the
Renaissance, for example, society faced something of the sort, as it attempted
to absorb all of the scientific and artistic innovations, which had been
discovered in a few short generations. One result was a period of social
breakdown in
Storytelling is not equally important in
all historical epochs. With the Industrial Revolution, other means of
organizing experience gained in importance as storytelling declined. The
primary reason may have been the growing dominance of written over oral
culture, as literacy increased and the costs of publishing declined.
Storytelling, as a cultural form, has always been especially intimately linked
with the spoken word. Furthermore, the growing dissemination of writing enabled
people to organize experience in alternative ways, from example by increasingly
intricate rules of behavior, by legal contracts, and by elaborate schedules.
By the twentieth century, the
intelligentsia had come to prefer abstract theories such as those of Marx,
Freud, and Nietzsche to stories. Though excellent storytellers themselves, those
thinkers tried to articulate principles that would render storytelling less
necessary. In the Romantic era of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth
centuries, the major literary form became lyric poetry, which focused on
feelings rather than on events. In the latter nineteenth century it became the
novel, but this was generally less a vehicle for storytelling than for
intricate psychological and philosophical explorations. The interest in the
works of major novelists such as Leo Tolstoy was primarily less in plot than in
character. In an almost scientific manner, characters were created then placed
in various situations, so that one might see what they would feel and how they
would react. Many painters ceased to illustrate stories, particularly those of
tradition. Instead, they produced still lives, abstractions or ideological
propaganda.
Steven Johnson has pointed out in Interface Culture that the work of
Victorian novels of authors such as Dickens or George Eliot, presented a vaster
panorama of society than any writers have done before or since, as authors
jumped abruptly from palaces and factories to slums, making the connections by
means of barely articulated associations. The novelists were straining to
bestow coherence on a society, which had been fragmented by abrupt
industrialization (2005). These intuitive leaps from one scene to the next,
disrupted the narrative flow, and compelled the authors to weave together
several contrasting, and often fragmentary, lines of action.
Perhaps this tradition culminated in 1924,
the year that saw the publication of both T. S. Eliot’s poem “The Wasteland” (1998)
and Joyce’s novel Ulysses (2000),
which consisted of rambling meditations and narratives, loosely organized
around recurring themes with hardly more than the barest pretence of a plot. At
the time, many people hoped or feared that these works might be the beginning
of an entirely new literary tradition, yet they now stand in splendid
isolation. Though celebrated as masterpieces, they had minimal influence on the
literature of successive generations, which gradually returned to older kinds
of narrative. To an extent, Eliot and Joyce anticipated the world of the
Internet, where people jump between stories, associated through common motifs,
by use of hyperlinks. The stories on the Internet, however, are themselves
generally structured in a traditional manner. Indeed, the experience of
navigating the web would be almost totally incoherent if they were not.
Storytelling
in the New Millennium
As the limitations of both empiricism
and theory in confronting the information overload become apparent,
storytelling is gaining renewed importance. The Internet is the ideal medium
for the dissemination of stories. Rumors, urban legends and gossip spread
almost instantly, and these do not necessarily need to be believed in order to
entertain. Much of the storytelling may be fairly trivial, but it can at least
reassure people in a dramatically changing world.
On an individual level, articulating our
own stories can help us find our way through a confusing plethora of choices. A
couple of hundred years ago, people lived within fixed parameters, which could
be changed with much difficulty if at all. You were born into a certain social
class, a certain religion, an ethnicity and even a profession. You might alter
these parameters a bit through marriage, but, in general, they were a destiny.
Today there is more social mobility, if perhaps not as much as we sometimes
like to imagine. It has become easy enough to change religions, and ethnicity
appears increasingly ambiguous. Divorce, in most circles, does not carry much
of a stigma. You can change the color of your hair, the lines of your face and
even, if you have the money, your gender.
In what, then, does individual identity
consist? More than anything else, it lies in having a unique story (Ibarra and Linebeck 2005). This, together with your social security
number, accompanies you throughout your life. When you get to know a friend,
you exchange stories with her. When you take on a new job, you must incorporate
it into your story. Similarly, the firm may need to integrate you into the
story that gives it cohesion, and, consciously or not, a job interviewer will
try to find out if that is possible. When you marry, you and your spouse must
integrate your stories into a single one.
Storytelling
can help us deal with the loss of security that comes as hierarchal structures
of the Industrial Age disintegrate, and we can no longer fully rely on a career
with a fixed trajectory culminating in a pension and retirement. The situation
is a bit like that at the start of the Industrial Age, when many former serfs
gave up the meager but relatively secure life at a feudal manor house for a far
less stable existence as itinerant laborers. Often, they would journey from
town to town in hope of employment, carrying little more than wooden spoon to
eat their meals. Those who could confront their hardships in a spirit of
adventure, however, might learn new industries or journey to distant lands.
Institutions as well as individuals have
stories, and it is primarily these narratives that distinguish them from their
competitors. It is primarily their context that makes educational institutions
appear unique, and that context consists mostly of stories. This is
increasingly being recognized not only in academia but also in the corporate
world. In the words of Stephen Denning, former Director of Knowledge Management
at the World Bank, “…any discussion of organizations that does not place
narrative and storytelling at the center is bound to be misleading and
incomplete” (Denning, 2005).
Cyberspace is a great place for telling
stories, but it is not such a good one for creating tales, much less for living
them. It is stories that anchor virtual reality in what we sometimes call “real
life.” These appeal to the imagination far more easily than abstract philosophies
of education. Institutions would do well to record, reflect on, and publicize
the stories of their people and their programs.
Eventually, mythic narratives of the
post-industrial era will emerge, which will address questions that abstract
analysis has failed to solve: What is our proper relationship, as human beings,
to animals and the environment? What is the significance or nationality or
ethnicity? How can men and women acknowledge differences of gender without
arrogance? Although theorists such as Propp have
shown that the structure of stories has remained amazing stable over the
centuries and millennia, we cannot assume that it never changes. It is possible
that the stories that emerge during the centuries to come may be profoundly
different from those we tell today.
Because it confronts us with massive
uncertainties, the era we have entered is generally described in negative
terms. It is “post…” something – “postmodern,” post-industrial,” or
“post-capitalist”…. Sometimes, it is called the “Information Age,” on the
grounds that social relations are now structured by the flow of information
rather than that of money (Drucker, 1994).
Unfortunately, information does not necessarily provide society with any
structure at all. Information does not necessarily even “flow,” for it
constantly overflows the “channels” that people have created. Knowledge that
was once the province of professional journals, for example, is often
disseminated by consultants, corporate researchers, popular writers and others
who bypass the traditional vehicles. We must look instead to our tales to
provide structure, so perhaps the new millennium will be the “Age of Stories.”
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