Reading Jane Harris’ Gillespie and I got me thinking about one of my favorite literary devices*: the unreliable narrator. It’s best when you don’t know they’re unreliable, I think, because a good writer can really throw you for a loop when you figure it out.
Though, I might be thinking about this because I’ve been watching Lie to Me.
A few years ago, I read Arthur Phillips’ The Egyptologist. All I knew about it was that there was a murder and there was archaeology. I had no idea where Phillips was going to take me, but I marveled at how I was manipulated by the narrator.
I think what I like about the unreliable narrator device is that, if it’s done well, it can hide in plain sight. As the reader, you experience the story through the narrator’s perspective–under normal circumstances. But when the narrator is lying or hiding something from you, there’s a layer between the reader and the story. You have to read the story through that layer, questioning whatever the narrator chooses to reveal or hide because there’s a motive behind it. You often get two mysteries, two stories, for the price of one.
I also marvel at the author’s ability to hide and reveal things. They have to lay down clues, so that the eventual revelation about what happened makes sense. The best stories make you want to read the book over again, so that you can see it coming and have a different experience. I’ve read about the characteristics of the unreliable narrator, but there’s not a lot of information about how an author achieves this. I suppose it’s analogous to what the narrator is doing; they’re telling two stories at the same time. For the author, I think creating one of these characters involves hiding a code inside the story the reader reads. Every scene and piece of dialog has to be scrutinized to make sure the secrets aren’t accidentally revealed.
Of course, they can’t hide everything. When I read an unreliable narrator, there’s always a sneaking suspicion that something is wrong. This is where the author really shows their skill, by giving you just enough hints to prepare the ground. I have read a few stories where the narrator flat-out tells you that they’re not to be trusted. Those are fun reads, because you have to question whether that’s a lie, too. (I love the Liar’s Paradox, by the way, even if it is maddening.) Günter Grass’s The Tin Drum famously begins with the line, “Granted, I am in a mental institution.**) When the narrator isn’t just lying, but actually perceives events differently, the reader ends up with a challenge to suss out subjective reality from objective reality***.
Unreliable narrators stick with me. I wonder if there are more secrets for me to discover if I go back and reread their stories. Because you can’t trust them, I’ll always wonder.
* It shows you how nerdy I am that I have a favorite literary device.
** Translated by my college German teacher and filtered by my memory.
*** Assuming there is such a thing. My philosophy professors have suggested otherwise. But that’s a different post altogether.