Gregory Currie, "Narrative Desire"

I. In “Narrative Desire”, Gregory Currie hypothesizes that an agent who desires some X in the imagination might be inclined to desire X in reality. This includes, but is not limited to, the imagination required to engage in film, literature and other fictions. And although we typically conceive of fictional desires as being both healthy and aesthetically sophisticated, we often regard fictional desires as being undesirable in relation to the ‘real world’. So, fictional desires may prove harmful insofar as they might lead to directly harmful desires.

This hypothesis relies on a distinction which Currie draws between character desires and narrative desires. I will begin by outlining this distinction and will thereafter explicate the important role which it plays in Currie’s argument as a whole.

II. Currie begins “Narrative Desire” by distinguishing between two classes of fictional desire: character desires and narrative desires. We might classify character desires as the desires which an agent holds in relation to a particular character or set there of. Narrative desires, on the other hand, are the desires which an agent holds in relation to a fiction’s over-arching narrative. On the first interpretation, I desire that Rick and Ilsa continue their romance (character desire); on the second, I desire that Casablanca be a narrative in which Rick and Ilsa continue their romance (narrative desire). But we also hold many desires which are not constrained by the realm of the imagination. Currie thus distinguishes between fictional desires and the desires we hold in relation to family and friends, ourselves and the world in which we live.

Desires concerning friends (or family, or one’s career, etc.) and those concerning fictional characters differ not only in that they pertain to different focus-groups; they differ in that one hesitates to call desires concerning fictional characters desires at all. The problem may be summed up as follows: broadly construed, desires are based upon a belief, the relevant sort of which is lacking in the case of fictional characters. I do not believe that Anna Karenina exists out there, ‘in the real world’, so I don’t believe that she can be harmed. How can I be concerned about some character Y in situation X if I don’t believe that Y was ever in X? Currie thus distinguishes between desires which exist in the scope of an imagining, and desires which are not so restricted. My desire that Anna Karenina be happy is within the scope of an imagining; my desire that my parents be happy is not.

However, we often desire particular outcomes in relation to narratives which we construct about ourselves and others. Consider, for example, day dreams. Interestingly, these desires often conflict with the desires we hold in relation to ourselves and others. This further complicates the interplay between character desires and narrative desires, for we might hold both outside of the realm of fiction.

III. Now that we understand the distinction which Currie draws between character desires and narrative desires, we are in a position to examine Currie’s larger claim (that being, an agent who desires some X in the imagination might be inclined to desire X in reality). So how might fiction influence the desires which I hold in relation to real people and events? According to Currie, fiction might influence an agent’s desires concerning real people and events insofar as fiction a.) makes available thought-contents which were previously unavailable to the subject, b.) vividly depicts scenarios which lend specificity to previously underdeveloped desires, and c.) depicts a certain state of affairs that elicits a pleasurable response and, in turn, causes the viewer to desire a state of affairs which is relevantly similar to that depicted.

Although we lack solid empirical evidence, these three conditions provide us with sufficient reason to believe that an agent’s desiring some X in the imagination inclines her to desire X in reality. And if this is plausible, then works of fiction that encourage individuals to imaginatively desire a ‘bad’ thing B (say, the desire that someone suffer humiliation) may strengthen B to the point at which B becomes a real desire on which an agent is prepared to act.

Furthermore (and as has been shown), the narratives in which we imaginatively engage suggest to us narratives in which we play roles. And in such narratives, we often cast others into roles subsidiary to our imaginative wants. An agent who spins narratives involving coercion is thus more likely to engage in instances thereof than an agent who does not.

To conclude, the imagination is not a hermetically sealed inner world which lacks implications for behavior. Fictional desires may in fact prove harmful insofar as they might lead to directly harmful desires. In the words of Siddhartha Gautama: “All that we are is the result of what we have thought. The mind is everything. What we think we become.”

Aesthetic Merit

[...]On my view, an art piece (filmic or otherwise) largely gains aesthetic merit insofar as it provides intellectual or emotional stimulation which aids in the expression and communication of an overarching theme or set of ideas. There are many ways in which a non-fiction film might successfully fulfill this criterion. A non-fiction cinematic work might provide intellectual stimulation by challenging an audience’s previously held conceptions. Other works might illustrate or communicate an idea (or set thereof) in much the same way as does a philosophical argument; that is, by laying out premises which gradually (or quite suddenly) lead to an overarching conclusion. Such a film provides the viewer with intellectual stimulation insofar as the individual is invited to consider the work as a whole. For a viewer who is gradually led to accept an author’s conclusion might call into question one (or more) of the author’s premises or the method by which the conclusion was reached. And the conclusion need not be conceptual in nature; directors often intend to communicate (and manifest in the audience) a set of emotions or feelings. Even in such films, the manifestation of emotions or feelings is often developed over the course of the film[...]

Alan Watts

“A living body is not a fixed thing but a flowing event, like a flame or a whirlpool: the shape alone is stable, for the substance is a stream of energy going in at one end and out at the other. We are particularly and temporarily identifiable wiggles in a stream that enters us in the form of light, heat, air, water, milk, bread, fruit, beer, beef Stroganoff, caviar, and pate de foie gras. It goes out as gas and excrement — and also as semen, babies, talk, politics, commerce, war, poetry, and music. And philosophy.”

Cedar Mesa

Through a vast and empty echo, the ruins speak.

So stand remnants from another age, housed in red rock and crumbling faces, cliffs which bear the weight of time's slow pressure. Still, Earth's strong and steady back rises. And through each broken edifice, each husk underfoot, a past people speaks.

So ran the children, those taught the voice of water;

so flew Anasazi arrows
so too did deft fingers find sacred flora, sharp eyes marked tracks of fauna.
And as for their people...

A deep silence now permeates this place.

The land sighs and evening's cool blanket falls. Our Sun passing, all heat now leaking, my body weak and settling, and Mother Moon waiting in her celestial wing. My gazing eyes turn, seek and find,
repose in her brightly shining face. And I,


I wait.
I listen.


for such gentle moments all too swiftly pass.

Oh, silence,
grasp, ride home with me.