Are You a Narrative Character or a Story Character?
March 20, 2026
Once upon a time I thought I was living in a coherent if unfinished narrative: Born in Vietnam at the start of the American war, raised fatherless in a defunct coal town, by endurance and willfulness I managed at least partially in the great swirling world to prove myself to myself, to exercise narrow talents, and to find some peace in family and work. That brought us to present. And whatever would become of me? Well, surely whatever it was that was in line with my ongoing narrative.
This tendency to look back at our earlier selves—selves that are also looking forward and craving significance—aids in limning a sympathetic arc through the decades: rising action, climax, denouement. We are the protagonists of the narratives of our lives.
My use of “narrative” here, as opposed to “story,” follows an implied definition by Dr. Imre Galambos, a man profiled by Peter Hessler in Oracle Bones, Hessler’s second nonfiction book on living in China. Galambos, a sinologist and Tangutologist, “is half Hungarian, quarter Kazak, quarter Tatar,” a heritage Hessler claims has affected Galambos’ view of historical narratives.
Hessler says Galambos believes that “In order to write a story, and create meaning out of events, you deny other possible interpretations,” a “destructive” act that allows for coherent longform narrative, such as “’this thing we call “Chinese history.”’”
“Galambos is an instinctive skeptic,” Hessler says. “He is suspicious of neatness, regularity, plot; in his view, [narratives] are often a façade for chaos. [Galambos] explains that people have a natural tendency to choose certain figures and events, exaggerate their importance, and then incorporate them into narratives. [He says:] ‘In reality I would say it’s more fluid, more complex; there’s a lot more stuff going on. Obviously, that’s no way to teach history. You can’t just say, “There’s a lot more stuff going on.”’’
We all know the sort of thing: “My life, when it is written,” says Henry II, “will read better than it lived. Henry Fitz-Empress, first Plantagenet, a king at twenty-one, the ablest soldier of an able time. He led men well, he cared for justice when he could and ruled, for thirty years, a state as great as Charlemagne’s. He married, out of love, a woman out of legend. Not in Alexandria, or Rome, or Camelot has there been such a queen.”
But then the turn: “She bore him many children. But no sons. King Henry had no sons. He had three whiskered things, but he disowned them….”
The simplicity of this dramatic monologue is at least partly a lie that, among other things, evades responsibility. But what is the alternative? A lot more stuff going on—history, social forces, personal relationships, rumors of war—to the point where personal meaning begins to dissolve?
I asked a friend which of two things she thought true: Are our lives narratives? Or are they many quick stories/events/incidents that pop up, one damn thing after another, and are tied together only by the meanings we assign? The latter, she thought. We discussed how, if we really lived in the present, minute by minute, as we aspired to do, the best we would be able to say at the end would be that the stories had been interesting, and all of them put together, just as they had been, without dramatic or logical prejudice, could be called a narrative if you liked, which would have to be satisfactory.
Later I asked my friend to remind me exactly what we said. She said it had been beautiful but could not remember the specifics. It made us comic characters in a momentary story, which is how that goes.
