N a r r a t i v e9 1need to be carried out of Twelfth Night convulsed with hysterical
laughter.
* * *Omniscient narrators need not go unchallenged. We may suspect
that they have their own biases and blind spots. Take, for example,
the relations between narratives and their characters. A novel
might unduly idealise one of its characters, just as it might angle its
storyline unduly in favour of a certain standpoint. Works of fiction
can reveal attitudes to the characters and events they portray, either
explicitly or implicitly, which a reader might want to question. An
astute critic once commented that Scobie, the protagonist of
Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter, is both more and less
admirable than the novel itself seems to think. We do not have to
take a piece of fiction’s own word as gospel, even though we have
no words but its own. If a novel tells us that its heroine has green-
flecked eyes, it is hard to quarrel with the claim. If it also suggests
that she is the most black- hearted female since Lucretia Borgia,
we might want to query this on the basis of what it shows of her, as
opposed to what it says. A work of fiction may seem to believe
that its characters are thick skulled, tender hearted or downright
despicable, but it might always be mistaken. Unknown to itself, it
might provide us with evidence against these judgements.
D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers may serve as an example. The
novel contains some tacit criticism of its protagonist Paul Morel,
but nonetheless sees the world largely from his point of view.
There is a secret complicity between the narrative and its central
figure. In fact, there are times when the story seems to think more
highly of its hero than we do. Since the world is seen largely in
Paul’s own terms, his lover, Miriam, is not handed enough of the