Masks
I've been reading a book recently, The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss, and there was a section I have dwelled upon. It might be common sense, but I find thoughts that seem common sense only become obvious once you encounter them.
"Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be."
Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground. "That's basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations."
"That's only the smallest piece of it," Bast Said. "The truth is deeper than that. It's..." Bast floundered for a moment. "It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story."
Frowning, Chronicler opened his mouth, but Bast held up a hand to stop him. "No, listen. I've got it now. You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she is beautiful, she'll think you're sweet, but she won't believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding." Bast gave a grudging shrug. "And sometimes that's enough."
His eyes brightened. "But there's a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, but when she truly believes you..." Bast gestured excitedly. "Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn't seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Chronicler snapped. "You're just spouting nonsense now."
"I'm spouting too much sense for you to understand," Bast said testily. "But you're close enough to see my point. Think of what he said today. People saw him as a hero, and he played the part. He wore it like a mask but eventually he believed it. It became the truth. But now..." he trailed off.
"Now people seem him as an innkeeper," Chronicler said.
"No," Bast said softly. "People saw him as an innkeeper years ago. He took off the mask when they walked out the door. Now he sees himself as an innkeeper, and a failed innkeeper at that."
I had a conversation recently with someone (I have forgotten who!) and we talked about how some old ambitions have been fulfilled despite all odds. We talked about how it seemed more than coincidence, almost as if the mere desire for something could change the way the dice rolls. Obviously, it has something to do with the everyday choices we make and the way we might take or be blind to opportunities.
But I particularly like this idea of constructing and living a story within our own minds. It is not just ambitions and desires that shape who we are, but the story of ourselves we hold and how we regard the potential of that character. If I think back to college, I loved Star Wars and in particular the abundance of droids. I fancied myself someone who might live in that universe and build robots. I used to pour over google news articles on robots, and marvel at images of robot labs filled with scientists.
I wonder if having an imaginary character for yourself is ultimately a boon or a bane. It could lead someone astray and make them feel a failure for no good reason. Is an imaginary character ultimately the same as knowing yourself completely, or is it a distraction? It seems like the very mechanism by which we are trapped into consumerism (the desirable image). Would not having a character remove your sense of adventure or curiosity? Or what about having the wrong story, or a miserable character? But certainly, believing in yourself and your ambitions can take you far.
It makes me wonder what people would write if you asked them to describe themselves as a character in a story. I wonder what the youngest and the oldest would write.
"Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be."
Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground. "That's basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations."
"That's only the smallest piece of it," Bast Said. "The truth is deeper than that. It's..." Bast floundered for a moment. "It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story."
Frowning, Chronicler opened his mouth, but Bast held up a hand to stop him. "No, listen. I've got it now. You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she is beautiful, she'll think you're sweet, but she won't believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding." Bast gave a grudging shrug. "And sometimes that's enough."
His eyes brightened. "But there's a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, but when she truly believes you..." Bast gestured excitedly. "Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn't seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Chronicler snapped. "You're just spouting nonsense now."
"I'm spouting too much sense for you to understand," Bast said testily. "But you're close enough to see my point. Think of what he said today. People saw him as a hero, and he played the part. He wore it like a mask but eventually he believed it. It became the truth. But now..." he trailed off.
"Now people seem him as an innkeeper," Chronicler said.
"No," Bast said softly. "People saw him as an innkeeper years ago. He took off the mask when they walked out the door. Now he sees himself as an innkeeper, and a failed innkeeper at that."
I had a conversation recently with someone (I have forgotten who!) and we talked about how some old ambitions have been fulfilled despite all odds. We talked about how it seemed more than coincidence, almost as if the mere desire for something could change the way the dice rolls. Obviously, it has something to do with the everyday choices we make and the way we might take or be blind to opportunities.
But I particularly like this idea of constructing and living a story within our own minds. It is not just ambitions and desires that shape who we are, but the story of ourselves we hold and how we regard the potential of that character. If I think back to college, I loved Star Wars and in particular the abundance of droids. I fancied myself someone who might live in that universe and build robots. I used to pour over google news articles on robots, and marvel at images of robot labs filled with scientists.
I wonder if having an imaginary character for yourself is ultimately a boon or a bane. It could lead someone astray and make them feel a failure for no good reason. Is an imaginary character ultimately the same as knowing yourself completely, or is it a distraction? It seems like the very mechanism by which we are trapped into consumerism (the desirable image). Would not having a character remove your sense of adventure or curiosity? Or what about having the wrong story, or a miserable character? But certainly, believing in yourself and your ambitions can take you far.
It makes me wonder what people would write if you asked them to describe themselves as a character in a story. I wonder what the youngest and the oldest would write.