Catharsis and the Emotional Paradox of Storytelling
Do you find it interesting how we willingly, enthusiastically, even, want to experience pain and heartache in stories? We binge true crime. We read books with agonizing losses, and then recommend them to others–why? Maybe the plot, the dialogue, something else. Either way, the reason comes down to how it made you feel. People watch horror to feel fear, thrillers for anticipation, and chickflicks for love (and sometimes heartache) — and I can’t help but wonder why these emotions aren’t equally honored in life.
Why, when a protagonist experiences profound heartache for another, is it devastatingly beautiful? Poetic? From an audience’s perspective, their pain is symbolic and meaningful–a necessary stepping stone in their story toward something greater. They stand above the forest looking downward. They see the onset of winter. They see the distant storm. They see the path that exits the tree line.
Contrarily, from a character’s or personal perspective, the wind is bone-chilling. The sky is angry. The path disappears into an endless sea of trees, and soul-ripping emotions blur any concept of “bigger picture”.
Aristotle’s “Poetics” explains art as a catharsis. The emotional purge an audience undergoes after experiencing tragedy, loss, or betrayal, even vicariously.
“an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude… through pity and fear effecting the catharsis of such emotions.“
The interpretation of Aristotle’s message has been considered for centuries, but with my measly 21st-century brain, I think it’s simple.
We’re meant to experience these things.
Death, betrayal, heartache. These are all aspects of what it means to be alive.
But, we all know these things don’t feel good. In fact, they hurt so deeply they carve and reshape our very being. They’re a catalyst for change, and undeniably, growth. Heartache shows us our capacity to reach emotional depths we didn’t know existed. Betrayal shows us how far our roots of loyalty grow, and death brings an existential realization of life.
Humans are innately meant to adapt, I think. To shed, in layers, like an onion–like an ogre, over the course of their life. We have an instinctive craving to become, but a primordial fear of feeling.
This emotional dissonance creates a unique paradox in which we seek out experiences that allow us to safely explore transformative emotions, without the transformation.
Art allows us to do that.
Through things like movies, music, and stories, audiences come face to face with ineffable realities, like watching a polar bear through inches of glass. You can taste the instinctive rush, the fear, the potential for pain, without it ever consuming you. Likewise, you can watch a protagonist suffer devastating loss and feel the fulfilling twitch of sorrow in your soul.
Humans shy away from feeling raw because rawness hurts — but rawness is how we feel the most alive.
