(Dan McIntyre) Point of View in Plays A Cognitive

<DOCINFO AUTHOR ""TITLE "Point of View in Plays: A cognitive stylistic approach to viewpoint in drama and other text-types"SUBJECT "Linguistic
Approaches to Literature, Volume 3"KEYWORDS ""SIZE HEIGHT "240"WIDTH "160"VOFFSET "4">
Point of View in Plays
Linguistic Approaches to Literature

Linguistic Approaches to Literature (LAL) provides an international forum for
researchers who believe that the application of linguistic methods leads to a
deeper and more far-reaching understanding of many aspects of literature. The
emphasis will be on pragmatic approaches intersecting with areas such as
discourse analysis, sociolinguistics, ethnolinguistics, rhetoric, philosophy,
cognitive linguistics, psycholinguistics and stylistics.
Editors
Willie van Peer
Peter Verdonk
University of Munich
University of Amsterdam
Advisory Editorial Board

Timothy R. Austin
Paisley Livingston
Loyola University Chicago
University of Copenhagen
Douglas Biber
Colin Martindale
Northern Arizona University
University of Maine
Lubomir Dolezel
Sara Mills
University of Toronto
Sheeld Hallam University
Donald C. Freeman
Mick Short
University of Southern California
Lancaster University
Harald Fricke
Michael Toolan
University of Fribourg
University of Birmingham
Raymond W. Gibbs Jr.
Reuven Tsur
University of California, Santa Cruz
Tel Aviv University
Rachel Giora
Jean Jacques Weber
Tel Aviv University
University Centre Luxemburg
Volume 3
Point of View in Plays:
A cognitive stylistic approach to viewpoint in drama and other text-types
by Dan McIntyre

A cognitive stylistic approach to viewpoint
in drama and other text-types
Dan McIntyre
University of Hudderseld
John Benjamins Publishing Company

Amsterdam/Philadelphia
TM
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements

of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence
of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

McIntyre, Dan, 1975
Point of view in plays : a cognitive stylistic approach to viewpoint in drama
and other text-types / Dan McIntyre.
p. cm. (Linguistic Approaches to Literature, issn 15693112 ; v. 3)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Drama--Technique. 2. Prose literature--Technique. 3. Point of
view (Literature). I. Title.
PN1695.M35 2006
808.2--dc22
2006049871
isbn 90 272 3335 7 (Hb; alk. paper)
2006 John Benjamins B.V.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microlm, or
any other means, without written permission from the publisher.
John Benjamins Publishing Co. P.O. Box 36224 1020 me Amsterdam The Netherlands
John Benjamins North America P.O. Box 27519 Philadelphia pa 19118-0519 usa
Table of contents
Acknowledgements
Preface
ix
xi
chapter 1
Point of view and plays
1.1 Introduction 1
1.2 Aims of the book 2
1.3 Prototypical and non-prototypical dramatic texts 3
1.4 The prototypical discourse structure of drama 5
1.5 Alan Bennetts The Lady in the Van 6
1.6 The discourse structure of The Lady in the Van 7
1.7 Text and performance 11
1.8 Stage plays, screenplays, readers and audiences 13
1.9 Outline of the book 14
chapter 2
Narratives, narration and point of view in prose
2.1 Introduction 17
2.2 Defining narratives and narration 18
2.2.1 Formalist distinctions in narrative structure 19
2.3 Narrative connections 21
2.4 Types of narrators 23
2.4.1 Internal and external narration 23
2.4.2 Fowlers taxonomy of narration 24
2.4.3 Simpsons development of Fowlers work 29
2.5 Point of view in prose narration 31
2.5.1 Focalization 31
2.5.2 Point of view on the Uspenskian planes 37
2.5.2.1 Point of view on the spatial and temporal plane
2.5.2.2 Point of view on the ideological plane 39
2.5.2.3 Point of view on the phraseological plane 40
2.5.2.4 Point of view on the plane of psychology 41
2.5.3 Fowlers development of Uspenskys taxonomy 41
17
38
2.5.4 Chatmans work on point of view 42

2.5.4.1 Slant and filter 43
2.5.4.2 Center and interest-focus 45
2.5.4.3 Perceptual and conceptual point of view 46
2.5.5 Shorts checklist of linguistic indicators of viewpoint 47
2.5.5.1 Schema-oriented language 48
2.5.5.2 Value-laden language 49
2.5.5.3 Given versus new information 49
2.5.5.4 Deixis 50
2.5.5.5 Representations of thought and perception 51
2.5.5.6 Psychological sequencing 51
2.5.6 Additional linguistic indicators of viewpoint 51
2.5.6.1 Graphology 52
2.5.6.2 Presupposition 52
2.5.6.3 Grices Co-operative Principle 53
2.5.7 Summary 54
2.6 Conclusion 55
chapter 3
Perspectives on point of view in drama
3.1 Introduction 57
3.2 Mimesis and diegesis 58
3.3 Existing work on point of view in stage drama 60
3.3.1 Narration, dreams and the inner life 62
3.3.2 Richardsons categories of narration 66
3.3.3 Applying Chatmans taxonomy to dramatic texts 76
3.3.4 Stage and screen directions in drama 77
3.4 Point of view in film 82
3.4.1 Narration in light 82
3.4.2 Objective and subjective shots 83
3.5 Conclusion 90
chapter 4
Deictic shifts in dramatic texts
4.1 Introduction 91
4.2 Deictic shift theory a brief overview 92
4.3 The concept of the deictic centre 92
4.4 Traditional categories of deixis 94
4.4.1 Place deixis 94
4.4.2 Temporal deixis 96
4.4.3 Person deixis 96
57
91
Table of contents
4.5
4.6
4.7
4.8
4.4.4 Social deixis 97

4.4.5 Empathetic deixis 98
Deictic shift theory and reader involvement 99
4.5.1 Deictic fields, PUSHes and POPs 99
4.5.2 Edgework 105
4.5.3 Deictic fields revisited 106
4.5.4 Deictic decay 107
4.5.5 Problems with PUSHes and POPs 108
Modifying deictic shift theory 111
4.6.1 Contextual frame theory 112
4.6.2 Binding and priming in deictic shift theory 114
Deictic fields and point of view in Our Town 117
Conclusion 121
chapter 5
Possible worlds, possible viewpoints
5.1 Introduction 123
5.2 The development of possible worlds theory 124
5.2.1 Limitations of truth conditional semantics 124
5.3 Ryans typology of possible worlds 126
5.3.1 Alternative possible worlds 127
5.3.2 Fantasy universes 131
5.3.3 The principle of minimal departure 133
5.4 Mapping deictic shifts and possible worlds 133
5.4.1 Recentering 134
5.4.2 Increasing and decreasing the prominence
of possible worlds 135
5.5 Conclusion 139
chapter 6
Logic, reality and mind style
6.2 Defining mind style 141
6.2.1 World view, ideological point of view and mind style 142
6.3 Logic and mind style 144
6.3.1 Deductive and inductive logic 145
6.3.2 Logic, mind style and Miss Shepherd 146
6.4 Mind style and paradigms of reality 153
6.4.1 Miss Shepherds reality paradigm and its effect
on her mind style 154
6.5 Conclusion 157
123
141
chapter 7
Point of view in The Lady in the Van
7.2 Alan Bennett 1 meets Miss Shepherd (Act One, turns 1 to 109) 160
7.3 Miss Shepherds confession (Act Two, turns 651 to 673) 170
7.4 The mysteries surrounding Miss Shepherd (Act Two, turns 732
to 798) 173
7.5 The truth about Miss Shepherd (Act Two, turns 900 to 976) 176
7.6 Conclusion 185
chapter 8
Conclusion
8.1 Summary 187
8.2 Concluding remarks 189
References
Index
159
187
191
199
Acknowledgements
In Chapter six: material drawn from Dan McIntyre (2005) Logic, reality and mind
style in Alan Bennetts The Lady in the Van, Journal of Literary Semantics 34(1): 21
40, by permission of the publishers, Mouton de Gruyter. All quotations from The
Lady in the Van by Alan Bennett (2000) are by permission of the publishers, Faber
and Faber.
Preface
This book has grown out of my PhD thesis and so the acknowledgements that I
made in the introduction to that are equally pertinent here. First and foremost I
owe a great deal to Mick Short, who was everything that a supervisor should be,
and far more. It is difficult to overstate the generosity, academic and personal, that
he has shown me over the years, and if he were the sort of person to keep account
of his expenditure on this front I would be in his debt for a long, long time.
Many friends and colleagues have given me comments on the ideas contained
in this book, as well as on draft sections of the text at various stages of completeness. Among those who have suffered this task are Dawn Archer, Derek Bousfield,
Jonathan Culpeper, David Gill, John Heywood, Lesley Jeffries, Roco Montoro,
Elena Semino, Mick Short, Peter Stockwell and Rachel Toddington. I am grateful to them all. More fool me where I have ignored their advice. I am also grateful
to the series editors, Gerard Steen, Willie van Peer and Peter Verdonk, for their extremely thorough commentary on the initial proposal for this book, and to Willie
van Peer and Peter Verdonk particularly, for their generous advice and assistance
throughout the writing process. I must also thank Faber and Faber for granting me
permission to quote substantially from Alan Bennetts play The Lady in the Van.
This book is dedicated to my parents, John and Sue, for the constant encouragement and support they gave me during times when they must surely have
despaired that I really was destined to be an eternal student.
Finally, and most importantly, I owe more than I can ever say to Eszter, not for
her unwavering campaign to persuade me of the merits of a Hungarian diet, but
for her love and support, and unfaltering ability to feign interest in point of view.
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Chapter 1
Point of view and plays
. Introduction
In Spike Jonzes quirky comedy Being John Malkovich (USA Films 1999), Charlie, an out-of-work puppeteer, inadvertently stumbles across a portal which leads
directly into the mind of the actor John Malkovich. Anyone entering the portal is
transported into the inside of Malkovichs head and is able to see the world literally
through his eyes, before being spat out into a ditch at the side of the New Jersey turnpike after approximately fifteen minutes. Sensing a business opportunity,
Charlie begins selling tickets to this unique attraction the chance to experience
the world exactly as someone else experiences it, if only for a few minutes.
The central concept of the film the idea of being able to see through someone elses eyes is something that has intrigued novelists and critics of fiction for
many years. How are authors able to create the impression that what we are reading is a presentation of events seen through the eyes of a particular character
in effect, from that characters point of view? For stylisticians, this question was
arguably the most widely studied aspect of prose fiction during the last century
(Short 1996: 256) and point of view continues to be a central concern in the stylistic analysis of prose fiction today. Indeed, an understanding of the workings of
point of view is often seen as one of the hallmarks of a good novelist. Hilary Mantel, a novelist and critic and one of the compilers of the literary magazine Grantas
list of the best young British novelists, claimed to be disappointed with the overall
standard of many of the books she was asked to read to decide the 2003 list, citing
an inability to keep the viewpoint steady as one of the indicators of poor quality
fiction (Bedell 2003).
However, despite the profusion of work on the topic of point of view in prose
(see, for example, Booth 1961; Uspensky 1973; Chatman 1978 and 1990; Genette
1980; Fowler 1986; Simpson 1993; Bal 1997), relatively little attention has been
paid to point of view in drama. And even in those cases where point of view is
discussed in relation to drama, it is rare to find critics taking a linguistic approach
to the issue. Amongst the few papers published on the topic, Groff (1959), Weingarten (1984) and Richardson (1988) all approach the issue from a literary critical
rather than a linguistic standpoint. Indeed, the majority of work on point of view
in drama has been carried out within film studies (see, for example, Sontag 1969;
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Brannigan 1984; Wilson 1986), and with the exception of a handful of studies
(Poole 1994 touches on the subject; van Peer 2001 is another rare exception, and I
have outlined some of the issues involved in McIntyre 2004), the linguistic analysis
of point of view in dramatic texts has been largely neglected by stylisticians. As I
shall attempt to make clear in this chapter, the reason for this neglect has more to
do with the complications surrounding the study of point of view in drama than
with arguments that point of view is not an issue in this text-type. Indeed, recent
work on the stylistics of drama has suggested the need for more research in this
area (see, for example, Poole 1994 and Culpeper 2001). This book is an attempt to
address this issue. Throughout, for the sake of variety, I use the term viewpoint as
a synonym for point of view.
. Aims of the book

Why, then, has point of view been so neglected in the study of drama? The most
obvious reason is that point of view is generally considered to be a narratological
phenomenon. Since prototypical dramatic texts do not include narrators, point of
view is consequently not usually thought to be of much interest in these texts.
However, this argument does not take into consideration those dramatic texts
which do feature narrators among the dramatis personae. Nor does it consider
the extent to which point of view may be realised in stage directions. And it does
not take into account the position from which readers of dramatic texts interpret
events in the fictional world. This book attempts to address all of these issues, and,
in so doing, to clarify some of the complicated and often confusing explanations
of point of view in language that have been proposed in the past. Specifically, this
book addresses the following questions:
1. How is the notion of point of view, which is normally applied to narratorial
texts, applicable to dramatic texts?
2. Where point of view effects are present in dramatic texts, how are these created
linguistically?
3. How far can existing taxonomies account for viewpoint effects in dramatic
texts?
4. Where existing taxonomies fail to account for the range of point of view phenomena manifested in dramatic texts, how can such phenomena be described
and explained?
In attempting to answer the above questions, throughout the book I will stylistically analyse brief extracts from a variety of dramatic texts. In addition, and
in order to demonstrate fully the way in which viewpoint can be manifested in
drama, in the penultimate chapter I present an analysis of a series of lengthy ex-
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Chapter 1. Point of view and plays
tracts from one particular play, Alan Bennetts The Lady in the Van (Bennett 2000).
I have chosen this play as a particularly good example of how playwrights, as well
as novelists, can integrate point of view effects into their writing, and my analysis brings together the theoretical frameworks for the analysis of point of view in
drama that I introduce in the book.
. Prototypical and non-prototypical dramatic texts

Before we can move on to a full consideration of how point of view might be manifested in drama, there are one or two preliminary issues that need to be discussed.
The first of these is the notion of prototypicality in relation to dramatic texts.
I explained above (1.2) that one of the reasons why viewpoint has been so neglected in the stylistic analysis of drama is because point of view is generally seen
as a narratological issue, something that Richardson (1988) is quick to point out.
Since prototypical dramatic texts do not have narrators, critics have been less concerned with the issue of point of view in the analysis of such texts. Central to this
position is the notion that prose fiction and drama are two markedly different genres, characterised by the presence of a narrator in the former and the absence of
a narrator in the latter. However, this distinction can only be made between prototypical members of each category, and the difference between prose fiction and
drama is arguably more complex than this. It is now well established within cognitive linguistics that categories are very rarely (if ever) discrete, and that instead,
membership of a category is defined by the extent to which potential category
members can be compared to a prototype for that category (Ungerer & Schmid
1996: 1ff.). To take a classic example, in strict zoological terms a penguin belongs
to the category bird. However, if we consider the ability to fly as a defining attribute
of a bird, then a robin or a sparrow would be a much better example of a bird than
a penguin. This is because robins and sparrows are prototypical birds (at least for
British people) whereas a penguin is a less prototypical member of the category
(see Katz & Postal 1964; Rosch & Lloyd 1978; Lakoff 1987; Taylor 1995; Ungerer &
Schmid 1996 for a comprehensive treatment of prototype theory). By the same token there are prototypical and less prototypical examples of dramatic texts. Despite
the fact that narrators were traditionally a mainstay of the dramatis personae (see,
for example, the Greek chorus plays and much medieval drama), most modern
dramas do not include narrators. Because narrator-less plays make up the majority of modern dramatic texts it is arguable that most people think of these as
being prototypical of the category. Harold Pinters play Old Times would be an
example of such a text, as would Oscar Wildes The Importance of Being Earnest.
Conversely, dramatic texts that do include narrators would nowadays most likely
be considered non-prototypical, or marked members of the category. Alan Ben-
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netts The Lady in the Van, the focus of Chapter seven, is one such example of this
non-prototypical type of play.
However, even dramatic texts which do not have narrators can exhibit narrative aspects. Consider the following extract from J. M. Barries play Peter Pan:
[Context: Peter has been complaining to Wendy that he cannot re-attach his
shadow, which fell off earlier as he tried to escape through the nursery window.]
Wendy I shall sew it on for you, my little man. But we must have more light.
She touches something, and to his astonishment the room is Illuminated [sic].
(J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan, p. 16)
The stage direction following Wendys turn is biased towards Peters point of view
of events. Our background knowledge of the world tells us that for the room to
be suddenly illuminated Wendy must have switched on the light (be this electric
or, given the period in which the play was written, gas) and so could not herself
be surprised by it. However, this is not made explicit in the stage direction. We
are only told that she touches something, not that she switches on the light or
she touches the light switch, and this description is consistent with Peters viewpoint, not Wendys or ours. We are also told something about Peters internal state
following Wendys action. Peter is astonished, which suggests that switching on a
light is something new to him. It seems that the phrase touches something is used
in the stage direction to reflect Peters lack of vocabulary to describe Wendys action; he is, in Fowlers (1986) terms, underlexicalised. Of course, this effect is only
realised in the reading of the text, but it constitutes an indication by Barrie as to
the kind of effect that should be created in a performance of the play.
It appears, then, that in the Peter Pan extract there is some degree of authorial
or narratorial mediation. This is something that can also be found in another type
of dramatic text, the film script, as can be seen in the following extract from Bruce
Robinsons screenplay for the film Withnail and I:
[Context: Marwood and Withnail, two out-of-work actors from London, have
gone to a cottage in the Lake District to recuperate from a seemingly endless series
of hangovers. The cottage belongs to Withnails Uncle Monty and is dilapidated.
Neither Withnail nor Marwood have visited it before.]
40. INT. COTTAGE. NIGHT.

The door opens, revealing a smudge of headlight from outside. Marwood strikes a
match and Withnail whispers, Christ Almighty. In the instant before the match
goes out they see crumbling walls and stale shadows and giant atlases of damp
on the floor. They also see an oil lamp. The match goes out. Another one is lit. A
yellow glow and the lamp reveals all. (Bruce Robinson, Withnail and I, p. 46)
The first line of the extract tells us that this is scene 40 in the film, and that it
takes place at night in the interior (INT.) of Montys cottage. In the description
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of the action that follows in the screen directions (akin to the stage directions in
play scripts), it is clear that Withnail and Marwood are initially outside the cottage
while the viewing position of the camera (and hence the viewer) is inside. This is
apparent from the grammatical structure of the first clause, The door opens. If we
compare this to a possible alternative, Marwood opens the door, it becomes clear
that the authors decision to make the noun phrase the door the subject of the
verb opens reflects a particular perception of the event we do not know which
character opens the door. In their discussion of prose fiction, Leech and Short
(1981: 177) refer to this effect as psychological sequencing, this being the ordering
of events to reflect a particular point of view, a technique which is commonly used
in prose fiction. The same technique is used again in the Withnail and I extract,
when a passive construction with agent deletion is used to obscure the identity of
the character who lights the second match Another one is lit. A final indication
of viewpoint in this example is the reference to a smudge of headlight. The word
smudge suggests that the light emanating from the car headlamps is not clear
and sharp, possibly due to the bad weather mentioned in the screen directions
of earlier scenes. As a consequence, we can infer that our view of Withnail and
Marwood might not be clear, and that they might possibly be obscured by the
inclement conditions, perhaps by mist or fog.
It would seem, then, that despite the absence of a reified narrator figure
amongst the characters in Withnail and I and Peter Pan, there is still some degree of mediation in these texts. What is not clear is just where this mediation
originates from. Are we to conclude that the mediation derives from the author
or from some unspecified narrator? Although we are not, as yet, in a position to
answer this question confidently, what should at least be clear by now is that not
all dramatic texts are purely non-narrative, and that some include aspects that are
more prototypical of prose fiction. The distinction between the categories of prose
fiction and drama, then, is not clear-cut, but is better described as fuzzy (see
Ungerer & Schmid 1996: 15), a term from cognitive linguistics used to describe
cognitive categories that do not have clear boundaries. In the next section, I look
in more detail at where the effect of narrative mediation in dramatic texts might
originate from by introducing Shorts (1996) notion of discourse architecture. This
also demonstrates further the similarities between prose fiction and some dramatic
texts, and shows up the variety of viewpoints that need to be taken into account
when analysing point of view in drama.
. The prototypical discourse structure of drama

Short (1996: 169) says that the prototypical discourse structure of a dramatic text
(what he terms its discourse architecture) is made up of two levels. The topmost
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level consists of an addresser (the playwright) giving a message to an addressee

(the reader/audience). Embedded within this is the second level, consisting of
characters addressing each other within the fictional world of the play. The discourse structure can be represented diagrammatically as in Figure 1.1 below:
Figure 1.1 Discourse structure of a prototypical dramatic text (based on Short 1996: 169)
In drama, the reader/audience is a sanctioned overhearer of the conversations that

all the characters engage in. In effect, the reader/audience looks in on the story
that is being enacted. Note that when we read play texts this act of looking in
is metaphorical, but when we watch a performance of a play the looking in becomes a literal, non-metaphorical act. In considering the notion of point of view
in drama, then, it is necessary to look at this issue, and the extent to which viewpoint is expressed at the higher level of Shorts (1996) discourse structure diagram.
The differences between text and performance are discussed briefly in 1.7, and
the issue of point of view at the top level of the discourse structure diagram is
covered in detail in Chapter three, along with the notion of looking in on the
dramatic action.
Of course, not all plays will have the discourse structure illustrated in Figure 1.1. Shorts (1996) diagram shows the discourse structure of a prototypical
dramatic text but some plays will have more discourse levels, as Short himself
points out. Alan Bennetts The Lady in the Van is an example of one such play.
Before we come to discussing its discourse structure, and because I refer to the
play throughout the book, it will be useful at this point to provide a brief synopsis
of The Lady in the Van.
. Alan Bennetts The Lady in the Van

The Lady in the Van began life as a short autobiographical memoir which Alan
Bennett first published in the London Review of Books in 1989. It tells the story
of his dealings over the years with Miss Shepherd, an eccentric and cantankerous
old lady who, when Bennett first met her, was living in a battered old van which
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she subsequently parked in the street where he lived in Camden Town, London.
When the police threatened to move Miss Shepherd on because her van was illegally parked, Bennett sympathised with her plight and invited her to park the
vehicle in his garden. Despite the fact that this was supposed to be only a temporary refuge, Miss Shepherd stayed for fifteen years, all the time living in a series of
dilapidated old vans, and hardly ever showing any gratitude to Bennett for his
generosity. Much of the humour in Bennetts fictionalised version of the story
comes from Miss Shepherds cantankerous manner and her ungrateful attitude
towards him.
In 1999 Bennett rewrote the story as a play in two acts. It opened on 7th December that year at The Queens Theatre, London, directed by Nicholas Hytner,
with the acclaimed British actress, Maggie Smith, in the title role. Praised by the
critics, it was described as a hilarious and quietly devastating play (Wolfe 1999),
with John Peter in The Sunday Times calling it one of [the West Ends] saddest,
funniest and most distinguished offerings for years (Peter 1999).
The play focuses on the quirky relationship between Bennett and Miss Shepherd and how this developed over the years. Miss Shepherd is an eccentric character, and displays a degree of paranoia that is markedly odd. As the play progresses
it transpires that, many years previously, Miss Shepherd was involved in a car accident in which she hit and killed a motorcyclist. Having no insurance and realising
that she would be implicated in the motorcyclists death (although it is suggested
in the play that she was not entirely to blame), Miss Shepherd panicked and drove
away from the accident without contacting the police to identify herself. In the
play, Miss Shepherd is blackmailed over this action by the sinister Underwood,
and there appears to be a link between her guilt with regard to the accident and
her strange view of the world.
One of the innovative features of the play is its use of two Alan Bennett characters. One of the Alan Bennetts has the function of a narrator, and when the
play begins he is sitting at his desk, supposedly in the process of writing the play.
Embedded within this framing fictional world is the world in which the events
happen that Bennett the narrator describes. It is in this world that Alan Bennett
the character exists, and this Alan Bennett plays out the scenes that Bennett the
narrator describes. For the purposes of clarity, in the extracts that I use, I refer to
Alan Bennett the character as AB1, and Alan Bennett the narrator as AB2.
. The discourse structure of The Lady in the Van

The atypical structure of The Lady in the Van, incorporating as it does an extra
discourse level of narration and two distinct fictional worlds, makes for a more
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complex discourse architecture than that of a prototypical play. The discourse

structure of The Lady in the Van is shown in Figure 1.2:
Figure 1.2 Discourse structure of The Lady in the Van
At the top level of the diagram in Figure 1.2 is the playwright communicating a
message to the reader/audience. Underneath this is the discourse level at which
AB2 narrates the story of The Lady in The Van to the reader/audience. The play
itself is a fictionalised account of Alan Bennett actually writing a play based on
Miss Shepherds life, and this is represented by the third discourse level. At this
level, AB2 is effectively addressing himself when he writes up his notes on Miss
Shepherd in diaries and notebooks. Finally, the fourth discourse level represents
the fictional world that AB2 describes in his narration. This fictional world is embedded within, and framed by, the fictional world in which AB2 is writing the play.
In the embedded fictional world communication is not simply one-way, as it is at
the other discourse levels. Instead, AB1 and the other characters within that world
communicate with each other, and this is indicated by the bi-directional arrows
on level 4.
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The brackets on the left and right of the diagram indicate what Short (1996)
refers to as the possible collapsing of discourse levels. In the case of The Lady in the
Van AB2 occupies several discourse roles: he is a character in the fictional world of
the play (where he is writing a play based on his experiences with Miss Shepherd),
a narrator who addresses the audience, and a character in the embedded fictional
world that he, as a narrator, describes. However, at various points in the play AB2
occupies more than one role simultaneously. So, for example, at times he narrates
from within the embedded fictional world that he describes to the audience, and
within this world he acts as a character, interacting with AB1 (and, as the play
draws to a close, Miss Shepherd), as in the following example:
[143] Interviewer Oh, incidentally, does someone actually live in that van
across the street? I saw a woman getting in.
[144] AB1 What van? (Looks) I dont know. Ive never noticed it before. Shes
a journalist. Shed only have written about her. I thought you were wanting
to do that.
[145] AB2 No fear.
[146] AB1 You make notes.
[147] AB2 Only as a diary. And on the Everest principle. Shes there.
(Alan Bennett, The Lady in the Van, p. 16)
In turn 144, AB1 switches from addressing the journalist to addressing AB2, the
narrator. This is marked by the use of the third person pronoun. Clearly this pronoun could not be used if AB1 were addressing the interviewer and so we interpret
his speech as being aimed at AB2. AB1 changes from addressing a fellow character
to addressing the narrator of the story of which he is a part. It would seem then
that the narrator, AB2, (himself a part of the fictional world of the play) is able to
converse with the character of AB1, who exists in the embedded fictional world of
the play generated by AB2s narration. At several points in the play AB2 appears
to move between these two fictional worlds, and his action raises interesting issues related to viewpoint. For example, AB2 appears to have both an external view
of the embedded fictional world of which AB1 is a part, and an internal view, as
a result of his being able to move in and out of this world. These are issues that
I consider throughout the book and specifically in the extended analyses of The
Lady in the Van that I present in Chapter seven.
Towards the end of the play it is also the case that AB1 (the character version
of Alan Bennett) also crosses discourse levels, taking on AB2s narrator role. As
the play progresses, the distinction between AB1 and AB2 becomes less clear-cut,
until, at the very end of the play, the two appear to be united as they leave the stage
together, AB2 with his arm around AB1s shoulders. Figure 1.2, then, describes the
general discourse structure of The Lady in the Van, though it should be borne in
mind that this changes from scene to scene, and even within scenes.
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What Figure 1.2 also shows is that in The Lady in the Van, the reader/audience
is the addressee of both the playwright and the narrator. This is not always the
case in dramatic texts that include narrators. In some plays the narratee is not the
reader/audience but a character (or group of characters) in the fictional world. An
example would be Bertolt Brechts The Caucasian Chalk Circle, where one of the
characters narrates a story to the other characters who then act out the story he
tells. However, in The Lady in the Van, because the reader/audience occupies both
the Addressee 1 and Addressee 2 slots, these two levels on the right hand side of
the discourse structure diagram can also be said to collapse together.
The presence of a narrator in The Lady in the Van is particularly important for
point of view, since, as Short (1996) explains:
[. . .] plays with narrators have a mechanism for guiding audience reaction which
is not present in plays with a more prototypical dramatic discourse structure.
(Short 1996: 172)
This capacity for guiding audience reaction is one of the prototypical features
of narrative prose, and in this respect plays with narrators are similar to prose fiction. Indeed, narrative drama shares the same multi-layered discourse architecture
as prototypical novels, providing further evidence for the notion that, in terms of
discourse structure, the boundaries of the categories of prose fiction and drama
are not distinct but fuzzy. In The Lady in the Van the narrator, AB2, tells the story
of how he met Miss Shepherd (the lady in the van of the title) and how she came
to play such a large part in his life. He introduces particular scenes which are then
played out by the other characters, and he comments on the action on stage by addressing the reader/audience directly. It is AB2s narratorial mediation that creates
the potential for viewpoint effects in the play, and it is these effects that are the
focus of my analysis in this book, particularly in Chapter seven.
So far in this section we have seen how the discourse structure of The Lady in
the Van lies at the heart of what makes it an interesting play to study in viewpoint
terms. What the discourse structure diagram in Figure 1.2 also highlights is the
number of different potential viewpoints that need to be taken into account if we
are to arrive at an adequate description and explanation of point of view in The
Lady in the Van, and assess what makes it such an interesting play. Beginning at
the most embedded level, it is necessary to consider the viewpoints expressed by
the characters in the drama and how these are taken into account by the characters being addressed. At the next level up there is the viewpoint expressed by AB2
within the fictional world, and at the next level up from that there is the viewpoint
expressed by AB2 as narrator and how this is received by the narratees. Finally,
at the topmost level, there is the point of view expressed by the author and the
reader/audiences point of view of events. Add to this the complexity of the collapsing of discourse levels involved and the fact that there may be multiple addressers
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and addressees in any one play, and it is little wonder that point of view is such a
complex issue. These aspects are all discussed in more detail throughout the book.
There is, though, one further characteristic of drama that I have not yet mentioned but which needs some initial discussion before we move on to any detailed
analysis, and that is the issue of performance and how this relates to the dramatic
text itself.
. Text and performance

Just as the linguistic construction of point of view has rarely been studied in drama,
the general characteristics of dramatic texts were also largely neglected by stylisticians and literary critics until the early 1980s (Culpeper et al. 1998: 3). Prior to
then, in those instances when drama was the object of study, the kind of analysis
performed was generally of the sort more commonly carried out in relation to poetry, with critics approaching dramatic texts as if they were simply long poems. Of
course, this is not to say that the techniques used in the stylistic analysis of poetry
have no place in the analysis of drama (for verse drama in particular they may in
fact have special relevance), but simply that this type of analysis cannot explain the
full range of effects created by dramatic texts. It was only with the advent of more
appropriate tools from such areas of linguistics as pragmatics, conversation analysis and discourse analysis that the stylistic study of drama was made fully possible
(for examples of early work on the stylistics of drama utilising these approaches
see Burton 1980; Short 1981; Herman 1991, 1995; Bennison 1993).
A further obstruction to the linguistic study of dramatic texts was the longheld view that in the analysis of drama, performance was of greater significance
than text. Styan (1969), for example, states that:
A play is not an art of words, any more than a film is an art of pictures: it is the art
of exercising them.
(Styan 1969: 68)
Likewise, Wells (1970: ix) asserts that the reading of a play is a necessarily incomplete experience, a view propagated more recently by Knapp (2003). However,
there are several problems with studying performance as opposed to text, as Short
(1981, 1998) has pointed out. The most significant of these concerns the ontological status of dramatic performances. Short (1998) explains that:
In ontological terms, each production of a play would appear to be a play PLUS an
interpretation of it, in that the director and actors have to decide which elements
to focus on, emphasize in performance, etc.
(Short 1998: 8)
The ramifications of this are made clear by Short in an earlier article on the subject:
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Both meanings and values will change not just from one production to another
but also from one performance of a particular production to another. There then
becomes no play to criticise [. . .] critical discussion becomes impossible unless
the two critics concerned have both seen and are arguing about exactly the same
performance.
(Short 1981: 181)
What this suggests for the analysis of drama is that the more sensible approach
is to begin by analysing the dramatic text itself. Indeed, a significant number of
performance features can be inferred from careful analysis of the dramatic text,
as, for example, Aston and Savona (1991), Dervan (1993) and Short (1998) have
demonstrated.
Nevertheless, performance remains an important matter in the analysis of
drama, as Elam (1980) points out:
[. . .] the written text/performance text relationship is not one of simple priority
but a complex of reciprocal constraints constituting a powerful intertextuality.
(Elam 1980: 209)
Short (1998) himself does not argue against this position and performance remains important, particularly with regard to the analysis of viewpoint, for several
reasons. In prose fiction and in those dramatic texts where I would want to argue
that viewpoint is an issue, point of view is, obviously enough, conveyed almost
entirely by language. In performance, though, viewpoint can be conveyed by additional means, such as a characters position on stage, lighting effects, etc. Of course,
to some degree, these factors can be imagined in an idealised reading of a dramatic
text. Some of these additional means of conveying viewpoint are discussed in more
detail in Chapter three. Toolan (2001) makes a similar point with regard to film
drama when he says that:
Everything in the novel is achieved through written language (including its representations of speech and thought, its showing or reporting of emotion, etc.).
But in film there is a blend of several modalities: visual representation (depictions
of setting, of characters, of actions. . .); non-verbal aural representation (music,
sound effects, indices of setting); non-verbal human noises (of fingers typing on
a keyboard, of someone brushing their teeth, etc.); speech; and even writing (as a
distinct sub-type of non-iconic visual representation).
(Toolan 2001: 104)
In film particularly, the notion of point of view can often apply literally, as the
camera position can reflect exactly what a particular character would see. The difference between text and performance is that in films and in the theatre, point of
view is experienced directly whereas when reading a dramatic text viewpoint is experienced indirectly, and is imagined as a result of interacting with the language of
the text, just as fictional worlds and characters are imagined while reading novels.
In analysing point of view in drama, then, it is necessary to consider the additional viewpoint effects that may arise in a performance of the drama in question.
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However, for the reasons and complexities pointed out by Short (1981 and 1998) I
do not propose to analyse particular performances, but rather to restrict my comments to hypothesised aspects of viewpoint that may come out in performance
in general. The short analyses of the extracts from Peter Pan and Withnail and
I, which I discussed in 1.3, illustrate what I mean. These analyses, though brief,
show how a stylistic analysis can begin to illuminate features of performance. In
every instance, the dramatic text i.e. the written script will be the main focus
of my analyses.
. Stage plays, screenplays, readers and audiences

Throughout this book I make use of examples from a wide variety of dramatic
forms, encompassing stage plays and film and television drama. It is useful at
this point, then, to outline in detail the terms I use with regard to these different
forms of drama.
I use drama as a generic term for stage, television, film or radio drama. My
use of the term drama does not make a distinction between text and performance.
When I want to make such a distinction I use the terms dramatic text and dramatic
performance.
I use the term play-text to mean a dramatic text written specifically for the
theatre, and when talking about dramatic texts written for the cinema I use the
term screenplay. When referring to the non-dialogue aspects of a dramatic text I
use the term stage directions for stage drama, and screen directions for screenplays.
Quotations that I give will always be from a published version of the relevant
script if this is available. Where no reference to a published script is given, it can
be assumed that none exists, as far as I am aware, and that I have transcribed the
dialogue from video or audio recordings. In such cases, where original stage or
screen directions are not available, I make it clear that I have constructed these
from watching or listening to original recordings. I indicate this by using bold
italics. It should also be noted that in those instances where I have constructed the
stage or screen directions myself I do not make any analytical comments about
these, but restrict my discussion to the dramatic dialogue.
When discussing the characters in The Lady in the Van, as mentioned in 1.5
above, I use the abbreviations AB1 to refer to Alan Bennett (the character) and
AB2 to refer to Alan Bennett 2 (the narrator). I use dramatic figure as a generic
term when I do not want to specify either narrator or character in a drama, but
simply a member of the dramatis personae.
In discussing the likely effects on the reader of the viewpoint triggers in The
Lady in the Van, I use the term reader/audience in those instances where I think the
effects are roughly the same for a person reading the play and a person watching a
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performance of it. Sometimes, however, a particular effect will only be noticed in

either the reading of the play or the viewing of a performance of it, and not both,
and in such cases I use the terms reader or audience as appropriate. An example
would be a viewpoint effect in the stage directions of a play (as, for example, in
the Peter Pan extract discussed in 1.3) that would not necessarily be realised in a
production of the play.
Finally, as already mentioned in 1.1, simply for the sake of variation I use the
terms point of view and viewpoint interchangeably.
. Outline of the book

In this introductory chapter I have outlined the reasons why point of view has not
previously been thought to be an issue in dramatic texts, and I have also begun to
explain, with examples, why I believe viewpoint should be a consideration in the
stylistic analysis of drama. I have considered the discourse structure of dramatic
texts in relation to prose fiction and, whilst it is clear there are obvious differences
between the two genres, what I have begun to demonstrate in this chapter is that
(i) some dramatic texts do have narrative aspects to them and possess discourse
structures that are similar to prose fiction texts, and that (ii) this aspect cannot be
ignored in a comprehensive descriptive and explanatory stylistic analysis.
In the chapters that follow I consider in greater detail the extent to which the
notion of point of view can be applied to dramatic texts. I begin in Chapter two by
considering existing taxonomies for the analysis of point of view in prose fiction,
the strengths and weaknesses of these, and the potential for applying them to dramatic texts. In Chapter three I examine work carried out specifically on point of
view in drama, and offer a critique of this and a summary of its usefulness for the
development of a taxonomy for the linguistic investigation of point of view in dramatic texts. I suggest that a major weakness of all existing taxonomies of point of
view (for either prose texts or drama) is their failure to take account of the variety
of viewpoints that arise in the reading of a text. They also fail to capture the subtleties of point of view, the way in which viewpoints co-occur in texts and the way
in which readers are exposed to different viewpoints. In an attempt to explain these
factors and integrate them into the study of point of view in drama, I introduce in
Chapter four a concept from cognitive science known as deictic shift theory (see
Duchan et al. 1995). I suggest that this theory, with some modifications, can be
used to explain how readers move around within a text and experience different
viewpoints, and I integrate Emmotts (1997) work on narrative comprehension
into deictic shift theory in order to be clearer about how this movement happens.
In Chapter five I extend the notion of deictic shift theory by mapping this on to
what has become known as possible worlds theory (see, for example, Ryan 1991).
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After introducing possible worlds theory, I show how concepts from deictic shift
theory can explain how readers move in and out of characters alternative possible
worlds, and hence how readers can experience particular characters perspectives
on the world and their notions of reality.
In Chapter six I consider in more detail the idiosyncratic way in which particular characters view the world, by looking at the concept of mind style (Fowler 1986)
and how this relates to point of view. I examine existing work on mind style in
prose fiction and suggest that, in addition to grammatical patterns and metaphor
(which have been discussed by, for example, Bockting 1990; Halliday 1971; Hoover
1999; Semino & Swindlehurst 1996; Semino 2002) one further way in which mind
style might be indicated is through a characters idiosyncratic use of logic. I discuss
the relationship between point of view and mind style, and show through analysis how readers can experience particular viewpoints at the character-to-character
level of Shorts (1996) discourse structure diagram (see Figures 1.1 and 1.2).
Having considered the variety of ways in which point of view might be indicated in drama, in Chapter seven I carry out an extended analysis of the viewpoint
features in Alan Bennetts play The Lady in the Van. I look at the narrative aspects
of the play and how these affect viewpoint, as well as looking at how individual
characters express point of view, and how readers and audiences might react to
these. I argue that the point of view effects in The Lady in the Van are part of what
make it such an innovative (and successful) play.
Finally, I provide a summary of my analytical findings and some potential
answers to the questions raised in 1.2, above. I suggest that studying viewpoint
features in dramatic texts can give us better insights into how point of view works
in prose fiction as well as drama, and in language and communication in general. I
also suggest that a cognitive approach to point of view is useful if we are to explain
more adequately how viewpoint is manifested in language and how we, as readers
or members of an audience, experience it.
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Chapter 2
Narratives, narration and point

of view in prose
. Introduction
In Chapter one I began to show how drama often has a more complex discourse
structure than has previously been suggested, and that features associated with
narration can often be found in dramatic texts. However, before we can make any
firm claims about viewpoint in drama it is first necessary to consider how far the
terms narrative and narration apply to dramatic texts. This is a fundamental issue,
since in many cases it is the presence of a narrator in a text that makes possible the
expression of complex point of view relations. As most of the work to date on narration and point of view has been done in relation to prose fiction, I concentrate in
this chapter on a description and critique of seminal work in this area, and a consideration of the extent to which these existing concepts of narratives, narration
and point of view can be applied to dramatic texts. My main point in this chapter is that whilst narrative elements can be found in dramatic texts, taxonomies
of point of view in prose fiction do not adequately explain the viewpoint effects
that can arise in drama. Neither do they explain how points of view can co-occur
within a text or how readers move between different viewpoints when they read.
To fully understand this, I suggest that it is necessary to consider cognitive models
of how readers navigate texts, since the dynamic nature of such models allows us
to describe and explain more clearly the processes involved in the creation and interpretation of point of view effects in texts. Applying such models in the stylistic
analysis of dramatic texts should, then, also contribute to a clearer taxonomy of
viewpoint in language in general. This will be my focus from Chapter four onwards, where I also consider how viewpoint is manifested in those dramatic texts
that do not have narrators.
First of all, though, since narration and narrators are an integral part of the
expression of viewpoint, we will concentrate on establishing a workable definition
of these terms.
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. Defining narratives and narration

To explain the terms narrative and narration, it is perhaps useful to begin with a
dictionary definition. Wales (1989) defines a narrative as:
[. . .] basically a story, of happenings or events, either real or imaginary, which
the narrator considers interesting or important. [. . .] Narratives are most commonly narrated in words, in speech (as in oral literature and jokes) or (chiefly) in
writing; but they can be enacted dramatically on stage, or visualized in the images
of film and gestures of mime.
(Wales 1989: 313)
This definition is useful as a starting point, but it is apparent from the use of the
uppercase letters (the convention for cross-references in Waless dictionary) that
in defining narrative Wales considers it necessary to look also at the terms story
and narrator.
To begin with the latter term, the notion of distinguishing between narrative
and narrator is discussed by Genette (1980: 256), who states that it is necessary to
make a distinction between the act of telling a story and the story that is actually
told. Genette refers to the act of telling as narration, and so, by implication, the
person doing the telling as a narrator. Bal (1997) incorporates the notion of narrator into her definition of narrative, saying that a narrative text is a text in which
an agent relates (tells) a story in a particular medium, such as language, imagery,
sound, buildings, or a combination thereof (Bal 1997: 5). The story that the narrator tells, then, is what Genette and Bal call the narrative. For example: Sir Arthur
Conan Doyles novel The Hound of the Baskervilles is the story of the renowned
fictional detective Sherlock Holmes and his attempt to solve the case of who is trying to frighten Dr James Mortimer into leaving his Devon home, Baskerville Hall.
This, then, is the narrative the succession of events that occur in the fictional
world. In The Hound of the Baskervilles this succession of events is recounted by
Holmess compatriot, Dr Watson, the narrator of the narrative. However, we can
imagine that Conan Doyle might have written the book differently, perhaps with
Holmes himself recounting the events that occur in the fictional world. In this case,
although in general the events that occur would be the same (thereby meaning that
the narrative would be the same), the narration would be different. For example,
Holmess narration might reveal different aspects of the narrative than Watsons, as
a consequence of Holmes having access to additional information within the fictional world. In effect, changing the narrator would change the point of view that
the reader is exposed to (the various different categories of narrator are discussed
in 2.4 below).
Genettes (1980) distinction between narration and narrative allows us to see
more clearly how the expression of point of view can come about. However, Waless
(1989: 313) definition of narrative also suggests that we should look at the mean-
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Chapter 2. Narratives, narration and point of view in prose
ing of the term story. Indeed, Bal (1997) appears to use story as a synonym for
narrative. Since story is a potentially confusing term, used in a variety of ways by
different writers, it is worth trying to be clear about its various meanings. In the lay
sense of the word a story, fictional or non-fictional, is simply a sequence of happenings or events, as Wales (1989: 313) puts it. It is clear that in Waless definition
of narrative, the term story is being used in this lay sense. However, if story and narrative are equivalent terms, why then is narrative preferred by many writers? One
possible reason is that story has an alternative technical meaning within narratology. It is worth considering this technical sense of the word because of its relevance
to the study of point of view, and to fully understand the issue it is necessary to
consider the distinctions that the Russian formalists (particularly Shklovsky 1993)
made between what they termed fabula and sjuzhet.
.. Formalist distinctions in narrative structure
The Russian formalists term fabula refers to the natural, chronological order of
a series of events. Sjuzhet, on the other hand, refers to the order in which those
events are presented as having happened. For example, Julian Rathbones novel
The Last English King begins with Walt Edwinson, a former bodyguard of King
Harold, returning home to England after several years spent wandering abroad.
After this opening, the remainder of the narrative is told in flashback and describes
how Walt came to leave England following his part in the Battle of Hastings, and
what happened to him during his travels. In the fabula of the narrative (i.e. the
events in chronological order), Walts return to England obviously occurs after the
battle, but in the sjuzhet it occurs before accounting in part for the in medias
res effect at the beginning of the novel. This distinction between events in their
natural, chronological order and events in a specially reconstructed order is one
that has been made by other writers, and it is here that confusion arises. In an effort to disassociate themselves from what have been perceived as the limitations of
the formalist approach, such writers have produced a surfeit of alternative terms
for what are essentially the same phenomena described by the terms fabula and
sjuzhet. Thus, Benveniste (1966) uses histoir in place of fabula, and discours instead of sjuzhet, and Chatman (1978) suggests instead the English terms story and
discourse in place of fabula and sjuzhet respectively. There are, though, several disadvantages with these terms particularly Chatmans which contribute to the
difficulties that have been noted so far in defining narrative.
Benvenistes (1966) terms run the risk of being misinterpreted because of the
different potential ways of translating histoir and discours (Wales 1989: 219), as
Chatmans (1978) translation of these terms shows. First of all, using story as a
synonym for fabula can be confusing for those readers more acquainted with the
lay sense of the term. It also causes problems if we want to use story in its most
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general lay sense as well as its narratological sense, and retaining this possibility is,
in my opinion, useful for expository purposes. The term discourse is equally problematic as it is suffused with so many nuances of meaning within different areas of
linguistics and sociology (see Fairclough 1992: 34 for an overview of these) that
to add another simply increases the potential for confusion among readers familiar with alternative meanings of the word. It is for these reasons that I prefer to use
the Russian Formalists terms fabula and sjuzhet. What should also be apparent at
this stage is that Wales (1989), in her definition of narrative, is clearly not using
the term story as Chatman (1978) defines it. Instead, it appears that she is using
story simply as a synonym for narrative, which makes for an unfortunate circular definition, especially when Wales says that in ordinary usage story refers to a
narrative, whether fact or fiction, which is regarded noteworthy of being told
(Wales 1989: 431).
The importance of making the distinction between fabula and sjuzhet, of
course, is that the order in which events are presented as having happened in the
fictional world can create point of view effects. This can be seen if we return to
our Sherlock Holmes example. In The Hound of the Baskervilles, the death of Sir
Charles Baskerville (an incident central to the whole plot) is the cue for James
Mortimer (Baskervilles friend and doctor) to visit Holmes and Watson and request their help in solving the mystery surrounding Sir Charless death. In the
fabula of the narrative, the chronological order of events in the fictional world up
to this point are as follows:
1. Dr James Mortimer discovers Sir Charless body outside Baskerville Hall.
2. Mortimer visits Holmes and Watson but finds them not at home.
3. Holmes and Watson return home and discover that in their absence they
have received a visitor (Mortimer) who has inadvertently left his walking
stick behind.
4. Holmes and Watson make deductions about who the owner of the walking
stick might be.
5. Mortimer returns and tells his story to Holmes and Watson.
However, in the sjuzhet of the narrative the events are narrated to the reader in the
following order: 3, 4, 5, 2, 1.
The above example shows that the sjuzhet does not represent the chronological order in which the events in the fictional world happened. Instead, the sjuzhet
represents the order in which Holmes and Watson experience these events. We
can therefore begin to see from this example how the sjuzhet of a narrative can
contribute to the presentation of a particular point of view.
The formalist distinction between fabula and sjuzhet, then, offers a further insight into what a narrative text is, and goes beyond Waless (1989) rather circular
definition. Indeed, Chatman (1990: 9) suggests that this doubly temporal element
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of a text, as he puts it, is a defining component of narrative. However, some writers

have also suggested that it is necessary to introduce a third distinction to separate
out the act of telling a story (what in 2.2 I defined as narration) from the presentation of that story (what I have referred to previously as the sjuzhet). For example,
Bals (1997) justification for distinguishing between narration and sjuzhet centres
around the various possible forms of a text. She claims that it is possible to have
many different versions of the same story, and uses as an example the fairy-tale
Tom Thumb. Bal says that some versions of the story will be considered literary,
while others will not, and that some will be written specifically for young children
while others will be aimed at a higher age group and thus be more complicated.
Bal uses this as the basis for her argument that we should consider the narration to
be distinct from the sjuzhet. Clearly, this distinction is an important one and further adds to our understanding of what a narrative text is. Nevertheless, to be fully
clear about the terms narrative and narration it is also necessary to consider how
narratives differ from non-narrative texts. We shall need to consider this in more
detail before we can determine the extent to which narration is a part of drama.
Only after we have established some criteria of narrative texts can we then go on
to consider in more detail typologies of narration and how these might apply to
dramatic texts.
. Narrative connections
So far we have seen that narration is the process of telling a story, whereas a narrative is the specific telling of the presentation of that story. In attempting to be
clear about this, I have explained some of the difficult terminological problems
associated with narrative structure and briefly mentioned the potential viewpoint
effects that can arise as a result of the way in which the fabula of a narrative text is
presented in the narration. However, there still remains the issue of what makes a
narrative different from other kinds of writing.
Explanations of how narrative texts differ from other text-types (e.g. advertisements, notes to the milkman, etc.) largely focus on issues such as the presence
or absence of temporal sequencing of events and states of affairs, and causality
and logical relations, all of which are acknowledged to be essential elements of
narrative texts (see, for example, Brooks 1984; Chatman 1990; Toolan 2001). Bal
(1997: 5), for instance, explains that a fabula is a series of logically and chronologically related events that are caused or experienced by actors (Bal 1997: 5 defines actors as agents that perform actions). However, such structural definitions
of narrative can be hard to sustain. Carroll (2001) acknowledges this, pointing
out, for example, that not every event in a narrative will be causally related to
succeeding events:
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[. . .] it is too demanding to expect that, in all cases, the narrative connection involves an earlier event that causally necessitates the succeeding state.
(Carroll 2001: 28)
To support this position, Carroll refers to the following invented narrative:

the thief enters the bank to rob it, but subsequently, as he exits, he is apprehended
by the police
(Carroll 2001: 27)
Carroll points out that although the arrest of the thief comes about as a result
of his robbing the bank, the action of robbing the bank does not necessarily entail the arrest. Because of this, Bals (1997) definition of narrative would, strictly
speaking, discount Carrolls example. Carroll argues, however, that the action of
the thief robbing the bank constitutes what Mackie (1976, 1980) refers to as an
INUS condition; that is, an insufficient but necessary part of a condition that itself is unnecessary but is sufficient for an effect event (Carroll 2001: 28). Chatman
(1990: 9) refers to this phenomenon as contingency, defining it as a somewhat
weaker form of causality. Carroll (2001) goes on to argue that the presence of INUS
conditions within a text generates what he terms narrative connections. In effect,
narrative connections are the underlying fabula of a narrative (Carroll 2001: 31),
and Carroll argues that if it is possible to determine narrative connections within
a text, then that text will constitute a narrative.
The problems inherent in defining narrative would seem to suggest that it is
all but impossible to arrive at a purely structural definition of the term that will
satisfy all possible objections. What makes Carrolls (2001) explanation of narrative particularly attractive is that it allows for the fact that some texts may contain
more narrative elements than others. Carroll himself says:
I suspect that when we call more large-scale discourses, such as histories or novels,
narratives, we do so because they possess a large number of narrative connections or because the narrative connections they contain have special salience or a
combination of both.
(Carroll 2001: 21)
What this suggests is that it is perhaps more useful to think of narrative as being the
kind of fuzzy category that I introduced in Chapter one in relation to prototype
theory. If we take this to be the case then texts that exhibit numerous narrative
connections would be more easily classifiable as narrative than those that exhibit
only a few. Dramatic texts, too, would have their place within such a category, with
some dramatic texts being more peripheral category members than others.
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. Types of narrators
As Genette (1980) and Bal (1997) note, integral to the definition of a narrative text
is the presence of a narrator. Let us now consider some of the different categories
that have been proposed to explain the various types of narrators, and narration,
that can be found in narrative texts. Because of the connection between narration
and the expression of viewpoint this invariably leads us into considering existing
frameworks for the analysis of point of view in prose fiction, which in turn inform
our discussion of narration.
.. Internal and external narration
In his seminal work on point of view, Uspensky (1973) initially distinguishes two
basic types of narration:
When an author constructs his narration, he usually has two options open to him:
he may structure the events and character of the narrative through the deliberately
subjective viewpoint of some particular individuals (or individuals) consciousness, or he may describe the events as objectively as possible.
(Uspensky 1973: 81)
Uspensky refers to these two potential types of narration as internal and external
narration. The term internal describes the type of narration that is restricted to the
subjective viewpoint (Uspensky 1973: 81) of a particular character or characters,
whereas external refers to the type of omniscient narration that purports to be objective, and seemingly includes narratorial comment on the characters and actions
described. The following two examples from prose fiction illustrate internal and
external narration respectively:
Of course, businesses took some time to get established Mma Ramotswe understood this but how long could one go on at a loss? She had a certain amount of
money left over from her fathers estate but she could not live on that forever. She
should have listened to her father; he had wanted her to buy a butchery, and that
would have been so much safer. What was the expression they used? A blue-chip
investment, that was it. But where was the excitement in that?
(Alexander McCall Smith, The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency, p. 86)
[. . .] Morris Zapp has just discovered what it is thats bugging him about his flight.
The realization is a delayed consequence of walking the length of the aircraft to
the toilet, and strikes him, like a slow-burn gag in a movie-comedy, just as he is
concluding his business there.
(David Lodge, Changing Places, p. 29)
The distinction between an internal, subjective presentation of events (as in the

example from The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency) and an external narration (as in
Changing Places) has clear consequences for point of view effects. In the extract
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from The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency the reader is likely to feel that the point of
view is more restricted than in the example from Changing Places (due in no small
part to the profusion of free indirect thought in the passage; see Semino & Short
2004 for a description of this phenomenon). In the David Lodge example, on the
other hand, the point of view expressed seems to belong more to the narrator than
to the character of Morris Zapp (the simile, for instance, is the narrators).
The linguistic construction of internal and external points of view will become
clearer in the next section, though it should already be apparent that the notion
of a purely objective viewpoint is problematic. For the moment though, we can
note that Uspenskys distinction between internal and external narration provides
a useful starting point for the analysis of different types of narration. Uspenskys
work is developed by Fowler (1996 [1986]) in an effort to provide a more comprehensive description of the two narration types. Fowlers work is in turn developed
by Simpson (1993), whose framework we will consider in 2.4.3. Since Fowlers
work develops directly out of Uspenskys, we will examine Fowlers (1996 [1986])
taxonomy of narration next.
.. Fowlers taxonomy of narration
Fowlers (1996 [1986]) work on narration utilises a greater number of categories
than Uspenskys (1973) framework. Fowler (1996; see also 1982) subdivides Uspenskys internal and external categories, making two further divisions. To begin
with internal narration, he makes a distinction between what he terms Internal
Type A and Internal Type B.
Internal Type A is narration from a point of view within a characters consciousness, manifesting his or her feelings about, and evaluations of, the events
and characters of the story (Fowler 1996: 170). Fowler explains that Type A narration can occur in the first-person (i.e. from an I-narrator) or third-person. The
most subjective form of Type A narration, according to Fowler, is that produced
by a first-person narrator. By subjective Fowler appears to mean most obviously
displaying the world-view (see Chapter six, Section 6.2.1) of the particular character from whose point of view the story is being told. An example of Type A
first-person narration would be Roddy Doyles novel Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha, told
entirely from the perspective of a 10 year old boy. To illustrate Type A third-person
narration Fowler uses an extract from James Joyces Ulysses which contains several
instances of internal monologue from the character of Leopold Bloom.
Type B internal narration, on the other hand, reflects the point of view of
someone who is not a participating character but who has knowledge of the feelings of the characters a narrator, or the so-called omniscient author (Fowler
1996: 170). The following extract from Louis de Berniress novel, Captain Corellis
Mandolin, illustrates this type of narration. In it, the underlined terms do not
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necessarily reflect Dr Ianniss feelings about his day but seem instead to be the
narrators evaluations of events.
Dr Iannis had enjoyed a satisfactory day in which none of his patients had died
or got any worse. He had attended a surprisingly easy calving, lanced one abscess,
extracted a molar, dosed one lady of easy virtue with Salvarsan, performed an
unpleasant but spectacularly fruitful enema, and produced a miracle by a feat of
medical prestidigitation.
(Louis de Bernires, Captain Corellis Mandolin, p. 1; my underlining)
Of course, within the example from Captain Corellis Mandolin there are also terms
which seem to reflect Dr Ianniss point of view. The description of the calving as
surprisingly easy and of his female patient as being a lady of easy virtue might
indicate the doctors viewpoint just as much as the narrators. This is a problem
with Fowlers taxonomy that we will consider in more detail later on in this section.
For the moment, though, let us consider the taxonomy as Fowler describes it.
Turning to Fowlers categories of external narration, then, here he makes a
distinction between Type C and Type D narration. Of external narration, Fowler
claims that:
[. . .] its basic characteristic is avoidance of any account of the thoughts or feelings
of characters, or at least, avoidance of any claim to the fidelity of such an account.
(Fowler 1996: 177)
To begin with Type C narration, Fowler describes this as follows:

First, in relation to the characters, it declines to report their inner processes, and so
verba sentiendi are as much as possible banished from the discourse; it claims to be
objective in not offering to report what an ordinary unprivileged observer could
not see. Second, it is impersonal in relation to the author or narrator, declining to
offer judgements on the characters actions; this claimed authorial objectivity is
indicated by avoidance of evaluative modalities.
(Fowler 1996: 177)
Fowler cites Ernest Hemingways writing as displaying many of the components of

Type C narration, though he acknowledges that it is virtually impossible to write
without including at least some reference to characters internal states and some
modal indicators.
Finally, Fowler describes Type D as being different from Type C by virtue of the
fact that in Type D narration the persona of the narrator is highlighted, perhaps
by first person pronouns, and certainly by explicit modality (Fowler 1996: 178).
Fowler claims that in Type D narration the author pretends to have no access to
the internal states of characters and establishes this pretence by the use of, for
example, non-factive verbs such as seemed and appeared, and what Uspensky
(1973: 85) terms words of estrangement. These include adverbs of manner, such
as evidently, apparently and perhaps.
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There are a number of problems with Fowlers categories, most notably concerning the difference between Type C and Type D narration. However, before
examining these issues in detail we might consider some examples of the extent to
which Fowlers categories can apply to narration in dramatic texts.
To begin with Fowlers first category, Type A narration manifests a particular
characters feelings about, and evaluations of, the events and characters of the
story (Fowler 1996: 170). We can observe this in the following extract from The
Lady in the Van:
[Context: Miss Shepherd is being put in an ambulance that is to take her to a day
care centre for the elderly.]
[846] AB2 I note how with none of my own distaste the ambulance driver does
not hesitate to touch her and put his arm round her as he lowers her into the chair.
I note too his careful rearrangement of her greasy clothing, pulling the skirt down
over her knees in the interest of modesty.
Here we have first-person narration from AB2 that reveals how he perceives the
actions of the ambulance driver. To AB2 the driver appears careful when he rearranges Miss Shepherds clothes. AB2 also notes that the driver shows no visible
sign of distaste at dealing with Miss Shepherd. What is also revealed in this extract
is something of AB2s opinion of Miss Shepherd. We can infer that, unlike the
ambulance driver, AB2 does find the idea of touching her distasteful, presumably
because of her lack of personal hygiene. This is further reinforced in his description of her clothing as greasy. What we have, then, is AB2s point of view of events
rather than anyone elses, and this seems to fit within Fowlers Type A category.
Type B narration, on the other hand, reflects the point of view of someone
who is not a participating character but who has knowledge of the feelings of the
characters a narrator, or the so-called omniscient author (Fowler 1996: 170).
This category would seem to describe the stage directions in the following extract
from J. M. Barries play Peter Pan:
[Context: This extract comes towards the end of the play. Wendys mother, Mrs
Darling, has forbidden her from returning with Peter to the Never Land, but she
has agreed that Wendy can visit Peter once a year to do his spring cleaning.]
Wendy revels in this, but Peter, who has no notion of what a spring cleaning is, waves
a rather careless thanks.
(J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan, p. 81)
The fact that spring cleaning is preceded by an indefinite article is grammatically

deviant and reflects Peters lack of knowledge as to what this activity is. Clearly,
most readers of the play script will understand the term, as does the character of
Wendy. Peter, however, does not, and this is reflected in the stage directions by
spring cleaning being treated as a countable compound noun, preceded by an in-
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definite article. The stage directions appear to be a kind of third-person narration

with a particular emphasis on Peters point of view, and as such, would seem to fit
within Fowlers Type B category.
Turning to Fowlers Type C narration, this is described as the most neutral, impersonal, type of third person narration (Fowler 1996: 177). It is this type
of narration that is perhaps most commonly associated with stage directions in
drama. An example can be seen in the following extract from Les Smiths dramatisation of Daniel Defoes Moll Flanders (Smith 1995), where there is no insight into
the internal states of the characters but simply a description of their actions:
[Context: Moll has just been married to Robin Wiseman. The attendant wedding
guests now begin their celebrations.]
The two groups come together. Bells peal. Mr and Mrs Wiseman join the celebrations.
Robin and Moll pass through a line formed by the others and pose as though for a
wedding photograph.
(Les Smith, Moll Flanders, p. 31)
Here, the point of view is clearly external, with no focus on the viewpoint of any
particular character.
Type D narration is similar to Type C in that it reveals no access to the characters thoughts and feelings. However, according to Fowler, Type D narration goes
one step further by actually making clear the limitations of authorial knowledge
(Fowler 1996: 170). An example can be seen in the following screen directions from
Bruce Robinsons screenplay for the film Withnail and I:
[Context: Marwood and Withnail, two out-of-work actors, are sitting in Regents
Park, nursing hangovers and lamenting their bad luck. Marwood has just offered
the opinion that things can surely only get better. Up to this point in the text, it
has not been revealed what Marwood and Withnail do for a living.]
Withnail Easy enough for you to say lovey, youve had an audition. . . Why cant
I have an audition?
An audition? Can these two wrecks be actors? Evidently they are.
Its ridiculous. Ive been to drama school. Im good looking. I tell you, Ive a fuck
sight more talent than half the rubbish that gets on television. Why cant I get on
television?
Marwood has clearly listened to this before. He turns away cold.
Marwood I dunno. Itll happen. . .
Withnail Will it? Thats what you say. The only programme Im likely to get on is
the fucking news.
The assessment is probably correct.
(Bruce Robinson, Withnail and I, p. 12)
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The interrogatives in the screen directions (An audition? Can these two wrecks
be actors?) give the impression that the narrator does not have full knowledge of
the characters or the goings-on in the fictional world. The sentence adjuncts evidently and clearly provide further support for this interpretation, suggesting that
there is external evidence for the assertions that are made in the screen directions,
rather than the narrator simply being able to state these propositions as fact. The
uncertainty inherent in the screen directions is also made apparent by the use of
probably in the assertion that follows Withnails final turn. The impression that
is created here is that the characters in the fictional world are entirely autonomous
and independent of the narrator, and the screen directions were most likely written
in this way in order to represent the effect on an audience that the writer wanted
the actors to achieve.
It is possible then to identify examples of Fowlers categories in the stage/screen
directions of dramatic texts. However, there are problems with Fowlers taxonomy
of narration and these problems raise the question of whether defining types of
narrators is the best way to explain how particular point of view effects are created.
There is a clear problem, for instance, with the degree of crossover between Type
C and Type D narration. If the only difference between the two categories is that
in Type D the narrator actually states (or implicates) that he or she does not have
access to the internal states of the characters, then this does not seem to warrant
referring to this type of narration as a category in its own right. In effect, this is
the same as the avoidance of any claim to the fidelity of such an account (Fowler
1996: 177) that Fowler says is a determining feature of Type C narration. It would
therefore seem that Type D narration is, at the most, best described as a special case
of Type C. However, the notion of Type C narration is itself problematic. There are
a very small number of texts that do not reveal anything of the internal states of
a least one character. Even Fowler admits that in the example he uses to illustrate
Type C narration (Ernest Hemingways short story The Killers) there are a few
phrases indicating internal states (Fowler 1996: 178). With so few examples to be
found, this does raise the question of whether identifying types of narration is the
most profitable way of understanding viewpoint in texts.
There are also problems with some of Fowlers assertions about the features
that make up his categories. For example, Fowler states that Type C narration
is the formula for the most neutral, impersonal, type of third person narration,
which we associate with epic among the older literatures, and, in the modern
period, with the ideal of objective realism proposed by Flaubert; and with news
reporting (Fowler 1996: 177). There are several problems with this contention.
First, Fowler presents no evidence to support his claim that the epic form does
actually make use of neutral and impersonal narration. It is also debatable how
many people would really assume news reporting to be an example of objective
realism. Certainly, research into news reporting in the tabloid press would seem
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to challenge this assumption (see, for example, Short 1988 and, indeed, Fowlers
own 1991 work). A more significant problem, however, is with Fowlers assertion
that Type C narration is exclusively third-person. It is easy to imagine an instance
of a first-person narrator who gives no access to his or her thoughts but simply
describes what he or she experiences, giving no evaluation of these events. Since
Type C is restricted to third-person narration, it would appear that there is no
place within Fowlers categories for such a narrator. Herein lies a major problem
with Fowlers typology. The taxonomy he presents does not allow for the fact that
there may be other types of narration that are not covered by the categories he
defines (for example, second-person narration). Thus it does not account for the
variety of viewpoints that might occur within a text.
Furthermore, despite the fact that Fowler acknowledges that no text is likely to
exhibit one type of narration alone, the categories he suggests restrict us to compartmentalising narrators, when in fact the type of narration in a text may change
from sentence to sentence. It would seem, therefore, that there is little to be gained
from asserting that a narrator belongs to a particular category. Rather it would
seem that it is more helpful to look at the effects generated by changes in narration, and to look particularly at how specific point of view effects are created. This
would certainly allow us to say more interpretatively about a narrative text. This
is the approach taken by, for example, Short (1996), whose work is discussed in
2.5.5. Before considering this, though, it is necessary to consider Simpsons (1993)
modification of Fowlers typology of narration.
.. Simpsons development of Fowlers work
Simpsons (1993) work on point of view attempts in part to resolve some of the
problems that we have noted with Fowlers taxonomy. Simpson takes Fowlers categories of narration as a starting point and tries to introduce more precision into
this framework in an effort to identify the linguistic components common to each
category. Central to Simpsons model of point of view is the concept of modality,
which he explains as referring to a speakers attitude towards, or opinion about,
the truth of a proposition expressed by a sentence (Simpson 1993: 47). Simpson
attempts to extend Fowlers work on modality as an indicator of viewpoint by not
only identifying the various ways of expressing modal commitment (e.g. modal
auxiliaries, modal adverbs, etc.), but also by looking in detail at the different types
of modality in English. As a result, he suggests an initial distinction between what
he terms category A narratives and category B narratives.
Category A narratives, according to Simpson (1993: 55), are narrated in the
first person by a participating character in the story. As Simpson explains, this
category corresponds with Genettes (1980) category of homodiegetic narration.
Category B narratives, however, are more complicated. All category B narratives
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are third-person and all have narrators who are not participants in the story. In this
respect, Simpsons category B is similar to Genettes heterodiegetic narration. Simpson goes on to explain that category B narratives can be subdivided, according to
whether the events of the story are related from outside or inside the consciousness
of a particular character. Where events are told from outside the consciousness of
any character, Simpson describes this as category B in narratorial mode. However,
if the third-person narrator moves into the consciousness of a character then that
character is said to be the reflector of the fiction, and Simpson describes this type
of narration as category B in reflector mode (this is similar to Genettes notion of
focalisation, discussed in 2.5.1). There is, of course, an issue about how much internalisation it is necessary to have before a reflector/focaliser can be said to exist
in a text (see Short 2000 for more discussion of this problem).
Category A and category B narratives can also be subdivided on the basis of
the patterns of modality that they reveal, and Simpson refers to the three possible
subdivisions as positive, negative and neutral shading. He explains that in texts
with positive shading the deontic and boulomaic systems of modality are foregrounded (i.e. the modal expression of duty/obligation [deontic modality] and
desire [boulomaic modality]). Negatively shaded texts, on the other hand, are
those in which the epistemic and perception systems of modality are foregrounded.
Epistemic modality concerns the modal expression of confidence or lack of confidence in the truth of a proposition (expressed, for example, by adverbs such as
possibly and by modal auxiliaries such as could and might). Simpson (1993: 50)
describes perception modality as a subcategory of epistemic modality, explaining
that in this modal system the degree of commitment to the truth of a proposition
is predicated on some reference to human perception, normally visual perception
(Simpson 1993: 50). The examples that Simpson gives of this type of modality are
adjectives such as clear and obvious and modal adverbs such as apparently and
evidently. Finally, neutrally shaded texts in Simpsons framework are those where
unmodalized categorical assertions are predominant (Simpson 1993: 75).
Simpsons (1993) model of point of view, with its emphasis on the various
types of modality within texts, provides a more precise method of distinguishing
between types of narrators than is possible with Fowlers (1996) framework. However, Simpsons framework still has some of the disadvantages of Fowlers. It is still
the case that very few texts will exhibit one type of narration alone, and there remains the possibility that there are types of narration that Simpsons model could
not account for. Since it is common for a variety of viewpoints to be displayed
within texts, it would seem more profitable to acknowledge this as a feature of
linguistic point of view, rather than trying to arrive at a definitive typology of
narration. My concern from Chapter four onwards is to try and account for how
these various viewpoints are constructed linguistically, and how readers move between them, without resorting to the categories of narration proposed by Fowler,
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Simpson and others. Nevertheless, before I go on to outline this approach, it will

be helpful to take account of the categories of point of view and frameworks for
analysing viewpoint that have been proposed by Uspensky, Fowler and others.
. Point of view in prose narration

In addition to defining various types of narration, writers on point of view have
also attempted to distinguish different categories of viewpoint. In this section I
consider the various proposals in this area, before going on to look at the linguistic
indicators of point of view that are inherent in prose texts, and the extent to which
these can be found in dramatic texts.
.. Focalization
It is worth noting at this point that the term point of view is itself controversial,
with numerous writers preferring alternative terms. Genette (1980) explains his
objection to the term point of view by referring to the work of Brooks and Warren
(1943), who suggest the term focus of narration as an alternative. Genettes work,
however, has not been without its critics. I myself have several reservations about
some of Genettes proposals, so I will begin with an examination of Genettes work
in order to make clear my dissatisfaction with it.
In a discussion of Brooks and Warrens (1943) proposed equivalent to point of
view (as mentioned above, Brooks and Warren favour focus of narration), Genette
summarises their observations as to the variety of narrative options available by
drawing up the following table:
Table 2.1 Genettes (1980) summary of Brooks and Warrens (1943) focus of narration
Internal analysis of events
Narrator as a character
in the story
Narrator not a character in the story
Outside observation of events
1. Main character tells his 2. Minor character tells main characstory

ters story
4. Analytic or omniscient 3. Author tells story as observer
author tells story
Referring to this table, Genette says:

Now, it is obvious that only the vertical demarcation relates to point of view
(inner or outer), while the horizontal bears on voice (the identity of the narrator),
with no real difference in point of view between 1 and 4 (let us say Adolphe and
Armance) and between 2 and 3 (Watson narrating Sherlock Holmes, and Agatha
Christie narrating Hercule Poirot).
(Genette 1980: 1867)
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The problem with Genettes assertion is that it is not obvious that there is no difference in point of view between categories 1 and 4 in the table and categories
2 and 3. There is, for instance, a clear difference in point of view between Watson narrating a Sherlock Holmes story, and Agatha Christies narrator narrating a
Hercule Poirot novel. Watson is a first person narrator and therefore his point of
view will be restricted by the information available to him in the fictional world
(as already discussed in 2.2). Agatha Christie, on the other hand, might choose
to use third-person narration, in which case the option of a much less restricted
point of view of events becomes available. Similarly, a minor character narrating a
main characters story will relate this differently to a main character relating his or
her own story. Contrary to what Genette claims, point of view is an issue in each
of the situations described in the four numbered cells of Table 2.1. It is also the
case that Genettes suggested example here is problematic for two reasons. Firstly,
in narratological terms Agatha Christie would not be considered the narrator of
her novels. In such examples where it might appear that Christie is the narrator,
what is actually the case is that the levels of author and narrator on Shorts (1996)
discourse structure diagram collapse together (see Chapter one, Section 1.4). The
second problem is that the example of Agatha Christie narrating Hercule Poirot is
not the clearest illustration to use, simply because so many of the Poirot stories are
narrated in the first-person by the character of Captain Hastings.
Nevertheless, Genette chooses not to use point of view on the grounds that
writers who favour this term are in fact conflating two different facets of narrative
that should be studied separately (Genette 1980: 186). These two aspects of narrative are referred to by Genette as narrative mood and narrative voice. He explains
the distinction by saying that mood is concerned with the question Who is the
character whose point of view orients the narrative?, whereas the category of voice
is more concerned with the question Who is the narrator? (Genette 1980: 186).
Genette himself paraphrases these questions, reformulating them as, respectively,
Who sees? and Who speaks?. Mood, according to Genette, is what we should
concentrate on describing if we are to explain point of view in texts, and the term
itself equates roughly with what Fowler (1996) terms psychological point of view
(Simpson 1993: 33).
Genette then explains that mood may be further sub-divided into the categories of distance and perspective. These categories are not precisely explained by
Genette, but it seems that distance refers to the extent to which a text exhibits narratorial mediation (or interference as Leech & Short 1981: 324 describe it) and the
extent to which that narratorial mediation is perceived by readers. This might be
paraphrased as the extent to which readers are aware of the narrator in a text. For
example, in the following extract from Ian Flemings novel Dr No, the absence of
reporting clauses after the direct speech creates the effect that this is an impartial
presentation of the conversation between Bond and M:
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[Context: M, the head of Britains Secret Service, is explaining to his top agent,
James Bond, the identity of the man suspected of being behind the murder of one
of Bonds colleagues.]
Who is this man?
Chinaman, or rather half Chinese and half German. Got a daft name. Calls himself Doctor No Doctor Julius No.
No? Spelt like Yes?
Thats right.
Any facts about him?
(Ian Fleming, Dr No, p. 26)
In such an example, Genette would presumably argue that the reader feels relatively close to the action in the fictional world, since there is no obvious sense of
the event being presented by a narrator with his or her own agenda (note the similarity here with the free direct speech of characters in prototypical dramatic texts).
However, readers can be made to feel more distant from events if there is a more
obvious narrator presence. Compare the effect created by incorporating reporting
clauses into the above example:
Who is this man? Bond asked, warily.
Chinaman, or rather half Chinese and half German. Got a daft name. Calls himself Doctor No Doctor Julius No, scoffed M.
No? Spelt like Yes? asked Bond, quizzically.
Thats right, M sneered.
Any facts about him? asked Bond, distastefully.
(adapted from Ian Fleming, Dr No, p. 26; my interpolations in bold)
In the adapted version of the Dr No example we are made much more aware of
the story being told by a narrator, from a particular point of view. This is due
to the addition of the reporting clauses and the fact that the reporting verbs and
adverbs that are used have such strong connotations. The impression created by
the addition of these reporting clauses is of a narrator reporting the conversation
between Bond and M, thereby mediating the readers impression of the fictional
world. This appears to be what Genette means by distance. This usage of the term
equates roughly to the classical distinction between mimesis and diegesis (introduced by Plato in Book III of The Republic) and is discussed in greater detail in
Chapter three.
Perspective, on the other hand, is explained by Genette as referring to the regulation of information within a narrative, giving rise to the effect of the narrative
adopting or seeming to adopt what we ordinarily call the participants vision
or point of view (Genette 1980: 162). The means by which this regulation of
information is brought about is referred to by Genette as focalization. RimmonKenan (1983) and Bal (1997) also follow Genettes lead and prefer focalization over
point of view. In his later work Genette himself appears to change his mind about
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the term focalization and suggests instead the term foyer (Genette 1983: 49; see
Chatman 1986 for a discussion of this terminological change). However, because
focalization has been the most influential of Genettes terms, I will reserve my discussion of Genettes writing to this aspect of his work. Genette distinguishes three
different types of focalization. Before we consider these, let us first note some of
the problems with Genettes term.
Genette explains that he chooses the term focalization as a means of avoiding
the visual connotations of point of view and because it corresponds to Brooks and
Warrens (1943) expression focus of narration. This, however, appears to contradict
Genettes argument so far. Genette disagrees with Brooks and Warrens (1943) position on point of view, therefore why he should want to adopt a term that evokes
their original expression is something of a mystery. It is also the case that focalization as a term is no less visual in connotation than point of view. Because of this,
using focalization as an alternative does nothing to solve the problems that Genette
observes with point of view. Instead, these problems are simply transferred to the
term focalization, as Chatman (1986) has pointed out. The fact that point of view
has overt visual connotations is a criticism often levelled at those writers who prefer this term, but this criticism is itself open to question. It is not made clear by
Genette or other writers who favour the term focalization just what is so objectionable about retaining the visual connotations of point of view. The literal (i.e.
non-metaphorical) sense of point of view (an angle of vision as Wales (2001: 306)
defines it) is an important aspect of the phenomenon of viewpoint, and it is from
this that the metaphorical senses of the term are analogised (these non-literal
senses are discussed in Sections 2.5.2 and 2.5.3). Therefore, retaining these visual connotations may actually help us to better understand their metaphorical
counterparts. We might also observe that Genettes terms perspective and distance
and his question Who sees? all carry the visual connotations that he claims to
want to avoid.
There are, then, several problems with the term focalization. Nevertheless, it is
worth considering Genettes taxonomy in full in order to understand its implications for the study of point of view.
Genette distinguishes three types of focalization. These are zero focalization
(also described by Genette as nonfocalized narrative), internal focalization and
external focalization.
Zero focalization is explained only very briefly by Genette, who says that the
category is represented by the classical narrative (Genette 1980: 189). Genette,
however, does not give an example of a narrative with zero focalization. Simpson
(1993: 33), in his own summary of Genettes categories, describes zero focalization
as the narrative with omniscient narrator, where the narrator says more than any
of the characters know. As such, this zero focalization would therefore seem to
correspond with Fowlers Type B narration.
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Internal focalization, on the other hand, is described by Genette, as being

found in those narratives in which the omniscience of the narrator is restricted.
Genette explains that internal focalization can be fixed (i.e. restricted to the point
of view of one character), variable (i.e. alternating between the viewpoint of two
or more characters) or multiple (where the reader may be given more than one
perspective on the same event, as occurs sometimes in epistolary novels). Internal focalization would seem to correspond with Fowlers Type A narration. Unlike
Fowler, Genette does not specify whether internal focalization is restricted to being
either third-person or first-person (Fowler notes that Type A narration can occur
in both), though he does make the valuable point that it is not restricted to one
particular character.
Finally, Genette explains that external focalization is found in those narratives
where the narrator does not reveal all that he or she knows about the characters,
and where the reader is not given access to the characters thoughts and feelings.
As examples, he cites the work of Dashiell Hammett and Ernest Hemingway. External focalization would therefore seem most closely related to Fowlers Type C
narration.
Having considered Genettes categories of focalization, we are now in a position to consider some of the weaknesses of his taxonomy. To begin with zero
focalization, the difficulty here is that Genette gives almost no explanation of what
is meant by this term, other than saying that it is best exemplified in classical
narrative. Simpson (1993: 34) explains that zero focalization seems to differ from
internal focalization due to the greater degree of omniscience which it manifests.
However, if this is indeed the difference between the two categories then it becomes
extremely difficult to draw the line between them, as Simpson points out. How, for
example, are we to decide on the quantity of omniscience that a text must exhibit
before it may be classed as zero focalization? Significantly, Rimmon-Kenan (1983)
abandons the notion of zero-focalization in her own work, preferring to develop
the distinction between internal and external focalization.
Even these two remaining categories are not without their problems. External
focalization appears to equate roughly to Fowlers category of Type C narration,
the problems with which have already been discussed in 2.4.2. If an otherwise
purely externally focalized narrative contains just one instance of the presentation of a characters internal state, does this mean that the whole narrative should
not be considered an example of external focalization? Or should we just say that
the external focalization has been momentarily interrupted by an instance of internal focalization? These are questions that Genette leaves unanswered. Internal
focalization, too, is problematic. How, for example, do we define fixed internal focalization? Does this have to be fixed throughout the whole text? Does one instance
of variation prevent us from classifying a text as having fixed internal focalization?
Again, Genette does not say, and this is a problem with all his categories of focaliza-
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tion; Genette provides no linguistic criteria for these, which consequently makes it
extremely difficult to apply his categories analytically. Simpson (1993) comments
on this, saying:
Recognitions of categories such as internal and external focalization may vary
from reader to reader, and while this is not undesirable, the view taken here is that
it is possible to specify on clearer linguistic criteria the different types of point of
view realized in narrative fiction.
(Simpson 1993: 34)
There is also an issue with Genettes claim that the distinction between who sees
and who speaks is entirely separate. Rimmon-Kenan, defending Genettes distinction, cites the following example from the opening of James Joyces novel A
Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man:
Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down
along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a
nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. . ..
His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass. He had
a hairy face.
He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne
lived: she sold lemon platt.
(James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, p. 1)
Rimmon-Kenan explains that in the above passage, what we have is a representation of the character of Stephens perceptions as a child (Rimmon-Kenan
1983: 74). However, she states, this does not mean that the language in the passage
is Stephens language, or that Stephen is the narrator. This is certainly true. Stephen
is referred to in the third-person which would be unusual though not impossible if he were the narrator. Instead, according to Rimmon-Kenan, Stephen is
the focalizer and is entirely separate from the narrator; and Genette claims that
it is only focalization that constitutes point of view in narrative. However, what
Rimmon-Kenan overlooks is that Joyce has chosen to have his third-person narrator of this passage relate events from a particular perspective. For example, the
narrator says his father looked at him through a glass rather than he saw his
father through a glass. The choice of making the noun phrase his father the grammatical subject of the sentence generates a slightly different point of view effect to
the alternative example, illustrating that point of view is inherent in the narrators
presentation of events, not just in the focalizing character. It is the choices that
an author makes as to how the narrator tells the story that create the effect of focalization, therefore to study focalization without considering the narrator (who
speaks) would seem to be a logical impossibility.
Finally, Genettes taxonomy does not adequately account for how changes in
point of view are effected. This, I would suggest, is one of the most important aspects of viewpoint, and one that is not often considered in existing frameworks for
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the analysis of point of view; namely how readers are manipulated by writers into
witnessing events in the fictional world from particular perspectives. Genette does
explain that commitment to a particular type of focalization may not necessarily
be retained throughout a whole narrative, but his explanation of these changes is
unconvincing. Where changes in focalization occur in a text, Genette terms these
alterations, and sub-divides them into the categories of paralipsis and paralepsis
(Genette 1980: 195). Paralipsis and paralepsis, he says, refer respectively to giving
less information than is necessary in principle, or giving more than is authorized
in principle in the code of focalization governing the whole (Genette 1980: 195).
Again though, there is the problem of how we are to decide what the focalization
governing the whole actually is, when Genette also states that focalizations are not
fixed over a whole text. Whether alterations are defined according to the quantity of one particular type of focalization, or by some other method, is not made
clear. It is also questionable how much sense it makes to talk about narrators being
authorized to present information, since this gives the false impression that narrators are autonomous and independent of the author, an issue that has already
been discussed in relation to fabula and sjuzhet (see 2.2.1).
It will be clear by now that I have some reservations about Genettes (1980)
taxonomy of point of view in narrative. It is for these reasons that I do not adopt
his terminology in my analyses, despite its popularity among narratologists. Having said this, Genettes taxonomy is not adopted unquestionably by such writers
as Rimmon-Kenan (1983) and Bal (1997). Rimmon-Kenan (1983), for example,
suggests that there are various facets to focalization, these being the perceptual
component, the psychological component and the ideological component. Within
these divisions she discusses such aspects as space, time, cognition and emotion. It
is to these divisions within viewpoint that we will turn next.
.. Point of view on the Uspenskian planes
I mentioned in the previous section the efforts that some writers have made to disassociate the term point of view from its non-metaphorical meaning of an angle
of vision (Wales 2001: 306), noting that the numerous metaphorical extensions
of the term are analogised from this most literal sense. The relationship between
non-metaphorical and metaphorical point of view is important and is covered
systematically in Uspenskys (1973) work on point of view in narrative, later developed by Fowler (1986, 1996). In this section I discuss Uspenskys categories of
viewpoint and also consider the potential for applying these to dramatic texts.
Uspensky asserts that point of view exists on four planes, these being the spatial and temporal plane, the ideological plane, the phraseological plane and the
psychological plane. Let us begin by considering point of view in space and time.
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... Point of view on the spatial and temporal plane

Uspensky (1973) considers spatial point of view and temporal point of view to exist on the same plane. Fowler (1996) also chooses to conflate these two senses of
point of view, referring to the category of spatio-temporal viewpoint, and we will
consider his reasons for doing this shortly. However, let us consider the two as separate for the moment, in order to see how temporal point of view is metaphorised
from spatial viewpoint.
To begin with spatial point of view, this is the non-metaphorical sense of the
term point of view and refers to the position in space from which a scene is viewed.
Chatman (1978) refers to this type of viewpoint as perceptual point of view. Uspensky (1973) notes that the spatial position of a narrator in a narrative does not
necessarily equate to the spatial position of a specific character. For example, an
omniscient narrator is able to describe much more than a specific character would
be able to see of a particular scene. Spatial point of view can also be realised in
the stage directions of dramatic texts, and is often used to express what the spatial
point of view of an audience watching a performance of the play would be. Consider the following example from the stage directions at the beginning of Harold
Pinters play Old Times:
Light dim. Three figures discerned.
Deeley slumped in armchair, still.
Kate curled on a sofa, still.
Anna standing at the window, looking out.
(Harold Pinter, Old Times, p. 7)
Here, the stage directions appear to reflect the spatial position of the audience in
the theatre, and the use of the verb discerned suggests that it may be initially a
little difficult to perceive the characters on stage perhaps due to the dim lighting.
As we have seen in 2.4.2, however, narrators can restrict the point of view to
that of a particular character, and in such instances we might assume that what the
narrator describes is only that which the character in question can physically see.
Representing a particular characters spatial point of view is a more difficult task
in stage drama, and is discussed in more detail in Chapter three. However, this is
a relatively common occurrence in film and can be seen in the following example
from Withnail and I:
[Context: The screen directions have just described the character of Marwood and
the fact that his hair could do with a good wash, a point made more obvious by
Marwood running his hands through it.]
Marwood reaches for a bottle of beer instead. Swallows a stale inch with eyes on the
move. . . they navigate the globe and it seems to disgust him. Keep moving and good
God in heaven is this what he sees?
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2. P.O.V. Marwood.
A kitchen extends off the living room. But much worse. The living room doesnt have a
sink. This room does and it looks like its vomited. The unwashed and the unwashable
are stacked to the height of the taps. Every horizontal surface is covered in nasovisual horror.
The expression P.O.V. Marwood indicates a change in camera shot from an

omniscient position to a representation of only that which the character of Marwood is able to see (P.O.V. being a commonly used acronym in film for point
of view). The screen directions that follow then describe in detail the scene that
Marwood observes.
Temporal point of view refers to the presentation of events in a fictional world
from a particular position in time. The notions of distance and proximity that
pertain in spatial point of view apply metaphorically to temporal viewpoint. For
example, a story may be told from a particular characters position in time, as in
the following example from Roald Dahls short story Georgy Porgy:
I have never really had anything much to do with women.
To be perfectly honest, up until three weeks ago I had never so much as laid a
finger on one of them, except perhaps to help her over a stile or something like
that when the occasion demanded.
(Roald Dahl, Georgy Porgy in Kiss Kiss, p. 109)
In this example, the reader is positioned in the same temporal location as the firstperson narrator, the phrase three weeks ago relating to the narrators position in
time rather than the readers. One of the effects of this is to bias the telling of the
story. What the reader is presented with is the first-person narrators perspective
of the order in which the events in the fictional world occurred.
The representation of a particular characters temporal point of view in drama
may come about as a result of the temporal sequencing of events; i.e. the organisation of the sjuzhet in such a way that it reflects the order in which a particular
character experienced events, rather than the order in which they actually occurred. Uspenskys reasons for considering space and time to be part of the same
plane are most likely because any reference to a spatial point of view tends to assume some specific temporal point of view as well, and vice versa. We will consider
this in more detail in 2.5.4.3.
... Point of view on the ideological plane
Uspensky (1973) explains that point of view on the ideological plane is concerned
with the following question:
[. . .] whose point of view does the author assume when he evaluates and perceives
ideologically the world which he describes?
(Uspensky 1973: 8)
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Fowler (1996) explains that point of view on the ideological plane concerns the set
of beliefs and values a person has, and the categories by which they comprehend
the world. The vehicle for the ideology can be the narrative voice or the character.
In dramatic texts, the expression of ideological viewpoint comes most often from
the characters themselves, as in the following example from Alan Bennett, Peter
Cook, Jonathan Miller and Dudley Moores sketch Aftermyth of War, a satire on
the British peoples attitudes to the Second World War:
[Context: This extract occurs towards the end of the sketch. Alan enters and very
quickly summarises how the war finally came to an end.]
Alan (entering) But the tide was turning, the wicket was drying out. It was deuce
advantage Great Britain. Then America and Russia asked if they could join in,
and the whole thing turned into a free-for-all. And so, unavoidably, came peace,
putting an end to organised war as we knew it.
(Alan Bennett, Peter Cook, Jonathan Miller and Dudley Moore, Aftermyth of
War from Beyond the Fringe, p. 78)
In this example, the character Alan characterises war as a game by explaining

it through terminology from cricket (wicket, drying out) and tennis (deuce,
advantage). The collocation organised war is also unusual, the most common
collocate of the pre-modifying adjective organised being crime. In a search of the
British National Corpus (World edition) for collocates of the adjective organised,
I found that the most frequent collocate (out of 2086 different types) within a
three word span was the noun crime. Crime appears as a collocate 60 times in 41
texts and has a log-likelihood value of 741.794178. In contrast, war appears as a
collocate of organised only once in the 97,626,093 words of the BNC, and in this
instance the noun war precedes organised: When this war broke out organised
Labour in this country lost the initiative (File CE7565). The other unusual sentiment in the extract comes about as a result of the adverb unavoidably. Using
unavoidably in the context in which it appears implies that the coming of peace
was not necessarily welcomed. The ideology being expressed by Alan (and being
satirised at the author to reader level of the discourse structure diagram in Figure 1.1) is one in which war is treated as a fairly trivial matter, to be enjoyed in the
same way as sports and games.
Point of view on the ideological plane corresponds broadly with Chatmans
(1978) category of conceptual point of view, which is discussed in more detail
in 2.5.4.3.
... Point of view on the phraseological plane
In Uspenskys (1973) taxonomy, point of view on the phraseological plane concerns the viewpoint effects that can arise as a result of an authors choices with
regard to the presentation of speech and thought. This plane also concerns the
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naming of characters and the consequences for the expression of point of view that
this has. Fowler (1996: 162) argues that point of view on the phraseological plane
does not constitute an independent level but is better thought of as being part of
Uspenskys psychological plane. Since the phraseological plane deals with particular linguistic indicators of point of view while Uspenskys other planes concern
broader categorisations of viewpoint, Fowler would appear to have a valid point
when he says that point of view on the phraseological plane does not seem to
constitute an independent category. The creation of viewpoint effects via speech
and thought presentation is covered by Short (1996), and Uspenskys discussion
of the relationship between point of view and naming correlates with Shorts
(1996) discussion of the effects of socially deictic terms. Because of this, we will
reserve discussion of what Uspensky terms phraseological point of view till Section 2.5.5, where we will consider Shorts (1996) checklist of linguistic indicators
of point of view.
... Point of view on the plane of psychology
Point of view on the plane of psychology concerns the choices an author makes
with regard to the various ways in which a story might be narrated. It is within
this plane that Uspensky (1973) makes the distinction between internal and external narration (discussed in 2.4.1 above). Fowlers (1996) taxonomy of narration,
discussed above in 2.4.2, is developed from Uspenskys description of point of view
on the plane of psychology, and Fowler refers to it as psychological point of view.
.. Fowlers development of Uspenskys taxonomy
Fowlers work on point of view (1996: 16084) is developed from Uspenskys
(1973) taxonomy, with some modifications. Some of these have already been
discussed in 2.5.2 above, such as Fowlers subsuming of point of view on the
phraseological plane within Uspenskys category of point of view on the plane of
psychology. One addition of Fowlers that has not yet been mentioned, though,
is his discussion of what he describes as world-view, and his introduction of the
term mind-style. This is an important concept with regard to point of view, and is
treated in detail in Chapter six. Nevertheless, it is worth mentioning it briefly here
since it constitutes an important aspect of Fowlers work on point of view.
Fowler explains that each individuals understanding of the world will be
slightly different as a result of the social environment into which they were born,
the patterns of interaction they were involved in as they grew up, and the experiences in general that they have had. This understanding of the world is reflected in
language and as Fowler says:
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The point is that every persons sociolinguistic abilities are diverse, so that their
language-use incorporates a repertoire of ideational perspectives.
(Fowler 1996: 212)
In essence, what Fowler is saying is that every individuals language experience and
use (and, indeed, non-linguistic experience) will reflect their understanding of the
world, and he refers to this understanding as a world-view. Fowler goes on to say:
Discussing this phenomenon in literary fictions, I have called it mind-style: the
world-view of an author, or a narrator, or a character, constituted by the ideational
structure of the text.
(Fowler 1996: 214)
Fowler then explains that he prefers the term mind style to Uspenskys point of view
on the ideological plane.
Mind style as a concept has received a judicious amount of critical discussion.
Semino (2002), for example, questions whether Fowlers use of the term really is
an equivalent to ideological point of view (I will consider this criticism in 6.2.1).
What is important to note at the moment, though, is that any articulation of mind
style will constitute the expression of a particular way of understanding the world,
and this clearly relates to the expression of point of view.
.. Chatmans work on point of view
Fowlers and Simpsons taxonomies of point of view, developed from the work
of Uspensky (1973), have received considerable attention within stylistics. A further framework that has also been of interest to stylisticians is that proposed by
Seymour Chatman (1978, 1986, 1990). Chatmans work has been influential with
regard to the study of point of view in prose fiction (see, for example, Sasaki 1994).
But of particular relevance to this book is the fact that it has also been applied in
the analysis of point of view in drama (see Weingarten 1984). Indeed, Chatman
originally developed his framework through the analysis of both prose fiction texts
and film. In this section I outline Chatmans taxonomy of point of view before
going on in Chapter three to look in detail at how it has been applied to drama.
Chatman (1986) suggests that there are actually three senses of the term
point of view. The first is a literal, non-metaphorical sense and refers to the angle from which we view an object. It is concerned with actually seeing or looking
at something, and as such is equivalent to Uspenskys (1973) and Fowlers (1996)
spatio-temporal viewpoint. An example would be From my hotel window I can
see Buckingham Palace, since here we are concerned with actually looking at and
seeing a particular building.
Chatmans second and third point of view categories are metaphorical extensions of this first type. Chatman (1986) explains that the first type of figurative
point of view covers the phenomenon of visual recall. Consider the following sen-
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tence: From my point of view Buckingham Palace is an architectural disaster.

Chatman suggests that a sentence such as this would still make sense even if it
were said outside London because the seeing now refers to an act of memory
(Chatman 1986: 190). Chatman explains that it is not necessary to actually be able
to see an object in order to talk sensibly about what it looks like. There is an obvious problem with Chatmans categorisation here which I will deal with once we
have considered his third class.
Chatmans third category is again figurative but is this time concerned with
judgmental attitudes. That is, where an opinion is stated by the speaker, such as
From my point of view, the introduction of university tuition fees is immoral.
Here, Chatman would consider the noun phrase the introduction of university
tuition fees as being the object that is metaphorically seen. In such examples,
then, the speakers point of view constitutes his or her stance on the subject, and
as such is similar to Fowlers (1996) category of ideological viewpoint.
The problem with Chatmans three way classification of point of view, however, is that there is basically no difference between his two types of figurative
viewpoint. Both involve the speaker presenting an ideological position. What
Chatman classifies as visual recall is actually judgmental too. In the example above
(From my point of view Buckingham Palace is an architectural disaster), we are
not concerned with the actual appearance of Buckingham Palace, but with the
speakers opinion that it is architecturally disastrous. Whether or not the speaker
can actually see the palace when speaking is irrelevant.
Despite this confusion, Chatmans distinction between metaphorical and nonmetaphorical point of view is useful, and correlates roughly with Uspenskys
(1973) and Fowlers (1996) distinction between spatio-temporal and ideological
point of view. Chatman, however, favours different terminology to refer to these
distinctions and in order to be clear about how they relate to other models of point
of view, it is worth considering these in detail.
... Slant and filter
Chatman proposes a terminological distinction between the point of view of the
narrator and the point of view of the character (Chatman 1990: 143) and suggests
the terms slant and filter respectively for these concepts. This division corresponds
to Genettes (1980) distinction between the questions who sees? and who tells?,
discussed in 2.5.1 above. Chatman illustrates the need for this distinction with
reference to the following extract from Dombey and Son:
Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great armchair by the bedside, and son tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a
low settee immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were
analogous to that of a new muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while
he was very new.
(Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son, p. 1)
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Chatman explains that it is clear that the analogy between the baby and a toasted
muffin cannot be attributed to Dombey, on the basis that Dombey is a man far too
complacent about his first male offspring to entertain such a thought (Chatman
1990: 141). Because of this, Chatman says, it is clear that the analogy belongs to
the narrator; in effect, what we have is the narrators point of view of the scene.
Chatmans choice of example here is not the most convincing, since he is relying
on knowledge of the character of Dombey gained from reading the whole novel. As
the extract he quotes occurs on the first page of the book, a reader new to the novel
would not yet know that Mr Dombey is not the type of character to make such
an analogy. Consequently it is not necessarily the case that a new reader would
attribute the analogy to the narrator rather than Dombey. Chatmans argument
here relies on the benefit of post-processing, and does not take into account the
online-processing that occurs when we read texts for the first time. However, on
other occasions in the novel we are exposed to the characters point of view rather
than the narrators. Chatman quotes the following extract as an example:
[Context: The narrator has just suggested that Mrs Dombey is a lady with no
heart to give to Mr Dombey.]
[Mr Dombey] would have reasoned: That a matrimonial alliance with himself
must, in the nature of things, be gratifying and honourable to any woman of
common sense.
(Charles Dickens, Dombey and Son, p. 2)
Chatman explains that since the narrator has just suggested the opposite to what
Mr Dombey would have reasoned, the indirect thought presentation inherent in
the subordinate clause represents Dombeys attitude rather than the narrators.
Chatman uses this as support for his reasoning that it is necessary to make a terminological distinction between the point of view of the narrator and the point of
view of the character.
Having established this distinction, Chatman goes on to argue that the narrator is a reporter rather than an observer of events in the story world, saying that
no-one wonders whether the narrator ever inhabited the story world of Dombey
and Son (Chatman 1990: 142). Because of this, Chatman suggests that the term
view to refer to the narrators perspective of events is misleading. Instead, what
we appear to have is a written representation of the narrators mental experiences (Chatman 1990: 142). Chatman suggests that a new piece of terminology
is necessary to capture this nuance and proposes the term slant.
Filter, on the other hand, refers to the mental activity experienced by the characters in the story world perceptions, cognitions, attitudes, emotions, memories,
fantasies and the like (Chatman 1990: 143). Chatman explains that only characters
exist in the story world, not narrators, and that only characters are able to consider
events from a position within that story world. Narrators, according to Chatman,
always view events within the story world from outside that world. This, of course,
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raises the issue of how first-person narrators are treated in Chatmans framework.
Chatman explains this by saying that:
The homodiegetic or first-person narrator did see the events and objects at an
earlier moment in the story, but his recountal is after the fact and thus a matter of
memory, not of perception.
(Chatman 1990: 1445)
Note, though, that this does not successfully explain present tense first-person
narration.
As we have already seen, the terms slant and filter correspond to Genettes distinction between who tells and who sees (Chatman 1990: 144). As I have already
discussed, however, (see 2.5.1) it seems that making a clear distinction between
these two categories does not always adequately explain how particular viewpoint
effects are created. For example, instances of free indirect discourse in a narrative would seem to blur the boundary between narrator and character. We might
also question the argument that Chatman puts forward in favour of introducing
the term slant, namely that narrators are reporters rather than observers of events
in the story world. The problem here is that the practice of reporting seems to
presuppose observation of some kind, unless the report is based on second-hand
information. In addition, although narrators may not inhabit the story world of
the characters they describe, it is the case that some narrators do inhabit some form
of fictional world. In Chapter four I introduce a modified form of deictic shift
theory (see Duchan et al. 1995) to take account of some of these problems with
Chatmans framework, and I propose that the categorical distinctions suggested
by Chatman, Genette and others are often unhelpful. For the moment, though, it
is worth continuing with an outline of Chatmans framework, in order to be clear
about his conceptualisation of point of view.
... Center and interest-focus
In addition to slant and filter, Chatman proposes the concepts of center and
interest-focus (Chatman 1986, 1990). Chatman explains that center refers to the
phenomenon of one character being of paramount importance to the story
throughout the text. However, center does not appear to equate to Bals (1997)
notion of the focaliser of a story; Chatman explains that a character who serves as
filter may be central (the protagonist) or not (the witness) (Chatman 1986: 196).
There is, then, a problem with center as a point of view category. Chatmans definition of center suggests that this category is concerned with the extent to which
a reader takes notice of a particular character, and this is not necessarily a point
of view issue. For example, in Bram Stokers novel Dracula, the Count is arguably
the most prominent character, the central character in Chatmans terms, yet at
no point in the book do we get Draculas point of view manifested. Center may be
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an important concept in narratology but it does not seem explicitly connected to

point of view.
Interest-focus, by Chatmans definition, seems very similar to the notion of
center, and hence the same problems apply. Chatman states that if a character does
not possess the mental capability to be a filter, or if he or she expresses no slant,
he or she can still be interest-focused; that is, he or she can still be the main focus
of a scene. Again, this does not seem to be a point of view issue, but appears more
concerned with the extent to which we notice, or are prompted to identify with, a
particular character. Chatman explains the concept as follows:
Quite often we do not see things from some characters optical point of view or
know what she is thinking, but we identify with her, interpret events as they affect
her, wish her good luck or good come-uppance.
(Chatman 1990: 148)
Chatman notes that interest-focus differs from center in that even a minor character can be interest-focused for a short period of the narrative. Again though, this
seems a somewhat puzzling definition, since it would seem from this that center is
actually just prolonged interest-focus. If this is the case, then the introduction of
two separate terms for what is essentially the same phenomenon seems somewhat
counter-productive and confusing. For these reasons I do not consider center and
interest-focus to be categories of point of view.
... Perceptual and conceptual point of view
In his earlier work (Chatman 1978) Chatman stresses the distinction between
what he calls literal and figurative viewpoints by defining these categorically as,
respectively, perceptual and conceptual point of view.
Perceptual point of view is an optical viewpoint, i.e. exactly that which a character physically sees. Wales (2001: 306) notes that this refers to an angle of vision.
For example, in this extract from Umberto Ecos The Island of the Day Before we are
given a report of exactly what the main character, Roberto, is able to see, indicated
by the use of the verb of perception, glimpsed:
He staggered to the other side of the ship and glimpsed, but distant this time,
almost on the line of the horizon, the peaks of another mass, defined also by two
promontories.
(Umberto Eco, The Island of the Day Before, p. 3)
Note, of course, that it is not just position in space that determines what Roberto
is able to see, but also position in time. For example, on another day Robertos ship
may not be in the same position and this would affect what he would be able to see.
Perceptual viewpoint, then, can be seen to arise from a particular spatio-temporal
location, which is the reason that Uspensky (1973) and Fowler (1996) run space
and time together in their taxonomies of viewpoint. In drama, perceptual point of
view can be indicated or implied in stage directions (as we have already seen) or
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through verbs of perception in the speech of characters, as in this example from

The Lady in the Van, where Alan Bennett 2 (the narrator version of Alan Bennett)
describes the moment he first encountered Miss Shepherd:
[14] AB2 Cut to five years earlier. I am standing by the convent in Camden Town
looking up at the crucifix on the wall, trying to decide whats odd about it.
A characters conceptual point of view, on the other hand, is not what he or she
physically sees, but is rather a manifestation of his or her ideology, beliefs, attitudes
or way of thinking, as this extract from All Quiet On The Western Front shows:
The front is a cage in which we must await fearfully whatever may happen. We lie
under the network of arching shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty.
(Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet On The Western Front, p. 70)
Here the protagonist, a young German soldier in the First World War, explains his
understanding of the trench warfare and front line fighting in which he is engaged.
There is no mention of what he physically sees (no verbs of perception related to
sight) only a manifestation of his attitude to the subject. This is apparent through
his use of the adverb of manner fearfully, and in the negative connotations of
the word cage which he uses to describe the front metaphorically. Given that a
cage is often used to keep an animal against its will, it seems that the first-person
narrator is suggesting that he and his fellow soldiers are themselves nothing more
than animals.
The distinction between perceptual and conceptual point of view is a useful
one to keep and equates to Uspenskys (1973) distinction between spatial and ideological viewpoint. What Chatmans framework does not take account of, however,
is temporal point of view, and what we might term social point of view; that is,
the distance or closeness that we express to someone by the way we refer to them.
This type of viewpoint arises out of the use of deictic terms, and is one of the indicators of point of view identified by Short (1996) in his checklist of linguistic
indicators of viewpoint.
.. Shorts checklist of linguistic indicators of viewpoint
Shorts (1996) approach to point of view differs from that of Chatman, Uspensky
and others, in that it does not attempt to categorise narration, but rather concentrates on the linguistic phenomena within texts that give rise to viewpoint effects.
Short collates these into a checklist of prototypical linguistic indicators of viewpoint, though there is no suggestion that this is a comprehensive list (indeed, Short
2000 shows that graphology and style variation can sometimes be used to indicate
viewpoint). Let us first of all consider Shorts original (1996) checklist:
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... Schema-oriented language

Shorts first category takes into account the schemas that we use to help us understand situations and texts. It is now a commonly held assumption within cognitive
psychology and linguistics that our understanding of particular events, activities
and situations is shaped by the amount of prior knowledge we have about them.
This background knowledge is referred to as schematic knowledge (see Arbib et
al. 1987; Eysenck & Keane 1990 for a fuller explanation of schema theory, and
Semino 1997 for a stylistic application), and a schema is simply a complex unit of
schematic knowledge relating to a particular person, event, activity or situation.
For example, university students all have a schema for professors, concerning how
they behave, what they look like, how to address them, how to behave towards
them and so on. Conversely, university lecturers all have schematic knowledge of
students and what such people look like and how they behave. Such schematic
knowledge can be exploited by writers to create viewpoint effects within a text,
as van Peer (2001: 328) explains when he says that In order to create a particular
perspective, a writer may portray a protagonist systematically according to a particular schema. An example of this can be seen in Willy Russells play Educating
Rita, where the character of Rita, a mature student at The Open University, clearly
deviates from our schema for students by her brash and outrageous behaviour.
Short himself uses the play to discuss foregrounding effects as a result of schema
clashes (see Short 1996: 22931), though we can also notice point of view issues
in the passage too. This can be seen in the following example, where Rita meets
Frank, her tutor, for the first time:
[Context: The conversation takes place in Franks office. Frank has just asked Rita
her name.]
Rita (noticing the picture) Thats a nice picture, isnt it? (She goes up to it.)
Frank Erm. . .yes. I suppose it is. . .nice.
Rita (studying the picture) Its very erotic.
Frank (looking up) Actually I dont think Ive looked at it for about ten years, but
yes, I suppose it is.
Rita Theres no suppose about it. Look at those tits.
(Willy Russell, Educating Rita, p. 1)
In the first scene of the play Rita deviates from most readers schema for students
for numerous reasons. She initiates a conversation with Frank that is not academic
in topic when we would usually expect new students not to initiate at all on first
meeting their tutor in a formal environment such as his or her office. Even if they
did so, we would at least expect it to concern academic issues. In initiating the
conversation about the painting, Rita also ignores Franks earlier question regarding who she is. Rita also disagrees with Frank (Theres no suppose about it) and
uses language that we would not normally expect in such a situation when she says
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Look at those tits. Ritas deviation from our normal schema for students makes
us evaluate her character differently to the way that we might have had she conformed with our expectations. Thus, Russell is able to make the reader see Rita in
a particular way through his manipulation of our schema for students.
... Value-laden language
Value-laden language expresses an attitude to whatever is being described or perceived, and as such can be indicative of viewpoint. Indeed, there is a strong
relationship between the use of evaluative lexis and the expression of what Uspensky (1973) and Fowler (1996) term ideological point of view, and what Chatman
(1978) refers to as conceptual point of view. In drama, value-laden language can
be found both in characters speech and stage directions. The following extract
from Shakespeares Richard III demonstrates how value-laden language can be
indicative of the point of view of a particular character:
[Context: Lady Anne, widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, is responding to
Richards assertion that he did not kill her husband.]
Anne
In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw

Thy murdrous falchion smoking in his blood;
(William Shakespeare, Richard III, Act 1, Scene 2, lines 945)
The adjectives foul and murderous are not simply descriptive but evaluative
too, thereby indicating the extent of Annes hatred for Richard. In addition, the
metaphorical use of smoking also has negative connotations, contributing to our
impression of Annes view of Richard.
An example of value-laden language in stage directions can be seen in the
extract below from Alan Bennetts The Insurance Man:
A large sawmill with lots of overhead belts. It is a dangerous and tricky looking
place and there is a dreadful din.
(Alan Bennett, The Insurance Man in Plays 2, p. 156)
Here, the adjectives dangerous, tricky and din suggest that the sawmill is not a
pleasant place to be, and it is therefore likely that in a production of the play, the
director would ensure that this attitudinal viewpoint would be represented to the
audience through, perhaps, the set and sound effects.
... Given versus new information
One method by which writers can control the point of view of a reader is by manipulating the amount of information they are given about a particular scene, event
or character. One of the ways in which this can be done is by particular use of definite and indefinite reference. For example, the first stage direction of The Insurance
Man (discussed briefly in the previous section) is as follows:
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A foreign city. A body hangs from a lamp-post.

The use of indefinite articles in the above extract gives the impression that this is
new information to the reader and to the audience of the play. We do not yet know
the name of the city, or the identity of the body hanging from the lamp-post. The
use of the indefinite article works in the same way as an establishing shot in film,
giving the reader/audience the necessary information for them to be able to fully
comprehend the fictional world. Compare this with the opening speech of John
Burgess and Charles Marowitzs play The Chicago Conspiracy:
Loudspeaker February 14th 1970. In the Federal District Courthouse in Chicago
Judge Julius Hoffman sentences the seven defendants and the two defence lawyers
to a total of fifteen years and five days imprisonment for contempt of court.
(John Burgess and Charles Marowitz, The Chicago Conspiracy in Open Space
Plays, p. 83)
The use of the definite article here suggests that the seven defendants and the two
defence lawyers are already known to the reader/audience, thereby creating an in
medias res effect where it appears that we have somehow been dropped into the
middle of the story, thereby giving the reader/audience a very different perspective
on the fictional world. Similar effects can be gained using anaphoric pronouns in
place of proper nouns.
... Deixis
Deixis is concerned with the issues of distance and proximity in space, time and
social relations, and centres on the fact that speakers tend to interpret deictic terms
in relation to where they themselves are positioned. Consider the following stage
direction from Harold Pinters Old Times:
Deeley comes into the room, places the tray on a table.
(Harold Pinter, Old Times, p. 47)
Pinters use of the verb comes to refer to Deeleys movement suggests that the
reader/audience is already positioned as if they were within the room in viewpoint
terms, since the verb come indicates movement towards a deictic centre inside
the room. Had Pinter written Deeley goes into the room, we would be much more
likely to interpret this as meaning Deeley moves away from us into another room,
rather than towards us, since it implies a different deictic centre.
Deictic terms tend to come in pairs. Some obvious examples are here/there
and now/then as well as come/go, discussed above. In Chapter four I discuss the
centrality of deixis in point of view theory and therefore I reserve most of my
discussion of the concept till this later chapter.
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... Representations of thought and perception

Short (1996: 287) explains that the thoughts and perceptions of characters can be
represented through the use of particular verbs (including modal verbs) and adverbs relating to factivity. For example, the stage direction below from The Lady in
the Van, establishes the point of view of AB2 by the use of the verb of perception
looking:
AB2 is paying no attention, but looking up the street.
Similarly, the use of the modal verb may in the following extract suggests that
AB2 is still not entirely convinced that Miss Shepherd was telling the truth, thereby
giving some indication of his thoughts:
[Context: Miss Shepherd has just informed Alan that she has seen a poisonous
snake making its way towards the van.]
[192] AB2 I do not believe in the snake, let alone the purposeful glint in its eye,
but I do not say so, and when I find the next day that there has been a breakin at the pet shop in Parkway so there may have been a snake on the run, I feel
some remorse.
... Psychological sequencing

In 1.3, we saw briefly how psychological sequencing indicates viewpoint. To recap,
this is the phenomenon where the order in which events are presented reflects a
particular point of view. The following short example from Alan Bennetts play
The Insurance Man illustrates this:
The door opens and the Tall Woman shows Franz into the office.
What is noticeable about the above stage direction is that the grammatical construction involving the door as subject to the intransitive verb opens does not
make it clear who opens the door. This reflects the point of view of the characters
of Pohlmann and Miss Weber, who are both already in the room. From their viewpoint the door would appear to open on its own. It is only when the door has been
opened that we are able to work out that the Tall Woman is most likely to have
been the person who opened it.
.. Additional linguistic indicators of viewpoint
In addition to the features on Shorts (1996) checklist, there are numerous other
linguistic indicators of point of view. Some of these are noted by Short himself (see
Short 2000) while others come from Simpson (1993) and McIntyre (2004). It is,
of course, likely that others will emerge but here are some of the most noteworthy:
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... Graphology
Short (2000) discusses how graphological deviation in Irvine Welshs novel
Marabou Stork Nightmares is used to reflect the point of view of the main protagonist. Although less common in dramatic texts, the graphology of a text is
sometimes manipulated to create particular viewpoint effects, as in this example
from John Burgess and Charles Marowitzs The Chicago Conspiracy:
[Context: The scene takes place in the Federal District Courthouse in Chicago,
where seven defendants and two defence lawyers have been accused of contempt
of court.]
Caption:
WHEREUPON AN ADJOURNMENT WAS HAD AT 4.15 OCLOCK P.M.
UNTIL THE FOLLOWING DAY, NOVEMBER 6th 1969, AT THE HOUR OF
10.00 OCLOCK A.M.
(John Burgess and Charles Marowitz, The Chicago Conspiracy in Open Space
Plays, p. 116)
The caption is indicated graphologically in the play-text by having a border around

it, and the propositional content appears to have the effect of a stretch of narration
in prose fiction. The complex lexis and grammatical structures are reminiscent
of legal language and the graphological deviation seems to emphasise the fact
that this presentation of the adjournment is given from the point of view of the
members of the court rather than the defendants.
... Presupposition
Presupposition (see Levinson 1983: 1815) can indicate what a character believes
to be the case within the fictional world. It can also indicate the extent to which
one particular character takes into account the point of view of another. Consider
this example from Peter Cook and Dudley Moores sketch Hello:
[Context: Peter and Dudley are discussing Dudleys son.]
Dudley And of course, young Martins going to school now.
(An Evening with Peter Cook & Dudley Moore and E. L. Wisty)
Dudleys use of the adverb now presupposes that when he last spoke to Peter,
Martin was not going to school. His use of the proper noun Martin also implies
that Peter knows Dudleys son. The humour in the sketch comes about as a result of
the fact that Dudley and Peter have never met before. Peter is therefore thoroughly
confused by the presupposition and by the fact that Dudley fails entirely to take
into account his point of view.
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... Grices Co-operative Principle

Characters observance (or non-observance) of Grices (1975) Co-operative Principle can also indicate a particular point of view, and this is something that I
consider in more detail in Chapter six, where I relate this to Harriss (1984) work
on paradigms of reality. Briefly, Grices (1975) Co-operative Principle provides a
means of explaining how we differentiate between what speakers say and what they
actually mean. Grice proposed that in prototypical conversation there is a tacit assumption that we will be as truthful, relevant and clear as it is possible to be, and
that we will provide the right amount of information for others to be able to make
sense of what we are saying. Famously, Grice formulated these propositions as four
maxims, these being the Maxim of Quality (the tacit assumption that speakers will
always try to tell the truth), the Maxim of Relation (the assumption that speakers
will try to be relevant), the Maxim of Manner (the assumption that speakers will
try to be clear) and the Maxim of Quantity (the assumption that speakers will try
to give the right amount of information in an exchange). Of course, it is often the
case that speakers do not adhere to these maxims, and it is in flouting the maxims that additional meanings become apparent, as a result of implicatures being
generated.
An example of how flouting a maxim can create a point of view effect can be
seen in the extract below. In this example, the repetitive and unrealistic propositional content of the characters speech suggests that this is not what was actually
said, but is instead representative of how the characters themselves perceived the
exchange. This flouting of the maxim of manner (at the author to reader level
of the discourse structure diagram; see Figure 1.1) may be seen to represent the
monotony of the two characters daily conversations, and their conceptualisation
of their habitual activities:
At lights up on stage 2, Mum and Dad mime the following actions, at the same time
monotonously repeating the single words given below:
Dad (reads newspaper) Paper, paper, paper, paper, paper. . .
Mum (washes dishes) Dishes, dishes, dishes, dishes, dishes. . . (pours coffee) Coffee,
coffee, coffee, coffee, coffee. . .
Dad (takes three lumps of sugar) Sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar, sugar. . .
Dad gets up, Mum helps him on with his jacket.
Dad Jacket, jacket, jacket, jacket, jacket. . .
Mum (straightens Dads tie) Tie, tie, tie, tie, tie. . . (inspects Dads hands) Hands,
hands, hands, hands, hands. . .
Mum and Dad kiss.
Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. . .
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Mum opens the door, Dad goes out, Mum closes the door behind him. Both scream.
(Alan Burns and Charles Marowitz, Palach in Open Space Plays, p. 200)
However, despite the fact that flouting of Grices maxims is common in both reallife and dramatic conversation, point of view can also be conveyed when characters
observe the Co-operative Principle. Consider the following example (discussed in
more detail in McIntyre 2004):
[Context: Bates and Mrs Bates are discussing their daughter, Pattie, who has
been brain-damaged following a car-accident. Mrs Bates has just suggested that,
although she cannot communicate with them, Pattie can hear what they are
saying to her.]
Bates (whisper) That is too much to bear. (Loudly) Horrible. Horrible. Horrible!
Mrs Bates No, Tom. Its a sign of improvement. It shows that things are going on
inside her. The doctors dont know everything. Theyre not right all the time. Shes
getting better!
(Dennis Potter, Brimstone and Treacle, p. 2)
In the above example, all the assertions that Mrs Bates makes state what she believes to be the case. Although it is impossible for her to know for sure whether
Pattie can hear what is being said to her, Mrs Batess use of present simple, factive
verbs suggest that she at least believes that she is telling the truth about the situation, thus indicating what Chatman (1978) would call her conceptual point of view.
.. Summary
Having described existing taxonomies of point of view in prose fiction it will be
useful at this point to summarise my own position with regard to these models
and to outline the terminology that I use throughout the remainder of the book.
Because of the problems associated with categorising narration (discussed in
2.4 and 2.5.3 above), I prefer to take the approach favoured by Short (1996), which
is to begin by looking at small-scale linguistic features and considering their potential to act as indicators of a particular point of view. Indeed, I utilise Shorts
checklist of point of view indicators (1996: 26387) in my analysis of The Lady in
the Van in Chapter seven. From this it is possible to build up a gradual picture of
the point of view being conveyed in the text in question. Nevertheless, I find it useful to keep some of the terms discussed in this chapter for talking about categories
of viewpoint. So, I retain Uspenskys (1973) important distinction between internal and external point of view. This has particular relevance in the analysis of The
Lady in the Van in Chapter seven. I also find it useful (at least heuristically) to use
Chatmans (1978) terms perceptual and conceptual point of view. I use perceptual
point of view to refer specifically to non-metaphorical viewpoint, and, for reasons
outlined in 2.5.4.3, I consider temporal point of view to be inherent within this
category. I use Chatmans (1978) conceptual point of view to refer to metaphorical
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viewpoint. I prefer this term to Uspenskys (1973) point of view on the ideological
plane and Fowlers (1996) ideological point of view as (i) it is less cumbersome and
(ii) it avoids the sometimes negative connotations of the term ideological, as well
as better capturing those aspects of viewpoint that are not religious or political
in nature.
Taxonomies of point of view in prose fiction provide a useful starting point,
then, for examining viewpoint in drama. However, none of the existing models of
point of view in prose fiction can account for all the subtleties involved in viewpoint, such as the way in which points of view can co-occur in texts, and the means
by which readers are exposed to a variety of viewpoints. In Chapter four I consider
a cognitive model of deixis in order to take account of these issues. Before we look
at this, though, it will be useful to consider the small amount of work that has
been done on point of view in dramatic texts, much of which has taken existing
taxonomies of viewpoint in prose fiction as a starting point. We will turn to this in
the next chapter.
. Conclusion
In this chapter I have suggested that, contrary to traditional opinion, dramatic
texts do contain narrative aspects, and that as a result of this they are open to
point of view analysis. I have demonstrated this through the analysis of a number of extracts from plays, screenplays and radio plays, looking at both character
speech and stage directions, and in so doing I have outlined the major frameworks
of point of view to have had influence within stylistics and narratology. I have also
explained the problems with some of these existing taxonomies of point of view,
such as their over-reliance on the classification of types of narrators, and the fact
that many frameworks fail to adequately explain how point of view can shift within
a text. Movement between different points of view is, I believe, an aspect of viewpoint that needs to be considered far more seriously that it perhaps has been in
the past, especially since this appears to be of particular importance in the stylistic
analysis of drama. I look in detail at this in Chapter four where I also suggest that
the kind of categorisation suggested by such theorists as Uspensky (1973), Genette
(1980), Fowler (1996) and Simpson (1993) is not the best way of characterising
point of view in language. Rather I suggest that as we read we become either more
or less aware of particular points of view within a text, and that these viewpoints
can be foregrounded or backgrounded as an author chooses.
Before moving on to discuss these possibilities though, it will be useful to consider the small amount of work that has been done on point of view in dramatic
texts, much of which has taken existing taxonomies of viewpoint in prose fiction
as a starting point. We will turn to this in the next chapter, where we will look in
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more detail at the issues of mimesis and diegesis and at the form and function of
stage and screen directions in dramatic texts.
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Chapter 3
Perspectives on point of view in drama
. Introduction
In the previous chapter I looked at some of the most influential taxonomies of
point of view in prose fiction, the possibilities of applying these to dramatic texts
and some of the problems inherent in such frameworks. In this chapter I will
concentrate on outlining the small amount of work that has been carried out
specifically on point of view in drama. I demonstrate the relative effectiveness of
the frameworks proposed through the analysis of numerous extracts from dramatic texts, and I suggest that existing taxonomies of point of view in dramatic
texts cannot fully account for the workings of viewpoint in drama. This standpoint
provides the rationale for what follows in the remainder of the book.
I begin this chapter with a brief discussion of the classical distinction between mimesis and diegesis, since this has often been considered to be one of the
main distinctions between prose fiction and drama. Following Fludernik (1993),
I suggest that this distinction is not as clear cut as many critics have previously
proposed, and that this is one reason why dramatic texts often include narrative
aspects. Having explained the notions of mimesis and diegesis I then turn to some
of the misconceptions surrounding point of view in drama before moving on to
consider the frameworks that have been proposed for its analysis, and the analyses
that have been produced. One of the problems with much early work on viewpoint in drama is that it does not adequately take into account stage directions.
I therefore look at the relatively small amount of work done in this area (see, for
example, Aston & Savona 1991; Wales 1994), to see how an appreciation of these
can assist our understanding of viewpoint effects in dramatic texts.
Finally in this chapter I briefly consider some of the influential work on point
of view that has been carried out in relation to cinematic drama. Here I consider the extent to which point of view in dramatic performance has a basis in
the dramatic text.
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. Mimesis and diegesis

In 2.5.1 I briefly discussed Genettes (1980) distinction between what he terms distance and perspective, noting that distance has to do with the extent to which a text
exhibits narrative mediation. Genettes (1980) term distance corresponds roughly
with the concepts covered by the classical terms mimesis and diegesis, the distinction between which was traditionally thought to be one of the defining differences
between drama and prose fiction. Wales (1994: 244), for example, points out that
drama is commonly cited as being the most mimetic kind of discourse. However, other writers (e.g. McHale 1978; Fludernik 1993) have suggested that the
division between mimesis and diegesis is not as clear-cut as was once believed, and
that consequently a narrator is always present in a fictional text, even if only implied. Wales (1994: 244) also adheres to this view, explaining that drama cannot
escape entirely from the authority of a directing (sic) voice. Since this idea ties
in with my own suggestion that the discourse structure of dramatic texts is more
complex than Short (1996) proposes (see 1.6), it is worth examining more closely
the notions of mimesis and diegesis.
The terms mimesis and diegesis are often paraphrased as, respectively, showing and telling. Platos original definitions of mimesis and diegesis concentrate
mainly on the representation of speech in language. Chatman (1978: 32) explains
the difference between the two by contrasting examples from indirect and direct
speech. An example of indirect speech such as Dan said that he was tired of writing entails a narrator telling an addressee what Dan said. A free direct rendering
of this example (Im tired of writing!) is different, in that here the narrator is
backgrounded and instead what the addressee is presented with is seemingly an
enactment, or showing, of what Dan said, apparently unmediated by a narrators
voice. Mimesis is therefore often said to be an impersonation of a particular character. Prototypically we expect to find diegetic speech presentation in prose fiction
and mimetic speech presentation in drama. This, though, is not always the case.
Sometimes speech presentation can be found in stage directions, as in this example
from Withnail and I:
[Context: Withnail is about to try and persuade his eccentric and affluent Uncle Monty to lend him his cottage in the Lake District for a weekend holiday.]
Withnail Listen, Monty, could I just have a quick word with you in private?
Monty looks at him, preparing to say no. But Withnail is earnest. Groaning very
well he allows himself to be shunted towards a bedroom.
The stage direction in the above extract contains an instance of what Semino et al.
(1999) term hypothetical indirect speech (preparing to say no) and also an ex-
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Chapter 3. Perspectives on point of view in drama
ample of direct speech preceded by a non-finite reporting clause (groaning very

well). In this sense, the stage direction looks very much like the kind of narration typically found in prose fiction. The speech presentation within the stage
directions has the effect of introducing a diegetic element into what has ordinarily been perceived as a mimetic genre. Speech presentation, of course, can also be
found within the speech of particular characters, as in this example from The Lady
in the Van:
[Context: Alan Bennett 2 is ruminating on having put his mother in an old
peoples home.]
[514] AB2 So I get rid of one old lady and take in the other. These days its
almost as if were married. Hows your old lady? people say.
[515] AB1 Still there.
[516] AB2 Your mother died, didnt she?
[517] AB1 No. She was in hospital, only now shes in a home. Still, she doesnt
know where she is, so thats a blessing.
[518] AB2 And where is she?
[519] AB1 Weston-super-Mare.
[520] AB2 Except youre seldom so frank as that. When people ask you dont
say shes in a home; you lie and say shes with my brother in Bristol.
In this extract, AB2 begins by presenting in direct speech the kinds of questions
asked of him about his mother, with AB1 providing in direct speech the typical
responses that he makes to these questions. McIntyre et al. (2004) describe this
type of direct speech as iterative i.e. speech presentation that appears to be reiterated. In the example discussed, the question Hows your old lady? appears to
have been asked by more than one person on numerous occasions. The effect of
this is to create a mimetic rendering of typical conversations about Alans mother.
Then in turn 520, AB2 (the narrator version of Alan Bennett) comments on what
AB1 really says in such circumstances. The speech presentation in turn 520 (ambiguous between direct and indirect speech) also includes narratorial comment
i.e. youre seldom as frank as that and thus constitutes a diegetic element in the
unfolding drama.
Definitions of mimesis and diegesis are not, however, restricted to speech presentation. Aristotles definition of mimesis, for example, does not refer to direct
speech presentation but is instead more concerned with the representation of fictional reality (Fludernik 1993: 30). Stanzel (1984) too suggests that this is the case,
arguing that all fiction is mediated to some extent. Fludernik (1993) summarises
Stanzels view, saying:
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From this perspective scenic presentation (showing) becomes a type of narrative mediation that backgrounds its diegetic quality, whereas telling foregrounds the mediating role of the narrator.
(Fludernik 1993: 29)
In dramatic texts the speech of the characters is always mediated to some extent
by narrative devices in the stage directions, and by the fact that the sjuzhet has
been organised by the author. What appears to be a mimetic genre, then, is not.
Instead, the illusion of mimesis is created by diegetic means, and the diegetic elements of a drama may be foregrounded or backgrounded. In the case of reading a
dramatic text, the diegetic elements will be more foregrounded than in a dramatic
performance, since the text provides access to the stage/screen directions, many
of which will not be obviously apparent in performance. Since dramatic texts are
mediated, then, point of view effects can arise. For instance, if we look again at an
extract from Bruce Robinsons Withnail and I, the screen directions clearly reveal
a particular attitude to the character of Withnail that appears to come from some
narrator persona:
[Context: Withnail, complaining that his agent appears to have no interest at
all in finding him any acting work, is beginning to see his unemployment as a
desperate situation.]
Withnail is beginning to look like some minor character from a nineteenthcentury Russian novel. Withnailovich. Incidental to the plot.
This sardonic appraisal of Withnails situation suggests a refusal to take seriously

his concerns, and the description of him as incidental to the plot betrays a sense
that Withnail is not nearly as important as he believes himself to be.
We turn now to previous work that has been done on trying to uncover
viewpoint effects such as these in dramatic texts.
. Existing work on point of view in stage drama

Work on point of view in drama has not been as prominent or as systematic as
some of that undertaken on point of view in prose fiction. As we have already
seen, the term point of view is fraught with complexities and has been interpreted
in various ways by different writers. In the study of dramatic texts particularly, this
has been a problem. The term point of view is often misinterpreted and what purports to be a study of viewpoint in drama is often something quite different. This
failing can be seen in the work of Groff (1959) and Richardson (1988) (discussed
in 3.3.2), and particularly in the work of Barnard (1984), whose paper Point of
view in The Man of Mode uses the term point of view in a variety of different
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ways, though never in the narratological sense defined in Chapter two. Barnard
attempts to explain how The Man of Mode encourages its audience to watch the
comedy from a particular viewpoint (1984: 286), but his non-narratological use
of the term point of view becomes apparent when he paraphrases Eugene Waiths
question: how does Ethereges play make a varied audience identify with Dorimants viewpoint? (1984: 289). It is this identification that Barnard calls point
of view, but this is problematic; when Barnard talks about the audiences point of
view, what he is actually talking about is their degree of empathy with the character
of Dorimant. Whilst this is interesting in and of itself, (i) it is not a point of view
issue per se (though there are possible connections between the two concepts) and
(ii) Barnard does not provide textual evidence for the assertions he makes. This
latter point is a particular problem for Barnards argument. As an example of the
problematic nature of Barnards work, consider the following extract from The
Man of Mode, which, according to Barnard, shows how the play encourages its
audience to watch the comedy from a particular viewpoint (1984: 286):
Enter a Footman with a letter.
Footm. Heres a Letter, Sir. [to Dorimant.
Dor. The Superscriptions right; For Mr Dorimant.
Med. Lets see; the very scrawl and spelling of a true bred Whore.
Dor. I know the hand; the stile is admirable, I assure you.
Med. Prethee, read it.
Dor. Reads
I told a you you dud not love me, if you dud, you woud have seen me again
eer now; I have no money and am very Mallicolly; pray send me a Guynie to
see the Operies.
Your servant to Command,
Molly
Med. Pray let the Whore have a favourable answer, that she may spark it in a
Box, and do honour to her profession.
Dor. She shall; and perk up ithe face of quality.
(The Man of Mode, quoted in Barnard 1984: 2867)
In reference to the above extract, Barnard notes that it is obvious that Mollys
appearance at the opera in a box, perking up i the face of quality, will be an
aggressive intrusion from the point of view of the staider [sic] and older members
of that [modern] audience (1984: 287). There are, of course, numerous problems
with such a claim. First of all, Barnard does not explain from whose viewpoint
the audience are encouraged to watch the comedy he simply says that they are
meant to admire Dorimant. Secondly, it is unclear what he means by an aggressive
intrusion. And why would Mollys appearance at an opera be perceived as such
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by older members of a modern audience? Such a statement is effectively conjecture with no evidence to support it. Furthermore, Barnard refers frequently to the
audience, suggesting that he is talking about dramatic performance rather than
dramatic text. If this is the case, then his arguments are seriously undermined
since, as we saw in Chapter one, dramatic performances will always vary from
one performance to the next and, of course, from one audience to the next, as
Short (1981, 1998) points out. This is a major problem with much existing work
on point of view in drama. In Barnards case, since each performance of a play
is different, what he says about audience reaction and point of view will not be
consistent across performances. He is therefore unable to make any convincing remarks about point of view in The Man of Mode, not only because of his imprecise
(and varying) use of the term, but also because he is not talking about the text
itself. To understand how point of view in dramatic texts really works we need to
go beyond the kind of conjecture and inaccurate attempts at linguistic analysis to
be found in Barnards paper, and consider the way in which the actual linguistic
structure of such texts creates particular viewpoint effects.
.. Narration, dreams and the inner life
The earliest published discussion of the nature of point of view in drama seems
likely to be Edward Groff s (1959) article, Point of view in modern drama. In
it, Groff argues that the views expressed by such critics as Lubbock (1921) and
Beach (1932), that drama is a purely objective genre (i.e. mimetic in the Aristotelian sense), are unfounded, and that contrary to popular belief, drama may
be as subjective a medium as the novel in terms of the way that stories are told.
By subjective, Groff appears to mean mediated by a narratorial presence in a way
that prototypical dramatic texts are often thought not to be. He goes on to suggest
that such mediation (subjective complexity as he terms it) accounts for much of
the experimentation that has occurred in modern drama (by this Groff appears
to mean twentieth century drama), as playwrights have attempted to explore the
workings of their characters minds. Groff explains that establishing a limited point
of view is one of the techniques that dramatists have used to do this.
Groff proposes three methods of creating a limited viewpoint within a play,
these being: (i) the dramatisation of the inner life (Groff 1959: 274), (ii) dream
sequences, and (iii) narratorial intervention. By the drama of the inner life Groff
appears to mean the way in which playwrights dramatise their characters state
of mind (Groff 1959: 274). This, he says, can result in dramatic irony, which is
one of the devices that can be used to limit point of view allowing the audience an insight into one particular characters thoughts or actions which the
other characters are unaware of. In fact, what this often results in is the dramatic equivalent of thought presentation in prose fiction (see Poole 1994 for a
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detailed exposition of thought presentation in drama). Groff (1959: 274) notes

that this technique provides another dimension for characterization and permits
the dramatist to explore certain areas of human experience generally thought to
be more accessible to the novelist. In terms of how this might be achieved by
the playwright, Groff suggests that the simplest method is via pantomime. Paul
J. Curtis, the founder/director of the American Mime Theatre, and Chairman
of American Mime Inc., explains the difference between mime and pantomime
as follows: Pantomime is the art of creating the illusion of reality by dealing
with imaginary objects or situations. Its art rests on the ability to imply weight,
texture, line, rhythm and force to the air around them. Mime, on the other
hand, is the art of acting silently through various kinds of theatrical movement.
(http://www.americanmime.org/intervie.html). Groff explains that this is one of
the techniques employed by Arthur Miller in Death of a Salesman. Although Groff
himself does not discuss this further, an example can be seen in the following
extract from the play:
[Context: Whilst talking to his wife, Linda, Willy Loman begins to fantasise
about a woman with whom he enjoyed a brief affair.]
Music is heard as behind a scrim, to the left of the house, The Woman, dimly
seen, is dressing.
Willy (with great feeling) Youre the best there is, Linda, youre a pal, you know
that? On the road on the road I want to grab you sometimes and just kiss
the life outa you.
The laughter is loud now, and he moves into a brightening area at the left, where
the woman has come from behind the scrim and is standing, putting on her hat,
looking into a mirror and laughing.
Willy Cause I get so lonely especially when business is bad and theres nobody to talk to. I get the feeling that Ill never sell anything again, that I wont
make a living for you, or a business, a business for the boys. (He talks through
The Womans subsiding laughter! The Woman primps at the mirror.) Theres
so much I want to make for
The Woman Me? You didnt make me, Willy. I picked you.
Willy (pleased) You picked me?
[14 turns omitted]
The Woman bursts out laughing and Lindas laughter blends in. The Woman
disappears into the dark. Now the area at the kitchen table brightens. Linda is
sitting where she was at the kitchen table, but now is mending a pair of her silk
stockings.
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Linda You are, Willy. The handsomest man. Youve got no reason to feel that
Willy (coming out of The Womans dimming area and going over to Linda) Ill
make it all up to you, Linda, Ill
(Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman, pp. 14950)
In this extract, what we appear to be presented with is a scene that occurs only
in Willys mind. The stage directions suggest that Willys conversation with The
Woman does not take place within the real world of the play that he and Linda
inhabit. This is made apparent by the fact that The Woman appears to exist in
a different physical location to Willy (Linda is unaware of her, she is presumably
not dressing in the Lomans house, etc). Despite this, Willy is able to move into
this location with apparent ease (he moves into a brightening area at the left), a
physical movement that would not be possible in a real world scenario. It is this
that creates the effect of the scene with The Woman being a projection of Willys
imagination or inner life, as Groff would call it.
Although it seems that Groff s suggestion that dramatising the inner life can
indeed work to create a limited point of view, the analysis above is rather vague.
A much more detailed analysis, taking into account just how the reader moves
between the external and internal viewpoints in the text, is necessary in order to
make this a convincing account. Unfortunately, Groff does not present any textual
analysis to support his claims, and neither does he make any suggestion as to the
type of analysis that would be necessary to uncover viewpoint effects in dramatic
texts. In order to address these issues we will return to the above extract from
Death of a Salesman in Chapter five, where I present a more detailed cognitive
stylistic account of how the effect is created of the conversation between Willy and
The Woman being nothing more than a fantasy of Willys.
Groff s second proposed method of limiting point of view in drama is via the
dream sequence. This, he says, represents a limited point of view, for what we see
on the stage exists only in the consciousness of the dreamer (Groff 1959: 277).
It seems reasonable to suppose that similar effects to those created by the presentation of a characters state of mind can also be created by the presentation of a
characters dreams (Farrag 2002, for example, considers this in relation to the plays
of Tom Murphy), but again Groff provides no evidence to support his proposal.
What is also an issue here is that the mention of what we see on stage suggests
that Groff s proposals with regard to point of view in drama give preference to
dramatic performance as opposed to dramatic text. Groff sometimes appears to
concentrate more on performance than the text itself (often not providing textual
evidence for the hypotheses about performance that he makes). As we have seen,
this is a common problem with research on the analysis of drama in general but
causes particular problems with regard to the study of point of view. Research on
viewpoint in drama that examines dramatic performance often fails to make clear
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just whose point of view is being referred to. It is often confusing whether the term
point of view refers to the viewpoint of the audience, that of the playwright, or a
point of view arising from some form of narratorial mediation. In an effort to examine in more detail the presentation of point of view via dream sequences, in
Chapter five I use the possible worlds theory approach outlined by Ryan (1991) to
examine how dreaming may lead to viewpoint effects in dramatic texts.
Groff s most basic suggested method of controlling point of view within a
play, and that which is most clearly associated with point of view in prose fiction,
is the use of a narrator. The presence of a narrator in a text automatically has
consequences for viewpoint (as demonstrated in Chapter two), and it is this narratological sense of the term point of view that is most prevalent and has most
credence within stylistics. However, some of Groff s beliefs about the workings of
narratological point of view in drama are open to question. Having introduced the
topic of the dramatic prologue, Groff states that:
This brief introduction to a play may be compared to a preface of a book
in which the author acknowledges his indebtedness to patrons and friends,
attempts to explain his purpose, or begs the indulgence of his audience.
(Groff 1959: 279)
However, there is a significant difference between a preface to a work of prose

fiction and a dramatic prologue. Both are written by the author of the work in
question, but the dramatic prologue is spoken by a member of the dramatis personae. He or she presents the playwrights voice i.e. they take on the discourse
role of mouthpiece (Thomas 1986) whereas in a preface to a work of prose
fiction, the views expressed come directly from the author. Secondly, a dramatic
prologue forms an integral part of the play whereas a preface is independent of
the fictional work that follows it. The dramatic figure who recites a prologue is
already part of the fictional world, whether he or she is at that point representing
a character or not.
Groff also states that what we see on stage is only what our narrator has seen or
wishes us to see (Groff 1959: 179), though again this is questionable. Certainly in
The Lady in the Van what appears to be the case is that the narrator, AB2, provides
commentary on the action of the other characters, and quite often frames their
scenes. However, between instances of this framing are examples of what might
be described as the (free) direct speech from the other characters. To what degree
we can say this (free) direct speech is a representation of what was heard by the
narrator is not clear. It is also the case that in The Lady in the Van there are scenes
where AB2 does not appear at all, thereby reducing the sense that what the other
characters say is somehow mediated by him. Indeed, this is likely to be true of
most narrators in dramatic texts. Groff s discussion of narrators in drama appears
to refer only to narrators within the fictional world of the play (as AB2 might
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be characterised in The Lady in the Van) and not to the notion of there being a
narratorial presence within, say, the stage directions of a play, as discussed in 3.3.4.
It would seem, then, that in order to gain a greater understanding of the effects of
narration in dramatic texts, it is necessary to look in more detail at the types of
narrators that appear. To this end, we will turn next to Richardsons (1988) work,
bearing in mind the problems associated with attempts to categorise narrators in
prose fiction (see 2.6).
Although his work is not without its faults, Groff does at least acknowledge
the importance of point of view in drama and is, unlike Barnard (1984), clearly
talking about point of view in the narratological sense of the term. He also provides
several points of departure for the analysis of viewpoint in drama with his three
proposed methods for limiting point of view within a play. Groff s article, then,
may be seen as laying the groundwork for the systematic study of point of view in
dramatic texts.
.. Richardsons categories of narration
Richardson (1988) notes that it is generally assumed that because plays are nonnarrative forms of literature, issues to do with point of view have no place in the
study of drama. Elam (1980: 111), for example, takes this view, stating that drama
is a genre without narratorial mediation. Numerous writers have also shared
Elams position, among them Scholes and Kellogg (1966), Veltrusky (1977) and
Cohn (1978). Richardson, though, challenges this traditional view, suggesting that:
[. . .] narration is a basic element of the playwrights technique, that it appears
throughout Western drama, and that its deployment calls for the kind of analysis of point of view usually reserved for modern fiction.
(Richardson 1988: 194)
Richardson goes on to explain why it is important to look at point of view in

drama, saying that:
It is important to acknowledge the rich tradition of narration in drama [as]
by doing so it will allow us to identify certain blind spots in theories of point
of view based too narrowly on post-Jamesean novels. (Richardson 1988: 194)
However, there are problems with Richardsons work, particularly with his definitions of the various kinds of narrators commonly found in dramatic texts. It is
also problematic that his discussion of narration concentrates only on that which
comes from the dramatis personae. All of the narrators discussed by Richardson
also inhabit the fictional world of the play of which they are part, despite Richardsons observations to the contrary. Richardson fails to consider the possibility of
point of view indicators existing in the stage directions of the plays he discusses.
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Nevertheless, it is worth examining Richardsons taxonomy of narrators in drama

as a means of further uncovering issues relating to point of view in dramatic texts.
Richardson (1988: 194) defines a narrator as the speaker or consciousness that
frames, relates, or engenders the actions of the characters of a play. He gives as
an example a speaker from the beginning of a Plautine comedy, Menaechmi, who
comes onstage to introduce the play and summarise its plot for the audience,
whom he also urges to behave themselves throughout. A similar example comes
at the beginning of Brechts The Exception and the Rule, though this time we have
a group of narrators, all presumably speaking as one:
The Players
We are about to tell you
The story of a journey. An exploiter
And two of the exploited are the travellers.
Examine carefully the behaviour of these people:
Find it surprising though not unusual
Inexplicable though normal
Incomprehensible though it is the rule.
Consider even the most insignificant, seemingly simple
Action with distrust. Ask yourselves whether it is necessary
Especially if it is usual.
We ask you expressly to discover
That what happens all the time is not natural.
For to say that something is natural
In such times of bloody confusion
Of ordained disorder, of systematic arbitrariness
Of inhuman humanity is to
Regard it as unchangeable.
(Bertolt Brecht, The Exception and the Rule, p. 37)
According to Richardson, the important question for point of view theory here is:
who narrates these lines? Richardson explains that such lines do not have the same
status as, say, a preface to a novel, since they are attributed to a particular character (or group of characters in this instance). Because of this, it appears that the
assertions made in the extract above are not meant to be read as the authors own
comments on the story that follows. Nevertheless, despite the fact that the above
lines are ascribed to specific characters, Richardson would argue that the narration
cannot be attributed to these characters since, at the time of speaking these lines,
the characters will have not yet emerged (Richardson 1988: 195). What Richardson appears to mean by this is that when speaking these lines, the characters are
outside the boundaries of the fictional world which they are about to inhabit as the
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drama unfolds. Richardson points out that we do not have any categorical term for
the type of speakers in the extract from Brecht (and in his own Plautine example):
He [the speaker] speaks for the author even while asserting his difference from
the author; he steps out of his character - and out of the story proper while
continuing to recite lines written for him to deliver. (Richardson 1988: 195)
Richardson suggests that it is more productive at this juncture to consider the

purpose of the narration than to define its status, pointing out that the narration
serves to frame the events that are about to be enacted. This, though, seems an easy
way of avoiding a difficult question. To understand the status of such narration it
is necessary to look in more detail at such instances.
In the case of the Brecht example, although the speakers of these lines are
characters in the play, the generic term the players suggests that at this point in
the play, the dramatic figures are not yet playing their individual character roles.
However, the fact that the lines they speak were obviously written by Brecht himself indicates that the players are inhabiting some form of fictional world distinct
from the real world of the audience. In effect, the players speech forms a prologue
to the play. The players act collectively like a third person omniscient narrator in
the novel i.e. they are different from the author and yet they are not characters
in the fictional world that they describe. In prose fiction we would tend to see this
type of narration as a collapsing of the author and narrator levels on Shorts (1996)
discourse diagram. The oddity that we get when we find this type of narration in
dramatic texts stems from the fact that, in dramatic performance at least, it appears as if the levels of author and narrator are not collapsed. In The Exception and
The Rule there is a more obvious distinction between author and narrator than we
might get in prose fiction, since in the text the narration is ascribed to a particular group of characters. What we would see in a performance, then, would be an
embodiment of the narrator(s) on stage.
A similar example occurs in the opening of Les Smiths stage adaptation of
Moll Flanders, the stage notes to which explain that [t]his dramatisation of Moll
Flanders is written for six actors, three male, three female. Each actress plays Moll
at a different stage in her life (Smith 1995: 2). The following extract comes from
the beginning of the play:
Prologue
Music. All three Molls are present. Moll 1 is the youngest. Moll 2 is the older.
Moll 3 is the oldest.
[1] Moll 3 (to the audience) You are modest, I know. And honest. And chaste.
You may go to a chapel meeting on a Sunday and see a gold watch without,
even for a moment, plotting how to lift it from its pocket. You do not heat
your blood with wine, or, if, on some rare occasion, you do drink, you allow
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no wicked gust in your inclinations to blow you towards the bedchamber. And
so, I am taxed hard to place this history of my life in a dress fit to be seen by
you gentlefolk for there is no escaping it ... the history of a wicked life must,
of necessity, show wicked things.
[. . .]
[8] Moll 3 [...] I shall display my shame as a recommendation to your virtue.
There is no case so low, so despicable, so dark in prospect, that it cannot be
rescued by the brightness and beauty of penitence. And there is the honest
moral of this history of Moll Flanders that you now shall witness.
(Les Smith, Moll Flanders, pp. 34)
What appears to be the case here is that Moll 3 is the dramatic equivalent of a first
person narrator in prose fiction. Moll 3 speaks in the first person and introduces
what will be a reflective look back on her life. She is, then, a first person narrator
narrating an account of her earlier life. Like the Brecht example above, though,
this speech does not fit completely within the fictional world of the characters in
the play. This is apparent for several reasons. First, the stage directions in turn
1 tell us that Moll addresses her speech to the audience. This is made obvious
in the text by the fact that Moll addresses the audience as gentlefolk and with
the second person pronoun You. Moll thus crosses the boundary between the
fictional world and the real world of the audience (though it may also be argued
that Molls use of the term gentlefolk to refer to the audience is actually an address
to an implied reader/audience). Secondly, in turn 8 Moll refers to this history of
Moll Flanders that you now shall witness. From this we infer that we are about
to watch the history of her life, and that, necessarily, this will take place within a
specific fictional world. Also in turn 8, Moll 3 refers to herself in the third person.
The effect of this is to make it seem almost as though she is talking about another
character. It distances the speaker from the character she is supposedly playing,
and thus reinforces the fact that we are not yet completely within the fictional
world in which the story of Moll Flanders takes place. Where this extract differs
from the Brecht example though, is in the fact that, in performance, the actress
playing the part of Moll 3 is clearly intended to be in character from her opening
turn onwards. This is apparent when she refers to this history of my life. In the
Brecht example, the players have not yet taken on their individual character roles.
It seems, then, that there is a kind of half-way house between the real world of
the reader/audience and the fictional world of the story. That is, a world in which
a dramatic figure might exist, and which is composed of elements of the fictional
world and elements of the real world of the audience. And the Brecht example is a
less discoursally embedded world than that of the Moll Flanders extract, since the
dramatic figures have not yet taken on their individual character roles. In Chapter
four we will explore further how such a phenomenon might be explained using a
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model of deictic shifts developed within cognitive science. In Chapter five I suggest
that writers are able to foreground and background real and fictional worlds in
order to achieve the kinds of effects discussed above in relation to the Brecht and
Moll Flanders examples.
In the case of the example from The Exception and the Rule (and Richardsons
own Plautine illustration), the narration serves to frame the events that are about
to be enacted. There are many examples of this type of narration in drama. It can
be found in the prologues and epilogues to medieval and renaissance plays (for
instance, in the speech of Puck in Shakespeares A Midsummer Nights Dream) and
it has also been exploited to comedic effect in such contemporary films as Bob
Kelletts Up Pompeii (1971) starring the late British comedian Frankie Howerd, a
pastiche of drama that utilises such narratorial techniques. In this extract from the
very beginning of the film, Howerd appears as both a narrator and character:
The camera pans slowly across a slightly artificial-looking Roman landscape
and then pulls back to reveal that this is in actual fact a rather cheap scaleddown model. Frankie Howerd stands up behind it, dressed in a toga.
Frankie (Referring to the model) Impressive, isnt it? I dont dare tell you what
it cost to build, what with the price of matchboxes these days. Still, copulatum
expensium, as we Pompeiians say. Now, I should be around here somewhere
... in the market-place. Yes, there!
He points downwards with his index finger to a specific part of the model. Cut
to the market-place, Pompeii. Lurkio (a slave, played by and dressed the same
as Frankie Howerd) is standing next to a donkey. He looks up as Frankies
index finger descends from the sky, heading in his direction.
Lurkio I say! Its rude to point!
(Sid Colin, Up Pompeii!, 1971)
In this example Frankie speaks directly to camera and thus, by implication, to the
audience. However, despite being in costume it is uncertain what his actual discourse role is. Is he simply an actor waiting to begin his part or is he a narrator
and already a part of the fiction? Because of the costume we are led to believe that
he is a character in the film, but at the same time, Howerd comments on the fairly
dreadful model, thus suggesting that he is not actually in character at the moment, since he is well aware of the fact that he is appearing in a film. Only a few
seconds later though, he is referring to himself as a character (Now, I should be
around here somewhere). It then transpires that Lurkio is Howerds actual character and the story proper begins. It seems that Howerds initial role is that of
a narrator who is somehow distinct from the actual characters in the story, and
whose role it is to frame the fiction. Indeed, for this kind of speaker, Richardson
(1988) suggests the term frame narrator.
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However, this is by no means the only type of narration that exists in drama. As
Richardson points out, even greater complications arise in plays where the narrator takes a larger part in the action. He gives the example of Brechts The Caucasian
Chalk Circle, where the play begins with a group of villagers discussing their plans
for a particular piece of land. A storyteller then enters the scene and begins to tell a
story. As he speaks, actors enter and the storyteller stops speaking as they begin to
enact the story he has been relating. What we experience here is a fluctuation between mimesis and diegesis, demonstrating once again that drama is not a purely
mimetic genre.
Similar effects occur in many contemporary films, Rob Reiners The Princess
Bride being one such example. The screenplay for this film was written by William
Goldman, based on his 1978 book, and tells the story of a Grandfather relating
a fairy-tale to his sick Grandson. In this extract from the beginning of the film
the Grandfather has just explained what The Princess Bride (the title of the fairystory) is about:
Interior. The Grandsons bedroom. Day.
Grandson It doesnt sound too bad. Ill try and keep awake.
Grandfather Oh, well, thank you very much. Thats very nice of you. Your
vote of confidence is overwhelming. Oh. . .alright. . .The Princess Bride by S.
Morgenstern, Chapter 1.
Cut from the Grandsons bedroom to a farm, where we see the action that the
Grandfather now describes as he narrates the story of The Princess Bride
Grandfather Buttercup was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin.
Her favourite pastimes were riding her horse and tormenting the farm boy
that worked there. His name was Westley. But she never called him that. Isnt
that a wonderful beginning?
Grandson Yeah. . .its really good.
(William Goldman, The Princess Bride, 1987)
What we have here is a combination of mimesis and diegesis. Part of the humour
in the film comes about as a result of the Grandfather interrupting the story he
is telling in order to reassure the Grandson, or to skip the kissing parts which
the Grandson is not impressed with. The Grandfather, then, is a different type of
narrator to the players in The Exception and the Rule, and Lurkio in the Up Pompeii example, since he does not address the audience directly. Richardson (1988)
tries to account for the various different types of narrators in drama by proposing that the various roles which narrators play in dramatic texts can be placed
within an analytical framework which begins from inside the fictional world and
gradually moves outwards to the real world of the author. Let us first look at the
various types of narrators that Richardson suggests there are, before we consider
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the problems with this taxonomy for uncovering the point of view effects that can
arise in dramatic texts. Richardson states that narrators can be divided into the
following types:
Internal narrators
These narrators are characters in the fictional world of the play who take up a
narrator role inside that fictional world by recounting to other characters events
which occur off stage or prior to the first act. Richardson includes expositional
soliloquies in this category, and suggests Prospero in Shakespeares The Tempest as
an example of an internal narrator. Another example of what Richardson terms
internal narration can be found in the following extract from The Lady in the Van:
[778] Social Worker Ive talked to Mary.
[779] AB1 Or Margaret.
[780] Social Worker Or Margaret. Miss Shepherd anyway. She isnt too well
and youre right to be concerned about her, though we ought, I think, to look
at her all-round well-being.
She smiles but AB1 says nothing.
She tells me you dont encourage her to get out and lead a more purposeful
life and put obstacles in her way.
[781] AB1 I dont encourage her to think she can become Prime Minister. I
do encourage her to try and get to the supermarket.
[782] Social Worker These days women have other needs. They can do both.
(Alan Bennett, The Lady in the Van, pp. 689)
In the above example, the Social Worker recounts to AB1 a conversation that she
has had with Miss Shepherd. The reader/audience does not see this conversation
between the Social Worker and Miss Shepherd, and the reason for this is clearly because Alans point of view is dominant throughout the play. Alan himself did not
witness the conversation first-hand and therefore the original anterior discourse to
which the Social Worker now refers is not given. The only way that we learn of it is
by the Social Worker recounting the conversation to AB1. This, though, is the kind
of narration that often occurs in everyday conversation, and in the play, is embedded within the fictional world in which the story that AB2 is narrating occurs. The
Social Workers speech in this extract constitutes an extra layer of narration within
the fictional world of the play.
Monodramatic narrators
According to Richardson, the type of narration we get from monodramatic narrators constitutes the majority (sometimes all) of the play they inhabit. Examples would include such monologue plays as Alan Bennetts Talking Heads series.
Richardson (1988: 209) explains that with such narrators the world of the play is
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largely coextensive with the narration of the character. What exactly Richardson
means by this is unclear, though it is possible that he is referring to what Tornqvist
(1992: 60) describes as audible thought, this being when a character thinks aloud,
thus giving the reader/audience access to their innermost feelings. If this is the case
then the notion of the world of the play being coextensive with the characters narration would seem to mean that the reader/audiences knowledge of the fictional
world comes entirely from access to the thoughts of the monodramatic narrator.
Generative narrators
Generative narrators, in Richardsons framework, are characters, but are distinct
from those persons who are embedded within the narrators discourse. Richardson suggests the storyteller in Brechts The Caucasian Chalk Circle as an example.
A further example of a generative narrator can be found in Brian Friels Dancing at Lughnasa. In this play, Michael, a young Irishman, recalls a series of events
during his childhood in County Donegal. The story that the reader/audience is
confronted with is embedded within the fiction of Michael recounting his memories. And since the story that unfolds takes place during Michaels childhood,
the adult Michael does not appear within this embedded fiction. The sense that
the story is being told from the adult Michaels point of view is achieved via an
unusual theatrical convention, introduced in the following stage direction:
The convention must now be established that the (imaginary) Boy Michael is
working at the kite materials lying on the ground. No dialogue with the Boy
Michael must ever be addressed directly to adult Michael, the narrator. Here, for
example, Maggie has her back to the narrator. Michael responds to Maggie in his
ordinary narrators voice.
(Brian Friel, Dancing at Lughnasa, p. 7)
In a performance of the play the actors would pretend to interact with the Boy
Michael, though the audience would never see any such character. The audiences
only awareness of the Boy Michael would be as a result of the adult Michaels responses whenever one of the other characters appears to address the boy. This
technique gives rise to the impression that what the reader/audience is presented
with is the adult Michaels point of view. Logically, Michael would not be able to
see himself, and so neither is the audience able to see Michael as a boy. The technique is similar to a point of view shot in film; in such cases the audience is unable
to see the character whose point of view is being represented, simply because the
idea is that at such points we are inside the head of that particular character.
Frame narrators
This category covers the type of narrators who give prologues and epilogues and
who remain outside the fictional world which they describe and talk about. More
often than not, Richardson says, the actor portraying such a figure will also ap-
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pear as a character in the main body of the play. This type of narrator can be
found in classical Greek drama and is satirised in the example discussed above
from Up Pompeii! A Shakespearean example can be found in As You Like It, where
Rosalind, daughter of the banished Duke Frederick, acknowledges the fictionality
of the story that has just been told, whilst remaining to some degree within the
fictional world created by the playwright:
Rosalind It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue: but it is no more
unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue. If it be true that good wine
needs no bush, tis true that a good play needs no epilogue: yet to good wine
they do use good bushes; and good plays prove the better by the help of good
epilogues. . . What a case I am in then, that am neither a good epilogue nor
cannot insinuate with you in the behalf of a good play!
(William Shakespeare, As You Like It, epilogue: lines 18.)
In addition to the four narrator-types discussed above, Richardson also includes

within his typology the categories of implied author and historical author. His
reasons for including these are not made clear, and this constitutes a major weakness in his taxonomy since these categories cannot be considered types of narrator.
Nevertheless, Richardson incorporates the above categories into a diagram where
the different types of narrators are embedded within what he terms the fictional
world to varying degrees. Soliloquists, for example, are represented in the diagram
as being firmly within the fictional world, whereas monodramatic narrators are on
the edge of it and prologists are outside it. Unfortunately, Richardsons diagram of
narratorial roles in dramatic texts does not make his typology any more comprehensible. Why should a soliloquist, for instance, be more deeply embedded within
the fictional world than a monodramatic narrator? Richardsons typology also fails
to fully encapsulate the variety of forms of narration that there actually are. This
can be seen if we return to Brechts play The Exception and the Rule. In this extract,
the character of the merchant makes his first narratorial speech to the audience:
The Merchant [. . .] I am Karl Langmann, a merchant. I am going to Urga
to conclude arrangements for a concession. My competitors are close behind
me. The first comer will get the concession. Thanks to my shrewdness, the
energy with which I have overcome all manner of difficulties, and my ruthless
treatment of my employees, I have completed this much of the journey in
little more than half the usual time. Unfortunately my competitors have been
moving just as fast.
(Bertolt Brecht, The Exception and the Rule, p. 38)
The problem with Richardsons framework is that none of his proposed categories
can adequately describe this type of narration. We can straight away disregard the
historical and implied author categories, leaving us with a choice of the merchant
being an internal, monodramatic, generative or frame narrator. Since an internal
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narrator is defined as one who recounts to other characters, we cannot place the
merchant in this category; his speech is to the audience and none of the other
characters appear to be aware of it. Neither is the merchant a monodramatic narrator. His narratorial speeches are not monologues and constitute only a small
part of the play as a whole. We cannot define him as a frame narrator since he
does not provide a prologue or epilogue neither does he remain outside the fictional world he describes. The closest of Richardsons categories would be that of
generative narrator. According to Richardson, a generative narrator is a character
in their own right but is distinct from the characters embedded within their discourse. The problem here is that the merchants narratorial speeches do not serve
the purpose of recounting events or relating stories. Instead his narration serves
to provide commentary to the audience on the events occurring in the fictional
world and his attitudes towards these.
What is also unclear in Richardsons framework is how a generative narrator is
different from a frame narrator. The only observable difference from Richardsons
description of these categories is that a frame narrator appears at the beginning
and end of a play whereas a generative narrator can turn up at various points
throughout it. If the difference between the two categories is simply a matter of
the position of the narrator within the text then this does not seem a significant
enough difference to warrant separate categories.
Richardson does rightly point out that point of view is an issue in drama and
his article identifies some of the problems involved in analysing this phenomenon
in dramatic texts. Ultimately, though, his proposed taxonomy of narration in
drama contains too many ambiguities and problems of application to be of real use
in uncovering how viewpoint effects are created. His failure to consider the narrative aspects in stage directions also further weakens his framework. Like Fowlers
(1996) taxonomy of narration, Richardsons framework does not allow for the fact
that a character may take on more than one narratorial role within a given text, or
hold more than one narratorial role simultaneously. For example, in A Midsummer Nights Dream, the character of Puck is an internal narrator, a soliloquist and
provides the epilogue. Richardsons model restricts us to categorising a particular
character as just one type of narrator at any one time, and categorising characters narratorial roles within a play does not seem to be the most profitable way of
understanding viewpoint effects in dramatic texts. It would seem that a different
approach is necessary if we are to arrive at such an understanding. One such alternative approach is that of Weingarten (1984), who attempts to apply Chatmans
(1978) notions of conceptual and perceptual point of view in the analysis of a play
by Antonio Buero Vallejo.
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.. Applying Chatmans taxonomy to dramatic texts

In his analysis of Antonio Buero Vallejos La Fundacin, Weingarten discusses the
playwrights manipulation of reality and illusion using Chatmans (1978) taxonomy of point of view to explain how this is effected. Although Weingarten stops
short of a concentrated linguistic analysis, his work is significantly more considered than Barnards (1984) unconvincing attempt at explaining the workings of
point of view in drama. Weingarten is strongly influenced by the work of Groff
(1959) and draws also upon Chatmans (1978) work in order to describe and
explain the dramatic effects of the play.
La Fundacin (1974) is a play about five political prisoners being held in a
death cell, one of whom has been so completely broken by torture and his subsequent betrayal of his comrades that, in order to block this out, he has convinced
himself that the prison is actually a research laboratory, and that he and his fellow
prisoners are researchers (Weingarten 1984: 146). Weingartens discussion focuses
on how the playwright limits the point of view within the play to that of the deluded prisoner, Toms, to such an extent that when the curtain rises, the audience
sees not a prison cell, but a well furnished dormitory room, reflecting Tomss
misguided perception of his surroundings.
Weingarten adopts Chatmans (1978) terminology in describing the workings
of viewpoint within the play. Thus he argues that the audience apprehends the
drama from Tomss perceptual point of view (Weingarten 1984: 148), reflected in
the decoration of the stage set, but that the audiences conceptual point of view
differs significantly as they gradually come to realise that Toms is suffering severe
delusions. There are two problems here, though. Firstly, it is not the case that the
audience is seeing events from Tomss perceptual point of view. What Toms sees
is a result of his delusions and is thus not a literal (i.e. non-metaphorical, or as
Fowler 1996 would put it, spatial) viewpoint, which is how Chatman (1978) defines perceptual point of view. Weingarten, then, is not using Chatmans terms as
Chatman himself would use them. It appears that rather than the stage set representing Tomss non-metaphorical point of view, this is instead some kind of
representation of what Fowler (1996) would call Tomss mind style (I discuss this
concept in detail in Chapter 6).
The second problem with Weingartens analysis is that there is a difficulty in
asserting that the audiences conceptual point of view is different from that of
Toms. This is because it is almost impossible to infer and state conclusively the
conceptual point of view of an audience as a whole. Coupled with this point is
the fact that Weingarten appears to be talking about performance rather than text,
which makes it difficult to generalise about viewpoint effects in the play since,
as Short (1981: 181) points out, meanings and value will change not just from
one production to another but also from one performance of a particular pro-
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duction to another. And since the audience of a play varies from performance to
performance, any statement about their conceptual points of view will be subject to variations arising from this. This is, in fact, the same mistake that Barnard
(1984) makes in his discussion of point of view in The Man of Mode. However,
if it is indeed the case that a reader may infer from the text that what is reflected
on stage is not a true representation of events within the fictional world, but simply one characters limited perception, then what we can state with certainty is
that there will be a disparity between the characters conceptual point of view and
the readers.
Weingartens article is further evidence that point of view remains an issue in
dramatic texts. What Weingarten doesnt do, though, is to explain how the reader
is able to discern from the text that the story is being told from a limited point of
view, and how they are able to gradually infer that the character of Toms is, to use
Booths (1961) term, unreliable. To do this, I suggest, in the next chapter, that it
is necessary to consider in more detail the notion of deixis, and more specifically
how writers are able to project the deictic positions of particular characters.
There remains one aspect of the dramatic text that has not been considered
in any of the work mentioned so far and which is of fundamental concern in the
analysis of point of view in drama. This is the use of stage directions.
.. Stage and screen directions in drama
Throughout this and the two preceding chapters I have argued that stage directions
are an integral part of the dramatic text, and that point of view effects are often
inherent in them. Stage directions, however, have been a relatively neglected topic
in the study of drama (Aston & Savona 1991: 71), whether in linguistics, literary
criticism/theory or theatre studies. In this section I consider the small amount of
work on this topic, and the extent to which stage directions can reveal particular
points of view.
The first significant treatment of stage directions is to be found in the work
of Aston and Savona (1991). In their book, Theatre as Sign-system, they argue that
stage directions occur in two forms, these being intra-dialogic and extra-dialogic.
Intra-dialogic stage directions are those that occur within the speech of particular
characters. Aston and Savona (1991: 75) note that intra-dialogic stage directions
are often found in classical, medieval and renaissance drama, and that their presence refutes commonly held critical views (for example, Wilson 2000: 166) that
such texts contain only minimal stage directions and are non-prescriptive as to
how the text should be interpreted and/or performed. In effect they constitute
implicit directions, as in the following example:
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Gloucester
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamped, and want loves majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I that am curtailed of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity.
(William Shakespeare, Richard III, Act 1, Scene 1, lines 1427)
The extract above from Richard III contains several implicit directions as to how
the character of Gloucester should look in a performance of the play. We can infer,
for instance, that he should be ugly, since we know that he is not made to court an
amorous looking-glass. More specifically we can infer that he must be deformed
in some way (Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,/Deformed, unfinished),
and that this deformity must be significant enough to be noticeable in Gloucesters
shadow (Unless to spy my shadow in the sun/And descant on mine own deformity). It is arguably these implicit directions that have led to Gloucester often
being portrayed as hunchbacked in productions of the play.
Extra-dialogic stage directions, on the other hand, are what we might call
explicit or prototypical stage directions. These cannot be inferred from what
the characters say but are instead separated graphologically from the characters
speech in some way, usually through the use of italicisation or parentheses. A
typical example would be the following:
(Voices of Vera and Lombard heard outside. Rogers stands at Centre doors ready
to receive them. He is now the well-trained, deferential manservant. Vera and
Lombard enter from Left on balcony. She is a good-looking girl of twenty-five.
He is an attractive, lean man of thirty-four, well-tanned, with a touch of the
adventurer about him. He is already a good deal taken with Vera.)
(Agatha Christie, And Then There Were None, p. 5)
With regard to what such stage directions reveal about viewpoint, Wales (1994: 250)
makes the point that in examples such as the above there is a double reference to
the worlds of theatre and fiction. What Wales appears to mean by this is that
whilst such stage directions describe the fictional world of the play, they also re-
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flect the actors perceptual viewpoints since the conventions of theatre scripts are
such that directions in the vein of enter from left are interpreted from the perspective of the performers (since the terms stage left and stage right refer to the
real world of the actors rather than the fictional world). Wales (1994: 250) claims
that as a result of this, the distinction between the real world and the fictional
world is blurred. This is an important point with regard to the way in which
readers/audiences are exposed to different viewpoints with dramatic texts and I
consider this issue in more detail in Chapter five, where I introduce the notion of
possible worlds in drama.
Extra-dialogic stage directions such as the Agatha Christie example above are
what Veltrusky (1977: 37) refers to as the authors notes, pointing out that these
constitute narrative elements in dramatic texts. Numerous literary critics have
disagreed with this position, however, and are instead of the opinion that the narrative elements of a dramatic text come solely from the speech of the characters.
Aston and Savona (1991) summarise this position when they say that:
[. . .] for critics whose orientation is narrowly literary, stage directions appear
to do little more than impede the flow of the dramatic narrative.
(Aston & Savona 1991: 72)
Such a position appears to arise out of a misunderstanding of the function of extradialogic stage directions in dramatic texts, a confusion that Feng and Shen (2001)
address when they attempt to make clear just what the functions of stage directions
actually are.
Feng and Shen (2001) argue that in dramatic texts the concept of the reader
should be more explicitly spelled out, and that the addressee of the authors message should be seen as:
a collective concept covering various kinds of readers: the director, the editor,
the stage producer, the setting designer, actors/actresses, etc. in theatrical situations and ordinary readers in their armchairs.
(Feng & Shen 2001: 82)
Feng and Shen argue that the function of stage directions is different for each of
these proposed addressees. For example, when a dramatic text is being used as
a recipe for performance, then set, lighting and costume designers may interpret
stage directions as a series of instructions as to what a performance of the play
should look like. However, when the same dramatic text is being treated purely
as a text to be read, then the stage directions take on a narrative function. Feng
and Shen go on to argue that playwrights use an assortment of pragmatic strategies to take into account the variety of potential readers of a dramatic text. For
example, hedging may be used to tone down stage directions that may otherwise
be interpreted by a director as too direct a command and thereby too artistically
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constraining. This can be seen in the use of probably in the extract below from
The Lady in the Van:
[Context: Miss Shepherd, having returned from the grave, now finds that she
is able to see both Alan Bennetts in the fictional world, whereas prior to her
death she was, like all the other characters in the play, unaware of the presence
of AB2, the narrator.]
[946] Miss Shepherd (catching sight of AB2) Oh, hello. Two of you now. Is that
because youre in two minds?
[947] AB2 Yes.
[948] AB1 No.
[949] Miss Shepherd Ive been wondering. Would either of you object if the
van were to become a place of pilgrimage, possibly?
[950] AB2 No.
They should probably be on either side of her.
(Alan Bennett, The Lady in the Van, p. 84; my underlining)
In the same extract modality is also used (should) to impose the playwrights
wishes regarding how the scene should be played in performance.
In addition to hedging and modality, Feng and Shen note that a major pragmatic strategy used by playwrights is that of the empathetic device. They explain
(2001: 87) that empathetic devices are those that a speaker uses in sharing someone elses feelings or experiences by imagining what it would be like to be in their
situation. A clear example of what Feng and Shen mean by this can be seen in the
opening stage direction of The Lady in the Van:
A front cloth with, inset, the bay window of an early-nineteenth century house.A
hymn begins, sung by a chorus of young girls. Alan Bennett 2 looks through
the window briefly then disappears.The hymn is cut off abruptly and the front
cloth rises to reveal Alan Bennett 2 sitting at his desk.He reads from what he has
been writing.
(Alan Bennett, The Lady in the Van, p. 5, my underlining)
The event-coding (see Short 1996: 287) of the underlined parts of the above extract
demonstrates how the playwrights perceptual point of view here reflects that of the
intended reader/audience; i.e. when writing the play, Bennett the author clearly
imagined how an audience would view the scene when the play was staged. This is
apparent for several reasons:
1. The reference to a front cloth in the first sentence suggests that the play is to be
staged on a traditional, proscenium arch stage. This in itself indicates that an
audiences perceptual point of view would be limited in a way that it wouldnt
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be if the play were to be staged in the round on an arena stage (i.e. with the
acting area encircled by the audience on three or four sides of the stage).
2. Inset from the front cloth is the bay window of a house. Since the playwright
describes this, the audiences perceptual point of view is that of someone positioned outside the house. The reference to Alan Bennett 2 looking through
the window and then disappearing codes this occurrence from the perceptual
point of view of the audience. Obviously, Alan Bennett 2s disappearance is
not magical he simply disappears from the audiences angle of vision (Wales
2001: 306), due to the audiences perceptual viewpoint being restricted by the
positioning of the flat on to which the bay window is painted.
3. As the front cloth rises to reveal the interior of the house, the audiences perceptual point of view changes from being outside the house to being inside it.
In essence, the playwright creates the illusion for the audience of moving closer
to the action, even though the audience remains in their seats at all times. The
effect of this is similar to a camera closing in on the action in a film.
Empathetic devices in stage and screen directions can also be used to indicate a
characters perceptual point of view, especially in film drama, as in this example
from Michael Frayns screenplay Clockwise:
[Context: Brian Stimpson, a comprehensive school headmaster obsessed with
punctuality, is attempting to get to an education conference at the University
of East Anglia, at which he is to be a plenary speaker. He must be in Norwich by 5.00pm, though the likelihood of this actually happening has just
diminished significantly due to his car getting stuck in a muddy field. This
is the latest in a series of setbacks for Stimpson, and his patience is wearing
extremely thin. In desperation he turns to a passing farmer for help.]
Stimpson (calls out of view) Excuse me. . . Hello. . .!
Cut to over the shoulder shot. The Tractor Driver in the foreground, looking over
the hedge at the meadow. Away down at the bottom of the meadow is the 1100.
Struggling uphill towards the Tractor Driver as fast as he can is the mud-covered,
breathless Stimpson.
Can you tell me. . .? Do you know. . .? Is there anyone round here with a
tractor?
Cut to reverse. Over the shoulder shot with Stimpson in the foreground. The top
part of the Tractor Driver can be seen over the hedge. The tractor itself is invisible.
(Michael Frayn, Clockwise, p. 61)
The screen direction immediately following Stimpsons first turn (Over the shoulder shot with Stimpson in the foreground. The top part of the Tractor Driver can
be seen over the hedge. The tractor itself is invisible.) sets up the scene from Stimpsons perceptual point of view. The camera takes up a position behind Stimpson,
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and reflects the fact that he is unaware that the man behind the hedge is actually
sitting on a tractor. However, there is perceptual viewpoint-related dramatic irony
here, since the initial stage direction in this extract (Cut to over the shoulder shot.
The Tractor Driver in the foreground, looking over the hedge at the meadow.) sets
up a camera shot from over the shoulder of the Tractor Driver, thereby taking in
the Tractor Drivers perceptual point of view. The audience is aware of the tractor, and it is this exposure to both mens perceptual viewpoints, coupled with the
knowledge that in Stimpsons angle of vision the tractor is not visible, that creates
much of the humour in the scene (Stimpson eventually storms off in frustration
at the Tractor Drivers loquaciousness).
Stage directions, then, play a significant role in establishing points of view in
dramatic texts, and, as we have seen, similar effects can be noticed in film. Since
this is the case, it is useful to examine more fully the techniques for the creation
of point of view in film drama, and to consider the extent to which these can be
emulated in dramatic texts written for the theatre.
. Point of view in film

Point of view has received a significant amount of coverage within film studies
(see, for example, Brannigan 1984) and continues to be a topic of major interest.
However, since this book is concerned with the creation of point of view effects
in dramatic texts, my coverage of point of view in film will not be comprehensive
since many of the techniques for creating viewpoint effects in the cinema arise
primarily out of camera positioning and editing techniques, and, as a result, are of
more concern to the analysis of dramatic performances. Nevertheless, a number
of cinematic point of view effects can also be achieved in stage drama and are
often reflected in the dramatic text itself. It is these effects that I concentrate on in
this section.
.. Narration in light
The notion of the concept of narration existing in film has been widely debated
(see, for example, Perkins 1972; Brannigan 1984; Bordwell 1986) but for reasons
of space I do not propose to deal with this discussion in any detail here. In this
section I am primarily concerned with outlining some of the point of view effects
that can be achieved in the cinema, and the extent to which these can be realised in
dramatic texts written for the theatre. Hence, I follow Sontag (1969) and Wilson
(1986) in assuming that such cinematic viewpoint effects arise as a result of some
form of narratorial mediation.
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Wilson (1986: 85) suggests that in film by far the most prominent type of narration is that which might be seen as equivalent to omniscient narration in prose
fiction, where narrational authority is unrestricted. Wilson explains that:
[. . .] the narration is authorized to show, shot by shot and scene by scene,
whatever is demanded by a predesigned and maximally articulated overview
of the narrative action. This means, first, that the camera views may arise
from any position within the fictional space and time of the films story which
dramatic effectiveness dictates. These views may change as freely as normal
continuity and intelligibility permit from one locale to another and from
birds eye perspective shots to the most intimate and detailed close-ups. Second, the camera views are also allowed to vary freely between objective shots
and subjective shots that render the visual field of another character.
(Wilson 1986: 85)
Sontag (1969) agrees that narration in film arises as a result of the combination of
various different shots, but is adamant that the viewpoint effects such narration
can create cannot be realised in the theatre:
In the cinema, narration proceeds by ellipsis (the cut or change of shot); the
camera eye is a unified point of view that continually displaces itself. But the
change of shot can provoke questions, the simplest of which is: from whose
point of view is the shot seen? And the ambiguity of point of view latent in all
cinematic narration has no equivalent in the theatre.
(Sontag 1969: 110)
Clearly, point of view in stage drama does not work in exactly the same way as
point of view in film. However, the notion that cinematic point of view effects can
never be achieved in the theatre seems misplaced. In order to demonstrate this,
let us consider the concept of subjective and objective shots in film and how these
might be rendered in play-texts.
.. Objective and subjective shots
Wilson (1986: 85) makes a distinction between what he terms objective and subjective camera shots. Objective shots correspond roughly to Uspenskys (1973)
notion of external narration in prose fiction, while subjective shots correspond to
his notion of internal narration. In film, objective shots essentially work to provide the viewer with an external view of a particular scene and/or character(s).
Such shots can also work to force the viewer into a particular viewing position
in effect, inducing a specific perceptual point of view on the part of the audience.
Such an example can be seen in James Brailsfords short film Filling, in which a
young boys fear of a trip to the dentist compels him to brush his teeth ever more
vigorously:
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2. INT. WERD RESIDENCE, BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS

C.U. Ben Werd. Ten years old yet looks a couple of years younger and is treated
as such by his mother and others. He is dressed smartly. Butter would not melt
in his mouth. He is frantically brushing his teeth. There is a desperate urgency to
his actions. He pauses and grimaces into the mirror inspecting his teeth.
(James Brailsford, Filling, p. 1)
In the final cut of the film, this scene is shot in such a way that the viewer never
sees the mirror. Instead Ben looks directly at the camera, giving the effect of the
viewer having been positioned as if they were the mirror. Exactly the same effect
can be used in the theatre, as indeed it is in Egressy Zoltans Sska, Sltkrumpli (in
Egressy 2005; translated as Spinach n Chips by Mike Kelly). The play is set in the
changing room of an amateur football club, where the referee (Lacikm) and his
two linesmen (Soapy and Artist) are getting ready for an important match. The
play begins with Soapy entering the changing room alone and seemingly pulling
faces at the audience. It is only when Soapy takes out a toilet bag that we realise
that the actor playing Soapy is in effect miming the presence of a fourth wall (the
invisible barrier that separates the actors on stage from the audience, and which
in a conventional theatre is represented by the open space of the proscenium arch;
see Stanislavskii 1980) on which there hangs a mirror, and is not simply making
faces at the audience but examining his reflection. What this does is to establish the
audiences perceptual point of view of the events on stage by defining their angle
of vision (Wales 2001: 306). Similarly, it indicates to the audience the characters
perceptual point of view. Such point of view effects are easily achievable in dramatic performance as a result of specific instructions within the stage directions
of the text.
A further way in which an audiences perceptual point of view can be manipulated in film is by the introduction of figures into a particular scene. Bordwell
(1986) says of this phenomenon:
One of the cinemas most important cues for object identification and spatial
relations is the fact that figures move into the frame. This creates a continuous
flow of overlapping contours, strengthening figure/ground hypotheses and
often generating transformations of illumination (movement into shadow or
light, glitter as highlights play across a moving surface). (Bordwell 1986: 114)
The figure/ground hypothesis that Bordwell mentions comes from the work of
the Gestalt psychologists of the early twentieth century (see Koffka 1935: 177
210 for a detailed exposition of this hypothesis, and Stockwell 2002a: Ch. 1, for
a discussion of the figure/ground hypothesis in relation to cognitive poetics) and
essentially provides further support for the notion of foregrounding theory (outlined in Leech 1969; van Peer 1986; Douthwaite 2000; see also the seminal work by
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Shklovsky 1917; Jakobson 1960 & Mukarovsk 1964a, b). Briefly, the figure/ground
hypothesis suggests that particularly bright objects will stand out against dull
backgrounds and will consequently be perceived as figural and therefore prominent. From this it is relatively easy to see how the notion of a figure in the visual
arts equates to linguistically foregrounded elements in written language. Bordwells (1986) suggestion is that foregrounding in film can direct an audiences
attention, thereby forcing a particular perceptual point of view.
Bordwells (1986) discussion of figure and ground in film also relates peripherally to distancing effects that some critics (e.g. Gilbert 1995) have claimed are
greater in film and television than in stage drama. Such arguments work along the
lines that, when watching drama on screen, viewers feel somehow more distant
from the action than when watching a theatrical performance. Clearly, the distance that we feel ourselves to be from a particular event will affect our perceptual
point of view of that event. Gilbert (1995) argues that such distancing effects are
lessened in theatre because stage drama provides a less passive experience for the
audience than film or television:
We see [the actors] performances in a much more sceptical light, and make
continuous pragmatic interpretations of what they say and do. As an audience, we are kept active in our attention by such means. We are not passive,
mindless observers of a picture, like those who watch television shows. We are
required to remember, apply our understanding, and make assessments as we
follow the development of the dramatic narrative.
(Gilbert 1995: 2212)
However, I would take issue with Gilberts dismissal of television audiences as passive and mindless, and would argue that film and television audiences do more or
less everything that Gilbert claims theatre audiences do. Therefore, the distancing
effects that we feel between theatre and film are unlikely to be connected to our
pragmatic processing of these media. In actual fact, although it seems true to say
that cinema and television are more mediated forms of drama than theatre, this
has more to do with specific technical effects than the passivity or non-passivity of
the audience. This can be seen if we consider the difference between film and video.
Drama on film has a tendency to look somehow less real than drama filmed on
videotape. This is to do with a process known as temporal sampling. Film runs at
25 frames per second, which means that a shot of a man running for two seconds
will be captured on 50 frames of film, each frame showing his body in a slightly
different position. Videotape, on the other hand, works differently. Although, like
film, it runs at 25 frames per second, these frames are further divided into fields,
with each frame containing two fields (a field consists of every other line of video
information; there are 625 lines of video, thus one field consists of 312 lines). The
two fields are joined together to create one complete frame. Thus, video runs at
50 fields per second, which equates to 25 frames per second, like film. However,
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each field samples a different moment of time. So, on videotape, our man running
for two seconds would be captured on 100 fields, with each field capturing a different part of the motion. The upshot of this is that videotape provides our brain
with more information about the amount of movement and motion in a scene,
and because we see a lot of motion information in the real world, the more that is
provided to us by a viewing system, the more natural the motion will look to us.
Conversely, the less motion information provided to us (i.e. what we get with film)
the less realistic and more artificial it will seem. If we now consider that in theatre
performances the motion information that we pick up is live, then it is clear why
we tend to feel closer to the action than when we watch film or television.
Foregrounding effects can also be achieved in the theatre, thereby manipulating a theatre audiences perceptual point of view of a particular scene. Charles
William Smiths advice to Victorian actors raises some of the issues involved in this:
It is a very common fault with novices to keep too far up the stage, by which
the expression of the face is, in a great degree, lost, and the power of the
voice wasted by its ascending more among the flies than penetrating into
the front of the theatre. This arises, generally, from nervousness. Besides, the
other actors speaking to him are thus obliged to act with their backs more or
less turned towards the audience, by which their faces are concealed from the
spectators, and their voices being directed towards the back, or farther sides
of the stage, are but indistinctly heard in front. Old actors frequently keep up
the stage, though not so far up as novices, purposely to display themselves
to the exclusion of the other actors. This, which is allowable to a certain extent in a great actor, should be moderated by good judgement and fairness to
the other actors. You should give and take, displaying yourself to the greatest
advantage whenever you have a fair opportunity, and allow others to do the
same. Whenever you can act under the proscenium without interfering with
the general grouping and effect, do so, especially when you have to delineate
character by fine touches, as delicate modulations of the voice, and minute
and transient shades of expression will be better heard and seen there than far
up the stage.
(Smith [undated c.1897] quoted in Jackson 1989: 105106)
Smiths recommendations now seem somewhat prescriptive and nave and belong to an older and more stylised tradition of acting than that common today.
Nevertheless, the implications of his advice remain the same, these being that an
audiences perceptual point of view of a particular scene can be manipulated by
the positioning of characters on stage. Figure 3.1 shows how this might work.
If character A is facing character B (standing at the back of the stage), all those
members of the audience sat within a similar sightline to character A will have a
similar perceptual point of view of the scene as character A. And if character A
is foregrounded in some way (i.e. by being centre stage, as in Figure 3.1, or, for
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Figure 3.1 Character positioning and its relationship to the manipulation of an audiences
perceptual point of view
example, by taking a turn) then an audiences attention is likely to be focused on

this character. In this way actors and directors are able to manipulate an audiences
perceptual point of view and focus their attention on particular aspects of the scene
in question.
Figure 3.1 also illustrates how the entrance of characters might serve to direct audience attention. A character positioned centrally will be foregrounded (e.g.
character A in Figure 3.1), since he or she is closer to the audience than characters
positioned upstage, whereas a character positioned towards the side of the stage
(e.g. character C in Figure 3.1) is likely to be backgrounded. It follows, then, that a
character entering from the centre-back of the stage (for example, through a door
in this position) is likely to be more noticeable to the audience than one entering from the side. In Figure 3.1, characters A and B are standing centre-stage and
are thus in the immediate sightline of a greater proportion of the audience than
character C, who is standing at the side of the stage. Because of this, the audiences
attention is most likely to be focused on characters A and B simply because they
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are foregrounded by being positioned more prominently than any other (in particular, most of the audiences attention is likely to be focused on character A who
is foregrounded further by being physically closer to them).
Smiths advice to novice actors to act under the proscenium whenever it is
possible is clearly motivated by the fact that in doing this, an actor is foregrounded
on the stage. As Smith says, this means that the audience is able to see and hear the
actor better than if he or she were positioned further up stage. The effect of this
is similar to that achieved by the close-up shot in film, and an example of this in
stage drama can be seen in the following extract from John Herberts play Fortune
and Mens Eyes:
[Context: Queenie, a juvenile prisoner in a Canadian penitentiary, is rehearsing for a Christmas revue. Smitty, a fellow inmate, has just asked Queenie to
demonstrate his act.]
Queenie Oh mercy my me!
The others move into the background, sitting on beds, the Guard returns to his
stool. They watch, as though at some amusing spectacle, where one should not
laugh, but cannot resist.
(John Herbert, Fortune and Mens Eyes, p. 61)
In the above example the stage directions suggest that in a dramatic performance
the character of Queenie would be made more prominent on stage as a result of the
other characters moving into the background. Hence, it is likely that an audience
would concentrate their attention on the character of Queenie.
There are, then, various ways in which the effect of an objective shot can
be realised in performances derived from dramatic texts written for the theatre.
Achieving the effect of a subjective shot, however, is more difficult. In film, subjective shots render the visual field of one or another character (Wilson 1986: 85),
or even the visual field of non-humans, as in the following example:
[Context: Withnail has finally said goodbye to his best friend Marwood, who
has at last been offered a part in a play and left London. After leaving Marwood to walk to the railway station alone, Withnail addresses one of Hamlets
soliloquies to the wolves in Regents Park. Having finished, he turns and walks
sadly away.]
P.O.V. wolves. Withnail walks across the park until he is a tiny figure in the distance.
In dramatic texts written for the theatre it is harder to render the visual field of
one particular character, though this might be suggested in performance through
the rearrangement of specific props. For example, in performances of The Lady
in the Van (and here I refer specifically to the performance I saw on Saturday 19
February 2000 at The Queens Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue, London, directed by
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Nicholas Hytner), up until Act Two the van is parked centre stage, side on to the
audience so that its sliding door is visible to them. Part way into the second act,
however, the van revolves so that its back doors face the audience. This indicates
a change in perceptual point of view and indicates the viewpoint that AB1 would
have of the van when leaving his house.
What is more common in stage drama than attempts to render specific visual
fields are efforts to depict the internal states of particular characters. Here we return to Groff s (1959) suggestion that a limited point of view might be achieved by
dramatising the inner life or through the portrayal of dream sequences. Thomas
Murphys play A Crucial Week in the Life of a Grocers Assistant is an example of a
play that depicts the dreams of one of its main characters, and in the introductory
stage directions to the play it is explained that:
Unusual lighting suggests the unreality of the dream scenes: movement and
speech become stylised and the characters become caricatures.
(Thomas Murphy, A Crucial Week in the Life of a Grocers Assistant, p. 10)
In Chapter five we will look in more detail at dream sequences, using a possible worlds theory approach to explain how audiences are made aware of these.
In Chapter six I investigate further how the inner state of a particular character
might be foregrounded by the playwrights emphasis of their individual mind-style
(Fowler 1996).
Stage drama can also make use of special effects to render the thought of
particular characters, as in this example from The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer:
[Context: Vic and Bob are both reading TV guides. They are seemingly unaware that the camera is on them.]
NB The following dialogue is a pre-recorded mind-thought section where the
audience and viewers are encouraged to believe that they can hear Vic and
Bobs thoughts.
Vic Oh great, 3.30 Learning to Swim thats my favourite.
Bob Brilliant, 3.30 Fraggle Rock I bloody love that show.
Vic Oh no, it clashes with Fraggle bloody Rock. . . Hes not going to let me
watch it.
Bob (singing) Down at Fraggle Rock toot toot. . . I cant wait. . . Oh, it clashes
with Learn to Swim. . .well, hes not watching it.
Vic Him and his bloody Fraggle Rock toot toot. Im never going to learn to
swim at this rate. . . I only saw the first one and that just showed me how to
get my trunks on. . . Its all right for him, he never goes near water.
End of mind-thought.
Bob What do you mean I never go near water. Are you suggesting something?
(Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer, The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer, p. 98)
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By pre-recording and then playing back the mind-thought sections, the effect is
created of Vic and Bob thinking to themselves as they read. The absurdity comes
about when it transpires, at the end of the extract, that Bob has seemingly been
able to hear what Vic has been thinking.
. Conclusion
In this chapter I have summarised the relatively small volume of work that has been
produced to date on point of view in dramatic texts. In addition, I have considered
briefly how the kinds of point of view effects achieved in film drama might be
realised in dramatic texts written for the theatre. Many of the problems I have
identified with existing taxonomies of point of view in drama are similar to those
I discussed in the previous chapter with regard to point of view in prose fiction.
For example, Richardsons (1988) typology of narrators in drama is too restrictive
and fails to fully account for the variety of narration that might exist in dramatic
texts. Weingartens (1984) work attempts to apply Chatmans (1978) notions of
perceptual and conceptual point of view to drama, but this is applied inaccurately
and without enough rigorous linguistic analysis to support his claims. Of all the
taxonomies I have discussed in this chapter, the early work of Groff (1959) comes
closest to identifying the way in which point of view might be rendered in dramatic
texts. However, barely any of the work produced so far on viewpoint in drama
takes enough account of stage directions, how these work as narrative devices and
how they contribute to the creation of point of view effects. Similarly, none of the
existing taxonomies adequately account for how readers/audiences are made aware
of different viewpoints and how particular points of view might be foregrounded
within dramatic texts. In the next chapter I introduce a cognitive theory of deictic
shifts as a means of better explaining how this occurs. I also use this as a basis for
explaining how the kinds of subjective viewpoints discussed in Section 3.4.2 might
be achieved in dramatic texts written for the theatre.
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Chapter 4
Deictic shifts in dramatic texts
. Introduction
So far I have shown how existing taxonomies of point of view in prose fiction and
drama fail to fully account for the workings of point of view in dramatic texts. One
of the most common problems with such taxonomies is their focus on establishing
typologies of narration to explain the creation of particular point of view effects.
In Chapters two and three I showed how this approach to explaining viewpoint
is necessarily limited and cannot take account of unforeseen types of narration.
Such frameworks are also limited by not being able to account for instances where
a narrator may be an amalgamation of more than one narrator-type, as I showed
in 3.3.2. It is also the case that none of the taxonomies of viewpoint that I have
discussed so far explain how particular viewpoints are created, or how readers are
exposed to these in order to experience different points of view within a text. Nor
are they able to account for the non-narrative forms of viewpoint that occur at
the character level of Shorts (1996) discourse structure diagram (see Chapter one,
Figures 1.1 and 1.2).
In an effort to confront these issues, in this chapter I discuss the notion of
deixis and its relation to point of view. I introduced the concept of deixis briefly
in 2.5.5.4, in my summary of Shorts (1996) list of viewpoint indicators in prose
fiction. Here I extend the basic notion of deixis by introducing deictic shift theory, a cognitive model of deixis outlined in Duchan et al. (1995) that has had
some application within cognitive stylistics (notably Stockwell 2002a, b), but has
not previously been applied to dramatic texts. I show how this model is useful in
explaining what happens when readers are exposed to a variety of different viewpoints within literary texts. I begin with an overview of deictic shift theory and a
summary of commonly held assumptions about the various forms of deictic reference available to us. I then discuss some of the weaknesses of the deictic shift
model, and attempt to circumvent these by introducing concepts from Emmotts
(1997) contextual frame theory in order to make it a fully workable and applicable
framework for analysis. Following this, I demonstrate how my revised version of
deictic shift theory can be used as a means of uncovering point of view in drama,
by applying the model in an analysis of various extracts from dramatic texts.
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. Deictic shift theory a brief overview

Deictic shift theory was developed by a group of researchers working in various
disciplines (including artificial intelligence, philosophy, linguistics, psychology,
communicative disorder, education, English and geography) at the State University of New York at Buffalo, and is outlined in a collection of papers edited by
Duchan, Bruder and Hewitt (1995). The theory is in part an attempt to explain
how it is that readers often come to feel deeply involved in narratives, to the extent that they interpret events in a narrative as if they were experiencing them
from a position within the story world. As Segal (1995a: 15) puts it, the reader
often takes a cognitive stance within the world of a narrative and interprets the
text from that perspective. According to proponents of the theory, this happens
as a result of deictic shifts within the narrative that change the deictic centre from
which the sentences of the text are interpreted. It follows that such changes in the
deictic centre across the course of a text will result in changes in the point of view
that we as readers are exposed to. Deictic shift theory, then, is a potentially useful
model for investigating how particular viewpoints are realised in texts.
. The concept of the deictic centre

Before explaining deictic shift theory in more detail it will be useful to outline
some of the concepts commonly referred to in traditional explanations of deixis.
The term deixis comes originally from Greek and means pointing or indicating.
Lyons (1977) defines deixis as follows:
By deixis is meant the location and identification of persons, objects, events,
processes and activities being talked about, or referred to, in relation to the
spatiotemporal context created and sustained by the act of utterance and the
participation in it, typically, of a single speaker and at least one addressee.
(Lyons 1977: 637)
In Lyonss definition, deixis is concerned with the issue of distance and proximity
in space and time, and how speakers encode this in language. This definition has
been extended by linguists such as Levinson (1983), to incorporate notions of social deixis, that is, the expression of how close to someone we feel in terms of our
social relationship with them.
The various types of deixis are all discussed fully in 4.4, but central to the concept of deixis is the notion of the deictic centre. This refers not just to a speaker or
hearers location in space and time, but also to their position in a social hierarchy,
and this complex deictic centre is the position from which they interpret deictic
terms. The egocentric nature of language means that by default we assume our-
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Chapter 4. Deictic shifts in dramatic texts
selves to be at the deictic centre of our world. Hence, I would refer to the chair that
I am sitting on as I type as this chair because it is close to me. However, I would
refer to the chair at the other end of my room as that chair because it is further
away from my deictic centre. This encoding of distance can also be metaphorical,
as is the case with temporal and social deixis. I would refer to the time at which
I am writing this sentence as now, whereas I refer to time further away from my
deictic centre (i.e. the past or the future) with a distal deictic, such as that moment or then. Similarly we express closeness in social terms by using first names,
nicknames, terms of endearment, etc. For example, it would be unusual if I were to
address the Dean of my school as Professor Taylor, since using a title and surname
to refer to someone usually expresses distance in social terms. Instead, our friendly
working relationship is made apparent by the fact that we choose to call each other
by our first names, typically an indicator of social closeness. It is for this reason that
university tutors in the UK often prefer students to call them by their first names,
rather than by their academic title plus surname, since this generates the effect of
a reduced social distance between the tutor and the students, generally thought
to be conducive to a more relaxed teaching and learning environment and thus a
better working relationship between students and tutors. Notice, though, that the
situation we are in might affect the way I address the Dean. So, for example, if we
are both in a formal meeting with other members of the university I might address
(or at least refer to) him as Professor Taylor in order to take other peoples viewpoint of their relationship with him into account, or as a means of indicating the
formality of the situation.
The deictic centre, then, controls how we interpret deictic terms, and how we
do this is indicative of our point of view, both literal and figurative. However, we
are not just confined to interpreting the world from our own point of view. One
of the ways in which we can appreciate other peoples points of view is by our
capacity for what Stockwell (2002a: 43) terms deictic projection (see also Stockwell
2000: 26). Imagine, for example, that I am invigilating an examination. I am standing at the front of the examination hall, facing the rows of students who are about
to begin. When it is time for them to start, I might instruct them to turn over
the paper on the left hand side of your desk. Notice that, in this case, even though
the papers I am referring to would be on the right hand side of the desk from my
perspective, I tell the students that the papers are on the left. This is because I am
interpreting the spatial location of the papers from the perspective of the students, in
order for my command to make sense to them. I am projecting my awareness of the
deictic centre from which they are interpreting the world. Deictic projection can
vary from being relatively simple, as in the example above, to being much more
sophisticated. If I am at home, for instance, I can telephone my colleague at work
and ask him to locate a particular book in my office by describing its whereabouts.
It doesnt matter that I am unable to physically point to the book or that I cant see
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my colleague, because I can project my awareness of his deictic centre in order to

direct him to the book in question.
Projecting a deictic centre, then, means that we can take into account points
of view other than our own. According to deictic shift theory, shifting deictic centres across the course of a text (and thereby projecting a series of different deictic
centres) is what draws readers into the narrative in question by allowing them to
experience (albeit vicariously) events from various viewpoints (Segal 1995a: 15).
In the analysis in Section 4.7 I demonstrate how this works by means of a variety
of linguistic and non-linguistic cues.
. Traditional categories of deixis

It should be apparent from the discussion in 4.3 that there are various different
types of deictic expression. Levinson (1983), for example, distinguishes between
five different categories of deixis. These are summarised below, where I also take
account of Lyonss (1977) suggestions for categorisation. Following this, we will
move on to consider how exactly deictic shift theory explains how readers are
drawn into the story world of a text.
.. Place deixis
Place deictics encode the position in space of specific locations in a speech event.
The position of an object in space can be expressed by either a locational deictic
expression or by what Levinson (1983: 79) refers to as pure deictic words.
To begin with pure deictics, perhaps the most immediately obvious of these
are here and there, which refer in context to a particular place in space and are
clearly governed by where the speaker is situated. This can be seen in the example
below from Peter Cooks sketch T.V. P.M.:
[Context: Peter is a politician of some sort, apparently addressing a meeting.]
Peter Good evening. I have recently been travelling round the world on your
behalf, and at your expense visiting some of the chaps with whom I hope
to be shaping your future. I went first to Germany, and there I spoke with the
German Foreign Minister, Herr. . . Herr and there, and we exchanged many
frank words in our respective languages; so precious little came of that in the
way of understanding.
(Peter Cook, T.V. P.M. in Beyond the Fringe, p. 54; my italics)
In this extract, Peters use of there when referring to Germany indicates that this
is distant from his own deictic centre, and that he is not in Germany at the time
of speaking. This is further reinforced by the past simple went, which indicates
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movement away from the speakers deictic centre (cf. came). Notice too that once
he realises that he has forgotten the German Foreign Ministers name, Peter takes
advantage of the phonetic similarities between the German title Herr and the
proximal spatial deictic here in order to give the impression that he had intended
all along to use the phrase here and there, rather than refer specifically to the
foreign minister.
Further indicators of distance and proximity are the deictic terms this and that
and their plurals. Interestingly, in addition to being used as pure spatial deictics,
they can also be used as what Lyons (1977: 677) calls empathetic deictics. Since
empathetic deixis is treated as a separate category by Lyons (1977), I discuss this in
Section 4.4.5. The example below, from Dennis Potters play Brimstone and Treacle,
demonstrates the use of that as a pure spatial deictic:
[Context: Martin has arrived at the Bates house for the first time. Mrs Bates
asks her husband if he has met Martin before.]
Martin Call me Martin, madam.
Bates (embarrassed) I yes we sort of bumped into What are you doing
with that?
(Dennis Potter, Brimstone and Treacle, p. 6)
Batess use of that indicates that he is referring to an object that is nearer to Martin
than him, since that is distally deictic. It transpires that the object being referred
to is a wallet that Bates had lost. Martin has found it and is now returning it. The
deictic term here also gives a clue as to Batess gaze direction at this point, and
hence his perceptual point of view, since we can assume that he is focusing on
the wallet.
Locational deictic expressions are different from pure place deictics in that
they do not, in and of themselves, encode a particular location in space. Neither
do they come in pairs or triples that indicate a proximal/distal relationship. Instead
they are to be interpreted with regard to other objects and entities in the situational
context. Consider the following example, from Kenneth Grahames The Wind in
the Willows:
[Context: The Mole has come up out of his hole and found his way to the
river bank.]
As he sat on the grass and looked across at the river, a dark hole in the bank
opposite, just above the waters edge, caught his eye.
(Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows, p. 180)
In the above example, the location of the dark hole (the home of the Water Rat) is
specified contextually relative to the position of the Mole at that particular instant.
Therefore we can infer what the Moles position in space must be for him to have
the perceptual point of view of the Rats hole being opposite him.
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Alternatively, an objects location may be specified relative to another object,

as in the following two examples, the first from an Agatha Christie novel and the
second from The Lady in the Van:
[. . .] when Joanna saw Little Furze she decided at once that it was just the
house we wanted.
It lay about half a mile out of Lymstock on the road leading up to the moors.
(Agatha Christie, The Moving Finger, p. 9)
[14] AB2 Cut to five years earlier. I am standing by the convent in Camden Town looking up at the crucifix on the wall, trying to decide whats
odd about it.
In the above three examples, the position of the objects mentioned are expressed
by describing their location, and rely for their interpretation on the reader having
knowledge of (or being able to infer) where the other places or things referred to
(i.e. the mole, Lymstock and Camden Town, respectively) are situated.
.. Temporal deixis
Obvious indicators of temporal deixis are the pure temporal deictics then and now,
which clearly derive their meaning from the time at which they are uttered. The
same is true of, amongst others, yesterday (cf. the day before) and tomorrow (cf.
the day after). With regard to The Lady in the Van, part of the confusion at the
beginning of the play comes about because we are unable to process satisfactorily
the temporal deictic references that AB2 (the narrator) makes. For example, when
AB2 says Cut to five years earlier (p. 7), the temporal deictic centre has not yet
been established and so we cannot identify the specific time-frame to which he
is referring. This obviously affects the audiences ability to understand fully the
situational context of the fictional world of the play, thereby affecting their understanding of events within it. A similar confusion arises at the beginning of Bryan
Singers film The Usual Suspects. The opening scene shows a dimly lit harbour, following which a caption appears reading Last night. The lack of reference point
for this temporally deictic term has the effect of making ambiguous the temporal
context for the events which occur within the fictional world, thus creating an in
medias res effect.
.. Person deixis
Person deixis encodes the speakers and addressees within a speech event. First
person pronouns are used by speakers to refer to themselves, second person pronouns refer to one or more of the speakers addressees, and third person references
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are used by speakers for those people or entities who are prototypically neither
sanctioned speakers nor addressees at the time of the speakers utterance. This is
demonstrated in the example below, from Monty Pythons Flying Circus (first person references are emboldened, second person references are italicised, and third
person references are underlined):
Announcer Ladies and gentlemen, I am not simply going to say and now
for something completely different this week, as I do not think it fit. This is
a particularly auspicious occasion for us this evening, as we have been told
that Her Majesty the Queen will be watching part of this show tonight. We
dont know exactly when Her Majesty will be tuning in. We understand that
at the moment she is watching The Virginian, but we have been promised
that we will be informed the moment that she changes channel. Her Majesty
would like everyone to behave quite normally but her equerry has asked me to
request all of you at home to stand when the great moment arrives, although
we here in the studio will be carrying on with our humorous vignettes and
spoofs in the ordinary way.
(Chapman et al., Monty Pythons Flying Circus: Just The Words, p. 30)
Here, first person pronouns refer to the announcer, second person pronouns refer to his addressees (i.e. the viewing audience), and third person references are
used for the Queen and her equerry, neither of whom are speakers or addressees at
the time that the announcer is speaking. Notice, then, that only the first and second person pronouns explicitly encode participant roles in the speech event. The
announcer uses the indefinite pronoun everyone when reporting the Queens appeal for people to behave normally, since this request is not addressed to any one
person specifically.
The pronouns used by the announcer relate to the situational context in which
the announcers speech occurs. We understand, for example, that when the announcer uses the first person plural pronoun we, we the audience are not included
within this reference. The announcer is instead referring to his fellow actors in
the show. Of course, the announcer could have included the audience within this
reference had he wanted to, but he specifically excludes it by saying we here in
the studio.
.. Social deixis
In the Monty Python extract in 4.4.3 above, what we can also note, in addition
to the simple use of pronouns, is the way in which the announcer refers to the
Queen. Only once does he use the third person singular, she. In each of his other
references to the Queen he uses the deferential title, Her Majesty the Queen or the
shorter form, Her Majesty, and this tells us something about how the announcer
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perceives himself in relation to the Queen. The announcers use of a title to refer to
her indicates his perception of the social distance between the Queen and himself.
This is what Levinson (1983: 89) refers to as social deixis (other equivalent terms
include Stockwells 2002a relational deixis), saying that the term refers to:
those aspects of the language structure that encode the social identities of participants (properly, incumbents of participant roles), or the social relationship
between them, or between one of them and persons and entities referred to.
(Levinson 1983: 89)
The way in which characters refer to one another can thus be important in establishing a particular characters point of view. The following example from As You
Like It demonstrates this further:
[Context: Corin (a shepherd) and Touchstone (a clown) are debating the
relative merits of life at the Royal Court and life as a shepherd.]
Corin And how like you this shepherds life, Master Touchstone?
Touchstone Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself it is a good life; but in respect
that it is a shepherds life, it is naught.
(William Shakespeare, As You Like It, Act 3, Scene 2, lines 1115)
Corins view of Touchstone as being socially superior to him is made apparent

by his use of the title Master as a term of address when talking to Touchstone.
Likewise, Touchstones view of Corin is shown up by his lack of either honorifics
or the shepherds name to refer to the shepherd. Instead he is referred to merely
in terms of his role. Touchstones low opinion of the shepherd is confirmed as his
speech continues and he increases the number of insults aimed at Corin.
.. Empathetic deixis
In Section 4.4.1 above I mentioned that place deictics can also be used empathetically. Lyons (1977) considers empathetic deixis to be a separate category, covering
how speakers express psychological closeness. As an example, the empathetic usage of that can be seen in the following passage from Umberto Ecos novel, The
Island of the Day Before:
My son, Pozzo said to Roberto as they were riding over the hills, their little
army following them on foot, that Nevers isnt worth one of my balls, and
old Vincenzo, when he passed on the dukedom, not only had a limp prick but
a limp brain as well.
(Umberto Eco, The Island of the Day Before, pp. 278; my italics)
In this example, Pozzos use of that signals his lack of respect for the character of
Nevers, as it indicates distance between him and Pozzo. If Pozzos attitude towards
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Nevers was friendly, or at least neutral, we might expect him to simply use Neverss
name, without the deictic that. Notice too how empathetic deixis can be used in
reference to inanimate objects. Compare I hate those curtains with I like these
curtains.
. Deictic shift theory and reader involvement

Deictic shift theory attempts to extend traditional deictic theory by suggesting exactly how speakers and readers are able to understand projected deictic centres.
Galbraith (1995) develops deictic shift theory to explain how it is that readers become involved in the world of a text when they read. Her work provides a useful
framework for studying viewpoint shifts in drama, as I will demonstrate in 4.7
and Chapter seven. However, the theory she proposes is not without its problems.
Below, I briefly outline Galbraiths theory, before going on to consider some of
its shortcomings and suggesting some modifications to it in order to make it a
workable and applicable model for analysis.
.. Deictic fields, PUSHes and POPs
Galbraith (1995: 46) explains that deictic shift theory assumes fictional narration
to have numerous deictic fields. A deictic field is a set of deictic expressions all relating to the same deictic centre (Stockwell 2002a: 47), and, as Stockwell points out
(2002a: 47), in the novel these are generally related to a character, narrator or narratee (I discuss the definition of a deictic field in more detail in 4.5.3). According
to deictic shift theory, readers assume the spatial, temporal and social co-ordinates
of such deictic fields not to be egocentric and related to themselves, as is the case
in everyday communication, but to be anchored within the narrative itself, i.e. related to the deictic centre of some particular figure in the fictional world of the
story. Reading narrative fiction, then, involves suspending our normal egocentric
assumptions about deictic terms of reference, and assuming that the deictic centre
is somewhere within the story world of the text. This is the first deictic shift, as they
term it, that we make when reading a fictional text, in order to take up a cognitive
stance within the story world that we then begin to construct mentally as we read.
Once we have taken up a position within the story world, we move among
the various deictic fields of the characters in the text, as and when we are directed by the textual cues that we encounter. According to Galbraith (1995), we
can move in two ways, either via a PUSH or a POP (the terms are borrowed from
computer science).
Galbraith (1995: 47) defines the term PUSH as the phenomenon by which one
may submerge from a basic level to a less available deictic plane, such as episodic
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memory (known as flashback in fiction), fictional story world (this may be a

fiction within the fiction), or fantasy. As an example, when we pick up a novel
and begin reading, we immediately PUSH into another deictic field that of the
fictional world. What this suggests is that readers can shift not just between deictic
fields, but also between the real world and the fictional world, both of which have
the potential to contain numerous deictic fields. Segal (1995b) discusses the notion
of moving between what he terms storyworlds, and in Chapter five I discuss his
suggestions in more detail by mapping concepts from deictic shift theory on to
possible worlds theory.
A POP, on the other hand, is the action of emerging from a deictic field. In
explaining POPs, Galbraith says, One may emerge from one deictic plane to a
higher or more basic-ontological-level deictic plane, as in awakening from a dream
or looking up from reading (1995: 47). Galbraith goes on to say that our assumptions about the prototypical mechanics of a story cause us to expect to return from
the POPs and PUSHes that we experience within a narrative, i.e.
if a character dreams, we expect him or her to awaken, or if a narrator makes a
remark that reveals that he or she knows how a story will turn out, we expect
him or her to go back to story time rather than just revealing what he or she
knows and spoiling the story.
(Galbraith 1995: 47)
Stockwell (2002a: 47) explains a typical POP, saying:

You can pop out of a deictic field by putting a book down and shifting your
deictic centre back to your real life level as a real reader.
(Stockwell 2002a: 47)
Closing a book, then, constitutes a POP back to what we might term our default
deictic field that is, the deictic field in which we ourselves are at the deictic centre.
Of course, the example that Stockwell gives is not the only means of POPping out
of a narrative. Indeed, in drama, the ways in which we can POP back to our default
deictic field are perhaps even more numerous than in prose fiction. The following
example, from the final scene of Dennis Potters six-part television serial Pennies
From Heaven, demonstrates some of the ways in which POPping out of a fictional
deictic field can be achieved in drama:
[Context: Pennies From Heaven is set in the 1930s. Arthur, a travelling sheetmusic salesman, has been mistakenly charged with the murder of a blind girl,
and has consequently been sentenced to hang. Eileen, with whom Arthur has
been having an affair, has decided that she will commit suicide rather than live
without him. Arthur is to be executed at eight oclock, at which time Eileen
plans to throw herself off Hammersmith Bridge.]
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EXT. HAMMERSMITH BRIDGE. DAY.

Close in on Eileen. St Pauls in distance strikes eight oclock execution time. She
puts her hands on the rail, ready to jump.
[1] Eileen (Counting strike of clock) One two three four five six
seven eight. Goodbye Arthur. (She tenses to leap.)
[2] Arthur Hang on!
(She turns, mouth open.)
[3] Eileen Ar-thur! What what are you doing here?
[4] Arthur Im like a bad penny, enn I?
[5] Eileen (Confused) What?
[6] Arthur I keep turning up, dont I? A Penny from Heaven.
(She gurgles in her throat)
[7] Eileen Oh my darling! My love!
[8] Arthur (Smirk) Couldnt go all through that wivaht a bleenn appy endin
now, could we?
(They both turn, smiling, and face the camera.)
[9] Arthur/Eileen The song is ended, but the melody lingers on.
(Music: Pennies from Heaven, with words.
Pull back and back, Arthur and Eileen waving at us from the bridge. Back and
back until they are tiny figures.
Freeze picture, music continuing. Set it in a mock song sheet cover.
Fade out.)
(Dennis Potter, Pennies From Heaven, p. 247)
Following the principles of deictic shift theory, throughout the drama the
reader/audience will have suspended their normal egocentric assumptions about
deictic references and will instead be interpreting deictic terms as referring to particular characters deictic centres within the world of the play. Hence, Eileens use
of the proximal spatial deictic here in turn 3 will be interpreted as referring to the
fictional world, and specifically Hammersmith Bridge.
At this stage in the drama, however, the reader (or the audience at home, if
the play is being viewed on television) will be aware that he or she has arrived at a
crucial point in the story. This is the final episode in a six part drama serial and the
main protagonist is about to die. We would therefore expect the end of the story to
be imminent, and are likely to be prepared to POP out of the fictional world and
back to our default deictic field in the real world. Context, then, can play a large
part in preparing the reader for a POP. Note too that for a reader, the number of
pages remaining in the novel or play they are reading will have a similar effect.
Our expectations are then flouted by Arthur, who we assume has just been
executed, suddenly reappearing. There are at least four possibilities here:
1. Arthur received a last minute reprieve.
2. Arthur is actually dead and has reappeared as a ghost.
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3. Arthur and Eileen have moved into a different fictional world from the one
that the events in the story have previously occurred in.
4. The fictional world in which the character of Arthur exists is in some way
different to the real world, which therefore allows Arthur to continue to exist
in the fictional world even after he has been executed.
It is useful to note at this point that the difference between the fictional world and
the real world has already been marked in the serial by characters regularly appearing to sing popular songs of the era, an effect achieved by having the actors mime
to old recordings. The fact that none of the other characters seems to find this odd
suggests that the fictional world is different to the real world. However, disregarding the temporal setting of the drama which is firmly established at the outset,
until the final scene of Pennies From Heaven, this is the only difference between the
real world of the reader and the fictional world of the characters. I would therefore argue that we expect the fictional world to resemble the real world in all other
respects (cf. Ryans Principle of Minimal Departure (1991), discussed in 5.3.3).
If we now consider in more detail the four possible explanations for Arthurs
reappearance, it should first of all be apparent that option 1 is unlikely, even if he
is still alive. Arthur has no idea where in London Eileen is. Therefore the chance of
him discovering her whereabouts is improbable, and finding her at exactly eight
oclock is extremely implausible. Even if the reprieve came before eight oclock, it is
still doubtful whether Arthur would be able to find Eileen, and, again, to find her
at the exact time at which the execution was supposed to have taken place is even
more unlikely.
Option 2, that Arthur has reappeared as a ghost, is possible. This would explain how Arthur is able to locate Eileen at exactly eight oclock. Arthur also refers
to himself as a Penny from Heaven, and this oblique reference to the afterlife
might implicate that he is indeed dead and has returned as a ghost. However, it
is likely that our background knowledge of Arthur would discourage us from this
interpretation. Throughout the series, Arthur is presented as a fairly coarse man,
ill-educated and often unable to express his feelings, particularly his love for Eileen.
This would make the likelihood of him using such a metaphor to refer to himself
in this way fairly slim. And since we know that Arthur is a sheet-music salesman, it
is also possible to interpret his reference to himself as a Penny from Heaven as deriving from his knowledge of the popular song, Pennies From Heaven. Indeed, this
is the title of the series and the song itself has been heard several times before this
point. Finally, a further discouragement from interpreting Arthurs reappearance
as being ghostly is the fact that this would require many in a modern readership/audience suspending their ontological beliefs about both what happens after
death and what is considered normal in the real world. Since the fictional world re-
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sembles the real world in all aspects except for the characters occasionally bursting
into song, the sudden introduction of a supernatural element is unlikely.
Option 3, that Arthur and Eileen have, in effect, moved into a different fictional world, might explain the logical impossibility of Arthur finding Eileen at
exactly eight oclock, and also how he was able to survive his execution. However,
there is no suggestion in the text that a change of this kind has occurred and so it
seems a rather improbable explanation.
Option 4, then, seems the most probable. The final scene flouts our expectations that the fictional world should resemble the real world, thereby creating a
foregrounding effect. But since there is no way to resolve the logical incompatibility that is created by Arthurs appearance without introducing this as a feature of
the fictional world (unlikely at this late stage in the drama), I would argue that this
sets up the reader/audience for a POP out of the fictional world and back into the
real world.
Following Arthurs reappearance, he then says, Couldnt go all through that
wivaht a bleenn appy endin now, could we? Following Levinson (1983: 184),
who says that the presuppositions inherent in yes/no interrogatives are the disjunction of their possible answers, Arthurs question presupposes that the answer
to his tag question should be no thereby implying that a happy ending is obligatory. This itself suggests that Arthurs reappearance constitutes the happy ending
that he believes is necessary for the story. Our schematic knowledge of stories (i.e.
that any complicating actions should be resolved by the end of the story) further
confirms that this is likely to constitute the end of the drama. Added to this is
Arthurs direct reference to the fictionality of the story. We are therefore set up for
a POP out of the fictional world.
The expected POP is then instantiated in the screen directions by an instruction for the camera to pull back. The effect in performance of this non-linguistic
perceptual cue would be to make it seem as if we are moving away from Arthur
and Eileen, an effect which is confirmed by the later screen direction indicating
that Arthur and Eileen turn to face the camera and wave. This action on their part
further suggests a POP out of the fictional world for the audience, since it adds to
the sense of the audience leaving. It also further breaks the illusion of the fictional
world since it now seems that both Arthur and Eileen are aware of the real world
in which we the readers/audience reside.
The screen directions then indicate that the scene is frozen so that what we are
watching in the screen production turns into a still photograph. A special visual
effect is then used to make it seem as if this photograph is part of a song-sheet
cover. The effect of all this, I would argue, is rather like closing a book and looking
again at the front cover. The POP back out to our deictic centre in the real world
is finally completed by the visual fade out.
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The Pennies From Heaven example demonstrates how readers and audiences
are likely to have expectations about when some POPs are due to occur in a
dramatic text, often as a result of contextual information available, and this is
something that is not mentioned by Galbraith (1995). However, these expectations
are not always met. Writers are able to manipulate readers schematic assumptions
to create particular dramatic effects. One such example occurs in William Goldmans screenplay The Princess Bride, directed by Rob Reiner. The film tells the story
of a grandfather who volunteers to read his sick grandson a story that he himself
enjoyed as a boy. This story is The Princess Bride. The grandson, however, is sceptical about his grandfathers claims that the book is truly exciting, and worries that it
will contain an excess of kissing bits. Reluctantly, he agrees to have the story read
to him. As the grandfather begins to read, the scene changes so that the audience
sees the story he is narrating being played out on screen. In deictic shift theory
terms, the grandfathers narration PUSHes us into the world of the story within
the story, and as the story progresses, the grandfather occasionally cuts in with
some voice-over narration. Then, at what appears schematically to be the end of
the film (the villains have been defeated, thereby resulting in resolution in Labov
and Waletskys terms (1967)), the hero moves to kiss the princess, and the grandfather cuts in again with past tense narration that indicates the re-instantiation of
his real world deictic field. As a result of this we become aware once more that
what we are watching is a story within a story, and our schematic knowledge of
stories leads us to expect a POP out of the fictional world of the hero (Westley)
and the princess (Buttercup). The scene is as follows:
Grandfather They rode to freedom and as dawn arose Westley and Buttercup
knew they were safe. A wave of love swept over them, and as they reached for
each other
Sharp cut back to the Grandsons bedroom. The Grandfather snaps the book
shut.
Grandson What? What?!
Grandfather Nah, its kissing again. You dont want to hear that.
Grandson (embarrassed) I dont mind so much.
Grandfather OK. (Cut back to Westley and Buttercup) Since the invention
of the kiss there have been five kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. (Westley and Buttercup kiss) This one left them all
behind. The end.
Camera lingers a moment on Westley and Buttercup and then cuts back to
Grandsons bedroom.
(William Goldman, The Princess Bride, 1987)
What is surprising for the audience, though (and, indeed, for the character of the
Grandson), is that the POP that we are being set up to expect occurs too early,
and apparently with no linguistic trigger. The cut back to the Grandsons bedroom
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occurs at the moment that the Grandfather stops the narration in mid-sentence.
The Grandfathers explanation for this early POP is that the final scene would not
interest the Grandson. The effect of this is dissatisfaction for the Grandson and
amusement for the audience. Following the Grandsons reluctant admission that
he would actually like to hear the end of the story, the camera then cuts back to the
world of the story within the story. This time, the Grandfather completes his turn,
as we would expect. The words the end comply with our schematic assumptions
about how stories finish and thereby trigger the POP back to the fictional world
of the Grandfather, where we can now interpret the deictic terms that he uses as
referring to his deictic centre rather than the deictic centres of the characters in the
story he has just told.
.. Edgework
Of course, PUSHing and POPping between different deictic fields involves being able to identify the boundaries between them, as Stockwell (2002a: 49) points
out. Stockwell goes on to say that the process of identification is called edgework
(2002a: 49). Segal (1995b) explains this term as follows:
For the reader, edgework includes identifying the cognitive domain in which
the story world is to be experienced, and instantiating it with its initial content and the values for its spacetime dimensions. A default constraint system
consisting of the expected story world logic based on verisimilitude and previous experience with the genre of the story must also be attached.
(Segal 1995b: 74)
The term edgework was introduced originally by Young (1987) in a study examining the boundaries between the real world and the fictional world in oral
narratives. However, Youngs original use of the term was to describe the collection
of textual indicators of the boundaries between fictional worlds and the real world
of the reader. For example, Young (1987: 28) suggests that the beginnings and ends
of stories mark the distinction between the real and the fictional world. There
are, then, two problems here. Firstly, Stockwell (2002a) is using the term edgework
in relation to deictic fields, whereas Youngs original use of the term was in relation to the boundaries between the real and the fictional world. Secondly, there is
an anomaly in Segals, Stockwells and Youngs definitions. Youngs explanation of
edgework suggests that this is an element of textual structure. Segal and Stockwell,
on the other hand, appear to be defining edgework as a process, i.e. something that
readers actively do. In order to avoid the potential for confusion surrounding the
use of the term edgework, it may be useful to separate out some of the notions that
appear to have been run together.
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Firstly, in general, we need to be clear about whether we are referring to movement between the real and the fictional world or movement between deictic fields.
In the next chapter I will discuss in more detail the notion of shifting between
worlds, using Ryans (1991) taxonomy of possible worlds to explain this more
clearly. Secondly, with regard to the term edgework, it may be useful to keep separate the notion of edgework as part of textual structure and edgework as a process
that readers engage in. I will not go so far as to propose a terminological solution
to this problem. Rather I would suggest that these are issues worthy of further investigation in future research, and that it is at least necessary to be aware of the
problems with the term edgework as it stands. To avoid the potential pitfalls, I prefer in my own analyses not to use the term. Instead I will simply make it clear
when I am talking about textual structure and when the focus is on the readerly
process. Nevertheless, the above discussion does raise several issues with regard to
the boundaries of deictic fields. In order to be clear about these, it is necessary to
consider in more detail the definition of a deictic field.
.. Deictic fields revisited
Defining a deictic field precisely is difficult and would merit a book of its own to
explore the full range of issues involved. I will concentrate here on outlining some
of the difficulties involved in defining a deictic field, in order to highlight some of
the potential problems involved in using the term in analysis.
Stockwells definition of a deictic field as a set of deictic expressions all relating
to the same deictic centre (Stockwell 2002a: 47) is a useful starting point. This is
very much how Bhler (1982, see also Bhler 1990 [1934]), who first introduced
the term, defines it. Galbraith (1995), in a summary of Bhlers (1982) work, explains that there are three different aspects to a deictic field. The first is what she
refers to as the here and now of the speakers sensible environment (Galbraith
1995: 23). Galbraith says that when the speaker points at an object and says this,
those who share his or her sensible environment perceive what he or she is indicating (Galbraith 1995: 23). This, of course, raises the issue of what constitutes
a sensible environment. Two people sitting in close proximity in the same room
will be able to comprehend each others spatial deictic references to objects within
the room fairly easily, but not necessarily each others distal deictic references to
objects outside the room. Understanding references to objects beyond the immediate physical environment relies on contextual knowledge of the position in space
and time of the objects in question. Galbraith (1995) attempts to counter this by
describing the second aspect of a deictic field. She explains that when a speaker or
writer uses the word this to refer to something in his or her own discourse, those
who are following the speakers words can easily understand what is being referred
to (Galbraith 1995: 24). Again, this seems too much of a simplification and is not
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necessarily the case. Even in a conversation which the addressee is following perfectly, it may still be occasionally necessary for him or her to seek clarification of
certain deictic references. Lastly, Galbraith explains that a speakers deictic field
does not have to correspond to their physical location in space and time, but can
be a part of their imagination or memory.
Recognising the boundaries of a deictic field, then, is understandably difficult, though Galbraiths (1995) summary of Bhlers (1982) work at least broaches
some of the aspects involved. Recognising a speakers deictic field clearly involves
understanding that persons location in space and time. However, what is not
mentioned by the deictic shift theorists is that it also necessitates understanding that persons relationship to other people (in order to comprehend their
use of social and empathetic deixis) as well as appreciating their sensory and
imaginative capacity.
In my conceptualisation of deictic fields, I see the speaker as being at the deictic centre of his or her own deictic field. Therefore, in real life although it is
possible for a person to take up a roughly similar deictic position (either physically or vicariously) to that of someone else, it is never possible to inhabit exactly
the same deictic position as someone else. However, this is not necessarily the case
in fiction, as I will demonstrate in my discussion of an extract from Death of a
Salesman in 4.6.2.
.. Deictic decay
The final aspect of Galbraiths notion of deictic shift theory involves what she
terms the decay (Galbraith 1995: 47) of those deictic fields which are not regularly re-activated after being instantiated. Stockwell (2002a) uses the example of
Shakespeares The Taming of the Shrew to demonstrate this phenomenon. In his
own summary of Galbraiths work, Stockwell uses the term deictic decomposition
rather than Galbraiths 1995 term deictic decay, though he appears to be referring
to the same phenomenon. At the beginning of The Taming of the Shrew, Sly, a
drunkard, is tricked by a Lord and his entourage into believing that he has been
asleep for fifteen years. A play is organised in honour of his awakening and this play
is The Taming of the Shrew. Since the deictic field of which Sly is a part is hereafter
no longer referred to, the reader/audience gradually forgets that they are reading/watching a play within a play. In effect, Slys deictic field decays and others
are instantiated this time within the world of the play within the play. However,
what is unusual about The Taming of the Shrew is that at the end of the play within
the play, there is no POP back out to the fictional world in which we first encountered Sly. It is therefore easy to forget that the play we have just experienced
is supposedly embedded inside the play that Shakespeare actually wrote. Stock-
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well (2002a: 48) argues that this factor has contributed to disputes as to whether
Katherinas final submissive speech should be read literally or ironically.
.. Problems with PUSHes and POPs
Galbraiths (1995) deictic shift model is a theoretical exposition of how readers
navigate their way through a narrative text and make sense of the variety of different viewpoints they are exposed to. What Galbraith does not provide is any
clear indication of the types of cues that might instantiate a PUSH or a POP into a
different deictic field. This makes it difficult to apply the model analytically. Stockwell (2002a) tackles this problem through an analysis of Emily Bronts Wuthering
Heights, and devises a checklist of prototypical indicators of deictic shifts. These include indicators of what he terms perceptual shifts (e.g. pronominalisation, mental
predicates), spatial shifts (e.g. movement predicates, locative adverbials, spatial
adverbs), temporal shifts (e.g. tense and aspect), relational shifts (e.g. terms of
address, evaluative adjectives and adverbials), textual shifts (e.g. chapter titles, epigrams, graphology) and compositional shifts (e.g. presentational factors such as
the cover of the book, and the context in which a text is read for pleasure, as
part of a reading syllabus, etc.). Such a checklist is very useful, but there is still
an underlying problem concerning the way in which readers move between deictic fields via PUSHes and POPs. Consider Galbraiths description of prototypical
PUSHes and POPs:
The most common PUSHes are probably flashbacks and dream sequences,
and the most common POPs (other than coming back from flashbacks and
dreams) are irony and narrator commentary.
(Galbraith 1995: 47)
What is implicit in this statement, and what Galbraith does not make clear, is that it
is possible to PUSH and POP in two different ways. Let us first of all consider narrator commentary and irony. This clearly comes about as a result of PUSHing into
or POPping out of a particular level of the storys discourse architecture (Leech &
Short 1981). That is, the reader moves between the levels on Shorts (1996) diagram of the discourse structure of a text (see Figure 1.2 in Chapter one). However,
these are very different kinds of PUSHes and POPs to those that bring us back
from a flashback or out of a dream. These latter types are PUSHes and POPs along
the temporal continuum of the story itself. For example, a flashback is what happens when we get a PUSH to a different temporal location, specifically, an earlier
point in the story or, to be more exact, an earlier point in the fabula. It becomes
clear from this that the process of PUSHing and POPping along the fabula is in
part what creates the sjuzhet.
Although this distinction resolves some of the problems with applying deictic
shift theory in cognitive stylistic analysis, there still remains something of an issue
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with the actual terms PUSH and POP. The unfortunate parallelism of the terms
gives rise to POP being seen as the opposite of PUSH, which is not the case. The
fact that, prototypically, push is a transitive verb whilst pop is intransitive also has
the effect of making it appear that PUSHing is something that is done to the reader
whereas POPping is something that the reader does without authorial prompting.
It is in any case questionable whether in the final analysis POPs and PUSHes can
be seen as discrete, separate categories. Consider the following example from Brian
Friels Dancing at Lughnasa. This extract comes from the end of the play. Michael
is the adult narrator who frames the action:
Maggie Ive a riddle for you. Why is a gramophone like a parrot?
Kate Maggie!
Maggie Because it. . .because it always. . .because a parrot. . .God, Ive forgotten!
(Maggie moves into the kitchen. Michael enters. The characters are now in positions similar to their positions at the beginning of the play with some changes:
Agnes and Gerry are on the garden seat. Jack stands stiffly to attention at Agness
elbow. One kite, facing boldly out front, stands between Gerry and Agnes; the
other between Agnes and Jack. Rose is upstage left. Maggie is at the kitchen window. Kate is downstage right. Chris is at the front door. During Michaels speech
Kate cries quietly. As Michael begins to speak the stage is lit in a very soft, golden
light so that the tableau we see is almost, but not quite, in a haze.)
Michael As I said, Father Jack was dead within twelve months. And with him
and Agnes and Rose all gone, the heart seemed to go out of the house.
(Brian Friel, Dancing at Lughnasa, p. 70)
What happens in this extract is that we emerge from the character level of the play
back up to the narrator level. In effect, there is a discoursal POP from a deictic
field within the embedded fictional world that Michael describes in his narration,
back into a deictic field within the fictional world in which the narrator is present.
The deictic position that the reader/audience takes in both these fictional worlds is
external (i.e. not from within the consciousness of one particular character). Nevertheless, the POP does not happen automatically. There are various non-linguistic
cues (made clear by the stage directions in the text) that appear to act as a trigger,
these being the returning of the characters to roughly the same positions as they
were in at the beginning of the play, and the hazy lighting effect prototypically
associated in drama with the suggestion of past time. An alternative way of understanding what happens here is that as a result of the non-linguistic cues, the
reader/audience PUSHes back into Michaels deictic field. Therefore, although we
do POP out of the deictic field of Maggie, we do this as a result of PUSHing into
the deictic field of Michael. There seems, then, to be an inextricable link between
POPs and PUSHes; effectively they seem to be two sides of the same coin. If this is
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the case, then it may be more helpful simply to refer to shifts between deictic fields
and then describe what motivates the shift in each case. What is also apparent in
the above extract is that the non-linguistic cues are not the only means by which
we shift back into Michaels deictic field. The very fact that Michael begins speaking projects a different deictic centre and alerts us to the fact that we must have
moved deictic positions. In effect, Michaels speech causes the reader/audience to
shift back into a deictic field within the fictional world that he inhabits.
It seems, then, that the terms PUSH and POP suggest there are two processes
involved in moving between deictic fields when actually there is only one. The
problems with the terms can be seen in the earlier Pennies From Heaven extract in
4.5.1. In my discussion of this example I described how, for the reader/audience,
the move out of the fictional deictic fields of Arthur and Eileen is cued by contextual features (such as our knowledge that this is the last episode of a six-part
serial) and by instructions in the screen directions for the camera to keep pulling
back. The POP that occurs is therefore not instantaneous, as the connotations of
the term might suggest. Rather it seems that, for the reader/audience, there is a
gradual increase in awareness of their own default deictic field as they move out of
the deictic field of the fictional world. I consider the consequences of this in 4.6.2.
I am therefore not convinced that the terms adequately capture what real readers
actually do when they read a text. Segal (1995a) maintains that:
When reading fictional text, most readers feel they are in the middle of the
story, and they eagerly or hesitantly wait to see what will happen next. Readers
get inside of stories and vicariously experience them. They feel happy when
good things occur, worry when characters are in danger, feel sad, and may
even cry, when misfortune strikes.
(Segal 1995a: 1415)
Deictic shift theory purports to explain how it is that readers come to feel involved
in a narrative in the manner that Segal describes, and argues that the metaphor of
the reader getting inside of a story is cognitively valid (Segal 1995a: 15). However,
his description of the feelings that readers experience as they read relates to a very
specific reading situation, notably one where the reader is undisturbed by external
factors (e.g. noise, uncomfortable surroundings) and, in effect, is able to forget
completely about the real world. In such instances, Galbraith (1995: 47) would
claim that the reader PUSHes into the story world and that their own personal
deictic field decays as a result of not being re-instantiated. This, though, is an idealised situation. Often readers will be constantly disturbed as they read. Imagine,
for example, attempting to read a novel on a hot, crowded and noisy train. In such
circumstances concentrating on reading will be made more difficult, and whilst it
might be possible to follow the unfolding of the novels plot, the reader will constantly be reminded of the real world and their own personal deictic field within
it. Presumably it cannot be the case that the reader fully PUSHes into the deictic
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field of the story world. Rather it would seem that in such a situation, readers are
aware of both their own deictic field and those in the fictional narrative. What this
suggests is that Galbraiths (1995) notion of PUSHing and POPping is perhaps too
simplistic a metaphor to describe how we experience different deictic fields. What
is also suggested by the example above is that it is necessary to consider in more
detail shifts between worlds, in addition to shifts between deictic fields. This is the
focus of Chapter five. Furthermore, describing the process in these terms may actually be unhelpful, since this suggests that a readers presence within one deictic
field prohibits his or her being simultaneously aware of another deictic field.
I would like to suggest that a more useful way of understanding how we
interpret events from deictic centres other than our own comes about by modifying some aspects of deictic shift theory and integrating elements from Emmotts (1997) contextual frame theory. This was devised originally to explain the
processes of narrative comprehension by readers. In Section 4.6 I concentrate
on modifying deictic shift theory to take account of the problems that I have
outlined above.
It is perhaps useful at this point to summarise the problems that I have identified with deictic shift theory as it stands:
1. The notion of PUSHes and POPs is an inaccurate metaphor to describe how
readers are moved between deictic fields, suggesting two processes when there
may only be one, seen from the opposite ends of the process, as it were.
2. Current deictic shift theory does not explain adequately how readers can be
aware of more than one deictic field at any one time.
3. More explanation is needed to distinguish shifting between the real and the
fictional world and shifting between deictic fields.
In Section 4.6 I address points 1 and 2 above by integrating Emmotts (1997)
notions of binding and priming into deictic shift theory. Point 3 is addressed in
Chapter five.
. Modifying deictic shift theory

Galbraiths (1995) explanation as to how readers become involved in a narrative
works on the principle that, as we read, we constantly PUSH into different deictic
fields which we then POP out of. The central feature of Galbraiths model is the
metaphor of getting inside the story. However, I would suggest that, as it stands,
this metaphor is rather too simplistic and does not accurately capture the extent
to which we may be aware of a particular deictic field. For example, in drama it
is often the case that the reader/audience will be aware of more than one deictic
field at any one time especially when we take the complexities of performance
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into account. Some years ago I saw a production of The Canterbury Tales at the
Crucible Theatre, Sheffield, where the characters would often leave the stage and
wander amongst the audience, sometimes addressing individual audience members directly. The physical invasion by characters of the space usually reserved for
the audience had the effect of stopping the individual audience members deictic
fields in the real world decaying. As a result, throughout the play, the audience
was aware of both the fictional deictic fields of the play and their own real world
deictic fields. Similar effects have been used in experimental drama, such as John
Burgess and Charles Marowitzs The Chicago Conspiracy (1974), where audience
members were treated as prisoners in a maximum-security prison as they filed
into the auditorium. Roger McGoughs The Puny Little Life Show (1974) is another
example. This play actually begins outside the theatre, as one of the characters wanders amongst the queuing audience attempting to sell them an assortment of jokes
and novelties. Pantomime is another genre that often makes use of such practices.
The issue is, how do we explain our ability to be aware of more than one deictic
field at any given time? There appear to be two possible explanations for such
phenomena. Either readers/audiences shift very quickly back and forth between
deictic fields, as suggested by the deictic shift theorists (see, for example, Galbraith
1995), or they are able to continue to monitor one deictic field whilst also moving
into another. In the following sections I suggest that both of these aspects may be
involved. In considering the possibility of readers/audiences being able to monitor
numerous deictic fields, I find it necessary to extend deictic shift theory beyond
the simple notion of moving either into or out of a particular deictic field. To this
end I find it useful to apply some of the concepts from Emmotts (1997) contextual
frame theory, which I outline briefly in the next section.
.. Contextual frame theory
In her book Narrative Comprehension, Emmott (1997) draws on research in linguistics, psychology and artificial intelligence to explain how it is that readers
manage to create a richly represented fictional world from mere strings of words
(Emmott 1997: v). Emmotts work is an interdisciplinary attempt to explain the
means by which readers are able to keep track of characters and events in the fictional worlds of narrative texts, and is much influenced by Werths work on text
worlds (see, for example, Werth 1995, 1999). The significance of Emmotts work
for my proposed modification of deictic shift theory lies in her notion of priming,
but before I introduce this concept fully it is necessary to explain Emmotts notion
of contextual frames.
Emmott (1997: 121) describes a contextual frame as a mental store of information about the current context, built up from the text itself and from inferences
made from the text. We might note, then, that contextual frames will also include
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the deictic co-ordinates for each of the deictic fields that might exist within it.
Frames contain narrative information that is either episodic or non-episodic in nature. Episodic information is that which refers specifically to a particular occasion
in the story, whilst non-episodic information refers to that which is true beyond a
specific point in the narrative. So, for example, in Pennies From Heaven, the reader
is introduced to the fact that the main character, Arthur, is a travelling sheet-music
salesman. This is non-episodic information that is true generally throughout the
whole of the drama. In episode three of the series, though, Arthur stops on the
road from London to Gloucester and meets the blind girl whom he will later be
accused of murdering. This is episodic information for the reader/audience (i.e.
it is a one-off occurrence in the story) and turns out to be pivotal to the whole
drama. Note, though, that while in this example the episodic information turns
out to have major significance for the rest of the story, Emmott (1997: 121) points
out that episodic information does not have to have relevance beyond the particular occasion in question within the story. Emmott suggests that as we read, we
retain (at least temporarily) the information within these contextual frames and
use it to create an overall context for the story. She explains that readers are able to
hold information about more than one context at any one time, but that we usually tend to concentrate on one context in particular. To fully explain the means by
which this is made possible, Emmott introduces the terms binding and priming.
Binding occurs when characters and locations are linked to a specific context. So in the Pennies From Heaven example discussed above, Arthur and the
blind girl are together on the road to Gloucester, and are therefore bound into
the same context, information about which the reader will hold in one particular
contextual frame.
Priming, on the other hand, is described by Emmott (1997: 123) as referring
to the process by which one particular contextual frame becomes the main focus
of attention for the reader. So as we read the sequence from Pennies From Heaven
where Arthur meets the blind girl, the contextual frame into which Arthur and the
girl are bound is at the forefront of the readers mind and is therefore primed.
At the same time as Arthur is talking to the girl, Eileen (the schoolteacher with
whom Arthur is having an affair) is telling a story to her class of children. However,
this contextual frame is not being monitored by the reader as he or she reads the
sequence with Arthur and the blind girl, and so, although the characters of Eileen
and the children remain bound into the context of the schoolroom, this particular
contextual frame is said by Emmott (1997) to be unprimed. Stockwell (2002a: 155)
points out that binding occurs as a result of textual cues. The same may be said
of priming, though it is likely that priming and binding can also be contextually
triggered.
Emmotts (1997) model of how readers comprehend fiction texts provides a
useful framework for rethinking some of the concepts from deictic shift theory.
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In the next section we will consider how elements of Emmotts (1997) contextual frame theory might be integrated into Galbraiths (1995) and Segals (1995a,
1995b) work.
.. Binding and priming in deictic shift theory
In 4.5.5 above, I showed how the terms PUSH and POP were problematic for
describing how readers move between the various deictic fields of a text. In this
section I consider how applying some of Emmotts (1997) work might better describe the processes by which readers become aware of, and shift between, such
deictic fields, as well as accounting for how readers can be aware of more than one
deictic field simultaneously.
The way in which readers become aware of different deictic fields can be explained using Emmotts notion of binding. I said in 4.5.1 that our default deictic
field is that in which we ourselves are at the deictic centre. In day-to-day conversation, then, our default deictic field is bound into our real world context. The
egocentric nature of language means that, in real-life, for most of the time our default deictic field is at the forefront of our minds and is therefore primed. However,
as we read fiction, our immediate context is not being monitored (i.e. it is unprimed), and our deictic field becomes unbound from that context and is instead
bound into a new context that of the fictional world.
Emmotts (1997) terms can also be used to describe how readers can be aware
of more than one deictic field at once. It seems possible for more than one deictic
field to be bound at any one time. For example, in conversation, our interlocutors deictic field will also be bound into the context, just as they themselves are.
However, the deictic field that the reader is most aware of will be the deictic field
that is primed. When we are speaking, this will be ours; when our interlocutor is
speaking, this will be theirs (and we will project their deictic centre). This would
resolve a number of the problems that I have so far identified with deictic shift
theory. For example, I mentioned in 4.5.5 that deictic shift theory can only explain reader involvement in a text if the reading takes place in an ideal situation
where the reader is undisturbed by external factors such as noise, discomfort, etc.
My proposed revision of deictic shift theory using terms from contextual frame
theory accounts for those instances where the situation is not ideal for reading
(e.g. the noisy and uncomfortable train journey described in 4.5.5). I would suggest that, in an ideal reading situation, when we pick up a book and begin to read,
our default deictic field becomes unprimed but remains bound into our real world
context; i.e. the default deictic field is disregarded for the purposes of interpreting
the fictional world but the boundaries of the deictic field remain in place. Then,
as our attention becomes focussed on the fictional world, our default deictic field
gradually decays until it becomes unbound, as we set up a new deictic field within
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the fictional world. Conversely, if we are disturbed whilst reading, our default deictic field becomes bound into the real world context once more and also primed.
And whatever fictional deictic field has been primed will become unprimed, as it
starts to decay until it becomes unbound. When the disturbance is over and we
start reading again, the unbound and unprimed fictional deictic field will become
bound and primed once more.
In addition to being simultaneously aware of our own deictic field and a fictional one, it is also the case that readers can be aware of more than one fictional
deictic field at a time. This explains the double perspective effect that can arise
in theatrical performance. In 3.3.1 of the previous chapter I discussed how, in an
extract from Arthur Millers Death of a Salesman, the audience is presented with
a scene that occurs only in the character Willys mind. In a performance of the
play, what the audience would see on stage, then, would be what Willy himself believes he can see. However, despite having this internal point of view, the audience
would also be able to see the actor playing the part of Willy. In such an instance
it seems that the audience is afforded both an internal and an external perspective on the action. In my revised deictic shift theory terms, this is explained by the
fact that Willys personal deictic field is bound, and that particular deictic field is
primed and made available to the audience, whilst the external deictic field that
the audience has within the fictional world is also bound but is unprimed.
If this is the case, we need now to consider the mechanism by which we become
aware of deictic fields other than our own default field, and how we shift between
them. There would seem to be at least two potential explanations.
First of all, it may be that deictic fields that are primed vary in the extent to
which they are primed. We might refer to the extent to which a deictic field is
primed as its degree of prominence. So, if we think again of the example of trying
to read a novel on a noisy train, the fictional deictic field would be primed and
the readers default deictic field would be unprimed. However, the readers default
field would be unlikely to have decayed and therefore would remain bound in the
real world. And because the situation would make it difficult to concentrate on
the fictional world of the story, the fictional deictic field, although primed, would
have a lower degree of prominence than in a situation more ideal for reading.
Conversely, in an ideal reading situation the fictional deictic field will have a high
degree of prominence and the prominence of the default deictic field will decrease
steadily as it gradually decays.
The extent to which a deictic field may be primed is perhaps made easier to
understand with an analogy. Imagine the kind of electric light that has a dimmer
switch. It is possible for such a light to be switched on and yet to remain fairly dim.
Nevertheless the light is irrefutably on. By turning the dimmer switch and increasing the voltage, it is possible to make the light much brighter and therefore much
more prominent. In the same way, it is possible for a deictic field to be primed yet
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for its degree of prominence to be fairly low. In a situation where we are aware of,
say, two deictic fields simultaneously, one of the fields would be primed and the
other unprimed, but both would be bound. The reader would flit rapidly between
the two deictic fields, and the longer he or she stayed within one particular field,
the more prominent that field would become, and the greater the chance that the
other deictic field would become unbound, as it gradually decayed.
The possibility of being aware of more than one deictic field is not just confined to drama. In the extract below from Irvine Welshs short story Across the
Hall, graphological deviation is used to represent the two first-person narratorial
voices of the characters Collingwood and Gillespie. The graphological deviation
also relates to the fact that Collingwood and Gillespie live in different apartments.
As we read the story we flit between the two columns, and it is necessary for the
reader to take into account the deictic fields of both characters in order to interpret
the deictic terms that they use. Both characters deictic fields are therefore bound
simultaneously within the same fictional context, but as we shift back and forth
between them, the deictic fields take it in turns to be primed and unprimed.
ACROSS THE HALL
15/2
COLLINGWOOD
its not being kept in the picture
that I resent the most. he sees me
as a glorified typist; never tells
me anything. not that I want to be
a secretary forever, but I saw this
as a stepping stone to something a
little more interesting. Im
15/8
GILLESPIE
thats important to me. its him
getting it, after all the experience
in the firm Ive gained over the
years. and lets be upfront about
it, its not only me thats saying it,
most of my colleagues feel the
same; he simply isnt up to the
(Irvine Welsh, Across the Hall in The Acid House, p. 103)
For the reasons described in 4.5.5 above, I prefer not to use the terms PUSH and
POP to describe the movements between deictic fields. Rather than make this distinction, I prefer simply to use the term shift, but to be specific as to the type of
shift this is (as Stockwell 2002a is when he refers, for example, to temporal shifts,
perceptual shifts, spatial shifts, etc.). Nevertheless, it seems likely to assume that
the mechanism by which such shifts are effected works on the basis of the reader
flicking rapidly between one field and another. The likelihood of this being the case
seems probable, given what we know from cognitive linguistics about how readers
monitor figure and ground (see Ungerer & Schmid 1996).
At this point it is perhaps useful to recap and spell out my re-conceptualisation
of deictic fields and how we move between them.
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1. In everyday life our default deictic field (that is, the deictic field where we are
at the deictic centre) is bound into our immediate context in the real world,
and as a consequence of it being at the forefront of our mind for most of the
time, is primed.
2. When we begin to read a fictional text, our default deictic field becomes unprimed as we focus our attention on the fictional deictic fields we encounter
as we read.
3. If we are undisturbed whilst reading, our default deictic field will gradually
decay as we set up a new deictic field within the boundaries of the fictional
world. At this stage, the fictional deictic fields we encounter as we read are far
more prominent in our minds than our own default field in the real world.
4. As we encounter other fictional deictic fields within the text we shift between
them as a result of linguistic and contextual triggers that bind and prime
particular fields.
5. If we are disturbed whilst reading, or if the characters in the fiction make reference to the real world of the reader, our default deictic field becomes bound
once more into the real world context and may rise in prominence.
6. When we finish reading, the fictional deictic fields of the text become unbound
and unprimed, and our default deictic field becomes bound into the real world
context once more, and is primed and highly prominent.
Allowing for the possibility of readers being able to monitor more than one deictic
field at any one time acknowledges the complexity of our interpretative capacity.
In order to demonstrate how this might work in practice, in the next section I
present an analysis of some brief extracts from Thornton Wilders play Our Town.
. Deictic fields and point of view in Our Town

In many respects Thornton Wilders 1938 play Our Town has much in common
with Alan Bennetts The Lady in the Van. Both eschew a realistic depiction of the
fictional world in favour of a stylised theatrical presentation, and both make use of
a narrator figure amongst the dramatis personae. The major structural difference
between the two plays is that in Bennetts, the narrator figure is arguably more
complex than in Our Town, since in The Lady in the Van there are two versions
of Alan Bennett the character (AB1) and the narrator (AB2). It could be argued
that this constitutes a clear delineation of the two facets of a first person narrator
in prose fiction someone who is a part of the fictional world yet simultaneously
able to stand back from it and describe it. This adds a further complication when
analysing The Lady in the Van, and so I reserve detailed analysis of this play until
Chapter seven, after I have introduced the concepts of possible worlds and reality
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paradigms in Chapters five and six respectively, in order to cope with this added
complication. Our Town is a useful play on which to demonstrate the effectiveness
of a combination of the contextual frame and deictic shift theory approach, since
it shares some of the characteristics of Bennetts play, whilst not having some of
the complications.
Our Town is set at the beginning of the twentieth century in a town called
Grovers Corner in New Hampshire, Massachusetts. The initial stage directions
make it clear that in a dramatic performance, there should be no scenery on stage,
and no front curtain. The actors mime the existence of necessary properties, with
the only concession to realism being the use of sound effects (for example, the
clinking of milk bottles as the character of Howie Newsome mimes carrying a
crate of milk). The reader/audiences knowledge of the town comes about in part
through the description of it by the character of the Stage Manager, who acts as
a narrator figure. The effect of using this narrative device is to prevent the real
world deictic fields of the reader/audience from decaying entirely and becoming
unbound. To an audience watching the drama it would appear that the stage manager is not a part of the fictional world, when in fact he is as much a fictional
character and creation of the author as the characters that he himself describes.
This confusion between fiction and reality can be seen in the Stage Managers
first turn:
Stage Manager This play is called Our Town. It was written by Thornton
Wilder; produced and directed by A. . . .(or: produced by A. . . .; directed by
B. . . .). In it you will see Miss C. . . .; Miss D. . . .; Miss E. . . .; and Mr. F. . . .; Mr.
G. . . .; Mr. H. . . .; and many others. The name of the town is Grovers Corner,
New Hampshire just across the Massachusetts line: latitude 42 degrees 40
minutes; longitude 70 degrees 37 minutes. The First Act shows a day in our
town. The day is May 7, 1901. The time is just before dawn.
(Thornton Wilder, Our Town, pp. 34)
It appears that the Stage Manager is a part of the fictional world but aware of the
real world of the theatre-going public. He is clearly aware that what is being presented on stage is purely fictional (This play is called Our Town. It was written by
Thornton Wilder), yet he refers to himself as a part of the fictional world through
his use of the first person plural deictic our (The First Act shows a day in our
town). As the Stage Manager begins his turn I would argue that, although the
reader/audience takes into account the Stage Managers deictic field, their own deictic fields within the real world remain fairly prominent. We have not yet learned
anything about the make-up of the fictional world and as yet we do not know all
the co-ordinates of the Stage Managers deictic centre. However, by the end of the
Stage Managers turn, the reader/audience has learned much more. For example,
we have been given some very explicit deictic coordinates. We know the exact spa-
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tial location of the town that the Stage Manager is describing, even down to its
latitude and longitude. In addition we know the temporal location of events in the
fictional world. And a viewing audience might now have inferred that the Stage
Manager himself is not really a Stage Manager at all, but is a first person narrator who is himself a part of the fictional world he is describing. This information
makes it much easier for us to project our awareness of the Stage Managers deictic
centre and hence interpret the fictional world from his perspective.
As the Stage Manager continues with his turn it becomes easier for the
reader/audience to interpret his deictic field, since the Stage Managers location
in space becomes clearer:
[Stage Manager] [. . .] Well, Id better show you how our town lies. Up here
That is: parallel with the back wall.
is Main Street. Way back there is the railway station; tracks go that way. Polish
Towns across the tracks, and some Canuck families.
Toward the left.
Over there is Congregational Church; across the streets the Presbyterian.
Methodist and Unitarian are over there.
Baptist is down in the holla by the river.
Catholic Church is over beyond the tracks.
Heres the town Hall and Post Office combined; jails in the basement.
Bryan once made a speech from these very steps here.
(Thornton Wilder, Our Town, p. 4)
The information in the stage directions (the italicised lines in the above example)
allows the reader of the play to interpret the pure spatial deictics and locational
deictic expressions that the Stage Manager uses in his dialogue (e.g. here, there,
by the river, beyond the tracks). In performance, of course, the stage directions
would not be accessible to the audience and would instead most likely be realised
through the Stage Manager pointing or moving in the relevant direction. The Stage
Managers use of spatial deictics also allows us to work out the position in the
fictional world of the objects and places he mentions. For example, we know that
the steps must be fairly close to the Stage Manager, since he uses the proximal
spatial deictic these to refer to them (as opposed to the distal those), indicating
that they are close to his deictic centre. We are, then, interpreting the make-up
of the fictional world from the deictic perspective of the Stage Manager. And as
we come to know more about the fictional world, I would argue that the Stage
Managers deictic field becomes primed and increasingly more prominent while
our default deictic field decreases in prominence until it becomes unprimed.
As the play progresses, the Stage Manager introduces a variety of other characters that people the fictional world. For example:
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Stage Manager Here comes Howie Newsome, deliverin the milk.

Following this particular introduction, the character of Howie then strikes up

a conversation with another character, Dr Gibbs, eventually drawing in another
three characters. This particular conversation goes on for 40 turns with no interruption from the Stage Manager, who takes no part in the discussion. Because of
this, I would argue that the Stage Managers deictic field decreases in prominence
(or decays in Galbraiths 1995 terms) until it becomes unprimed. In effect the
reader/audience forgets that this conversation is framed by the Stage Manager, and
the deictic fields of the characters having the conversation become primed, leading the reader/audience to interpret the fictional world from their perspective. For
example, Howie Newsome tells Mrs Gibbs that Docs just comin down the street.
The use of the spatially deictic verb come indicates movement towards Howies deictic centre, and the reader/audience is thus able to infer the position of Howie in
relation to Dr Gibbs. When Howie is speaking, his deictic field will be most prominent in the readers mind. And when another character speaks, their deictic field
will increase in prominence for the reader, whilst Howies will decrease.
After 40 turns of Howie and Dr Gibbs conversation, the Stage Manager cuts
in:
A factory whistle sounds.
[. . .]
Stage Manager Weve got a factory in our town too hear it? Makes blankets.
Cartwrights own it and it brung em a fortune.
The effect of this turn is to once more prime the Stage Managers deictic field and
increase its prominence. The Stage Manager comments on events in the fictional
world, thereby reinforcing the impression that what the reader/audience is being
presented with is one particular perspective.
The play continues in this vein and at the end of the final act the Stage Manager
says:
Hm. . .. Eleven oclock in Grovers Corners. You get a good rest, too. Good
night.
THE END
The effect of this final turn is to trigger the increase in prominence of the
reader/audiences default deictic field. The Stage Manager reminds the audience
of their own deictic field by addressing them directly using the second person
pronoun, and also by reminding them of their own temporal location. When the
Stage Manager says You get a good rest too, Grices (1975) Maxim of Relation al-
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lows us to infer that he means it is late in the evening in the real world too. The
reader/audience is thus reminded of their default deictic field in the real world.
Finally, in the dramatic text the words The End provide the textual cue that unbinds and unprimes the fictional deictic fields, whilst in performance this would
likely be done non-linguistically by, for example, the lowering of a curtain and/or
dimming of the lights.
. Conclusion
In this chapter I have extended the notion of deixis, introduced initially in Chapter two, to take account of recent developments in cognitive deictic theory. I have
shown how Duchan et al.s (1995) model of deictic shift theory provides a means
of uncovering viewpoint effects in dramatic texts that goes beyond attempts to categorise narration in drama. Nevertheless, this theory is not without its problems,
as I have shown. To deal with these I have used concepts from Emmotts (1997)
contextual frame theory to modify the framework proposed by the deictic shift
theorists. I have proposed that movement between deictic fields might be best described using the term shift (and specifying the exact type(s) of shift), whilst also
suggesting that deictic fields can increase or decrease in prominence. I then showed
how this revised model of deictic shift theory can be used analytically by applying
it in an analysis of part of Thornton Wilders play Our Town.
However, Our Town never explicitly depicts the internal point of view of characters, as happens in The Lady in the Van and numerous other dramatic texts. To
accurately analyse The Lady in the Van a means is needed of explaining how internal point of view can be realised in dramatic texts. What also becomes clear when
attempting to apply deictic shift theory analytically is that the major initial shift
that readers make when they pick up a fictional text is to move from the real world
to the fictional world. And within the fictional world each character will have his
or her own default deictic field too. A means is also needed, therefore, of describing how deictic fields relate to the real or fictional worlds of which they are a part.
To this end, in the next chapter I consider how the philosophical notion of possible worlds can assist with this, and how concepts from deictic shift theory can be
mapped on to it.
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Chapter 5
Possible worlds, possible viewpoints
. Introduction
In the previous chapter we began to see how the notion of shifting between different deictic fields explains, in part, how readers are exposed to different points
of view within a text. What we also noticed was that the initial shift that a reader
makes when reading fiction is from the real world into the fictional world of the
text. Segal (1995b) discusses this briefly, noting that there are boundaries between
discourse that refers to real events in the storyworld, and discourse that refers to
subjective events thoughts and perceptions of characters in the world (Segal
1995b: 76). In order to account for how readers are exposed to such subjective
viewpoints, in this chapter I will suggest that, in addition to shifting between particular deictic fields, it is also the case that as a result of linguistic and contextual
triggers, we can move in a similar way between what logicians and narratologists
often refer to as possible worlds. Indeed, the passage from Death of a Salesman that
I analysed in the previous chapter is an example of this, and in this chapter we will
explore this extract in more detail. I will discuss how it is necessary to account not
just for movement between different deictic fields, but also movement between
the deictic fields of whichever possible worlds the reader is exposed to within the
text. Thus, this chapter focuses on possible worlds theory, and how concepts from
deictic shift theory might be mapped on to this theory, as a means of further explicating the way in which readers can be manipulated into experiencing events in
the story world from a variety of perspectives.
I begin by outlining possible worlds theory (originally postulated by Liebniz
1969; see also Doleel 1979; Loux 1979; Ronen 1994; Ryan 1991; Semino 1997) and
its application to literary texts. I then go on to consider how Emmotts (1997) notions of binding and priming, and the concept of prominence, might be applied to
possible worlds theory to explain how it is that readers are made aware of different
worlds within a text. I demonstrate this through textual analysis and suggest that
being exposed to particular characters alternative possible worlds is, in part, what
allows the reader to experience aspects of the story from a particular point of view.
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. The development of possible worlds theory

The notion of possible worlds was adopted by logicians in the 1950s and 60s as a
means of resolving some of the limitations of truth conditional semantics. Semino
(1997: 58) sums up the value of possible worlds theory when she says that it provides a framework within which it is possible to determine the truth-values of
propositions [i.e. whether a proposition is true or false] beyond the constraints
of the actual world. In early work on the logical status of fictional discourse this
was not possible, since fiction was treated as being outside the domain of the actual world. In order to understand the purpose behind the development of possible
worlds theory, it is worth considering for a moment the limitations of a traditional
truth conditional semantic approach to meaning.
.. Limitations of truth conditional semantics
Jaszczolt (2002: 53) explains that in semantics truth means correspondence with
facts, correct descriptions of states and events in the world. This definition of
truth is what is known commonly within semantics as the correspondence theory
of truth (Jaszczolt 2002: 53). This notion of truth assumes that there is a direct
correspondence between statements and the world, and that in order to understand the meaning of a particular sentence we have to know what the world would
need to be like for that sentence to be true. Truth and falsity are therefore central concepts in correspondence theory and the truth or falsity of a proposition
is known as its truth value. In addition, the facts that would have to be the case
in order for a statement to be true are known as truth conditions. Consider the
following example:
1. The President of the United States lives in The White House.
For example 1 to be true, the following truth conditions must be in place:
(i)
(ii)
(iii)
(iv)
There must be a place called the United States.

There must be a person who is President of the United States.
There must be a place called The White House.
The person who is President of the United States must live in The White
House.
In the correspondence theory of truth, unless these truth conditions are in place
(i.e. unless these statements correspond with facts in the actual world) the sentence
cannot be said to be true. At the time of writing this book, these truth conditions are in place in the world that I inhabit and therefore, according to truth
conditional semantics, the sentence is true and thus meaningful. Consider now a
different example:
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Chapter 5. Possible worlds, possible viewpoints
2. The President of the United States lives at 10 Downing Street.

For example 2 to be true, the following truth conditions must be in place:
(i)
(ii)
(iii)
(iv)
There must be a place called the United States.

There must be a person who is President of the United States.
There must be a place called 10 Downing Street.
The person who is President of the United States must live at 10 Downing
Street.
With example 2, the first, second and third truth conditions are in place, but the
fourth one (that the person who is President of the United States must live at 10
Downing Street) is not. Therefore, according to truth conditional semantics, this
sentence must be false and therefore meaningless.
It will be obvious that in calculating the truth values for examples 1 and 2, I
have been referring to the truth conditions that would have to pertain in the actual
world in which we live. However, there is an obvious problem with this approach
when we come to deal with fictional texts. Consider this example:
3. Oberon is the King of the Fairies.
According to traditional truth conditional semantics, for example 3 to be true the
following truth conditions must be in place.
(i)
(ii)
(iii)
(iv)
There must be a person called Oberon.

Fairies must exist.
There must be a King of the Fairies.
The King of the Fairies must be the person called Oberon.
It is pretty obvious that none of these truth conditions are in place in the real
world. However, anyone who has read A Midsummer Nights Dream will understand what example 3 refers to and therefore the sentence clearly has some meaning within the fictional world, despite none of the truth conditions being in place
in the real world. The key to resolving this problem can be found in Lyonss (1977)
definition of truth. Lyons (1977: 168) explains that according to correspondence
theory, a proposition is true if (and only if) it denotes or refers to a state of affairs which actually exists in the world that the proposition purports to describe.
In example 3, the state of affairs referred to (i.e. that Oberon is the King of the
Fairies) does not pertain in the real world, but it does pertain in the story world
of A Midsummer Nights Dream. Therefore, the truth conditions for example 3 are
in place in the world of the text, and the sentence can be said to be true in that
particular context. In order to understand fictional texts, it seems that we have to
extend our notions of truth and falsity beyond the limits of the actual world. This
is illustrated in the following examples:
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4. The Allied Forces won the Second World War.

5. The Axis Forces won the Second World War.
It is likely that most people would agree that the sentence in (4) is true and the
sentence in (5) is false. Note, though, that this is only the case if we are talking
about the real world in which we live. In fiction these notions of truth and falsity
may not necessarily be the case. For example, in Robert Harriss novel Fatherland
(a fictional alternative history of the aftermath of the Second World War) sentence
(4) is false and sentence (5) is true. A more precise definition of the truth-values
of sentences (4) and (5) would be to say that they are true and false respectively
in the actual world, but not necessarily true and false respectively in some other
possible world. Possible worlds theory allows us to account for the truth or falsity
of propositions such as (4) and (5) by providing a variety of alternative contexts
in which particular states of affairs can be said to be true. One particularly comprehensive and descriptively specific account of possible worlds is that proposed
by Ryan (1991), to which I turn next.
. Ryans typology of possible worlds

Ryans (1991) typology of possible worlds suggests that in fiction there is an equivalent of the actual world of everyday discourse, referred to as the textual reference
world (TRW), around which there are various alternative possible worlds (APWs),
which are mental constructs of the fictional characters. Ryan uses the term textual
universe to refer to the image of a system of reality projected by a text (Ryan
1991: vii), and explains that the textual reference world is at the centre of this
textual universe. Ryan (1991: vii) explains that the TRW is the world in which
propositions asserted in the text are to be valued, and the textual realisation of
the TRW is known as the textual actual world (TAW). Ryans typology of possible
worlds can be represented diagrammatically, as in Figure 5.1.
To return to example 5, in Robert Harriss novel Fatherland, the fact that the
Axis Forces were victorious in the Second World War would be true in the TAW
of the novel, but not in the Actual World (AW) in which we live. In contrast, the
notion of the Allied Forces winning the war could only pertain in an APW of one
of the characters in the textual universe of the novel.
If we now consider how the notion of deictic fields relates to Ryans typology
of possible worlds, it is clear that within the TAW there will be a variety of deictic fields, corresponding with the number of characters within the TAW. Shifting
deictic fields within the TAW would result in a change of viewpoint (as, indeed,
shifting between deictic fields in the AW does). Similarly, each APW will also have
a number of deictic fields and, therefore, the potential to represent a variety of dif-
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Figure 5.1 Primary Narrative System in Ryans (1991) typology of possible worlds
ferent viewpoints. The variety of alternative possible worlds is explored in more

detail in the next section.
.. Alternative possible worlds
Ryan (1991: 109ff.) proposes that the following APWs may be part of a fictional
universe:
Knowledge worlds
A knowledge world is comprised of what characters know or believe to be true
in the TAW. For example, in the film Monty Pythons Life of Brian, the eponymous Brian is instructed by his revolutionary friends to prove his commitment
to insurgence by painting the words Romans go home on the side of a Roman
palace. As he is doing this, Brian is caught in the act by two rather unintelligent
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Roman soldiers. Instead of arresting him, the soldiers sneer at his poor command
of Latin and decide to teach him a lesson by insisting that he paint the corrected
version of the phrase one hundred times on the palace walls. Brian is threatened
with mutilation if he fails to complete the task by sunrise, and so, not surprisingly,
he manages to finish the job in the allotted time. As a result, Brian becomes a hero
to his friends. The humour here comes about as a result of the mismatch between
the revolutionaries knowledge worlds and the TAW. The revolutionaries believe
that Brian completed his assigned task out of a desire to express his hatred of the
Romans, not, as is actually the case, because of the threat of physical violence if
he didnt. Brian, of course, has much to gain from this misunderstanding and so
does nothing to bring the revolutionaries knowledge worlds back into accordance
with the TAW.
There is a problem, though, with the category of knowledge world that the Life
of Brian example illustrates. It is clear that what the revolutionaries believe (i.e.
that Brian completed the task as a result of his daring) is actually false. Therefore,
it is difficult to see how their conceptualisation of the event can be said to be true in
their knowledge world. Because of this, we will discard the term knowledge world
and use instead the term belief world, favoured by Semino et al. (1999). Henceforth
I shall use this term instead of Ryans.
In the Life of Brian example, dramatic irony arises as a result of the audience
being aware that the belief worlds of some of the characters are not in accordance
with what actually occurred in the TAW. The following example from Agatha
Christies play The Mousetrap relies for suspense on the audience being led to believe that the characters belief worlds do correspond with the TAW. This extract
comes right at the end of the play:
[Context: Detective Sergeant Trotter has just accused Mollie Ralston, a
schoolteacher, of failing to respond to a letter sent to her by one of her pupils,
Jimmy. Trotter maintains that Mollies failure to act resulted ultimately in
Jimmys murder.]
Mollie Thats not true. I was ill. I went down with pneumonia that very day.
The letter was put aside with others. It was weeks afterwards that I found it
with a lot of other letters. And by then the poor child was dead. . . (Her eyes
close.) Dead dead. . . Waiting for me to do something hoping gradually
losing hope. . . Oh, its haunted me ever since. . . If only Id known. . . Oh its
monstrous that such things should happen.
Trotter (His voice suddenly thick.) Yes, its monstrous. (He takes a revolver out
of his pocket.)
Mollie I thought the police didnt carry revolvers. . . (She suddenly sees Trotters
face, and gasps in horror.)
Trotter The police dont. . . Im not a policeman, Mrs Ralston. You thought I
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was a policeman because I rang up from a call box and said I was speaking
from police headquarters and that Sergeant Trotter was on his way. I cut the
telephone wires before I came to the front door. You know who I am, Mrs
Ralston? Im Georgie Im Jimmys brother, Georgie.
(Agatha Christie, The Mousetrap, p. 362)
Following this extract we realise that Mollies belief world has not corresponded
with the state of affairs in the TAW, and that Trotter, who Mollie and the other
characters believed to be a police detective, is in fact the murderer who has been
trying to avenge the death of his brother.
Prospective extensions of knowledge worlds

Ryans typology of APWs also allows for the possibility of characters hypothesising
about future events in the TAW. She refers to such hypotheses as prospective extensions of knowledge worlds, though, for reasons described above, I prefer to replace
knowledge world with belief world. An example of a belief world can be seen in the
extract below from The Dreaded Batter Pudding Hurler (of Bexhill-on-Sea), an
episode from the absurd radio comedy The Goon Show:
[Context: Minnie Bannister, an ageing spinster, has been struck by a batter
pudding. Neddie Seagoon is speculating on the likelihood of the pudding
hurler attacking again.]
Seagoon [. . .] That night I lay awake in my air-conditioned dustbin thinking
who on earth would want to strike another with a Batter Pudding? Obviously
it wouldnt happen again, so I fell asleep. Nothing much happened that night
except that I was struck by a batter pudding.
(Spike Milligan, The Dreaded Batter Pudding Hurler (of Bexhill-on-Sea),
in Farnes 1997: 25)
In the above extract, Seagoons initial belief that no more batter puddings would be
hurled is indicated by the stretch of free indirect thought Obviously it wouldnt
happen again which can be understood as a prospective extension of Seagoons belief world (see Leech & Short 1981; Short 1996; Semino & Short 2004
for taxonomies of thought presentation). The humour comes about as a result of
Seagoons hypothesis about future events in the TAW being completely wrong.
Obligation worlds
A characters obligation world is composed of his or her commitments and prohibitions, issued either by an external authority or imposed by the character him
or herself. For example, in A Midsummer Nights Dream, Hermia is obliged by her
Father, Egeus, to marry Demetrius. However, Hermia refuses to do so, preferring
instead to elope with Lysander. This action conflicts with the constraints of Her-
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mias obligation world, creating the disequilibrium that leads to the four lovers
(Hermia, Lysander, Demetrius and Helena) becoming lost in the forest which in
turn leads to the magical happenings that are at the centre of the play.
Wish worlds
A characters wish world is composed of his or her desired alternative states that
he or she wishes to be realised in the TAW. These desired alternative states may
be good or bad depending on the moral principles of the character in question.
The following extract comes from Dennis Potters television drama Pennies From
Heaven, set in the 1930s, and reveals one of the wish worlds of the character
of Arthur:
[Context: Arthur and Joans marriage is suffering as a result of their differing attitudes to sex. Arthur feels that Joan starves him of love and affection
while Joan believes that sex for purposes other than procreation is disgusting.
Arthur has just told Joan a story about a man and a woman who, while staying in a hotel, entered the lift and gave the liftman five pounds to stop the lift
between floors and turn his back so they could have sex.]
Joan Thats one of the most dis-gust-ing things Ive ever heard.
Arthur (Voice thickening) I wish I wish
Joan (Freezing) You wish what?
(He makes a peculiar, distressed, hissing noise between his teeth, half way between a whimper and an accusation. Then he shakes his head.)
Arthur Nothing. (Shakes his head again, and again.) Nothing.
(She is looking at him with horrified fascination.)
Joan You wish you were that man, dont you!
Arthur Joan, you dont
Joan (Rising tone) You do! You do yes, you do!
(His face goes blank. Pause.)
Arthur (Solemnly) I wish I could play the piano.
In Arthurs first turn in the above extract he begins to voice a particular desire,
but after Joans prompt he gives up. However, the fact that the conversation so far
has centred around sex means that Joan is able to make a strong inference as to
what Arthurs desired state of affairs would be; in effect, she is aware of what she
believes to be Arthurs wish world. Arthur begins to respond to Joans accusation
but again gives up and instead states his desire to be able to play the piano. The
black humour that arises here comes about as a result of the unlikelihood, given
the preceding conversation, of this really being what Arthur originally intended to
say. As the play progresses, it transpires that Arthurs dissatisfaction is not caused
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entirely by his sexual frustration. In fact, he yearns for the romance that he finds in
the popular songs that he sells, and so it turns out that the wish world he presents
in the final turn of the above extract is not necessarily untrue.
Intention worlds
A characters intention world is composed of his or her plans to change the TAW
in some way. An example of this can be seen in Richard, Duke of Gloucesters
opening monologue of Richard III:
Gloucester
[. . .] Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
I am determind to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,
By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,
To set my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one against the other:
(William Shakespeare, Richard III, 1.1.24)
Gloucesters intention to affect the TAW is seen most obviously in the line, I am
determind to prove a villain, following which he then outlines how he is going
to effect his desired changes. The presentation of Gloucesters intention world is
crucial to our understanding of the conflict that follows in the rest of the play.
.. Fantasy universes
Fantasy universes, in Ryans typology, are more than just satellites of the TAW,
as alternative possible worlds are. They are complete alternative universes which
incorporate characters fantasies, dreams, hallucinations and fiction-making. The
reason that fantasy universes are considered more than just alternative possible
worlds is because for the period of the fantasy, dream or hallucination, characters
believe in the reality of the events they experience. The characters are completely
recentered within their fantasy universe, which mirrors the primary narrative system shown in Figure 5.1 by being composed of an actual fantasy world surrounded
by the private alternative possible worlds of the inhabitants of that actual fantasy
world. This can be seen if we revisit the example from Arthur Millers Death of a
Salesman, already discussed in 3.3.1 and 4.6.2:
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[Context: Willy Loman is talking to his wife Linda and begins to fantasise
about a woman with whom he has had a brief affair whilst away from home
on business.]
Music is heard as behind a scrim, to the left of the house, The Woman, dimly
seen, is dressing.
Willy (with great feeling) Youre the best there is, Linda, youre a pal, you know
that? On the road on the road I want to grab you sometimes and just kiss
the life outa you.
The laughter is loud now, and he moves into a brightening area at the left, where
the woman has come from behind the scrim and is standing, putting on her hat,
looking into a mirror and laughing.
Willy Cause I get so lonely especially when business is bad and theres nobody to talk to. I get the feeling that Ill never sell anything again, that I wont
make a living for you, or a business, a business for the boys. (He talks through
The Womans subsiding laughter! The Woman primps at the mirror.) Theres
so much I want to make for
The Woman Me? You didnt make me, Willy. I picked you.
Willy (pleased) You picked me?
[14 turns omitted]
The Woman bursts out laughing and Lindas laughter blends in. The Woman
disappears into the dark. Now the area at the kitchen table brightens. Linda is
sitting where she was at the kitchen table, but now is mending a pair of her silk
stockings.
Linda You are, Willy. The handsomest man. Youve got no reason to feel that
Willy (coming out of The Womans dimming area and going over to Linda) Ill
make it all up to you, Linda, Ill
(Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman, pp. 14950)
The Woman exists only in Willys fantasy universe. Willys wife, Linda, is unaware
of her presence and there is no indication in Lindas speech that she hears anything
that Willy says to The Woman. The fact that the area on stage where The Woman is
positioned is lit differently to the space around Linda (indicated in the stage directions) also contributes to the sensation that what the reader/audience is exposed
to is Willys fantasy universe.
According to Ryan, any fiction produced by characters also generates a fantasy
universe. For example, Pyramus and Thisbe, the fictional play performed by the
mechanicals in A Midsummer Nights Dream, constitutes a fantasy universe within
the textual actual world of A Midsummer Nights Dream. And as with the TAW and
its satellite worlds, each of the worlds within a fantasy universe will contain nu-
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merous deictic fields, thereby making it possible to interpret the world in question
from a variety of viewpoints.
.. The principle of minimal departure
Included within Ryans (1991) typology of possible worlds in fiction is an attempt
to explain the relationship between the textual actual world and the actual world.
This is termed the principle of minimal departure, and works on the basis that we
expect the TAW to resemble the AW in all respects, unless we are explicitly informed otherwise. Ryan explains that in order for the AW and TAW to resemble
each other completely, certain accessibility relations must pertain between them.
To see how the principle of minimal departure informs our knowledge about
fictional worlds, consider this short extract from The Mystery of the Marie Celeste
(Solved), another episode of Spike Milligans The Goon Show:
[Context: Seagoon is describing a character called Captain Grytpype-Thynne.]
Seagoon So this was the author of a thousand sea sagas. He was a tall vile man
dressed in the naval uniform of a sea-going sailor. Under his left arm he held
a neatly rolled anchor, while with his right he scanned the horizon with a pair
of powerful kippers.
(Spike Milligan, The Mystery of the Marie Celeste (Solved) in Farnes
1997: 66)
Obviously enough, in the actual world anchors cannot be rolled up, nor can kippers be used as binoculars. Accepting the absurdity of the TAW of The Goon
Show means accepting that it does not necessarily have the same properties as the
AW. In the case of much absurdist drama we might expect there to be almost no
accessibility relations between the AW and the TAW.
The principle of minimal departure does not, in and of itself, have immediate
consequences for point of view. However, the sudden absence of accessibility relations between the TAW and the actual world can indicate a shift into an APW, as I
will demonstrate. Before that, however, we can now begin to consider how deictic
shift theory might relate to possible worlds theory and account for some of the
viewpoint effects we notice when we read and watch drama.
. Mapping deictic shifts and possible worlds

The value of considering possible worlds in the analysis of point of view in drama
is that exposure to a characters APW might indicate their viewpoint. In this section I discuss in more detail how readers might become aware of possible worlds
during the course of a text by considering how some of the concepts from possi-
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ble worlds theory relate to deictic shift theory. I also consider how such concepts
might be modified to fit within the reworkings of deictic shift theory proposed in
the previous chapter. I then show how exposure to a characters APW can result in
exposure to their viewpoint.
.. Recentering
The relationship between possible worlds theory and deictic shift theory can be
seen initially by mapping Ryans (1991) notion of recentering onto the concept,
from deictic shift theory, of the first shift into a fictional world as we begin to read.
Ryan (1991) explains the concept of recentering as follows:
For the duration of our immersion in a work of fiction, the realm of possibilities [. . .] is recentered around the sphere which the narrator presents as the
actual world. This recentering pushes the reader into a new system of actuality
and possibility. As a traveller to this system, the reader of fiction discovers not
only a new actual world, but a variety of APWs revolving around it. Just as we
manipulate possible worlds through mental operations, so do the inhabitants
of fictional universes: their actual world is reflected in their knowledge and beliefs, corrected in their wishes, replaced by a new reality in their dreams and
hallucinations. Through counterfactual thinking they reflect on how things
might have been, through plans and projections they contemplate things that
still have a chance to be, and through the act of making up fictional stories
they recenter their universe into what is for them a second-order, and for us a
third-order, system of reality.
(Ryan 1991: 22)
The act of recentering is the possible worlds theory equivalent of shifting from the
real world to the fictional world of the text for the first time. The term recentering
seems to refer to the same action as the deictic shift theory term PUSH. Indeed,
Ryan even uses the word push, describing how recentering pushes the reader into
a new system of actuality and possibility. If we continue this mapping between
deictic shift theory and possible worlds theory, once within this new system of
actuality and possibility (Ryan 1991: 22) the reader is forced to abandon his or
her egocentric interpretation of deictic terms in order to make possible the shifts
between deictic fields instantiated in the text. The use of the term push is, of course,
purely metaphorical, and it is possible to think of the notion of recentering as
being a cognitive activity that equates to the gradual decrease in prominence of
our default deictic field as we become more involved in a fictional narrative. Thus
the notion of recentering fits within the modified version of deictic shift theory
introduced in the previous chapter. What I am arguing in this chapter is that as
well as becoming aware of various different deictic fields over the course of a text,
readers also become aware of the various APWs of fictional characters. These can
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be bound or unbound and primed or unprimed and made more or less prominent
in the same way that deictic fields can be. And when a reader becomes aware of
a primed and prominent APW, in effect, they are being exposed to a particular
characters point of view within the fictional world.
As I mentioned in 5.3 above, each APW will also have a deictic centre, and
therefore it should also be possible to shift between the deictic fields of an alternative possible world (this is demonstrated in the analysis of The Lady in the Van in
7.3 of Chapter seven).
.. Increasing and decreasing the prominence of possible worlds
Once readers are recentered in a work of fiction, as the story progresses they will
be exposed to a variety of alternative possible worlds. Sometimes we are made
aware of these through what the characters themselves say. Consider the following
example, from Pennies From Heaven:
[Context: By chance, Arthur, a travelling salesman, has bumped into Eileen
with whom he had a brief affair a short time ago. Eileen is down on her luck
and has succumbed to prostitution in an effort to earn some money. Arthur
and Eileen are bemoaning their fate.]
Arthur I want to (He stops.) I know it sounds daft Eileen but I want to
live in a world where the songs is (Again he stops, and looks at her, as though
for help.)
Eileen Where the songs come true.
Arthur Yes.
In Arthurs first turn, the first person pronoun and the verb want indicate that the
non-finite clause that follows constitutes the expression of his wish world. From
this we can infer something of Arthurs conceptual point of view, part of this being
that he dislikes what Eileen is doing to earn a living.
When characters express their APWs, as in the above example, this can give
the reader/audience some insight into their thoughts and feelings. What we are
seeing here is characters expressing their own APWs at the character to character level of Shorts (1996) discourse structure diagram, and this is very much an
external view of their thoughts, feelings and perception. This is much like what
happens in ordinary conversation. Of more interest stylistically are those instances
where the APW of a particular character is cued by narrative devices (for example, by narrative elements in the stage directions), and in such cases we often get
a much more explicit presentation of a characters viewpoint. We can see how this
might work if we consider again the extract from Death of a Salesman, originally
discussed in 3.3.1 and 4.6.2, and analysed further in 5.3.2. In that extract Willys
fantasy universe was evoked in a number of ways. It is possible to identify the nu-
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merous triggers that inform the reader/audience that this particular scenario takes
place not in the TAW but in Willys fantasy universe.
First of all the initial stage direction of the extract tells us that the character of
The Woman can be seen dressing, to the left of the house. This implies that The
Woman is not in the house, and indeed there has been no indication of this in the
immediately preceding text, or of the fact that Willys wife Linda is aware of her. It
also raises the possibility that we are being presented with two different scenes occurring simultaneously within the TAW. The second stage direction then informs
the reader/audience that Willy moves into a brightening area at the left of the
stage. This movement foregrounds the character of Willy, since he is the only character to move into the illuminated area (notice too how this foregrounding would
also be made literal in a performance of the play, with the lighting effect making
Willy stand out on the stage). The fact that Willy is now inhabiting the same area
of the stage as The Woman implies that the two characters are (metaphorically) in
the same physical space within the TAW, and this is arguably the first indication
that our viewing position is being shifted from the TAW and into an APW or fantasy universe. This is because the principle of minimal departure states that, unless
we are informed otherwise, we expect the TAW to resemble the actual world in
all respects. However, Willys inhabiting the same physical space as The Woman is
incompatible with the laws of the TAW (as we know them to be) if he is also in
the same physical space as Linda, which is the case at the beginning of the scene. It
would seem that the stated lighting effect and the obvious breaking of accessibility
relations between the AW and the TAW act as triggers to decrease the prominence
of the TAW and prime some other domain.
Willy then continues to speak to Linda. We know that his speech is addressed
to her for two reasons. Firstly, the stage direction telling us that He talks through
The Womans subsiding laughter (my italics) would suggest that Willy is unaware
of this sound (it may not necessarily exist in the TAW and might simply be part
of Willys memories), and hence unaware at this point of The Woman. Secondly,
since Willys previous speech was addressed to Linda, and because no other character is present in the non-illuminated part of the stage, pragmatically we do not
expect a change of addressee. However, Willys speech is then interrupted (indicated graphologically by the hyphen at the end of his turn) and the interruption
comes from The Woman. The fact that The Woman addresses Willy (indicated
by her use of the vocative) confirms the notion that this action must be happening in some other domain to the TAW. That this is Willys fantasy universe rather
than one of his APWs seems likely given that he is able to talk to both Linda and
The Woman, thus breaking the compatibility laws of the textual universe. It seems,
then, that the scene with The Woman is simply a fantasy occurrence of Willys.
The decrease in prominence of Willys fantasy universe is triggered for
the reader/audience by the stage direction telling us that the sound of Lindas
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laughter blends in to the sound of The Woman laughing. The fact that the
reader/audiences attention is being drawn again to the TAW is further signalled
by the stage direction indicating a change in lighting the area of the stage where
The Woman is located is darkened while the area around the kitchen table is made
brighter, thus foregrounding the part of the stage that we know to represent the
TAW. This has the effect of increasing the prominence of the TAW and decreasing
the prominence of Willys fantasy universe until finally it is no longer represented
on stage and is, in effect, unprimed.
Effectively, the presentation of Willys fantasy universe to the reader/audience
gives us a direct insight into his conceptual point of view of events. In this particular scenario, for instance, Willys wife Linda is backgrounded and The Woman
is foregrounded. The fact that this takes place within Willys fantasy universe suggests that at this point in the play, The Woman is more prominent than Linda in
Willys mind. The increase in prominence of Willys fantasy universe changes the
viewpoint from a third person perspective to a more restricted point of view. The
narration inherent in the stage directions changes from being an omniscient narration (albeit with a focus on Willy) to generating an overt presentation of Willys
cognitive state (in Simpsons 1993 terms, Willy might be said to be the reflector of
the fiction). It is clear, then, that decreasing the prominence of the TAW whilst increasing the prominence of Willys fantasy universe is one of the means by which
Willys point of view is realised and made evident. It would also seem to be the
case that the changing prominence of possible worlds are what literary critics are
reacting to when they assert that Willys viewpoint is predominant throughout the
play. Hadomi (1988: 157), for example, maintains that Not only is Willy Loman
the chief character of the play but it is primarily from his psychological perspective
that the plays dramatic action derives its meaning.
The triggers that I have identified in the extract from Death of a Salesman
discussed above work to both increase and decrease the prominence of the TAW
and Willy Lomans fantasy universe for the reader/audience. In a performance of
the play, the theatrical effects such as the lighting and the music would prime the
fantasy universe, and the first turn from The Woman would act as a trigger to
increase the prominence of this. The laughter that comes from Linda then works
to once more increase the prominence of the TAW, diverting the attention of both
Willy and the reader/audience from the fantasy universe and back to the TAW. The
stage directions thus influence the extent to which the reader/audience is exposed
to particular viewpoints within the play. Since we are given no access to the APWs
of the other characters in the play (except through the speech of the characters
themselves at the character to character discourse level), it would seem that in
Death of a Salesman the prominent point of view is that of Willy Loman.
Exposure to fantasy universes such as that described above is becoming increasingly common in modern drama, particularly in film and television. Ex-
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amples can be found in Bill Lawrences sit-com Scrubs, produced by NBC and
Touchstone Television, the BBCs Cold Feet and Fox Televisions Ally McBeal. A
particularly good example of this technique occurs in Nancy Meyers screenplay
for the 1991 film Father of the Bride:
[Context: George Banks is an average American father. His daughter Annie,
22, has recently returned from studying in Italy and has just announced that
she is getting married to an American whom she met there.]
George Im sorry. What did you say?
Little Annie Dad, I met a man in Rome. And hes wonderful and brilliant, and
were getting married.
Annie Mom, whats he doing?
Nina George? George? George? What is it?
George Well. . .this is. . .this is ridiculous! Youre too young to get married!
(Nancy Meyer, Father of the Bride, 1991)
In the above extract the turn belonging to Little Annie constitutes Georges point
of view of what Annie has just told him. That Little Annies turn actually occurs within Georges fantasy universe is suggested in the script by the grammatical
structure of her dialogue, since multiple co-ordination using the conjunction and
is prototypical of childrens speech, thus suggesting that this line is spoken by Annie as a child. This, combined with the fact that the adult Annie has already told her
family in her previous turn that she is getting married, suggests that Little Annies
turn is simply Georges perception of what Annie has just told him. This is indicated in the film by the camera taking up Georges perceptual point of view and a
child taking the part of Annie, rather than the actress playing the adult character.
In the film, the priming of Georges fantasy universe is triggered by the change of
camera position to reflect his point of view. However, in the text, the trigger for
the priming would seem to be the grammatical structure of Little Annies speech,
coupled with the change in character name from Annie to Little Annie.
Ryan (1991) explains that fantasy universes also incorporate characters
dreams which, as we have seen, Groff (1959) claims represent a limited point of
view, for what we see on the stage exists only in the consciousness of the dreamer
(Groff 1959: 277). Although, Groff s assertions about dreams relate mainly to performance, it is true that presenting a characters dreams in a dramatic text does in
some way reflect their cognitive state. This can be seen in the following dream
sequence from Thomas Murphys play A Crucial Week in the Life of a Grocers
Assistant:
A spot of unreal (but beautiful) light on John Joe, who is sitting up in bed,
arms akimbo, delighted in this dream of his new address. He sits, not daring
to move anything but his eyes, in case a movement should dispel the new sur-
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roundings. The speech is whispered, urgent, swift, rhythmic, without pause, as if

unpunctuated; a delighted racing mind.
John Joe And how are you now, John Joe? Very well thank you. And how
do you like England? Very well thank you. But its America. Very well thank
you. Your address? What? Your address Oh! Your address Yes. Two-twotwo A, Tottenham Court Road, Madison Square Gardens, Lower Edgebaston,
Upper Fifth Avenue, Camden Town, U.S.A., S.W.6.
(Thomas Murphy, A Crucial Week in the Life of a Grocers Assistant, p. 36)
The stage directions indicate that the lighting effect in this scene should be unreal,
which, for a viewing audience, would prime the fantasy universe of the character
of John Joe, especially since this lighting technique has been used to indicate all
the dream sequences in the play prior to this one. The prominence of the fantasy universe is increased by the propositional content of John Joes speech. By
referring to himself in the questions he asks it appears that John Joe is imitating
an interviewer asking him a series of questions. However, John Joes answers do
not always conform to our expectations. For instance, his reply to the assertion
But its America is exactly the same as to the previous two questions (Very well
thank you) and thus does not make sense. Also, in giving his address he mixes up
English and American elements resulting in an address that is nonsensical. For example he uses both American and English street names (Tottenham Court Road
and Upper Fifth Avenue) and despite including USA in the address, ends it with
an English postcode (SW6). Such confusion is typical of the state of dreaming
and hence the playwright is able to convey the cognitive state of John Joe in the
midst of his dream. This is much like the internal point of view discussed above in
the extract from Death of a Salesman.
Point of view effects similar to those described in this chapter can also be found
in The Lady in the Van, where the APWs of Alan Bennett 1, Alan Bennett 2 and
Miss Shepherd are revealed, thus exposing their point of view at various points in
the play. The incidences are discussed in detail in the analysis in Chapter seven.
. Conclusion
In this chapter I have attempted to show how exposure to the alternative possible
worlds of fictional characters can reveal their points of view. I have suggested that
the way in which readers and audiences become aware of these alternative possible
worlds is similar to the means by which fictional deictic fields are introduced
notably by priming and the subsequent increasing of prominence. Within each
possible world can be any number of deictic fields, allowing for the possibility
of interpreting that world from a particular viewpoint. However, before I bring
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together the frameworks from this and the previous chapter in a full analysis of
point of view in The Lady in the Van, I want to introduce one further concept that
I believe is important in the analysis of viewpoint, and which has special relevance
to Bennetts play. This is the issue of mind style (introduced briefly in Chapter two,
Section 2.5.3). The relevance of this to point of view lies with the fact that the way
in which characters construct reality will clearly have an effect on their view of the
world. This will be the focus of the next chapter.
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Chapter 6
Logic, reality and mind style
. Introduction
The previous two chapters have concentrated on developing theoretical models to
explain the way in which readers are exposed to the viewpoints of particular characters in dramatic texts as they read. In doing this I have focused on explaining
how readers are made more or less aware of particular points of view, both perceptual and conceptual, using insights from deictic shift theory, contextual frame
theory and possible worlds theory. In this chapter I want to look in more detail at
the linguistic construction of individual viewpoints, focusing particularly on the
idiosyncrasies of the viewpoint of one character from The Lady in the Van, Miss
Shepherd. Doing this allows us to move from a general account of how viewpoints
are manifested in dramatic texts to a specific account of how one particular point
of view is constructed. In particular, I discuss the relationship between point of
view and the concept of mind style (Fowler 1977, 1996), introduced briefly in 2.5.3,
and I suggest that one of the ways in which a deviant mind style can be indicated is
via the consistent use of flawed inductive logic. I demonstrate how this works with
reference to the mind style that Miss Shepherd exhibits throughout The Lady in the
Van. Miss Shepherd has some odd assumptions about how the world works and
throughout the play she puts forward some very strange arguments. As a result of
this we gradually build up a picture of what appears to be a deviant mind style. In
order to explain this I draw on concepts from philosophical logic, and introduce
the notion of paradigms of reality (Harris 1984; see also Archer 2002, 2003). However, despite the oddities of some of Miss Shepherds assumptions and arguments,
there are occasions where it is difficult to know whether her deviant use of inductive logic is a genuine cognitive impairment or simply a result of her trying to
deflect criticism. Although I argue that the former seems most likely, my analysis
highlights this ambiguity as a possible weakness of the notion of mind style.
. Defining mind style

As I briefly explained in Section 2.5.3, the term mind style was introduced by
Fowler (1977) to describe the way in which particular linguistic features of a text
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can project the cognitive traits of specific characters and/or narrators, and reflect the way that they conceptualise and make sense of the world around them.
Fowler developed the notion of mind style from Hallidays (1971) work on transitivity patterns in texts. Halliday famously examined William Goldings novel The
Inheritors, suggesting that the syntactic patterns in parts of the text were indicative of the way in which the primitive characters in the novel conceptualised the
world around them. For example, Halliday argued that Goldings use of intransitive structures where a transitive construction would be the norm in standard
English reflected the characters lack of awareness of the concept of cause and
effect (see Black 1993; Hoover 1999 for further analyses of mind style in The Inheritors). Similarly, in her analysis of the character Benjy in William Faulkners The
Sound and the Fury, Bockting (1994a) suggests that Benjys use of transitive verbs
as if they were intransitive reflects his lack of awareness of the purpose of the particular actions he describes. More recently, Semino and Swindlehurst (1996) and
Semino (2002) have looked at how a particular mind style can be created through
the use of certain conceptual metaphors. Semino and Swindlehurst (1996) discuss the mind style of Bromden in Ken Keseys novel One Flew Over The Cuckoos
Nest, suggesting that Bromdens mechanistic world view comes about in part as
a result of his adoption of the conceptual metaphor people are machines (see
Lakoff & Johnson 1980; Johnson 1987; Lakoff & Turner 1989 for an overview of
cognitive metaphor theory, and Crisp 2002; Steen 2002; Semino et al. forthcoming, for applications and critiques of the theory). Semino (2002) applies cognitive
metaphor theory in analyses of extracts from Louis De Berniress novel Captain
Corellis Mandolin and John Fowless novel The Collector, again using it to uncover
the deviant mind styles of particular characters.
As I said in 6.1, what I want to suggest in this chapter is that a further indicator
of a particular mind style might be a characters idiosyncratic use of inductive
logic. I demonstrate this through an analysis of the speech of Miss Shepherd in
The Lady in the Van. However, before doing this it is necessary to first of all make
clear the distinction between the concept of mind style and Fowlers notion of
ideological point of view.
.. World view, ideological point of view and mind style
When Fowler employed the term mind style in his book Linguistic Criticism
(1996 [1986]) he used it as a synonym for the terms world view and ideological
point of view:
[Mind style is] the world-view of an author, or a narrator, or a character,
constituted by the ideational structure of the text. From now on I shall prefer
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F: LAL306.tex / p.3 (163-224)
Chapter 6. Logic, reality and mind style
this term to the cumbersome point of view on the ideological plane [. . .]: the
notions are equivalent.
(Fowler 1996: 21)
However, Semino (2002: 96) has pointed out that having three different terms to
refer to the same phenomenon seems somewhat unwieldy. Moreover, as Semino
(2002: 96) points out, Fowlers usage of the terms mind style, world view and ideological point of view does appear to endow each with a slightly different meaning
to the others. It would seem, then, that Fowlers use of mind style as a synonym
for world view and ideological point of view misses some of the nuances of meaning that arise from the different terms. For this reason, Semino (2002) suggests
that it is more useful to consider each of the three terms that Fowler uses to have
its own independent meaning. Semino (2002) uses world view as a general term
to refer to the overall view of reality of the text actual world (Ryan 1991)
conveyed by the language of a text (or part of a text). She then suggests that ideological point of view and mind style be used to capture different aspects of world
view. She uses ideological point of view to capture those aspects of world views
that are social, cultural, religious or political in origin, and which an individual is
likely to share with others belonging to similar social, cultural, religious or political groups (Semino 2002: 97). The term mind style, on the other hand, is used by
Semino to capture those aspects of world views that are primarily personal and
cognitive in origin, and which are peculiar to a particular individual, or common
to people who have the same cognitive characteristics (for example as a result of a
similar mental illness or of a shared stage of cognitive development, as in the case
of young children) (Semino 2002: 97). For the most part I agree with Seminos
distinctions, though I would like to make some minor qualifications. As I said in
2.5.7, I prefer to use Chatmans (1978) term conceptual point of view to ideological
point of view. I believe that conceptual point of view also works well as fairly neutral
term for metaphorical viewpoint. This, though, is merely a terminological quibble. The more significant qualification that I wish to add to Seminos proposal is
to emphasise that both the terms conceptual point of view (or Seminos preferred
ideological point of view) and mind style should be understood as heuristic notions
only. In practice it is impossible to separate these concepts clearly from one another (just as it is impossible to separate perceptual point of view completely from
conceptual point of view). However, these are helpful terms to have in order to talk
sensibly about the particular aspects of viewpoint to which they refer.
The heuristic quality of the term mind style can be seen most clearly if we
consider Leech and Shorts (1981) discussion of the concept. Leech and Short
(1981: 188) point out that there is no kind of writing that can be regarded as perfectly neutral and objective and use this as the basis for their suggestion that the
notion of mind style might be seen as a cline, moving from mind styles which easily strike a reader as natural and uncontrived [. . .] to those which clearly impose
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F: LAL306.tex / p.4 (224-279)
an unorthodox conception of the fictional world (Leech and Short 1981: 188
9). It follows from this that the mind styles likely to be most noticeable and
interesting interpretatively are those which in some way deviate from normal assumptions. Leech and Short (1981) use an extract from Faulkners The Sound and
the Fury to illustrate a particularly unusual mind style. The following brief extract
from Faulkners novel shows well how particular linguistic choices can indicate an
abnormal mind style:
Through the fence between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.
They were coming toward where the flag was and I went along the fence.
Luster was hunting in the grass by the flower tree. They took the flag out, and
they were hitting. Then they put the flag back and they went to the table, and
he hit and the other hit.
(William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury, p. 3)
Benjy, the narrator in the above extract, is mentally retarded, and his odd perception of the game of golf that he is watching is reflected in a series of unusual
linguistic choices. For example, at no point does Benjy use specific golfing terminology to describe what he sees (for instance, he uses table rather than tee). In
addition, he uses the transitive verb hit as though it is intransitive, and as a result of this it seems that Benjy does not understand what the golfers are hitting or
why. This is only a cursory analysis of the passage (see Leech & Short 1981: 2047;
Fowler 1986 for an in-depth commentary, and Bockting 1990, 1994a, b for analyses of mind style in The Sound and the Fury and the work of Faulkner in general)
but it does highlight how particular linguistic choices can combine to create the
impression of a nave, childlike mind, which the reader is then able to associate
with Benjys mental affliction. What becomes apparent as the passage progresses is
that it is the cumulative effect of these linguistic choices that leads to the creation
of a deviant mind style. Indeed, consistency is crucial to the creation of mind style
effects, as Fowler (1977) points out in his original definition of mind style:
Cumulatively, consistent structural options, agreeing in cutting the presented
world to one pattern or another, give rise to an impression of a world view,
what I shall call a mind style.
(Fowler 1977: 76)
I propose in the following section that the consistency of Miss Shepherds flawed
use of logic suggests a deviant mind style rather than simple online processing
errors on her part.
. Logic and mind style

Miss Shepherds first meeting with AB1 gives us an indication of the kind of logical
leaps that she frequently makes:
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F: LAL306.tex / p.5 (279-342)
[Context: Miss Shepherd is looking for someone to help her push her van
when she sees AB1 for the first time.]
[15] Miss Shepherd Youre looking up at the cross. Youre not St John, are
you?
Miss Shepherd seems to think that simply by virtue of AB1 looking up at the cross,
the possibility exists that he may be St John. Of course, there is nothing inherent
in the action of looking up at a cross that would suggest this, but Miss Shepherd
appears to assume that there is. The possibility that Miss Shepherd may be making a joke to break the ice seems unlikely given that, in turn 17, she specifies more
precisely who she means by St John (The disciple whom Jesus loved), and then
accuses AB1 of being silly when he jokingly asks whether she has put holy oil in
the van. She also assumes it would be possible to bump into St John in the street,
regardless of the fact that he is a saint and has been dead for over two thousand
years. The oddity in Miss Shepherds speech seems to arise out of an imperfect
grasp of the workings of logic. However, this is not to say that Miss Shepherd is
entirely illogical. Indeed, she attempts to support many of her arguments by engaging in what she perceives to be logical reasoning. In fact, what appears to be the
case is that Miss Shepherd does not fully understand how logical arguments are
constructed. This can be seen if we examine some fundamental concepts in logic.
.. Deductive and inductive logic
Consider the following two arguments:
1. All lecturers are lazy. Dan is a lecturer. Therefore Dan is lazy.
2. All lecturers are lazy. Dan is not a lecturer. Therefore Dan is not lazy.
Argument 1 consists of two premises (All lecturers are lazy and Dan is a lecturer)
and a conclusion (Therefore Dan is lazy). In the case of argument 1, the conclusion follows from, or is logically implied by, the premises that is, if the premises
are true then we can be sure that the conclusion will also be true. This is what logicians refer to as a logically valid inference. In logical terms, then, argument 1 is a
valid argument.
Argument 2, on the other hand, is an invalid argument. Again it consists of
two premises (All lecturers are lazy and Dan is not a lecturer) and a conclusion
(Therefore Dan is not lazy), but this time the conclusion does not follow logically
from the premises. Even if the premises were true we could still not be certain
that the conclusion would also be true. Just because Dan is not a lecturer does
not mean that he is not lazy. It may be the case that the conclusion is true but
we cannot infer this simply by knowing that the premises are true. Argument 2
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F: LAL306.tex / p.6 (342-413)
is therefore not a valid argument but is instead valid only with a greater or lesser
degree of probability (Allwood et al. 1977: 15).
These two arguments represent two different types of logic, referred to by logicians as deductive and inductive logic. Priest (2000: 111) explains that an inference
is deductively valid when the premisses [sic] cannot be true without the conclusion also being true. He describes an inductively valid inference, on the other hand,
as one where the premises provide only some reasonable ground for the conclusion (Priest 2000: 112; my emphasis). Argument 1 above is an example of deductive
logic while argument 2 is an instance of inductive logic. These basic concepts are
important when it comes to analysing Miss Shepherds mind style.
As Priest (2000: 4) points out, we use inductive logic all the time. For example, trying to work out why your car wont start involves inductive reasoning, as
does trying to understand why your computer has crashed. And it is through an
analysis of Miss Shepherds inductive reasoning abilities that we are better able to
understand how her particular mind style operates.
.. Logic, mind style and Miss Shepherd
Here is another example of Miss Shepherds flawed use of inductive logic:
[Context: Miss Shepherd is attempting to sell AB1 one of the political pamphlets that she has written.]
[68] AB1 It says in the pamphlet St Francis hurled money from him.
[69] Miss Shepherd Yes, but he was a saint. He could afford to.
In logical terms, turn 69 consists of a premise and a conclusion:

Premise St Francis was a saint.
Conclusion Therefore he could afford to hurl money from him.
It is unclear in the above argument whether Miss Shepherd is assuming that St
Francis had an excess amount of money to begin with (enough to be able to hurl
it from him) or that he was spiritually fulfilled enough not to feel the need for
money. For the majority of people the latter explanation probably makes the most
sense, but even so, this does not make the argument deductively valid. This kind
of argument relies on inductive logic. If Miss Shepherd means that St Francis was
likely not to feel the need for money on account of being fulfilled spiritually, then
the argument has a fairly high probability of being inductively valid. However, if she
is assuming that St Francis was financially rich enough to be able to hurl money
from him then the likelihood of the argument being inductively valid is very low.
I would argue that this latter interpretation is the one that Miss Shepherd makes.
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F: LAL306.tex / p.7 (413-486)
This is supported by the error that she makes in her reference to St Francis. She
is seemingly unaware that canonisation can only occur after the person in questions death, making the mistake of assuming that St Francis was a saint during his
lifetime. The oddity of Miss Shepherds argument is made greater by the fact that
she presents it as if it were deductively valid; she does not hedge her statement.
This creates the effect of Miss Shepherd appearing to be entirely confident in her
assertions.
As can be seen in the above example, Miss Shepherd appears not to be able to
judge the inductive validity of the conclusions that she comes to. This also appears
to be the case in the first example that we looked at in 6.3:
you?
Here again the conclusion that Miss Shepherd arrives at is not an inductively valid
inference. Although the premise (Youre looking up at the cross) is true, the conclusion (i.e. therefore you may be St John) does not follow from this. Admittedly,
Miss Shepherd expresses some degree of doubt, indicated by the negative proposition, but the fact remains that any normal person would not even need to ask this
question (unless, of course, the question was asked as a joke, and the possibility
that Miss Shepherd might be doing this has already been discounted). Again, Miss
Shepherd appears to jump unreasonably to conclusions on the basis of little evidence and odd assumptions; St John is dead and could only come back to earth via
an (improbable) intervention by God. This hypothesis, of course, assumes a belief
in God. For anyone who does not believe in God, the likelihood of St John returning to earth is nil. In effect, Miss Shepherd seems unable to judge the probability
of the conclusions that she comes to, and this would seem to be indicative of an
unusual mind style.
Since Fowler (1977: 76) makes the point that for mind styles to be classed as
such they must be exhibited consistently across the course of a text, it is worth
looking at a longer extract from The Lady in the Van. The following extract comes
from Act One of the play and is part of a particularly lengthy conversation between
AB1 and Miss Shepherd:
[Context: Miss Shepherd has been talking about the time she spent studying
in France during the Second World War.]
[248] AB1 But what? What were you studying?
[249] Miss Shepherd Music. The pianoforte, possibly. Have you got an old
pan scrub? Im thinking of painting the van. One of those little mop things
they use to wash dishes with would do.
[250] AB1 How about a brush?
[251] Miss Shepherd Ive got a brush. This is for the first coat.
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F: LAL306.tex / p.8 (486-547)
[252] AB2 She moves slowly round her mobile home thoughtfully touching
up the rust patches, looking in her long dress and sun hat much as Vanessa
Bell would have looked had she gone in for painting Bedford vans.
[253] AB1 What kind of paint are you using?
[254] Miss Shepherd The shade is crushed mimosa.
[255] AB1 But its gloss paint. You want car enamel.
[256] Miss Shepherd Dont tell me about paint. I was in the infants school. I
won a prize for painting.
[257] AB1 But its all lumps. Youve got to mix it.
[258] Miss Shepherd I have mixed it, only I went and got some Madeira cake
in it.
[259] AB2 Cake or no cake, all Miss Shepherds vehicles ended up looking as
if theyd been given a coat of badly made custard or plastered with scrambled
egg. Still, there were few occasions on which one saw her genuinely happy and
one of these was when she was putting paint on, which she applied as Monet
might have done . . . and in much the same tones . . . standing back to judge
the effect of each brush stroke.
The first unusual aspect of Miss Shepherds speech comes just before the abrupt
topic change that occurs in sentence 3 of turn 249. Miss Shepherd has been talking about the time she spent in France during the war, and how she had studied
there. In turn 248 AB1 asks her what she studied. Miss Shepherd replies, saying
Music, but what follows is odd. She says, The pianoforte possibly. It is the adverb possibly that is unusual here, since this indicates uncertainty on the part of
Miss Shepherd as to whether she did actually study the piano. There are several
possibilities here, as to why she chooses to use the word possibly:
1. It is an idiosyncratic use. Miss Shepherd uses the word regularly throughout
the play, often to odd effect, as in turn 249.
2. Miss Shepherd remembers studying music but cannot remember if it was the
piano or some other instrument that she was learning to play.
3. Miss Shepherd does not want to either remember or talk about the time she
spent studying the piano, and thus uses the word possibly as a means of being
vague about this period of her life. Effectively she is breaking the Maxim of
Manner (Grice 1975) though it is difficult to know whether her intention is to
produce a flout or a violation.
Explanation 2 is unlikely since Miss Shepherd talks lucidly about her time in Paris
to AB1, and it is thus improbable that she should forget such an important detail
as what instrument she studied whilst living there. Evidence from the text would
instead suggest that a combination of points 1 and 3 explains Miss Shepherds unusual choice of word. It is certainly true that the word possibly is an idiosyncrasy
of her speech, though this idiosyncrasy must have developed from somewhere and
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is likely to reflect particular facets of her character. I carried out a keyword analysis of Miss Shepherds speech using the Wordsmith Tools concordancing package
(Scott 1999). I compared Miss Shepherds speech against a reference corpus consisting of the rest of the dialogue in the play, and found that the adverb possibly
appears second (after Mr) in the list of Miss Shepherds positive keywords (i.e.
words that are used more frequently than is to be expected statistically), with a
keyness score of 41.1. Interestingly, Miss Shepherds third keyword is the modal
verb may, which supports the analysis of her as a character unwilling to commit
to any proposition. If the explanation for her usage of possibly is to maintain an
air of vagueness around everything she says, and in the case above to avoid talking
specifically about this period of her life, then this is substantiated by the abrupt
topic change that follows this statement. Seemingly out of the blue, Miss Shepherd
asks AB1, Have you got an old pan scrub? Im thinking of painting the van. The
implicature generated by this flout of the Maxim of Relation is that Miss Shepherd
does not want to talk further about France or music. We might infer then that this
is a sensitive topic for her, and indeed, it turns out later on that this is the case.
In turn 891 Miss Shepherd explains that a priest instructed her to give up playing
the piano, on the basis that her love of performing was just another vent the devil
could creep through.
It is, then, possible to explain the abrupt topic change in the first three sentences of turn 249. It may be that Miss Shepherd simply uses odd assumptions and
arguments as a tactical means of avoiding particular topics of conversation. However, it is rather more difficult to provide a reason for Miss Shepherds exposition
following the topic change to painting, and because of this it seems more likely
that Miss Shepherd displays an abnormal mind style. Miss Shepherd asks AB1 for
an old pan scrub, and adds that she is thinking of painting the van. AB1 infers,
most likely via the Maxim of Relation, that Miss Shepherd wants to use the pan
scrub to do this, and says, How about a brush?. To this, Miss Shepherd replies,
Ive got a brush. This is for the first coat. The assumption inherent in this statement is that whilst a brush might be perfectly adequate for painting a second coat,
it is not suitable for the application of a first one. And presumably, by asking for a
pan scrub Miss Shepherd believes that this item is. A pan scrub might be a potential alternative if a paintbrush was not available, but AB1 does offer Miss Shepherd
a brush, and the fact that she implicitly rejects the offer is indicative of her strange
assumptions concerning what is appropriate. There is also an issue concerning
Miss Shepherds equation of a pan scrub with one of those little mop things they
use to wash dishes with. Her understanding of what a pan scrub is is clearly flawed
(a pan scrub is an abrasive cloth, not a soft dish mop), and part of the absurdity of
Miss Shepherd asking for a pan scrub to paint the van with might be attributed to
this fact.
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F: LAL306.tex / p.10 (582-629)
Following this, in turn 252 AB2 describes Miss Shepherd painting the van.
The inference we make here is that Alan Bennett has given her the type of dish
mop she wanted. The narration here, then, effectively moves the play on to avoid
having to portray the actual handing over of a dish mop, which presumably is not
a significant factor in the development of the story. This piece of narration also
reveals something of AB2s conceptual point of view of Miss Shepherd.
We can note several instances of evaluative lexis in AB2s narration in turn
252. He notes that Miss Shepherd thoughtfully paints over the rust patches, and
compares her to the artist Vanessa Bell (the sister of the novelist Virginia Woolf).
However, the insincerity of this opinion, and the belief that this is slightly odd
behaviour, is apparent from the clash between the seriousness of a discussion of
an artist at work and the humorous lexical choices that AB2 makes. AB2 explains
that Miss Shepherd looks as Vanessa Bell might have, had she gone in for painting
Bedford vans. The phrase gone in for is so informal as to trivialise the preceding description of Miss Shepherd as an artist. Added to this, AB2 extends the
description of the van to make it more generic (Bedford vans rather than just the
van), the plural implying that Miss Shepherd makes a habit of this practice of vanpainting. This implication makes Miss Shepherd seem more odd than she actually
is. There is also a joke that develops from the two possible readings of painting
Bedford vans, which works to further undermine the seriousness with which Miss
Shepherd approaches her task. It is difficult to know whether AB2 means actually
painting the vans themselves, or painting pictures of them. I would argue that we
assume the former, since this is what Miss Shepherd is doing, and a comparison
is being made between her and Vanessa Bell. And if a comparison is being made
then, logically, both must be engaged in a similar activity. However, the fact that
we can also sensibly apply the term painting vans to an artist, to mean painting
pictures of vans, creates humour. This results from the incongruous schema clash
that we get of an artist engaged in the very practical process of painting a van, yet
approaching the task in the same manner as they might approach the creation of
a great painting.
Nevertheless, the genuine oddities in Miss Shepherds character cannot be denied. In turn 253 AB1 asks her what kind of paint she is using. Miss Shepherd
replies, The shade is crushed mimosa. This response is peculiar for two reasons:
i) AB1 was most likely asking about the type of paint (for example, whether it was
gloss, emulsion, car enamel, etc., as AB1 does indeed state in turn 255) not the
shade; and ii) our world knowledge would suggest that crushed mimosa sounds
rather like a shade of paint that would be applied in a living room or kitchen, not
to a motor vehicle (a quick, albeit uninspiring, search of automotive websites reveals that specialist car paints are usually distinguished by a number rather than
a prose description). Miss Shepherd, then, fails to interpret AB1s question correctly (or ignores his intended question and instead replaces it with another), and
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also appears to see nothing odd about the shade of paint (usually used in interior
decorating) that she is using.
AB1 pursues this in turn 255, saying, But its gloss paint. You want car enamel,
to which Miss Shepherd replies, Dont tell me about paint. I was in the infants
school. I won a prize for painting. The oddity here is again to do with Miss Shepherds misunderstanding of inductive reasoning. The Maxim of Relation allows us
to make a link between the fact that Miss Shepherd attended infants school and
the fact that she won a prize for painting. As a result of this, we can understand
that the base form of Miss Shepherds argument consists of the following premise
and conclusion:
Premise I was in the infants school.
Conclusion Therefore I know about paint.
Here again the conclusion does not follow from the premise so we know that Miss
Shepherds argument is not necessarily valid. Indeed, the lack of relation between
the two statements is huge, and the inductive validity of the argument is also called
into question because it cannot even be said that the premise provides reasonable
grounds for the conclusion. The flaws in Miss Shepherds reasoning can be explained in Gricean terms. Because Miss Shepherd says that she was in the infants
school, we look for a relevant link between this information and painting. The
problem is that it is not immediately obvious that there is one. It therefore seems
that Miss Shepherd is making no sense. However, she then says that she won a
prize for painting (presumably whilst she was attending infant school). Once we
have this information it is possible to understand what Miss Shepherd means in
turn 256. The implicature she makes, as a result of flouting the Maxim of Relation,
is that because she won a prize for painting there should be no reason to question
her judgement with regard to her choice of paint. Miss Shepherd appears to see no
distinction between painting pictures in primary school and painting vehicles, and
consequently sees no difference in the types of paint needed for these two different
activities.
AB1 then gives up trying to change Miss Shepherds mind about the paint,
and instead turns his attention to its consistency, saying in turn 257, But its all
lumps. Youve got to mix it. Miss Shepherds response in turn 258 again indicates
the abnormality of her character. She explains, I have mixed it, only I went and
got some Madeira cake in it. As a result of this statement, we understand that
the lumps in the paint are actually pieces of cake which Miss Shepherd has inadvertently dropped into it. What is odd about this is a) that Miss Shepherd seems
to have no understanding of the purpose of mixing paint (this being, in part, to
ensure that it is smooth when applied), and b) that she did not remove the cake
crumbs. Despite having dropped Madeira cake in the paint and failed to remove it,
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F: LAL306.tex / p.12 (686-743)
Miss Shepherd does not mix the paint again. It appears that, to her mind, the paint
is adequate because it has undergone the process of mixing, regardless of whether
or not it contains cake.
The oddity of Miss Shepherds reasoning can also be seen in her reaction to
AB1s indirect accusation that she is the cause of a particularly bad smell.
[4] AB1 Miss Shepherd. There is a strong smell of urine.
[5] Miss Shepherd Well, what do you expect when theyre raining bricks down
on me all day? And then I think Ive got a mouse, so that would make for a
cheesy smell, possibly.
AB1s speech in turn 4 is a flout of Grices Maxim of Manner. What AB1 is trying
to do is tell Miss Shepherd that she smells revolting, and since this is, in Brown
and Levinsons (1987) terms, a face-threatening act which will potentially damage
Miss Shepherds positive face, he attempts to mitigate this by framing it in an indirect way and utilising a number of politeness strategies. So, he does not make
reference to the fact that Miss Shepherd is creating the smell, only that there is an
unpleasant aroma. His choice of words is considered; he uses the formal term urine
rather than a more colloquial form such as wee or piss, and the descriptive rather
than evaluative adjective strong. AB1 obviously hopes that making this reference
will lead Miss Shepherd to infer that it is she who is responsible for the smell, and
that AB1 wishes her to take steps to remedy the situation. As AB1 hopes, Miss
Shepherd does indeed make the inference. However, whereas most people would
be embarrassed to learn that they are considered smelly, Miss Shepherd appears to
presuppose the fact but not that she is responsible for it. She confronts the matter
head on by saying that it is to be expected as a result of the builders raining bricks
down on her. However, the builders are clearly not throwing bricks specifically at
her, and the bricks are certainly not raining down. Moreover, even if this were
the case it would still not explain the constant smell of urine that emanates from
her. There is no connection between the smell that AB1 is complaining about and
the fact that builders are working on his house. The issue here is whether Miss
Shepherd is simply trying to deflect the criticism or whether she is genuinely cognitively impaired to the extent that she does use flawed inductive reasoning. This
problem makes interpreting Miss Shepherds second excuse difficult. Miss Shepherd explains that she thinks she might have a mouse and claims that this would
cause a cheesy smell. There are two potential interpretations for this statement.
Miss Shepherd may be using the adjective cheesy as a synonym for unpleasant, in
which case it is possible to see a connection between the presence of the mouse and
an objectionable smell. Miss Shepherd might be trying, rather ludicrously, to lay
the blame elsewhere for her lack of personal hygiene by suggesting that the smell is
coming from the mouse. Alternatively, Miss Shepherd may simply be making the
connection between mice and cheese (namely that, stereotypically, mice like to eat
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F: LAL306.tex / p.13 (743-798)
it) and therefore supposing that the mere presence of a mouse would create a smell
of cheese. This interpretation would suggest that Miss Shepherds mind does not
work in the same way as most other peoples.
The notion of mind style, as it stands, cannot necessarily distinguish between
genuine cognitive impairment and the tactical use of an odd conceptualisation of
the world. In order to be clearer about which interpretation is most likely to apply to Miss Shepherd, in the next section I introduce Harriss (1984) notion of
paradigms of reality and consider the extent to which mind style might be integrated with this concept. I argue that, in the case of Miss Shepherd, the apparent
oddities of reasoning that she displays are genuine, but derive from her need to
create a defence mechanism against the guilt that she feels over causing the death
of a motorcyclist many years ago. In this respect, her flawed inductive reasoning
is tactical, but I argue that the consistent use of this strategy becomes a defining
aspect of her character and gives rise to a unique mind style that reflects the way
she sees the world and her place in it.
. Mind style and paradigms of reality

In a study examining the use of questions as controlling devices in magistrates
courts, Harris (1984) explains that participants in speech events can often begin
a conversation from radically differing perspectives of reality (Harris 1984: 18).
She explains this with reference to the situation of a defendant being unable to
pay a court-imposed fine. Harris points out that in such a situation magistrates
and clerks nearly always begin with the assumption that defendants are unwilling rather than unable to pay and defendants that they are unable rather than
unwilling to pay (Harris 1984: 19). According to Harris, these two differing perspectives can be referred to as an unwilling paradigm and an unable paradigm.
The unfortunate consequence of this is that by adopting the unwilling paradigm
in such situations, the magistrates questions will then often be understood by the
defendant as accusations, even if they are non-conducive in form.
Archer (2002, 2003) adopts the notion of reality paradigms and applies this
in her analyses of the transcripts of the Salem Witchcraft trials of 1692. Like Harris (1984) she suggests that the adoption of a particular paradigm by a speaker
can affect the function of his or her questions. But what Archer (2002: 14) also
suggests is that the adoption of a particular reality paradigm can affect the inferencing processes of interlocutors. In the case of the Salem Witchcraft Trials, she
gives the example of the prosecuting counsel, John Hathorne, being constrained in
his inferencing by his assumption that defendants were guilty but simply unwilling
to confess:
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[this] appeared to impede his inferencing processes, to the extent that he did
not infer or chose to ignore occasions when defendants flouted a maxim so
as to generate an implicature that contradicted his perspective (e.g. that they
were innocent).
(Archer 2002: 14)
If it is the case that inferencing processes can be affected by the adoption of particular reality paradigms, then one explanation for Miss Shepherds deviant mind style
might be that the reality paradigm within which she is operating is affecting her
reasoning abilities. In the following section I consider this proposal in more detail.
.. Miss Shepherds reality paradigm and its effect on her mind style
The root of Miss Shepherds torment, which is revealed to us gradually over the
course of the play and finally stated explicitly by the character of Underwood in
turn 921, is the road accident she was involved in many years before the action in
the play takes place. She had hit and killed a motor-cyclist through failing to stop at
a crossroads. Knowing that she had neither insurance nor a licence, Miss Shepherd
panicked and drove off. In the play, Miss Shepherd is haunted by this incident and
the fear that the police will eventually discover what she did and take action against
her. It is this fact which perhaps explains her reluctance to reveal too much of her
personal life, and her unwillingness to commit herself to anything, or to answer
any questions directly. Towards the end of Act One Miss Shepherd makes her first
detailed mention of the accident:
[Context: It is night. Miss Shepherd is in the van, praying.]
[333] Miss Shepherd The soul in question did not witness the incident,
though there was hearing of it and seeing of the bodywork. The word accident
was mentioned in a local newspaper, allegedly fatal, and a felony committed
possibly, but towards the end of Holy Year 1950 I went to Rome on pilgrimage where I was told by an elderly priest of my acquaintance who has since
died that a plenary indulgence does cover traffic matters, possibly, though a
policeman may not always think it applies, through ignorance, possibly.
In this turn Miss Shepherd speaks about her involvement in the accident, and the
linguistic choices she makes allow us to uncover the reality paradigm within which
she is operating.
Throughout the turn, Miss Shepherd attempts to remove any responsibility
she might have had for the accident. She refers to herself in the third person as the
soul in question, thus distancing herself from the events, and she stresses (suggested by the italic type) that she did not actually witness the accident. She admits
that she did hear the accident and see some of the damage (there was hearing of it
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and seeing of the bodywork), but she removes herself as the perceiver. Instead she
uses the dummy subject there, and the noun phrases hearing of it and seeing
of the bodywork. It would seem that these noun phrases are nominalizations derived from some underlying passive construction such as The accident was heard
(by X). Miss Shepherds choice of grammatical construction thus has the effect
of distancing her from the events she is describing even further than a passive
construction with agent deletion would.
She explains that the accident was reported in a local newspaper, but indicates
the official lack of certainty as to the motor-cyclists death through the adverb
allegedly. The fact that a felony was committed is also hedged by the sentence
adverb possibly, one of Miss Shepherds keywords in the play (see 6.3.2), and
which contributes to the sense we get of her being unwilling to commit to any
of the propositions she expresses. She then implicates, via the Maxim of Relation,
that she obtained a plenary indulgence and that this covered traffic matters. This
suggests guilt on Miss Shepherds part, since if she truly believed herself to be innocent of causing the motor-cyclists death, she would not have felt it necessary to
absolve herself of sin in this way. I would suggest, then, that Miss Shepherd is operating within a reality paradigm in which she considers herself guilty of causing
the death of the motor-cyclist. This is further suggested by Miss Shepherds prayer
in Act Two:
[652] Miss Shepherd [. . .] If sin there was it was by omission only, as on the
day in question the lady-seller was stationary in her vehicle and scrupulous
as thy servant has always been in the employment of hand signals and the
correct use of the mirror, nevertheless the young man in question, through
having had too much to drink, on an empty stomach, possibly, contrives to
collide with the van. As was claimed, fatally. The lady-seller was blameless,
though she did make her confession later. . .in France, it was, and even if the
priest was well stricken in years and deaf, he did understand English, possibly.
And even if he didnt, being a consecrated priest the words of his mouth alone
would suffice to absolve me, the lady-seller, of this offence of which in any case
she is innocent not only by the laws of God but also by the Highway Code.
So, O Blessed Mother, untaint me of all sin so that I may stand before thee
undefiled. . .Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy
Here again Miss Shepherd refers to herself in the third person, this time as the
lady-seller and thy servant, which again has the effect of distancing her from
the event she is describing. And again we can note the presence of non-factive
verbs (claimed) and the sentence adverb possibly, indicating her lack of firm
belief and commitment to what she is expressing. Her lexical choices in describing the accident are also indicative of her conceptual point of view. She notes
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that the motor-cyclist contrives to collide with the van. The meaning of the verb
contrive when followed by an infinitive is to purposefully succeed in doing something difficult (COBUILD English Dictionary 1995). What this suggests is that
the motor-cyclist had actually planned to crash into Miss Shepherds van. By formulating the sentence in this way Miss Shepherd thereby downplays her own
responsibility. However, the absurdity of the proposition that the cyclist could actually want to crash into another vehicle would suggest that this is not a reasonable
representation of events. Miss Shepherds odd mind style is foregrounded even further in turn 652 as a result of the reader/audience having been shifted into Miss
Shepherds deictic field within AB2s fantasy universe (see the analysis in 7.3 for a
explanation of how this deictic shift is effected).
Another abnormality in Miss Shepherds speech concerns her odd notion of
confession. She says, The lady-seller was blameless, though she did make her confession later. Why should Miss Shepherd make a confession if she truly believed
herself to be innocent? There are several elements to consider here.
First, Miss Shepherds assertion that she was blameless presupposes an assumption that there must be grounds for the apportioning of blame. The term
blameless counters the assumption that Miss Shepherd was to blame; as Watson (1997: 109) explains, in order to comprehend a negative statement we usually
compare it to its positive opposite (see Leech 1983: 165 for a detailed exposition of
the comprehension of negative and positive propositions). Then the conjunction
though suggests a contrastive relationship between the two propositions being
expressed (that Miss Shepherd was blameless and that she made a confession).
Finally, there is Miss Shepherds assertion that despite being blameless she made
a confession. The apparent paradox here can be explained if we consider what
Miss Shepherd says in terms of Searles (1969) notion of speech acts (see also
Searle 1979).
When Miss Shepherd says that she made a confession, she states implicitly
that she performed the speech act of confessing. Searle points out that in order to
perform a speech act successfully, the felicity conditions for that speech act must be
adhered to. And the sincerity condition of the speech act of confessing will always
be that the speaker must believe him or herself to be guilty of some past act. Searle
also says the following:
Wherever there is a psychological state specified in the sincerity condition, the
performance of the act counts as an expression of that psychological state. This
law holds whether the act is sincere or insincere, that is whether the speaker
actually has the specified psychological state or not.
(Searle 1969: 65)
What this means is that by performing the speech act of confessing, the speaker is
expressing the psychological state inherent within the sincerity condition. And, of
course, the expression of a psychological state is inextricably linked with a partic-
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ular mental perspective on the world. By stating that she had made a confession,
then, Miss Shepherd reveals implicitly the reality paradigm that she has i.e. that
she believes herself to be guilty of killing the motor-cyclist. This contradicts her
statement of innocence when she says the lady-seller was blameless.
Miss Shepherds paranoia, then, might explain in part the deviant mind style
that she exhibits. Concealing her perceived guilt with regard to the accident in
which she was involved requires her to engage in flawed inductive reasoning, to
remove her responsibility for particular events and occurrences. And it does not
seem beyond the realms of possibility to suggest that prolonged practice of this
might have an overall detrimental effect on her general reasoning abilities. Miss
Shepherds fear of anyone finding out her true identity makes her unwilling to
commit herself to any proposition or to answer questions, even if they do not
relate directly to the accident, as in the following example:
[104] AB1 How long have you been living in the van?
[105] Miss Shepherd Who says I live there? I may spend the night there on
occasion but its only a pied-a-terre.
[106] AB1 Where do you live?
[107] Miss Shepherd I got it to put my things in, though dont spread it
around.
In turns 105 and 107 Miss Shepherd flouts the Maxim of Relation to implicate
that she does not live in the van. What is odd about this, though, is that Alan
knows that Miss Shepherd lives in the van. This is obvious within the context of
the play and is presupposed by the WH-question he uses in turn 104. Levinson
(1983: 184) explains that WH-questions introduce the presuppositions obtained
by replacing the WH-word by the appropriate existentially quantified variable. In
turn 104, then, the presupposition is that Miss Shepherd has been living in the van
for some amount of time. What makes Miss Shepherds speech humorous is that
her attempts to be secretive are ludicrous given that much of the time she reveals
so much in her speech and actions.
. Conclusion
In this chapter I have suggested that one of the problems with the notion of mind
style is that it cannot necessarily account for those instances where it is ambiguous whether a character is genuinely cognitively impaired or simply using an odd
conceptualisation of the world for tactical reasons. In the case of interpreting Miss
Shepherds character I have argued that both these factors are involved, and I introduced Harriss (1984) notion of reality paradigms to further explain this. In the
analysis above, I have described Miss Shepherds deviant mind style as being a
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F: LAL306.tex / p.18 (1034-1044)
direct result of the reality paradigm she adopts in which she is guilty of causing
the death of the motorcyclist. What I am suggesting, then, is that the term reality
paradigm (a particular perspective of reality, in Harriss 1984 definition) equates
to the metaphorical point of view of the world that every person has. This is the
point of view that is exhibited at the character-to-character level of Shorts (1996)
discourse structure diagram. And the reality paradigm within which a person operates when communicating with others will have a bearing on the mind style that
they exhibit. In Miss Shepherds case, the reality paradigm that she has affects her
inductive reasoning abilities which in turn gives rise to a deviant mind style.
In the final chapter I draw together the analytical methods proposed in Chapters four, five and six in an analysis of four extracts from The Lady in the Van, in
order to show how deictic shifts, world shifts and mind style might be integrated
together in the study of viewpoint.
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Chapter 7
Point of view in The Lady in the Van
. Introduction
In this final chapter I bring together the theoretical frameworks that I have explained throughout the book to demonstrate the feasibility and value of applying
point of view analysis in the interpretation of dramatic texts. I concentrate here on
an analysis of point of view in The Lady in the Van (see Chapter one, Section 1.5
for a synopsis of the play), and I will suggest that the innovative nature of this play
is due in no small part to the viewpoint shifts that are effected within it at various
places in the story. In my analysis, I look at the mechanisms by which a reader of
the play might shift between the actual world and the textual actual world of the
play, and the shifts that might occur between the deictic fields within these worlds
and the various alternative possible worlds of the text. I describe the linguistic and
contextual triggers for these shifts, taking into account the kinds of linguistic indicators of point of view discussed in Chapters two and three. In relation to the world
shifts and deictic shifts that I describe, I also discuss further the idiosyncratic mind
style of Miss Shepherd (see Chapter six for a full discussion of this). Throughout,
I concentrate particularly on the likely effects of the viewpoint manipulation on
the reader/audience. I argue that the frequent shifts between the discourse levels of
the play work, in part, to generate the effect of the story being told from the point
of view of Alan Bennett 2 (recall that AB2 is the narrator version of the dramatic
figure of Alan Bennett, as opposed to AB1 who is the character version). Nevertheless, I also suggest that there are moments within the play when Miss Shepherds
viewpoint comes to the fore. I look at how these shifts in perspective are triggered
and how Miss Shepherds potentially deviant mind style contributes to this effect.
Since I am limited in terms of space, my discussion concentrates on four sections of the play that would seem to me to be pivotal in terms of plot development.
These are as follows:
1. Act One, turns 1 to 109: This section of the play details AB1s first meeting
with Miss Shepherd, and, since this is the beginning of the play, allows us
to examine how the reader is recentered (Ryan 1991: 21) within the textual
actual world.
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2. Act Two, turns 651 to 673: Miss Shepherd confesses (albeit indirectly and in the
form of a prayer) to her involvement in the accident in which a motorcyclist
was killed.
3. Act Two, turns 732 to 798: In this section Miss Shepherd gives an unwitting
indication that she is concealing her true identity, and AB1 discusses Miss
Shepherds failing health with the Social Worker.
4. Act Two, turns 900 to 976: Miss Shepherd dies and the truth about her past life
is revealed.
. Alan Bennett 1 meets Miss Shepherd (Act One, turns 1 to 109)

According to Galbraiths (1995) conceptualisation of deictic shift theory, the first
PUSH that occurs when we read a fictional text is that which thrusts the reader
into the fictional world, or, as Ryan (1991) would refer to it, the textual actual
world (TAW). As I explained in 4.6.2, I prefer not to make the distinction between
PUSHes and POPs but to use instead the term shift to cover both these movements. Hence, as we begin to read The Lady in the Van, our normal egocentric
conception of the deictic centre is suspended, and we assume that it is instead situated within the TAW. In effect, we shift deictic centres and are, in Ryans (1991)
terms, recentered within the fictional world. The triggers for this recentering can
be found in the initial stage directions of the play:
A front cloth with, inset, the bay window of an early nineteenth-century house.
A hymn begins, sung by a chorus of young girls. AB2 looks through the window
briefly then disappears. The hymn is cut off abruptly and the front cloth rises to
reveal AB2 sitting at his desk. He reads from what he has been writing.
The event-coding (Short 1996: 287) in this stage direction reflects the perceptual
point of view of the reader/audience. Initially we are positioned outside the house,
but when the front cloth rises this creates the effect of moving closer to the action,
and consequently, the impression of being positioned inside the house. This effect
of moving closer to the action in the TAW is likely to contribute to the priming of
the fictional world.
However, this is not to say that we immediately position ourselves within the
deictic field of one particular character. The play begins in medias res and for an
audience it is likely to be unclear initially whether AB2, who is revealed, alone,
sitting at his desk, is speaking directly to them or reading aloud from what he has
written. This is not ambiguous for the reader, since the stage directions reveal it to
be the latter:
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Chapter 7. Point of view in The Lady in the Van
A front cloth with, inset, the bay window of an early nineteenth-century house.
A hymn begins, sung by a chorus of young girls. AB2 looks through the window
briefly then disappears. The hymn is cut off abruptly and the front cloth rises to
reveal AB2 sitting at his desk. He reads from what he has been writing.
[1] AB2 The smell is sweet, with urine only a minor component, the prevalent
odour suggesting the inside of someones ear. Dank clothes are there too, wet
wool and onions, which she eats raw, plus what for me has always been the
essence of poverty, damp newspaper. Miss Shepherds multi-flavoured aroma
is masked by a liberal application of various talcum powders, with Yardleys
Lavender always a favourite, and when she is sitting down it is this genteel
fragrance that dominates, the second subject, as it were, in her odoriferous
concerto. It is only when she rises that the original theme returns, the terrible
primary odour now triumphantly restated and left to hang in the room long
after she has departed.
Nevertheless, there is still an in medias res effect for the reader due to AB2s use of
definite reference (e.g. The smell) and deictic terms for which the reader is, as yet,
unlikely to be able to assign adequate reference to. We do not know until sentence
3 of turn 1, for example, that she refers to Miss Shepherd. Neither is it entirely
clear where the spatial deictic there refers to (Dank clothes are there too). In
effect, we are unable to discern the boundaries of AB2s deictic field and this is
likely to create problems of comprehension for the reader/audience. I would argue
that at this point in the play, our default assumptions about dramatis personae
mean that we interpret AB2 as being a character in the TAW rather than a narrator
who is able to step outside of it (cf. Section 1.4). However, this interpretation is
likely to change following Miss Shepherds first turn (turn 2), in which she defends
herself against AB2s accusations of uncleanliness. AB2 frames the conversation
that follows between AB1 and Miss Shepherd (turns 4 and 5) with a piece of what
Richardson (1988; see 3.3.2) would term frame narration:
[3] AB2 Having builders in the house means that I am more conscious of the
situation so I determine to speak out.
Turn 3 is important since it allows the reader/audience to understand the play

as having a frame-story structure; i.e. a story embedded within a story. Figure 7.1
represents this diagrammatically, with the arrows indicating the movement of AB2
between worlds.
In The Lady in the Van, the story of Alan Bennetts experiences over the years
with Miss Shepherd is embedded within the frame story of AB2 writing about
these experiences. However, on occasion AB2 steps out of the framing fictional
world in order to address the reader/audience directly, thereby becoming a narrator. In addition, AB2 is also able to move from the framing fictional world into the
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Figure 7.1 Frame-story structure of The Lady in the Van
embedded fictional world that he describes in his narration, in order to converse

with his character counterpart, AB1. The discourse structure of The Lady in the
Van can thus be represented in the following way (the brackets indicate potential
discoursal collapsings; see 1.6 for a discussion of this phenomenon):
If we return to turn 3, it is clear that it is not addressed to Miss Shepherd. This
is apparent because of the references that AB2 makes to his own mental processes,
indicated by the complement more conscious of the situation and the verb determine. Since the situation that AB2 is referring to is caused by Miss Shepherd, it
is unlikely that he would reveal to her his plan to speak to her directly about this
matter. Therefore, either turn 3 is addressed to the reader/audience directly, or it
is AB2 continuing to read aloud from what he has been writing. Grices (1975)
Maxim of Relation then allows us to understand that turn 4 is the character AB1
doing the speaking out that AB2 referred to in turn 3. This constitutes a shift into
the embedded fictional world that AB2 describes in his writing in turn 1. AB1s use
of the vocative Miss Shepherd signals that this is the person to whom his com-
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Figure 7.2 Discourse structure of the Lady in the Van
plaint is addressed, and this in turn allows us to understand that AB2s use of the
pronoun she in turn 1 was referring to Miss Shepherd. Thus, the boundaries of
AB2s deictic field become more clearly delineated.
Turns 4 and 5 consist of dialogue between AB1 and Miss Shepherd, with
Miss Shepherd defending herself against the implicit accusation from AB1 that
her personal hygiene leaves much to be desired (see 6.3.2 for an analysis of these
two turns). Then, without any indication via stage directions, AB1 switches to a
conversation with the character Mam (turns 6 to 13):
[6] Mam Alan. Can I ask you a question?
[7] AB1 The answer is, Ive no idea.
[8] Mam You dont know the question yet.
[9] AB1 I do know the question. The question is, where does she go to the lav?
[10] AB2 Lavatories always loom large with my mother. What memory was
to Proust the lavatory is to my mam.
[11] Mam Well, where?
[12] AB1 The answer is, I dont know.
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[13] Mam You dont know, with that smell? Well, I know, and I havent been
to Oxford. Her knickers. She does it in her britches.
The propositional content of Mams speech (i.e. criticism of Miss Shepherds toilet
habits) is such that it is unlikely that this is part of the same conversation between
AB1 and Miss Shepherd (turns 4 and 5). Mams discussion of such matters would
be a huge threat to Miss Shepherds positive face (Brown & Levinson 1987) if she
were actually present. What this suggests is that AB1 and Mams conversation takes
place in a different spatial and temporal location to that of AB1 and Miss Shepherd
(turns 4 and 5). The reader/audience thereby shifts spatially and temporally within
the embedded fictional world of the play from one incident (and so one time and
one place) to another, allowing them to witness (i) AB1 and Miss Shepherds conversation and (ii) AB1 and Mams conversation. The temporal and spatial shift
from AB1 and Miss Shepherds conversation to that of AB1 and Mam is indicated
contextually rather than being triggered linguistically by AB2 (as he does in turn
3 when he triggers the shift into the embedded fictional world). Because of this,
the prominence of the fictional world in which AB2 resides is, at this point, likely
to have begun to decrease. However, turn 14 triggers a shift out of the embedded
fictional world and back into the framing fictional world of AB2:
[14] AB2 Cut to five years earlier. I am standing by the convent in Camden Town looking up at the crucifix on the wall, trying to decide whats
odd about it.
This has the effect of re-priming the framing fictional world and increasing its
prominence to the reader/audience. Turn 14 also counts as a discoursal shift up
from the previous dialogue between AB1 and Mam, and creates the effect of AB2
controlling the narrative. This in turn creates the impression that what we are
reading, or watching if we are part of a theatre audience, is only part of the story;
i.e. only those parts that AB2 chooses to show us. AB2s narrative intervention,
then, serves to create the effect of a restricted point of view for the reader/audience,
of the sort associated with first person narrators in prose fiction (see, for example,
the discussion in 2.4.2 of the subjective first person variety of Fowlers 1996 type A
narration).
Despite the fact that the reader/audience is at least now able to interpret the
person deictics in AB2s speech in turn 1, and is aware of the fact that AB2 inhabits
a framing fictional world, up to this point there has still been no clear deictic centre established from which to interpret deictic references. This changes in turn 14
which provides the reader/audience with the spatial and temporal co-ordinates for
AB1s deictic centre in the scene that follows (turns 15 to 23). Turn 14 instantiates
a change in deictic field by means of a number of linguistic cues. When AB2 says
Cut to five years earlier, this acts very much like a stage direction (indeed, it is for-
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F: LAL307.tex / p.7 (372-405)
mulated lexically and grammatically in the same way) and cues a deictic shift away
from the present temporal deictic centre in the TAW to an earlier time in the story
(five years previous). Following this, there is a further temporal shift generated by
the use of the present progressive tense when AB2 says I am standing by the convent. The verb tense and aspect serve to generate a sense of immediacy about the
following scene, making it appear to the reader/audience that we are witnessing
the event which happened five years ago as it happened in real time. These two
temporal cues trigger a shift for the reader/audience into a new deictic field within
the embedded fictional world, from where we interpret the scene that follows. And
since the deictic co-ordinates specified in turn 14 are those for AB1s deictic centre, I would suggest that the reader/audience interprets the deictic references in
the scene that follows from his perspective. What is also important here is that
AB2 also appears to be present within this new deictic field. This is indicated by
the fact that he himself is the subject (I) of the present progressive predicator (am
standing), which anchors him temporally within the deictic field. The final cue in
turn 14 comes when AB2 states that he is looking up at the crucifix on the wall.
This verb of perception gives us a clue as to AB2s physical location in space and indicates his gaze direction and consequent perceptual viewpoint. Jeffries (2000: 57),
in a paper describing the relationship between point of view and reader involvement, says that readers of poetry (or indeed, prose) are likely to identify with the
speakers deictic position. If this is indeed the case then it is probably true also of
drama. Because AB2 has set up a new deictic field with AB1 (the character version of himself) at its centre, I would argue that the reader/audience may be led
to assume that the scene that follows is from AB2s point of view. Note though,
that as Galbraith (1995) states, unless this deictic field is regularly reinstantiated, it
will gradually decay and we will effectively forget that it was instantiated by AB2.
A similar effect arises in Rudyard Kiplings short story, The Man Who Would Be
King; see Short (1996: 2823) for a discussion of this.
At this point, then, AB1s deictic field has been made clearer, as a result of AB2
having defined the parameters of his deictic field by giving us the temporal and
spatial co-ordinates of its deictic centre in turn 14. I would therefore argue that
it has, in effect, become bound into the fictional world in which AB1 exists. It is
likely too that, at this point in the play, the reader/audiences default deictic field
in the Actual World will have decayed significantly, and that their attention will
instead be focused on AB1s deictic field, making it primed as well as bound.
Turns 1523 consist of a conversation in the embedded TAW between Miss
Shepherd and AB1 concerning whether or not Bennett is actually St John, as Miss
Shepherd initially believes he might be:
you?
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[16] AB1 St John who?

[17] Miss Shepherd St John. The disciple whom Jesus loved.
[18] AB1 No. My names Bennett.
[19] Miss Shepherd Well, if youre not St John I want a push for the van.
It conked out, the battery possibly. I put some water in only it hasnt done
the trick.
[20] AB1 Was it distilled water?
[21] Miss Shepherd It was holy water so it doesnt matter if it was distilled or
not. The oil is another possibility.
[22] AB1 Thats not holy too?
[23] Miss Shepherd Holy oil in a van? Dont be silly. It would be far too
expensive. I want pushing to Albany Street.
This stretch of conversation also reveals something of Miss Shepherds unusual

mind style (described in detail in 6.3.2), one of the effects of which is to foreground
her character. For example, in turn 21 she appears not to understand that it is of
no consequence whether the water she put in the van was holy or not, but that
it would matter if the water was not distilled. In turn 23 she displays similar odd
reasoning. Here she dismisses the (most likely facetious) question that AB1 asks in
turn 22, but on the grounds that holy oil would be too expensive rather than that
it would be inappropriate.
On discovering that AB1 is a mere mortal, Miss Shepherd decides that he
should assist her by giving the van a push. AB2s deictic field, triggered in turn
14, is then reinstantiated in turn 24, when there is a discoursal shift back up to the
narrator level:
[24] AB2 Scarcely have I put my shoulder to the back of the van, an old Bedford, than in textbook fashion Miss Shepherd goes through her repertory of
hand signals: I am moving off. . .I am turning left. . .the movements done
with such boneless grace this section of the Highway Code might have been
choreographed by Balanchine with Ulanova at the wheel.
The discoursal shift is indicated by the reader/audiences awareness that AB2 is a

narrator figure in a framing TAW. The propositional content of turn 24 is also such
that for AB2 to be saying these things to Miss Shepherd would be odd. It is much
more likely that he is addressing the reader/audience. This has several effects. First
of all it reminds us that what we are being presented with is a story told by AB2,
and this again has the effect of reinforcing the impression that what we are being
exposed to is AB2s version of events. Secondly, the discoursal shift allows AB2 to
provide some commentary on the events in the TAW. The narratorial intervention therefore also provides a means of allowing the reader/audience access to the
thoughts of the dramatic figure of Alan Bennett. Arguably, this adds to the sense
we have of AB2 as a first person narrator.
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F: LAL307.tex / p.9 (457-521)
Following turn 24, there is then a shift back to the character-to-character level
of the embedded TAW. The move down a discourse level is instantiated by Miss
Shepherds speech in turn 25 which triggers the discoursal shift for the reader:
[25] Miss Shepherd What have we stopped for?
At this point in the story we know that Miss Shepherd is part of the embedded
TAW rather than the framing TAW and therefore that she is likely to be addressing someone else in the embedded TAW. It is this knowledge that allows us to
understand that we have moved back down to the character level of the play.
The comment from AB2 in turn 35 again triggers a discoursal shift up to the
narrators discourse level and back into the framing TAW, in order to provide some
commentary on the goings-on in the embedded TAW and to reinstantiate AB2s
deictic field:
[33] Miss Shepherd [. . .] I like to keep a low profile. I dont want to take the
eye of the police through being stationary on the carriageway.
[34] AB1 You can park anywhere.
[35] AB2 Which you could of course in those unpenalized days.
In turn 35 AB2 uses the demonstrative those to modify the noun days thus generating a distal temporal deictic expression, which refers to the TAW in which AB1
and Miss Shepherd exist. This has the effect of distancing AB2 spatially and temporally from AB1 and Miss Shepherd, thereby reinforcing the effect that what we
are reading (or watching if we are part of a theatre audience) is a story told by AB2.
The scene then continues, with AB1 agreeing to push Miss Shepherds van further
along the street. Next there is a discoursal shift back up to the narrator level in the
framing TAW in turn 40, as AB2 concludes the scene and then provides another
discoursal shift back down to the character level of the embedded TAW, and a temporal shift, triggered by the present progressive tense in the line Meanwhile I seem
to be buying a house:
[39] AB1 Ill help push you down Albany Street.
[40] AB2 And out of my life, I thought. Were I a proper writer I would welcome such an encounter as constituting experience, but I have no curiosity.
True, I have started noting down the odd things people say, but contact with
the actual creatures themselves I keep to a minimum. Meanwhile I seem to be
buying a house.
The return to the framing TAW in turn 40 has the effect of once more binding
and priming AB2s deictic field. The reader/audience is reminded that this is a
story being told by AB2, since the textual indicators of viewpoint in turn 40 once
more reflect AB2s perspective on events in the embedded TAW. The first sentence
of turn 40 consists of the indirect presentation of AB1s thought, indicating that
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
F: LAL307.tex / p.10 (521-575)
AB2 has privileged access to the internal states of AB1. This is followed by a direct address to the audience that specifies AB2s internal states (indicated by the
conditional clause at the beginning of the second sentence, and the clause I have
no curiosity that follows the conjunction but). In the last sentence of turn 40,
the non-factive verb seem suggests that AB2 does not have the privileged access
that was indicated in the indirect thought presentation of the first sentence. The
effect of this in viewpoint terms is to suggest a spatial and temporal shift back
into the embedded TAW, in which AB2 does not have the benefit of hindsight in
commenting on events.
There is then quite a long sequence (21 turns) in which AB1 meets his new
neighbours, Rufus and Pauline. I would argue that the length of this sequence
means that AB2s deictic field decays and as a result becomes unprimed. The
reader/audiences attention is then likely to be focused on AB1, since AB2 contextualises the following scene by referring to him at the end of turn 40 (Meanwhile I
seem to be buying a house). However, the end of this scene is marked by another
turn by AB2, thus re-priming his deictic field for the reader/audience. The turn
has the effect of triggering a shift for the reader/audience out of their deictic field
within the TAW and back into AB2s. However, there is also a temporal and spatial
shift straight into a new deictic field:
[62] AB2 The woman in the van sells pamphlets. I came across her today
outside Williams and Glyns Bank on the corner of Camden High Street. Shed
chalked a picture of St Francis on the pavement. At least I took it to be St
Francis . . . the cowled figure actually looked like Red Riding Hood; only one
or two birds winging in for a bit of conversation gave the game away.
AB2s speech shifts the reader/audience out of the previous deictic field. The framing narration of turn 62 serves to trigger a temporal and spatial shift into a new
deictic field, the boundaries of which are defined in part by the proximal time deictic today and the locational deictic expression on the corner of Camden High
Street. The past simple verb came implies that the scene that follows is the meeting between Miss Shepherd and AB1 that happened prior to AB2s narration in
turn 62. Nevertheless, although the past tense narration indicates some degree of
distance between AB2 and the events he is describing, at this point in the play AB2
seems to have moved temporally closer to the characters in the TAW. This effect
comes about because of proximal time deictic today and the present simple verb
in the line The woman in the van sells pamphlets. AB2s use of the noun phrase
the woman in the van, rather than Miss Shepherd, also indicates a viewpoint
where he does not yet know her name, presumably because he has only recently
seen her for the first time. This contributes to the impression of AB2 having moved
temporally closer to the events in the embedded TAW. The effect of AB2 having
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
F: LAL307.tex / p.11 (575-646)
shifted into the embedded TAW is further realised in turns 78 and 84 as a result of
the present simple and present perfect tenses:
[78] AB2 My mother is on the phone.
[79] Mam I wish I was good.
[80] AB1 You are good.
[81] Mam No, the way other people are good.
[82] AB1 Where are you sitting?
[83] Mam On a chair in the passage.
[84] AB2 Thats how her depressions always start, sitting on an unaccustomed
chair. The doctors put her on tablets.
What we can also note from the above extract is that turns 78 to 84 incorporate
the different deictic fields of Mam and AB1. Mam is speaking on the telephone
to AB1 and must then be in a different spatial location. Mam projects her deictic
position to AB1 using a locational deictic expression (on the chair in the passage)
which has the added effect of allowing the reader/audience to imagine her position
in relation to AB1.
The fact that AB2 is now inhabiting the same temporal deictic field as the
characters in the embedded TAW is seemingly confirmed in turn 105, when he
issues a directive to AB1:
[105] AB2 Ask her. Ask her how long shes been in the van.
[106] AB1 How long have you been living in the van?
AB2s command would suggest that he is able to communicate with AB1 and also
that he is possibly unaware of what Miss Shepherd is about to say. What seems to
have happened is that AB2 is now inhabiting a deictic field within the embedded
TAW rather than his deictic field within the framing TAW. His deictic field within
the framing TAW is likely to have become unbound and unprimed, and the effect
this has is to temporarily change his discourse role from a narrator in the framing
TAW to a character in the embedded TAW. The effect of this is that AB2 no longer
has the omniscience displayed in, for example, turn 35, and this results in a more
restricted point of view of events.
Miss Shepherds secretive nature is then revealed in turns 107 and 109:
[107] Miss Shepherd Who says I live there? I may spend the night there on
occasion but its only a pied-a-terre.
[108] AB1 Where do you live?
[109] Miss Shepherd I got it to put my things in, though dont spread that
around. I came down from St Albans and plan to go back there in due course.
Im just pedalling water at the moment but Ive always been in the transport line. I drove ambulances in the war. Ive got good topography. I knew
Kensington in the blackout.
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
F: LAL307.tex / p.12 (646-678)
In turns 107 and 109 Miss Shepherd flouts Grices (1975) Maxim of Relation to
implicate that she does not live in the van. What is odd about this, though, is that
Alan and the reader/audience know that Miss Shepherd lives in the van. This is
obvious within the context of the play and is presupposed by the WH-question
he uses in turn 106 (Levinson (1983: 184) explains that WH-questions introduce
the presuppositions obtained by replacing the WH-word by the appropriate existentially quantified variable). In turn 106, then, the presupposition is that Miss
Shepherd has been living in the van for some amount of time. Miss Shepherds
attempts to be secretive are ludicrous given that much of the time she reveals so
much in her speech and actions anyway. The reader/audience might infer, then,
that Miss Shepherd is not simply secretive by nature, but has something significant
to hide (as, indeed, turns out to be the case). Turn 109 also contains further examples of Miss Shepherds odd use of language, which I have suggested contribute
to a deviant mind style (see 6.3.2). For example, she uses the strange expression
pedalling water rather than the more normal treading water. Her statement that
she has good topography is also odd. It would be more usual to say she has good
knowledge of topography. Although such examples do not, in and of themselves,
indicate a deviant mind style, I would argue that, combined with other more obvious indicators (such as Miss Shepherds odd use of inductive logic; see 6.3.1), they
work to further enhance our impression of Miss Shepherd as being a decidedly
odd character.
. Miss Shepherds confession (Act Two, turns 651 to 673)

Turn 651 consists of hypothetical thought presentation from AB2 which describes
Miss Shepherd driving ambulances in London during the Second World War:
[651] AB2 I think of her at the wheel of her khaki ambulance; dodging the
craters and the heaps of rubble; seeing the dusty dead brought out and kneeling sometimes in packed churches; sitting around in the canteen waiting for
the siren to go. Love once, even, maybe. The time of her life.
The thought presentation in turn 651 primes AB2s deictic field within the framing TAW since it gives the reader/audience access to what Groff (1959) would call
AB2s inner life, i.e. his subjective view of events in the fictional world. In AB2s
narration in turn 651, Miss Shepherd is the implied subject of all the dynamic nonfinite verbs (dodging, seeing, kneeling, sitting and waiting), which has the
effect of foregrounding her characters actions. This is followed by the subsequent
stage direction and speech from Miss Shepherd:
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
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Distant sirens and the sound of the blitz, which fade leaving a faint light which
grows. The van begins to glow with light, even splits in two perhaps, forming a
kind of diptych with Miss Shepherd illuminated by a shaft of light.
[652] Miss Shepherd No, there was never love. But the soul in question, frustrated in her vocation through want of seeing by the sisters, has loved thee
and striven to serve thee as a nun on her own, as it were, solo, living under a
rule, with diet restricted, her cell this van, sustained only by supplementary
benefit and the sale of the occasional pencil.
The sound effects mentioned in the stage directions clearly relate to AB2s imaginings and are likely to have the effect of further foregrounding the actions of Miss
Shepherd that AB2 is thinking about, since these take place within the period that
the sound effects evoke. The hypothetical thought presentation in turn 651 primes
a fantasy universe (Ryan 1991) belonging to AB2, and the actions described in the
stage directions increase the prominence of this, since AB2s thoughts have now
moved from being merely presented to being dramatised. Within the fantasy universe there is then a spatial shift from AB2s deictic centre to the deictic field in
which Miss Shepherd is at the centre. This is indicated in the stage directions by
the description of the van possibly splitting in two, triggering a spatial shift to the
inside of the van, with Miss Shepherd illuminated by a shaft of light. In a production of the play this lighting effect would foreground the character of Miss
Shepherd, further focusing our attention on her and heightening the prominence
of the deictic field in which she is at the centre. By the same token, the prominence
of AB2s deictic field within the fantasy universe would decrease as, in Galbraiths
(1995) terms, it decayed. However, there now appears to be a subtle blending of
deictic fields and viewpoints. AB2s narration in turn 651 and the stage directions
work to prime a fantasy universe belonging to AB2. That Miss Shepherds speech
occurs within a fantasy universe of AB2s is reinforced by the fact that her first
sentence appears to be a response to AB2s speculation in turn 651, Love once,
even, maybe. Until Miss Shepherds death, AB1 is the only character in the play
who is aware of AB2, therefore we would not expect Miss Shepherd to be able to
respond to AB2 at this point in the play. Within this fantasy universe there is a spatial shift to the inside of the van, from where Miss Shepherd appears to respond
to AB2s speculation that she may once have been in love. However, although AB2
was imagining her driving ambulances during the war, Miss Shepherd makes her
speech in turn 652 from inside the van (which shares some of the schematic characteristics of an ambulance but is clearly not one). Therefore this speech occurs
in a different, but in some ways parallel, temporal deictic field to that which AB2
was imagining, indicating a shift to Miss Shepherds point of view. That this cannot logically happen contributes to the sense of the unreal as the van splits in two,
and it is significant that it is within this fantasy sequence that Miss Shepherd fi-
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
F: LAL307.tex / p.14 (730-787)
nally describes the road accident in which she was responsible for the death of a
motorcyclist (see 6.4.1 for a full analysis of this turn). The logical deviation that
occurs within the fantasy universe serves to foreground Miss Shepherds speech
in turn 652.
After turn 652 there is the following stage direction:
The prayer turns into a mutter (possibly in Latin).
The light fades and AB1 arrives back from the theatre on his bike. He stops and
listens to the now dark van.
AB2 comes up behind him and puts his hand on his shoulder.
There are several triggers in this stage direction that indicate a deictic shift out
of Miss Shepherds deictic field and back into AB1s. The first is non-linguistic
and would be realised in a production of the play. The light fading would have
the effect of backgrounding the character of Miss Shepherd, arguably reducing
the prominence of her deictic field and, effectively, unpriming it. This would also
trigger a shift out of AB2s fantasy universe and back into the textual actual world.
Within the TAW, the position that the reader/audience takes up is within AB1s
deictic field. The spatial deictic verb comes indicates movement towards AB1s
deictic centre, and binds and primes AB1s deictic field once again, suggesting that
the reader is back witnessing events from his perspective. There is then a short
conversation between AB1 and AB2, in which AB1 voices his concerns that Miss
Shepherd may be dead:
[653] AB1 Should I look now, do you think?
[654] AB2 Itll wait. Besides, its too dark. Tomorrow would be better. Perhaps
then you should take some photographs.
However, the accessibility relations (Ryan 1991) between the AW and the TAW
are such that we know there cannot really be two Alan Bennetts in the world at
once. Therefore the reader/audience is likely to interpret this conversation as representing the to and fro of AB1/AB2s thoughts. This once more works to create a
subjective viewpoint of events in the embedded fictional world.
What we can also note from turn 654 is that AB2s discourse role has again
changed from being a narrator figure to a character within the TAW. This is suggested by the fact that he appears to inhabit the same temporal deictic field as AB1
(indicated by the temporal deictic tomorrow). AB2 is no longer distanced temporally from the events that he describes, and so the temporal deictic field that was
instantiated in earlier turns (e.g. turn 35, Which you could of course in those unpenalized days) is likely to decay until it is unprimed. The likely effect of this for
the reader/audience is to give the scene more of a sense of immediacy, thereby increasing the dramatic tension. The scene ends without a discoursal shift back up to
the level of narrator, and at the opening of the following scene (supposedly the next
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F: LAL307.tex / p.15 (787-862)
morning), AB2 still appears to be operating at the character (rather than narrator)
level of the plays discourse structure. Thus, AB2 appears to inhabit the here and
now of AB1 in the embedded TAW. AB1/AB2 then decides to check inside Miss
Shepherds van, expecting to find her dead. The stage directions inform us that:
AB1 very nervously opens the back door of the van, face screwed up in disgust
and anticipation, with AB2 peering over his shoulder.
At which point Miss, Shepherd materializes on the other side of the stage and
bears down on them at full speed in her wheelchair.
The stage directions give us some clue as to AB1s internal state, as a result of the
adverb nervously and the nouns disgust and anticipation, reinforcing the fact
that the reader/audience is witnessing events in the fictional world from his perspective. It is also the case that AB1 and AB2s deictic fields have similar spatial
co-ordinates in this scene. Both have the same perceptual point of view of the inside of the van. It would seem that Bennett (the real world author of the play)
is subtly conflating the two dramatic figures, and this has the subsidiary effect of
further decreasing the prominence of the framing fictional world which, since it
has not been referred to in the last 21 turns, is likely to have decayed and become unbound for the reader/audience. The fact that AB2 is also now operating
at the character rather than narrator level is made clear by his astonishment at the
appearance of Miss Shepherd:
[673] Miss Shepherd What are you doing?
AB2 leaps back, startled.
And again, the adjective startled gives us some indication of AB2s internal state,
lending further weight to the notion that the reader/audience is witnessing events
in the embedded TAW from a position close to his deictic field (which, as I have
noted above, is now similar to AB1s).
. The mysteries surrounding Miss Shepherd (Act Two, turns 732 to 798)
In this section of the play Miss Shepherd inadvertently reveals that Mary Shepherd
is not her real name. This becomes apparent when she asks AB1s advice about
financial matters:
[732] Miss Shepherd Mr Bennett. Whereve you been? Ive rung the bell twice.
[733] AB1 Seeing my mother.
[734] Miss Shepherd How is she?
[735] AB1 Shes very poorly.
[736] Miss Shepherd Yes? Well, Ive not been well again myself.
[737] AB1 Shes in a coma.
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F: LAL307.tex / p.16 (862-927)
[738] Miss Shepherd Probably just having forty winks.

[739] AB1 Miss Shepherd. She is dying.
[740] Miss Shepherd Cant be doing with company, probably. She should be
grateful she doesnt have to cope with letters from Mr Campbell Adamson.
[741] AB1 The Chairman of the CBI?
[742] Miss Shepherd Hes wanting to change the Abbey National from being
a building society into a bank and he needs my consent. I have voting rights,
apparently.
[743] AB1 Do you have something in the Abbey National then?
[744] Miss Shepherd If a person had put money on deposit in one name and
that was the name the vote was in, but that wasnt their real name, would that
be against the law?
[745] AB1 Why, did you do that?
[746] Miss Shepherd (banging her hand) I did not say that. If a soul did. A
creature. Not me. It is not me.
[747] AB1 What other name?
[748] Miss Shepherd How many more times? I am in an incognito position. Take an anonymous view of it. Anyway, now youre here I want some
shopping done.
This passage reveals much about Miss Shepherds character and her unusual mind
style. In turn 736 Miss Shepherd fails to grasp (or ignores) the gravity of the situation following AB1s description of his mother as being very poorly. Then when
AB1 expands on what he has said (Shes in a coma), Miss Shepherd suggests that
she is simply sleeping. Her choice of informal lexis (forty winks) indicates the
lack of seriousness that she ascribes to the situation. This is continued in turn 740
when she dismisses AB1s assertion that his mother is dying, saying instead that
she probably cant be doing with the company.
That Miss Shepherd is trying to hide something is apparent in turn 744. She
violates Grices (1975) Maxim of Relation by not answering AB1s question in turn
743 and she uses indefinite reference (a person) in her hypothetical question to
him. Nevertheless, the very fact that she does this suggests that she is actually referring to her own personal situation. Miss Shepherd then changes the subject and
tells him she wants him to do some shopping for her. AB1 asks:
[757] AB1 Do you want some towels?
[758] Miss Shepherd Towels? What do I want towels for?
[759] AB2 I did not mean towels. I meant the kind of towels my mother used
to send me next door to the drapers and babies knitwear shop for when I
was a boy; towels that came in plain brown-paper parcels; towels that could
not be mentioned. And the reason why I am mentioning them is because I
can see one such towel (probably an incontinence pad) drying by the electric
ring inside the van. The stench is staggering.
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
F: LAL307.tex / p.17 (927-962)
AB2s comment in turn 759 acts as the trigger for a discoursal shift back to the narrator level, and serves to emphasise again that we are being told a story from AB2s
perspective. AB2s narration in turn 759 also reinstantiates his narratorial deictic
field as being spatially and temporally distant from those of the characters whom
he describes. This is achieved by his use of past tense verbs (e.g. did not mean,
meant, was, etc.). However, he then switches to the present progressive form to
refer to what AB1 is saying with the fictional world that AB2 describes (the reason why I am mentioning them). The effect of this is to make it seem as if AB2 is
suddenly temporally closer to the events that he describes. This appears to trigger
a shift back down the discourse levels from the level of narrator to the level of the
character. We can also notice that when AB2 says I can see one such towel, the
verb of perception indicates that his deictic field is at this point within the embedded TAW. This has the effect of binding AB2 into this deictic field, which becomes
primed as a result. AB2s use of evaluative lexis (stench and staggering) indicates
his internal state i.e. disgust at the smell coming from the van. But this evaluative
lexis must also indicate AB1s internal state, since AB2 and AB1 are different representations of the same dramatic figure. Because AB2s narration has moved us
spatially and temporally into the embedded fictional world, the conversation that
follows is between Miss Shepherd and AB1. There then follow 36 turns before AB2
takes a turn again, and, arguably, in this time the deictic field in the framing fictional world, instantiated by AB2 in turn 759, is likely to have decayed and become
unprimed. The reader, then, is likely to be positioned within AB1s deictic field.
AB1 discusses Miss Shepherd with the Social Worker, and becomes increasingly
annoyed at her reference to him as Miss Shepherds carer. This culminates in AB1
appearing to lose his temper:
[793] AB1 [. . .] I resent it when the professionals, as you call it, turn up every
three months or so and try to tell me what this woman, whom I have coped
with on a daily basis for fifteen years, is like.
[794] Social Worker What is she like?
[795] AB1 Mary, as you call her, is a bigoted, blinkered, cantankerous, devious, unforgiving, self-centred, rank, rude, car-mad cow. Which, Miss Aileen
McNiff Naff, is to say nothing of her flying faeces and her ability to extrude
from her withered buttocks turds of such force that they land a yard from the
back of the van and their presumed point of exit.
The amount of extreme attitudinal lexis in turn 795 (e.g. bigoted, blinkered,
cantankerous, devious, unforgiving, self-centred, rank, rude, car-mad, cow,
withered, buttocks, turds) is unusual since AB1 is an introverted character who
prefers to avoid conflict. Evidence for this assessment can be found throughout the
play. For example, when AB1 disturbs a yob banging on the side of Miss Shepherds
van, the yob responds by saying Youre nervous. Youre trembling all over. Fuck-
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
F: LAL307.tex / p.18 (962-1008)
ing cunt. The language he uses thus has the effect of foregrounding this turn. The
alliteration in the long stream of evaluative adjectives is also unusual and not what
we would expect in naturalistic dialogue. In addition, the name Aileen McNiff
Naff is clearly invented and has negative connotations (niff is slang for smell,
and naff is slang for poor quality). For these reasons, it is conceivable that turn
795 is not something that AB1 said in the TAW, but instead represents something
he wanted to say in an alternative possible world. Turn 796 confirms that this inference is correct, and that turn 795 actually represents AB1s wish world (i.e. what
he wished he had said but didnt):
[796] AB2 Though of course you didnt say a word of that.
[797] AB1 No.
Turn 796 constitutes a discoursal shift (back up to the narrator level) and a temporal shift (indicated by the past tense verb) enabling AB2 to comment on turn
795, which in turn allows the reader to reappraise what AB1 supposedly said to
the Social Worker. In effect, the reader shifts into AB1s wish world (Ryan 1991)
without knowing it fully, and the discoursal shift in turn 796 works to move the
reader back into the TAW. What also appears to be the case is that in turn 797 AB1
has also shifted deictic fields. The statement that AB2 makes in turn 796 is from
a perspective within the framing fictional world, temporally and spatially distant
from the embedded TAW. That AB1 responds to this must mean that he too is now
positioned within the framing fictional world and has also shifted discoursally up
to the narrator level of the plays discourse architecture. By using two Alan Bennett
figures and having them shift between deictic fields and fictional worlds, the playwright has created a means of representing the thoughts and interior monologues
of the dramatic figure of Alan Bennett, and hence, his internal point of view. This
unique device is part of what makes the play so innovative and interesting.
The interior monologue continues in turn 798 when AB2 provides more information regarding AB1s internal state:
[798] AB2 People would think that was because you were too nice. Its actually
because youre too timid.
Here, the reader/audience gains an insight into the character of AB1, which must
also apply to AB2, since he is simply the narrator representation of the same
dramatic figure.
. The truth about Miss Shepherd (Act Two, turns 900 to 976)
This section of the play deals with Miss Shepherds death and its aftermath. It is
the Social Worker who discovers Miss Shepherds body:
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F: LAL307.tex / p.19 (1008-1087)
[900] Social Worker Mary. (She knocks) Mary?

She opens the door, looks in and gets into the van.
[901] AB1 No one has ever done that before, got into the van.
[902] AB2 She is dead. It is a van no longer. It is a sepulchre.
The social worker gets out and AB1 goes and looks in.
Even now I do not venture into this evil-smelling tomb but just glimpse her
neck stretched out across the new clean pillow as if ready for the block.
[903] AB1 I feel cheated that the discovery of the body has not actually been
mine and that, having observed so much for so long, I am not the first to
witness her death.
[904] AB2 Now in quick succession come the doctor, the priest and men from
the undertakers, all of whom this bright spring morning do what no one
else has done for twenty years: namely without pause and seemingly without
distaste step inside the van.
Turn 900 clearly occurs within the embedded TAW. However, there is an ambiguity
in turn 901 in that AB1 could be addressing either the Social Worker or the audience. I would argue that this ambiguity has the effect of destabilising AB1s deictic
field. The reader/audience is now not sure whether this is within the embedded
TAW or the framing TAW.
Turn 902 is also ambiguous. We know that AB2 is the canonical narrator in
the play, but it is unclear whether his speech is addressed to AB1 or to the audience. What we can note, however, is that AB2s use of the present simple tense
suggests that his deictic field is within the embedded TAW rather than the framing
TAW. AB2s deictic field within the framing TAW is now likely to be unbound and
unprimed, as a result of this not having been reinstantiated since turn 853.
The strongly evaluative lexis that AB2 uses in turn 902, such as sepulchre and
evil-smelling tomb, indicate a subjective description of events. The verb of perception (glimpse) also indicates his perceptual point of view within the embedded
TAW, and suggests that he does not have a full, clear view of Miss Shepherd. The
verb of cognition (feel) in turn 903 indicates AB1s point of view, and this description of his thoughts suggests that he too has shifted discoursally and is now
occupying a narratorial role. The effect of this is that AB1 now provides an external
viewpoint of events in the embedded TAW.
AB2, on the other hand, now seems positioned within the embedded TAW, and
so AB1 and AB2 have effectively swapped roles. In turn 904 we can note that the
spatial deictic verb come indicates movement towards AB2s deictic centre. AB2s
use of the adverb seemingly in turn 904, however, indicates that he does not have
access to the thoughts and feelings of the other characters he describes. The point
of view that the reader/audience is presented with here is thus a subtle blend of
AB1s and AB2s. AB1 provides commentary on the events in the embedded TAW
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
F: LAL307.tex / p.20 (1087-1143)
from an external perspective, while AB2 provides commentary from within this
fictional world. The purpose of having AB1 take up a deictic position outside the
embedded TAW is perhaps to reflect his feelings of being left out of the final stages
of Miss Shepherds life, after having been so closely involved with her for so long.
Perhaps to emphasise this feeling of suddenly being excluded, AB2 hands over the
task of narration to one of the minor characters, the neighbour, Rufus. AB2 says
Actually you can take this and the stage directions indicate that Rufus is aware of
AB2. What seems to have occurred here is that once it has been established that
AB1 can cross discourse roles, it then becomes possible for other characters in the
play to do this too. The sense that we get at the beginning of the play, of AB2
as an author writing a play, is reinforced by AB2 now appearing to control what
the other characters say. Thus, AB2s deictic field in the framing fictional world
is reinstantiated and rises in prominence, while the embedded TAW decreases in
prominence.
As a result of AB2s handing over the task of narration to Rufus, Rufus shifts
spatially and temporally out of the embedded TAW and into the framing TAW, and
discoursally up to the narrator level. The reader/audience now witnesses events in
the fictional world from his perspective which is external to the embedded TAW:
[906] AB2 Professionals all, I suppose . . . one definition of the professional:
the absence (or the non-expression) of disgust. Actually you can take this.
Rufus, pointing to himself with a query, now goes on with the speech.
[907] Rufus Surgeons. Lawyers. Even . . . I lower the stakes . . . even the gentlemen in brown overalls polishing the faucets in the stalls of the lavatory at the
bottom of Parkway. What have they in common? Composure. Control.
The embedded TAW thus seems odd, due to Rufus becoming aware of the audience. This oddity might be said to arise because Ryans (1991) principle of minimal
departure is flouted by Rufus suddenly being aware of, and being able to address,
the reader/audience.
Following Rufuss speech it is then unclear whether the next scene, in which
AB1 is cleaning out Miss Shepherds van, takes place in the embedded TAW or
the framing TAW. Although the stage directions indicate that he is addressing AB2
(AB1 is almost giving dictation to AB2, holding up items as he clears out the van),
the amount of description and evaluative commentary in turn 910 suggests that
AB1 is still, partially at least, functioning as a narrator figure.
AB1 is almost giving dictation to AB2, holding up items as he clears out the van.
[910] AB1 Her Rambo cap. Two bottles of Woodland Glade Moisturizer and
After Bath Splash. Many packets of Options, which ought to be a business
magazine or a brochure of leisure opportunities but is actually an incontinence pad. Many nasty spotted creeping insects. And a note: Please arrange
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F: LAL307.tex / p.21 (1143-1204)
funeral, in brackets if needed. But no envelope. No next of kin. But there

is money. Round her withered neck a bag containing 500. Bank books and
building society deposits to the tune of 6,000 and trodden into the layers of
sodden, urine-stained newspaper and old clothes that carpet the van there is
another 900
It seems that AB1s discourse role is, at this point, a blend of narrator and character,
the effect of which is achieved by a combination of diegetic and mimetic elements.
The narration provides a diegetic element whereas the actions described in the
stage directions (which the reader can imagine and which the audience would be
able to see) give the illusion of mimesis. The narration binds and primes the framing TAW while the actions of AB1 bind and prime the framing TAW. Thus, the
reader/audience is aware of both the embedded TAW and the framing TAW; both
are prominent in the reader/audiences mind.
Underwood, the character who had been blackmailing Miss Shepherd earlier
in the play, then enters the embedded TAW and describes to AB1 the events that
probably led to Miss Shepherds mental instability:
[920] AB1 What had she done?
[921] Underwood Its what she didnt do. A crossroads. Stop. Give way, you
know the kind of thing. Major road ahead anyway. Banstead or thereabouts.
Our lady at the wheel. Motor bike comes up, too fast maybe. Raining. Brakes,
skids, hits the side of the van. Nobodys fault. His, maybe, but not hers. Shes
stationary at a junction. Gets out. Looks. Hes dead. Only young. Dead on the
road. Thinks: licence? No. Insurance? No. Sees it all coming. So in a moment
of panic . . . and sin . . . our holy lady drives off. Skedaddles. Does a bunk. A
boy dead on the road and she fucks off. Thereby, you see, committing a felony.
And you too, of course. This was an offence. Harbouring a felon.
Since AB1 and Underwood are addressing one another, it would seem that this
conversation takes place at the character-to-character discourse level of the embedded TAW. The embedded TAW is thus likely to rise in prominence for the
reader/audience as the framing TAW decreases in prominence and starts to decay. The decay of the framing TAW is also likely to be caused by the fact that
Underwoods speech in turn 921 in itself constitutes narration; Underwood is
telling the story of what happened to Miss Shepherd. This is likely to cause the
reader/audience to forget about the framing TAW as they become engrossed in
the story that Underwood tells. His story thus constitutes a description of his belief
world. The way that he describes this belief world means that the reader/audience
interprets events in this world partially from Miss Shepherds point of view. This
is because Underwoods account of the accident in which Miss Shepherd was involved describes events partially from her viewpoint, as a result of Underwood
projecting her deictic centre. We can note the locational deictic expression ahead
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F: LAL307.tex / p.22 (1204-1259)
and the spatial deictic verb comes in the description of the motor bike, both of
which would reflect Miss Shepherds perception of events. However, the adverb
maybe in Underwoods description of the speed of the bike reminds the reader
that this is simply Underwoods second-hand version of events. Nevertheless, the
event-coding (Leech & Short 1981: 177; Short 1996: 275) of Underwoods account
(e.g. Raining. Brakes, skids, hits the side of the van) also reflects what would have
been Miss Shepherds perception of events. Thus Underwoods description constitutes a perceptual shift towards Miss Shepherds deictic centre and a temporal shift
(indicated by the present tense) to the actual time of the accident.
Underwoods account, in effect, fills in the details of Miss Shepherds life that
AB1 was unaware of. This is also the purpose of Leo Fairchilds speech in turns
925 to 933. Fairchild turns out to be Miss Shepherds brother. At the point at which
Leo Fairchild enters, the embedded TAW is still likely to be most prominent for the
reader/audience, as a consequence of there having been no shift out of this TAW at
the end of AB1s conversation with Underwood. The framing TAW, on the other
hand, is likely to have decayed. That the embedded TAW is still primed is made
apparent in the stage directions preceding Fairchilds entrance:
AB1 is back inside the van, looking. As Underwood goes AB1 comes out with an
envelope, which be opens.
[924] AB1 Fairchild. (Calling after him) Was her name Fairchild? Storrington,
Sussex?
There is no answer.
[925] Leo Fairchild Mr Bennett?
[926] AB1 Yes?
[927] Leo Fairchild Youve written to me about a Mary Teresa Shepherd, a
seventy-nine-year-old woman who has died. I have to tell you I know no
such person.
The embedded TAW remains primed because the stage directions in the extract
above indicate that AB1 is inside the van, which we know to exist only in this
embedded fictional world. Also, AB1 speech in turn 924 appears to be addressed
to himself rather than to the reader/audience, and is thus not explicit narration.
Leo Fairchild then narrates to AB1 the missing details of Miss Shepherds life:
[929] Leo Fairchild [. . .] Shepherd was not her name. She was born Margaret
Fairchild. I am Leo Fairchild, her brother. Her brother who had her put away.
In Banstead, which was, of course, an asylum. 7,000!
[930] AB1 Why did you have her put away?
[931] Leo Fairchild God. God, sin, hell. The whole bag of tricks. Morning,
noon and night. My poor mother took refuge in the attic. I dont regret it.
Though in any case first chance she got she was over the wall and out. And, the
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F: LAL307.tex / p.23 (1259-1329)
important point, stayed free for a year and a day, which meant they couldnt
put her back. Odd length of time. A year and a day. Like a fairy story. Well,
let me set your mind at rest. I dont want the money. Give it away. Or keep
it, why not?
In turn 942, AB1 appears to switch discourse role again, since he explicitly indicates what he is thinking:
[942] AB1 All those years stood on my doorstep she was all the time on the
run. Self-sacrifice, incarceration, escape and violent death . . . a life . . . this is
what I keep thinking . . . a life beside which mine is just dull.
This access to AB1s thoughts indicates his conceptual point of view, and since
he actually voices his thoughts, it would seem that he is once more addressing
the reader/audience. This affects the prominence of the embedded TAW, since
AB1s acknowledgement of the presence of the reader/audience emphasises the
fictionality of it. I would argue that this causes the embedded TAW to decrease in
prominence and for the prominence of the framing TAW to start increasing. In
turn 943 there is a discoursal shift up to the level of narrator when AB2 describes
Miss Shepherds funeral. However, it would appear from the use of the present
simple rather than the past tense that AB2 is temporally close to the action in the
embedded fictional world that he is describing. Thus, the reader/audience is aware
of both the embedded and the framing TAWs. That what we are presented with
is AB2s point of view is apparent through the first person pronouns that are the
subjects of the verbs of perception (e.g. gaze) and cognition (e.g. reflect and
imagine) that he uses:
[943] AB2 I gaze down on her coffin and reflect that her new quarters are
rather more commodious (and certainly sweeter) than that narrow stretch
of floor on which she had slept these last twenty years. One of the undertakers men takes the eye though scarcely more than a boy. Not an occupation
one drifts into, I imagine, undertaking, and one that, like becoming a policeman, implies a certain impatience with ordinary slipshod humanity . . . and
in particular this piece of humanity that has got so slipshod as actually to die.
In turn 943, AB2 also projects, albeit ironically, the viewpoint of one of the undertakers. The reference to ordinary slipshod humanity constitutes free indirect
thought (Short 1996: 314) and is clearly a viewpoint that AB2 ironically ascribes to
the undertaker, as is this piece of humanity that has got so slipshod as actually to
die. This cannot be AB2s personal point of view since using the phrase this piece
of humanity implies a lack of personal involvement with the deceased. Turn 943
thus presents AB2s conceptual point of view but also projects the viewpoint of
one of the undertakers. The shifts in viewpoint that occur are arguably as complex
as any that occur in prose fiction writing.
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F: LAL307.tex / p.24 (1329-1374)
Following turn 943, the stage directions indicate that Miss Shepherd rises
from the grave. This contradicts the physical laws of the Actual World, and since
we have not been explicitly informed otherwise, we expect the TAW to resemble
the AW in all respects (cf. Ryans 1991 principle of minimal departure; see 5.3.3).
Because of this I would suggest that the stage directions (or the acting out of these
in performance) trigger a shift into a fantasy universe belonging to AB2. The conversation that then follows between AB2, AB1 and Miss Shepherd occurs in this
fantasy universe which is now bound and primed. Further evidence for this interpretation is the fact that Miss Shepherd now recognises the existence of AB2,
whereas previously she has been unaware of his narratorial presence. Miss Shepherd then initiates a discussion about her van becoming a place of pilgrimage,
during which she displays the same kind of jumps of logic that I argued in Chapter
six indicates a deviant mind style:
[957] Miss Shepherd Say the van were left on site, that would encourage a
cult. Healing might take place and any proceeds . . . donations, jewellery and
so forth . . . could go towards the nuns.
Miss Shepherds statement that if the van were left on site it would encourage a
cult is not an inductively valid and so not a plausible conclusion, and her supposition that healing might take place is, similarly, not a reasonable assumption to
make. From what we know of Miss Shepherds reasoning abilities (see 6.3.2), this
would seem typical of her logical jumps. AB2s presentation of Miss Shepherd in
his fantasy universe builds on the deviant mind style that she exhibits throughout
the play. From her beyond-the-grave fantasy viewpoint, Miss Shepherd appears to
be turning herself into a saint.
Following this, the events of the play become increasingly more odd. Miss
Shepherd appears to know that AB1 is writing a play based on her life (This
play youre writing, pump it up a bit), and even suggests to him how he might
improve it:
[963] Miss Shepherd Why do you just let me die? Id like to go up into heaven.
An ascension. A transfiguration, possibly.
This is odd since characters do not prototypically talk across the character/narrator
divide. This oddity (i.e. the fact that Miss Shepherd cannot possibly have made
these comments after her death) is resolved if we recall that we are witnessing this
scene from a position within AB1 and AB2s fantasy universe. Since this fantasy
universe is bound and primed, it is more prominent than either the embedded
TAW or the framing TAW. Both of these TAWs will be less prominent than the
fantasy universe, the framing TAW because it will be decaying, and the embedded TAW because its prominence will have decreased. Therefore it is easy for the
reader/audience to lose sight of the fact that Miss Shepherds rising from the grave
JB[v.20020404] Prn:8/08/2006; 11:13
F: LAL307.tex / p.25 (1374-1441)
is actually a fantasy of AB1/AB2s. The conversation that occurs is therefore one

that AB1/AB2 imagines Miss Shepherd would have been likely to engage in had
she actually known that Alan Bennett (the real world author) was indeed writing
a play about her life.
What makes The Lady in the Van so innovative is that, via such shifts into
fantasy universes, Bennett the playwright is able to create complex point of view
blends of a kind that are traditionally associated with the novel, and can also be
found more easily in film and television drama than stage drama. For example,
in the conversation between Miss Shepherd and AB1 and AB2 in turns 944 to
969, Bennett (the playwright) presents AB1s external viewpoint of the embedded
fictional world from the perspective of the framing TAW, narration from AB2 but
within the embedded TAW, and the viewpoint of Miss Shepherd as AB2 imagines
it might have been, had she known that Alan Bennett was writing a play based
on her life. By having Miss Shepherd mention the writing of the play, Bennett
points up the fictionality of the story he is telling. However, coupled with this is our
knowledge that the story is based on fact. Therefore it is difficult to comprehend
whether what we are reading/watching is fictional or not. In the study of prose
fiction, the type of writing that blurs fiction and reality in this way is sometimes
referred to as faction (Lodge 1971; see also Short 1996: 260).
Miss Shepherd then gets into the van:
Still laughing, she gets into the van.
Workmen in hard hats now come on and with a good deal of All right your
end? -type dialogue which I shant attempt to transcribe they attach cables to
the van, a flashing orange light offstage indicating the presence of the council
truck. Slowly the van is hoisted up and as it ascends the workmen remove their
hats, gazing upwards in reverence as, to celestial music and even a heavenly choir,
the van disappears from view, leaving the stage dark and desolate and the two
Alan Bennetts alone.
It is difficult to know at this point whether we are still in the fantasy universe or
if we have left it and have been shifted back into the TAW. The reference to the
workmen and the council truck would suggest the TAW, though there are vestiges
of the fantasy universe remaining (indicated by the celestial music and the heavenly
choir). The oddity appears to arise from the fact that, as at the beginning of the
play, it is difficult to work out which particular world we are witnessing events in,
and from what deictic field.
Following the action described in the stage directions, AB2s turn constitutes a
discoursal shift back up to the narrator level within the framing TAW, as he reflects
on his life with Miss Shepherd:
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F: LAL307.tex / p.26 (1441-1502)
[970] AB2 Starting out as someone incidental to my life, she remained on the
edge of it so long she became not incidental to it at all. As homebound sons
and daughters looking after their parents think of it as just marking time before their lives start, so like them I learned there is no such thing as marking
time, and that time marks you. In accommodating her and accommodating
to her, I find twenty years of my life has gone. This broken-down old woman,
her delusions and the slow abridgement of her life with all its vehicular permutations . . . these have been given me to record as others record journeys
across Tibet or Patagonia or the thighs of a dozen women. Actually her only
permanent legacy is moths . . . or moth, as the upper classes say. Moths, which
I thought went out with my childhood, Mr Attlee, utility furniture and Cremola pudding, now infest my home and the houses of all my neighbours,
their eggs like a smudge on the fabric, clustered on the edge of the papers that
I sift through for this play.
AB2s mention of the papers that I sift through for this play also suggests that
we have returned to the temporal point in the framing TAW at which the play
began i.e. with AB2 sitting down to write a play about Miss Shepherd. This contextual trigger effectively unbinds and unprimes the deictic fields of the characters
within the fictional world that AB2 describes, and prepares the reader/audience for
a shift out of the framing TAW and back into the AW. The prominence of AB2s
deictic field is therefore likely to decrease as we become more aware of our default deictic field in the Actual World. Our default deictic field is made even more
prominent because of AB2s reference to the reader/audience using the pronoun
they in turn 974:
[973] AB1 Look. This has been one path through my life . . . me and Miss
Shepherd. Just one track. I wrote things; people used to come and stay the
night, and of both sexes. What I mean to say is, its not as if its the whole
picture. Lots of other stuff happened. No end of things.
[974] AB2 They know that.
For the reader/audience, the move out of the fictional world and back into the real
world is then triggered by the final stage direction in which AB2 and AB1 leave
the stage:
He puts his arm around him and they go off together.
Having both AB1 and AB2 leave the stage means that there is no member of the
dramatis personae left to tell the story. This indicates the end of the play and unbinds and unprimes the framing TAW. The reader/audience consequently shifts
back into their default deictic field in the Actual World, which has becomes bound
and primed once more.
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F: LAL307.tex / p.27 (1502-1506)
. Conclusion
In the analysis above I hope to have shown how it is possible to apply the modified
version of deictic shift theory (involving also Emmotts 1997 work on narrative
comprehension and Ryans 1991 approach to possible worlds) that I outlined in
Chapters four and five in a cognitive stylistic analysis of viewpoint in The Lady
in the Van. I would argue that applying this analytical technique assists in interpreting and appreciating the play. For example, it explains some of the seemingly
impossible occurrences in the play, such as Miss Shepherds return from the grave,
by postulating that the reader/audience moves not only between deictic fields, but
also between the alternative possible worlds of the TAW. By applying the modified version of deictic shift theory I have also been able to show how Bennett (the
playwright) is able to create innovative and interpretatively meaningful viewpoint
effects throughout the play. I would argue that the subtleties of the viewpoint shifts
in the play contribute substantially to making the play such a complex and inventive drama, and that the point of view effects in the play are arguably as complex
and subtle as any to be found in the novel.
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F: LAL308.tex / p.1 (44-119)
Chapter 8
Conclusion
. Summary
I set out in this book to explore how the notion of point of view is relevant to
the stylistic analysis of dramatic texts. My reasons for doing this stemmed from
the fact that, although viewpoint has largely been disregarded in the criticism of
drama, some dramatic texts exhibit discourse architectures that are at least as complex as prose fiction narratives (sometimes more so, as I showed in 1.6). This in
itself suggests that point of view is relevant to the analysis of dramatic texts too,
though, as I have shown, even in those dramatic texts exhibiting more prototypical
discourse structures point of view effects can arise. In exploring the issue of point
of view in drama I have focused to a large extent on Alan Bennetts The Lady in the
Van, since this is a play that has the kind of complex discourse architecture mentioned above. The motivation for this approach stemmed in many ways from the
established stylistic practice of examining the unusual in order to obtain a better
perspective on the usual (cf. foregrounding theory, van Peer 1986). Nevertheless,
throughout the book I have also attempted to consider those dramatic texts with
discourse structures more prototypical of drama.
In order to explain the means by which viewpoint effects are created in dramatic texts I have considered a number of different approaches to viewpoint. In
Chapter two I examined existing taxonomies of point of view in prose fiction. I
began by considering definitions of the terms narrative and narration, concluding
that narrative is best seen as a fuzzy concept and that, consequently, some dramatic
texts will fall within this category. I then provided a critique of work on point of
view in prose fiction. I showed how Genettes (1980) work on focalisation is too
imprecise to be an applicable model for stylistic analysis. Uspenskys, Fowlers, and
Simpsons work on the categorisation of narration in prose is a distinct improvement on Genettes work, though these models still prove too restrictive to apply
to dramatic texts. The frameworks outlined by Uspensky (1973), Fowler (1996
[1986]) and Simpson (1993) suffer as a result of their not being able to cope with
types of narration that may not fit within the categories they propose. As a result of
this, I then considered Chatmans work on point of view (1978, 1986, 1990), which
is useful in part due to the fact that it was developed for use on both prose fiction
and film. Having discussed the categories of narration and point of view proposed
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F: LAL308.tex / p.2 (119-189)
by Genette, Uspensky, Fowler, Simpson and Chatman, I then described the checklist of linguistic indicators of viewpoint outlined in Short (1996). I demonstrated
how these could be applicable to dramatic texts and also introduced some further
linguistic indicators of point of view discussed by Short (2000) and myself (McIntyre 2004). I showed how examining linguistic indicators of viewpoint is useful
when describing the triggers for the deictic and world shifts discussed in Chapters
four, five and seven.
In Chapter three I provided a critique of the small amount of work that has
been done on point of view in drama. I began by arguing that the traditional distinction between mimesis and diegesis cannot be held, and that in dramatic texts
the illusion of mimesis is created by diegetic means. This position provides support
for my argument that the discourse structure of dramatic texts is more complex
than has traditionally been thought. Following this, I outlined the early work of
Groff (1959) on point of view in drama, before considering Richardsons (1988)
taxonomy of categories of narration in drama. I suggested that this taxonomy suffers from the same problems as those of Uspensky (1973), Fowler (1996 [1986])
and Simpson (1993). It cannot necessarily account for every variety of narration
in drama and it cannot explain the co-occurrence of viewpoints, or how particular
points of view are constructed. I also showed how none of the existing work on
point of view in drama explains how viewpoint effects are created linguistically in
dramatic texts, which I have consequently tried to spell out in detail in this book.
In Chapter three I also looked at stage directions, an aspect of the dramatic text
much neglected by critics. In considering the taxonomies of stage directions proposed by Aston and Savona (1991) and Feng and Shen (2001), I showed how stage
directions can generate viewpoint effects as a result of them often constituting
narrative elements in the dramatic text. Finally in Chapter three I considered work
on point of view in film drama, and how some cinematic techniques for creating
viewpoint effects might also be realised in stage drama.
In Chapters four, five and six I focussed on demonstrating how the point of
view phenomena noticeable in drama might be explained. In doing this I presented a modified version of Duchan et al.s (1995) deictic shift theory to explain
viewpoint effects in dramatic texts. The extended analysis of The Lady in the Van
that I presented in Chapter seven highlights the active role of readers in constructing fictional viewpoints from the textual and contextual triggers they encounter as
they read. In applying deictic shift theory to explain the creation of point of view
effects in drama, I have speculated on the cognitive activities of readers as they
navigate their way through a dramatic text. The modifications that I have made
to deictic shift theory are designed to provide a greater degree of descriptive and
explanatory power to the analysis of viewpoint. Deictic shift theory points out that
the first shift that a reader makes when they begin to read a text is from their deictic field within the real world to a deictic field within the world of the text. The
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Chapter 8. Conclusion
modified version of deictic shift theory I have employed spells out in more detail
exactly what is involved here, by mapping concepts from Ryans (1991) model of
possible worlds on to deictic shift theory. Ryans notion of re-centering equates to
what deictic shift theory refers to as the PUSH into the fictional world. I have argued that as well as distinguishing between the real and the fictional world, we can
also distinguish between varieties of possible worlds within the text itself. Each of
these worlds will contain deictic fields and thus it is possible within a text to move
among worlds, and also to move among the deictic fields of these worlds. In order
to better explain how it is possible for readers to be aware of and monitor multiple
worlds and deictic fields, I have further suggested that concepts from Emmotts
(1997) contextual frame theory might be gainfully employed within deictic shift
theory. In 4.6.2 I showed how it is possible for more than one world or deictic field
to be, in Emmotts (1997) terms, bound (that is, linked to a specific context) at any
one time, and that, of these, one particular world or field will be primed. This accounts for instances such as that in Death of a Salesman (see also 4.6.2) where the
reader/audience is exposed simultaneously to multiple worlds and deictic fields. I
also used the term prominence, to refer to the extent to which a world or deictic
field might be primed. What I have suggested is that worlds or deictic fields that are
at the forefront of a readers mind can be said to have a high degree of prominence.
Various medial forms of prominence are also theoretically possible.
. Concluding remarks
My purpose in this book has been to consider the notion of point of view and
how this relates to dramatic texts. Throughout, I have concentrated predominantly
on Alan Bennetts play The Lady in the Van, and this culminated in the extended
analysis presented in Chapter 7 that demonstrated how it was possible to apply in
detail a slightly modified version of deictic shift theory in the analysis of viewpoint
in drama. As Stockwell (2002c: 73) points out, though, all stylistic analysis should
have as one of its main aims the interpretation of texts. For this reason it is worth
summarising the interpretative value of applying point of view analysis to The Lady
in the Van.
My analysis of viewpoint in The Lady in the Van shows up how interesting and
innovative Alan Bennetts play is. By shifting the reader/audience between the fictional worlds and variant deictic fields of the text, Bennett is able to create the type
of viewpoint effects found most commonly in the novel. Hence, we are exposed
to the subjective viewpoints of AB1 and AB2, as well as the point of view of Miss
Shepherd and, at times, the plays minor characters. In the dramatic figures of AB1
and AB2, Bennett has created a unique means of presenting characters thought,
in addition to allowing the reader/audience both external and internal points of
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F: LAL308.tex / p.4 (220-235)
view on the events in the fictional worlds. By moving the reader/audience between
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I have argued throughout this book that, far from being an irrelevance to the
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There remains, of course, much work to be done in this area, both in extending and
operationalising the theories involved and applying them to a range of dramatic
texts which have interesting viewpoint effects. I hope that this book will provide a
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Index
A
accessibility relations see
possible worlds theory
Across the Hall
actual world see possible worlds
theory
All Quiet on the Western Front
alternative possible world see
And Then There Were None
Archer, D. ,
As You Like It ,
Aston, E. , , , ,
B
Bhler, K.
background see foregrounding
theory
Bal, M. , , , , ,
Barnard, J. , ,
Being John Malkovich
belief world see possible worlds
theory
Bennett, A. , , , , ,
, ,
Beyond the Fringe ,
binding see contextual frame
theory
Bockting, I. , ,
Bordwell, D. ,
boulomaic see modality
Brannigan, E. ,
Brecht, B. , ,
Brimstone and Treacle ,
Brooks, P.
Brooks, C. ,
Brown, S. , ,
Bruder, G. A.
see also Duchan, J. F.
Burton, D.
C
Captain Corellis Mandolin
,
Carroll, N.
category see prototype theory
Caucasian Chalk Circle, The ,
,
center
Changing Places
Chatman, S. , , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, ,
Chicago Conspiracy, The , ,
Clockwise
cognition , , , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , ,
cognitive linguistics , ,
cognitive metaphor theory
conceptual metaphor
conceptual point of view see
point of view
contextual frame theory ,
, , , ,
binding , , ,
priming , , , ,
,
Culpeper, J. ,
D
Death of a Salesman , ,
, , , , , ,
deductive see logic

definite reference , ,
deictic shift theory , ,
, , , ,
, , , ,
, -, , , ,
deictic decay
deictic field , ,
, , , ,
, , ,
, ,
deictic projection
deictic shift , , ,
, , , ,
, , , ,
, , , , ,
, , ,
edgework
pop , , ,
,
push , , ,
, , , , ,
deixis , , , , ,
deictic centre , ,
, , , ,
, , , ,
, , ,
empathetic , ,
person
place
relational
social ,
spatial , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, ,
temporal
deontic see modality
diegesis , , , ,
direct speech see speech
presentation
discours

discourse , , , ,
, , , , , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , ,
, ,
discourse architecture see
discourse structure
discourse role , , , ,
,
discourse structure , ,
, , , , , , , ,
, , , ,
distance , , , , , ,
, , , , ,
Dombey and Son
Dr No
dramatis personae , ,
, , ,
dreams , , , , , ,
,
Duchan, J. F. , , , ,
E
edgework see deictic shift theory
Educating Rita
Elam, K. ,
Emmott, C. , , , ,
, ,
emotion ,
empathetic deixis see deixis
epistemic see modality
evaluative lexis see point of
view, linguistic indicators of
event-coding see point of view,
linguistic indicators of
Exception and the Rule, The
, ,
external point of view see point
of view
external focalization see
focalization
external narration see narration
extra-dialogic see stage
directions
F
fabula , ,
faction
fantasy universe see possible
worlds theory
Father of the Bride
fictional world , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , ,
, , ,
, , , , ,
, , , ,
, , , ,
Filling ,
film , , , , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , , ,
filter see point of view
first-person see narration
flashback , ,
Fludernik, M.
focalization , ,
external
focalizer , ,
internal
non-focalized narrative
zero focalization
focus of narration ,
foregrounding theory
background , , , , ,
, , , ,
foreground , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
foregrounding , ,
, , , , , ,
formalist ,
Fortune and Mens Eyes
Fowler, R. , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , ,
frame , , , , ,
, , , , ,
frame narrator see narrators,
types of
frame-story
framing , , , , ,
, ,
fuzzy see prototype theory
G
Galbraith, M. , , ,
, , , , ,
,
generative narrator see
narrators, types of
Genette, G. , , , , ,
, , ,
Goon Show, The ,
Grice, H. P. , , , ,
, ,
Groff, E. , , , , , ,
, ,
H
Halliday, M. A. K. ,
Harris, S. , , , , ,
heterodiegetic see narration
Hewitt, L. E. see Duchan
histoir
homodiegetic see narration
Hound of the Baskervilles, The
,
I
ideological point of view see
point of view
implied author
in medias res , , , ,
indefinite reference , ,
,
indirect speech see speech
presentation
inductive see logic
Insurance Man, The
Island of the Day Before, The ,
intention worlds see possible

worlds theory
interest-focus
interference
internal point of view see point
of view
internal focalization see
focalization
internal narration see narration
intra-dialogic see stage
directions
intransitive , , ,
INUS conditions see narrative
connections
invalid see logic
involvement , , , ,
,
K
Kiss Kiss ,
knowledge world see possible
worlds theory
Index
L
Lady in the Van, The , , ,
, , , , , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , ,
, , ,
Last English King, The
Leech, G. , , , , ,
, ,
Levinson, S. , , , , ,
, , ,
Life of Brian
limited viewpoint see point of
view
logic
deductive
inductive , , ,
, , ,
invalid
premise ,
valid , , , ,
Lyons, J. , , ,
M
metaphor see cognitive
metaphor theory
mimesis , , , ,
mind style , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , ,
see also world view
modality , , ,
boulomaic
deontic
epistemic
modal , , , ,
Moll Flanders ,
monodramatic narrator see
narrators, types of
Monty Pythons Flying Circus
Mousetrap, The
Moving Finger, The
N
narration , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , ,
external , ,
first-person , , , , ,
, , ,
heterodiegetic
homodiegetic ,
internal , ,
second-person , , , ,
third-person , , , ,
, , , ,
narrative , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , ,
narrative mood
narrative voice ,
narrative comprehension ,
,
see also contextual frame theory
narrative connections
INUS conditions
narratorial mediation see
narrator
narrator
types of
frame narrator ,
generative narrator ,
internal narrator
monodramatic narrator
narratorial mediation , ,
, , ,
non-focalized narrative see
focalization
O
objective , , , , ,
obligation worlds see possible

worlds theory
Old Times , ,
Our Town
P
paradigms of reality , ,
,
paralepsis
paralipsis
Pennies from Heaven ,
, , , ,
perception , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, ,
perceptual point of view see

point of view
performance , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , ,
person deixis see deixis
perspective , , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , ,
Peter Pan , ,
place deixis see deixis
play-text ,
point of view , , ,
, , , ,
, , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , ,
, , , , ,
, , passim
conceptual , , , ,
, , , , , ,
,
external , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , ,
, ,
filter
ideological , , , ,
internal , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
,
limited
linguistic indicators of
deixis see deixis (main entry)
evaluative lexis , , ,
see also value-laden language

event-coding , ,
given information
new information
psychological sequencing ,
schema-oriented language
see also schema theory

value-laden language
see also evaluative lexis

on the ideological plane ,
, , ,
on the phraseological plane
on the plane of psychology
perceptual , , , ,
, , , , , ,
,
psychological ,
slant
spatial
spatio-temporal , , ,
temporal , , , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , ,
, , ,
pop see deictic shift theory
possible worlds theory see also
truth conditional
semantics
Ronen, R.
Ryanss model
accessibility relations ,
,
actual world ,
, , , ,
, , ,
alternative possible world
,
belief world , ,
fantasy universe ,
, , ,
intention worlds
knowledge world
obligation worlds
principle of minimal
departure , , ,
prospective extensions of
knowledge worlds
textual reference world
textual universe ,
wish worlds
premise see logic
presupposition , ,
priming see contextual frame
theory
principle of minimal departure
see possible worlds theory
Princess Bride, The ,
prominence , , ,
, , , ,
, , ,
prose , , , , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , , ,
prospective extensions of
knowledge worlds see
prototype theory
categories , , , , ,
fuzzy , , ,
proximity , , , ,
psychological point of view see
point of view
psychological sequencing see
point of view, linguistic
indicators of
Puny Little Life Show, The
push see deictic shift theory
R
real world , , , , ,
, , , ,
, , , , ,
, ,
reality , , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, ,
reality paradigm see paradigms
of reality
reflector ,
relational deixis see deixis
Richard III , ,
Richardson, B. , , , ,
, , ,
Rimmon-Kenan, S.
Ronen, R.
see also possible worlds theory
Ryan, M. L. , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , , ,
see also possible worlds theory

S
Savona, G. , , , ,
schema theory
schema ,
schematic knowledge ,
,
screen directions , , ,
, , , , , ,
see also stage directions

Searle, J. R.
second-person see narration
Segal, R. , , , , ,
,
semantics see truth conditional
semantics
Semino, E. , , , , ,
, , , ,
shift see deictic shift theory
Shklovsky, V. ,
Short, M. , , , , , ,
, , , , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , ,
Simpson, P. , , , ,
, , , ,
sjuzhet , , , ,
slant see point of view
social deixis see deixis
sociology
Sound and the Fury, The ,
spatial see deixis
spatial point of view see point of
view
spatio-temporal see point of
view
speech presentation
direct speech , ,
indirect speech
stage directions , , ,
, , , , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, , , , ,
, , , , , ,
, ,
see also screen directions
extra-dialogic
intra-dialogic
stance , ,
Stockwell, P. , , , ,
, , ,
subjective , , , , ,
, , , , ,
T
temporal point of view see point
of view
temporal deixis see deixis
text worlds
see also fictional world, possible
worlds theory
Index
textual reference world see

textual universe see possible
worlds theory
third-person see narration
thought presentation , ,
, , ,
see also speech presentation
transitivity , ,
truth conditional semantics
U
underlexicalisation
Up Pompeii ,
Uspensky, B. , , , ,
, , , ,
Usual Suspects, The
V
valid see logic
value-laden language see point
of view, linguistic indicators
of
Veltrusky, J. ,
W
Warren, R. P. ,
Weingarten, B. E. , , ,
Werth, P.
Wilson, G. M. , ,
Wilson, P.
Wind in the Willows, The
wish worlds see possible worlds
theory
Withnail and I , , , ,
, ,
world-view , ,
see also mind style
Y
Young, K. G.
Z
zero focalization see focalization
In the series Linguistic Approaches to Literature the following titles have been published thus
far or are scheduled for publication:
3
2
1
McIntyre, Dan: Point of View in Plays. A cognitive stylistic approach to viewpoint in drama and other
text-types. 2006. xi,203pp.
Simpson, Paul: On the Discourse of Satire. Towards a stylistic model of satirical humour. 2003.
xiv,242pp.
Semino, Elena and Jonathan Culpeper (eds.): Cognitive Stylistics. Language and cognition in text
analysis. 2002. xvi,333pp.

(Dan McIntyre) Point of View in Plays A Cognitive

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<DOCINFO AUTHOR ""TITLE "Point of View in Plays: A cognitive stylistic approach to viewpoint in drama and other text-types"SUBJECT "Linguistic

Approaches to Literature, Volume 3"KEYWORDS ""SIZE HEIGHT "240"WIDTH "160"VOFFSET "4">

Point of View in Plays

Linguistic Approaches to Literature

Advisory Editorial Board

Loyola University Chicago

Northern Arizona University

Sheeld Hallam University

University of Southern California

Raymond W. Gibbs Jr.

University of California, Santa Cruz

Tel Aviv University

Jean Jacques Weber

Tel Aviv University

University Centre Luxemburg

Point of View in Plays

John Benjamins Publishing Company

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

isbn 90 272 3335 7 (Hb; alk. paper)

2006 John Benjamins B.V.

Point of View in Plays

2.5.4 Chatmans work on point of view 42

4.4.4 Social deixis 97

Point of View in Plays

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.1 (44-126)

Point of view and plays

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.2 (126-172)

Point of View in Plays

. Aims of the book

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.3 (172-220)

Chapter 1. Point of view and plays

. Prototypical and non-prototypical dramatic texts

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.4 (220-310)

Point of View in Plays

40. INT. COTTAGE. NIGHT.

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.5 (310-343)

Chapter 1. Point of view and plays

. The prototypical discourse structure of drama

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.6 (343-393)

Point of View in Plays

level consists of an addresser (the playwright) giving a message to an addressee

In drama, the reader/audience is a sanctioned overhearer of the conversations that

. Alan Bennetts The Lady in the Van

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.7 (393-441)

Chapter 1. Point of view and plays

. The discourse structure of The Lady in the Van

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.8 (441-474)

Point of View in Plays

complex discourse architecture than that of a prototypical play. The discourse

Figure 1.2 Discourse structure of The Lady in the Van

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14

F: LAL301.tex / p.9 (474-531)

Chapter 1. Point of view and plays

JB[v.20020404] Prn:18/07/2006; 10:14