One key element in art is stories, for stories enable artists to express so many artistic attributes. Art ultimately draws from life, and life is a long story, “a fable agreed upon.” Every artistic movement or paradigm in history reflected the beliefs and feelings of the society from which it emerged, and either affirmed or opposed its cultural elements. Those movements were but artistic chapters in the book of life, and lent themselves to the historical story.
I strictly refer to the story as historical rather than universal because not all of the elements of the universe belong to stories. In fact, the distinction between history and the rest of the universe is fairly simple: history requires humans. The formation of planets or the growth of trees are simply natural occurrences, but neither trees nor planets have a history in any meaningful sense of the word.
Similarly, stories require characters. Those characters do not necessarily have to be humans, but they do have to feature characteristics with which humans can relate. Non-human characters can either be anthropomorphic, like the various metamorphosed figures detailed by Ovid, or enable human projection. The beautiful story of Tod the fox is perhaps the best example of non-anthropomorphic characters, for Todd and the rest of the animals are written to be nothing more than animals. But the sole reason we regard this tale about animals as a story is that we project our humanity into those animals, and imagine ourselves in those situations. Only the human reader can turn an animal into a character, while actual foxes are denied that privilege.
In brief, characters are essential to stories, and indeed good stories focus on character development rather than occurrences. The more interesting and developed the characters of a story are, the more the story becomes artistic and powerful. We can regard stories as game-boards, with the board representing the plot and the pieces representing the characters. The board is uninteresting and irrelevant on its own, and draws its significance only from its relation to the pieces and the way it affects them.
I often hear people refer to some characters as ‘two-dimensional’ and to others as ‘three-dimensional.’ This description attempts to broadly categorize characters into ‘good’ (i.e., well developed and interesting) and ‘bad,’ or just simplistic. I hold that this categorisation fails to explain the main differences between the characters it refers to, thereby completely missing its original objective.
Referring to characters through dimensions implies that good characters possess not only an additional dimension that their inferior counterparts lack, but also the core elements that, on their own, fail to support compelling characters. I propose the different method of using classes. These classes are not mathematically defined and do not necessarily depend on one another for progression, nor do they represent a mandated hierarchy of quality in character development; instead, these classes refer to the potential that their character development possesses. Like artforms, character classes differ in their potential to create compelling and artistic characters, but characters from lower classes can still eclipse characters from higher classes.
The first class is hardly worth mentioning, for it stretches the definition of characterisation. This class consists of characters who passively appear in stories; these are characters such as Anastasie de Restaud or even Papa Monzano, who simply don’t have any purpose in their respective stories but to serve as a spoiled daughter or a tired dictator. Even some protagonists, such as Beowulf, possess none but passive and emblematic characteristics. The exploration of such characters in stories is not superficial, but rather it is non-existent, for they aren’t meant to be characters at all; they are defined solely by their circumstances.
The second class consists of characters who are solely defined by desires. Sadly, many protagonists in modern stories fall into this category. Such characters have specific goals that they strive to achieve, and their presence in the story is mostly contingent upon their pursuit of those goals. Grammatically, we cannot truly refer to such characters as those who ‘seek only,’ but rather those who ‘only seek.’ Alpheus was defined by his desperate desire to unite with Arethusa, just as Monsieur Jourdain only sought to become a gentleman and Edmond Dantès only sought revenge. Even if these characters possess some of the loftier traits of better classes, they are ultimately defined by their obsession with an external objective.
The third class consists of characters who are defined by personality. These are characters who possess a distinctive sense of morality, a personal philosophy, values, and a set of traits. Such characters act sensibly and according to their personality; their actions are not necessarily foreseeable, but the reasons for their interaction with the world are fleshed-out and explainable. One can construct an imaginary situation and toy with the thought of how such a character might react to it, because to us the personality of that character is almost tangible. Nora Helmer, Sancho Panza, and Rawdon Crawley are some examples of characters who possess such well-defined personalities that one can recollect even living people who fall short of them in that respect.
The definition of the final class of characters is elusive. We have already pointed at fictional characters whose personality was so well defined as to eclipse some non-fictional beings; what, then, can possess greater potential to become compelling and artistic? The answer forces us to turn this class eponymous and almost tautological, for the greatest characters are persons of character.
Here we see the greatest challenge, but also power, of literature. How can one design a person of character without being one, or at least understanding the meaning of being one? How can a reader recognise the person of character if his own comprehension fails to notice quality of character? Can the average consumer imagine a being that disagrees with his very constitution of existence to such a degree as to become antithetical to it?
Writers who are capable of developing characters of character are therefore rare and valuable. The very construction of Johannes, Julien Sorel, and Faust immediately reveals the depth and character of the creators of those characters, for to confine the spirit of such characters to the boundaries of personality surely misses the mark. As Emerson said, some persons of character possess qualities that are hard to describe, and that do not necessarily shine through their writings or the bare descriptions of their actions, and yet those persons undeniably possessed such qualities as to leave a deep impression on their surroundings. Even the skilled and enlightened author faces a challenge in putting such a character to the page.
Literature is so valuable and unique because, unlike other artforms, it can teach the reader to become a person of character. After writing, reading is probably the greatest act of self-betterment, for it has the capacity to educate us about character and individuality. Indeed, only artforms that include stories are capable of such an effect, and among them only literature is truly successful.
Music, for example, is almost independent of character. Like old Jolyon, I too have felt the power of Chopin’s music creep into my heart and dethrone the place that Beethoven’s music once possessed, and I do admit to preferring the former to the latter. But can one argue that Chopin, who was so ill-used by George Sand and who felt such a deep nationalistic pride, possessed a greater character than Beethoven? To me the idea seems preposterous. Had those composers pursued a literary career, I’m certain that Beethoven’s pen would have reigned supreme, for his character would have made him a better writer.
Of mythical figures, the writer best resembles Autolycus. This mischievous swindler takes elements from life and transforms them into transferable works, which share an essence with the original elements; his pieces of merchandise are made through mimicry, but, like art, shed a new light on the original and expose a greater truth about it. But to create an item, Autolycus must first imagine and understand it; his composition is processed through his psyche, which leaves its mark upon the final result. Similarly, Autolycus can transform himself into some new item, he can add his own essence to the merchandise – but there lies his limit.
As good of a thief as he may be, Autolycus cannot steal what he cannot see or transform into something he cannot imagine. Just so, the writer cannot use what he cannot comprehend and his characters cannot live up to greater ideals than his own. A writer whose constitution is built up of desires will not understand the mechanisms of a distraught character, whose chief battle is against universal indifference, for that writer is restricted to a different class of thought and artistic creation.
Can the writer move between classes? Perhaps. While social mobility receives much attention, artistic mobility is generally ignored. The aspiring writer cannot expect to find assistance in the crowd; he must venture beyond the confinements of his class and follow the less-conspicuous trail of old masters.
At the beginning of the trail stands a sign, all but hidden by foliage and faded from neglect: caveat scriptor. Let the writer beware, for the trail leads to a cliff. One can emulate the masters only until one reaches the void, and thence lies one’s ultimate barrier. To enter the final class, to compete with the true masters, the literary artist must develop his own philosophy against the void and continue on his own, while he paves a new road for himself and potential followers. In the future, other ambitious writers might follow the path of this new artist until they reach the cliff, but unless they deal with the void alone they shall always remain emulators and second-class authors.