Abstract
‘Reality is nothing but a story’ is a part philosophical, part autobiographical essay whose main argument (and title) is that stories—whether written or told to ourselves—are actually what makes up reality. The author furthers this provocative and paradoxical idea by uncovering the often-overlooked power of words—going back to one’s very name as a prime example— and of the narratives they weave resorting to philosophical as well as compelling pop-culture references. Thus, delving into the fabric of reality shows a way towards owning, writing or reinventing of one’s life story. For what reality is there outside of this container and its contents?
“In the beginning was the word.” John 1:1
Reality is nothing but a story.
The word creates reality.
Look above, I even got the Bible on my side on this one. And before you roll your eyes, close this book, dismissing the rambling that follows as bah-humbug, stick with me for a bit. I wish I were a prophet, an illuminated chosen one leading the way but I am even not an evangelist preacher in the making—not even Christian to begin with—evolution seems pretty convincing to me, especially with the Neanderthals making the news everyday—you know drunken sports fan, some world leaders—and I got the memo that these days the New Testament isn’t exactly considered rock-solid scientific proof.
Let’s start with the beginning.
One day, you’re born. Congrats! The first thing you are given aside from a thorough wash and a tap on the back is a NAME. Your first name. Your last name connects you to a legacy and history, often unknown, but yours to uncover, nonetheless. It is not just that you own it like the fluffy toys and your parents’ blind admiration, you ARE your name. With this name, you become a person with an identity to cultivate and nurture, or some[1] may argue thereby preordained to your destiny or the realisation of your nature!
To paraphrase and combine Descartes and Eminem in one dubious go: “My name is XYZ, ergo sum (therefore I am)!”
Mine—Olfa, Arabic for الفة [ulfat] something like intimacy— wasn’t especially easy to carry as a kid growing up in France. You’re five years old and you just want to blend in on the playground, not stand out with a weirdo name. Obviously, that had its impact on the development of my identity and sense of self. (Oh yeah, and Olfa was the brand name of the toilet seats[2] in my high school, so owning it had its challenges. I found out later that Olfa is also the brand name of leading Japanese cutters and obviously enjoy being associated with their world-renowned sharpness. I am contrariwise not too keen on the reeking stool that toilet seats bring up, but then again, I do have an obsession with bad odours and rare perfumes, being a very olfactive person.) Those are not just anecdotal associations with my name and how I either embraced or rejected them, my point is that, the name is at the core of my identity, and so of absolute essence. And my guess is that yours is too, even if you’re lucky enough not to share your name with scores of toilet seats worldwide.
And so, with this name, coinciding with our very self, our life stories can start, as words are woven into some sort of sense-making narrative: ordering and giving sense to our experiences with those sequences of words brings our essence to existence. Something we tell ourselves to find some reassuring meaning, resting on a beginning, a middle and an end. And it wouldn’t have escaped you that in essence there is es and sense, or cutting a Latin etymological explanation short, the union of be and sense or meaning. Our essence is to be a meaning. For what else is there? Spelling out these interwoven, criss-crossing or parallel stories, first in our heads and then out loud with our own words is what our lives are all about. Nothing more, nothing less. These stories we tell ourselves and others, are the only way we can make sense of our meaningless existence, they are our anchors against the confusing dread of randomness. Sometimes we think we lose it and so we go on a quest to find our purpose, or passion, leaving no stone unturned to no avail. Turns out you just have to invent it. Oh yeah, these days I should say ‘manifest’ it. You think it, you say it, you do it and poof, it’s here. Way easier said than done, but I’ll get back to that. The point is: there is no other meaning or truth out there, at least none that we are equipped to fathom and fully decipher. And so, reality is nothing but a story. An elaborate construction, whose bricks are words, but just a story[3] still.
And as explained in the foreword, the stories and thoughts written in the next pages are nothing but that. My sense-making, my coping mechanism or reality-management tool for being and living this life of mine without contemplating too much my inner abyss.
In a way, this constant storytelling, this ordered sequence of events and non-events making up our lives, could indeed be called ‘human reality management.’ Take medical diagnostics. What is their purpose? Sure, getting the right treatment, but first and foremost, confirming the existence—as opposed to hallucination—of the patient’s experience. When symptoms are given a name, regardless of how benign or scary, the patient also gets the solace and reassurance that this is not just only happening “just to her, in her head.” This bunch of symptoms has a name, so it’s real! The world inside her head and the one outside seem to concur, and in this coincidence, there is reassurance and validation. If it is named, it is known, its existence is acknowledged by others. That’s why everything feels better when things have a name, even if that name doesn’t do full justice to the patients’ experience. Derrida described this taming process: “One cannot say: ‘here are our monsters,’ without immediately turning the monsters into pets.”[4] Words create categories that allow us to order, manage and tame our perceptions into manageable realities.
So, what is it that we can really know? That dragons are only lizards? Disappointing and pointless, it seems. Words give existence, but they are also rigid boxes, if not cages in which we order and stack our realities, our lives. What had to be trimmed to fit in the boxes is sent to the disregard, oversight and oblivion departments of our brain gifting us behind our back with those crippling blind spots.
So those words articulating our thoughts are actually a pretty wobbly foundation for our knowledge. I even mentioned the endless well, the abyss in me, for self-knowledge is the hardest to gain. Forget Socrates and Delphi, just try and look at your own butt. Good luck. Freud called that thing inhabiting each of us, “das Es” or “id,” and he wasn’t exactly illiterate or lacking imagination.
What is named exists, is known to some extent, and what cannot be named remains that flimsy and ungraspable je ne sais quoi. All that gets lost in translation is a proof of that. My own Arabic name doesn’t translate into my French mother tongue, so the abyss has a head start with me. What am I supposed to be if I don’t even know what my name means?
This is just one hardly relatable example of the myriad conceptual gaps left in a language. Bridging those is next to impossible and so we bring some fiction in the space between[5], or more sternly, we just use a word from another language. Take for instance
Schadenfreude, liberally used by English speakers to sound fancy but more importantly express a feeling that has not been pinned down by a word in the English thesaurus. This word made up of damage (Schaden) and joy (Freude) describes that unspeakable satisfaction felt at the misfortune of a rival. The other way around, German offers almost its contrary with Fremdscham, compounding the words foreign or external (fremd) with shame (Scham) someone. This the cringe feeling triggered by the embarrassment of someone else; you know, like when you watch a movie and the hero you’ve been rooting for is about to make a big mistake and you barely can stand to watch as the catastrophe unfolds, feeling bad and almost ashamed for him.
You may not be able to translate Schadenfreude or Fremdscham with only one word, and yet, even as a non-German speaker, you get what the word refers to. You may have seen it in a passing facial expression, or even felt it witnessing the demise of your nemesis. It exists despite its lack of a name and yet, it only materialises for your grasp once it’s been put into words, so you can register and store that new concept in your head. Aha, so then words end up expanding your experience of reality after all. The word creates reality. So, words have/are endowed with/carry the super power of creation. And regardless of their intrinsic limitations, their combinations paradoxically blaze a path to infinity and beyond! What is indeed the supposedly infinite Uni-verse, if not the Union of verses, or words, the union of opposites into one.
So, what is it we can know? How can we transcend our human limitations and imperfections? What should be our aspirations and how to turn them into realisations?
What follows is my attempt at answering those questions by finding some sense in contradicting and yet coexisting ideas, paradoxical lessons from my trials and tribulations, as well as unorthodox inspirations from more enlightened thinkers. Surprisingly enough, I’ve found that meaning and truth were usually hidden behind deceptive oppositions, dualities, paradoxes. Finding some sense when contemplating nonsense.
For sure my being bipolar, hovering between opposite identities, as a French liberal Muslim and Slavic-looking Arab feeling most at home in Berlin and Moscow, enjoying her fair share of decadent partying, has something to do with it. My thinking is a reflection of my trying to catch an elusive true or real self, concealed by those exhausting dramatic and sudden changes in mood, energy and outlook on the world. I had to find wisdom in craziness.
Non-sense has usually been my vessel to sense. One doesn’t see much when down to earth. But let go of gravity for a while and chances are this new bird view will open your eyes to new realms of realities/possibilities. This is not about escaping reality in a deluded Peter-Pan way. Neither is this about becoming your best—faster, stronger, higher—self. This unfinished journey is just about being yourself. Really. Wholly. Being so dense with your essence, you somehow float on air.
I obviously haven’t figured how to levitate yet.
But I found empowerment in humility; magic in imperfections; self-knowledge in others; infinity in connection; infinity in unity; ease in the unease. In contradictions, I found some truths. I won some balance, sometimes grace, as I made my way out of the beaten path, a winding trail on the horizon, between the gutter and the stars.
This is my unfinished quest for lucidity in darkness.
“To the darkness, answer with light.”
– Nikos Katzantzakis
[1] see these mind-boggling considerations on the appropriateness of given first names I came across on my lte-night existential soul-searching Googling https://www.jovianarchive.com
[2] One of my sassier friends noted this might explain my outstanding propensity to attract assholes.
[3] By story, I don’t mean a fairy tale. I mean any narrative. A scientific theory is a story
[4] In ‘Some Statements and Truisms about Neologisms, Newisms, Postisms, Parasitisms, and other small Seismisms’
[5] Tracy Chapman, Telling Stories
About the Author
Olfa Alouini is a 39-year-old French-Tunisian economist, diplomat and writer currently based in Brussels, after spending half a decade in the Middle East, where she found a welcoming haven for her mild neuroses as well as endless fuel for disruptive rebellion. She holds a double PhD in Macroeconomics from Humboldt University Berlin and Sciences Po Paris. She is fluent in six languages: French, English, German, Italian, Arabic and Russian.