In The Passion, storytelling is a double-edged sword that simultaneously destroys the truth and creates reality. While narrator Henri is a young man in Napoleon Bonaparte’s army, he begins to journal his experiences in an attempt to record the truth of what he feels so that memory won’t play tricks on him later. Yet when he mentions his journaling plans to his friend Domino, Napoleon’s groom (stable hand), Domino challenges Henri’s presuppositions about storytelling: who’s to say that the story young, ignorant Henri tells about what happens to him will be more accurate than the story an older, wiser Henri tells from memory? Other musings of Henri’s support Domino’s skepticism, as Henri feels that trying to express feelings in words often leads to a separation between the person talking about the feeling and the feeling itself.
In addition, throughout the book, both Henri and the novel’s second narrator Villanelle often ironically repeat the phrase, “I’m telling you a story. Trust me,” after saying something unbelievable on its face. This phrase implies that untrustworthy distortions of the truth and even total fabrications are part and parcel of storytelling. Yet at the same time, stories create reality by affecting what people believe and thus what they do. For example, stories of French national glory and military invincibility convince huge numbers of young Frenchmen to join Napoleon’s army, while stories of past Venetian culture lost after Napoleon’s conquest cause the people of Venice to resent and hate their French occupiers. Thus, the events of the novel suggest that storytelling is simultaneously untrustworthy and hugely powerful in its ability to influence reality.
Storytelling ThemeTracker
Storytelling Quotes in The Passion
It was Napoleon who had such a passion for chicken that he kept his chefs working around the clock. What a kitchen that was, with birds in every state of undress[.]
Words like devastation, rape, slaughter, carnage, starvation are lock and key words to keep the pain at bay. Words about war that are easy on the eye.
I’m telling you stories. Trust me.
“Will you kill people, Henri?”
I dropped down beside her. “Not people, Louise, just the enemy.”
“What is enemy?”
“Someone who’s not on your side.”
Now, words and ideas will always slip themselves in between me and the feeling.
“What makes you think you can see anything clearly? What gives you the right to make a notebook and shake it at me in thirty years, if we’re still alive, and say you’ve got the truth?”
“I don’t care about the facts, Domino, I care about how I feel. How I feel will change. I want to remember that.”
I wrote about her or tried to. She eluded me the way the tarts in Boulogne had eluded me. I decided to write about Napoleon instead.
Could a woman love a woman for more than a night?
I stepped out and in the morning they say a beggar was running round the Rialto talking about a young man who’d walked across the canal like it was solid.
I’m telling you stories. Trust me.
I say I’m in love with her. What does that mean?
It means I review my future and my past in the light of this feeling. It is as though I wrote in a foreign language that I am suddenly able to read.
They had notebooks with them mostly. His life-story, his feelings on the rock. They were going to make their fortunes exhibiting this lamed beast.