Imagine that you are readingThe Fellowship of the Ring.Tolkien introduces you to a strange new world where, amongst othermagical occurrences, you fictionally encounter monsters. Yourresponses to the orcs, giant spiders, and other monstrosities areprobably nothing like what they would be if you encountered them inreal life; you would fear the orcs rather than feel curious orintrigued by them and you would run away from the creature rather thanremain in your comfy chair. Indeed, we often don’t intentionallyreact to the objects we see on a screen or stage or read about in anovel beyond mere reflexes and basic physiological responses. Ourintentional behavior to fictional entities is much different from howwe would behave towards their real-life counterparts, emotionally,morally, and functionally.
The asymmetry between our behaviors and emotional responses toreal-life versus fictional characters has drawn a great deal ofphilosophical attention. The nature of our emotional responses tofiction bears on debates in ontology, philosophy of language,philosophy of mind, epistemology, ethics, as well as philosophy ofart. Emotions about fictional entities are also central to manypeoples’ lived experience: isn’t it both strange andfascinating that we care so deeply for certain characters, such asdear Frodo, even though we know they aren’t real?
The central philosophical puzzle concerning fiction and emotions iscaptured by theparadox of fiction, first introduced by ColinRadford (1975). This paradox captures an interesting tensionconcerning emotional responses to fiction, for surely we only havegenuine emotional responses to things we believe to be real! In thesedebates, “fiction” occurs in literature, motion pictures,TV shows, opera, theater, and perhaps even some works of music (e.g.,SZA’s pop song “Kill Bill”) or paintings (e.g.,The Lady of Shalott by John William Waterhouse). All suchworks have the power to emotionally move audiences, but the nature ofthe psychological states and processes involved is the subject ofdebate. Recently, though, philosophers have moved past questionsconcerning the nature of emotions about fiction to concerns about thesocial and moral ramifications of emotional responses to fiction(Feagin 2011).
The majority of this article focuses on the psychological foundationsof our emotional responses to fiction and the paradox of fiction.§1 covers several different scholarly perspectives on the nature of ouremotional responses to fictional entities.§2 addresses the paradox of fiction and a variety of approaches thatscholars have taken to dissolve it.§3 provides a brief introduction to several further puzzles concerningemotion and fiction, including the sympathy for the devil phenomenon,the paradox of painful art, and the puzzle of imaginative resistance,and how these puzzles inform and build on those addresses in theprevious sections.
Further reading: Carroll 2011; Currie 1995; Gendler & Kovakovich2006; Tullmann & Buckwalter 2014; Walton 1978 & 1990.
Typically, if harm comes to someone I care about, I would feel a greatdeal of sorrow and concern for that person. I may also feel anger atwhomever or whatever harmed them and would be motivated to act ontheir behalf. However, we generally won’t have such reactionsduring our emotional engagement with works of fiction. To borrow anexample from Radford (1975: 70), I do not weep over Mercutio’sbody after he is killed while watching a theatrical production ofRomeo & Juliet. I do not seek revenge or challenge Tybaltto a duel. I do, however, feel very strongly about Mercutio’sdeath. It’s thebehavioral responses to our emotionsabout fictional characters and reality that vary wildly. In thissection, we will explore some of the ways to explain this asymmetryand, in general, the nature of our emotional responses to fiction.Ultimately, one’s response to the “asymmetryproblem” depends on further commitments concerning the nature ofemotions and other mental states. The views expoundedhere—theories of make-believe, simulation theory, and theoriesof empathy—all explain emotional responses to fiction inrelation to real-life emotional responses. The views differ withrespect to the psychological framework they emphasize, be itimagination, offline processing, or a range of empatheticpractices.
Some scholars argue that a solution to the asymmetry problem requiresadistinctive mental attitude that we employ during ourengagements with fiction. The nature of the distinct attitude variesby the theorist. Quite often, a mental “box” or mechanismis posited that we utilize exclusively when considering non-actualobjects, including fictional ones (see, for example, Nichols &Stich 2003), as well as hypothetical and counterfactual thought,mental activities involving deliberation and decision-making, mentalimagery, and mindreading (attributing mental states to otherpeople).
Alternatively, we may use largely the same mental processes as inreal-life situations, but these processes are run“offline”, disconnected from their typical functional andinferential output. The result is a different kind of mental statethan we would have if we considered a real-life or actual object. Weadoptpretend (Searle 1975; see also Kripke 2011 & 2013),simulated (e.g., Currie & Ravenscroft 2002; Walton 1997),orimaginary beliefs, desires, emotions, and thoughts towardnon-actual objects (e.g., Schroeder & Matheson 2006; Weinberg& Meskin 2006). These states are isomorphic to genuine mentalattitudes and may sometimes be phenomenologically indistinguishablefrom them. While pretense, simulation, and imagination differ inimportant ways, each view trades on the idea that our mental attitudesconcerning fiction differ in content and functional role from thoseconcerning actual events or objects—even if, phenomenologically,the experience of each is similar (see Friend 2022 for a comment onand critique of this asymmetry).
All proponents of the distinct attitude view argue that mental statessuch as emotions can be identified in terms of their characteristicfunctional roles. Consider beliefs. It is generally understood thatour beliefs about real-life and non-actual objects utilize many of thesame causal and inferential pathways. However, they have significantlydifferent inputs and result in very different outputs. Our real-life,everyday beliefs are about things that we can or might in principlesee, touch, and hear—things that exist concretely, orspatiotemporally. These objects act as the input for our everyday,stereotypical beliefs (see Fitzpatrick 2016; García-Carpintero2019; Lewis 1978; Plantinga 1974; Quine 1948 [1953]; Sainsbury 2010;Salmon 1998; Schiffer 1996; B. Smith 1980; Thomasson 1999 & 2003;Walton 1990). In contrast, beliefs about fiction (and other non-actualobjects) do not take actual, concrete objects as their object. Rather,they are about fictional things, however that might be cashed outontologically. The output of our mental processing about actual andfictional objects is also different; they result in different kinds ofbehaviors. So, while our beliefs about real life and our beliefs aboutworks of fiction aresimilar in many ways, proponents of theDAV hold that they are different enough to constitute a distinct kindof mental state. The result, on this view, is that we havebelief-like (or imaginary, or simulated) attitudes towardsthe content of fiction, but not beliefs simpliciter.
Consider Currie and Ravenscroft’s (2002) argument for imaginarymental states. They maintain that mental states such as emotions andbeliefs serve as part of an inferential network, motivating not onlyaction, but also other mental states. The authors posit that beliefsabout fiction are run offline, disconnected from their normalbehavioral and cognitive networks. The same goes for other activitieswith non-actual content, such as hypothetical thought and pretendplay. These states are not stereotypical beliefs, but ratherimaginative ones because stereotypical beliefs are understoodin terms of the behavior that they produce.
The psychologist Paul Harris (2000) provides further evidence for thisview, particularly in terms of our emotional responses to imaginings.Very young children tend to be overcome by the emotions caused bytheir imaginative activities—e.g., fearing the monster under thebed or witches that they saw in a movie—even if they know thatthe fiction is not real. Older children and adults are generally ableto regulate and override these emotions, but still may often becomeabsorbed in their imaginative activity. We get “lost” in afilm or novel and experience strong emotional reactions, emotions thatcolor our real-life activities. We generally do not act on theseemotions, though, which suggests that they are distinct from theeveryday emotions we experience in response to real-life objects andevents.
Further reading: Camp 2009; Damasio 1994; Fontaine & Rahman 2014;Gendler & Kovakovich 2006; Gilmore 2020; Goldman 2006a; Kosslyn1997; Kosslyn et al. 1993; LeDoux 1996; Meinong 1904 [1960]; Moran1994; O’Craven & Kanwisher 2000; Stecker 2011; Toon 2010a,2010b, 2012; Tullmann 2022; van Leeuwen 2013.
One way of explaining the asymmetry problem from a distinct attitudeperspective is a fictional theory of make-believe, popularized byKendall Walton (1978 & 1990). According to a theory ofmake-believe, our engagements with fiction draw on our capacities forimagination and pretense. While reading a novel, for example, we playa game of make-believe, creating a “fictional world” inwhich the propositions presented in the novel are fictionally true. Onthis view, each reader is the participant and creator of her ownfiction-based game. Fictional worlds are similar to the imaginaryworlds that children create during their pretend play (Walton 1990;Currie 1990, Harris 2000). Works of fiction prescribe imaginings:words on a page, for instance, invite imaginative engagement with awork.Pretense, here, involves acts of behaving and thinkingas if some proposition or state of affairs is true while knowing thatit is not. In their games of make-believe, a child may pretend that acouch is a house, underneath a dining room table is a dungeon, and abaseball bat is a magnificent sword—all while knowing that noneof these are the case. Rather, the imaginative game of make-believemakes it fictionally true that the dining room contains a dungeon andthat the baseball bat is a sword.
Theories of make-believe hold that something similar occurs whenadults engage with fiction, but this time the props are largelyimaginative. While reading theLord of the Rings series, wepretend that there is a world like our own in which wizards, elves,and dwarves exist alongside good-natured hobbits and an evil darklord. The novel itself acts as a prop, each line feeding into ourfictional world and adding layer upon layer of detail to our game ofmake-believe. The game of make-believe extends to our psychologicalstates: we pretend to believe that Frodo defeated the Dark Lord bytossing the Ring of Power into the fires of Mount Doom, for instance.Importantly, we have fictionalemotions about Frodo and hiscrew and fictionaldesires for the young hobbit to vanquishSauron. Stacie Friend (2022) points out that Walton does not deny thatwe have some genuine emotional responses to fiction. Rather, he seemsto deny that we have genuine fear, pity, joy, etc. Instead, weexperience a different kind of emotion that is bound by theimaginative game; these emotions are different in kind from everydayemotions because they are functionally and cognitively“quarantined” (to borrow Friend’s term) fromcognitive and functional states about real life things.
A theory of make-believe attempts to explain two things: the ontologyof fiction and the nature of our psychological states about them.Let’s begin with the ontological question. Do fictions andfictional characters exist? What are fictional entities such that wecan think about them, speak about them, etc.? Theories of make-believehave a ready response to these questions: fictional entities do not,strictly speaking, exist outside of one’s game of make-believe.Instead, when we discuss fictional entities, we make pretendillocutions concerning pretend objects. Like an actor in a performanceofHamlet, we do not make genuine assertions when we speakabout the goings-on of fiction. We merely pretend to do so as a partof the game. Fictional entities are not objects that can be found inspace or time, even if the images or words used as props can be (apainted figure, a film image of a person, or words that describe avillain).
Walton contrasts his view with a realist Meinongian theory, accordingto which fictional entities exist eternally as abstracta, similar toPlatonic forms (1990; see also Sainsbury 2010 and Wolterstorff 1980).On this view, fiction entities are not created, but rather drawn uponand put together in creative ways by authors, filmmakers, dramatists,etc. Meinongian theories have come under strong attack, and rightlyso—it is counterintuitive that fictional entities are Platonicideals that are not created by the author, for instance (see Thomasson1999). However, contrasting a pretense theory with the Meinongianposition ignores the more fine-grained issues concerning the existenceof fictional entities. The middle ground includes other broadlyrealist theories, such as the possible objects view (Lewis 1978, whichholds that fictional entities are denizens of far-off possible worlds)or the abstract artifact view favored by Kripke (2011 & 2013),Salmon (1998), Schiffer (1996), and Thomasson (1999), which holds thatfictional entities are non-corporeal but created entities whoseexistence and persistence depends on the practices of people in thereal world.
However, neither realist nor pretense-based ontology entails that ourmental states about fiction are distinct in type. It could be that wemerely pretend that fictional objects exist when we think about anddiscuss them. Our mental states about those objects are the standardmental states,about something fictional. That is onepossible way in which to understand the ontological and psychologicalquestions of fiction: an anti-realist ontology of fictional entitiescoupled with a genuine attitude view of mental states. Unfortunately,this view raises a host of questions concerning the possibility ofreferring to nonexistent objects.
For this reason, many anti-realists about fictional entities favor theDAV according to which our mental states towards fictional entitiesare not stereotypical mental states. One popular way in which toground a psychology of make-believe is to adopt some form ofsimulation theory (ST), which we will explore further in thenext subsection. ST is typically used in cognitive science to explainhow we attribute mental states to others, especially to predict theirbehaviors and understand their emotional state (see Goldman 2006a;Gordon 1986; Currie & Ravenscroft 2002; Nichols, Stich, et al.1996; Prinz 2002). Currie and Ravenscroft (2002) argue thatimagination essentially involves the capacity to put ourselves in theplace of another or our self in another place or time. Importantly,both Walton and Currie/Ravenscroft hold that the mental attitudes weadopt in our imaginings are substitutes for genuine ones; we haveimaginative orfictional beliefs about fictioninstead of beliefs simpliciter. On their view, imagining simulates therole of other states, such as the role beliefs play in inferentialprocesses (2002: 49).
The upshot of a theory of make-believe—combining anti-realismabout fictional entities and ST to explain our psychological statestowards them—is that it allows proponents of the distinctattitude view a theoretically cohesive and elegant means by which tosolve the puzzles of fiction described below. For example, we cansolve the paradox of fiction by arguing that we do not possessordinary types of beliefs about fictional entities, rejecting thepremise of the paradox that states we have genuine beliefs aboutfictions. We feel “sympathy for the devil” because thatemotion is distinct from our normal cognitive processing, which allowsus to experience unique emotional and moral responses towards entitiesthat do not match how we would respond to their real-lifecounterparts.
Further reading: Kroon 1994; Levinson 1993; Mothersill 2002; Searle1975; Summa 2019; Toon 2010a & b, 2012.
Simulation theory gained prominence in the late 1980s with the work ofphilosophers like Alvin Goldman (1989, 1993, 2006a,b), Robert Gordon(1986 & 1996), and Jane Heal (1996) and has been adopted in avariety of fields, including aesthetics, to explain our mentalprocessing about other persons’ mental states. ST holds that weutilize our own perceptual, emotional, and cognitive mechanisms whilemindreading (attempting to understand the mental states ofothers). We project or imagine ourselves in the situation of theobserved person. As with the cases of mental states about fictionmentioned above, these mental mechanisms are run offline, disconnectedfrom their typical functional output (see Currie & Ravenscroft2002). This results in simulated mental states that are distinct fromstereotypical mental states. In fictional cases, audiences utilizesimulated input (non-genuine emotions, for example) and garnersimulated output (a pretend emotion about what a character thinks orfeels) when simulating the mental states of a fictional entity.
Consider Alvin Goldman’s version of ST (1993 & 2006a).Goldman argues that we attribute mental states to another after werecognize ourown mental states under actual or imaginedconditions. Itransform myself, imaginatively, into her basedon my understanding of how I would feel or think in the samesituation. I imaginatively take on what I imagine to be her relevantbeliefs, desires, emotions, and perspective to determine furthermental states and behavioral predictions. This is calledenactiveimagining—or, e-imagining, for short—because Iutilize my own mental processes for simulative imagining. Once Ie-imagine myself as the target, I can introspect what I feel duringthis particular situation. I then judge that the target feels the sameway.
Gregory Currie’s version of ST provides another elegantexplanation for psychological states about fiction. Currie has backedaway from a strong simulative approach in some of his recent work, butthe general assumption of offline ST remains the same (see Currie& Ravenscroft 2002). Like Walton, Currie argues that our basicpsychological interactions with fiction involve games of make-believe,games that are based on imaginatively simulating fictional actions andthe minds of fictional characters. On this view, audiencesimaginatively take on the mental states of others as closely aspossible and run their own “mental economy” to see howthey would feel in a comparable situation. This view also adopts aversion of the DAV; our mental attitudes about imaginings are notstereotypical mental attitudes, but rather pretend/imaginary ones.This is because these states lack their typical functional role.
According to Currie’s ST, audiences are intended to adoptimaginative attitudes toward fictional characters and situations(Currie 1990). Currie distinguishes betweenprimary imaginingandsecondary imagining. Primary imaginings involve what istrue in a story, “those things which it makes fictional”(1995: 255). We adopt the fictional beliefs necessary to maintain acoherent fictional world while disregarding those which contradict it.I disregard my real belief that eagles are not large enough to carryhumans while readingThe Lord of the Rings, for instance. Ialso adopt the imaginative belief that there exists large,perambulating tree folk. When I watch the film adaptation ofTheFellowship of the Ring and come to learn of the danger and powerof the One Ring, I do not acquire a new belief that “there isOne Ring desired by Sauron”, but rather a “belief-likeimagining” of this proposition.
Secondary imagining is a form of simulation that occurs whenwe engage in an empathetic reenactment of a character’ssituation (Currie 1995: 256). First, I put myself into a fictionalcharacter’s position: I imagine what it would be like to beFrodo learning about the ring from the wizard Gandalf. Then I reflecton what I currently feel as the result of this imagining: surprisedand scared. Once I identify my thoughts, desires, and feelings, I thenimagine that that is how Frodo feels in this situation as well. Inthis sense, secondary imagining helps us to identify and empathizewith fictional characters. I then remove myself from the simulation,so to speak, and attribute these same feelings to Frodo. Theassumption is that all or most of this mental processing occurs bothoffline and unconsciously, so we do not act on our emotion-likeimaginings and are not necessarily aware when they occur.
Further reading: Blanchet 2020; Cochrane 2010; Gallese 2019; Gordon1992; LeBar 2001; Nichols & Stitch 2003; Short 2015; Spaulding2016.
Finally, some philosophers contend that the primary way by which weemotionally engage with fictional entities is through empathy (seeAgosta 2010; Bailey 2021; Coplan & Goldie 2011; Gallagher 2012;Maibom 2014; Prinz 2011; Stueber 2011; Vetlesen 1994; Walton 2015).Arguments about fiction and empathy are very similar to thoseconcerning simulation and make-believe; in each case, audiences arethought to imaginatively put themselves in the situation of thecharacter, consider how they would feel in a similar context, andinfer that must be how the character feels as well However, empathycan take on a variety of forms, some which are quick, seeminglyautomatic and outside of conscious control and appear rather differentfrom the simulation theories described above. Other forms of empathyare slower and more deliberate, like those that may be part of gamesof make-believe.
Martin Hoffman (2008) identifies processes like mimicry, mirroring,and direct association as three forms of fast, unconsciously activatedempathy. Mimicry involves an “innate, involuntary, isomorphicresponse to another’s expression of emotion” (2008: 441).There are two steps involved in mimicking the emotion of a target.First, there is an automatic change in the subject’s facialexpression, voice, and posture at the same time as a correspondingchange in the target’s facial expression, vocal intonation,posture, etc. These changes then trigger similar feelings in thetarget as those present in the target.Mirror neurons may bethe neural basis of mimicry. These neurons are triggered when oneperson observes the actions or emotional expressions of another. Thisresults in the same kind of neural pattern in the subject as if shewere performing the observed action or having the same emotion herself(2008: 441; see also Freedberg & Gallese 2007; Clay & Iacoboni2011; Decety & Meltzoff 2011; Goldman 2006a).
There is also some evidence that subjects can mirror the motorintentions of a target; witnessing a movement in another (or even in astatue!) results in the subject’s motor cortex being activatedas ifshe were the one moving (Freedberg & Gallese2007).
Finally,direct association occurs when we perceive a targetwho undergoes an event that is similar to one that we have experiencedin the past (Hoffman 2008: 441). For example, a friend of mine hasrecently lost her pet dog and displays sorrow-related signals (crying,having a “long face”, slouched posture, etc.). My memoryof a similar situation in which I lost my pet parrot makes me alsoexpress these signals and even consciously experience sadness. I makethis association unconsciously, without thinking about it or planningto do so.
While some of our social cognitive abilities seem to occurautomatically, there are other cases in which understanding atarget’s mental state requires slower, more thoughtful, anddeliberate processes. Sometimes we may need to deliberately take on atarget’s perspective to know how they feel or what they will donext.Perspective-taking seems especially important inambiguous scenes in which we do not know enough about a person or hercontext and so we have difficulty judging how she feels or what shebelieves or desires. Sometimes perspective-taking is simply equatedwith empathy. When subjectX empathizes with a target,Y, they imaginatively take onY’s mentalstates as closely as possible.X shares inY’smental state and, further, thatX’s responses arecaused by and involve the sametype of state asY’s. In taking another’s perspective, I“put myself in their shoes”, and imagine what they mustthink or feel in a particular situation.
Each of these forms of empathy is relevant to how audiencesemotionally engage with fictional characters. To continue theLordof the Rings example, audiences may have to take Frodo’sperspective to fully appreciate how he feels the moment he discovershow dangerous Bilbo’s old ring really is. MirroringFrodo’s facial expression (while watching the movie) mayengender similar feelings of fear and surprise in me. These are bothinstances of empathy, each of which, arguably, helps audiences betterappreciate the work of fiction and characters within.
Further reading: Carruthers 1996; Goldman 1993& 2006a; Freedberg& Gallese 2007; Clay & Iacoboni 2011; Decety & Meltzoff2011; Hoffman 2008.
The above views—make-believe, simulation, andempathy—explain interactions with fiction in a similar manner:we engage with fiction by utilizing similar pathways to real-lifeinteractions but with non-real objects. Our mental states aboutfiction may not be genuine sorrow, anger, etc. The differences betweenthe views are in the details of how the psychological statesconcerning fiction are cashed out—whether the best explanationfor engagement with fiction stems from simulation theory, a theory ofimagination, or a theory of empathy.
Some philosophers have rejected simulation theories and theories ofmake-believe as the primary way to understand the psychologicalmechanisms involved in our emotional responses to fiction (Carroll2008; Matravers 2014; Tullmann 2022; Wilson 2011). Philosophers suchas Noël Carroll (2008) contend that simulation, make-believe, andempathy are generally not required for understanding fictionalentities. Authors, filmmakers, and other fictional content creatorsoften make the inner lives of characters obvious to their audiences.For instance, in the Frodo and the Ring example, it is clear thatFrodo is scared by his words, actions, and facial expression—nomake-believe or simulation is required!
The main theoretical support for the DAV stems from a folkpsychological and functionalist understanding of the nature of mentalattitudes. Beliefs, desires, judgments, etc. have characteristicbehavioral and inferential roles, understood in terms of inputs fromstimuli and their cognitive and behavioral outputs. As we havediscussed, real-life emotions and their imaginative counterparts mightutilize much of the same causal and inferential pathways to bringabout certain responses, but they employ significantly differentinputs and result in very different outputs (see, e.g., Currie 1990;Currie & Ravenscroft 2002; Weinberg & Meskin 2006; Schroeder& Matheson 2006). Furthermore, research in psychology andcognitive neuroscience seems to support the idea that engaging withnon-actual objects utilizesmany, but notall, ofthe same neural pathways as our mental activities concerning actualthings (Kosslyn, Thompson, & Alpert 1997; Kosslyn, Thompson, &Ganis 2006). These studies help to explain why our reactions toimaginative activity are often so robust but may also suggest that weutilize a distinct attitude in our engagements with fiction (Damasio1994; Schroeder & Matheson 2006).
As we’ve also seen, theorists generally try to explain thedistinctness of our imaginative attitudes in terms of functional role(behavioral outputs) or inferential role (mental outputs); our mentalstates towards fiction do not lead to the kinds of thoughts andbehaviors that they would for real-life objects. This problematicallyassumes a straightforward functionalist view of mental states that,while attractive in terms of folk psychology, may not accuratelycapture the nature of how mental states motivate action or inferentialprocesses. However, if mental states are not individuated in terms offunctional role, then the case could be made we may in fact havestandard mental states towards fiction, despite the fact that we donot act towards fictional objects as we do towards real-life ones (seeBuckwalter & Tullmann 2017). One can argue from a principle ofparsimony that there is no need to posit a distinct mental attitude iftypical ones have the same explanatory power.
Finally, the DAV (especially one utilizing a theory of make-believe orsimulation theory) does not seem to be able to account for our actualphenomenological—that is, conscious, possiblyintrospectable—experiences with fiction. Our emotions, beliefs,desires, and other mental states towards fiction feel natural andrelatively automatic, not like we are playing a game of make-believeor simulating a possible course of action. The assumption, here, isthat there issomething it is like to engage in a game ofmake-believe; we knowingly and willingly begin games of make-believeand do not explicitly do so with works of fiction. The proponent ofthe DAV may dismiss the phenomenological worry by arguing that thegame of make-believe or simulation takes place unconsciously and,after some practice, quite rapidly. Some of the imaginings involved ina game of make-believe are deliberate and consist of conscious,occurrent mental states. But others are spontaneous, unconscious, andautomatic. We do not tell ourselves to begin imagining what is goingto happen to our favorite television character. We simply do it,sometimes without realizing it. Walton says that when this happens ourimaginings “have a life of our own” and we feel less likean author than a spectator to the imagining (Walton 1990: 14).
Stacie Friend (2022) has recently put forth another approach to thepsychology of fiction that provides nuance to the debate concerninggenuine and fictional emotions. For Friend, emotions about fiction andthose about real life cannot be so easily separated in terms offunctional role, motivation, and phenomenological experience. Someemotions about fiction are motivational and some emotions about reallife are not (admiration, for instance). Walton and Friend deny thatthere is a phenomenological difference in kind between the two typesof emotion: we cannot say, for instance, that our sorrow over thedeath of Anna Karenina is less intense than sorrow about the death ofa real-life friend—or, at least, the intensity does not differso much to warrant a distinct type of mental attitude. In general,Friend states:
Emotions are multidimensional, and each dimension—physiological,phenomenological, motivational or evaluative—is complex,admitting of a variety of degrees and distinctions. There is nodimension along which a dichotomy between “fictional” and“ordinary” emotions can be sustained. (2022: 262).
The upshot of this view is that discussions concerning emotions andfiction can move past debates concerning the nature of fictionalemotions to questions about the appropriateness, rationality, andsocial/moral implications of those emotions, as we will see in§3 below.
Further reading: Carruthers 1996 & 2011; Friend 2020; Gopnik 1993;Gopnik & Schulz 2004; Fodor 1983; Robinson 2005.
The nature of the mental architecture for imaginary and fictionalcontexts grounds some of the pressing puzzles concerning our emotionalresponses to fiction—most prominently, the so-called paradox offiction. Cognitive belief-based theories of emotions were in full swaywhen the paradox was first introduced (Radford 1975; Walton 1978;Currie 1990). According to these views, an emotion about an objectX requires that we have some relevant beliefYconcerningX’s relation to our well-being. For example,experiencing fear requires that I believe that there is an object inmy environment that could harm me or someone I care about. We lack theemotion if the relevant belief is absent (Solomon 1976 [1993]).
The wording of the paradox reveals an adherence to a belief-basedtheory of emotions. One version of the paradox states:
Different authors word the three propositions slightlydifferently—and, indeed, this formulation is not found inRadford’s original 1975 piece—but the tension betweenbelief and fiction is the same across versions. The paradox isintended to capture a very natural thought concerning our emotions: ifwe know that we are engaged with a work of fiction, we should not havethe emotionally relevant belief. No emotionshould arise.Nevertheless, we have emotional experiences about fiction all thetime, whether these are genuine emotions or not.
Responses to the paradox typically proceed by either accepting theirrationality of emotions about fiction or dismantling one of thepropositions of the paradox. Some reject the paradox out of hand. Thissection explores each of these responses in turn.
Further reading: Buckwalter & Tullmann 2017; Langland-Hassan 2020;Cova & Teroni 2016.
One interpretation of the paradox states that there is somethingfundamentallyirrational about our responses to fictionalentities. Colin Radford (1975) accepts (variations on) each of theparadox’s propositions, arguing that our emotions towardsfiction force the reader into adopting two contradictory beliefs: weboth believe and do not believe that the fictional object of ouremotion exists. Radford states:
I am left with the conclusion that our being moved in certain ways byworks of art, though very “natural” to us and in that wayonly too intelligible, involves us in inconsistency and so incoherence(1975: 78).
It isn’t immediately clear what Radford meant by thisinconsistency and incoherence. One way of understanding this statementis to suggest that Radford contends that we hold two contradictorybeliefs (about the existence of a fictional entity) at the same time.Fabrice Teroni (2019) suggests that Radford simply means that ouremotions about fiction do not make sense, because they ought todissipate once we acknowledge that the object isfictional—similar to Radford’s case in which it would beirrational to continue to feel sorrow about the death of one’ssister once one comes to realize that the belief in one’ssister’s death is false. Still, it does seem that, to Radford,it is just a brute fact of human psychology that we have emotion-likeresponses to fiction. We are sad when our favorite character dies andare righteously angry when they are harmed. But these are not genuineemotions, because most, if not all, genuine emotions require a beliefin the existence of their object. Radford doesn’t treat theirrationality of emotional responses to fiction as a problem, however.In fact, he argues that we have these sorts of incoherent responsesall the time: when we cheer for our favorite sports team, fullyknowing that nothing we do on our couch at home influences the game,or when we fear death even while acknowledging that it is nothing morethan a dreamless sleep (to use Radford’s example, 1975: 79).
While not explicitly addressing the paradox of fiction, otherphilosophers have taken up the question of the rationality of emotionsin ways that could be relevant to a response to the paradox of fiction(Gendler & Kovakovich 2006; de Sousa 2002 & 2004; D’Arms& Jacobson 2000a & 2000b). There are several ways in whichemotions can be understood as being rational. First, emotions can becorrect. Friend (2022) states that “It is correct torespond emotionally only if the object of emotion exists” (2022:264). This would seem to imply that emotions about fictional entitiesare incorrect since the object of the emotion does not exist. Incontrast, Teroni (2019) states “Correct emotions for fictionalentities are emotions that correspond to truths about these fictionalentities supplied by the relevant fictions” (2019: 125). To useTeroni’s example, one’s fear of a dog is correct if thedogis dangerous. For the fictional case, emotions arecorrect if the work of fiction gives reasons to believe that thefictional entity or event warrants that emotion. Fear about the fateof the hobbits at the end of theLord of the Rings trilogy iscorrect if the text provides evidence to suggest that the hobbits arein danger.
Even if an emotion with a fictional object is incorrect (onFriend’s view), that doesn’t entail that the emotion isirrational. Teroni’s conception of emotional correctness has astronger normative component than Friend’s—that is,conditions for which emotions might be apt. The former view might belikened to an understanding of emotionalfit: how anemotional response may fit its object (see D’Arms & Jacobson2000a). An emotion fits its object if we have some good reason to feelit; the emotion accurately represents its object. We can compare thefit between an emotion and its object to that of a true belief and astate of the world. Both spiders and battlefields may be fittingobjects of fear; this evaluation is apt in some way, as being properformal objects. Our colleague’s promotion may be a fittingobject of jealousy. An off-color joke may be a fitting object ofamusement. On this view, emotions fit their object in case we havesome reason to have them for that object (compare this to D’Armsand Jacobson’s slightly different account of fit, which theycharacterize in terms of a response-dependent feature of the objectthat does not require reasons or norms, 2000a).
Finally, we can also speak of an emotion’spropriety.“Propriety” carries significant normative implications; itsuggests that there are appropriate contexts in which one can orshould have certain emotions. This way of understanding the aptness ofemotions moves beyond reasons for belief and into the appropriatenessof those emotions. The latter has significant social and moralimplications, some of which are captured in the puzzles mentionedbelow in§3. Importantly, correctness, fit, and propriety may not always match inany particular object. An emotion may fit its object, but notnecessarily be the proper response to take. For example, even if abattlefield is a fitting object of fear, it may not beproperfor a soldier to feel if he or she has an important task to fulfill.If our colleague is also our friend it may be improper for us to bejealous of her promotion—weshould be happy forher—even if it is fitting for us to be, since, perhaps, we werealso due for a promotion and did not get one. When we conflate the fitand propriety of emotions, we committhe moralistic fallacy:taking the morally normative implications to be built into ouremotional responses towards things in our environment (D’Arms& Jacobson 2000a & b).
Recent literature in cognitive science has begun to debunk thetraditional bifurcation between rationality and emotions, showing thatemotions are often necessary (or at least useful) for planning, makingimportant decisions, and making moral judgments (Ben-Ze’ev 2000;Damasio 1994; Gordon 1986; Nichols 2004; Solomon 1976 [1993], etc.).However, it is debatable whether these benefits extend to our emotionsabout fiction. The central question remains whether it is rational(fit or proper) to have emotional responses to things that have nobearing on our actual lives. Moreover, Currie (1995) points out thatthe concept of epistemic emotional rationality is puzzling becausefiction presents audiences with a great deal of false information.This could undermine one’s ability to function in the real worldif one takes it literally (see Best 2020 & 2021). If this view isright, then Radford’s paradox highlights an important aspect ofhuman psychology.
Further reading: Adair 2019; Greenspan 1988; Roberts 1992; Song2020.
One popular way of responding to the paradox is to argue that ouremotions about fictions are not genuine—we do not have genuineemotions about fictional entities all the time. While initiallycounter-intuitive, this view makes sense when thought of in terms of atheory of make-believe or simulation as described in§1. Perhaps the most influential view on these lines comes from KendallWalton (1978 & 1990), who, as we have seen, has argued that ourengagements with fiction are akin to childhood games of make-believe.Some of our emotional responses to fiction are genuine, but some areimaginary or make-believe. As described in§2, Walton holds that emotional responses we have towards fictionalobjects are very similar to emotions we have about real-life objectsbut are not typical emotions. This explains both why we do not act onthose emotional responses and why we may seek out fictions that elicitnegative emotions such as anger or sadness.
The central issue with this view is that it certainlyfeelsas though our emotional responses to works of fiction are real. When Iwatch a horror film such asGet Out orHereditary, Imay cover my eyes with my face, my heart rate accelerates, I break outinto a cold sweat, and involuntarily scream. These are all embodiedindications of fear that I’m not faking. I really dofeel terrified. According to the current response to theparadox, however, the fear responses and phenomenal states that Iexperience in such cases aren’t full-fledged emotions. They are“quasi” emotions. Importantly, on this view, feelings andbodily responses are not emotions themselves. While Walton is notexplicitly cognitivist about emotions, he does make certain statementsthat seem to suggest cognitivism. For instance, in “FearingFictions” (1978), Walton states:
It seems a principle of common sense … that fear must beaccompanied by, or must involve, a belief that one is in danger;(1978: 6, 7)
and also that “Charles does not believe that he is in danger; sohe is not afraid” (1978: 7; see Friend 2022 for more onWalton’s view and reception). This view suggests that emotionsproperare cognitive. They involve a belief or othercognitive mental state, such as a judgment or thought (more on this inthe next subsection). Specifically, this view accepts the idea that agenuine emotion—say, sorrow over a friend’sdeath—requires a belief that our friend actually died. Imaginethat a family member informs you of the death of a beloved familyfriend. You feel sad because you believe that your friend no longerlives. Suppose now that your family member was merely playing a crueltrick on you—the family friend isn’t dead! Your beliefabout the friend’s death would be overruled. However, thefeelings of sorrow may linger, the way that anxiety or fear lingersafter waking from a dream that we know isn’t real. Would itstill make sense to say that you are sad about your friend’sdeath? No; most people would likely say that emotion goesaway—probably replaced with anger about your familymember’s cruel trick.
According to belief-based theories of emotion, something similar ishappening with our emotional responses to works of fiction. One mayhave all the embodied reactions related to fear while watching afictional film, but without the belief in the actuality of the fearfulobject, none of those reactions amount to genuine fear.
Further reading: Dos Santos 2017; Vendrell Ferran 2022; Humbert- Drozet al. 2020; Williams 2019.
Few contemporary philosophers opt to eliminate the second propositionof the paradox of fiction. Doing so implies that a reader or viewer offiction would genuinely believe that the fiction is real while shereads or watches it. Theorists who opt to reject the secondproposition of the paradox must somehow square the “suspensionof disbelief” with the contradictory beliefs and actions we seemto have in response to fiction. The notion of suspending disbelief wasfirst introduced by the British Romantic poet Samuel Coleridge, whoargued that we suspend our disbelief in the nonexistence of fictionalobjects during our engagement with fictional stories (Coleridge 1817;see also Hurka 2001). This supposedly explains our emotional responsesto fictional entities; we emotionally respond to them because webelieve that they concretely exist in the time that we engage with theartwork.
While it’s certainly true that we sometimes become veryabsorbed in fiction, it is a genuine question whether weforget or are tricked into believing that fictional characters andevents exist. Some contemporary philosophers have followed this lineof thought and argued for some kind of illusion theory about fiction(see Quilty Dunn 2015; Kivy 2011). We know that the objects infictional films are nonexistent, just like we know that amagician’s “magic” isn’t real. The question iswhether we can be tricked, perhaps momentarily, into believingotherwise. Noël Carroll (Carroll 2008) characterizes thischallenge asthe illusion thesis: we fall prey to some kindof illusion during our engagements with fiction. So far, we have beendiscussing one type of illusion, concerning belief. Carrollcharacterizestwo types of illusions:
Different artistic media may commit us to one or both of theseillusions. For example, reading a novel might subject one to acognitive illusion, but not a perceptual illusion. Perceptualillusions generally apply to visual fiction, although we can imaginesomeone listening to an audiobook in her car falling prey to theperceptual illusion that the fictional person being narrated is anactual person. Moreover, while neither of these theses addressesemotional responsesper se, we can think of a similar type ofargument in which emotions about fiction are illusory, like thephantom limb pain phenomenon or the rubber hand illusion (Richardson2009; de Vignemont 2007).
Many philosophers reject both versions of the illusion thesis out ofhand since they seem to entail that we would act towards a characterin just the same way that we would act towards a real person. AsKatherine Thomson-Jones (2008) points out:
I am able to appreciate the vivid depiction of an army of zombiessurging forward with arms outstretched, the use of special effects orhighly emotive music, the importance of the scene for the narrative,and so on. Surely, if I had suspended my belief that the zombies arefictional, I would be too frightened to appreciate film in this way.(2008: 107)
Moreover, most of our behaviors towards fiction (or lack thereof) areinconsistent with the idea that we even temporarily suspend ourdisbelief about the reality of fiction—this is the asymmetryproblem, once again. We do not act as if we believe that the fictionis real. The same idea works for other mental attitudes, such asdesires and emotions. Moreover, our conscious experience of watching afilm is also antithetical to the cognitive illusion thesis. If asked,we would deny that fictional entities are real. We would also denythat we have been tricked into believing otherwise.
Carroll also rejects the perceptual illusion thesis, arguing that itour visual experiences do not meet the first criterion. Our perceptionof movie screens and actual objects are not identical, or evensufficiently similar to the perceptual experience of real-lifeobjects, to suggest a perceptual illusion. There are surfaceinterferences—scratches and dirt on a film strip, hair on theprojector slide, the size and shape of the screen, framing devices,etc.—which make the viewer aware of the screen and remind herthat the objects in the movie are not really in front of her. Carrollalso points out that we typically perceive edge phenomena; we can seearound the edge of an object as we move but we don’t experiencesuch phenomena in our visual perception of film. We cannot look arounda character to see what is going on behind her. We can provide asimilar explanation for other fictional media. We do not visuallyperceive plays in the same way that we do real-life people and events,because of the stage and other spatial and physical discrepanciesbetween them. Pictures are always framed and are not subject to edgephenomena, just like films (see also Derrida 1978 [1987] and Foucault1966 [1970]). Even listening to an audiobook will probably not soundidentical to listening to real people give an account of theirlives.
In contrast, Jake Quilty-Dunn (2015) provides one way to argue for aversion of the perceptual illusion thesis. In this view, film viewersdeploy many of the same perceptual capacities that we do in real life.We may form isomorphically similarperceptual beliefs(beliefs formed on the basis of perception rather than other cognitivestates) about a face we encounter while watching a film that we wouldthe same face in real-life. The visual processing that leads to suchbeliefs is, in effect, under the illusion that there is an actual facebeing perceived. This leads to contradictory beliefs: the cognitivebelief that the person we perceive does not exist and the perceptualbelief that, implicitly, suggests that they do. In turn, our emotionalresponses to that face are genuine emotions, but the belief in theexistence of the person is perceptual, not cognitive (see Siegel2010). In this case, the perceptual illusion theory may stand toexplain certain aspects of the paradox of fiction (at least for visualartworks).
Further reading: Fish 2009 & 2010; Lopes 2015; McMahon 1996;Stokes 2014.
Many philosophers opt to eliminate the third proposition of theparadox. There are several ways to do this. First, one can deny thatbeliefs are a necessary component of emotions, but still maintain acognitivist position that emotions are comprised of thoughts (Carroll1990 & Lamarque 1981) or judgments (Solomon 1976 [1993]). Forexample, when we engage with fiction, we generally have variousthoughts about the characters. While watchingThe Conjuring,I may contemplate the nature of the demon that possesses one woman.This thought fills me with terror. Importantly, thoughts do not havethe same assertoric requirement that beliefs do; we do not need tobelieve that the object of our thought exists in order to contemplateand respond emotionally to it.
Alternatively, one can deny thatany higher-order cognitionis required for emotions. This is the route taken by non-cognitiveperception and feeling-based theories of emotions. According to theseviews, emotion does not require that we have a thought, judgment, orbelief about an object in our environment. Conscious feelings, bodilychanges, or perceptions of those changes, constitute an emotion(Goldie 2000; James 1890; LeDoux 1996; Prinz 2004a & b; Robinson2005). Here, the ontological status of the emotion’s object isirrelevant to whether the emotion itself is a stereotypical state; ifthe feeling or perception of bodily changes is genuine, then theemotion is as well.
Non-cognitive theories of emotion track with the phenomenologicalexperience of emotional responses to fiction described in§2.1. in response to the first proposition of the paradox.
A folk psychology of emotions contends that emotions involve aconscious feeling.Prima facie, we identify our emotions byhow they feel; sorrow, anger, joy, jealousy, pride, etc. all feel acertain way to us. One could ask whether someone really does feelsorrow over the loss of a family member if they never consciously feltthat sorrow. For our purposes, feelings are the qualitative bodilyresponses that are typically consciously experienced (but see Prinz2004a; Berridge & Winkielman 2003; Rosenthal 2008). Chocolate hasa particular conscious taste and red has a specific qualitative look;similarly, emotions have a conscious qualitative character. As WilliamJames (1890) noted, feelings put the “emotionality” in theemotion, making it salient and important to our lives.
Philosophers, psychologists, and neuroscientists alike all generallyaccept that emotions involvesome kind of judgment. Emotionsare evaluative. When we have an emotion, it is because something inour environment—or something that we think, remember, orimagine—bears significance on our lives or the life of someonewe care about. This may be a very quick, automatic evaluation, likewhen we suddenly fear a loud noise behind us or are afraid that wewill slip on an unseen staircase. Or the evaluation could be quitecomplex, like when we experience jealousy towards someone in ourworkplace.
In cases of fiction, the non-cognitivist about emotion would suggestthat our feelings and other bodily reactions to a terrifying monsterare sufficient evidence for genuine fear. These emotions areevaluative in that they indicate and are responses to things we careabout. I feel elated when Frodo finally throws the ring into MountDoom because I care about the narrative and character. Still, onecould argue that we do not have the right kind of evaluativerelationship with fictional objects to justify that we have genuineemotions about them. Fictional characters may not be the kind of thingthat we can genuinely care about, empathize with, feel sympathy for,etc. One might respond that weseem to care about andidentify with fictional objects all the time. We feel very stronglyfor our favorite television, film, and literary heroes. We want themto succeed, and we feel frustrated, sad, or angry when they do not.This perspective ties back to the epistemic significance of emotionalresponses to fiction: whether it is appropriate or rational to careabout fictional entities to begin with.
Further reading: Helm 2010; Huebner et al. 2009; LeDoux 1996; Loaizaforthcoming; Zajonc 1984.
While the paradox of fiction still holds sway in contemporary researchand thought, other interesting philosophical puzzles concerningfiction and emotions have gained prominence over the past severaldecades. This section introduces a few of them: the puzzle ofimaginative resistance, the “sympathy for the devil”phenomenon, and the paradox of painful art. While not strictly puzzlesconcerning emotions, the puzzle of imaginative resistance and sympathyfor the devil phenomenon is nevertheless related to emotionalresponses to fiction, insofar as emotions such as disgust, anger, orpride may coincide with, cause, or even constitute moral judgments(Prinz 2007; Nichols 2004; Slote 2009; Schroeder 2011; Gill 2007).
Near the conclusion of “Of the Standard of Taste”, DavidHume makes several remarks on the moral status of fiction that areparticularly relevant when thinking about emotional and moralresponses to fiction:
[Where] the ideas of morality and decency alter from one age toanother, and where vicious manners are described, without being markedwith the proper characters of blame and disapprobation; this must beallowed to disfigure the poem, and to be a real deformity. I cannot,nor is it proper that I should, enter into such sentiments; andhowever I may excuse the poet, on account of the manners of his age, Inever can relish the composition. And whatever indulgence we may giveto the writer on account of his prejudices, we cannot prevail onourself to enter into his sentiments, or bear an affection tocharacters, which we plainly discover to be blameable.
The case is not the same with moral principles, as with speculativeopinions of any kind. These are in continual flux and revolution. Theson embraces a different system from the father. Nay, there scarcelyis any man, who can boast of great constancy and uniformity in thisparticular. Whatever speculative errors may be found in the politewritings of any age or country, they detract but little from the valueof those compositions. There needs but a certain turn of thought orimagination to make us enter into all the opinions, which thenprevailed, and relish the sentiments or conclusions derived from them.But a very violent effort is requisite to change our judgment ofmanners, and excite sentiments of approbation or blame, love orhatred, different from those to which the mind from long custom hasbeen familiarized (Hume 1757a, paragraph 32–33 [1994:90–91]).
Hume’s statement here has been taken to capture an interestingpuzzle about moral responses to fiction, what Tamar Gendler (2000)termedthe puzzle of imaginative resistance. Although we maybe willing to accept factual or metaphysical discrepancies in fiction,we may be loath to accept deviant moral values and practices that aretreated positively by the work.
Several philosophers have pointed out that the puzzle of imaginativeresistance if it is to be considered a puzzle at all (see Walton2006), should be thought of as several discrete puzzles (Walton 2006;Weatherson 2004). The first is theaesthetic puzzle: if anartwork in some way embodies moral defects, do those defects detractfrom the aesthetic value of the work? Walton believes that this puzzlemay be only indirectly related to moral resistance (Walton 2006).
Second, thefictionality puzzle states that there are certainpropositions can or should be made fictional. Walton writes:
We easily accept that princes become frogs, or that people travel intime, in the world of a story, even, sometimes, that blatantcontradictions are fictions. But we balk…at interpretations ofstories of other fictions according to which it is fictional that(absent extraordinary circumstances) female infanticide is right andproper…or that a dumb knock-knock joke is actually hilarious.(2006: 140).
The fictionality puzzle concerns any sort of value judgment, not justmoral ones. People may often deny that a value that they reject in thereal world is correct in the fictional world (or vice versa). We mayrefuse to accept that the dumb knock-knock joke could possibly befunny, even in a fictional world. We may also be unable to accept thatfemale infanticide is morally permissible in another world because wedon’t believe that it is in ours.
Finally, theimaginative puzzle does not concern what is oris not fictional, but rather what we can or can’t imagine tobegin with. We might be able to imagine a situation in which femaleinfanticide is morally acceptable, even if we do not accept that itthis could ever be fictionally true. Alternatively, we might not evenbe able to imagine that female infanticide is morally acceptable. Weare unable to conceive of a world in which it is morally acceptable tokill one’s female child because she is female. In other words,the fictionality puzzle concerns what we canaccept as truein the world of the work. The imaginative puzzle concerns the limitsof our imagination.
Philosophers have responded to the puzzle(s) of imaginative resistancein several ways. Gendler (2000) argues that there are two basic waysto explain the imaginative puzzles: we can be “cantians”,“wontians”, or some hybrid of the two.Cantiansabout resistance argue that we are oftenunable to imaginecertain kinds of impossibilities or evaluative deviances.Wontians hold that resistance arises because we are unwillingto imagine a situation in which a certain impossibility or deviance isacceptable. Gendler argues that imaginative barriers arise when theprinciples and background knowledge the reader has accepted in thestory leave no way for the impossible or deviant proposition orsituation to be true (Gendler 2006). This makes Gendler a cantianabout the imaginative puzzle. We are unable to imagine some deviantmoral scenarios. However, Gendler is awontian concerning thefictionality puzzle. Even if we could imagine some deviant evaluativeresponse in a fiction, we oftenwill not allow ourselves tobelieve that the value judgment is true in the fiction. That is, wemaybe able to imagine that some moral or aesthetic valuecould conceivably differ from that we hold in the real world, but toactually imagine that, for instance, female infanticide is morallyacceptable even in a fictional world would make some readers balk.
Walton takes the opposite approach: whereas Gendler is a cantian aboutthe imaginative puzzle and a wontian about the fictionality one, heargues for the reverse (Walton 2006). I may not imagine a solid goldmountain or a round square, because I have an inability to imaginesuch a thing. The difficulty in imagining in these cases has to dowith one’s imagistic and conceptual limitations. I do notimagine female infanticide is right, because I amunwillingto do so. So, Walton is a wontian when it comes to the imaginativepuzzle (see also Moran 1994). Graham Priest (1997), another wontian,argues that we can understand stories that contain inconsistencieslike both occupied and unoccupied boxes; if we do not imagine them, itis because we are unwilling to.
Further reading: Black & Barnes 2017; Flory 2013; Levy 2005; Liao2016; Miyazono & Liao 2016; Nanay 2009; Tooming 2018; Tuna 2020;Stock 2005; Yablo 2002
Why do consumers of fiction find themselves drawn to morally deviantcharacters, whose real-life counterparts we would find abhorrent?Following Noël Carroll (2004 & 2008), we call this thesympathy for the devil phenomenon (hereafter, SDP). The SDPcovers any of our pro-attitudes towards immoral or unlikeablefictional entities including, but not limited to, sympathy. Otherpro-attitudes include emotions such as admiration, compassion,empathy, pity, pride, and joy. We may admire morally deviantcharacters for their wily ways or feel compassion for them once welearn of their difficult upbringing. Sometimes audiences come to feelpro-attitudes toward an anti-hero, a hero who is characterized bymoral and personal flaws, but nevertheless is shown throughout a textor film to have sympathetic characteristics (Carroll 2008). Anne Eatonalso describes the “Rough Hero”: a flawed protagonistwhose flaws “are always moral, conspicuous and grievous”and whose flaws, in contrast with the anti-hero, are “anintegral part of his person” (Eaton 2010: 516). It is often anaesthetic achievement, according to Eaton, for an artwork to get anaudience to feel pro-attitudes toward Rough Heroes, whose characterand actions ought to be reviled.
Philosophers have responded to the SDP in a variety of ways. One wayto explain the SDP is to adopt a simulation/distinct attitudeapproach, along the lines of Gregory Currie (1997). One this view, weimagine or simulate moral propositions and judgments that we normallywould not in our actual lives. This would allow us to feel (imaginaryor make-believe) sympathy for a morally bad character, such asMilton’s Satan,Mad Men’s Don Draper, orBreaking Bad’s Walter White.
Matthew Kieran (2006 & 2010) points out that we can sympathizewith an immoral character because we suppose that the characterinhabits a fictional world that is quite different from our own. Thisfictional world encompasses a different land with different rules,including moral rules. Call this thedistancing approach.Kieran contends that imaginative distancing amounts to a psychologicaldistance between an audience and a devilish character (Kieran 2010).We feel free to allow ourselves to feel pity, compassion, and sympathyfor someone like Hannibal Lecter or Milton’s Satan because ofthis psychological distance.
Carroll’s own view is that authors of fiction intend for theiraudiences to sympathize with a fictional character, and so createtheir work in such a way to achieve this end. Carroll calls thisprocess “emotional prefocusing” (Carroll 2008; see alsoSmuts 2014). An author may intend for her audience to feelpro-attitudes toward a particular character. This character is oftenmorally corrupt or deviant in some way but, for whatever reason, theauthor desires the reader to sympathize with her. So, the author“prefocuses” the work to highlight some of thecharacter’s more morally positive attributes or goes to lengthsto suggest ways that their behavior might be justified or excused. Ouremotional responses to characters are often a matter of how anarrative is constructed and how the details of a story influence ourfeelings about particular characters. Carroll suggests that the reasonwe feel sympathy for Tony Soprano ofThe Sopranos, TyrionLannister ofA Song of Ice and Fire, or Ethan Edwards inThe Searchers is because, despite their flaws, they aremorally better off than the other characters in the fiction. Tony issurrounded by an astonishing array of violent, manipulative,power-hungry mobsters. Tyrion is a clever, witty, well-meaning lousewith rotten family members. Ethan Edwards is gruff and brutal, butalso loyal and in possession of a certain code of honor. So, when wesearch the fictional world for an emotional allegiance, these are thecharacters we choose.
Another view holds thatfascination is the key tounderstanding our pro-attitudes towards immoral, fictional characters(see also M. Smith 1999). Katie Tullmann (2016) argues that immoralcharacters in works of fiction are often attractive, interestingcuriosities. Immoral characters are compelling, often more compellingthan the more morally good characters. Take the Count of Monte Cristo:a revenge-driven, cruel, mysterious, and charming noble. Many readersprobably think that the Count’s tactics of carefully plannedrevenge against those who had him imprisoned are not morallyjustified. Still, audiences are fascinated by immoral actions(consider also the recent popularity of the true crime genre). Readersare willing to imaginatively explore immoral actions in the safeenvironment of fiction (see Mar 2018 for a similar view). Perhaps wethink that by taking an interest in this character we can expand ourfolk psychology to include the vengeful and obsessive mindset theCount represents. So, on this view, fascination is the pre-conditionfor our sympathy towards immoral characters. Audiences need to befascinated by immoral characters before we feel sympathy for them.Fascination is achieved by how the character is portrayed in thenarrative as possessing exotic and curious traits. Once this isachieved, other aspects of the narrative will cause us to feelsympathy for them.
Further reading: Clavel-Vázquez 2023; Dain 2021; Friend 2022;Harold 2008; Setiya 2010.
The ability of fiction to engage with an audience’s emotions isirrefutable. We seek out certain works of fiction for exactly thisreason: to make us joyful, to make us laugh, to make us feel connectedto others around us. Less intuitive, but no less deniable, is the ideathat audiences seek out works of fiction that make them feel negativeemotions such as sorrow or fear. Consider Hume, again, this time ontragedy:
It seems an unaccountable pleasure, which the spectators of awell-written tragedy receive from sorrow, terror, anxiety, and otherpassions, that are in themselves disagreeable and uneasy. The morethey are touched and affected, the more are they delighted with thespectacle; and as soon as the uneasy passions cease to operate, thepiece is at an end (1757b, paragraph 1 [1987: 216])
The “paradox” of painful art is just this: we seek outworks of art with the intention of feeling negative emotions such asanger, sorrow, or fear, when we wouldn’t seek out comparablereal-life situations. Indeed, people try to avoid these negativeemotions as much as possible. Hume himself argued that the pleasuresof the imagination and emotional expression outweigh the negativeemotional responses such as sorrow—the former“predominates” over the latter. Susan Feagin (1983) arguesthat there are two types of (emotional) responses to fiction: directresponses and meta-responses. Feagin defines the meta-response as“how one feels about and what one thinks about one’sresponding (directly) in the way one does to the qualities and contentof the work” (1983: 97). Direct responses to tragedies are oftennegative: sorrow over the death of a beloved character; anxiety aboutthe future of another character. Thepleasure of tragedy,Feagin argues, stems from our meta-response to our direct, negativeresponses: we receive satisfaction from the fact that we are the kindof people that can feel anger, sorrow, fear, etc., and can respondnegatively to moral ills in works of fiction.
Carroll (1990) posits another response to what he calls the paradox ofhorror: if horror fictions are characterized by fearful monsters anddisgusting circumstances, why do many of us seek them out? Carrollstates: “the imagery of horror fiction seems to be necessarilyrepulsive and, yet, the genre has no lack of consumers” (1990:160). Like other forms of tragedy, works of horror fiction are bothrepulsive and attractive. One potential explanation for this puzzle isthat audiences can experience all the terror of horrifying situationsbut with none of the personal risk (1990: 167). The emotion is“detached” from reality. Carroll’s own account isthat works of horror are constructed in a way to engage otheremotions, in addition to fear and disgust—namely, fascinationwith the imagery and plot structures that surround the fearfulelements.
Each of the additional puzzles concerning emotions about fictionhighlights the curious ways in which an audience’s emotionalresponses to fiction belie one’s endorsed moral beliefs aboutthe actual world in which we live. The puzzles continue to hold swayin our cultural understanding of the importance of fictional artworks.Relationships with fictional entities are often deeply important tous—consider the widespread emotional responses to scenes likethe “Red Wedding” in theGame of Thronestelevision show, or the death of a certain prominent character in thefinal season of the showSuccession. Such responses implicateand reveal our deepest values and beliefs. It is no wonder, then, thatphilosophers continually try to explain and, indeed, justify theseemotions’ appropriateness and authenticity.
Further reading: Bantinaki 2012; Contesi 2016; Gaut 1993; Friend 2007;Schwarz 2022; Smuts 2009.
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