The unreliable narrator is an odd concept. The way I see it

Hear now the words of Sarah Pinborough, a writer of shadow and mystery, who peers into the hidden chambers of the human heart: “The unreliable narrator is an odd concept. The way I see it, we’re all unreliable narrators of our lives who usually have absolute trust in our self-told stories. Any truth is, after all, just a matter of perspective.” In this saying she does not speak merely of literature, but of life itself. For each of us, though we believe our vision to be clear, tells only fragments, shaded by memory, colored by desire, bent by fear.

The meaning of her words is profound. In books, the unreliable narrator is a device: a storyteller whose account cannot be taken as pure truth, forcing the reader to search between the lines. But Pinborough reminds us that in life we are no different. Each man and woman shapes their past and present into a story, often believing it to be whole and accurate, yet it is stitched together with bias and omission. We see ourselves not as we are, but as we wish, or as we fear, or as we remember dimly. Thus, we live as both actor and author, deceiving ourselves while trusting completely in the tale we weave.

The origin of this reflection lies in Pinborough’s craft as a novelist, where characters deceive not only one another but also the reader, revealing how fragile and shifting truth can be. Yet her insight stretches beyond the page: into memory, into history, into the way nations and peoples tell themselves what they long to believe. The perspective of one may clash with the perspective of another, and each proclaims it truth. Thus, she shows that reality is not a single straight line, but a prism refracting countless colors.

History bears witness to this. Consider the Trojan War, remembered in Homer’s Iliad. Was Helen truly “the face that launched a thousand ships,” or was her abduction a pretext for men hungry for conquest? The Greeks told one story, the Trojans another. Even now, centuries later, we do not know where the truth lies, for all we possess are perspectives, each painted by the brush of its narrator. Or think of Julius Caesar, whose life was told by himself in his Commentaries on the Gallic War. To read his words is to hear a man cast as hero, though to his enemies he was tyrant. Which was the real Caesar? Both, and neither—for every account is unreliable, even when told with confidence.

This truth should not drive us to despair, but to humility. If we are all unreliable narrators, then let us remember that our vision is partial, our stories imperfect. When we quarrel with another, let us pause and see that their perspective is also a truth, as real to them as ours is to us. When we judge the past, let us remember that memory distorts and emotion clouds. And when we tell the tale of our own lives, let us hold it lightly, knowing that it is not a monument of certainty, but a woven fabric, fragile and shifting.

The lesson, dear listener, is this: seek understanding, not absolute mastery of truth. Accept that every human being is a narrator of their own tale, and that their tale, like yours, is woven of fragments, half-light and half-shadow. If you would live wisely, learn to listen between the lines of others’ words, and question the certainty of your own. For wisdom is not in clinging to one perspective, but in perceiving the many strands of the tapestry.

Therefore, practice self-reflection. Ask yourself often: “Is my story whole, or merely the version I prefer to tell?” Seek other perspectives, for in hearing them you broaden your own. And when you speak, speak with humility, knowing that your account, too, is limited. In this way, you grow not into a master of absolute truth, but into a student of wisdom, learning always, deceiving less.

So let Sarah Pinborough’s words guide you: we are all unreliable narrators, but that does not mean life is false. It means life is many-sided, each perspective a shard of light. To honor that truth is to live humbly, to listen deeply, and to walk in the wisdom that no single story—your own included—ever captures the whole.