Symbolism is the domain of the weird and the wibbly, of the grandmasters and the buffoons. On the one hand, it seems a rich field, ripe for the author and reader to revel in. On the other, it seems a minefield of frivolity and unintelligibility. The problem is that symbolism is inherent to making art matter; even the story that avoids all symbolism still borrows from the mechanisms of symbolism to be relevant and important to the reader. With this in mind, let’s discuss the fundamentals of symbolism and some basic categories that make understanding and using it much easier.

Symmetry

Symmetry is the basic principle of symbolism. Every symbol is drawing on a symmetry (similarity) between two different things. A chiasmic symmetry- ABCBA- and a symbolic symmetry- red to blood- share the common property of reflection: resemblance (shared attributes) between the members of the dichotomy.

Symmetry is absolutely everywhere in creation. The physical world is absolutely riddled with even the most obvious form of symmetry, geometric similarity, but there are symmetries also between the swirling of water down the drain, the shape of galaxies, and the shape of a hurricane. In a way, we can conceive of this as an expression in a thousand forms of the overall patterns God has instilled in nature, the patterns we call ‘natural laws.’ Because mathematics and fundamental forces and the physics of the world work in a consistent, systematized fashion, the same ideas and patterns recapitulate across the vast variety of the world. From another, more philosophical perspective, we can recognize that these symmetries are exhibitions of beauty, of God’s character and logic and joy, and that their symmetry is a form of God’s glory given forth for all to see. This harmony of the world (and auditory harmony is a form of symmetry) is a symmetry-in-tribute to the self-harmony of God, the symmetry He has in the Trinity.

Symmetry expresses also in more obviously symbolic ways. Blood is red, and so is wine, and so is a stop sign, and so is the cloth traditionally waved to signal a bull to attack. Blood is vital to life in a physical sense, and so people understand it as a symbol to life- when blood runs out, so does life, in symmetry, even if the symmetry originates in causation.

Broadly speaking, symmetries can be either horizontal or vertical. Horizontal symmetries exist between existences of the same genre. Affairs of law have a symmetry to them, a common set of ideas and patterns and behaviors which are mixed and remixed in each individual case. Vertical symmetries, meanwhile, exist between things of two different genres. So a human legal case has vertical symmetry with God’s judgment seat, with a father resolving his children’s dispute, with a territorial dispute of two hummingbirds. These two types of symmetry, note, are not exclusive; the same pair can be horizontally symmetric in one implementation and vertically symmetric in another, depending on what parts of the symmetry are being harnessed.[1]

Crucial to symmetry and symbolism is the union of the different with the same. A symbol must share part of itself with the thing symbolized; it is this shared element which allows the connection and the transmission of meaning. A symbol must also in some way differ from the thing symbolized, else it is in fact that thing. Bread can symbolize flesh precisely because it is not flesh; flesh cannot symbolize flesh (though one type of flesh can symbolize another, because they are different-with-some-sameness). This symbol-symbolized pair brings us, moreover, to the third part of communicative symbolism: a symbol has its difference, its known similarity, and its unknown similarity. This last element is not essential to symbolism, but it is essential to all symbolism which communicates new knowledge of the symbolized.

Consider the flesh-bread symbolism. When Christ uses this symbolism, the basic diversity of the two elements is clear. Christ’s flesh is not bread, strictly speaking. For the unity, we can allege that they share an intuitive sense of substantiveness, of being emphatically present in the world as basic realities, at least for cultures to whom bread is a stereotypical food. The greater part of the unity, however, lies outside of this similarity. By making bread a symbol for His flesh, Christ is communicating that His flesh has a similarity with bread: it too is integrated into the recipient’s identity. As the man eats bread to gain sustenance and life from it, to make from it his physical existence, so the man makes his spiritual subsistence from Christ’s ‘flesh’ (His life (Rom. 6:1-5)) given to him. The symmetry between the mode of eating and of receiving salvation provides the meat-and-potatoes of Christ’s communication here; the known symmetry (the idea of substance and consumption (as per manna)) introduces the unknown (the promised effects of consumption).

Symbolism, then, rests on a foundation of symmetry. Symbolism is specifically when symmetry conveys meaning, when an element (in a story, for our purposes) attains to significance by calling on a symmetry. This symmetry can, strictly speaking, be artificial or natural, but natural symmetry is the more common, more useful variety (artificial symmetry is symmetry manufactured by personal intent which would not exist without said manufacture, such as the symmetry between a letter and a sound). Admittedly, much of natural symmetry gains force through association with previous uses and with related symmetries- so the blood-wine symmetry has much more symbolic force because of its use through history, rendering it a natural symmetry ‘artificially’ strengthened.

Types of Symbolism

Symbolism in narrative can be categorized first by its relationship to the author’s intent. Symbolism can be unintended, believed, or intended. Unintended symbolism is an element in the story which without the author’s intention has a possibly meaningful symmetry with something else. So, for instance, imagine a story in which the main character has a necklace with a bird-shaped pendant. In the author’s intent, as expressed in his own commentary, the bird pendant’s significance was purely that he saw a cool pendant the day he wrote the first draft of the character’s description and thought it would work. The possible symbolism- of a bird as a symbol for freedom (based on the symmetry between flight and freedom)- not only did not occur to him but is contrary to his vision.

‘Believed’ symbolism, similarly, is unintentional. In this case, the bird pendant was still chosen for reasons of pure aesthetic whim. The symbolism of freedom, however, aligns quite well with the story, and so the author, while not intending it, is not hostile to the meaning. It’s just not part of the work-as-written.

More substantially, we can find symbolism which is not intended but does proceed from the story’s structure because of symbolism. An example of this is reading an excellent romance novel- say, Pride and Prejudice– with an eye to its symbolic reference to the covenant of salvation, based on the symmetry between marriage and that covenant (a symmetry intended by God, as per Revelation 21:2, and used as a common symbol in Scripture). Quite probably some true ideas could be derived from this investigation, and quite probably Austen, who was to my knowledge a Christian, would agree with some of them as truths. More, they have even a shade of general plausibility, the symmetry between marriage and the church-Christ relationship being so close. Yet, as they were not intended (insofar as I know), such interpretation would have to be considered the work of the interpreter, not of Austen.

Such coincidental truths rise from the highly symmetric nature of reality. Because symmetries flow up and down the relations of creation, a story which portrays one part of the world with perspicacity will often translate remarkably well across some symmetries. This happens with particular facility when the story is dealing with high-traffic parts of the world, elements whose symmetries have been a focus of man’s symbolic thought- water, blood, the sea, marriage, weaponry, death, roads, houses, etc. This effect is all the more potent for the commonness of many of these, their fundamental position in life, especially as that position is part of the reason for their high rate of use in symbolism.

Such symbolism also comes from the fact that stories are worldview expressions. My stories don’t just express my understanding of the world consciously; they bear also the imprint of those parts of my comprehension that I do not consciously intend but which are relevant to that element of the story. My idea of pitchers, their metaphysics, and their symbolic significance, all of this will show up whenever I discuss a pitcher. The more time the story spends on the pitcher or its relations, the more detailed the reader’s impression of this part of my worldview becomes. The result can be unintentional symmetries, symmetries which show up because I perceive a symmetry even though I did not mean to include that symmetry. Another result is that when my worldview is symmetrical, built in order so that its dissymmetries are symmetrical from a larger perspective, a worldview built in beauty, the story’s unintended symmetries will resonate with that unintended part of the worldview, one part of my theology necessitating another part, similarly to how a particular view on soteriology implies a particular view on anthropology.

This tendency of symmetries to crop up and persist in stories can be harnessed by authors for the final category: intended symbols. Intended symbolism, of course, is when an author intentionally uses symbolism. The most systematic and blatant use of symbolism is allegory. Pilgrim’s Progress uses distinct, constant symbolism to convey its theological message. Intended symbolism, though, is not confined to allegory, as Part Two will lay out in some detail. Symbolism can be a powerful tool to communicate ideas critical to a plot or character arc, or a tool to add depth for the reader to find, if he goes looking. In a short story I wrote, for instance, I deliberately chose the color of the stranger’s cloak to be wine-red for a symbolic reason, connecting him through standard wine-blood symbolism not just to Dickens (whose A Tale of Two Cities seared the image in my mind) but to another famous work of literature, albeit one I’ll leave for the reader to figure out.

Conclusion (Part 1)

Today covered the foundational concepts of symbolism: symmetry, sameness, and difference. Symbolism is symmetry between A and B used as a method of communicating about A through B, particularly vertical symbolism (we’ll see a use more focused on horizontal symbolism next time). Sameness and difference, meanwhile, are the elements which make a symbol capable of communication, rather than meaninglessness or tautology. Then we discussed three types of symbolism, distinguished unintended and counterproductive symbolism from unintended but congenial symbolism, setting both apart from intended symbols. Come back next week for more on symbolism- specifically on its cousin, analogy, on how authors use it in stories, and on interpreting symbolism, both in Scripture and elsewhere.

Till then, try this article on the practicalities of writing symbolism.

God bless.

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[1] Or a mixture of the two, of course.