Main Narrator

Content

• Characteristics of the main narrator
• Examples of protagonist narrator

The protagonist narrator It occurs when the person who narrates the story is the main character of the story, and tells the plot in the first person. For example: I listened to his words carefully; I tried to contain myself as best I could, but the way he lied to all of us made me unable to hide my outrage.

• See also: Narrator in first, second and third person

Characteristics of the main narrator

• He is the character to whom fundamental events occur.
• It tells the story with a personal and subjective language, which is why it usually refers to itself, as well as express opinions and value judgments.
• It may happen that in his story the main narrator contradicts himself and tells what suits him.
• Unlike other types of storytellers, the protagonist can only tell what he knows when telling the story, what he has witnessed or what other characters have told him. He is unaware of the thoughts, feelings, and history of the rest of the characters.

Examples of protagonist narrator

1. It was like living in a dystopia. In those days, books like 1984, Fahrenheit 451 and even Brave New World came to mind all the time. Not to mention The Handmaid's Tale. Going out to the streets to buy some groceries made me feel like a criminal. And the security forces were in charge of making me feel. Going to any store or market was quite an odyssey: long lines, practically looted premises where everything that was essential to survive was scarce. In the mornings, the silence was such that I began to hear sounds that I had never felt before. The birds sang again, or perhaps they always had, but the noise of public transport had overshadowed it all these years. At times, I felt empty; my chest constricted and I wanted to scream until I exploded. Although I also learned to enjoy some little things: the stars, the sunset and even the dew that covered my garden in the morning.
2. The place was packed with people. The hall, which seemed so spacious by day, seemed tiny tonight. But people didn't seem to care. They all danced and laughed. Music made the walls rumble while the lights barely helped identify some faces. I felt like I was drowning. He wished he hadn't gone; I longed for my home, my clean sheets, the silence, and my floor lamp. Until suddenly I saw him, deep there, far away, with a glass in his hand. And I saw that he was looking at me. He raised his hand to greet me and motioned for me to come closer. From that moment on, the noise, the lack of air and the heat stopped bothering me and the lack of light stopped being a problem.
3. I was proud. For the first time in my life, I was proud to see how this patient, whom no one had faith in when he arrived at the clinic, whom everyone considered dead, left the building on his own. And he knew that from that day on he was going to be able to lead a normal life, like the one he had before coming to this place. I remember the emotion of his wife, the joy with which his children hugged him and I felt that it was worth it, that it was really worth getting little sleep and trying so hard. The retribution was another. It was to see how the people who passed through those glass doors came to life again and that perhaps, in that new life, we occupied a small place.
4. I lit a cigarette and got ready to wait for him. I knew it would come; but I knew that he would be begged, that he would take his time arriving and that he would make me realize that he was not even bothered by being late. He would pretend he hadn't noticed. I asked the waitress for a whiskey and got ready to wait. As I drank that yellowish liquid of dubious origin, I began to remember the way he treated my mother, the times he ignored her. Those Saturday mornings also came to mind, when I had my soccer games and she was only there to cheer me on and celebrate my goals. He never showed up. And he didn't even try to come up with some excuse to argue his absence: he just stayed in bed until the afternoon, when he got up, opened the refrigerator and grabbed the first thing he found. He would sit on the couch and watch TV while chewing making that nasty noise that I can still hear. The scene was repeated every Saturday, in which I always wore that brown robe, that every time I remember it my stomach turns. I opened my wallet, put a few coins on the table and left that disgusting bar, head down, avoiding running into him on my way to the car.
5. I never felt so uncomfortable as that day, in that audition, in which talent seemed not to matter, intonation was a minor fact and knowing how to play an instrument was not even a plus. The only thing that mattered in this casting was the measurements, the appearance, the clothes she was wearing. Before it was my turn to go on stage, I left that horrible place, slamming the door - which no one cared about - just to get even, to get rid of the fury that invaded me at that moment.

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