Weeping over a novel on a plane can cause a certain kind of embarrassment. The woman seated next to you looks at you. You’re clearly upset about something that never happened, about people who don’t exist, and about something that isn’t happening. However, the tears and chest tightness are real, and you probably wouldn’t be able to stop them if someone asked you to. The majority of serious readers have been there. Why is a legitimate neurological and psychological question with a fairly specific answer, not a rhetorical gesture toward the power of storytelling.
In short, when reading deeply, the brain does not distinguish between the real and the fictional. When reading about physical action, the motor cortex’s neural networks become active. When a character experiences grief or fear, emotional processing centers react in ways that are significantly similar to how they react to actual experiences. The brain isn’t just processing text when you read about a character you’ve been following for three hundred pages losing something irreplaceable; instead, it’s running a partial simulation and activating the same circuitry it would use if the loss were your own. This isn’t a metaphor for the emotions of fiction. It describes the quantifiable functions of the brain.
Paul Zak, a neuroeconomist at Claremont Graduate University, has devoted years to researching the connection between narrative and oxytocin, a neurochemical linked to social trust, empathy, and bonding. According to his research, captivating stories cause readers and viewers to release oxytocin, especially those with strong emotional stakes and well-developed characters. A person’s brain releases more oxytocin when they are more engrossed in a story, and the more of that chemical circulates, the more sensitive they become to the characters’ emotional states. It is a loop of feedback. The neurochemical prerequisites for greater caring are created by caring. The brain crosses a sort of sensory threshold when the story reaches its most agonizing point, and the body reacts by releasing endorphins and crying. Crying is not a sign of an inability to control one’s emotions. The system is performing precisely what it was designed to do.
In certain aspects, the psychological piece is more intriguing and slightly different. The appeal is primarily eudaimonic, a term borrowed from Aristotle that describes the search for meaning rather than pleasure, according to researchers examining what drives people to seek out depressing stories. According to the research, people who are drawn to emotionally challenging literature are frequently seeking something that will encourage introspection or insight rather than consolation. A book about grief compels you to examine how you relate to loss. A moral failure story poses a question about how you interpret your own shortcomings. In this instance, the crying is a reaction to the recognition rather than just the characters. The emotion is created when something in the story collides with something that is already there.
This is also the reason why one reader may be completely unaffected by the same book while another may be completely destroyed. Although people frequently assume that one person is more sensitive than the other, this is not the case. The difference is in the points of contact. The impact of a book about parent-child estrangement will vary based on the reader’s preconceptions. Thousands of readers have been moved to tears by The Song of Achilles in bedrooms, on trains, and at two in the morning; others have been left feeling chilled. Nothing has changed in the book. The story must traverse a variety of terrain for the readers.
Fiction provides a sort of safe haven, which sets it apart from the experience of actual grief or fear. On some level, the brain is aware that the events are recorded. There is a partial engagement of the fight-or-flight circuitry. Practically speaking, this means that the reader can inhabit grief, terror, or love more fully because there is no real threat to their survival, allowing the emotional experience to go farther than it might in real life. Although the term “catharsis” has been used and misused so frequently since Aristotle’s time that it has lost some of its meaning, the fundamental idea is still true. Something that required processing is processed. The way the reader puts the book down differs from how they picked it up.
In all of this, it’s difficult not to find something subtly helpful. Our culture often views emotional reactions as vulnerabilities or performances that should be controlled rather than tolerated. However, research indicates that being open to being moved—that is, allowing a story to affect you to the point where it costs you something—is an indication that your brain is functioning properly, exercising empathy, and releasing neurochemicals that facilitate social interaction. It’s not uncontrollable for someone to cry over a book on a plane. They seem to be doing what the brain was always meant to do.
Chloe Olliver is senior editor at vclib.org, where she leads editorial coverage of literary criticism, political commentary, cultural analysis, and the evolving relationship between literature and public life across New York City and beyond. With a career spanning the intersection of literary journalism, political commentary, and educational publishing, Chloe brings both rigorous research discipline, in-depth knowledge, experience, and an accessible editorial voice to subjects that most readers find thought-provoking and culturally significant.