The line between subjectivity and objectivity is not as distinct as we may think it to be. It is assumed that the subjective is equivalent to the human: this is to say that subjective beliefs and ideas are ones which are specific to the individual, and therefore debatable and disputable between our own whims and principles. Objectivity, on the other hand, is the anti-human, wherein it relies on facts, science, and undeniable truths that do not and cannot vary from person to person. The best film ever made is a subjective discussion because two humans could argue two different answers with the exact same level of conviction. The order of the planets in our solar system in relation to their position to the Sun, on the other hand, is an objective fact, because there is only one answer with reputable proof behind it. Any other answer would be considered nothing less than a lie. Both of these explanations of subjectivity and objectivity are indeed accurate representations of each notion, yet it is in the latter that some nuance is found to be lacking.
Whilst subjectivity originates from itself, in that a human opinion cannot be born of an objective truth, objectivity also originates from subjectivity. This is to say that the origin of everything we consider to be an objective truth, is in fact human. It is not up for reasonable debate that the planets are arranged in a different order to what we have been taught, however, the entire reason why we know this order to be the correct one is because of the research and understanding of humans. Indeed, the entire reason we know anything is because of the research and understanding of humans. As a result, everything we consider to be objective has been conveyed to us through the most subjective means of all: the human being.
This means that I, being the clearest manifestation of subjectivity, is everywhere. It is inescapable and omnipresent. Every sentence we speak, read, write or hear, is wholly unique to the person who created it. No other person, or even Artificial Intelligence tool, can perfectly recreate the sentence of another, with their exact accent, cadence, intention or implication. Two people may indeed say the same sentence, but the meaning of those two sentences will always differ at least slightly, because the providence has shifted. If I were to say ‘I pronounce you husband and wife’ to a couple, they would assume it to be a joke, though a rather odd one,
whereas from an officiant the implications would be much changed. A sense of subjectivity in language can never be wholly removed. Even if I is not present directly, even if it does not clearly announce its arrival, it will be there, perhaps lingering in the shadows so that we forget about it entirely. We may try to avoid I, to hide from it and insist that we are being completely unbiased, that there is not a single trace of ourselves in the language we are creating, but this would only be a lie. The answer is right in front of us. ‘The language we are creating’, ‘I am being unbiased’. Language is always created by someone, and therefore, as much as they may try to deny it, at least a piece of that person is in the language. No-one else on the planet could understand exactly what they have said or written like they can, because they are not the ones who first articulated the thought. No-one can explain a book better than its author, and no-one can unpack a theory better than the one who theorised it. We are in everything, always.
Despite being criminally over-quoted, the butterfly effect theory proves very much relevant in defending the importance of the subjective experience. The butterfly effect theory proposes that every single event in our lives has an impact on what happens next, and therefore even the tiniest change can alter our entire lives. Not only does this mean that every person’s life is completely different to anyone else’s, it also explains how integral our personal experiences are to our identities. In other words, every single thing that has ever happened to us, every thought we’ve ever had, word we’ve ever spoken, has impacted the person we are now, and will continue to impact who we become. We are eternally marked by our personal experiences, and we carry all of these experiences with us at all times. This is why genetically identical twins can react to the exact same situation in such different ways; although parents may make their greatest effort to treat each child exactly the same, one child has to be changed before the other, one name must be said before the other, and one moment of eye contact must be made before the other. It is these tiny, seemingly insignificant moments that combine to make us all so unique. The twins’ lives have not, and scientifically cannot, be exactly the same, and so they can never be exactly the same. Nobody can.
And then, of course, there are the big, obviously life-changing moments that alter us dramatically, forming each person into a complete rarity, never seen before or to be seen again. So, then, what even is objectivity? If we are all so undeniably different, how can any piece of language not be personal to us? How can it not be unwillingly tainted by our unique life experiences? Is objectivity just a bald-faced lie, then, a pipe dream that can never be fully realised? Or is it a thing of the future, something unattainable for humans and only in reach for the powers beyond?
In my view, the best way to answer these questions and understand objectivity is through the framework I outlined at the beginning of this article: objectivity as an offshoot, or growth, that has developed from the origin point of subjectivity. As previously stated, this notion does not deny the existence of objectivity, but rather encourages us to remember that objectivity is not so clear-cut and that there are less truly objective facts and concepts than we may assume. Facts of science like the order of the planets remain objective, but there are thousands of other topics that fall into more of a grey area. This wariness of objectivity might be best exemplified in contemporary writing. Every article, blog, essay et cetera is written by a person (at least, the ones worth reading are–content written by AI falls into a brand new category that deserves an essay of its own). Though these pieces of writing may indeed contain some objective facts within them, the overall piece must be deemed subjective, no matter how fact-based it is, because it has been structured and guided by an individual. They have chosen the exact words to describe or explain whatever it is they are describing or explaining, as well as which paragraph comes first, which idea comes second and which statistic comes third. To me, this undeniable subjectivity is no bad thing. However, this stance is becoming something of a controversial one.
The 21st century has seen cultural shifts in countless fields of thought, one of which, crucially for us, has been a move towards universality. We are no longer so interested in what one person did, unless what that one person did can be a lesson to us all. Everyone is equal, and therefore no-one is special. This means that some people fear that if we continue to use I in our writing, if we keep bolstering the opinion piece and the subjective thought, we are doing nothing but encouraging arrogance and self-centredness. To foreground and champion the I is to assume that our opinion is the most valuable, that what I have to say is important, because it’s me, and not you. Through this lens, subjective experience is the enemy of the universal, and the more we centre our own personal experiences, the more we isolate those who cannot relate. Therefore, there are those who think we should do our best to remove the I. Stick to third person as much as we can, and not just in academic texts. Admittedly, this argument has some definite merit, and is very much representative of this modern-day desire for the universal. Across history, the I has been abused, and the I has been made exclusive, a commodity only afforded to those deemed deserving, and those with the power to employ it. For the longest time so many Is have been erased from the narrative, or simply forbidden from speaking up, and we are determined not to return to these dark days. However, from my part (and remember, this is just I) the solution is not to erase the I, but to broaden it. As we now know, erasing the I is near enough impossible, but more than this, I think it’s a little unkind.
Why? Well, because as much as we hate to admit it (and as a proud self-deprecating Brit this rings all the more true) our voices, opinions and personal experiences really do matter. Sure, I can be exclusive, and selfish, but it’s also pretty beautiful. It’s ours, and it’s real, and it’s honest. Also, again, it’s difficult to admit it, but what we have to say is important. It can also be funny, or clever, or provocative, or terrible, and all of these things are important and necessary for the progression of our society. We need to believe that what we think still matters. I need to know that my I is still worth something, and not only when it’s worth something to someone else. In this regard, maintaining the I is part of protecting our self-worth. It’s part of knowing that our thoughts and beliefs don’t have to mean anything to anyone else for them to have value. Of course, it’s nice if they do, but that cannot be the only time that they matter. I matters always.
As well as this, subjectivity just does have a certain charm to it. Objectivity, by contrast, is appealing because of its trustworthiness: if something is objective we feel that we can put our faith in it, 100%, with not a chance of being deceived. Objectivity is safe and dependable, like the guy your mother would really like you to marry. On the other hand, subjectivity is more of a bad boy, which, of course, is where the charm comes from. It is risky and characteristically unreliable, because you can never be certain that anything it says is perfectly true. But again, that’s kind of the whole point. Subjectivity is easier to connect to and makes you feel special, which is often why it’s deployed in any texts that are intending on generating pathos, or evoking any sort of emotional reaction in the reader. Because it can be very difficult to form a connection if you’re uncertain of who you’re forming a connection with.
So, I think we have to keep the I. We’ve got to, it’s the right thing to do. But of course, with great power comes great responsibility. We have to know how to use the I responsibly, and that means acknowledging the power that it affords us. The ability to express our own views, to be the one holding the pen or commanding the room, is a privilege. It may not seem that way, because many of us have always been able to express ourselves, and have often been encouraged to do so, yet this has not always applied to everyone. Or more precisely, everyone has always had an I, but not all Is were treated equally. Even today, there still remains somewhat of a hierarchy of Is, whereby some are deemed more significant than others. For example, as a woman, my I may not be valued in certain spheres as much as a man’s would be, and the same applies to divisions of race, sexuality, age, socioeconomic status, (dis)ability and much more. As we know, things are changing for the better, and the Is that have long been marginalised are starting to be heard, but we still have a long way to go. This simply means that if we’re keeping the I, we all have to be careful of how we use it, and that we don’t try to out-I (or over-I?) our peers. We must treat our own subjectivity as well as the subjectivity of others with the respect that they deserve, and demand.
One of the first steps in this process is being open about the I. We cannot pretend that it isn’t there, because it is. Always. Yes, even in your Maths textbook, even in the manual for your electric toothbrush, and even in the label in your trousers. Because, somewhere, even if there isn’t a nice ‘By ...’ at the top of the page, there is someone who wrote what you are reading. It’s more obvious with spoken language, because as soon as you hear a voice the I is there with it, but the rule applies to written language too. Again, AI is certainly becoming something of an exception here, but for now, most of our language has at least originated from a human (someone has to input information into the AI tool in the first place) and therefore is innately at one with the I. So we need to make sure that everyone knows this. When we proudly declare that our language is ours, we make it clear where we stand. The waters are not muddied, and people cannot hide behind the opinions of others. Of course, a lot of the time the I may not be particularly relevant, such as in the toothbrush manual, but that manual is still somewhat subjective. Another toothbrush manual writer may have decided to describe the parts of the device before providing the health and safety warnings, or to have used the word ‘bristles’ just one more time. The writer may be reticent to admit that they spend their life writing electric toothbrush manuals, but they did still write it. That’s an I. Of course, this notion becomes increasingly salient when we move into anything at least a little bit controversial. This means history, and art, and science, and drama, and literature, and basically everything apart from toothbrush manuals (though I’m sure there’s still someone who has a linguistic or moral issue with one of them).
These topics are virtually pulsating with subjectivity, even if they are founded on facts. For example, history is the study of the past. It focuses on things that happened, and therefore could be thought of as an objective study. Nevertheless, as soon as we start to study something, we make it subjective. Now it is our interpretation of the past at play, our analysis, which is inextricably rooted in contemporary experience. Historical events mean something quite different to us now than what they did to the people who experienced them at the time. And that is perfectly fine, and can actually be the springboard for some really interesting discussion, as long as we don’t try to deny this subjective interpretation. As long as we signpost the I, somehow, and ensure that whoever is receiving our language knows that it’s our language, subjectivity can still be used for good.
In fact, subjectivity can be used for more than just good. Subjectivity can be used for great. To think of a simple example, in school, we learnt that there are two types of books: fiction and non-fiction. So, that means that there are books which are fictitious, books that do not tell the truth, and then books that are absent of anything fictitious, and therefore always tell the truth. Quite the strict dichotomy, is it not? Thankfully, as we get older we realise that these lines aren’t quite so fixed, and that there are many genres that do not neatly fit into either category. Memoirs, for example. They can’t be fiction, as people are describing their personal experiences, which are real, but they don’t quite feel like non-fiction either, because it’s their interpretation and opinions of what happened in their lives. Manifestoes. Well, that’s not either, it doesn’t feel like either at all. Self-help books. A major trend of the modern day, but what are they? Essays about subjectivity and objectivity might be a good example here, too. These genres are all united by their common thread of subjectivity, which allows them to deviously dangle in between fiction and non-fiction, without having to commit to one. Sure, this makes these types of works trickier to categorise and assess, but that also makes them a great source of discussion and debate. If we didn’t allow for the blurring of the lines between subjectivity and objectivity, between fiction and non-fiction, we would lose out on a whole treasure trove of beautiful, inspiring and potentially life-changing writings (in addition to the ones that are undoubtedly subjective, of course). And it is subjectivity that allows for the existence of this grey area; it lets us bend the rules and rework the mould to fit something new.
Still, the question remains: what of objectivity? What do we do with it? I mean, it’s literally in the title of this piece yet we’ve been dancing around it like a maypole! I suppose we could mourn its silent death from modern-day thinking, or we could turn it into a Voldemort-style That-Shall-Not-Be-Named taboo? I’m not sure about you, but I think either reaction would be a little overdramatic. Instead, I’m going to stick to my guns and propose that we just opt for acceptance. Acceptance that subjectivity is everywhere, and that objectivity is still there, but probably a lot less than we think. All we can do is recognise where we are, rather than pretend to boast objectivity when we do not bear it, and take heed of the I and own it, rather than shying away from it. If we use it thoughtfully, and considerately, our subjective experience can be our greatest ally, and more bluntly, we are literally nothing without it. But if you don’t agree, that’s just fine, because of course, this is all just my opinion.
