“Third person point of view can be subjective,” considered Jade Weeks. She was in the process of casing the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg. The near axis of sun to earth felt like a suffocating heat wave after the cool mornings in Paris. However, the geometric, yet flowing, organic feel of the building set her at ease and she began to notice patrons standing in shadows, fleeing unconsciously from the solar outburst.
“My point of view is private and public,” she had told Morrell. He had cornered her in their hotel lobby, intent upon discerning her intent. She didn’t care for his bragging tones as he tried to out-exploit her exploits.
“Preferably, she story should unfold to the observer without your intervention. Unless you are genuinely engaging, do you think readers really want to know your deepest secrets?” She was prodding his ego. She could tell it injured him.
“Those who follow me,” she continued, “hear my thoughts, see my reactions and make up their own minds as to whether I’m interesting.”
Morrell, red-faced, had tried to justify his first person point of view. Jade had walked away.
Now, as she reflected on the conversation, she decided maybe her words were too harsh. Everyone is entitled to their own point of view: objective, subjective or even first person.
She found a bench outside the café. Settling in with an iced latte and travel-worn paperback, she deliberated over which selection would grace her wall. Dali’s Paranonia would be most fitting. A smile was the barest hint to her pleasure. The novel in her hands bordered Dali’s profound genius: “Time Machine” by H.G. Wells, a shifty POV if she ever read one.