The bodies in narrative function as surrogates for real bodies.  They are, thankfully, not real bodies.  They are constructs of words and symbols, performances and effects.  The abuses heaped upon them are not real abuses.  That blood is catsup and the wound it flows from a squib.  The pleasures they enjoy are not real pleasures.  That’s not pot.  It’s just potpourri. 

            As Dr. Busl warned, one of the side-effects of studying narrative theory is coming to realize this, and it can be a bit heartbreaking.  I really like Luke Skywalker as a person, but he’s no person.  On the other hand, it can also be a bit relieving.  I don’t have to worry about whether or not Luke died, for he never lived. 

            And how they make us feel is the really important part of the way bodies function in literature.  Because they are not real bodies, they don’t experience real pain or pleasure, so we are under different ethical constraints when we inflict pain or pleasure on them.  We can cut Luke’s hand off because he doesn’t feel it (and it will be conveniently replaced by a robot hand in a few scenes anyway).

            Instead of being concerned about the effects of our actions on the narrative bodies, we must be concerned with the effects of our actions on our audience.  This is important.  It is what stops us from just cutting Luke to little pieces.  Imagine what a kid would think seeing that, seeing his hero and surrogate’s dad just disembowel him all Game of Thrones style because he didn’t want to join a coup.  That kid would be so messed up.  At the very least, Empire would stop being his favorite movie of all time ever.

            So when we cause pain or pleasure to a narrative body, we must consider the effects that will have on the persons in our audience.  Ultimately, bodies in narrative function as rhetorical devices to elicit emotional and cognitive reactions from the audience.