Literary Memory
I just started reading “The Thirteenth Tale,” by Diane Setterfield. I’ve been curious about it ever since my photo shoot and interview with Frank Wilson, the books editor of The Philadelphia Inquirer. Frank had told me that he was enjoying the controversy of having given a good review of a novel that his respected peer, Laurie Muchnick (the books editor of Newsday), definitely didn’t like. Using it as an example of how the Internet now gives readers the opportunity for greater dialog, Frank said, “I’m hoping that Laurie writes a review of The Thirteenth Tale that I liked so much and she didn’t. Because the minute that she does, I’m going to link to it and mine [from his blog], so that people can have both points of view. Remember the ‘Life of Brian,’ when he tells people ‘You’re all individuals, you can think for yourselves?’ Well, people can, and it’s very good for their minds to think for themselves.”
But what the first few pages of “The Thirteenth Tale” sparked for me was a very different controversy – the current obsession with memoirs that contain inaccurate, often invented accounts. After all, aren’t memoirs, and their literary cousins, biographies, supposed to give us the facts about a life?
“The Thirteenth Tale” centers on an aged best-selling author, Vida Winter, who would invent different histories for herself, whenever she was interviewed. At various times, she was “the secret daughter of a priest and a schoolmistress… the runaway child of a Parisian courtesan… an orphan raised in a Swiss convent, a street child from the backstreets of the East End….” Now, at the end of her life, she summons a biographer, Margaret Lea, and promises to tell her “the truth.” The novel slowly unfolds the story of Vida Winter’s childhood, through her storytelling and Margaret Lea’s investigations.
But what are the facts of a life fully lived, though not documented minute by minute, recording every day’s events and encounters until later – if at all? And what is the truth contained in those half-remembered facts? (I’m not talking about inventions or out-and-out lies. Those belong in a different discussion about why people choose to distort or completely make up their stories rather than try to recount what they remember.)
Vida Winter, in “The Thirteenth Tale,” says, “All children mythologize their birth.” But I would go further than that. I consider my own memory, and I can’t help but reflect that it is a personal mythology of my life – the moments I have chosen to remember because, in hindsight, they have become meaningful to me, to the person I have become since then. Are they accurate memories? Of course not. I’ve filtered them, filled in what I’ve forgotten with what might have been, and embellished them with each retelling.
However, should I choose to write a memoir – something I certainly don’t expect to tackle in this or the next decade – I can’t help but feel that the facts wouldn’t matter so much as what I choose to tell. That’s where the truth of me would be, in the telling. Not necessarily the truth of who I was when whatever event I would be relating occurred, but who I am when I would recount it.
I must admit that I haven’t read the memoirs that stirred the recent controversies. So, I can only speak in general terms. But I know from my own family and friendships, that even when memories are shared, they are seldom the same. Of course, the classic example of this is Akira Kurosawa’s movie “Rashomon,” in which the witnesses of a murder (including the ghost of the victim) all give conflicting versions of the murder.
But what about verifiable facts? I have made my living as a non-fiction writer for two decades. As such I’ve had to check any fact I’ve written, making sure it came from more than one source. If that weren’t possible, and the story still required that I include the information, I would use modifiers such as “he says,” “she claimed,” “the indications are,” etc. I would struggle with all the details, information and facts I could find and try to prove, until I would end up with a story that I felt told the truth of the matter – not my personal truth, but, hopefully, a neutral, unbiased truth.
However, as a photographer, I know that every story and every picture interprets the facts, presenting them in one manner or another. One example I often give is taking the photograph of an island resort hotel. If I angle my camera in one way, I will show you an idyllic, pristine beach with charming bungalows, and a beautiful couple sharing a delicious breakfast on their patio table. But if I angle my camera so you can see the trash dumpster and the shanty town in the distance, the story becomes something completely different.
Is it any wonder that I now prefer to write fiction? When I strip my tales of facts, then I can finally tell my own truths, rather than other people’s truths.