What do you think?
Rate this book


120 pages, Paperback
First published December 26, 2007
For example, I may reflect in therapy on an unhappy period of my adolescence, testing memories and looking for insights that will help me understand why I did what I did then. To convert this into memoiristic material, however, I need to give the reader both the unprocessed feeling of the world as I saw it then and a reflective vantage point that incorporates or suggests that these events made a different kind of sense over time. This is the transformation that, if done well, absolves a memoiristic reflection from the charge of self-involved navel-gazing. What makes the difference is not only the fact of reflective self-awareness, but the conversion of private and public by way of a narrative compelling the interest and engagement of the reader. The act of storytelling -- even if the story is an account of psychological self-realization -- is by its very nature an attempt at universalizing the specific; it assumes there is a shared ground between the teller and the audience. Storytelling fails when the narrative cannot coax sympathetic resonance from the listener.
Memoir returns to the past, investigating causes in the light of their known effects, conjuring the unresolved mysteries of fate verus chance, free will versus determinism. To read the life of another person put before us in this way is inevitably to repossess something of ourselves. The writer's then and now stir to life our own sense of past and present. So long as we believe ourselves to be living in the direction of meaning, memoir will never not be coming into its own, fresh and startling.
Again and again, people say to me, “If I could just tell it,” and I know exactly what they mean. But how hard it is to disabuse them of the idea that if they just started at the beginning and worked their way forward, all would be revealed. Wrong, wrong, wrong. There is in fact no faster way to smother the core meaning of a life, its elusive threads and connections, than with the heavy blanket of narrated event. Even the juiciest scandals and revelations topple before the drone of, “And then … and then …”
Memoir begins not with even but with the intuition of meaning – with the mysterious fact that life can sometimes step free from the chaos of contingency and become story.
[In successful memoirs, the purpose] is to discover the nonsequential connections that allow experiences to make larger sense; they are about are about a circumstance becoming meaningful when seem from a certain remove. They all, to a greater or lesser degree, use the vantage point of the present to gain access to what might called the hidden narrative of the past.
If she hasn’t discovered an artistic shape that will completely express the tension between present and past, she is nonetheless subjecting the mystery to a constant pressure of inquiry.
[Memoirs] present not the line of the life, but the life remembered … serving theme rather than event.
The memoirist is generally not after the sequenced account of life so much as the story or stories that have given that life its internal shape. … And because we come to our insights more by way of thematic association than chronology, using hindsight to pick the lock of the then, the structure of the work seldom follows the A-B-C of logical sequence.
The risk with [this style] is that while it looks deceptively simple – much as an abstract expressionist painting might be to a first-time viewer – it requires careful intuitive calibration of effects. Some juxtapositions work, others don’t. … the writer needs to be able to step away from her material enough to measure the possible effects, to judge the structural options.