Shards of Memory

Abstract

Memoirs are a kind of odd literary beast. Unlike regular fiction they purport to be a rendition of one’s own life—true to reality or at least as accurate as one’s selective and notoriously fickle memory will allow. structurally, however, they can be strangely akin to classic detective stories. As in those that begin with the discovery of a corpse in a locked room, the detective’s job is to pursue the clues that will allow him to reconstruct the events which brought the corpse to his doom. similarly the memoirist has the task of plunging into his own past to reveal the palimpsest of remembered selves and events that culminate in his present identity sitting in front of the typewriter or wordprocessor. In a curious way he combines in his own person the functions and characters of the policier: he moves the plot and acts as the detective, the victim, and, in some cases, the antagonist all at once. Whether this assemblage of selves is discovered or invented must necessarily be ambiguous—even, or especially, to the author; after all the Heisenberg principle must surely be in maximum effect when one is observing oneself. In the best memoirs the author’s pursuit of his own mysteries can lead to genuine self-discoveries that may be almost as luminous for the reader as they are for the writer. It’s difficult to apply a measure to these efforts, however, since memoirs differ in the balance of their intentions. some are sharply focused on the events and circumstances they describe, as the author stands on the sidelines as a seemingly objective commentator; others are more concerned with how the projected self filters and reacts to those events. the best memoirs are those that achieve a compelling illusion of authenticity and intimacy that captures the reader and may even provoke him to examine his own epistemological mysteries. these two memoirs are both written by baby boomers now in their early sixties, and, where my generation was formed by the Great depression and