Memoir at Saint-Brieuc Raquel Scherr Salgado (bio) He who has once begun to open the fan of memory never comes to the end of its segments; no image satisfies him, for he has seen that it can be unfolded, and only in its folds does the truth reside; that image, that taste, that touch for whose sake all this has been unfurled and dissected; and now remembrance advances from small to smallest details, from the smallest to the infinitesimal, while that which it encounters in these microcosms grows ever mightier. Walter Benjamin When a friend of mine, knowing I was fascinated with the subject of memory and death, suggested I read Le premier homme, I could not help but muse at the type of criticism that a woman of my generation and my ethnic background might be called to make if asked to comment on the work, let alone write about it. “Mmmm . . . there’s something annoying about the word “man” in the title, and, therefore, so the argument runs, about the European white man who wrote the book.” Argument ad hominem, indeed, much the way arguments go now-a-days, for all of us engaged in cultural critique, and feeling as if we must remain intellectually loyal to our various heritages. This is not a bad thing. My own interest in memory emerges from my desire to dig, like a deep sea crab, the murky waters of my mixed race heritage. I am a mutt. I am marginal. I have been teetering between “borders” long before the word meant that race, or modernity itself could “decenter” you. For the majority of the human race, living on the edges is nothing new and, for this reason, it has been intriguing [End Page 576] and seductive for the elites, academics and others, to explore “otherness,” and “marginality” and the off-centered perspectives that these can give us of the world’s cultural productions. But, in a very short time, these metacritical concepts have lost their vigor and become clichés. We need new models. My interest in death precedes my interest in memory. This is usually the case for everyone, I think. My father dead, my mother dead, my brother dead, my niece dead, my uncles and aunts dead, my friends dead, the sons and daughters of friends dead, too, force the “fan of memory,” of which Walter Benjamin speaks, to open wide as the chasm that welcomes the orphan that you’ve become. Without memory you are nobody, and memory comes hard. Strangely, this is where I find affinity with Camus and, especially, with his work Le premier homme. I say strangely because I might have said, instead, that he walked unsteady as a pied-noir (a Frenchman in Algiers, living a border culture, looked upon by the French as barbarian and unintellectual). And let us not forget that Camus was also of mixed blood, his father Alsatian, his mother from Mahon. Throughout history, the quickness of the blood has worked to make mutts of us all. We are not the first to cross borders. My interest in memory encouraged me to seek memoiristic writings long before the emergence of what writer Jill Johnston called the “plebeian” memoir so popular now, in no small part, because it speaks of the marginal. 1 Indeed, the phenomenon of its popularity comes at a time when my generation, the post WWII generation, sees itself cut up by cultural differences and at the mercy of the modern technologies with which it grew up. The memoir wants to be, in this postmodern moment, the vehicle of expression for those of us who find ourselves “decentered” and who imagine that by concentrating on our individual pasts we can perhaps reconstitute ourselves and escape the ahistoricism to which we feel condemned. The strategy is a good one, I think, but it misses the essence of a memoiristic writing that captures, like memory, the past and is, in its true form, precisely a narrative of the ahistorical and fragmented trying to find a form and moral center. Camus’s Le premier homme anticipates the condition of crisis our generation feels and provides, better than any works I...