The next section of Owen Martell’s Intermission (two of four, if you’re counting) is entitled All Night Vigil (Mary), a reference to a piece by Russian composer Sergei Rachmaninov—which has meaning in part because Bill Evan’s mother, Mary, was an American from a Russian immigrant family. The first sub-section is called Vespers, and begins, “It was already another hot day when Mary awoke.” This entire three page chapter is all about Mary’s subjective experience of waking up on a particular day, filtered by the implied author. This first chapter is a tour de force of beautiful writing. Mary wakes up on the morning that Bill will arrive from New York. I hesitate to mention (because it’s so obvious) that in Christian lore, Mary is the mother of Jesus who is sacrificed to redeem the world. ‘Kay. As we know (maybe), Vespers refers to the Christian liturgy of evening prayer and thanksgiving. It involves thanking God for the day and for offering intercession, as well as lighting lamps which symbolizes Christ breaking through the darkness of night. Huh, and this section in the book begins with the protagonist waking—coincidence? In fiction, there are no coincidences. Here’s the second sentence: “The moist undersheet she’d hung from the curtain rail before going to bed had long since given up its damp cooling and the sun was now going greedily at the fibres, trying to proceed by singeing, to press home its translucent advantage.” There’s a lot to like here—as long as you are smitten by beautiful prose. The sun is given conscious purpose, “greedily” drying the sheet, “trying” like a sentient being to “proceed by singeing” (wonderful phrase). The sun presses home “its translucent advantage.” Here, translucent can be taken to mean an object’s property of allowing light to pass through it while, at the same time, altering it (like a filter) so that objects on its other side are changed. So the sun has an advantage; it dries the bedsheet that was hung in an effort to cool the room, thereby defeating this attempt but also works with the sheet to create an effect of filtered light in the room, a no doubt beautiful effect. Is the sun the implied author? Whoa! How does this passage relate to the story? Everything in a prose piece should relate, right? I think a major reason why this poetic passage is so pleasing is that it subtly plays with the theme of how Mary’s efforts to help her son are defeated by a powerful force that muscles into her bedroom and even changes the way things look. That force in Bill is his addiction to heroin. As you read on, you learn that Mary had wanted to stay in bed “in order to take another half-hour’s energy,” but the sun was too bright and hot. She hears the “smoky matinale” from the highway (matinale is a French word referring to the morning) and “there was nothing more to be done.” She gets up to begin her day. So, she wants to linger in the comfort of bed but cannot because of the sun and the noise. By the way, best B, “A night vigil is a period of purposeful sleeplessness maintained during the night for…keeping watch beside someone who is sick, dying, or deceased.” This seems like a pretty clear reference to Mary reluctantly rising to keep a protective watch over her son Bill. Some might say, oh, for Pete’s sake, why even have this poetic stuff? Can’t you just tell the story? My impatient answer is that Intermission isn’t the kind of book that is limited to just telling the story. As I’ve already written, perhaps because the story is based on real events, it can take some liberty in not focusing directly on the facts. But the point is that the book tells the story in a poetic way, relying on language and metaphor. If you find that challenging, Intermission is probably not for you. Does the book use the story as a mere vehicle to present beautiful prose? Meaning, is the prose more important than the plot? The book is vulnerable to this sort of criticism, but I don’t think it’s accurate. What we have is the strong presence of the implied author who colors the story with its palette of simile and metaphor and symbol. The characters don’t experience this—Mary doesn’t think the sun has a translucent advantage. Here’s more: Mary sits in the kitchen. “She let the colours work out their formations before her and tried to imagine what effect, if any, her presence in the scene might be having on its composition. None, in all probability, beyond the fact of her being able to witness it.” Well, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? It “does produce physical sound waves in the air, but does not create auditory perception unless someone or something is there to hear it.” So, a falling tree, like the colors in Mary’s kitchen need a witness, someone to affect. “When she tried to bear in mind a red that needed all the names of a spectrum just to get close to the way it looked…she realized she was neglecting orange blues and purple greens of such fervent numinosity that they’d already become a tugging in her.” Wonderful. Does Mary really think this? I don’t think so, best B. It’s Mr./Ms. Implied Author. Finally, “Mary looked down into her tea. There were two leaves floating on the surface. One was long and curved as if it had a joint in the middle. The other was smaller, more round and substantial, and she thought of her two sons, the longer of whom would be home before the end of the day…” And there we have a nice connection to the story, still expressed in elegant, poetic prose, using the symbol of the tea leaves (predicting the future?) to represent her sons. Let’s stop there. Till next time. #Intermission #OwenMartell #AlanBray

Hello there. Let’s continue with our reading of Owen Martell’s novel Intermission. We left off last time looking at the first section of the book, entitled The Petrushka Chord, written from the perspective of Harry Evans, Bill’s brother. After he learns of the death of Scott Lafaro, Bill’s bandmate, Harry has gone out looking for Bill in NYC, concerned that Bill will not handle the tragic news of well. The major subtext here is that Harry is worried about Bill, who is a heroin user. Harry remembers him as a boy, “when he had cheeks, and arms and legs that didn’t look like they’d snap in two at the first remotely bruising contact.” Although it is never directly said, it makes sense that Harry fears Bill will use heroin. “When he tried to think of the right thing to say when he saw him, Harry found himself imagining instead ways in which he might speak of Bill to strangers who’d come asking. He’d insist, he thought, in the first place, on the inalienability of the past, how he was there, in everything, to try and mask the fact that there were other people who, in the day-to-day sense at least, knew him better now.” As Harry travels to Bill’s apartment, he remembers their childhood together, when Harry, as older brother, would watch out for Bill. Harry sees Bill on the street by his place and realizes he was home all along and didn’t answer Harry’s phone call. Now, Harry believes (probably correctly) that Bill is running away from him. Harry follows, knowing Bill is out trying to score, although this is never said explicitly. The more Bill is “…apparently unaware of his being followed, the more Hary found himself wanting to help him. Particularly if Bill’s business was in Harlem. He wouldn’t be able to do much, in all probability, beyond bear silent witness, but at least he’d be looking out for him, liked he’d looked out for him before, the heedful older brother.…It would make their mother happy, too…Not that she’d know the half of it.” An interesting feature of the writing here is that Harry (and other characters) know Bill is a drug addict, but it’s not said directly, and this is in keeping with a story that is very close to the characters. Harry doesn’t have to say or think “Dang, Bill is an addict,” because this knowledge is implicit for him. It’s the reader who must infer this—or maybe just know it from knowledge of the real Bill Evans’ life. Also, we are shown that Harry learns of Lafaro’s death after the fact by reading the newspaper. Apparently, he hasn’t seen Bill for several days, which kind of goes against the idea of his being over-involved. I think this is an artifact of the story. The story needs a beginning; the story starts with this event (Harry reading the paper). It is a reminder that we are dealing with fiction here, not a facsimile of real life. Harry continues to follow Bill and thinks Bill doesn’t see him. But, “Bill had turned on his heel to face him dead on.” Yet Bill doesn’t seem to see him and walks away. This scene is a powerful confirmation of the alienation between the two brothers. Harry follows and they both get on the subway. Bill goes into a club, and Harry waits. The quest for Bill involves Harry falling into memory; he has an extended recollection of the brothers’ childhood. The next sub-section is entitled, Theme. A few days later, Bill calls his mother, Mary, and “told her immediately about Scott Lafaro and that he was worried.” However, he apparently believes his mother does not know about Bill’s addiction and shields her from it. She admonishes him to take care of his brother. He goes over to Bill’s house. Bill is home, sitting at his piano. “’Hey,’ Harry said. ‘Hey.’ He squeezed his way around the instrument and stood before his brother…’Sorry,’ Harry said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Why, the reader might ask, does Harry apologize? Harry has a pervasive and exhausting sense of never being enough for his brother. The apology is made to himself. Harry asks Bill to come home for dinner. Afterward, they have a drink. “He poured them a whiskey each, thinking it would be good older brother behaviour, and told him he should stay with them for a while. The words felt sticky on his tongue and Bill didn’t respond.” But he apparently agrees to stay. I’m using the word “apparently” a lot because, as mentioned, Intermission calls on the reader to make many inferences. In this sense, it’s a very “open” text, inviting the reader to participate in the story—a very respectful stance. Demanding, though. It’s not said clearly that Harry knows Bill is an addict (well, later, it is) and here, it’s not said clearly that Bill accepts Harry’s offer. There is no response, but the next section shows Harry waking up in the night and hearing footsteps in the living room where Bill is supposedly sleeping and the sound of the front door opening and closing. Harry doesn’t investigate, almost as if he doesn’t want to know what’s going on. Again, it’s not said but the inference might be that Bill has received a delivery of heroin. In the morning, Bill seems to be asleep on the couch, but Harry sees Bill watching him (he’s not asleep). Bill goes out the next two nights while Harry is in bed, listening. “It was what happened, he thought, like some part of Bill had been closed off to them for good. It was just something that happened. But it was still a shame; he had only one brother.” This section is called Theme, and I think the theme is that Harry is torn between wanting to save Bill vs. feeling responsible for his wife and daughter. The two positions are not compatible, and we see this playing out in the conclusion to this section. Bill plays with his niece, Debby, the family goes to the beach together—it’s the picture of the 1960s happy family with kindly Uncle Bill tagging along—which is what Harry wants but knows he doesn't have. Uncle Bill continues going out late at night to score drugs, and Harry finally asks his parents if they will take Bill and puts him on a plane bound for their home in Florida. Harry is unsuccessful in his quest to save his brother and admits defeat. Another unwritten theme here is that Bill’s family sees him as fragile. He needs their help and passively accepts it. It’s an interesting and accurate study of a family with one member seen as “troubled” who adopts a lifestyle—drug addict—that confirms this perception. But we have to keep in mind that it’s fiction. Here, we read a story of two brothers, both with their own “music,” who, put together, clash—but are joined. This is, I believe, a nice expression of the Petrushka Chord motif that gives this section its name. And that is a distinctive feature of Intermission, that musical ideas expand and enrich the narrative in the same way a good title does. Yes, best B, Harry’s song is yearning and striving to be good while Bill’s is dark and hidden and resists help. Let’s stop there. Till next time. #Intermission #OwenMartell #AlanBray

Hello, I wanted to do some shameless self-promotion here. My story The Wreck of the Whaling Ship Pequod—available on this site—was written several years ago when the Dreamers—the sons and daughters of illegal emigrants to the United State—were first being persecuted. Unfortunately, thie persecution is on-going. I really wish this wasn't so, and that my story was no longer relevant. But it is, so please read it and leave me a comment if you want. It is not about whaling in any concrete sense. Thanks, Alan

In 1961, jazz pianist Bill Evans dropped out of public sight for several weeks, devastated by the car-crash death of Scott LaFaro, his bassist. Evans stayed with his parents in Florida during this time, and this period is the subject of Owen Martell’s 2013 novel Intermission. A film version of the novel has just been released and is entitled, Everybody Digs Bill Evans. Bill Evans was a narcotics user throughout most of his adult life, injecting himself with heroin and later cocaine. Harry, his older brother, knew this and tried to help Bill, always hoping to get him off drugs. Later in life, Harry developed schizophrenia and died by suicide. He was married and had a daughter, Debby, who was immortalized in Bill’s composition, Waltz for Debby. Bill actually was married twice and had a son in another relationship, although, since this occurs later, it’s not relevant to this story Intermission is a different sort of beastie than say, The Memory Police, in that it is based on real people and events, although it is a fictionalized version in that the moment to moment experience of the characters is imagined. There was a “real” Bill Evans, his father and mother, Harry Sr. and Mary, his brother Harry and his wife Pat, and their daughter, Debby, but they left no memoir that such a work as Intermission could be based on. The scenes represent a particular view of a particular author on what might have been. An advantage this type of storytelling has is that there are characters and backstory already present; the people (especially those who would buy and read Intermission) know something about the real Bill Evans and his family. People have pre-conceptions which may or may not be confirmed. Mr. Martell risks the wrath of some who may object to his “taking liberties” with such a revered artist, but Intermission is clearly a work of fiction. The title refers to a break musicians take between performances. After the title page, there is a dedication in the Welsh language, as Mr. Martell is Welsh. For Tom and for my parents. (I’m guessing Tom is Mr. Martell’s brother—Ha! No one knew I speak Welsh.) Then we have a quote from no other than Miles Davis, whom the real Bill Evans performed with. Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there. We’ll have to consider how this fits into the story. It’s not a prologue, as it doesn’t reference the characters, but it does describe the story in enigmatic fashion. Mr. Martell doesn’t so much write a story about the facts of the characters’ lives, more about their experience—the larger explanation of their lives isn’t there. By way of example, although things begin with Bill’s brother Harry reading about Scott Lafaro’s death in the newspaper, there is no further reference to what arguably, is the key event in the story for another fifty pages. The whole book is structured in four parts, each corresponding to a different character’s close third person perspective. They are entitled: The Petrushka Chord (Harry) All-Night Vigil (Mary) The Colour of Saying (Harry Sr) Acknowledgement (Bill) The first two are clear musical allusions (Stravinsky and Rachmaninov), the other two—if they are allusions—I don’t recognize them. Within each section are chapters which also have musical references as titles. Petrushka was a ballet written by Igor Stravinsky and was one of Bill’s favorite pieces of music, one that he first heard as a child. The Petrushka chord is a recurring polytonal device consisting of two major triads separated by a tritone; when sounded together, the chords clash horribly with each other, producing a distinctive and dissonant sound. The first section being called this would suggest a theme of two things sounding together and producing a significant sound. Indeed, if we see Bill and Harry as these two things, they are two different people who are very close, who produce a sort of music in combination, a music not always pleasant to hear. The Petrushka Chord section begins with a chapter entitled Impromptu. Impromptu is of course, another musical reference, more generally meaning doing, saying, or creating something on the spot without any prior planning, rehearsal, or preparation. Perhaps this refers to the surprise of sudden death via a car accident, of the way the survivors have to react to something unplanned. As said above, Harry is shown learning of Scott Lafaro’s death. He immediately worries about Bill’s reaction, calls him and gets no answer, and then leaves his NYC apartment, headed out to find Bill. In the course of this section, he finds Bill and, still worried about him post Lafaro’s death, asks that he stay at his place. This doesn’t work out, as Harry is aware of Bill going out to purchase drugs and is concerned at the effect of this on his young daughter, Debby. Finally, he asks his parents, who live in Florida, if they will take Bill in, and they agree. Harry persuades Bill to go and puts him on a plane. And that’s the story told in the first section. But how is it told? “It was late in the evening, after dinner and Debby, before Harry got a chance to open the paper.” This is the “opening” line. In this first chapter, Harry is shown reacting to the news of LaFaro’s death. “Harry thought of the fingers he’d seen and felt, thwanging and plucking, roughly affectionate on the neck of his bass like a farmer’s handling livestock…He wondered if he had family, a wife, children, and thought of Debby, asleep in the next room…And he thought of Bill, meek and needy. He felt afraid for him, suddenly.” He tries calling Bill but gets no answer. “He took the base of the telephone in his hand and stook facing the window. There was a fleeting reflection of their father in the glass.” He speaks with his wife and leaves the apartment to find Bill. A fairly straightforward narrative scene, mostly involving one character whose internal-ness is shown. It’s established that Harry worries about his brother—although we don’t know why, and a connection is made to the sons’ father, who is of course, not really in Harry’s apartment but on his mind. There is the simile “like a farmer’s handling livestock.” This could be Harry’s thoughts but it’s more likely that it’s the implied author offering a poetic motif. What I mean is that the average person—even a musician like Harry Evans—probably wouldn’t have a memory of Scott Lafaro and think his hands playing the bass were “like a farmer’s…” In the next chapter, Harry is shown walking down a NYC street. “He…set about walking, an insistence in his shoulders, as if the effort he put in now would be totted up later for possible gains.” Here’s a clear example of the narrative being very close to this third person character. There’s an entity observing Harry inside and out and making meaning of his behavior. Then, it’s telling a story about him—he’s not telling a story about himself. Let’s stop there. Till next time. #Intermission #OwenMartell #AlanBray

The finale of Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police is not a happy one, best B. Like the protagonist of her unpublished novel, the protagonist gradually loses abilities and body parts; they are disappeared. Here, the protagonist describes the people’s reaction to the disappearance of left legs: “Gradually we became accustomed to living without our legs. Needless to say, things did not go back to the way they had been before, not exactly, but our bodies acquired a new sense of balance, and a new kind of daily rhythm took hold. Eventually we stopped noticing people who were unable to stand without holding on to something, or who were too tense to walk naturally, or who fell at random moments. We learned to control our bodies without too much inconvenience…No matter how much time went by, there was no sign that our left legs were going to rot and drop off. They remained firmly in place, fixed to our hips. But no one seemed to care.” We see that this is not some kind of gory amputation carried out by the Memory Police—the people’s legs actually remain but the people are persuaded they are not there by a sort of hypnosis. The Memory Police is not particularly literal here and it’s up to we the readers to imagine a mental loss of a limb. One’s left leg simply doesn’t exist anymore, although others—the protagonist’s editor whom she shelters—can apparently “feel” her leg. Ahem. Why is the idea of left legs decreed disappeared? “The number of people who were taken away by the Memory Police suddenly increased. Those who had used all sorts of tricks in the past to blend in could no longer fool the police after the disappearance of their left legs. It was surprising to see how many people had managed to hide in plain sight without being captured or resorting to safe houses, but now they found it impossible to imitate our new sense of balance. No matter how much they tried, something was slightly different about the distribution of the weight or the alignment of the muscles or the movement of the joints. And the Memory Police could spot it immediately.” The state (which is never described in the book) forces the citizens to adapt to the loss of important faculties, and most of them do, developing a new sense of balance. Thos that cannot are arrested. So perhaps there is a twisted logic here, or plan. The loss of the sense people have of their left legs helps the Memory Police to identify them as rule breakers. I’m reminded of how Ms. Ogawa has said she was influenced by Anne Frank’s story of trying to hide from the Nazis in Amsterdam. In The Memory Police, the outcasts—people who can remember—are gradually rounded up and taken away, just as Jewish people were in WWII. Certainly, there are also echoes here of Franz Kafka’s work, wherein those in power act in an arbitrary way to enforce their positions of power. And yes, I know everyone’s thinking this—the disappearance of the mental construct of left legs puts The Memory Police in the realm of science fiction. Does it? I‘ve said earlier that I’m not convinced it’s fair to label this book as science fiction. Labeling is a technique used by retailers. The logic is that someone who is interested in science fiction, perhaps because they enjoyed reading another book labeled this way, will buy The Memory Police. I don’t want to go off on a rant here, but I’m just not convinced this is a good way to buy books. Do people actually buy this way? I buy and read books because an author I enjoy has a new offering. Or I read a review by a reviewer I trust and buy the book. I cannot recommend The Memory Police to someone who enjoys science fiction. First of all, I don’t know exactly what this means—science fiction. Last time, I presented a definition of it and yes, Memory Police fits. But the construct is just too big. I think if you enjoy Ray Bradbury’s writing or Frank Herbert or Robert Heinlein, or even H.G. Wells, you might be disappointed in The Memory Police. Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 has considerable overlap with The Memory Police, in terms of plot but the style is pretty different, and I’m worried there could be disappointment for someone who expected something similar. Conversely, if you like Kafka, or Anne Frank, read this one. As I said, The Memory Police does not have a happy ending. There is no successful rebellion against the authorities; the protagonist does not triumph (perhaps only in her humanity—think Anne Frank). “The hand that had written the story, my eyes overflowing with tears, the cheeks that had received them—they all disappeared in their turn and in the end all that was left was a voice. The citizens of the island had lost everything that had a form, and our voices alone drifted aimlessly. I no longer needed to fall into R’s arms to descend to the hidden room. There was no need to lift the heavy trapdoor, since I was now able to slip through the narrow crack around it. In that sense, the complete disappearance of my body was actually a form of liberation… ‘It’s peaceful with just a voice,’ I said. ‘With just a voice, I think I’ll be able to accept my final moment calmly and quietly, without suffering or sadness.’ ‘You mustn’t think like that,’ R said… ‘You’ll finally be able to leave here,’ I told him. ‘You’ll be free to return to the outside world. The Memory Police have given up their hunt. Of course, how could they go on hunting people who are no more than voices?…The outside world is in ruins, crushed under the weight of the snow, but you’ll manage…I’m sure others who have been in hiding will come out to help you… ‘Do you really have to go?’ he asked, gathering to his chest the air he held in his hands. “Good-bye…’ The last traces of my voice were frail and hoarse. ‘Good-bye.’… Closed in the hidden room, I continued to disappear.” And so ends this remarkable story. Certainly, the ending echoes the protagonist’s final novel where that protagonist is shut up forever in a tower. There is a kind of hope expressed here, that R, who has been hidden from the Memory Police and so not victim to their disappearances, leaves the hidden room to be free. In a sense, the protagonist sacrifices herself to save him. A final thought: I do think that there is a subtext in this book of showing what dementia is like. As I said, I don’t know if Ms. Ogawa was aware of this, but it seems to lurk in this story of gradually losing one’s faculties. One can read the story on more than one level. Till next time. #TheMemoryPolice #YokoOgawa #AlanBray

Two posts ago, I mentioned that the unnamed protagonist of Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police, is a fiction writer. That's right, Ms. Ogawa, who is a fiction writer, has written a novel about a woman writing a novel (Ow! My head hurts). In fact, her writing is central to the story and is quoted at length—always in italics. Her editor, identified as R, is the man she shelters in a hidden room in her house, as he is one of those people able to remember disappeared things and is thus at risk of being taken by the Memory Police. They also become lovers. The protagonist’s writing tends to mirror and reflect what is going on in the story. I’ve mentioned how the first three books she’s published are about a woman searching for a vanished lover, a woman who loses her leg in an accident, and a young woman nursing a younger brother who suffers from an illness which is destroying his chromosomes. All three of these stories are reflected in the larger narrative. The first quoted excerpt from the protagonist is in its own new chapter with the text in italics—this is the protagonist’s latest writing, which she claims isn’t going very well. It begins: “I climbed the staircase, so narrow I wondered how I’d get past should I meet someone coming down.” This story, written in first person, has to do with an unnamed protagonist climbing the stairs to a tower where she hopes to meet her lover, a typing instructor. However, “When I find myself there, I always feel as though I’m in a lighthouse.” Then the protagonist describes a memory of being a little girl and visiting a lighthouse with an older cousin. She imagines being pursued up a winding staircase by a frightening lighthouse keeper, and ultimately, that her cousin and the keeper have disappeared. ‘Kay. We can see here the themes of the story—a hidden room where a lover waits, a feeling of dread focused on an ominous pursuer, and the disappearance of people. The story is dream-like, best B. Heavily, and also very fairy-tale/allegory-esque, as we mentioned last time. Can we also say it is a mise en abyme? —an embedded story that reflects a bigger one? Sure. The protagonist’s writing mirrors the larger narrative that she’s a part of. She is working on a novel about a young woman who enrolls in a typing school and who develops an erotic connection with the mercurial instructor. This man controls her, gently but firmly, moving her fingers to the correct position on the typewriter (remember those?) when she makes an error. He is enigmatic and one-dimensional, never revealing his own feelings. He and the protagonist embark on an affair conducted in a sort of tower reached by the narrow staircase—probably not such a good idea for the student. He eventually imprisons her there, using her sexually, a treatment she submits to. She loses her voice and begins to lose control over other faculties so that the instructor feeds her as if she’s an infant. ‘Kay. The most concrete among us can perhaps see the themes here of control and disappearance. There’s also an interesting contrast between the very constrained and modest demeanor of the protagonist and the racy nature of her fiction writing, which reads at times almost like erotic fantasy. After one excerpt from her story, the protagonist writes: “I realized the woman in my novel had also become trapped in a tight place…I had imagined that the two of them, bound by a warmer and more ordinary affection, would wander off to search for her voice in a typewriter factory or in a lighthouse…but somehow things had ended up like this. It happened quite often that my writing went far astray from what I’d imagined before I started…” Here, Ms. Ogawa is describing a phenomenon many writers can identify with—the experience of characters seeming to take over their stories, despite the obvious control of the writer. And of course, this passage also relates to the themes of the story. Some mysterious and powerful force is in charge of the protagonist’s life. The last excerpt is placed near the end of the novel. It begins: “Sometimes it strikes me as strange that I don’t hate him more. I should curse him and beat him, find any way I can to do him harm though I know it would do no good. After all, he deceived me, stole my voice and shut me up in this place.” The character in the protagonist’s novel waits for the instructor to visit her but realizes he’s involved with a new woman. As she and the instructor approach the room where the character is imprisoned, the character is “absorbed silently into the room, leaving no trace…The final moment has arrived.” This leads to the final chapter of The Memory Police where, as we will see, art imitates life (or art within art imitates life). Till next time. #TheMemoryPolice #YokoOgawa #AlanBray

In my first post on Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police, I mentioned that the book was tagged as being science fiction, dystopian fiction and psychological fiction and that these actions were largely marketing tools. Yes, I believe so. The idea, on Amazon, is that busy shoppers will, if they want a science fiction book, click on the site’s Science Fiction tab and one of the book’s they’ll see is The Memory Police. Well, I don’t want to be grumpy about this; it may work perfectly well, and result in many happy readers. But I do think it’s an act of mis-justice to reduce the book to categories. Is Memory Police science fiction? According to Wikipedia: “Science fiction (often shortened to sci-fi or abbreviated SF) is the genre of speculative fiction that imagines advanced and futuristic changes in technology, scientific knowledge, or biological systems.” ‘Kay, yes, Memory Police fits this definition. However, I believe it is more successfully classified as allegory or parable. Let’s discuss. “An allegory is a story, picture, or piece of art that uses characters and events to symbolize hidden moral, political, or abstract ideas. Key Features of an Allegory Two Meanings: Works on a literal level (what happens in the plot) and a symbolic level (the deeper hidden message). Extended Metaphor: Functions like a long metaphor spanning an entire narrative or artwork rather than a single sentence. Abstract Concepts: Uses people, animals, or objects to represent traits like greed, freedom, or reason.” We’ve talked about how Memory Police shows a largely undefined place, the island, set in an undefined time period. The characters are largely unnamed. Seems to be a pattern here. Not naming characters and places and times leaves the story open to more interpretation. Because of this a reader might think: “Hey! this story could apply to my own situation—not just the one described in the book.” The literal story is that the protagonist lives in a society where whole classes of objects and ideas are arbitrarily “disappeared” —removed from reality and also people’s memory. The reasons for these disappearances are not mentioned; they are done by a mysterious and anonymous secret police-like force, the Memory Police. These police have their own agenda and act in an arrogant and destructive way that intimidates the citizenry. The protagonist chooses to fight this system but ultimately, is destroyed by it. Attentive readers will certainly see how this story is similar to a number of real situations—Germany in the Nazi period, the Soviet Union under Lenin and Stalin. The brain-washing and mind control aspects may lead some to associations with our own society where it is said there are several versions of the truth. The key feature of an allegory—as I understand it—is that a whole story, rather than a much shorter symbol or metaphor, can be seen as symbolic of another order of things. In medieval times, books were written that referred to various parts of the Bible and of Christian belief—not directly, but by presenting a story with similar theme and features. Perhaps fine-tuning this idea even more leads us to the question: is The Memory Police a parable? “A parable is a short, simple story that teaches a moral, spiritual, or religious lesson. Characteristics of a Parable Human Characters: They feature real people and everyday situations, unlike fables which use talking animals or objects. Deep Meaning: They use simple comparisons to explain complex or hidden spiritual truths. Call to Reflection: They force the listener to think deeply and change how they view the world.” Huh. Memory Police is relatively short and simple, in terms of plot and character—meaning the characters are satisfying but somewhat one-dimensional. They don’t change their minds a lot as the story progresses. The story lacks traditional story structure—a transforming protagonist whose journey follows an arc—although we’ll look at this more closely next time. Does the book teach a moral or religious lesson? Religious, I don’t think so. Moral—kinda. The story’s moral is that it’s good to help your friends and neighbors and that authoritarianism is bad. We read about the protagonist helping R and her neighbors, and about the kindliness inherent in her relationship with the old man. We note the menace and arbitrary nature of the Memory Police, particularly in the scene where the protagonist is detained and questioned by them. These scenes and features make us reflect on the parallels with our own world. However, the story is never preachy, best B. Let’s stop here for today. Till next time. #TheMemoryPolice #YokoOgawa #AlanBray

Last time, we began looking at The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa. Let’s continue. It is of note that the first page or so—the section I quoted last time—tells the whole story. In that way, it is a sort of mise en abyme, an embedded story, although I believe, strictly speaking, mise en abymes don’t usually appear straight off. It’s more of a prologue that introduces the story. Anyhow, the narrator/protagonist remembers her now deceased mother telling her that, on the island, things are disappeared—not only literally but also from people’s memory. The people, her mother said, are sad and confused when something is disappeared but they get used to it and go on with their lives. Of course, what is not mentioned by her mother is how some people on the island retain memories of things disappeared, while others resist the whole system, and this resistance becomes a central part of the plot, raising the story’s central question: as the protagonist gets increasingly involved in this resistance, what happens to her? Is the ending foreshadowed by her mother’s story, that is, does she eventually accept the losses and go on with a diminished life? Yup. But not in a very happy way. We’ll get to that. “Foreshadowing devices have the effect of enhancing the inevitability of the action, usually without destroying suspense or tension…What foreshadowing does is prepare in advance for events that will follow later in the story, often in ways that will not be fully understood by the reader until the story is completed.” In The Memory Police, we actually do get the whole thing laid out on the first page but it’s subtle. Most readers probably will not go through the book thinking Huh, when are people going to be sad and confused and then go on with their lives? But the seeds for this are there. They’re sown, my bro. We soon learn that the protagonist is a writer of fiction, which, of course, sets up a potential recursion as Ms. Ogawa, through the implied author, is writing a work of fiction wherein the central character is a writer. But not too much is done directly with this potential; it lurks in the background and in the reader’s mind. According to the narrator: “I’ve published three novels. The first is about a piano tuner who wanders through music shops and concert halls searching for her lover, a pianist, who has vanished. She relies solely on the sound of his music that lingers in her ears. The second was about a ballerina who lost her right leg in an accident and lives in a greenhouse with her boyfriend, who is a botanist. And the third was about a young woman nursing her younger brother, who suffers from a disease that is destroying his chromosomes.” We will see that there is considerable foreshadowing here. What the narrator describes about each of her books represents a theme that is developed later in the story. There are no coincidences, my friends. The narrator continues: “Each one (her books) told the story of something that had been disappeared.” Yup again. The narrator introduces two other characters, an old man, unnamed as well, who is supportive and kindly, and the narrator’s editor, identified as R. The narrator witnesses the Memory Police arresting people who are evidently able to remember what’s been disappeared and taking them away. She recounts this disturbing scene to R, wondering how the Memory Police identify those who can remember. R responds: “’It’s just a rumor, but I’ve heard they’re learning to analyze our genes to find out who has this trait (being able to remember what’s been disappeared). They’re assembling technicians in a secret facility at the university’…’But how do they access our genes?’ I asked. ‘You just drank from this cup, didn’t you?’ R said, stubbing out his cigarette and lifting my coffee cup to eye level. I nodded. ‘They could take this and isolate your genetic material from your saliva. Nothing could be simpler for the Memory Police. They’re lurking everywhere…’” There’s some possible exposition here as well as characterization of the devilishness of the Memory Police. However, in keeping with the style of the book, R’s theory is never confirmed or disconfirmed. R examines the narrator’ manuscript and says: “’It seems strange that you can still create something totally new like this—just from words—on an island where everything else is disappearing.’” It is interesting that the narrator/protagonist is shown doing something that defies the system maintained by the Memory Police. She is from the beginning, a resistor. The narrator muses: “’And what will happen if words disappear?’” thereby introducing more foreshadowing. The next chapter presents two important elements to the story. The narrator discovers that a neighboring family is at risk of being arrested by the Memory Police, and she shelters them overnight. Their stay helps the narrator remember (!) the fate of her mother of who, previously, it was written just that she had died. “I recalled when my mother was taken away…The order (that she be arrested) had come in a coarse pale purple envelope (the same kind the neighbor family received). At that point no one had heard of the Memory Police…I remembered the quiet sound of my mother’s voice as she told me stories about the secret objects—and the troubled look on her face when I asked her why she remembered these stories and not forgotten them like everyone else. “The car sent the next morning by the Memory Police was terribly elegant. Jet black and polished to a brilliant shine, it seemed as large as a house…Mother sank down into the feather-soft seat, and we waved as if she were headed off to receive a prize…But that was the last time we ever saw her alive. Her body came back to us a week later, along with her death certificate. “It listed the cause of death as a heart attack…A sudden illness struck her as she was helping with our classified research…We would like to offer our sincere condolences in your time of grief.” Indeed, the family the narrator shelters disappears the next morning. We see here a major theme of the story, that memory is triggered by objects—in this case, the arrest warrant the neighbors receive. So, for the narrator, the stakes are raised to an even more personal level. The Memory Police are shown as being lethal and pitiless—they killed the narrator’s mother because she could remember. What will they do to the narrator? Let’s stop there. Till next time. #TheMemoryPolice #YokoOgawa #AlanBray

This week, a new novel, Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police. This story was originally published in 1994 in Japanese and then translated to English and re-published in English in 2019. The book’s title was re-done; the Japanese original translates to Secret Crystallization or Quiet Crystallization which, as we will see, has meaning (so does The Memory Police). The novel was nominated for a 2020 Booker International Prize and a 2019 National Book Award for Translated Literature. We live in a time when all books must be “like” something else for marketing purposes. For the same reason, they must also fit into one- or two-word genre description. The Memory Police is slotted into Science Fiction, Dystopian Fiction, and Psychological Fiction, and the publicity notes claim, "Ogawa's fable echoes the themes of George Orwell's 1984, Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's 100 Years of Solitude…” More scholarly folks compare its style and themes with the work of Franz Kafka and The Diary of Anne Frank—a favorite book of Ms. Ogawa’s youth. ‘Kay. “A fable is a short fictional story that teaches a moral lesson, usually featuring animals that act and speak like humans.” I don’t believe there are any talking animals in Memory Police, but it does teach a moral lesson, although very subtly. It is not simple. More on this later, best B. Memory Police is told in first person and simple past tense. The narrator is a young woman (twenties?) who is never named and lives on what she refers to as “The Island,” which could be Japan (which is an island) but this is never stated. The time in which the book occurs is also never stated; it could be the future or it could be some alternate reality. Rather than present a summary of the plot and premise for The Memory Police, let’s rely on the author herself. Here’s the first page of the story: “I sometimes wonder what was disappeared first—among all the things that have vanished from the island. ‘Long ago, before you were born, there were many more things here,’ my mother used to tell me when I was a child. ‘Transparent things, fragrant things, fluttery ones…bright ones…wonderful things you can’t possibly imagine. ‘It’s a shame that the people who live here haven’t been able to hold such marvelous things in their hearts and minds, but that’s just the way it is on this island. Things go on disappearing, one by one. It won’t be long now,’ she added. ‘You’ll see for yourself. Something will disappear from your life. ‘Is it scary?’ I asked her, suddenly anxious. ‘No don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt, and you won’t be particularly sad. One morning you’ll simply wake up and it will be over, before you’ve even realized. Lying still, eyes closed, ears pricked, trying to sense the flow of the morning air, you’ll feel that something has changed from the night before, and you’ll know that you’ve lost something, that something has been disappeared from the island.’” Yes, this is a story about life in a mysterious society where classes of objects and beings—like books and birds—are suddenly disappeared, meaning they are not only confiscated by the Memory Police, who, in their uniforms and tactics, refer to real historical secret police groups, but all memory of them is also erased in people’s minds, and here, we certainly see a science fiction, non-realist slant. Certain citizens are immune to this “brainwashing” and stubbornly retain the memory of disappeared things. The Memory Police attempt to identify and arrest them, sending them to camps from which they never return. As a result, these people are sometimes sheltered by the people in the community, hidden from arrest. It is never explained why this disappearance is done, and there is no explanation of what mechanism is used. The story’s first chapter is in largely imperfect time and has to do with the protagonist’s mother telling her about the disappearances. Her mother is someone who is able to remember what’s been lost. She says: “The island is stirred up after a disappearance. People gather in little groups out in the street to talk about their memories of the thing that’s been lost. There are regrets and a certain sadness, and we try to comfort each other…Soon enough, things are back to normal, as though nothing has happened, and no one can even recall what it was that disappeared.” The protagonist’s mother dies when the protagonist is young, and in Chapter Two, her father is described. He was an ornithologist but also dies young. After his death, birds are disappeared, as are hats. The disappearances seem terribly arbitrary. The things disappeared are often objects of beauty and/or human delight so that their erasure creates a tragic sense of grimness and loss. “The disappearance of the birds, as with so many other things, happened suddenly one morning. When I opened my eyes, I could sense something strange, almost rough, about the quality of the air. The sign of a disappearance…I spotted a small brown creature flying high up in the sky; I had just begun to wonder if it was one of the creatures I had seen with my father when I realized that everything I knew about them had disappeared from inside me; my memories of them, my feelings about them, the very meaning of the word ‘bird’ —everything” There is no point in this story of exposition, and some readers will grow frustrated. At no time is there a section saying, for instance, “After an apocalyptic event, world governments became strictly authoritarian, and in an effort to retain order, the leaders discovered a technology where people’s minds could be controlled.” The disappearances of things, who is behind them, and how they are accomplished remain a mystery. As we can see from the above quoted passages, the story is presented through the perspective of the protagonist in a sort of memoir/diary style. As we get going, the novel largely consists of dramatic scenes that give us limited information as they are limited to the perspectives of the characters in them. Is the story an allegory of what a society can be like under a totalitarian regime? Sure, and we will get into this. Citizens who forget the way things used to be are much easier to control. I think too the novel can also be read as a haunting depiction of dementia. I do not know if Ms. Ogawa was thinking of this as she wrote the book, but the idea of people losing portions of their memory strongly makes one think of old age—although in the book it’s not just the elderly who are afflicted. Let’s stop there. Till next time. #TheMemoryPolice #YokoOgawa #AlanBray

After the end of Transcription—the point when Max relates the story of his father’s holding his hands and says “For fear of vibrations, low voices in their presence…” —there is more. It is a quoted letter by the man who created the glass flowers, Leopold Blaschka. He is writing about the process of creating the flowers and says, “We (he and his son) have the touch…the touch increases in every generation. The only way to become a glass modeler of skill…is to get a good great-grandfather who loved glass…” He then describes how this touch is passed down from generation to generation, from father to son. (I know, this excludes half of humans—don’t shoot the messenger). Taken literally, this is a statement (along with the story about the glass flowers and creativity) about artistic talent being not so much a learned skill but a genetic trait that is inherited or not in a process beyond human control. In the story, we have a father, Thomas, who is intensely creative but has seemingly not passed on this trait to his son, Max, who is an attorney. (apologies to attorneys). The protagonist, however, who is Thomas’ mentee, is shown as being creative. He is a writer, but has no genetic connection with Thomas, although I think the point here is not to think of genetics so literally but of a relationship of a father-like figure and a son-like figure. The end note is significant; it represents the implied author’s work of shaping the narrative in a particular way. It’s not technically an epilogue, as it doesn’t present the future of the characters or story after the last page. It’s more of a comment on the story, on the process of making art. Of course, Transcription itself is a work of art, so this whole business is extremely self-referential, commenting on itself. We can infer that the implied author has created the story by the process he described earlier. “I kept seeing the flowers as organic one instant and as artificial the next, a kind of duck-rabbit effect, not between things the object might represent, but between nature and culture, the given and constructed…I could will myself to see the rose and pink of a sunset as applied in touches or stains and then revert to seeing it as natural…” Mr. Lerner also says that art is making a copy of nature, which is Aristotle’s idealization of mimesis, a sort of transcription from one thing to another. The glass flowers are a copy of “real” flowers. Transcription is a copy of “real” events (in a realist book). It’s also based on transcriptions of recorded conversations. What is “real?” The story is not “real” though, it’s a constructed fiction. That is, it’s possible that Mr. Lerner actually has a daughter with an eating disorder—I don’t know, it’s none of my business. He may be using this personal experience to create a fiction. He may have a mentor/mentee relationship with an older artist (Alexander Kluge, perhaps?). Again, I don’t know. He may or he may be making it all up. I think what’s likely is that Mr. Lerner takes something real from nature and applies “touches and stains” to it in order to create Transcription. And part of this creation is to discuss the process of how it was made. Is there a traditional story structure here—a beginning, middle, and end with the protagonist transforming in an arc over the course of things? It’s a tale about a writer—the protagonist—who travels to two different cities, staying at two different hotels because of Thomas, his mentor whom he met some twenty years before. Then, in a third section (and from a third hotel) the mentor’s son, Max, tells the protagonist a story which seems to echo the protagonist’s own experience as a father, a husband, and a son. Let’s say there are story elements. Both the protagonist and his “doppelganger” Max describe a story of their daughters’ struggle with eating disorders and there is movement. Both girls go from near death to recovery. And both fathers go from not knowing how to be a parent to someone so ill to becoming a “better” parent. Max describes a harrowing tale of being separated from whom he believes to be a dying father and going through a process of emotional resolution and acceptance—not only of a parent’s death but of the end of the possibility of reconciliation. Of course, then that process is almost comically interrupted when Max’s father miraculously recovers. But only for a time, and both men must go through a grieving process after Thomas’ “real” death. And there’s a transformational process lurking in the protagonist’s relationship with his phone, a process of grief. He goes from utter dependence on it, to, after its loss, denial, anger, and acceptance, finally emerging as consciously less dependent on its presence. So there is plenty of transformation here, but it’s not neatly presented as a smooth arc. What of the beginning, middle, and end stuff? “Kay, the story begins with a protagonist traveling to see a mentor. He is befuddled and not so competent as a father. He struggles through the middle, engaged in a long interview with Thomas and then having to accept the anger of others like Rosa at his reaction to Thomas’ death. Then, at the end, he—his doppleganger, Max—learns how to be a more competent adult as a father and as the son of a deceased parent. So, is Transcription a fiction? “…it is ourselves we are encountering whenever we invent fictions…Fictions are for finding things out, and they change as the needs of sense-making change…fictions…make sense of the here and now.” -Frank Kermode Ooh! Let’s stop there. Till next time. #Transcription #BenLerner #AlanBray

The third and final section of Ben Lerner’s Transcription differs from the first two in that it appears to be one long scene of dialogue. The characters are the protagonist—who actually has a small role—and Max, Thomas’ son, who is shown telling the protagonist a long story about his daughter Emmie and then his father. So, the narrator changes between sections two and three, going from the protagonist to Max; the protagonist becomes a character, no longer an “I” but an entity who witnesses Max’s story. Unusual, no? More on this later. The section is entitled Hotel Arbez (without brackets). Let’s keep in mind that each section of Transcription is named after a hotel: Providence, Villa Real, and now Arbez. Is the implication that Max is staying at the Hotel Arbez Yes, best B, I believe so although the residency is not as explicit as in the first two. “The Hôtel Arbez Franco-Suisse, also known as L'Arbézie, is a unique hotel that directly straddles the international border between France and Switzerland in the village of La Cure. The border line runs right through the building, splitting the kitchen, dining room, and several guest rooms in two.” What does this mean? Hotels are transitory, temporary places, divorced from one’s usual abode. One is not “oneself” in a hotel; one is different, taken out of one’s habitat. Characters in fiction often confront themselves in hotel rooms. This final hotel, the Arbez, is certainly unique in that it straddles two countries, perhaps symbolizing an erasure of boundaries? Of identity? The boundaries between the protagonist and Max are certainly relaxed. The two men, old-time acquaintances, both are married with a daughter who suffers from mental health and physical issues, and both relate to the now deceased Thomas as a father although there is no mention in the text about the narrator’s publishing the interview with Thomas before his death. In fact, it is difficult to know when the events in this section occurred—before Thomas’ death, I think, so before Section Two if not One. Their speech is not marked with “he said” or “Max said” comments; it is almost like someone talking to themself, having a conversation with an imaginary friend. A doppleganger? More on this later too. Max first relates the story of how he and his wife deal with their daughter’s eating disorder—anorexia. As she refuses to eat, they accommodate, despairing privately but trying to be supportive and not angry with her. Then, Max becomes angry, and sternly tells his daughter she must start eating more. She does but counters his escalation by vomiting. The parents take her to a specialist who counsels a return to loving support and no attempts at control. After Max tells the story of his father visiting and of some tension arising between them, Emmie begins eating more normally. This section has the feel of an interview, one in which the interviewer—the protagonist—struggles to get a word in. Max talks on and on, as mentioned, this section is almost entirely him talking, telling a story. The narrator fades far away; there is no exposition. Then, after a line break, we have a new story. It is still Max who is talking to the protagonist, but now, he is talking about his father, Thomas,’ brush with death during the pandemic. As we know, Thomas lives in Providence, Rhode Island, and I’m not completely sure where Max lives during the time his father was ill—in California, I believe. “He was on a call with Emmie when we heard him coughing.” Max and his wife are concerned he has Covid, but Thomas denies it. Finally when he doesn’t answer Max’s phone calls, Max calls 911 and asks them to break into Thomas’ house. Sure enough, he has Covid and is taken to the hospital. Max can’t visit him in person because of the quarantine but does a Zoom call with him, using a nurse’s phone (please note the relentless mention of technology in the book). In an emotional monologue, as Thomas can’t respond, being blocked by a respirator, Max tells his father he loves him and forgives him for all his transgressions—chiefly being unavailable when Max was a child. But Thomas is unconscious and apparently has no memory of these words. Much to Max’s surprise, his father recovers and is discharged from the hospital. Max travels to Providence to see him. Max describes this visit: “And on that last night of the Covid trip, when I finally walked back to Governor Street, I felt—perhaps as intensely as ever—the unheimlich (uncanny). Maybe the real son would just come downstairs, maybe you were the real son, maybe I was the clone or robot or doppelganger. I felt eight and eighteen and forty all at once, my grasp on reality was tentative, an extreme form of the effect his (father) presence always had on me…” Here, Max reprises many of the feelings the protagonist described in Section One, essentially a loss or fluidity of identity. Along the same line, he then describes making a recording of his conversation with Thomas. He doesn’t tell his father he is recording but says: “I did hear in my own voice that tiny alteration, that trace of self-consciousness, that always occurs in the presence of some recording technology.” Thomas covers many subjects in this conversation, including his wish to suicide with his son present. Max puts him off, arguing about a trip he took with his father as a child. At the end of the story, Max reminds Thomas about the father and son who made the glass flowers: “…about art and life, the hinge between them.” This represents another blurring of identity as it was the protagonist who saw and wrote about the glass flowers in Section One. The book ends with Thomas taking both of Max’s hands and saying, “For fear of vibrations, low voices in their presence. (the glassblowers) Did you not teach me this beautiful rule?” Let’s stop here and discuss this ending more next time. Till then. #Transcription #BenLerner #AlanBray

As I mentioned in my first post about Ben Lerner’s Transcription, the novel has three sections. Today, let’s consider the second. It’s shorter than the others and is entitled [Hotel Villa Real]. Yes, it does have those brackets Best B, and no, I don’t know what they mean. Maybe that it’s in the middle? Could it be that simple? It begins: “After my talk at the museum I walked back to the Hotel Villa Real and wrote a few emails in the business center. Then I opened a new browser and entered Andres’s full name…” “The Hotel Villa Real is a 5-star luxury hotel located at Plaza de las Cortes 10 in central Madrid, directly facing the Spanish Congress of Deputies. It sits within walking distance of the famous Prado, Thyssen-Bornemisza, and Reina Sofía art museums.” So the protagonist is in Madrid at a “real” hotel and googles his wife’s old lover. The book’s last section ended with the protagonist in Providence, Rhode Island, speaking from his mentor Thomas’ house to his daughter after dropping his own cell phone in the bathroom sink. He has just had a long talk with Thomas, who believes the talk is an interview being recorded on this water-logged phone and that it will be published Somehow, he was in Providence and now is in Spain and that has some meaning we don’t immediately understand. Because his daughter’s age is referenced, we can infer that the trip to Spain occurred very close in time to his visit with Thomas. Throughout this section, the protagonist is shown with some humor trying to avoid relying on his phone, so we can also infer that he took some lesson from wrecking it, that he is attempting to be less dependent on it. It is revealed over three pages that Thomas has died and that the protagonist is in Madrid to deliver some remarks at a memorial to his old mentor. The protagonist has published the interview he conducted with Thomas, and this has become famous as the famous academic’s last words. So, to learn this, we must read—the information about Thomas’ death and what the protagonist is doing in Madrid is not neatly explained. However, the death comes as no surprise as Thomas is ninety in the first section. After his talk, the protagonist goes to dinner with other attendees, including Rosa, an old friend. After the dinner, he and Rosa take a walk. The protagonist asks her what she meant by saying at the dinner that his talk about Thomas was “unsettling.” She responds: “’That it was more in his spirit to be real, to take a risk, than to deliver an encomium.’” Again, we must read on to get some understanding of the protagonist’s talk—there is no explanation. When he presses her, she continues: “’You more or less confessed that you falsified a big part of what many of us thought of as his last…testament. A deepfake.’ She said the last word in English. So Rosa is accusing the protagonist of callously using Thomas and misleading all his devoted followers by publishing an interview that was falsified after the fact—the interview was not a verbatim transcription of a conversation. We the readers have access to the scene wherein the interview takes place and know that the protagonist was mostly trying to cover up his dropping his phone and had no hidden agenda. But we don’t know what occurred afterwords, and if the protagonist did “make-up” the published interview, perhaps in a way that was flattering to him. The protagonist is defensive. …’That’s ridiculous,’ I said.…’I told the story of—I told the embarrassingly personal story about breaking my phone, and, yes, I explained how part of the interview was therefore reconstructed…that is entirely typical of interviews, like journalists often take some notes and write them up or condense…And in all the interview in that magazine, the editors move stuff around, make composites. I was not at all confessing—‘” (Rosa) “’…And you made it clear that you never showed it to him.’ ‘I didn’t have the chance.’ (Rosa) ‘More than one person quoted that interview in their talk. His first interview in decades, his last interview ever…So people were suddenly wondering what they’d reproduced.’ ‘It wasn’t the most important part, what I had to reconstruct—’ (Rosa) ‘Reconstruct from what, exactly? You presumably weren’t taking notes while pretending to record.’ ‘A section of the interview was based on memory…’ (Rosa) ‘It was conducted under false pretenses.’” The conversation continues, and Rosa reveals that Thomas’ son, Max, is furious at what the protagonist did, saying he’ll have to work it out with Max later. In a story called Transcription, we have a protagonist who is made ill by regarding the past. Because of accidental damage to his phone, he is forced to rely on methods from the past—including memory—to reconstruct an interview he conducts with his mentor, a conversation he subsequently publishes. Of course, this is a “story” about how a story is published, the story we are reading in a book, a vehicle from the past. We are reading a story composed in the past. Hall of mirrors. Rabbit Hole stuff (Alice in Wonderland reference). It is a feature of post-modern fiction to be self-referential. This section ends without much resolution. Rosa confronts the protagonist with more anger, saying he lied and betrayed the others. The protagonist offers no defense. He imagines that Thomas will appear in the protagonist’s hotel room, holding the printout of his talk at the memorial, that the text is re-arranging itself so that it will become a confession by the protagonist that the things Rosa accused him of are true. As I said, there is no resolution—everything is not made somehow “okay.” The protagonist says he is “fine,” but I don’t think he is. He is ill (I think). Let’s stop there. We need to examine the story’s final section to see how this one fits in. Till next time. #Transcription #BenLerner #AlanBray