"Echoes of Memory: Transforming Loss into Myth through Autofiction"
Writer’s Statement
The text that has influenced this hybrid response is Annie Ernaux's The Years; this extraordinary piece of work reflects her personal life. This text interested me regarding autofiction, as she attempts to paint a picture of her personal life through various stages of childhood to the present day. Her writing is fragmented, with many rough edges mirroring real life and her train of thought. It is uncertain if these were her thoughts when she was younger. However, she narrates her life based on her current thoughts, with a more complex understanding of the world. Ernaux effectively demonstrates that personal experiences are not individualistic but part of a collective memory spanning many generations. She interlinks historical events that related to many of her feelings and actions at the time due to the oppression of women, such as the creation of the contraceptive pill and the expectation to remain a virgin until married. Such historical facts, mixed with raw emotions, make her work relatable. She connects political and social contexts to her personal narrative, which is certainly imbued with embellishments as she reflects on these events in light of how drastically life has evolved.
My writing will explore how personal memories contribute to our cultural narrative. We create something entirely new when we write about or reflect on our individual experiences. When we reflect on events, we inevitably add our perspectives to memories. This phenomenon can be understood as a Myth. I will explore how personal memories such as the death of my grandfather have become part of a more significant cultural myth. In this case, the recollection of my grandfather's death, along with remembering his unique characteristics, will be passed on through generations, even though only photographs remain of him. This is an idea Annie Ernaux emphasises throughout her book. These ignite vivid memories that are fragmented recollections.
Gunnthorunn Gudmundsdottir's work has been a key element in my hybrid work in regards to memories. She explains how memory is not just merely recalling events; it involves choices about what we choose to forget or reshape. ‘The writer chooses one memory and discards another, writes one version of that memory at the cost of another’ (Gudmundsdottir, 2003). Gudmundsdottir claims that autofiction discards certain memories in favour of a singular narrative, a technique I plan to employ to gain narrative control and fictionalise my own experience.
While discussing the scene of my grandfather's death and witnessing my sister's attempts to save him, I aim to illustrate how fragmented and unstable memory can be when recalling 'true events' and how it can transform into a narrative of its own. Marjorie Garber describes autobiography as a species of fiction-making. I will utilise the works of Shirley Jordan and Hanna Meretoja to explore auto-fictional writing in response to Ernaux's The Years. Through this hybrid piece, I will blend autofiction theory and creative narrative to interrogate the event of my grandfather's death and the memory I have formulated in my mind. This analysis will consider themes of truth, conflict, and authenticity within the realm of autofiction.
Prologue: Breaking the Silence
Photographs of cut-off family members and children with big bright smiles; I can feel their sticky jam hands from a single glance, and then I see him. بوڑھے آدمی. Old man Jim. My grandfather, though I hardly recognise his face, it's been so long.
Suddenly, I can hear it.
The beeping noise. Cracking. Fear.
Weirdly, his ribs sounded like the autumnal crunching of dried leaves and twigs snapping under winter boots.
Fragile.
Similar to my sister's appearance within that moment. Her bitten-down nails, a lack of nail polish due to her shift earlier that day. A doctor. Our parents were so proud, they expected too much from her. Her face was white, and the steady rhythm of her hands pressed against his chest.
Stayin' alive playing in my head.
Ironic.
An attempt to reverse the irreversible.
Berit cries, “Don't let him die; save him, please.” Her panting breath and the crack, crack, cracking of his ribs.
Jesus Christ, I can hear it still.
The beeping stops, replaced with the world's longest beep.
He is dead.
There is no clarity. Was it as traumatic as I tell myself?
"The memory is a careful act of construction" (Zinsser, 1998, p. 5).
Okay, Zinsser, so what are you saying? I have manufactured this memory; it is not the truth or fact; I've manipulated it, which distorted it. The fragmental event, which was dismantled and pieced together, is a better way of creating such drama to show its traumatic effect on my mind.
Was there even a machine beeping, or did I make my grandfather's death into a ‘Grey's Anatomy’ scene?
"It is a manipulation of detail, a narrative you have formed" (Zinsser, 1998, p. 6)
Okay, I get it; chill out!
"We cannot truly recall the past, only construct it through the frame of what we know now" (Ernaux, The Years, p. 122).
Oh god, not you, too, Annie.
I know you implied that memories are everchanging, and it's evident throughout your work, but give me a break.
Are you saying I'm trying to romanticise my grandfather's death?
No.
It's an interpretive lens. You know memory has become a Myth. You spoke to a counsellor, and she told you that the vivid noise of his ribs cracking is symbolic.
Symbolic of your family's defiance towards his death.
But what does that have to do with anything?
Have you yet to get it?
Your personal connection to collective history shows how certain life moments gain significance. Your story is not merely a memory; it transforms into a myth.
He's the man, the Myth, the legend.
Constructing the Memory
The awful silence as she performs CPR. All that is audible is her heavy breathing and the cracking of his ribs.
The dark room had little lighting, yet Sophia's pale face practically glowed in the dark. Her fear filled the room.
Or did it?
Maybe the big light was on, because he was reading his book in the green, velvet armchair.
But then there was a beeping sound, so he was likely in that strange-smelling bed they had brought for him, because he could no longer walk up the stairs as the cancer worsened.
Come to think of it, was there silence?
I thought there was, but maybe I was too overwhelmed.
If it had been bonfire night, surely I would have heard fireworks going mad and seen the display of colour painting the walls.
It was already dark when I got to my grandparents' house…
"Autobiography is an act of selection one memory chosen over another, one version written at the cost of others"(Gudmundsdottir, 2003, p. 12).
Okay, so I was a little confused.
No.
I definitely remember the silence, but there were also fireworks.
I must be lying.
You're not lying.
Okay, Gudmundsdottir, what is it then?
A reconstruction of a singular moment, the event was surreal in its clarity, and multiple variations of this event are present depending on what lens you look through.
It is not a lie.
Indeed, your mother, grandmother, and sister have different versions of the story, as they all view it differently.
"It's collective. Zinsser says it is 'a careful act of construction'" (Zinsser, 1998, p. 5-6).
Annie does the same thing, right?
Not quite to that extent.
My grandfather's passing is the centrepiece of our family legends. His remarkable life includes experiences such as the loss of his six-year-old child, enduring British colonial rule, and his grandfather becoming the first man to build a brick home in his village. These stories will be embellished over time, transforming him into a mythical character perceived as brave and someone who changed the course of history. This process is similar to how Ernaux weaves cultural and personal memories together to create a narrative that transcends the individual.
Yes.
Place him on a pedestal; his death should be in the broader mythology of loss and resilience.
Rest in Peace.
From Witness to Myth
I feel the pain.
Sat here crying.
Feeling shame.
Why am I reshaping such a traumatic and vital event within my family's life? I should honour his death and tell the story in simple terms without embellishing aspects of his death.
What kind of person does that make me?
You’re as bad as those fraudsters who prey on older women, cold calling.
Maybe I wouldn't go that far, but it is pretty scummy.
Autobiography is a form of 'fiction-making.' There is no external vantage point from which to objectively capture a life"(Garber, 1996, p. 175).
So, any recollection can be distorted. Is that what you're saying, Marj?
If I look at it this way, I can tell you I still hear those cracks. They play in my mind, and so does the image of my sister.
Her patient went into cardiac arrest, and she had an episode.
She cries to me.
'You don't understand,' she says.
No, I don't.
But I still hear the cracks.
The memory is collective, but she sees it as the day she became an adult.
Forced by nature.
So why do I feel like her experience was the same as mine, yet she says it was more traumatic? Not that it’s a contest.
We went through it together. We bore the scars together. We were in this historic moment together.
Please don't shut me out.
I know how it feels.
Crack.
Our experiences differ when recounting them, but we see and hear the same thing.
Crack.
Sophia, I feel your pain, let me in.
Crack.
We can move on, heal, and find solace within each other.
Do not carry such a heavy burden alone. We can try to lift the heavy weight that burdens your shoulders together.
Follow in Ernaux's footsteps, breaking away from the personal 'I' and adopting the collective 'we' to help those around us resonate beyond this context.
This story can be remoulded into something different than a simple memory; it is a narrative that expresses the universal conflict of life and loss.
Sophia, your story of strength will be recounted numerous times.
The moment of witnessing a tragic death and recounting the event in a collective narrative has made it so much easier for those around us to understand the burden and pain you felt.
Our stories are the driving force that challenges the link between narrative experimentation and how memories turn into myths. Your actions on that unfortunate day are not just remembered; they display you as heroic and devoted to your family.
Sophia, your optimism in the face of certain death shows you are resilient and stoic.
This will go down in history, and you are the hero in our family history.
Your story will be passed on through generations.
The Tyranny of Time
Am I preserving his life after death?
His grey hair, slightly balding with that receding hairline. He was rather grumpy, barely smiling or laughing, but it was infectious on the rare occasion he did.
Little parts of him are dotted around my grandmother's house, the dressing gown he wore all the time and his book, half read on the bedside table. His beautiful watch that had no battery; I was in awe when I was only seven.
I wear that watch now, a classic Omega Seamaster. Self-winding from the forties, glistening gold. Whenever you took it off, you had to reset the time. “Bloody hell fire”, you would say. You were glued to that watch.
A reminder of the never-ending time that goes by without his presence.
This isn't the only image I have of him; there is another image of him lying there and his shortening breath that eventually disappears when his ribs are broken, and his heart is no longer beating.
This is the image I have of him, ingrained in my mind.
"Meta narrative fiction echoes in my head" (Meretoja, 2022, p. 185).
Okay, Hanna, what do you want to add now?
"It is a form of self-reflexive storytelling that makes narrative its theme, reflecting not only on the process of its own narration but also on the roles of cultural narrative models in making sense of our lives" (Meretoja, 2022, p. 185).
I guess when I think of my grandfather's loss, there's an internal conversation surrounding the merging of cultural influences that have shaped my understanding of loss, love, and heroism.
“Autofiction doesn’t offer neat resolutions. It resists closure, revels in ambiguity, and invites critique” (Jordan, 2013, p. 58).
I understand my sister's actions represented perseverance and the ability to complete pointless CPR. She is perceived as the hero of our grandfather's death, but there is no closure or resolution.
You are right.
It's never-ending; the replay of this image is in our minds.
The breaking of his ribs stays with us, the sound on replay making my stomach turn inside out.
But the story changes when I write about it; it becomes a symbol, a rupture.
There is a crack within the wall that separates persona and memory from collective Myth. Between these, threads are woven together in an attempt to piece together a fractured reality, even creating a new narrative, not a preservation but a negotiation.
A reckoning.
We are in the realm of biofiction now. There's no repetition of the same story that loses meaning; it's a new, fresh understanding of events. My grandfather's death is not the ending; it is the beginning of something new when the narrative refuses to stay in one lane.
Towards Resonance
"Autofictional texts stage the experience of time as fragmented, recursive, and inherently linked to the process of meaning-making" (Meretoja, 2022, p. 185).
Back to that image of the never-ending time, I find meaning in things that were once so trivial.
This one cuts deep Meretoja.
Picture this…
Images of election day, my grandfather despising Tony Blair, Nick Clegg and David Cameron. He laughed when I showed him my art piece, situating Tony Blair taking a selfie in front of the catastrophic burning oil Riggs.
Those scummy bastards, he would say, don't care about us working folk in the North; all they see is the South when they instil these stupid policies in England. They don't understand.
His views remained the same as the years went by.
Horrified by Boris Johnson.
He repeatedly told us he used to be an engineer.
I know, Grandad, you told me about a million times.
“Time engulfs everything We can only hold on to traces, and even those fade" (Ernaux, The Years, p. 91)
Ernaux, how the time went so quickly.
Gone were the days of rolling my eyes, huffing, and puffing, but not realising you would constantly repeat yourself because you were getting older and sicker as the days went by.
Funny how looking back on things makes you realise how unappreciative you are.
Then cancer took you away.
I guess Hanna and Annie are right.
Time is fragmental when remembering the past; who knows where it ends or starts chronologically?
I could never place such memories on a timeline, that's for sure.
Though my experience of seeing my grandfather pass is a personal memory, it fulfils me to know people like Ernaux see such ideas as a larger picture, contributing to collective history through the universal encounter of mortality.
"Our memories are shared, more so than we think; we carry them for ourselves and for others" (Ernaux, The Years, p. 217).
Thank you, Annie, I know my loss is unique, but many have experienced such loss.
The words echo in my head.
As I think of Sophia, we are shared, and we share the burden of such a loss.
Retelling events as accurate and factual creates a lack of understanding and depth.
If I write about my experience and describe things the way I see them, I will likely bring emotion and understanding to people through my ability to relate to such events.
I guess you are right, Annie.
I think that’s enough from you for now.
Don't make me cry.
I have an essay to write, and getting emotional is not scheduled in my planner today.
Epilogue: A Keepsake of Memory
"The story of our life dissolves in an uncertain haze" (Ernaux, The Years, p. 227).
Is that you again, Annie?
Where did you come from?
Here to give me words of wisdom again, I take it?
Okay, so you mentioned there was an uncertain haze?
That haze represents loss and liberation, which led memory to slowly become a Myth.
Jim.
Your name.
Your death.
It feels like time is fixed; weeks go by, but the shadow of your absence lingers over us daily. It's not haunting but rather a deep sense of missing you. The way you used to breathe life into our days. I am consumed with grief and long for your presence, your everyday stories, and the delicious rice pudding you used to make.
I remember your breaking ribs and death; it is something that now reassures me as it symbolises the fragility of life and effort and defiance to try and resuscitate you.
Crack.
Now I know it was your time to go and leave with no regrets.
Crack.
"The writer chooses one version of memory over another" (Gudmundsdottir, 2003, p. 12).
Oh, so you are back again?
And you decided to repeat the exact same quote.
Now, that's just lazy. Did you only write one page or something?
Poor effort, I must say.
We understand that we selectively display memories and deliberately omit others.
'Haze' (Ernaux, The Years, p. 227)
Oh God! Not you, too, Annie.
Honestly, give it a rest.
Oh, but wait, I just realised.
The reshaping of a narrative does not distort the image but transforms a memory into something more meaningful, rich, and full of power. It transforms into mythical stories that are passed on through the generations.
Sophia has two babies now, Isak and Winnie; I'm sure they will learn the story of their mother's resilience, the pain she has endured throughout her life and the strength she has brought to every situation. Her ability to navigate through life and death. Passed down through generations, learning of the Myth of grandfather's death. This time, with a lack of tears and horror at the memory, we will look back on it when time has passed with fondness and strength when we remember we did everything to keep him alive and explain how we fought through such grief and survived to tell the tale.
The woven fabric on my keepsake blanket, bits of heritage, pieced together similarly to the autofiction, according to Annie Ernaux's The Years. Memories are stitched together like this blanket fragmental and mixed and with cultural aspects to create something entirely new helping to navigate through such uncertainties, allowing us to interrogate situations we have found ourselves in.
Autobiography is not the key.
It will not solve all your issues, as it does not solve all problems or act as a resolution, but it allows us to feel understood during moments of uncertainty and adds rawness and insight into our complex minds.
Thank you, Annie, for sharing your experience with me and letting me understand my own feelings through the power of narrative.
Hazy.
Bibliography
Ernaux, A. (2017). The years. Fitzcarraldo Editions.
Garber, M. (1996). Vice versa: Bisexuality and the eroticism of everyday life. Simon & Schuster.
Gudmundsdottir, G. (2003). Borderlines: Autobiography and fiction in postmodern life writing. Rodopi.
Jordan, S. (2013). Contemporary French women’s writing: Women’s writing in twenty-first-century France. Cambridge University Press.
Meretoja, H. (2022). The ethics of storytelling: Narrative hermeneutics, history, and the possible. Oxford University Press.
Southgate, B. (2009). History meets fiction. Pearson Education.
Zinsser, W. (1998). Inventing the truth: The art and craft of memoir. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt