April is over, April is over

I have been mulling over the value of memories, specifically ones that bring on nostalgia, in recent weeks. The ground under my feet has shifted yet again and so it seems like a good time to take stock of what’s happened so far. I'm reminded that choices are never without consequence and that where we live is rarely the result of a random roll of the dice. Subtle influences exert tiny pressures, a kind of acupuncture, redirecting course as stealthily, as certainly, as blood moving in veins. We make decisions and memory is mutable, half invented. What does it mean that the scenery has changed? What does it mean that some individuals loved like family now seem friends in a papery, almost archivist, sense? Others meanwhile seem to brush the dust from their shoulders, reappearing from the stacks like heroes to step in and remind us of an aspect of ourselves that we need to remember, right then.

Mavis Gallant has an essay on memory and invention in Granta, online. She emphasizes the power of memory to take seed, an idea. She talks about writing a story based on an image she carried with her from her days as a reporter. She discusses a story by Anatole France and wonders to what extent the actions reflect real events lived through by the author. History has long been seen in cracked mirror -- from Herodotus’ Histories, on. Gallant reminded me that memory may be half invented, but then it also lives, inventing anew.

Well, let it pass, he thought; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice. – F. Scott Fitzgerald, 'The Sensible Thing'

Gallant quotes Fitzgerald’s final lines in her piece and I’ve since found the entirety of his story online (found, here). What a gorgeous story, another to tuck under my arm in thinking about what makes a piece whole, how to create something solid from lines said and left quiet. The undercurrent that carries Sensible Thing is swift and purposeful though our narrator is mostly lost, lovelorn. The narrator observes that what once had him spellbound is now inert, powerless. Meanwhile, old feelings for a love lost are rediscovered! Not lost but changed. And the possibility of life without that familiar hang of the heart, that love he has clung to as primary in his life, is both bitter and sweet.



Note: Gallant essay discovered on the sublime and thoughtful blog, evencleveland.blogspot.com.