Jan 162012
 

Breaks are made (in part) to catch up with reading, specifically those books for which there is no possible work – research related justification… The ones you read only out of curiosity, pleasure. Joyce Carol Oates’ memoir on widowhood – simply titled A Widow’s Story - is one of them. I found it in the piles at my parents house, and taking advantage of the wee hours of jetlag, devoured the first hundred and fifty pages in the middle of the night. As usual with Oates, it reads well, it’s griping, and one turns pages without even noticing.. Until, after another hundred it starts to get a bit too long, at which point I have to admit I skip paragraphs, and even pages. A journal of the weeks, months following the death of Oates husband of “forty-seven years and twenty-five days”, this memoir retains its original diaristic form, and as a consequence is sometimes repetitive. I feel guilty writing «repetitive» as what I have in mind here are the emotions of the writer, who, sure enough, as might be expected, experiences day after day a similar range of emotions, contemplating her life turned upside down in a less than a week (Raymond Smith was taken ill with pneumonia to the nearest emergency room, and as everybody thought he was coming home, he  died in a few hours from an infection acquired at the hospital), her sudden solitude, and how much of her life was woven into his life and vice-versa. So in its repetitions, the text seems to be therapeutic for its author, but at times tedious for the reader… Personally, I can forgive Oates, if only because her prose fascinates me, mesmerizes me to a point of oblivion.. and forgiveness… And who could not forgive a woman who has lost the love of her life, the person she’s been with since her student’s years, the man who accompanied her through her literary rise?

Though, before the year was over – and within the period covered by the  journal – Oates had met another man, who she married just a month after Smith’s death first anniversary. A controversy ensued the publication: why is the reader not made aware of the encounter, the growing romance and in the end, the wedding? In the last few pages, she gives the reader a hint – too subtle for me, I did not get it…-  though the memoir never varies from its mournful, self-interrogating tone. So the question many raised was why the omission? and how would the revelation change our reading of the book?

Again I read this memoir just as if it had been another of her novels, hypnotized by the words, cradled by the rhythm, and interested by the feelings explored. But this twist in the narrative poses questions about what memoirs are, what they should “do”, how we can “trust” their narrator – and frankly what “trust” means in this context. I read an increasingly number of memoirs – out of taste and of professional necessity – and these few sentences excerpted from Oates’ answer to her detractors gave me food for thought:

A memoir is most helpful when it focuses upon immediate experience, not a clinical, subsequent summation from what would be the “future” of the individual in the throes of an unpredictable and uncontrollable experience; certainly another memoir might focus upon the recovery and the (temporary?) “after-life.” It is not a charge against grief that it can’t last as pure, raw grief for very long—as one who is tortured, but survives, has not been less tortured because she has survived. To elide the two experiences would violate the actual, literal, “existential” experience of having had cancer, for instance, for the ontological predicament of not-knowing-the-future is inextricable from the experience itself. If one knew beforehand that she would be cancer-free within a year, that would yield a very different sort of perspective.

 

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