Memory is an aspect of the human mind that can be terribly inconsistent. Two people can witness the same event yet have two completely different recollections of it. In one’s own mind, memory may be manipulated again and again until what is perceived as the reality of what actually happened is, in reality, very far from the truth of the actual event. A variety of techniques may be used to alter memory and then firmly believe that what has been invented is now actual fact. In Jealousy, by Alain Robbe-Grillet, the shortcomings of memory are employed to fuel jealous rage of a husband; however, it is the repetition of constants (numbers, shapes, and objects), which convinces the narrator that these new memories are fact.
In the narrator’s memory, as described in the book, there are two major events that are constantly repeated and changed: the day of A... and Frank’s return and the discovery and crushing of the centipede. The narrator relates the event one way, but later returns to it with a slight alteration of details, each time making the idea of an affair between his wife, A..., and his neighbor, Franck, more likely. However, there are details, even concepts, within the retelling of each and within the setting itself, which serve to allow the narrator, and the reader, to believe that these retellings are the truth. These objects and concepts lose their original utilitarian value and become something else entirely: markers that what the narrator is remembering actually happened. They begin to signify where they may have never been signifiers before. The narrator makes reference to his belief in his own memory and the idea that whatever he remembers must then be the truth when he states, “It’s no use making up contrary possibilities, since things are the way they are: reality stays the same” (75).
The narrator spends ample time describing the layout of his plantation, including the shape in which his banana trees are arranged and the number of trees per row: “There are thirty-two banana trees in the row...instead of being rectangular like the one above it, this patch is trapezoidal...In the second row, starting from the far left, there would be twenty-two trees...” (51). This description of trees goes on for multiple pages. The number of trees, their geometric shape, and their arrangement by row are all certainties in the memory of events that are very uncertain and which consistently change. The narrator returns to the trees again in his story, and they are always the same shape: “...the corner of a rectangular patch where the bare earth can still be distinguished... the second patch, in the shape of a trapezoid...” (91). This description comes in the midst of much confusion about the narrator’s memory. It is unclear which past event he is referring to in the paragraphs surrounding this description. A... is first “...standing in front of the door,” at a point the reader can only assume is before her trip with Franck and is looking through the entire house and out over the banana trees, which are then described by the narrator with the exact same details as in the beginning. This is followed by a jump in the narrator’s memory when “A... is just coming home” (91). The banana trees are the one constant in an otherwise murky memory of A...’s trip with Franck and serve to assure the narrator and the reader that if this myriad of specific details are remembered correctly, the rest must also be true.
The centipede recurs more than any other portion of the narrator’s memory and becomes the most distorted of all the recollected events. At first, it is an afterthought. The narrator simply mentions that “...a blackish spot marks the place where a centipede was squashed last week, at the beginning of the month, perhaps the month before, or later” (47). It is of no importance; however, as the narrator’s obsession with details grows, the metaphor of the stain being on his house, and then on his marriage, or even on the narrator himself, and the idea that Franck is the cause, becomes a reality. The narrator imagines the scene over and over again:
Franck, who has said nothing, is looking at A...again. Then he stands up, noiselessly, holding his napkin in his hand. He wads it into a ball and approaches the wall...the wadded napkin falls on it...Franck lifts the napkin away from the wall and with his foot continues to squash something on the tiles against the baseboard (65).
This is replayed again as: “Frank stands up, picks up his napkin, approaches the wall, squashes the centipede against the wall, lifts his napkin, squashes the centipede on the floor (89).” There are more descriptions of the event that follow this one, each changing slightly. In the first, there is a much longer, drawn out description, and A...’s “...left hand gradually closes over her knife” (65). In the second, the description is terse, and A...’s hand, “...has clenched into a fist on the white cloth” (89). The only constant is that there was a centipede, and it was squashed at some point.
In the final retelling of the squashed centipede, the original facts have become completely distorted. The centipede is now “...enormous: one of the largest to be found in this climate” (112); however, for the narrator, it is not the size that matters, but that there was, in fact, a centipede. It has become a signifier of the alleged affair. It is this concrete fact that he holds on to, until, finally, the story becomes: “Frank, without saying a word, stands up...with his foot, he squashes it against the bedroom floor. Then he comes back toward the bed...[A...’s hand] has clenched into a fist on the white sheet” (113). The narrator has used the repeating image of the squashed centipede, which began as just a stain, to fuel his jealous rage and convince himself that A... and Franck are indeed having an affair.
Memory is completely subjective unless there is another party to compare facts with. In the narrator’s case, he is lost in his own thoughts and so the reader only has his telling and retelling of the events. Key facts—colors, objects, numbers—are held on to in order to be sure that the memory of an event is correct. They reassure the memory and give it credibility because there are concrete facts relative to some that might not be much more vague. They have the ability to convince and to turn a fictionalized memory into reality.
Works Cited
Robbe-Grillet, Alain. Two Novels by Robbe-Grillet: Jealousy and In the Labyrinth. New York: Grove Press, 1959.
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Saturday, September 22, 2007
The Art of Invention: Anti-narration in Beckett's Molloy
There are expectations when a reader comes to a work of fiction. At the very least, the reader expects to follow a narrative that will begin and, through a series of events, end. The reader anticipates an objective reality in which characters interact and rules are set for the world those characters will interact in. Although the characters belong to a constructed reality created by the author, the reader expects that reality to never be reconstructed during the course of the text. Written text, however, presents a unique enterprise in that the written word may be easily rearranged and manipulated in order to convey anything or nothing as the author intends. Anti-narration, even anti-language, can be achieved through disarrangement of written text and can potentially break all preconceived notions of traditional literature forcing the reader to view the written word in a different light. Samuel Beckett explores this pliability of language in his novel, Molloy. Beckett uses an anti-narrator, Molloy, in order to demonstrate that the objective reality of a written fiction can be reconstructed or constructed as the narrator moves through the text, thus giving the narrator the ability to create his own subjective reality.
Molloy begins to relate his tale in an obvious state of utter confusion. He cannot clearly explain to the reader what has happened to him or where he has been. He tells the reader, “These are things we shall try to discover. But these are things we must not take seriously,” implying that what he is about to relate may have absolutely no truth to it (17). In fact, the impression is given that Molloy is inventing the entire story as he is going along. He has a starting point, his mother’s room, and from there every detail is invented. The structure of the first section, one solid paragraph with no breaks, gives the distinct impression that this narrative is occurring inside the narrator’s own mind. Molloy does relate the tale of a journey he took to find his mother’s house, yet throughout it he continually reminds the reader that he is constructing the story: “Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong... such a thing is conceivable, since I conceive it... am I imagining it, in the interests of the narrative” (41, 66, 75)? After every fact is dispensed, Molloy then questions its validity, which ordinarily would be very important for the reader to take note of for purposes of deciding the reliability of the narrator, yet that purpose is moot here. Molloy is clearly unreliable without his reassurance of that fact, and ultimately it does not matter what truly happened to him. The reader can never know.
At the end of Molloy’s journey, he begins to use the term ‘region’ to describe where he is and where he is going. It can be inferred that by region, he means reality. He tells the reader, “...regions do not suddenly end, as far as I know, but gradually merge into one another” (88). This idea that realities merge together rather than end is consistent with the notion of inventing or constructing reality because Molloy tells the reader that the narrative he is building is absolutely false. However, it is the reality the reader must accept because there is no other alternative. Molloy, as an anti-narrator, goes beyond the status of what is typically known as an unreliable narrator because he freely admits his narrative is false and no other reality is offered.
Molloy’s confusion with the events grows as he departs further and further from civilization and enters into the forest, which he describes as one of the amenities of his region. The forest is analogous to a state of confusion, and he admits he, “...knew them well, the amenities of my region, and I considered that the forest was no worse” (116). Molloy prefers a reality rooted in confusion to any other reality: something he has clearly established for the reader throughout his narrative. “I did my best to go in a circle, hoping in this way to go in a straight line,” Molloy states as his plan for exiting the forest (115). At this point, the reader is perfectly content with Molloy’s acceptance of the confusion of reality as being no worse than any other state of reality. If Molloy is constructing the reality of the events himself, then there is no reason why he could not choose confusion to be his reality. When Molloy finally exits into the light of the plains, he confesses, “I did not see it from afar...but suddenly I was in it, I opened my eyes and saw I had arrived. And the reason for that was probably this, that for some time past I had not opened my eyes or seldom” (122). Why did he not simply will himself out of the forest and construct the narrative thus? His point is clear: No one can exit the forest through his own cognitive ability. It can only happen by chance.
The idea of multiple realities, a subjective or constructed reality, is one difficult to comprehend. It is difficult to look at the world and understand that the reality of it could be different if chosen to be. The concept is a source of confusion. However, through written text, and specifically the use of an anti-narrator, there can be a physical demonstration of that kind of construction. Molloy, as an anti-narrator, is able to contradict himself and have it be perfectly acceptable. He constructs the world around him as he sees fit.
Works Cited
Beckett, Samuel. Molloy. New York: Grove Press, 1955.
Molloy begins to relate his tale in an obvious state of utter confusion. He cannot clearly explain to the reader what has happened to him or where he has been. He tells the reader, “These are things we shall try to discover. But these are things we must not take seriously,” implying that what he is about to relate may have absolutely no truth to it (17). In fact, the impression is given that Molloy is inventing the entire story as he is going along. He has a starting point, his mother’s room, and from there every detail is invented. The structure of the first section, one solid paragraph with no breaks, gives the distinct impression that this narrative is occurring inside the narrator’s own mind. Molloy does relate the tale of a journey he took to find his mother’s house, yet throughout it he continually reminds the reader that he is constructing the story: “Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong... such a thing is conceivable, since I conceive it... am I imagining it, in the interests of the narrative” (41, 66, 75)? After every fact is dispensed, Molloy then questions its validity, which ordinarily would be very important for the reader to take note of for purposes of deciding the reliability of the narrator, yet that purpose is moot here. Molloy is clearly unreliable without his reassurance of that fact, and ultimately it does not matter what truly happened to him. The reader can never know.
At the end of Molloy’s journey, he begins to use the term ‘region’ to describe where he is and where he is going. It can be inferred that by region, he means reality. He tells the reader, “...regions do not suddenly end, as far as I know, but gradually merge into one another” (88). This idea that realities merge together rather than end is consistent with the notion of inventing or constructing reality because Molloy tells the reader that the narrative he is building is absolutely false. However, it is the reality the reader must accept because there is no other alternative. Molloy, as an anti-narrator, goes beyond the status of what is typically known as an unreliable narrator because he freely admits his narrative is false and no other reality is offered.
Molloy’s confusion with the events grows as he departs further and further from civilization and enters into the forest, which he describes as one of the amenities of his region. The forest is analogous to a state of confusion, and he admits he, “...knew them well, the amenities of my region, and I considered that the forest was no worse” (116). Molloy prefers a reality rooted in confusion to any other reality: something he has clearly established for the reader throughout his narrative. “I did my best to go in a circle, hoping in this way to go in a straight line,” Molloy states as his plan for exiting the forest (115). At this point, the reader is perfectly content with Molloy’s acceptance of the confusion of reality as being no worse than any other state of reality. If Molloy is constructing the reality of the events himself, then there is no reason why he could not choose confusion to be his reality. When Molloy finally exits into the light of the plains, he confesses, “I did not see it from afar...but suddenly I was in it, I opened my eyes and saw I had arrived. And the reason for that was probably this, that for some time past I had not opened my eyes or seldom” (122). Why did he not simply will himself out of the forest and construct the narrative thus? His point is clear: No one can exit the forest through his own cognitive ability. It can only happen by chance.
The idea of multiple realities, a subjective or constructed reality, is one difficult to comprehend. It is difficult to look at the world and understand that the reality of it could be different if chosen to be. The concept is a source of confusion. However, through written text, and specifically the use of an anti-narrator, there can be a physical demonstration of that kind of construction. Molloy, as an anti-narrator, is able to contradict himself and have it be perfectly acceptable. He constructs the world around him as he sees fit.
Works Cited
Beckett, Samuel. Molloy. New York: Grove Press, 1955.
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