Penelope Lively, OBE (b. 1931) British novelist and Man Booker Prize winner, has written much fiction in her 85 years. I consistently find her non-fiction the most engaging. Perhaps because it pertains to gardening and, in her these memoirs Dancing Fish and Ammonites, life, age and memory.
A view of age itself, this place at which we arrive with a certain surprise – ambushed, or so it can seem. The view from eighty, for me. One of the few advantages of age is that you can report on it with a certain authority; you are a native now and know what goes on here. That, and the backwards glance – the identifying freight of a lifetime.
To Lively, memory functions as a ballast keeping us anchored in meaning “the mind needs a tether,” but it also releases us from the “hideous, eternal present.” Memory pulls us into and through time. As it does, we form ourselves. It will always represent something we have but cannot have.
This ballast takes physical space when it fills our lives, like Oliver Sacks, who manoeuvred us around his elements, Lively lines up her collected thoughts next to collected things.
I have the great sustaining ballast of memory; we all do, and hope to hang on to it. I am interested in this way that memory works, in what we do with it, and what it does to us. And when I look around my cluttered house – more ballast, material ballast – I can see myself oddly identified and defined by what is in it: my life charted out on the bookshelves, my concerned illuminated by a range of objects.
I’ve written much about memory, how it haunts us, how it holds us captive with false promises and pink wash of reality. But mostly, memory keeps us company. At times, it’s the closest confident and ally we have.
We are all of us palimpsests; we carry the past around, it comes surging up whether or not we want it, it is an albatross, and a crutch.
Novelist Graham Greene wrote “Memory is like a long broken night. As I write, it is as thought I am.” Read more on the suggestive nature of memory in Greene’s memoir A Sort of Life.
British essayist and novelist, Laurie Lee, prefers to enter memory directly rather than view it from afar. In his writing, he throws memory’s pink comfort around him and seems to exist again as he did once before.