The appeal of memoirs that lead us “gently, into a different literary country”: guest post by Lynette Benton

 

 

When I came across a Twitter exchange between Allyson (@allysonlatta) and M. Summerfield Smith (@MarnieMemoirs) praising the work of Diana Athill, I felt I’d stumbled on kindred spirits who appreciated Athill’s rather old-fashioned approach to memoir writing.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved the travel memoir Eat, Pray, Love—its clever three-part overarching structure that perfectly mirrors the author’s physical journey, the story itself, Gilbert’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of apt similes; and the closing epiphany. Dani Shapiro’s memoir, Devotion, is another of my favorites. In it, Shapiro looks at the various spiritual practices she’s been a part of — from orthodox Judaism to so-called New Age practices — searching for release from her inexplicable fears in order to find the deeper meaning in her life.

These two books — what I’d call quest memoir — surely raised the bar for those of us who write memoir.

But alongside quest memoirs are those that explore, yet seek nothing — neither salvation nor a prize. They simply and movingly examine a segment of a life, encouraging the reader toward insight into her own.

Obsession plays a major role in quest memoirs, but as nonfiction writer and teacher Philip Lopate notes in To Show and To Tell, in nonfiction (including memoirs, of course), we want, “Not obsession but curiosity. . . . Nonfiction as a practice tends towards reason, calm, insight, and order.” Which perfectly describes Athill’s approach.

Current publishing conventions pressure memoirists to grab readers with a knockout image or suspense. Eat, Pray, Love opens with the frank desire for a kiss. Devotion presents a single anxious question: “I was fleeing something — but what?” But most of Athill’s memoirs make me feel quietly invited, rather than yanked, into her story. Yesterday Morning begins:

“‘Oh, my God,’ said my mother. ‘Can I really have a daughter who is seventy?’ and we both burst out laughing.

“She was ninety-two . . . but she still felt like the Kitty Athill she had always been, so it was absurd to have another old woman as a daughter.”

I already knew Athill hails from the English countryside, and I’m always up for a metaphorical jaunt in that pastoral place, so when I picked up this book I felt certain I was about to be led, gently, into a different literary country from my own, through the words of a thoughtful writer, editor, and woman. I liked being eased, rather than propelled, into her reality. I enjoyed ambling along beside a bright and ruminating mind.

Although Athill traveled during her lifetime, most of her books convey no sense of globe-trotting, no sense of her being on the lookout for anything, or trying to achieve, anything Big. No life quest. Written with what I think of as typical British restraint, her memoirs are personal but almost matter-of-fact. (An exception is After a Funeral, which begins, shockingly, with the announcement of a suicide to come.)

I don’t mean this to be a summary of Athill’s memoirs. What I want to say is that for me, memoirs, if well written, don’t have to open with a splash or take me on a fast ride to a big ending.

One of my favorite memoirs is Fierce Attachments, Vivian Gornick’s book about her life as a native New Yorker who struggles with her mother, with men, and with her writing. Its pages are punctuated by the challenging pulse and personality of that unconquerable metropolis. In Eat, Pray, Love, Gilbert gets the guy. But Gornick’s memoir ends on an almost audible sigh of resignation, as the narrator and her dissatisfactions — her making do and doing without — settle back in, unabated, unsolved, unresolved. There is no real coming to terms with anything.

Toward the end of Athill’s memoir Instead of a Letter, in opposition to the achievement, energy, and optimism at the end of Eat, Pray, Love, Athill reflects on what she didn’t do, rather than what she accomplished in her life. No doubt because of her advanced years, she’s simply trying to meet and express gracefully the challenges of aging — oh, but what elucidation and comfort she provides along the way.

What memoirs have given you this same quiet but deep satisfaction and insight? Please share a comment below.

If you enjoyed this post, you might like In Need of a Neat Conclusion? also by Lynette Benton.

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LYNETTE BENTON is a published writer, writing instructor, and editor. She has written two memoirs, both currently in the editing phase. She lives in Boston.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wordless Wednesday will return next week.