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skrattherat 's review for:
Mary and the Birth of Frankenstein
by Anne Eekhout
"This is not simply an event in time, because it lasts, it continues to last and will never, never be over. And that is what she sees. That is what she recognizes. Every event creates itself over and over again in almost the same proportions, with almost the same impact, in almost the same way. The only difference is that the event comes from outside for the first time, works its way into the mind, and then remains, is retold, is imitated, is worked up into a story. Except with her. Her story is broken."
When you grow familiar enough with the work and life of a given writer, it often feels that their life's work could really be boiled down to a few distinct moments, a few memorable characters, and a few important settings. From then on, you can't read anything of theirs without catching glimpses of their childhood sweetheart in every love interest, their father in every hero, and their fears in the nightmares and traumas of every protagonist.
With these obsessive repetitions in mind, what would it look like if the author were to write their own story as if it were a work of fiction? Would it match up to their true lived experience? Does life truly boil down to the moments, people, and places we obsess over? Does not their exaggerated recurrence in our minds qualify as our own lived work of fiction? What, then, would be considered the non-fiction account?
In short, it's a trip.
When you grow familiar enough with the work and life of a given writer, it often feels that their life's work could really be boiled down to a few distinct moments, a few memorable characters, and a few important settings. From then on, you can't read anything of theirs without catching glimpses of their childhood sweetheart in every love interest, their father in every hero, and their fears in the nightmares and traumas of every protagonist.
With these obsessive repetitions in mind, what would it look like if the author were to write their own story as if it were a work of fiction? Would it match up to their true lived experience? Does life truly boil down to the moments, people, and places we obsess over? Does not their exaggerated recurrence in our minds qualify as our own lived work of fiction? What, then, would be considered the non-fiction account?
In short, it's a trip.