A retelling, the beginning of a non-novel and the story of collective memory

“Now I don’t. I used to love him. Now I don’t.”
Lauryn Hill

It’s simple really. I just tell and retell the same story over and over again. Piece by minute piece. Moments at a time until something sticks. Until something becomes etched. And once I’m done, I pick a different piece and start over.

Pieces of oneself sometimes come together at just the right moment in the right configuration. These moments are called happiness.

I was in the 14th at the time. Windows open. The sun still shining. The same song playing on repeat as it is now. She stood in the square in front of the Hôtel de Ville, spinning, dancing. In the middle of wolves, just like the singer says.

It was an easy time then.

Story within a story:

“On n’y comprend rien, et on comprend tout.”
Christine Angot

After Angot

Christine Angot lives in Paris. I know because I passed her in the street last night. It was just around the corner from the Pompidou Center, rue Rambuteau. She was standing in front of a bookstore. I did not speak to her, but I am sure that it was her. Almost every one of her books has her photo on the cover, and I have seen enough photos to be able to recognize her. I have even dreamt about her before.
I had been at the library at the Pompidou Center before I saw her. It was a cold winter night. She was wearing a long black winter coat, white gloves, and was carrying a black Prada bag. I stopped when I saw her. I was sure that it was her, and I stopped in the street to watch her. She was trying to make a phone call. I, too, took out my cell phone and pretended to make a call. I was really just watching her. A moment later, she entered the bookstore, Les Cahiers de Colette, and spoke with the woman at the counter. I stayed outside and pretended to look at the window display as I surveyed her every move.
Christine Angot is a writer. I know her personally from reading her books. She writes about Christine Angot. I know her daughter’s name, her ex-husband’s name, where she has lived, who she has dated. Everything. I know that she changed her family name from Schwartz to Angot when she was a teenager. I know that her father abused her sexually. I know that she is an insomniac, that she has trouble relieving herself because of her past sexual abuse. I know that she had a three month relationship with a lesbian. I know that she has a psychologist, a masseur, and an agent.
Standing at the counter of the bookstore, Christine’s back was to me. I could not see her face, but I was sure that it was her because I had already seen her face. When she was outside. She was smaller than I imagined, but she talks about that in her books. Before last night, I had never heard her voice. It, too, was not as I had imagined. Before last night, I was only sure about her appearance. Now, I know everything.
There was a book by her in the store’s window. I should have gone in, quickly picked up one of her books and stood behind her, seemingly unaware that she was in the store. I should have acted surprised, and asked her to sign the book I was about to purchase. I should have stood behind her and pretended to receive a phone call from a friend. I would have told my friend that I was in a bookstore, rue Rambuteau, and that I was going to buy a book by Christine Angot. Then, perhaps, she would have turned around and I would have had an in.

A few months ago, there was a literary salon at the city hall. I was supposed to meet Angot there. Actually, there were two hundred well-known writers at the salon, but the only one that I wanted to meet was Christine. She did not show up.
I walked around the salon for hours. Unlike Christine, the covers of most writers’ books do not have a photo of themselves. With the others, I put faces to names. With Christine, I was going to put a voice to the face. A personality. Although, I already knew her personality. It was more the voice.
I know more about Christine Angot than anyone else. Herself not included, of course. I take notes when I read her books. I can trace her life all the way back to 1969, the year she was born at Châteauroux. I know that she speaks English, and where she got her education. I once wrote her a letter. I told her that I appreciated her writing and that I wanted to be her, but I would never steal her identity. I lied.
I got the idea to steal her identity from a Canadian writer, Roch Carrier. It was two years ago at a literary conference that I first met Roch Carrier, who is currently the director of the National Library of Canada. He told me of how he published his first book, under an assumed name. Actually, the story is more involved than that. Roch Carrier told me how, due to the numerous rejection letters he received from various publishing houses, he sent his manuscript, one last time, to be published. This time, he used the name of a prominent Canadian writer at the time instead of his own. The manuscript was accepted without hesitation. Apparently, the writer, whose identity has not yet been discovered, never said a word. Roch told me this story with a certain insistence in his eyes. Whether he was trying to challenge me to figure out who the author was, or he was giving me a hint on how to dupe the literary world, I still do not know. I do know, however, that his advice was well received.
There is, however, one crucial difference in what he did and what I did: Roch Carrier passed his own work off as that of another.

When Christine was in the bookstore, I stayed outside. I looked at her book in the window then at her. I stared at her. I watched her body movements, her manner of holding herself. I watched her interact with the woman that was standing at the counter. I watched a man approach her. A few minutes later, she walked out of the bookstore, a few steps away from where I was standing. I still had my cell phone in my hand and began to pretend to send a text message to a friend. This time, the man from inside the bookstore was with her. I am not sure who he was, but they seemed to be on a date.
As she walked past me, towards the Pompidou Center, our gazes met for a fleeting moment. It was one of those meaningful gazes, when everything that would have been said was, just without words. She smiled towards me, for a split second, as I looked her in the eyes. Through that gaze, I seemed to say, ‘I admire you.’ Her eyes replied, ‘I know.’
I turned and watched Christine Angot walk away, into the night.

* * *

She called me on a Tuesday. The phone rang only once before I picked it up. The writer, a woman, a feminist, a researcher. I knew it was her before I heard her voice. We only spoke for two minutes. Then, it was over.

Women (of letters) in my life: Marguerite Duras, Marguerite Yourcenar, Anaïs Nin, Dominique Barbéris, Simone de Beauvoir, Assia Djebar (Fatima-Zohra Imalayen), Nelly Arcan, Christine Angot.

Why?: (Re-)Collections of memories leading to an attempt at discovering self. However flawed it may be.

How do I feel about it?: … (See above)

Music: Irish, Celtic

Language(s): French, English.

What really happened: The end of it all. A new beginning of sorts. A stop before a start. A moment of hesitation. Shame. Undying something. Loss of self in a deeper way than ever before. Reinvention of new self. Reinvention of different self. Movement.

Who?: Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett, Tom Stoppard. Mostly Harold Pinter.

Manifesto: The reinvention of the word, a coincidence with reinvention of self.

Words: In the right order, everything can have meaning.

Towards the nearing of the end of her life, I sat and watched her. Little was said aloud. We mostly whispered in her presence. When I was alone with her, for but a moment, I leaned in closely and whispered in her ear. “Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me. Please remember me.”