Monday, February 09, 2004
WORDS, PICTURES, continued
Granted, I don't read many books that are illustrated, so the problem of a hard image clashing with one conjured within my own mind is negligible. In fact, the last thing that I read that contained pictures was rather wonderful, their presentation rather unconventional, and dare I say, ephemeral. Inserted here a passport photo, there a bookplate, and many more in between, presumably to serve as reminders that what is being described can be supported by physical evidence, in case the writer forgets that what happened actually happened, in case the reader doesn't believe him. In essence, the reader is given a sampling of postcards that provide the proof: Vienna is lovely... wish you were here....
But was Vienna really lovely? That photograph in my scrapbook shows me standing in the Volksgarten with a big smile on my face. That must mean I was having a good time. But wasn't that also the day that my travelling companion and I had an argument and stopped talking to each other for a really good reason... what was that reason again?
Is this where fiction comes from? Our poor fleeting memories act as the catalyst, but our finitely capacious grey matter serves to embellish the events within our own lives that we think happened, but aren't quite sure.
Granted, I don't read many books that are illustrated, so the problem of a hard image clashing with one conjured within my own mind is negligible. In fact, the last thing that I read that contained pictures was rather wonderful, their presentation rather unconventional, and dare I say, ephemeral. Inserted here a passport photo, there a bookplate, and many more in between, presumably to serve as reminders that what is being described can be supported by physical evidence, in case the writer forgets that what happened actually happened, in case the reader doesn't believe him. In essence, the reader is given a sampling of postcards that provide the proof: Vienna is lovely... wish you were here....
But was Vienna really lovely? That photograph in my scrapbook shows me standing in the Volksgarten with a big smile on my face. That must mean I was having a good time. But wasn't that also the day that my travelling companion and I had an argument and stopped talking to each other for a really good reason... what was that reason again?
Is this where fiction comes from? Our poor fleeting memories act as the catalyst, but our finitely capacious grey matter serves to embellish the events within our own lives that we think happened, but aren't quite sure.
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