Islands of memory: Isolated portions of memory preserved during the episode or the period of retrograde amnesia.
Fabulation: Fabrication demonstrated by statements that are completely foreign to the circumstances, associated with consciousness, memory, or intelligence disorders that free imagination from any filters. Answers immediately given without regard for the truth. This is sometimes apparent in cases of Korsakoff’s syndrome (spontaneous fabrication) and also as a coping mechanism for memory gaps for a variety of cortical disruptions (provoked fabrication). Fabrication is not constant and is not a defining element of an amnesic syndrome. If present, it will be more present in the acute period of the illness. Fronto-cingulate dysfunction seems to be related.
Korsakoff’s syndrome: Toxic (chronic alcoholism), infectious (tuberculosis, cerebral tumors), traumatic in origin, or due to nutritional deficiency, this is composed, on the psychological level, of continuous or retrograde memory-fixing amnesia, compensated by a mix of fabrication and false memories. This type of amnesia is caused by cortical lesions, in the area of the hypothalamus and the mammillary bodies, in particular. The patient suffers from a state of confusion; he presents attention deficit and disorientation in space and time. On the physical level this disorder is associated with polyneuritis generally affecting the lower limbs. The evolution of the ailment is generally chronic in older subjects and includes more or less severe intellectual decline. The disorders can often be serious in nature, with rapid and fatal evolution. In younger subjects the ailment is curable if treatment is early and intensive.
Notebook 5
(What the World Whispers)
I watch TV for hours at a time. My principal sources of contact with the outside are TV, newspapers, radio, and what our visitors have to say. And this last group is not to be trusted, they’re revisionists with our best interests at heart, voluntarily erasing any speck liable to upset us. We often prefer our own personal fictions to the ones that are offered to us. Sometimes we take a TV movie for a documentary, or vice versa. When we realize our mistake, it doesn’t bother us in the least. Sometimes we even take these lighthearted mix-ups for a very healthy reading of reality. I have a few questions to ask Dr. Lagarigue about (1) how September 11 was dealt with in her practice, (2) how Arnold Schwarzenegger’s election as governor of California, specifically for the patients who saw him calmly announce to the crowd, “I say hasta la vista, baby, to unemployment,” while a nurse made sure they ingested their daily dose of neuroleptics.
Sometimes it’s hard to be the only amnesiac. Being the only amnesiac: feeling like an amputee but not really a patient, patient as a noun, suffering less than the others. I’ll never tell the hospital personnel that I have this hideous feeling all day long. Telling them would be my downfall. They’ll say it’s probably quite true and send me on my way. I don’t want to leave. Not because I’m afraid of the outside, because I’m afraid of me on the outside. I’m trying to soften the angles on the problem with a couple of hypotheses. (1) I’m narcissistic. (2) I’m in denial. (3) My pathology is no less severe than anyone else around me but it is less visible to the naked eye. (4) I’m a narcissist in denial, and amnesia is not as noisy as schizophrenia, especially at mealtimes.
Round 4
(6 + 2, Total on the Dice = 8)
It’s good, it’s not as peaceful here, but it’s still more pleasant. No I mean it, I’m lousy at Ping-Pong, really, I promise. It’s annoying not being able to leave. I don’t know Lagarigue said next week, I hope so, ’cause I’m sick of this. And so are the kids I think. Almost three weeks, what about you? That must be starting to seem really long, poor you. Yeah, I understand though. My husband is adorable, really, he doesn’t put any pressure on me, he takes care of everything, but it’s hard, I know I’m lucky. I miss my little ones, it’s awful. Same as you, that Mommy was going to get some rest, but after a while they start to wonder, which is normal. Four and eight. Not on me, but in my room I do, I’ll show you them tonight, for now I’d rather leave Aline alone. Hubert and Ludivine. My kids are really great. It kills me that I’m not good enough, I’m always afraid of not being a good mother, anyway, I’m not a good mother, as you can see. That’s nice of you but it’s because I’m doing better too. Lagarigue says the same thing, but really, look, it’s a mess, it’s Easter vacation, and instead of taking them to the park or, who knows, going away to Deauville, I’m stuck in here. No, I don’t play, thanks. No, I don’t know how to play. David, I’m telling you I don’t feel like playing. What a pain he is, he’s overexcited today, it’s exhausting. No way, if we move to the bench in the back, you can be sure that Jacques will start in again, and personally, he exhausts me. Are you kidding, he’s not nice at all, I don’t know how anyone can think he’s nice, that guy is totally creepy, all you have to do is talk to him for five minutes and you want to throw yourself under a bus. See, he depresses them too. He’s bitter down to his bone marrow too, as soon as he shows up he starts giving off these negative waves, I’ve never seen anything like it. No worse than Albert, of course, we all agree on that even Marika although she’s a serious one, that Marika, yes you do Marika’s the black girl who’s always asking if anybody has a phone card, yesterday afternoon Aline and I counted and she repeated her question thirty-two times, it doesn’t matter if you answer she doesn’t remember, the nurses couldn’t take it anymore, we ended up laughing hysterically in the end, that’s right with those braid things, exactly, I didn’t know the word you know, well anyway, even she can’t stand Jacques. Yesterday afternoon I ended up next to him at the table, Aline and I were talking together, she’d just found out she was a manager, but she didn’t know what of so we were talking about it, and Jacques butts in, so she asks him politely if he has a job, he says he was an it engineer but that it was sordid, that’s the word he used, sordid, a sordid it engineer, but honestly with that guy you really wonder what’s going on upstairs with so much unemployment, anyway she asks him what he’d like to do for a job and he answers with that voice he has, man does his voice annoy me, the guy’s too soft, soft people depress me, so he answers her: the only thing in life I’d like to do is drink from morning to night. Can you picture the scene? Seriously, sometimes I feel sorry for Lagarigue. Oh he doesn’t have Lagarigue, he has Brochet? It might be better that he’s got a man taking care of him, you know. What Jacques really needs is a good kick in the ass. Yeah, I know, you’re right. But still for us it’s really not the same. Do you have a light? A little like Geraldine, ’cause I stopped the lithium. It had been over a year, I was feeling really great, I was doing all kinds of stuff, diving, amateur theater, catechism classes, we even spent a month in Senegal, but it was so hot in Senegal it probably wasn’t the best idea, I was a great mom, my husband was really happy, so I figured it was okay. Yeah the same. It’s such a pain in the ass, you feel like you’re sick. And at the same time if you get sick as soon as you stop the treatment, then maybe you really are sick, you’re not wrong. This disease is a real bitch. And I don’t know about you, but for me people don’t really understand. When you say you’re depressed they think you’re just sad. Yeah right. Or go organic, they love that too. Or having warm milk before bed. No, getting exercise, you have to get some exercise. That’s exactly what my old boss said, they’re all the same, it’s incredible. You pay too much attention to yourself, too, we forgot about that one. No I don’t dare, anyway they wouldn’t understand, they’d think I was crazy, my mother-in-law doesn’t even know I’m here, we told her I needed some rest, she must think I’m in Vichy. Lagarigue told me the word bipolar is very popular, but I don’t know where. I’d like it if it were, hey if you have to be nuts you may as well be, what’s the word you use, Sophie, trendy, yeah, that’s it. You feel liking shooting yourself as soon as you stop taking the pills, but we’re totally trendy, so we’ve got that going for us. Maybe Kate Moss is bipolar. You can certainly be bipolar and anorexic, there’s no reason why not. Geraldine, will you give me a cigarette, no I have some but my p
ack is in my room. I’d rather not, Aline’s father’s there, or maybe it’s her boyfriend and she has strange taste. Or at least she did. You said it. Thanks, no I’d rather have a light one. I’m already so anxious, if I had amnesia on top of it, I don’t know what I’d do. Were you there, Carole when she realized she didn’t like milk? It’s weird, I’m telling you. She fills up her bowl like everyone, she heats it up in the microwave, she sips it calmly, she starts to drink it and suddenly she stops and goes to us ew, milk is disgusting. The things you see in here, I’m telling you. I told my husband about it, for once I could tell him something without it making him sad that I’m here, really you too, our men are the same, it’s because they really love us, but they don’t understand, it doesn’t help, you agree. Or maybe it is us. Exactly, we think it’s normal. Right now, for example, David’s been screaming for ten minutes that his name is Chaka Zoulou and no one’s even noticed. No, Sophie has the lighter.
Notebook 1
(Overboard Maybe)
Charles was my grandfather’s name. I don’t know if that’s any excuse. When my grandfather would kiss me, I would rub my cheek and say stop, you’re prickly. I’m certain about this memory. Not because it’s buried someplace deep in my brain, a movie, or a book. Just because humans respond to the stinging ordinariness that lets averageness bloom. When Charles would kiss me, I’d rub my lips and say something, but I don’t know what. What I’m sure of is that I said it quietly, very, very quietly so he wouldn’t hear, but down deep inside of me I yelled it very, very loudly. Or not. There are several options to choose from. Hypothesis 1 is that the screaming was like a landslide in my head, a landslide of tombstones, with every kiss I could see death, bad breath from an old mouth, my tongue exploring this old mouth, my tongue afraid of coming back from that old mouth with a piece of old tooth sucked up by mistake, an old tooth is nothing but an old bone, kissing Charles, French kissing his corpse, or rather his skeleton, right exactly, they’ll say I’m exaggerating, that Charles is barely sixty years old, who’s going to say I’m exaggerating, who’s going to say that Charles, at not quite sixty years old, doesn’t have an old mouth yet, at what age then do men have an old mouth, at what age if not at sixty can you say a mouth is old, so old that it’s why their breath is heavy, bent to bursting with all the liquids drunk, all the food ingested, all the cyprine emissions licked up, all the sex-generated froth deposited even deeper than Charles’s old throat, than his old throat with its greasy tonsils, sixty-two years old do you think if it’s gotten better. Hypothesis 2 is that the screaming was loud enough to make my head explode, when the kissing went on so long I could feel that my scalp go from smooth to gritty, too much screaming from the needles, a pincushion in my skull, a threatening piercing, that’s all it could be, no, no Hypothesis 3 or at least not that one, not the one that implies it was pleasant never mind tolerable, I know what sacrifice smells like, the smell of a ram or a virgin, the stench near the altar when the daggers are sharpened before the phlebotomy, I stink like a great bloodletting, I reek of sacrifice, I say so myself and know that even if it wasn’t me, not me yet, not that me, despite being purified and more than amply washed, despite being purged of mud-drenched memories I know it will cost my body and the rest dearly, the tiny remainders of a tattered moral, for me political is linked to correctness, it’s impossible, no, I am looking because you have to look. Hypothesis 3 I went deaf inside myself particularly.
Round 5
(Double 5s, Total on the Dice = 10)
I increased the Maupin girl’s Tercian to fifty drops. And it’s not a bad idea to keep the bottle of Hextril in the medicine cabinet, I prefer if she has to ask for it, all that gargling is getting to be an obsession.
Notebook 2
(My Life: A User’s Manual)
I don’t know if picking up information is that helpful or good for me. Lagarigue says we’re making progress. I smile at her and don’t say anything. Obviously, we’re making progress. I only ever cry after I get back. We talk about my being transferred to a specialized facility, neurology, memory, they say that Sainte-Anne is not where they can help me at this point. By helping me they mean triggering things. I’m not really into triggers. Lagarigue is happy because an hour ago those are the words that brought back the first real memory, and if we tap the vein she can justify my staying here to my family. Officially I can stay if I want to. Officially they can’t do anything to me. Officially I’m responsible and alert. The government doesn’t give a shit about retrograde amnesia, better yet, the government must think it’s pretty practical. I’ve been rebooted. Malleable and ready for work. It’s often practice that makes perfect critical judgment, what’s more scrumptious for this good old market than my meat, empirically tenderized and marbled. I won’t tap the vein. I’ll close the quarry. I’m afraid of something she doesn’t want to understand or, worse, that she can’t grasp. I don’t give a shit about my clinical state. I want to stay on the first chapter, there’s no way I’m going to rush off into volume 4.
So, a little while ago in her office, Lagarigue said trigger like she says lots of things. Just to be specific. And something happened, something new, abrupt, and horrendous. I wasn’t paying attention to the sleepy meandering of the analogy. I naively thought that my memory had given its soul to the devil and left me to cultivate my own garden, a big uncultivated garden that I’d just fill up with my own crabgrass. When I heard the word trigger, I thought of the word activate, which led to push. And when push was stirred up, everything came to a screeching halt. I saw Mrs. Courcelles talking to us. Mrs. Courcelles was a teacher in my old high school. She was the head French teacher. All of a sudden everything was a mess in my head, all five of my senses going off, my class, the commotion the old-autumn smell the cramp against my ballpoint pen the taste of gum dusted off the faces in a familiar nightmare. If I’d only seen it, maybe the dizziness could have been controlled but everything rushed vortex past all at once, canals unblocked, it was surging back so fast, when you lose your memory you lose its rites and its rudeness, its super-tight curves and everything that makes it so annoying and primitive. And at the same time, it was all the names too, a disemboweled column spitting out self-confident last names with the matching first names cut off but sometimes the reverse, an overabundance of stories and sterile replies elevated survivors without any affective hierarchy. And to top it all off this terrible catastrophe let little bits of future swirl around, insignificant facts and information capable of restoring this data reboot deep down inside me, relics of course yes, we have a memory for only one reason: to wallow in nostalgia.
I saw them and felt them, coding within my skin traveling through my circuits till my guts were ready to burst, Marc Baudin Lise Carlier Emmanuel Douet Maxime Guélin Dominique Matignolles Angélique who always came in late Stéphane Porcher whose nickname was Sperman deflowerer of Karine Fillaud Béatrice Stevenson Cécile Richard Nathalie Riquet Ghislaine Abécassis and her stupid friend who listened to Bob Marley because he was too cool you know Anita Remano who is now a product specialist at Royal Canin. Marc What’s-His-Name married that stuck-up Sylvie has three kids and lives in the Jura Édouard Salincourt who took over his father’s heating oil company Julie who threw up on me on New Year’s Eve at Marie-Jeanne’s who works at Carrefour now Zoe who must work in Lille Yvan who pretends to be a dj Patricia who took acting classes and an ad for bleach Tristan who simply messed up his life a ten-year reunion the idea of group suicide when we saw our grades and that’s not even everybody. I liked my emptiness better, my gapingness was hardier than this sticky ossuary of sickly little embryos aborted by cervical information, waving their atrophied arms and legs everywhere what for who for, I wonder.
That’s all memory is, a row of awful cesspools, sluggish places of death, a picture tacked up behind every door, a door for every period, one picture per calendar, and memories in the middle, memories are dead moments, and among the smiling dead, ready in a jiffy, you force yourself into the pose thinking it w
ould be nice to be able to wander through your own funeral parlor age by irreparable age. Jack Torrance also knew that memory only exists collectively, memories as little bottomless, residual basins, nests of parasites, may as well infect the whole thing, but how can I be sure that the names that I’m writing, the bodies splintering me on this day the guts really did forget my face, features, and voice long ago. I know that few of them remember me at all I wish no one remembered me anymore. If they force me to remember, it’s not for my own good, no, it’s not for that. That’s why I stoop to fair trade. I want to take without giving, it’s no one’s business but my own. I want my doors rough, double-locked haughty. I don’t want to end up at the Overlook, there are enough people there without me. It’s funny, she says, that trigger is what triggered things. It’s funny, she says, without even thinking: she says, it’s funny. Develop, she’s thinking, undoubtedly. My sea is walled, Doctor. No, I didn’t answer that. I would have liked to, I really would have, but I wasn’t brave enough. I settled for answering: you think I’m healing, but I know I’ve caught the malady of death.
Trigger, activate, push, and Mrs. Courcelles all transported me somewhere. I didn’t really like where, but somewhere. The lesson was on the Enlightenment, I can still feel the palpable boredom, I’d forgotten that, not the boredom itself, definitely not, I’ve felt boredom a lot since I woke up. But the memory of boredom. It’s warm and a little sweet. It’s enticing and comfortable, too, but it weighs on your digestion. Maybe because I’m taking note of all this my memory is feeding me new data, family meals with hard-to-swallow menus and eternal cups of coffee drunk in the living room. It’s certainly possible. Everything’s ruined now. The valves are open, I’m going to die under the weight of the supreme lie. That’s the end of the new me. Stains will pour out. I know there’s nothing to get out of it. I feel full, heavy with a brood of bedridden fetuses. I’ll never discover anything new again, except some feats and opinions that no Dr. Faust and no troll will be able to spare me.
Not a Clue Page 6
