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SIRI HUSTVEDT, Pace, Space and the Other in the Making of Fiction


                identifies a feeling, which, if not present in every writer, is surely one
                I have repeatedly experienced and is precisely what Langer delineates
                in her philosophy of art — the effort to catch the felt pulse, motion,
                and ambiguous meanings of being alive in artistic form for an imagi-
                nary reader, an other. While I write, I am also, like the ancient and
                Renaissance practitioners of artificial memory, “seeing” the places I
                am writing about, usually actual streets or houses or apartments or
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                gardens I know well. These mental loci refer to actual places in the
                world; the characters and the action are fictional. For me, writing fic-
                tion is a rhythmic form of navigation in remembered spaces. Never-
                theless, these necessary rhythms and spatial images do not in them-
                selves constitute narrative art.
                     The storyteller does not and cannot include every beat of exis-
                tence or every mental image in a narration. Narrative, with its emplot-
                ment, as Ricouer argued, is “a grasping together” of temporal experi-
                ence; it is necessarily selective, and it requires “a capacity for distanc-
                ing itself from its own production and in this way dividing itself in
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                two.” In short, in telling a story about my own life or in inventing a
                fictional story, I leave out a lot, and I imagine myself (or the character)
                in the particular situation, not here and now but there and then. Nar-
                ratives organize, delete from, add to, and thereby shape lived time and
                space. They create coherence from the perceptual flux that is living.
                The real question is: What is the relation between “pre-narrative” ex-
                perience and full-blown reflective narrative consciousness, the kind
                that makes “the words to fit in?” The distance between pre-narrative
                and narrative has become blurred in some writing on the origins of
                narrative. There appear to be three consistent elements cited as the
                embodied ground for storytelling: proto-conversation, neonatal imi-
                tation, and operative intentionality.
                     In their summary of the arguments for proto-narrative encoun-
                ters between mother and child, Michel Imberty and Maya Gratier
                write, “Sensitive and constant continuities and games of repetition and






                43  See Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (New York: Peregrine Books, 1969).
                44  Ricouer, Time and Narrative, vol. 2, 61.



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