Øystein Høyland

Dialogues of Memory and Identity

Narratives of the Self in Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending and Jeanette Winterson’s
Written on the Body.

Master’s thesis in English Literature

Trondheim, May 2013

Norwegian University of Science and Technology

Faculty of Humanities
Department of Foreign Languages
ii
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my friends and family for their support and for accepting my self-
imposed isolation for the last few months. I am also grateful to Lena for listening to me when
I rambled on excitedly and when I complained excessively.
Paul Goring, who has been my supervisor for this project, has been of invaluable
support and assistance. Thank you for all encouragement, kind words, and interesting
conversations.

Øystein Høyland
Trondheim, May 2013

iii
iv
Abstract
The thesis investigates how two contemporary novels address the relationship between
memory and identity in the process of constructing narratives of the self. This question is
approached through an analysis of narrative structure in conjunction with close attention to
the novels’ contents. Narratology and psychoanalytical literary criticism form the theoretical
framework for this analysis. It is shown how the narrators consistently structure their
memories into narratives according to what meaning they would like the narrative to create,
and how this strategy ultimately fails. The discussions of the novels’ treatment of the topic
suggest that both novels treat memories as malleable and identity as a self-interested
structuring force. Nevertheless, it is concluded that they both question the individual’s
influence over the narratives of the self, and emphasise the role of external reality in the
shaping our stories about ourselves. A desire for meaning is the primary structuring force of
narrative.

v
vi
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements .................................................................................................................. iii
Abstract ..................................................................................................................................... v
Chapter 1: General Introduction ............................................................................................ 1
1.1 Theories of Memory and Identity ............................................................................. 2
Chapter 2: Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending............................................................... 5
2.1 Introduction .............................................................................................................. 5
2.2 Narrative structure .................................................................................................... 5
2.2.1 The Place of the Narrator ........................................................................... 6
2.2.2 Deliberate Omissions ................................................................................. 8
2.2.3 Analepses ................................................................................................... 9
2.2.4 Prolepses and Hypothetical Narratives ...................................................... 9
2.3 Repetition ............................................................................................................... 12
2.3.1 Repetition as Investigative Technique ..................................................... 12
2.3.2 Repetition as Resistance .......................................................................... 14
2.4 The Choice of Two Plots ........................................................................................ 16
2.5 Conclusions ............................................................................................................ 18
Chapter 3: Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body ........................................................ 21
3.1 Introduction ............................................................................................................ 21
3.1.1 A Narrator Without a Face ...................................................................... 21
3.1.2 A Narrator Without a Past ....................................................................... 22
3.1.3 Introducing the Structure ......................................................................... 23
3.2 The Novel’s Introduction: The Power of the Ending ............................................. 24
3.3 The Main Part: Failing to Find Meaning ................................................................ 26
3.3.1 Beginnings ............................................................................................... 27
3.3.2 The Absence of an Ending ....................................................................... 28
3.4 After the End: The Self-knowledge of Failure ....................................................... 32
3.4.1 The Lover as an Ending, The Lover as an Object ................................... 33
3.5 Conclusions ............................................................................................................ 35
Chapter 4: Conclusions .......................................................................................................... 39
Bibliography ........................................................................................................................... 43

vii
viii
Chapter 1: General Introduction

For some time I have been curious about the connection between memory and identity. Our
memories of the past are important elements in creating a sense of who we are as individuals.
However, I can not say that I remember the entirety of my life so far or that the events I do
remember are remembered with any objective clarity. Selections have been made and
memories have been coloured, altered and organised. One of the greatest influences on the
choices I make in my life is my sense of who I am, my sense of personal identity. What films
I watch, what books I read, when I choose to get up in the morning, and whether I prefer my
coffee black or with milk, are all choices that are in some way influenced by how I experience
myself as an individual. Considering identity in this way it might also be said that it
influences how I remember my past and how I interpret, find meaning in, and create myself
through my memories.
In other words, our sense of who we are as individuals, our personal identities, seem to
exist in a dialogue between memory and identity. Through a mutual influence these two
aspects of our psyche construct the narratives we see as the stories of our lives. I wish to
explore the way in which contemporary fiction addresses this dialogue, how these forces that
shape the narratives of the self are envisioned. To do so I turn to two novels that are deeply
concerned with memory and the desire to understand the self and its place in the world: Julian
Barnes' The Sense of an Ending and Jeanette Winterson's Written on the Body. In both of
these novels the narrator is autodiegetic – he or she is the central acting character, the "hero of
the narrative" (Genette 1983, 245). Together with a fixed internal focalization – a limitation of
the reader's access to information to only what is conveyed through the narrator's impressions,
thoughts, perceptions and experiences (ibid. 189-94) – this enables one to study how the
narrators engage with memories of their past as the narratives progress. It also grants access to
the narrators' thoughts and feelings about themselves, giving one the opportunity to form an
impression of how they view themselves as individuals.
I approach these novels through a close analysis of narrative structure seen in
conjunction with the thematic focus found in the stories they tell. In paying close attention to
the structure that shapes the narratives it becomes possible to discern how the narrators
influence the piecing together of memories to form coherent narratives. 1 By analysing

1
The words narrative, story, and fiction – and their respective plural forms – will be used interchangeably
throughout in the meaning “the recounting of a series of facts or events and the establishing of some form of

1
prominent features of the narrative structures in the light of the novels' content, some aspects
of the narrators' self-perceptions are identified. These are then used to investigate what
purpose the specific choices that influence narrative structure have. This approach relies on
narratological tools as formulated by Gérard Genette, and on Peter Brooks' conception of
psychoanalytical literary theory as set out in Reading for the Plot. Barnes and Winterson
approach identity and memory from two quite different starting points. Barnes' narrator is
confronted with evidence that he has interpreted some of his memories from the past wrong.
Through his attempts at correcting the narrative he has constructed on the basis of these
memories the reader is offered a meditation on the possibility of knowing the truth about the
past, the role of identity in shaping one's own place in memories of the past, and about the
difficulty and distress that is involved in reconsiderations of one's identity. In Winterson's
novel the narrator's attempt to understand the self is conducted without the aid of memory.
The narrator's refusal to engage with memories lets Winterson explore the conditions under
which meaning and identity can be created, and question the extent to which one can
deliberately avoid memory.
While their approaches to the topic might be different they do come to some similar
conclusions. The dialogue between memory and identity as it is presented seems self-serving
and utterly subjective. Barnes’ and Winterson’s narrators are continually grossly mistaken in
their interpretations or highly manipulative of their memories and identities. However, in
engaging in narration both these narrators are subject to forces that ultimately ground their
narratives in a meaningful and truthful understanding of the self and memories of the past. In
the dialogue between memory and identity a desire for a narrative that conveys meaning on
the reality we live in is the guiding principle.

1.1 Theories of Memory and Identity

Paul John Eakin offers, based on the work of cognitive psychologist Ulric Neisser, a way to
approach understanding what identity is. Neisser establishes a five part distinction of self-
knowledge where each part of knowledge provides grounds for "establishing a different
aspect of the self" (qtd. Eakin 22). The distinctions Neisser makes are between "The

connection between them” (Childs and Fowler 148). As regards the definition no distinction will be made
between real or fictional facts and events. This use necessitates that the specific narratological use of the words
narrative and story, as defined by Gérard Genette (1983, 29), are set aside. Instead the terms fabula and syuzhet,
introduced by the Russian Formalists (Childs and Fowler 94), will be used when the specific narratological
function is emphasised. Fabula then refers to the “raw story-material” (ibid.) – the “signified” content of the
narrative (Genette 1983, 29). Syuzhet refers to the finished plot as presented (Childs and Fowler 94) – “the
signifier, statement, discourse, or narrative text itself” (Genette 1983, 29).

2
ecological self" – the self in the physical environment, "The interpersonal self" – the self in
social interaction with other people, "The extended self: the self of memory and anticipation",
"The private self" – the self of private conscious experience, and "The conceptual self: the
extremely diverse forms of self-information – social roles, personal traits, theories of body
and mind, of subject and person – that posit the self as a category" (qtd. Eakin 22-3). Eakin
identifies the parts of identity that pertain to narratives with Neisser's extended self (Eakin
102). This is the part of identity that is dependent on temporal relations. The succession of
experience and memories demands a "temporal armature that [can sustain] our operative sense
of who we are" which is what the narrative form offers (ibid.), not only as a literary
convention, but as an integral part in the experience of identity (ibid. 137). Through
constructing narratives one creates self-knowledge of the extended self, and forms the basis
for that part of identity that pertains to memories and the self in time (Eakin 22-3; 102).
Viewed like this identity is placed on the outside, as a product of the process of remembering.
A life story, like any story, needs a fabula and in the case of a life story this is largely
the individual's memories. Memories, however, are not infallible representations of past
experiences and do not necessarily have a "direct relation to events experienced in the past"
(Henke 80). Eakin supports this view and refers to hypotheses within the field of neuroscience
that argue that memories are constructed in the present every time they are recalled, rather
than stored and brought back (Rosenfield, qtd. Eakin 18-9). In this view remembering is an
act of reconstruction, not the bringing back of something already constructed. Furthermore,
Henke stresses that memory and identity are "interdependent phenomena" (79), and quotes
from John Gillis' introduction to Commemorations where he says that "the core meaning of
any individual or group identity" is "a sense of sameness over time and space, sustained by
remembering; and what is remembered is defined by the assumed identity" (Gillis 3).
Winterson has picked up on this as well and writes: "What I call the past is my memory of it
and my memory is conditioned by who I am now" (1998, qtd. Childs 265). 2 Our life stories
create self-knowledge which supports our sense of individual identity. But these life stories
are built on a fabula, on a past, that only exists in our limited memories of it. Memories that
are influenced by what has come between the time remembered and the present, and coloured
by who we consider ourselves to have become – by our personal identities.
The dependency of fabula on the syuzhet is what Peter Brooks points out when he
argues that the "fabula – 'what really happened' – is in fact a mental construction that the

2
Childs quotes from: Winterson, Jeanette Gut Symmetries. London: Granata. 1998. p. 45 (Childs 273).

3
reader derives from the sjužet, which is all he ever knows" (13). After having equated fabula
with memories the next logical step is to equate the syuzhet with the complete narrative
formulation, the complete life story. In producing self-knowledge this forms the basis of an
identity which is seemingly placed on the outside, as a product of the process of remembering.
But as has been argued above, identity in itself and as a whole influences how the story of the
self is formed. A possibility then is that identity's influence on the inner story is similar to
Brooks' consideration of the plot and the activity of plotting as the active shaping force of a
narrative (13; 37). It is in the plotting towards a complete syuzhet that the fabula takes on the
form of a narrative. What ending one anticipates is important for the ongoing understanding
of the fabula (Brooks 94). By extension the anticipated self-knowledge produced by the
anticipated ending of the syuzhet influences the way in which the fabula of memories is
understood, at the same time as it is predicated on the fabula.

4
Chapter 2: Julian Barnes’ The Sense of an Ending

2.1 Introduction
Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending has on the face of it a rather simple structure. The
novel is chiefly analeptic and structured through the reminiscing of the autodiegetic narrator
Anthony. This reminiscing is divided into two parts: "Part One" (Barnes 2011, 2) and "Part
Two" (ibid. 57).
In part one the reader is first carried back to the narrator's school days (Barnes 2011, 3-
4) whereupon the narrator recounts his life up to, or close to the time of narrating. He tells of
various episodes of his life: Adrian starting school with him and his friends (ibid. 4), life at
school (ibid. 3-19), university (ibid. 19-42), his relationship with Veronica (ibid. 20-36), his
visit to her parents in Chislehurst (ibid. 26-30), and his and Veronica’s break up and her
subsequent relationship with Adrian (ibid. 36-44). He tells of his time in California (ibid. 45-
6), of Adrian's suicide (ibid. 46-54), and about his life afterwards (ibid. 53-56) including his
marriage, career, daughter, divorce, and retirement (ibid. 54-56).
Part two traces the narrative of how Anthony has to re-evaluate the story he has
presented to the reader in part one. He is faced with evidence that things did not happen as he
remembers them when he receives an inheritance from Mrs Sarah Ford, Veronica's mother
(Barnes 2011, 62-3). The inheritance consists of five hundred pounds, a letter from Mrs Ford,
and the diary of his long deceased friend Adrian (ibid. 62-5). Veronica, however, refuses to let
Anthony have the diary, so he starts a campaign to get it back while at the same time
scrutinising his own memories for hints as to why Mrs Ford left all this to him (ibid. 66-150).
By tracing Anthony's reinterpretations of his memories Barnes explores how the
dialogue between memory and identity shapes Anthony's narrative of his own life, and
consequently also the self-knowledge this narrative produces. The novel shows that memory
is fallible and that identity has an inherently self-preserving function, but that the desire for
truth and meaning that motivates our narratives (Brooks 48) can lead to dramatic questioning
and reconsiderations of the self.

2.2 Narrative structure

Upon close reading of the novel's two parts it becomes evident that this strictly separated
structure does not hold up to scrutiny. The two parts of the novel bleed into each other. This
cross-contamination is the starting point for an analysis that shows how the narrative is
5
structured to facilitate repetitions and re-visitations of the past. This focus on repetition
reveals a double function as both a drive towards meaning, and as a tool for self-protection
against an unpleasant truth.

2.2.1 The Place of the Narrator

One issue that arises when looking at the structure of the novel is the problem of the narrator's
temporal relationship to the story he is telling. Part one in itself is rather straightforward. It is
an instance of subsequent narration – narration in which the narrator relates events that all
happened in his past (Genette 1983, 217). The narrative eventually catches up with the present
day, but not necessarily with the moment of narration. The present day is described in terms
of Anthony's general day-to-day activities and overall situation in life: what he does for a
living, and what kind of hobbies he has (Barnes 2011, 55-6). In part two events that cast new
light on previously described memories start emerging. Anthony now has to reinterpret what
he thought he knew, including the information related in part one.
There are strong indications that Anthony narrates the novel's first part after the
completion of the story in part two. In part one this is visible through Anthony's remarks
about the photo of Veronica, Adrian, Colin, Alex and himself in Trafalgar Square: "Many
years later when I came to examine this photo again, looking for answers" (Barnes 2011, 32).
Here Anthony is referring to the situation in part two when he "opened an old photo album
and looked at the picture she'd asked me to take in Trafalgar Square" (ibid. 108). Furthermore,
there is also the mysterious statement: "And even if I were to decide, at this late stage, that she
was and always had been calculating, I'm not sure it would help matters. By which I mean:
help me" (ibid. 32). The statement can refer to helping in the investigative process Anthony
undertakes in part two, but it can also refer to the problem he is faced with at the end of the
novel, a problem which will be elaborated upon later in this analysis: to help him in
solidifying his place in the narrative.
Events in part one are repeated in part two, but presented as acts of remembering. This
indicates that the reminiscing that is narrated in part two is the origin of the memories
presented in part one. Especially some detailed memories seem to be connected across the two
parts of the narrative. A good example of this is Anthony's memory of visiting Chislehurst
and meeting Veronica's father. Here it seems that the thoughts of Anthony at the time break
through in the narrative: "He was large, fleshy and red-faced; he struck me as gross. Was that
beer on his breath? At this time of day?" (Barnes 2011, 26, emphasis added). This questioning
can be read as free indirect discourse where the words of the narrator and the character meld

6
together and "the character speaks through the voice of the narrator" (Genette 1983, 174). In
this way the comment appears to be the thoughts or inner speech of character Anthony in
narrator Anthony's memory. But it is a very specific memory, recalled forty years later by a
narrator whose "principal factual memory" of his visit is being constipated (Barnes 2011, 27),
and who admits that the "rest consist of impressions and half-memories" (ibid.). An
inspirational source for this memory can be found in Veronica's email in which she refers to
her father's alcoholism (ibid. 111). What appears as past Anthony's thoughts or inner speech
might actually be narrator Anthony's manipulation of memory after having received more
information about Veronica's father. The use of free indirect discourse masks what might
easily be narrator Anthony's intervention in his own memory by removing references to the
remembered speech act. It makes the comment appear less like a very detailed memory and
less conspicuous in light of Anthony's poor memory.
Other similar examples are memories that are called up in part two and repeated
almost verbatim in part one: "What had Old Joe Hunt answered when I knowingly claimed
that history was the lies of the victors? 'As long as you remember that it is also the self-
delusions of the defeated'" (Barnes 2011, 122) corresponds to "'Yes, I was rather afraid you'd
say that. Well, as long as you remember that it is also the self-delusions of the defeated'"
(ibid. 16). Notice that Anthony is not referencing his previously presented memory, but
attempting to call it up through interrogating himself. The same is true when he asks "What
was that line Adrian used to quote? 'History is that certainty produced at the point where the
imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation'" (ibid. 59), a quotation that
is given in part one as well (ibid. 17). Some further instances of remembrance in part two
include Anthony's attempt "to resurrect that humiliating weekend in Chislehurst" (ibid. 63;
26-30), 3 his "finally" remembering the post card he sent to Adrian (ibid. 98; 42) 4, and the
memory of Margaret being of the opinion that "fruitcakes ought to be shut up in tins with the
Queens head on them" (ibid. 78), a tin which is – without any obvious significance – the focus
of a short passage in part one (ibid. 35).
These cross-references suggest that Anthony is narrating the entire story, including his
memories in part one, after the events in part two have taken place. Anthony's statement that
Veronica's brother "never replied" to his last email (Barnes 2011, 132) supports this view as it
suggests that the narrator has knowledge about the conclusion of the narrative. The
implication of this is that the narrator, at the point when he narrates the story, is in possession

3
The second reference here refers to the pages on which the same incident is related in the first part of the novel.
4
See note 3

7
of more information than he gives the reader, including knowledge of the narrative's end.

Figure 1:

Recalled recollections (e.g. Barnes 16) Recalled recalling (e.g. Barnes 122) Recalling
Part one Part two Narration
Forward mention (e.g. Barnes 32) Forward mention (e.g. Barnes 132)

Events related in part two are the events in which Anthony remembers the past he presents in
part one of the novel. Forward mentions in both parts indicate that the narrator knows events
before they occur in the syuzhet. The narration takes place subsequent to the events in the
novel.

2.2.2 Deliberate Omissions

Having established the narration as entirely subsequent to the story it tells requires one to
acknowledge that the narrator is deliberately omitting information. Anthony knows the
outcome of the narrative, but does not divulge this information to the reader. The
reinterpretation of memories that Anthony engages in in the second part of the novel could in
other words have been reduced to a short presentation of the final interpretation of his
memories. However, this is not the case in the novel. Anthony presents the reader with a
narrative that traces his process of arriving at this interpretation, including the faulty
interpretations he makes along the way. The information he omits, such as delaying the
revelation of his knowledge regarding Adrian's son and the child's parentage, enables the
narrative to trace his faulty interpretations.
The deliberate omissions lets the narrative address the various ways in which Anthony
tries to create a coherent story in which the "sjužet has been so well formed, so tightly
enchained, that the fabula derived from it must be right" (Brooks 322). However, when
Anthony presents his narratives – his syuzhets – to Veronica for verification she rebukes him
and indicates that the stories he has constructed are not well formed representations of the
fabula. This knowledge of his plots' inadequacies forces Anthony repeatedly to engage in new
processes of plotting. And in the structures of these various plots one finds clues to what it is
that Anthony anticipates as the outcome of these plots – what kind of self-knowledge he
desires that the stories will produce.

8
2.2.3 Analepses
Since Anthony repeatedly revisits his memories of the past there are plenty of analepses in the
narrative. These analepses have the narrative that Anthony is relating about his search for
answers as primary narrative – the narrative in which an analepsis is narrated and where the
analepsis functions as an embedded narrative (Genette, 1990, 90). 5 Most of them refer back to
his past involvement with Veronica and to his relationship with Adrian, but there are also
analepses that relate details of his ex-wife Margaret and their life together (Barnes 2011, 66;
69; 109; 116; 118; 121), and of his daughter (ibid. 102-3; 107; 116). In the second part of the
novel there are also internal analepses that refer back to events that took place within the time
span of the novel's second part (Genette 1983, 49). These are analeptic re-evaluations of
earlier narrated events in the light of new knowledge gained through the progression of the
narrative; short ones, like Anthony regretting having made a lighthearted comment about
alcoholics (Barnes 2011, 111) when he and Veronica met earlier in the narrative (ibid. 90),
and longer ones, as he re-evaluates past situations in the light of later events (ibid. 139-40).
In addition to revealing new information and new interpretations the analepses are also
part of a pattern of repetition that is central to the novel. The deliberate omissions of
information enables a narrative that is forced to repeatedly construct new narratives to explain
the past. The analepses, especially the internal ones, are repeated narrations of earlier events
and also of earlier narrations. The function of repetition and the role of analepses in the novel
will be discussed in a later part, but first the repetitive function of the novel's prolepses – its
narration of future events in advance (Genette 1983, 40) – and hypothetical narratives 6 will be
explored.

2.2.4 Prolepses and Hypothetical Narratives

The Sense of an Ending features an extensive use of prolepses and hypothetical narratives. In
part one this takes the form of analepses back to the proleptic fantasies and expectations of
Anthony's youth. "In those days, we imagined ourselves as being kept in some kind of holding
pen, waiting to be released into our lives. And when that moment came, our lives – and time

5
Genette names this récit premier, or "first narrative", in Narrative Discourse (1983, 48), but renames it récit
primaire, or "primary narrative", in Narrative Discourse Revisited (1990, 29; 90). This is an attempt at clarifying
that the term refers strictly to the structural relationship between a narrative and an anachrony without positing
any judgements regarding one's thematic importance over the other (Genette 1990, 29; 90).
6
Hypothetical narratives is here used to refer to narratives that function as explicitly presumptive configurations
of a fabula. These do not correspond to a set type of anachrony but can be examples of what Genette terms prior
narration, narrating the future through prediction (1983, 219-20), or of subsequent narrations in the form of
summaries that offer an alternative version of the fabula. They can also appear to function as analepses or
prolepses, while not actually referring back or forward to actual events.

9
itself – would speed up" (Barnes 2011, 9). When Adrian shows no interest in the reason
behind his parents' divorce Anthony constructs a small hypothetical narrative of what he
deems the appropriate response: "Adrian should have gone snooping, or saved up his pocket
money and employed a private detective; perhaps all four of us should have gone off on a
Quest to Discover the Truth" (ibid. 16). He does the same when Veronica's mother sends him
a letter: "perhaps she had peritonitis and was asking for me from her hospital bed. Or
perhaps... but even I could tell that these were self-important fantasies" (ibid. 39). Most of young
Anthony's fantasies and expectations seem somewhat self-important, and, as will be shown
later, this is a pattern that he sticks to as he gets older as well.
In part two these proleptic constructions are supplemented by more elaborate
hypothetical narratives. After a brief email correspondence with Veronica's brother Anthony
constructs a little narrative that reinvents Jack's life:

And now I began to imagine a different life for Veronica's brother, one in which his student years
glowed in his memories as filled with happiness and hope – indeed, as the one period when his life had
briefly achieved that sense of harmony we all aspire to. I imagined Jack, after graduation, being
nepotistically placed into one of those large multinational companies. I imagined him doing well
enough to begin with (Barnes 2011, 79).

What goes into this summary of Jack's life is not as much any factual referents as it is
Anthony's dislike and distrust of Jack. Another example is an imagined conversation with
Alex and Colin in which they tell their versions of the day in Trafalgar Square (Barnes 2011,
108-9). Most significant of these hypothetical narratives is the one which Anthony creates to
account for the new information Veronica gives him. In this he envisages Veronica becoming
pregnant with Adrian's child, Adrian committing suicide on account of this, and Veronica
raising their disabled son alone (ibid. 139); a narrative in which he jokingly ascribes himself
the role as the reason for their son's disability – his letter to Adrian having wished Veronica
pregnant, and misery upon their child (ibid. 138-9).
One section right at the beginning of part two of the novel sheds some light on the
function of the imaginary narratives in the novel:

10
 When you are young, you think you can predict the likely pains and bleaknesses that age might bring.
You imagine yourself being lonely, divorced, widowed; children growing away from you, friends
dying. You imagine the loss of status, the loss of desire – and desirability. You may go further and
consider your own approaching death, which, despite what company you may muster, can only be faced
alone (Barnes 2011, 59).

The analepsis here, in which the narrator goes back to the expectations and imagined futures
of the youth, is very general and does not seem to indicate that this is how he imagined his
future. Chances are that very few in their youth imagine that their life will turn out this way,
least of all Anthony and his friends who had wanted to have a life "fuller than that of our
parents" (Barnes 2011, 8) and wanted life to turn out like literature (ibid. 15). However, this
imagined future has a lot in common with how Anthony's life has turned out. Apart from
being widowed all these characteristics can apply to his life. He his divorced and his
relationship with his daughter is not very good. He is retired, which might involve a loss of
status. He does not have many friends left and the female relationships he has are platonic
(ibid. 55).
Neisser suggests that our "conceptions of narrative often lead us to emphasize our own
'agency'", the impact of our choices on ourselves and on the world (Neisser 9). This is very
much the case with Anthony. In his narratives he would normally retain a position of
importance, either as a character that is central to the narrative, as is the case with his "self-
important fantasies" about Veronica (Barnes 2011, 39), or in comparison to the characters in
the narrative, as with his story of Jack's disappointing life (ibid. 79). The passage above
reverses – and highlights by contrast – the normal function of the prolepses and hypothetical
narratives in the novel. It is presented as a look back to the expectations of the past, an
analepsis about former anticipations, but, crucially, seems to be informed by the events in
Anthony's later life. The reversal draws attention to the way in which the hypothetical
narratives normally would be plotted to allow Anthony a position of agency, relevance, or
importance. Furthermore, it alerts the reader to how Anthony might view his current life and
the disappointment he is experiencing.
Peter Brooks argues that narratives are read with an anticipation that there will be an
end that will confer meaning on the preceding narrative (Brooks 94). In this view events only
have a temporal meaning as long as one interprets them while anticipating an ending (ibid.).
What ending one anticipates will then dictate how events might be interpreted, similar to how
one would interpret the evidence in a detective novel differently depending on who one

11
anticipates or suspects the criminal to be. Anthony's prolepses and hypothetical narratives are
his inscriptions of provisional endings on his life. Through these he can interpret events in his
life. The reason for the mundanity of life when he is young becomes captivity in light of the
anticipated ending that will see him and his friends being "released into our lives" (Barnes
2011, 9). Adrian's suicide and Veronica's anger towards Anthony is interpreted in the light of
an ending that sees her and Adrian as Adrian Junior's parents, and Anthony as the one who
predicted the tragic ending. By extensive use of prolepses and hypothetical narratives
Anthony is repeatedly anticipating endings that confer some measure of meaning on his life.
Furthermore, these endings seem to lend themselves to the repetition of a plot structure that
allows him a position of importance in the plot itself, or that elevates him by contrast to other
characters.

2.3 Repetition
The two part structure necessarily entails repeating the events in order to track the changing
interpretations of them. Deliberate omissions of information the narrator is in possession of is
used to facilitate the repetitive structure of the novel. A frequent use of analepses, many of
which are used to fill in information that the narrator has left out, enable repetition of what
has been already narrated. Prolepses and hypothetical narratives serve as repeated attempts at
making meaning of life, but also enable a repetition of a plot with a somewhat self-
aggrandizing structure. Other repetitions are largely omitted in the text but the act of repeating
it is narrated. This is the case when Anthony tells Margaret about the progress of his
investigations (ibid. 75; 101; 106), and when he tells Veronica about his life (ibid. 116) – a
repetition from what he has told the reader (ibid. 54). Repetition comes across not so much as
a side effect of the story the narrative tells, but as central feature that the narrator deliberately
engages in.

2.3.1 Repetition as Investigative Technique

No doubt it is always the same song that goes on. If sometimes the themes blur, it is only to come back
a little later, more marked, very close to identical. Nonetheless, these repetitions, these minute variants,
these elisions these turnings back, can produce modifications – moving eventually quite far from the
point of departure (Robbe-Grillet, qtd. Brooks 316).

Peter Brooks claims that a repetition "is both the recall of an earlier moment and a variation of
it" (99-100). In repeating something, whether it be a memory, a sentence, or a narrative, the
possibility of difference is always there. This brings to mind Rosenfield's theories about

12
memories as being constructed at the moment of recall, rather than being fixed images
brought back (qtd. Eakin 18-9). If memories are constructed at the time of remembering,
repeating the act of remembering might foster differences in the memories that can shed new
light on them. Furthermore, repeating a narrative under altered circumstances will involve the
negotiating of the narrative's truth relative to the narrative situation. So, when Anthony
repeats his narrative about Adrian's suicide, but a significant change has occurred in the
reality it refers to – the enigma of the legacy left him, Veronica's proofs – he has to negotiate a
new narrative that corresponds to this new reality. The more repetitions, the more chances for
the narrative to encounter other contexts, the more chances for new connections to be made
and flaws to be discovered. In this way repeatedly narrating becomes a mode of investigating,
a drive for a truth that reconciles narrative with reality.
The investigative nature of repetition is emphasised through Anthony becoming a
regular at the pub and the shop that Adrian's son and his friends frequent (Barnes 2011, 145).
At this point Anthony's investigations have stalled, and Veronica has rejected his latest
interpretation – that she is Adrian Junior's mother – in her usual way, simply by saying that he
does not "get it" (ibid. 144). So Anthony becomes a regular at the last place he had any
progress, where he first recognized Adrian's son (ibid. 136-7). This is not to say that he has a
conscious or unconscious drive to return to this place, merely that the narrative he has
constructed does not match reality, that he does not possess the knowledge to make them fit
together, and that he does go back. But in light of the structure of the novel, the repeated
returns – indicated through the iterative "Occasionally, I would drive over to the shop and the
pub again" (Barnes 2011, 145) – mirrors Anthony's narrative strategy. He repeats until
changes appear, and the more repetitions the greater is the likelihood for change. At one point
he attempts to elicit change by asking for the hand-cut chips to be cut thinner just to be told
that "Hand-cut chips means fat chips" and that they do not actually cut them at the bar (ibid.).
His repetitions are rewarded when he runs into Adrian Junior's group and their minder
provides the lacking piece of information: that Veronica is Adrian Junior's half-sister (ibid.
146-8).
This view of repetition and remembering as more than the recalling of an established
invariant truth echoes the concerns of Frank Kermode's The Sense of an Ending: Studies in
the Theory of Fiction. Kermode's "masterpiece of literary theory" (White 43) concerns not
only literature but is also "a philosophy of history" (ibid.). Julian Barnes has previously
treated personal history – or memories – in much the same way as national history (Henke 90-
4). In England, England Barnes parallels the main character Martha Cochrane's distrust of

13
memory with the manipulative efforts of the entrepreneur Jack Pitman to rewrite English
history so that it fits with the heritage centre he is building on the Isle of Wight. Here people
play, and eventually become, historical characters, and Robin Hood coexists with SAS troops
(Barnes 2008). The resident historian in Jack Pitman's company articulates the similarity
between history and personal history when he expresses the faith that "Most people
remembered history in the same conceited yet evanescent fashion as they recalled their own
childhood" (ibid. 82).
Fictions, according to Kermode, are "consciously false" (White 52). They inherently
"force us to remember that they are only constructions, products of our imaginations" (ibid.
53). They are "neither true nor false but instruments for multiplying the possibilities of ways
we can have of relating to our world" (ibid.). The conscious falseness coupled with faith in the
"truth of fact and the authority of the written document" (ibid. 49), opens literary fictions to
rewriting when they no longer mirror reality. Anthony's narrative is not simply a repetitive
interrogation of memories. It is also a natural use of literary fiction's inherent awareness that
all meaning is invented and that this meaning "can claim authority as truth only as long as it is
useful for life" (ibid. 43). He is in his repeated narration using fiction's natural drive towards
truth, and in doing so he is enacting Kermode's words: "'Fictions are for finding things out,
and they change as the needs of sense-making change'" (qtd. White 54).
Anthony's application of fictional narratives to arrive at truth is enlightening. As
argued earlier we all arrange our memories in plotted narratives, or fictions of the self, that
make sense of our temporal experiences. While doing this we are, according to Kermode,
acknowledging that this story might not be the true representation of our memories.
Nevertheless, we let it maintain that function as long as it serves to make sense of our lives.
Anthony, however, struggles to reconcile his personal narratives with reality. A reason for this
can be found in the resistance to truth that some forms of repetition in the novel exhibits.

2.3.2 Repetition as Resistance

How often do we tell our own life story? How often do we adjust, embellish, make sly cuts? And the
longer life goes on, the fewer are around to challenge our account, to remind us that our life is not our
life, merely the story we have told about our life. Told to others, but – mainly – to ourselves (Barnes
2011, 95).

Of the multiple forms of repetition in the novel, some appear not to have any value as
investigative repetitions. Anthony emphasises that he has an "instinct for survival, for self-
preservation" (Barnes 2011, 42), "a certain instinct for self-preservation" (ibid. 64), and draws
14
attention to his repetition by stating that "as I tend to repeat, I have some instinct for survival,
for self-preservation" (ibid. 131). He does the same thing when talking about his relationship
with his daughter: "I get on well with Susie" (ibid. 61). "Susie and I get on fine" (ibid. 62).
And drawing attention to the repetition: "Susie and I get on fine, as I have a tendency to
repeat" (ibid. 102). Another type of repetition happens when Anthony reminds his readers of
his divorce from Margaret. This repetition can take various forms such as referring to her as
"ex-wife" (ibid. 68; 106; 118), himself as "ex-husband" (ibid. 83), simply mentioning the
divorce (ibid. 54; 62; 64; 118), or mentioning the marriage coming to an end (ibid. 66; 83;
100; 102). Furthermore, the repeated plot structure that is found in the prolepses and
hypothetical narratives of the novel does not seem to serve a directly investigative purpose.
The act of narrating is also repeated extensively all through the narrative. Anthony
narrates the story behind his memories (Barnes 2011, 3-56), and then narrates the
circumstances and events that brought these memories to the surface (ibid. 59-150). As the
story progresses he finds himself talking to Margaret so that he can tell her about the latest
events (ibid. 75; 101; 106). Later on, after Margaret refuses to listen to him any more (ibid.
106), he still has the compulsion to phone her when Veronica agrees to another meeting (ibid.
121). He also states that he "would always tell Margaret about any new girlfriend" (ibid. 54),
indicating that this kind of narrating is nothing new to him, and also informing the reader of
an unspecified number of previous narratives and narrations. When narrating the story of his
life to Margaret when they first got together, he leaves Veronica out (ibid. 69). Looking back
on this he reflects that "The odder part was that it was easy to give this version of my history
because that's what I'd been telling myself anyway" (ibid. 69). Not only is this an admission
of deliberate omissions, but it also indicates that he has narrated, to himself, his life story on
multiple occasions.
Peter Brooks points to psychoanalysis' interpretation of repetition as a way of
attempting to subdue and master a situation that one is not in control over (Brooks 97-9).
Read like this Anthony's almost compulsive need to narrate can be seen as an attempt at
gaining control of his life and the meaning of it. He repeatedly mentions the divorce and
frequently addresses himself and Margaret as ex-husband and ex-wife in order to try to come
to terms with and master the new signifiers that now constitute his reality. The repeated claim
that his relationship with Susie is fine serves to subdue his feelings that heir relationship is far
from what he wishes it were. Anthony believes that his "emotions as they actually are doesn't
concern her" and that she blames him for the divorce (Barnes 2011, 103). Since her emotional
life is largely out of his control, he attempts to master the situation through the repetition of a

15
phrase that once, before they drifted away from each other, actually signified the truth.
The self-preserving instinct he mentions – a desire not to change, simply to stay the
same – can be seen as the desire for the inorganic which Freud found fundamental to all
organisms (Brooks 102). The idea is that if the organism could decide it would "constantly
repeat the very same course of life" (ibid.). However, when external pressures threaten this
course it is forced to diverge from the repeated course so that it may reach the end on its own
terms (ibid. 102-3). In biological terms this end would be death with no or minimal change
(ibid.). In this context, dealing with memory and identity, I would argue that the ending that is
worked towards is the end of the "self-justifying 'inner story'" (Henke 80). The endings of
these narratives of the self attempt to make sense of and find meaning in reality, while also
attempting to do so with no or minimal change to the self-knowledge that forms the basis of
identity.
Anthony exemplifies this principle very well. His self-preserving instincts drive him to
repeat the same type of narration over and over again as long as external pressures do not
interfere. When his narratives no longer manage to make sense of the external reality a
conflict arises between the truth seeking function of fiction and the self-preserving instinct's
resistance to changes in Anthony's self-knowledge. In The Sense of an Ending this conflict
can be witnessed clearly in the prolepses and hypothetical narratives Anthony constructs.
These repeat a plot structure that emphasises Anthony's relevance and importance to the plot.
For Anthony this creates knowledge that he is relevant and holds some measure of importance
in other people's lives. When he receives the letter and the inheritance from Mrs Sarah Ford
he once again assumes that he is to figure as a central character in the plot that will make
sense of the altered reality that the new evidence creates. However, all the explanatory
narratives he creates seem to fail at making sense and he is forced to consider the
abandonment of his carefully structured plot.

2.4 The Choice of Two Plots

As Anthony is faced with the truth that Adrian Junior is the son of Adrian and Veronica's
mother Anthony has to make a choice. In an excerpt from Adrian's diary that Veronica sends
Anthony one is presented with two explanatory models for what has come to pass:

16
 b = s – v +/x a1
a2 + v + a1 x s = b (Barnes 2011, 85)

The first a signifies Adrian, the second a Anthony. b signifies baby, v Veronica, and s her
mother, Mrs Sarah Ford (Barnes 2011, 149). The first equation can be interpreted as follows:
the baby results from a negative relationship between Sarah and Veronica, and Adrian's
decisive involvement in this relationship. The second equation has a different focus: here
Anthony's involvement with Victoria leads to her meeting Adrian, which leads to him meeting
Sarah, which leads to the two of them having a relationship that results in a baby.
Interpreted like this the two equations serve as rough outlines of optional plot
structures that can be used to construct meaning-making narratives. However, each of these
plots will create different meanings and different knowledge of the events. The first equation
results in a plot structure that emphasises personal relationships and Adrian's responsibility for
his actions. The issue of personal responsibility is expressed through the unresolved issue of
addition or multiplication as the link that expresses Adrian's relationship to the negative
relationship between Sarah and Veronica. The second option shows an interest in the chain of
events that led up to the baby's conception, and puts less focus on personal relationships.
Some extra responsibility seems to be put on Sarah, on account of her being linked to the rest
through multiplication. The important thing to note, however, is that the first of the equations,
the first of the plots, does not involve Anthony.
The distinction between personal responsibility and chains of events brings one back
to the discussion they had in school on the same topic in relation to the First World War
(Barnes 2011, 10-12). In Old Joe Hunt's classroom the students are asked to discuss "the
responsibility of Archduke Franz Ferdinand's assassin for starting the whole thing off" (ibid.
10). Adrian's opinion on the issue is interesting:

We want to blame an individual so that everyone else is exculpated. Or we blame a historical process as
a way of exonerating the individuals. Or it's all anarchic chaos, with the same consequence. It seems to
me that there is – was – a chain of individual responsibilities, all of which were necessary, but not so
long a chain that everybody can simply blame everyone else. But of course, my desire to ascribe
responsibility might be more a reflection of my own cast of mind than a fair analysis of what happened
(Barnes 2011, 12)

This can be applied to the situation expressed in the equations as well. Blaming an
individual or blaming the forces involved – in this case the negative relationship between

17
mother and daughter – would exonerate Anthony. Arguably, Adrian has through his suicide
chosen the first of the explanations, the one that that burdens him with the most responsibility,
and been unable to live with the guilt.
When Anthony brings up the equations in the end of the novel it is only the one that
involves him, the second a, that he brings up. "I looked at the chain of responsibility. I saw
my initial in there" (Barnes 2011, 149). In choosing to refer only to the second equation
Anthony effectively determines his position in the narrative. The sentence that is so abruptly
ended in the fragment from Adrian's diary – "So, for instance, if Tony" (ibid. 86) – can in light
of the second equation signify two things: firstly, that if Anthony had not in his letter urged
Adrian to consult Veronica's mother (ibid. 96), Adrian would not have become involved in a
sexual relationship with her. Secondly, if Anthony had not met or dated Veronica none of this
would have happened. However, the significance of the broken statement takes its full form in
light of the first equation, the one not including Anthony. In this case the statement, and the
empty space following it, signifies the insignificance of Anthony to the relationship that was
the source of Adrian Junior's conception and Adrian's demise. Anthony's desired and ultimate
choice is on the explanation that includes himself, something that raises questions regarding
his "cast of mind" (Barnes 2011, 12). His choice falls into a pattern of plot choices throughout
the novel in which he constructs plots that feature him as a central character.

2.5 Conclusions
By tracing the way in which Anthony examines his past and tries to construct it into a
narrative that can make sense of the reality he lives in, Julian Barnes addresses how the
dialogue between memory and identity pushes us towards truth. Despite memory's possibility
of failure and identity's self-preserving function, the narrative identities we create for
ourselves constantly drive towards a truth that is at the very least functional. Our desire for
truth, which Brooks finds to be the fundamental motivation for narrative (48), means that the
self-preserving function of identity accepts changes to the narrative that produces it if it is
necessary to make sense of the world. And while memory may be fallible the same
indistinctness that makes it fallible also makes it available for reinterpretation.
At first sight it might be tempting to say that it is impossible to know the truth about
past events and end up in a postmodern relativistic stance. Joanna Semeiks, in her review of
The Sense of an Ending, seems to do this and characterises it as a "postmodern novel where
increasingly one is about to step off a cliff, into pure and playful air" (244). The novel does
acknowledge the impossibility of ever arriving at a factual truth of the kind that sciences like

18
physics and chemistry deal with. This impossibility of knowing the past in a factual manner is
why Kermode maintains that fictional stories, with their conscious falseness and inherent
drive toward truth, are the best way to approach the past (White). This does not lock one
down in a relativistic notion of truth but emphasises "the importance of the pursuit of
knowledge" (Childs 90), so that we can multiply "the ways we can have of relating to our
world" (White 53). Talking about the difference between journalism and novel writing Julian
Barnes says that "It’s quite opposite with a novel where you are not dealing in facts but
dealing in truth" (Barnes 2000). Truth is not simply fact. Meaning is also truth but "only as
long as it is useful for life" (White 43). The truth value of memories and the truth value of the
self-knowledge created from these is intrinsically bound up with to what extent they make
sense of reality.
The self-knowledge produced by the narratives of the self, and consequently the
identity that is formed from this self-knowledge, is influenced by how the plots of the
narratives are structured. Anthony serves as an example of this in his constant building of
plots that offer him a sense of centrality and importance. If he is an agent in the plot he has
relevance. Another example is his choice to omit Veronica from his life story. By structuring
the plot of his narrative with a deliberate omission as a central feature he avoids the
knowledge of his "failure" and "humiliation" (Barnes 2011, 69).
Drawing on Peter Brooks I have argued that self-knowledge and the identity that it
establishes aims at remaining unchanged. The narrative of the self, what Henke calls the "self-
justifying 'inner story'" (80), is the story that is plotted to serve this purpose. Anthony's plots
feature him as an agent and thereby uphold a self-knowledge of him as at the very least
relevant. It eventually becomes clear that the enigma of Adrian's suicide can be understood as
a narrative where Anthony's role in the plot is peripheral at best and possibly non-existent.
Anthony, however, seems to favour the plot structure that will still offer him a sense of
relevance. The shaping of Anthony's narratives is dictated by an end goal, an anticipated
ending, that will perpetuate a self-knowledge of him as a relevant agent. His plots in this way
reflect the way in which he struggles to uphold a fundamental piece of his identity: the
knowledge that he throughout his life has had relevance and importance to other people.
But meaning and the drive for truth reign supreme. The end goal of identity is not only
to stay the same but to do so while making sense of and finding meaning in reality. In the face
of a reality in which he is divorced, drifting away from his daughter, lonely, and approaching
death the narratives that Anthony has created are coming under pressure. His occasional
lapses into self-criticism, such as when he identifies his instinct for self-preservation with an

19
avoidance of being hurt (Barnes 2011, 142), point towards a realisation that he has lived a life
in which he has made little out of his personal relationships and been of little relevance to the
people around him. Adrian's explicit offering of an alternative plot structure that excludes
Anthony could offer Anthony the insight he needs to realise that more of his self-constructed
narratives might be told with a similar plot structure. They can be told with a plot structure
that effectively makes sense of the reality Anthony is living in and creates a self-knowledge of
irrelevance that reflects the irrelevance he feels in his life. The Sense of and Ending becomes
the sense of having ended, prior to the final ending of his life.

20
Chapter 3: Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body

3.1 Introduction
Written on the Body addresses the dialogue between memory and identity by having its
narrator renounce both while engaging in a search for love and meaning. This leads to an
interesting meditation on the possibility of escaping memories of the past, on sculpting one's
life story whichever way one wants, the power of "intense relationships" to "transform both
people" (Childs 259-60), and the necessary conditions for the formation of a narrative
identity. The novel engages actively in discussions about the structuring power of endings and
narrative's ability to produce truth. Through a three part structure the novel traces the process
of anticipating and desiring meaning, failing to find it, and coming to understand the reason
for this failure.

3.1.1 A Narrator Without a Face

Winterson's narrator in Written on the Body is genderless. 7 S/he is never referred to with
pronouns that would reveal a gender, and no explicit descriptions of the narrator's body are
given. S/he has sexual partners of both genders, and aspects of behaviour or personality that
traditionally would be associated either with femininity or masculinity both feature so
excessively that it becomes impossible to establish the gender of the narrator (Fåhraeus 85-
90). The ambiguity regarding the narrator's gender has received a lot of critical attention
(Rubinsond 219-20), but it is not the only feature that is missing from the narrative. There are
given no indications regarding skin colour, hair colour, or other features of appearance. No
age is indicated, nor is any ethnicity. Not even a name is given. With the exception of her/his
work as a translator of Russian literature, the narrator is almost featureless.
The exclusion of all such categories from the narrative limits the way in which the
reader can read the narrator's sense of identity. Going back to Neisser's description of identity
one sees that this removes an entire category of self-knowledge, the knowledge of the
conceptual self: "the extremely diverse forms of self-information – social roles, personal
traits, theories of body and mind, of subject and person – that posit the self as a category"
(qtd. Eakin 22-3). This denial of identity is carried further in the way that the narrator's
personal history is conveyed.

7
Since the narrator is genderless pronoun use becomes an issue in the analysis. Since I neither want to, nor can,
define the narrator as male or female I will throughout the text refer to the narrator as: “s/he”, “her/his”, and
“her/him”.

21
3.1.2 A Narrator Without a Past
The past dealt with in the narrative is chiefly the past that revolves around the narrator's
romantic involvement with a married woman named Louise. Other memories from the past
are related, usually pertaining to old girlfriends or boyfriends. But these memories are
narrated in a way that isolates them from a place in a larger history and distorts any
independent significance they might have had for the narrator. The result is that the memories
appear as nothing more than short humorous anecdotes, like the story of Crazy Frank, a bull
of a man over six feet tall, who was brought up by midgets, and has a passion for miniatures
(Winterson 1994, 92-3). Or like the story of Bruno, who finds "Jesus under a wardrobe" as he
is being crushed by it (ibid. 152).
It is evident from how these anecdotes are worded that they are in the past, but their
temporal relation to each other is lost in the narration. "I had a girlfriend once" (Winterson
1994, 19; 59; 75), "I had a boyfriend once" (ibid. 92; 143; 152), "I remembered vaguely that I
had once had a girlfriend" (ibid. 12). The repetitive phrasing and the word once reminds the
reader of the "'once upon a time' of folk-tales" that place the anecdotes unmistakeably in the
past (Genette 1990, 81). These openings emphasise the strangely atemporal nature of the
anecdotes. Their temporal relation to the diegetic universe is vague and they give the
impression of existing merely as humorous asides with no particular relation to the story that
is being told. In other words: what little of the narrator's personal history the reader is offered
comes across as series of separate anecdotes that have little other function than to amuse.
The stories of the narrator's relationships with Bathsheba and with Inge stand out from
the rest, but at the same time serve to emphasise the loss of original significance. Bathsheba is
referenced multiple times throughout the novel (e.g. Winterson 1994, 16; 25; 44-8; 77) and
the story of the narrator's relationship with Inge is told in greater detail than most of the other
past relationships (ibid. 21-5). Both of these stories deviate strangely from their intertextual
referents. In the Bible, King David's attempt at covering up his affair with Bathsheba sends
her husband Uriah in harm's way and gets him killed (King James Bible, 2 Sam. 11.1-27). In
Written on the Body, Uriah conceals an affair with a prostitute from Bathsheba, which puts the
narrator in harm’s way when Uriah contracts an STD from said prostitute (Winterson 1994,
44-5).
Inge is described in terms that signify extremes of femininity and feminism. She is a
"committed romantic and an anarcha-feminist" (Winterson 1994, 21). She would blow up the
lift in the Eiffel Tower so that "no-one should unthinkingly scale an erection", but is unable to
do so because "her mind filled with young romantics gazing over Paris and opening

22
aerograms that said Je t'aime" (ibid.). Furthermore, the narrator claims that the reason s/he
stayed with Inge for so long was because of her breasts which s/he describes as having "done
their share of time and begun to submit to gravity's insistence" (ibid. 24). The exaggerated
femininity and the mammary focus paints Inge in terms that echo the image of a fertility
goddess. Ironically, the name Inge is derived from and related to the names Ing and Yngve
(Hellquist 1184-5; 272), which are alternative names for the male fertility god Frey (Lindow
121; 200-1; 326). As such Inge seems to be described in opposition to the god her name
echoes.
The way in which the narrator remembers and narrates her/his past relationships
isolates and strips these memories of meaning. They are individual stories, without any
integrated place in a larger narrative. Their function as fabula for the creation of a life story is
neglected. Any potential for creation of meaning and self-knowledge is shrouded by narrating
these memories as nothing more than humorous asides. The distortion of intertextual referents
that occurs in the stories of Bathsheba and Inge strengthens this impression of stories that are
being deprived of their original significance, functions, and meanings. In a short description
of the narrator's ex-girlfriend Estelle, the reader is offered an insight into the narrator's
troubled relationship with her/his past:

Estelle, I haven't thought about Estelle for years. She had a scrap metal business. No, no, no! I don't
want to go backwards in time like a sci-fi thriller. What is it to me that Estelle had a clapped-out Rolls-
Royce with a pneumatic back seat? I can still smell the leather (Winterson 1994, 77).

Estelle's presence is both current and unwanted. The memory of her is still vivid in the
narrator's mind, but s/he does not want to think about the past. Significantly it is not only
Estelle that the narrator does not want to think about, but the past. S/he does not "want to go
backwards in time" (Winterson 1994, 77), the implication being that s/he would rather go
forward in time and thereby distance her/himself from the past. This hints at a discomfort with
the past which explains the need to isolate memories from a larger context and strip them of
meaning. Much like Anthony initially wrote Veronica out of his life story (Barnes 2011, 69),
Winterson's narrator is trying to rewrite her memories of the past into something that does not
produce unpleasant self-knowledge.

3.1.3 Introducing the Structure

For the purposes of this analysis the novel will be divided into three parts. The novel starts
with a part which will be shown to be dominated by a reversed story arc, moving backwards
23
in time. Through its reversed structure this part establishes the novel's thematic interest in
beginnings and ends. In the analysis it also serves to exemplify the complex structure of the
rest of the novel. Accordingly, I refer to this part as the novel's introduction. Following this is
the main part of the novel which takes the form of a forward moving analepsis and includes
the section entitled "The Cells, Tissues, Systems and Cavities of the Body" (Winterson 1994,
113-39). This part picks up the introduction's interest in beginnings and ends and elaborates
upon it by undermining the reader's expectations regarding endings. The third and last part
begins where the dominant narrative structure breaks down and the narrated analepsis of the
main part overtakes the moment in which it has been narrated from so far. The short third part
serves as a meditation on the preceding narrative's failure in creating meaning, and the
narrator's mistakes in her/his search for love and meaning.

3.2 The Novel’s Introduction: The Power of the Ending

The first part of the novel exemplifies the novel's overall complex narrative structure. The
most prominent element in this is the frequent shifts between analepses and the narrator's
present tense reflections (Winterson 1994, 9-21). The analepses are presented incoherently
and it is difficult to see the connections between them. But as one approaches the end of the
first part it becomes clear that many of the analepses are in fact referring to the same two
people in different situations over a longer span of time. This ending creates a story arc that
connects most of the analepses. Furthermore, it is clear that the movement of the story in this
story arc is reversed, moving from September (Winterson 1994, 9) backwards through August
(ibid. 10; 12), ending in June (ibid. 20). The narrative structure of this part is illustrated in the
table below. This is not an exhaustive overview of all the shifts and elements in the novel's
first part, but it covers the most important elements. A detailed description of how to read it
follows the table.

24
Figure 2:
Page: 9 10 11 12 13 15 16 17 18 19 20 21
Level 2 A0 A0
Level 1 AS AA AA AA AA A0 AA AA A0 AJ A0
Level 0 P P P P P P P P P P
P = Present tense narration. AS = Analepsis dated September. AA = Analepsis dated August.
A0 = Analepsis without date. AJ = Analepsis dated June.

The horizontal position of the abbreviations in the table indicates the textual sequence on the
page. An example of this is the AS, the analepsis dated to September (Winterson 1994, 9).
This analepsis is couched between two instances of present tense narration, one preceding it,
one following it (ibid.). The levels in the table correspond to the narrative layers in the novel.
Level zero is where the narration takes place and is therefore always in the form of present
tense reflections. Level one is the first level of the narrated past where all analepses have the
narrative in level zero as primary narrative. Level two is the second level of the narrated past
where all analepses have the narrative in level one as primary narrative. In other words, where
the analepsis is narrated by a character – usually the character of the narrator in the past – that
is present in the analeptic narrative in level one.
The above description and table is actually deceptively simple in its portrayal of the
analepses. The only explicit mentions of months in connection with the analepses are
September (Winterson 1994, 9), August (ibid. 10; 12; 17), and June (ibid. 20). Connections
between the other analepses must be made through hints in the text, of which the most
important is the use of personal pronouns. The characters in the analepses that comprise the
reversed story arc are consistently referred to in the first and second person: I, you, and we
(ibid. 10; 12; 13; 17; 18; 20). Other analepses, those that are marked as undated in the table,
refer to a third person: she (ibid. 12; 13-4; 16; 19; 21). Right before the introductory part's last
analepsis is reached, the lover – the "you" that has been unnamed so far – is finally named.
"Louise" is spoken of in connection with a section that is rich in personal pronouns: "I will
explore you and mine you and you will redraw me according to your own will. We shall cross
one another's boundaries and make ourselves one nation" (Winterson 1994, 20). This naming
structures and ties together the previous analepses by specifying the object of the pronoun
references earlier in the text. Other hints that aid in this structuring are references to walking
(ibid. 12; 13), to a rented room (ibid. 13; 17), and to plums (ibid. 17; 18).
The referent of the pronoun you is at times ambivalent and the ending of the

25
introductory part exploits this. Most of the time the pronoun refers to a second person,
revealed later to be Louise, who acts and speaks: "You said, 'I'm going to leave.'" (Winterson
1994, 18). Other times it is used as general and self-referential: "It's flattering to believe that
you and only you, the great lover, could have done this" (ibid. 15). Sometimes the narrator's
statements could be read as either appeals to the reader or as past immediate speech, a short
monologue uttered by the character in the past and recounted later without any explicit
indication of it being the character's speech and with an absolute absence of the narrator
(Genette 1983, 173-4): "Did I say this happened to me again and again? You will think I have
been constantly in and out of married women's lumber-rooms" (Winterson 1994, 17). On the
one hand this comment can be interpreted as a rhetorical appeal to the reader emphasising that
the scenario of adultery recounted in the previous pages repeated itself several times. On the
other hand it can be interpreted as an appeal to Louise aimed at correcting any impression
made about the same adulterous behaviour. The revelation that some analepses are connected
and that the "you" they refer to is Louise comes late (ibid. 20). As such the ambiguous
pronoun use becomes extra confusing when this revelation puts the reader's previous
interpretations of the pronoun in doubt.
In this introductory part of the novel the structuring power of the ending is
emphasised. Not only does the ending tie the analepses together, but it also leads the reader to
question previous interpretations. Ironically – or perhaps fittingly – the narrative arc of the
novel's first part is moving backwards in time. The ending of the syuzhet is chronologically, in
terms of the fabula, the beginning. This foreshadows the confusing treatment of ends and
beginnings that will figure throughout the novel, and alerts the reader to the importance of
endings for the understanding of narratives. The fragmentary narrative structure and
ambiguous language use that is present in the introductory part is also present in the rest of the
novel, especially the shifts between analepses and present tense reflections. Furthermore, the
neat tying together of the narrative arc supports the reader's trust that the narrator, despite the
somewhat erratic narration, will come to a satisfying conclusion.

3.3 The Main Part: Failing to Find Meaning

The narrative structure undergoes a significant change around the time Inge is introduced
(Winterson 1994, 21). From this point forward the narrative is no longer reversed, but moving
forward in time through one continuous analepsis (ibid. 20-190). Though this creates greater
coherence the narrative still has the additional undated analepses, present tense reflections,
and ambiguous language. The main part picks up on the topic of the structuring power of

26
endings from the introductory part. It elaborates upon this by tying it to a discussion of the
beginning's dependence on the end, and to an exploration of the narrator's attempt and failure
to reach a meaning-imposing ending.

3.3.1 Beginnings
To start off the narrator reflects on how her/his search for passionate relationships is as much
a cliché as the cliché of the happy marriage, and how the threat of real love is always present
(Winterson 1994, 20). This leads to an introduction of the overarching analepsis that will
carry the story through the novel's main part (ibid. 20-156): "That home girl gonna get you in
the end. This is how it happened" (ibid. 20). The beginning of the analepsis is placed before
meeting Louise and is therefore, in terms of fabula, prior to most of the events in the novel's
introductory part.
Right from the beginning, however, the novel's complex relationship to beginnings is
evident. The declared beginning "This is how it happened" (Winterson 1994, 20), collides
with previous declared beginnings. The novel's opening words, "Why is the measure of love
loss?" (ibid. 9), lay claim to the function of a beginning through their placement in the text
and through their format as a question that needs answering. Later, the narrator states that s/he
is "in another rented room now, trying to find the place to go back to where things went
wrong" (ibid. 17) indicating that the purpose of the following narrative is investigative rather
than philosophical. Furthermore, starting the novel's main part with the story of Inge is a false
start. Inge actually has very little to do with the "how it happened" (Winterson 1994, 20).
Meeting Jacqueline is the important event, as she will figure extensively throughout the
narrative (ibid. 24). For a little while it seems that Inge is the cause of the narrator's meeting
with Jacqueline since the narrator met her when moving to a new flat s/he had purchased "to
start again from a nasty love affair" (ibid. 25). However, this does not refer to the relationship
with Inge but to the narrator's "brief addictive return to Bathsheba" (ibid.). It is also unclear
whether the "home girl" that is going to get the narrator (ibid. 20) refers to Jacqueline or to
Louise.
It is here appropriate to address the role of beginnings in guiding interpretation. The
structuring power of the ending comes from the syuzhet's role in creating the fabula. Our
ability to "read present moments – in literature, and by extension in life – as endowed with
narrative meaning" depends on the fact that we anticipate an ending that will retrospectively
give them structure and significance (Brooks 94). The fabula, in other words, can not exist
independently from the syuzhet. Considered like this the distinction between beginnings and

27
ends becomes reversible. The syuzhet's end is what determines the beginning (ibid.), and the
end is therefore also the time before the beginning (ibid. 103). This is something the structure
of Written on the Body illustrates well. It is dominated by analeptic narration that carries an
implicit promise or anticipation that a final end has already been reached. The beginning of an
analepsis is an act of narration taken on "after the fact of an event that took place earlier"
(Genette 1983, 40). The beginning of a narrative has structuring power in the sense that it is
predicated on and created by the structuring power of the ending, and the reader's
anticipations for the ending are therefore structured by the beginning.
This mixing of ends and beginnings echoes the discussion of the novel's introductory
part. There the reversed story arc literally places the beginning at the end and the end at the
beginning. This reversed structure, in which it is not really revealed how the analepses fit
together until the end, coupled with the fact that some analepses are not part of this story arc
at all, reduces the structuring power of the textual beginning. The beginning of the reversed
analeptic story arc, "I am thinking of a certain September" (Winterson 1994, 9), is disguised
in an excess of potential other beginnings. This repeats itself as the main part takes over.
Between the false starts and claimed beginnings it is difficult to pinpoint exactly what it is the
novel sets out to get an answer to. This excess, much like the excess of gender stereotypes that
are used to describe the narrator (Fåraehus 85-90), results in a lack. In the case of the narrator
it is a lack of an explicit gender, in the case of the narrative it is a lack of an explicit
beginning. The multitude of beginnings that characterise the novel foreshadows the main
part's lack of an ending, and importantly also its desire for an ending.

3.3.2 The Absence of an Ending

The main part of the novel lasts for most of the textual length of the narrative. But eventually
the overarching analepsis that goes through this main part, which has recounted the story of
the narrator's love affair with Louise, the narrator's abandonment of her, and the narrator's
move to Yorkshire and her/his life there, overtakes the moment of narration. However, this is
done very subtly and requires a close reading of the text to notice. The result is that the
structuring ending that the reader anticipates at the end of the analepsis is absent, both by
being buried in the text and through the lack of any explicit denouement to the plot. This
effectively breaks down any explicit connections between the beginning and the end,
inverting the strategy of the introductory part where the ending had a strong role in creating
coherence in the preceding narrative.
In my division of the novel into parts I consider the section entitled "The Cells,

28
Tissues, Systems and Cavities of the Body" (Winterson 1994, 113-39) as an element of the
main part. In this section the narrator has moved to Yorkshire and become obsessed with
medical textbooks (ibid. 111). The narrator "mediates on her lover's leukemia [sic], and
rewrites sterile medical language as something transcendently personal" (Reed-Morrison
101). The narrator her/himself describes it as finding "a love-poem for Louise" in the clinical
language (Winterson 1994, 111). This part does not relate any events or conversations that
take place. Nevertheless, it can be seen as a part of the analepsis. It covers a period of time
that stretches between December, after Elgin tells the narrator of Louise's cancer (ibid. 100),
to March, when the normal narrative picks up again with the narrator's lamentation that Elgin
has not written her/him (ibid. 143). The poetic section of rewritten medical texts serves as a
forceful metonymy that expresses the degree to which this obsession with Louise and
anatomy takes up the time of the narrator in the period it covers. The period is not recounted
through recalling its events, but through recalling something that is so intimately associated
with it that it can stand in place of an explicit summary.
The second sentence in the novel places the time of narration at a point where "It
hasn't rained for three months" (Winterson 1994, 9). This is brought back up when the
narrator introduces a paragraph with "June. The driest June on record" (ibid. 150). The spatial
description of the place where the act of narrating is conducted – "I'm in another rented room
now" (ibid. 17) – corresponds to the small cottage the narrator rents in Yorkshire (ibid. 107).
When the narrator later leaves Yorkshire to visit London again s/he claims that s/he stays there
for six weeks, until the beginning of October (ibid. 174). That would put her/his departure
from Yorkshire somewhere in the middle of August. Upon returning to Yorkshire the narrator
comments that "The rain on the dry land from a dry summer hadn't penetrated through the soil
to the aquifers" (ibid. 185), making any later date improbable as the moment of narration.
Taking these hints together one can assume that the act of narration that spawns the
analepsis takes place in the cottage in Yorkshire sometime before the narrator departs for
London. If June is completely dry, three months without rain would put the narration in the
end of August or beginning of October. Since this collides with the narrator's trip to London
one must assume that it has not rained since early or mid May, at the latest. Furthermore,
since the rain struggles with the dry soil in October (Winterson 1994, 185) July and August
must also have been dry. This places the act of narration in early or mid August. It is possible
to read June as the month where the analepsis catches up to the first narrative by assuming
that there has been no rain since March. However, as there is merely six pages separating June
and August (ibid. 150-6) I do not see that pinpointing this point exactly is of great importance.

29
Furthermore, the emphasis on June as "The driest June on record" (ibid. 150) seems to suggest
this as the first month with no rain whatsoever.

Figure 3:
March April May June July August September October
? ? Wet/Dry Dry Dry Dry Dry Wet
Yorkshire Yorkshire Yorkshire Yorkshire Yorkshire York/London London Yorkshire
Line one marks the months, line two the described weather in Yorkshire corresponding to the
above months, and line three the narrator's whereabouts in each month. The emphasised fields
"Wet/Dry" and "York/London" mark the decisive features that place the narration in August.

The ending that was to structure the entire preceding narrative has come. The analepsis is
complete but there is no revelation to be found at its end. No meaning is made abundantly
clear, and the ending itself is hidden in small textual hints. The narrator's story about her/his
relationship to Louise had no definite ending when the narrating act was undertaken.
However, this is not a case of a forced alteration of a previously anticipated ending, as is the
case in Barnes' The Sense of an Ending. The absent ending must be seen in connection with
the excess of beginnings in the novel and the general narrative structure with its frequent
shifts between analepses and present tense reflections by the narrator. The narrator does not
know how to make sense of and find meaning in the loss of Louise. In the moment that the
narration is undertaken, no ending can make sense of the preceding fabula, and since a "sense
of a beginning" is "determined by the sense of an ending" (Brooks 94) no real beginning can
be made. The multitude of beginnings in the novel can in the light of this be seen as feeble
attempts at anticipating a structuring and meaning-imposing ending that the narrator
ultimately is denied. The present tense reflections of the narrator also contribute to this
impression of a narrative that searches for and desires meaning.
Peter Brooks views the middle of the narrative, the plotted distance between the
narrative's beginning and its end, as "a kind of arabesque or a squiggle", an almost serpentine
line stretching towards the end (Brooks 104; 59). As established during the discussion on
Barnes' novel the ultimate goal of the "self-justifying 'inner story'" (Henke 80) is to keep
identity unchanged. It wants to reach an end, where self-knowledge and narrative identity will
be the outcome, but it "must be the right death, the correct end" (Brooks 103): an end where
the outcome upholds the already established self-knowledge as much as possible. The shortest
way to this end would be a direct line between the beginning and the end "which would be the

30
collapse of one into the other, of life into immediate death" (Brooks 104). In terms of
narrative identity this would be what Brooks terms the unnarratable, the normal, where no
"tension or irritability" exists that can foster a desire or a demand for narration (ibid. 103).
Where there is no tension between the past and the present, when aspects of identity are
unquestioned and do not need explanation, there is nothing that can be narrated. The
beginning and the end have collapsed upon themselves and ceased to exist. However, where
identity is challenged by external forces life is stirred "into a state of narratability" (Brooks
103) and narrative becomes a way of creating self-knowledge with which one can explain,
understand, and justify one's identity in the face of reality. The plot that forms the middle, the
structured connections of the narrative, "stands as a kind of divergence or deviance" that
postpones the end so that the desired and anticipated end might be reached (ibid.). Anthony in
The Sense of an Ending serves as an example. He attempts to extend the line of plot so that it
makes the necessary detour, including him in the plot, that will lead to the ending he desires in
the narrative: the ending that produces self-knowledge of his relevance. Plot is the squiggly
line connecting the beginning to the end, making the necessary detours along the way so that
the end might confer the desired meaning upon the elements of fabula that are connected
together through the line of the plot.
Through the main part of Written on the Body this plotted line is unsure and searching.
Various beginnings are formed in the hope that at least one of them will lead to an end that
might make sense of the loss of Louise. But since the narrator at the point when s/he narrates
the analepsis has no satisfying understanding of why s/he lost Louise no explanatory end can
be anticipated or reached and no absolute beginning can be established to the narrative. This
might seem like a circular argument, but like Anthony's plotting in The Sense of an Ending the
narrator's plotting in Written on the Body must be built on a measure of self-knowledge. And
when, as will be demonstrated in the following section, the reason behind the narrator's loss of
Louise is to be found in this same self-knowledge that produces the plot, the failure to find
meaning that characterises the main part becomes a necessary step towards the creation of a
deeper understanding.
The narrative's disjointed structure, the back and forth between present tense
reflections and analepses, the anecdotes' apparent irrelevance to the overall narrative, the
temporal changes and the insertion of a section of prose-poetry: all can be seen as symptoms
of this plotting without an end. Whether what the novel offers at this point can be considered
one coherent plot is uncertain. In many ways it mixes individual stories of the narrator's past
relationships and connects them together with questionable and less than obvious

31
significance. Inge's connection to Jacqueline, as discussed above, is a prime example of this.
The narrative so far might best be described, using Brooks' image, as a multitude of
arabesques that, in a total absence of sense and meaning, all stretch desperately from a
multitude of beginnings towards any ending.

3.4 After the End: The Self-knowledge of Failure

The third part of the novel shows how the narrator's life continues after the failed attempt to
understand the failed relationship with Louise, and how s/he comes to terms with the reasons
behind these failures. Since the primarily subsequent, or retrospective, narrative structure of
the novel catches up with itself there is need for a new way to organise the narration. Such a
shift in narrative structure does take place, but it is difficult to notice before the sudden
change to present tense in the last paragraph of the novel (Winterson 1994, 190). Like the
convergence of the overarching analepsis with its primary narrative in the main part, the
change in narrative organization following this merging is buried in the text.
A textual element that offers a hint of the place and nature of the shift can be found in
the appearance of the word today in the narrative. "I found one of her hairs on a coat of mine
today" (Winterson 1994, 154). "I went to the cemetery today and walked amongst catacombs
thinking of the dead" (ibid. 176). "I had scrupulously avoided our old haunts – that's the
advice in the grief books – until today. Until today I had hoped to find you or more modestly
to find out how you are" (ibid. 179). This use of today ties the diegetic action, the action that
takes place within the universe of the narrative, to within a day of the act of narration. It
suggests that the narrating act takes place between the moments of action in the novel, a type
of narration that Genette terms interpolated narration (1983, 217). The first of these references
to today, the one in which the narrator finds one of Louise's hairs (Winterson 1994, 154), is
situated shortly prior to a summary of the events of August: "August. Nothing to report" (ibid.
156). The proximity of this first evidence of interpolated narration to the summary of August,
the month of narration, suggests that it is here the shift in narrative structure occurs. The
narrator's present goes from being "a single moment without progression" (Genette 1983,
223), to a present where her/his location and activities vary. This is perhaps best illustrated
during a train ride where the narrator complains that "The train has been delayed and we are
sitting in a cutting with nothing but the rustle of the evening newspaper and the tired stirrings
of the engine" (Winterson 1994, 183-4). This explicitly places a present tense moment of
narration within an ongoing diegetic event in the novel.
The interpolated narration that structures the latter part of the novel gives the narrative

32
the opportunity to continue after the ending of the analepsis in the main part, and show how
the narrator deals with the failure to find meaning. However, interpolated narration does not
sustain the novel to its very end. In the penultimate paragraph of the novel Louise appears to
return to the narrator (Winterson 1994, 190). Her return can be read as real or as imagined by
the narrator, but in any case her appearance heralds the end. The last paragraph of the novel is
told in present tense, what Genette terms simultaneous narration (1983, 217). "This is where
the story starts, in this threadbare room. […] I don't know if this is a happy ending but here
we are let loose in open fields" (Winterson 1994, 190). An end is finally offered to the
narrator, an end that at the same time is a beginning.
This is also the ending that conveys meaning to the entirety of the preceding narrative.
The desire for an ending that could explain and give meaning to the narrator's loss of Louise,
and maybe in the explanation show the way to remedy the loss, is not merely an inability to
understand that specific loss. The manifold arabesques of plot that stretch through the novel
are witness to a deeper lack of meaning, one where the narrator's lack of understanding of
her/himself is so fundamental that s/he does not know where to start in looking for the reason
the s/he lost Louise. The narrator is presented to the reader as almost devoid of an identity.
S/he has no features, no past, and seemingly no anticipations for an ending. It is here that the
closing paragraph shows what the desire for Louise is: a desire for her to be the fulfilling
ending to a life story, to solidify a plot through Louise's role as the ending that the narrator's
life has led to. With Louise is where the story gets its ending, and consequently also where it
starts. The weave of arabesques can be reduced to the one thread of plot.

3.4.1 The Lover as an Ending, The Lover as an Object

There are others who make fools of themselves, loving widely, indiscreetly, forgetting it is themselves
they are trying to love back to a better place (Winterson 1998, qtd. Childs 264). 8

In Written on the Body the narrator is actively seeking out relationships for the explicit
purpose of having them function as endings that will uphold her/his chosen way of
remembering her/his past. The story of "how it happened" (Winterson 1994, 21), or how we
met, is a temptingly straight forward narrative where the excursions and mistakes of the past
life need not be remembered. Through the cliché of the love story the narrator hopes to create
self-knowledge of her/himself that can conquer the narrator's perception of her/himself as a
serial adulterer, a self-titled "Lothario" (ibid. 20). However, in order to keep this monopoly on

8
Childs quotes from: Winterson, Jeanette Gut Symmetries London: Granata, 1998. p. 126 (Childs 273).

33
story creation the lovers chosen need to be unable to engage in creation of narratives
themselves. In the novel this is evident in the narrators treatment of Jacqueline and Louise, in
the resistance against giving in to a relationship with Louise, and in the narrator's interest in
Elgin, Louise's husband.
The desire to have Louise's function as a place of origin for narrative identity is most
clearly seen in the narrator's preoccupation with Elgin. A conversation between the narrator
and Louise initiates an analepsis in which Elgin's past is described in great detail (Winterson
1994, 32). Even the words and actions of Elgin's parents before his birth are described (ibid.
32-4). Furthermore, the narrator recalls that after the conversation with Louise s/he "thought
about Elgin" (ibid. 35) and continues with the detailed account of Elgin's past. Even here, in
what the narrator claims as being her/his thoughts at the time the reader is given specific
details about how Elgin's parents, who are Jewish, react when he sends them a Christmas
card: "'It's her,' said Esau behind the dark counter. 'A curse on women since the sin of Eve.'
And Sarah, polishing, sorting, mending, serving, felt the curse and lost herself a little more"
(ibid. 35). The story of Elgin is brought up again later and again the narrator gives detailed
descriptions of events and dialogue in an analepsis regarding Sarah's, Elgin's mother, disease
and death (ibid. 63-7).
The level of detail with which the narrator describes Elgin's past is not something that
it is likely Louise is in the position of relating to the narrator in their conversation. Arguably
then, these detailed passages are largely the narrator's imagined version of events built on top
of whatever Louise was able to tell her/him. In the narrator's constructed narrative about Elgin
the two defining aspects of his life, what is given most prominence in this constructed life
story, is his relationship with Louise and his mother's death. Not only does this treatment of
Elgin reflect the narrator's view of Louise as an ending that can structure a life-story, but it
also reflects her/his general treatment of Louise. Whatever Louise may have told the narrator
about Elgin, it is the narrator who has shaped the narrative of Elgin's life. Louise is denied the
function as the active storyteller.
The narrator's need for control over narrative construction is expressed through
objectification and through denial of agency, especially when it comes to Louise. For all the
attention lavished upon her throughout the narrative "we know very little about Louise: that
she has red hair, that she’s Australian" (Rubinsond 226). All other descriptions of her are the
narrators "subjective constructions" (ibid.). The reader never sees her as an individual subject,
merely the object of the narrator's discourse (ibid.). This is perhaps more clear than anywhere
else when the narrator leaves Louise so that Elgin can take care of her without caring to talk

34
to Louise about it, denying her any agency (ibid.). Jennifer Gustar shows how the way the
narrator's "decidedly conventional descriptions" of Louise marks her as a "textual echo, a
citation of earlier precedents" (29). Towards the end of the novel the narrator acknowledges
this in a conversation with Gail: "'Did I invent her?' 'No, but you tried to', said Gail. 'She
wasn't yours for the making'" (Winterson 1994, 189). For the narrator Louise has until the end
been a desired object.
The resistance to giving in to a honest relationship with Louise, where Louise herself
is allowed agency, is expressed in the narrator's hesitant speculations: "Shall I submit myself
sundial-wise beneath Louise's direct gaze? It's a risk; human beings go mad without a little
shade, but how to break the habit of a lifetime else?" (Winterson 1994, 80). The reference to a
habit of a lifetime is telling. The narrator has previously described how s/he is "addicted to the
first six months of a relationship" and the passion involved (ibid. 76). This addiction needs
breaking so that a lasting relationship can be established and the identity of the serial adulterer
left behind. This wish is also evident in the narrator's thoughts about her relationship with
Jacqueline. The narrator does not love her or desire her and counts this as points in her favour
(ibid. 26). S/he wants to get out of the "slop bucket of romance" and find a lasting relationship
based on "friendship and getting along" (ibid. 20-1). The narrator desires "the soggy
armchair" of marital clichés where generations have sat safely before her/him (ibid. 10). The
relationship with Jacqueline is an attempt at reaching this end. In the same way that the
narrator will later pursue a relationship with Louise, the relationship with Jacqueline is not
being pursued for Jacqueline's sake. It is the promised safe ending that the narrator sees in her
which is important.

3.5 Conclusions
For Winterson's narrator in Written on the Body memory is the obstacle to a desired identity.
For her/him, to find meaning in a life story composed of memories is to establish self-
knowledge that s/he is trying to avoid. The narrator would prefer to construct her/himself out
of the defining power that a relationship – figured as a significant ending to a life story, the
point in life that one has been moving towards – might provide. But Winterson questions this
refusal to engage with memories and shows how this narrative strategy fails.
In the narrative that the narrator creates to explain the loss of Louise s/he carefully
isolates unpleasant memories and attempts to hide their original significance and meaning by
making them into amusing anecdotes. Winterson, however, seems to suggest that while
memories might be malleable they are not so easily escaped: "The physical memories

35
blunders through the doors the mind has tried to seal" (Winterson 1994, 130). Whatever
constructions the narrator attempts to impose on her/his memories of the past, they can not be
completely disregarded. Furthermore, this strict plotting of the past requires that a full control
of the narrative is maintained. Louise can not be allowed to put the pieces of the narrator's
story together in her own fashion:

Written on the body is a secret code only visible in certain lights; the accumulations of a lifetime gather
there. In places the palimpsest is so heavily worked that the letters feel like braille. I like to keep my
body rolled up away from prying eyes. Never unfold too much, tell the whole story. I didn't know that
Louise would have reading hands. She has translated me into her own book (Winterson 1994, 89).

Louise's reading powers, her ability to construct her own plots on the basis of the memories of
the narrator, removes the narrator's control of how to interpret her/his past. The objectification
that the narrator has to subject her/his lovers to in order to retain this monopoly does not work
in a reality where people have personalities and are agents in their own right. The breach with
Louise is the ultimate expression of this objectification. The narrator ignores her completely
and leaves her. The reason why s/he fails to make sense of the loss of Louise in the first two
parts of the narrative is simply because the loss of Louise was a product of the same strategy
of objectification that the narrator subjects her/his narrative to. The self-knowledge the
narrator desired required a plotting that objectified not only memories, but also objectified
people s/he got close to. The narrator's realisation that this is what s/he has done comes in the
third part of the narrative: "What right had I to decide how she should live?" (Winterson 1994,
157). In response to Gail's claim that s/he ran out on Louise the narrator reflects: "Run out on
her? That doesn't sound like the heroics I'd had in mind" (ibid. 159). The heroics the narrator
had in mind never took into account the role of Louise as a subject. Like the narration of
her/his memories, s/he objectified her/his anticipations for an ending. S/he sacrifices her
desired object, while Louise could not, in the narrator's objectifying mind, lose or desire
anything.
The failure of the narrator's first attempt at explaining the breach between her/him and
Louise is a necessary stepping stone to a deeper understanding of the self. As the first attempt
at finding meaning fails, an alternative model of explanation needs to be found. In granting
Louise agency and considering her as a self-governing subject able to form an opinion about
the narrator's behaviour, the narrator is able to understand why the relationship came to an
end: s/he left Louise. The narrative of her/his abandonment of Louise creates self-knowledge

36
of the objectifying view she subjected Louise to, a self-knowledge which can be the used to
see the recurring pattern of objectification in her/his self-narration, and to understand the
reason for these objectifying tendencies.
Winterson's novel suggests that while one might attempt to influence how one
perceives one's own memories, there are limitations to this influence. Memories not only form
the basis for our existence in time but they are also in some way physically part of us. While
Winterson seems to emphasise their bodily presence, it might well be possible to retain a more
traditional position of Cartesian dualism and argue memory's unavoidable presence in the
mind. Deliberate forgetfulness is not an option. Furthermore, in trying to form a narrative
identity that avoids the unpleasant self-knowledge created by unflattering memories it does
not work to adopt severe narrative strategies. Rather than produce functional truths that create
meaning of temporal reality, these strategies might alienate the individual not only from her or
his past, but also from a sense of the present and the future.
In Written on the Body love for another person functions as the force that enables one
to abandon such a project. Whether Louise's return at the end of the narrative is real or not is
irrelevant. In loving Louise the narrator is forced to give her the status of an independent
subject so that s/he may arrive at a meaningful ending. Louise's return is the ending that is the
beginning of the narrator's narrative about finding meaning in the loss of Louise. But it is also
the ending that opens up for new beginnings, as the self-knowledge gained by the narrator
dismantles the rigid construction of her/his life story and lets her/him engage in a freer
meaning making: "I don't know if this is a happy ending but here we are let loose in open
fields" (Winterson 1994, 190).

37
38
Chapter 4: Conclusions

Underlying the creation of narratives of the self lies a complex dialogue between memory and
identity. In the stories we create about ourselves memory serves as the fabula. But it is not
only fabula we are trying to make sense of and understand in these stories. Though it is the
past that is being dealt with it is also the present and the future we are attempting to
understand. The place of the past in the present self, and the present self's place in reality is in
question. Our "refusal to allow temporality to be meaningless" (Brooks 323) leads us to
attempt to impose meaning on time, but the meaning of individual events can only be
understood if we have an idea of what they in the end will amount to, a sense of an ending. In
order for us to be able to interpret the fabula of memories we need to anticipate an ending
where it has amounted to some sort of meaning. Our identities, what our lives have made of
us so far, is one such end. Therefore, how we view ourselves in the present and what we
anticipate ourselves becoming in the future necessarily becomes an important element in the
construction of our life stories.
But if identity has such an influence on how we remember our past, and memories are
inherently fallible, there seems to be a risk that we trap ourselves in narratives that are solely
self-serving. The narrative might only produce self-knowledge that upholds the current view
of one's identity because this view is the one that shapes the interpretation of memories. It
seems possible that if an identity is formed on faulty memories this same identity will attempt
to fortify and defend the faulty memories in order to avoid change. In its extreme form this
logic leads us to the conclusion that the identity I have in this moment may very well have
influenced my memories of my past to the extent that I might only remember myself being the
same yesterday because that stability of interpretation is what my identity creates.
Julian Barnes addresses these issues of false memories and the self-preserving
function of identity in his novel. Anthony is faced with indications that he has interpreted
some of his memories in ways that do not reflect truthfully upon the past. Furthermore, the
element of self-knowledge that is most important to him and which is central to his
interpretations is also the element that makes his interpretations diverge from Veronica's view
of the matter. Anthony needs the plotted narrative to offer him a role that can create self-
knowledge of his relevance. But while the necessary "chain of individual responsibilities"
leading up to Adrian's suicide does contain his name it is "not so long a chain that everybody
can simply blame everyone else" (Barnes 2011, 12), and in this situation he is among the

39
people that can not be blamed. His impact on Veronica and Adrian's lives was coincidental
and minuscule. No real responsibility lies with Anthony.
What Barnes seems to suggest is that though memory is fallible and identity so self-
serving that it may uphold false memories, our self-narrations still need to relate to an external
reality. Designating something as a false memory indicates that it at the very least is not
entirely true (White 53). But since knowing our past in a factual manner is, in most cases,
problematic the falseness of memory must be measured in a different kind of truth. Meaning
is one such truth. A memory may in other words be false when it no longer contributes to the
process of making meaning that the narrative it is part of tries to achieve. The first step in
attempting to correct the faulty memory is to restructure the syuzhet it is a part of in a way that
lets the self-knowledge and the meaning it creates remain largely unchanged. However, when
this is not possible the preservation of self-knowledge must be sacrificed so that the end goal
of meaning making might be reached. If our narratives do not arrive at a meaningful end they
can not create any self-knowledge and one's position in the narrative becomes irrelevant.
Winterson offers some insight into how the meaning created by our narratives is
judged in meeting external realities. The narrator of Written on the Body attempts to escape
unpleasant self-knowledge by creating a narrative in which memories are isolated and
seemingly without any function as meaning bearing constituents. This necessitates that the
narrator has full control over her/his narrative. In reality, Winterson suggests, this is not a
possibility. We exist in space, in time, and in relation to other people. These other people have
their own ability to create stories, not only of their own lives but also of ours. Our memories
are inescapably present in our bodies and in our minds, and they are present in the ending that
is our identities. The closer people are to us the better they will read us and in the process
narrate us themselves. Sometimes these narrations may be completely new translations, like
Louise's interpretation of the narrator in Written on the Body or Veronica's interpretation of
Anthony's narrative in The Sense of an Ending. Other times they may conform nicely with our
own narrations. However, these repeated narrations will never be the same narrative.
Repetition returns with a difference. The result is that we live in a sea of narratives, all vying
for the role as the dominant meaning creator. Clinging to one specific variation of the syuzhet
that the world around one does not accept alienates one from the world.
Our desire for meaning, what Brooks identifies as the driving force of plot and the
motivation for narrative (48), is, in the case of the narratives we construct about ourselves, not
only a desire that we should find meaning in our own lives but also that other people should
find meaning in us. Our desire for meaning is also a desire to have meaning. This desire is

40
what makes Anthony cling to his plot structure, and makes Winterson's narrator abandon
hers/his. The idea that we in part create ourselves through the narratives we construct about
ourselves seems to suggest that we could influence these narratives and take part in this
construction of the self-knowledge of the extended self. But what both Barnes and Winterson
suggest is that such attempts at self-creation might well be futile and ultimately alienating.
Our desire to have meaning in the eyes of others means that our narratives need to make sense
to others who see them as well. As such, the narratives of our lives are outside of our control.
We live with them, but we do not create them. They create us.

41
42
Bibliography
Barnes, Julian. England, England. 1998. London: Vintage, 2008. Print.

______The Sense of an Ending. London: Jonathan Cape, 2011. Print.

______"Julian Barnes, Etc." Interview by Robert Birnbaum. Identity Theory. Identity Theory,

9 Dec. 2000. Web. 14 Feb. 2013.

Brooks, Peter. Reading for the Plot: Design and Intention in Narrative. 1984. Cambridge,

Mass: Harvard UP, 1992. Print.

Childs, Peter. Contemporary Novelists: British Fiction Since 1970. Houndmills, Basingstoke,

Hampshire: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005. Print.

Childs, Peter, and Roger Fowler. The Routledge Dictionary of Literary Terms. 1973. New

York: Routledge, 2006. Print.

Eakin, Paul John. How our Lives Become Stories: Making Selves. 1999. Ithaca, NY: Cornell

UP, 1999. Print.

Fåhraeus, Anna. "Embattled Subjects: the Role of Textual Masculinity in Written on the

Body." Nordic Journal of English Studies 7.1 (2008): 81-97. Web 5 Apr. 2013.

Genette, Gérard. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. First publication in English,

1980. Trans. Jane E. Lewin. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1983. Print.

______Narrative Discourse Revisited. First publication in English, 1988. Trans. Jane E.

Lewin. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1990. Print.

Gillis, John R. Introduction: Memory and Identity: The History of a Relationship.

Commemorations: The Politics of National Identity. 1994. Ed. John R. Gillis.

Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1996. Print.

Gustar, Jennifer J. "The Body of Romance: Citation and Mourning in Written on the Body."

Aesthetica 2.1 (Fall 2005): 25-41. Web 14 Feb. 2013.

Hellquist, Elof. Svensk Etymologisk Ordbok. Lund: C. W. K. Gleerups Förlag: 1922. Project

43
 Runeberg. Web 23 Apr. 2013.

Henke, Christoph. "Remembering Selves, Constructing Selves: Memory and Identity."

Journal for the Study of British Cultures 10.1 (2003): 77-100. Print.

King James Bible. Project Gutenberg ed. 2nd version, 20th ed. Champaign III: Project

Gutenberg, 1992. Web. 23 April 2013.

Lindow, John. Norse Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Heroes, Rituals, and Beliefs. 2001.

Cary, NC: Oxford UP, 2002. Ebrary. Web 23 Apr. 2013.

Neisser, Ulric. "Self-narratives: True and False." The Remembering Self: Construction and

Accuracy in the Self-Narrative. 1994. Ed. Ulric Neisser and Robyn Fivush. Emory

Symposia in Cognition 6. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2010. 1-18. Cambridge Books

Online. Web. 1 May 2013.

Reed-Morrison, Laura. Rev. Written on the Body, by Jeanette Winterson. Chicago Review 40.4

(1994): 101-105. JSTOR. Web. 9 Apr. 2013.

Rubinsond, Gregory J. "Body Languages: Scientific and Aesthetic Discourses in Jeanette

Winterson's Written on the Body." Critique: Studies in Contemporary Fiction 42.2

(2001): 218-232. Literature Online. Web. 9 Apr. 2013.

Semeiks, Joanna C. Rev. of The Sense of an Ending, by Julian Barnes. Confrontation 111

(Spring 2012): 241-244. Literature Online. Web. 12 Feb. 2013.

White, Hayden. ”Historical Fictions: Kermode's Idea of History." Critical Quarterly. Spec.

Issue on Frank Kermode 54.1 (2012): 43-59. Literature Online. Web. 12 Feb. 2013.

Winterson, Jeanette. Written on the Body. 1992. New York: Vintage, 1994. Print.

44