Writing the Mind
Tell Me Everything You Don’t Remember is an apt title for
Christine Hyung-Oak Lee’s novel. A large portion of the novel is quite
literally her telling us, the readers, things that she doesn’t actually
remember, but is able to tell us because she wrote it down or because someone
else told her it happened. When Christine was 33, she had a stroke. Her novel
is the story of her journey to recovery and the experiences that taught her how
to cope.
The novel is composed very much like a memory, or perhaps a
train of thought about certain memories and memory itself. It flows, sometimes
smoothly and other times more abruptly, through different moments in
Christine’s life, not in chronological order but instead in the seemingly
random order of Christine’s thoughts. Because of this lack of structure, it was
hard to tell when the novel was coming to an end. There was a beginning in the
beginning, so to speak, but there were also several other beginnings throughout
the novel. There was body interspersed amongst the numerous beginnings as well
as various moments that seemed to be the climax and conclusion, despite there
being a good chunk of the book left. Amusingly enough, when I finally did read
the last word, I was shocked, “wait, this is the end?”
Another result of the string of thought-like structure is
that many things were repeated in only slightly altered ways, which I found
both annoying and vital. Whenever she repeated something for the second, third,
or even fourth time, I found myself thinking, “I know, Christine, you’ve told
me this already,” which is probably something many people around her thought
during her recovery. But as irritating as it was, I wouldn’t want it any other
way. The repetition, along with the arbitrary ordering of events, is what gives
the novel a sense of sincerity and really lets you see into Christine’s head.
Throughout the novel, Christine gives us quick lessons on
brain anatomy, memory formation, and the different types of memory. She is sure
to point out the scientific distinction between parts of the brain and the
different types of memory. However, there is a more interesting distinction
that she makes clear in her novel, a distinction between the body, the brain,
and the mind. This distinction is not quite scientific and more of a personal
categorization of Christine’s. If you ask me, the brain is a part of the body,
an organ, and the terms “brain” and “mind” are synonymous. But for Christine,
this isn’t the case.
She sees the body and the brain as individual entities.
Pre-stroke, she cursed her ill-functioning body, which punished her for all
forms of exercise with near-suffocation and intense migraines, and she relied
heavily on her high functioning brain, from her photographic memory to her
quick wit. Post-stroke and post-PFO closure, she celebrated her new and
improved, appropriately oxygenated body and raged against her forgetful brain. For
her, it seems as though there is a constant battle between her brain and her
body, two rivals instead of one whole being.
Christine does not separate her brain and her mind in the
same way as her brain and body. They are
not at war, but they still are not the same. Her brain in an object, much like
her body, but her mind is a concept; it is her personality. When part of her
brain died, it altered her mind and, in extension, her concept of her self. She
became a new Christine, despite remaining predominantly unchanged from a
biologically standpoint. Christine’s transformation really speaks to the
complexity of the brain and stability of self.
- Erin Kapurch
Erin, I like your comment on the structure of the book, how it didn't progress linearly throughout her life but rather jumped back and forth from different points in her life. I thought that it perhaps reflected which things Christine "chose" to remember, maybe, since at several points during the book, she explains her tendency to compartmentalize her memories and her trauma. A lot of the more painful memories, I noticed, didn't come up until later in the book, and I thought this might be because as Christine healed from her stroke and learned to stop compartmentalizing, the more she was able to look back at more painful memories. I also didn't notice, until you pointed it out, how she kept repeating things through the book, and how this probably reflected the way she repeated things when she had short-term memory loss as part of her stroke. It makes me think about the other ways in which the structure of the book emulates the structure of Christine's brain during her stroke.
ReplyDeleteErin,
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed your interpretation of Hyung-Oak Lee's work. What I appreciated the most was your closing where you outlined that the mind is different from the brain but they're not seperate from each other. I also think it was very important to note that Hyung-Oak Lee became a new person and she accomplished things and started living in a manner that her heart desired and her mind needed. I feel as though it was easy to get caught up in that she had lost almost everything pertaining to her memory but the entire process of her writing her story through her body encapsulated and also created new memories, new life and new meanings to her life. I thought that was the strongest aspect was that in the midst of writing the trauma and making sense of it through her own analyses she was able to create and start different and new path through her new understandings and appreciations she had gained from the trauma.
Jameka
Erin, You were able to show us how some brain function got into the memoir (not a novel) and how she alternated tone and language to illustrate the times she intuiting and those times she is leaning on research.
ReplyDeletee