I’ve finished reading John Le Carré: the biography, by Adam Sisman, a hugely enjoyable tour de force which has been justly praised by everyone who’s reviewed it. My only reservation is that it’s ‘official’, meaning that Le Carré co-operated with Sisman throughout – a huge advantage, but tempered by the fact that Sisman is therefore not always able to explore certain aspects of Le Carré’s life fully. For example, I’d like to know more about his relationships with women (the book goes into detail about his first wife only, now deceased); more about what other people – siblings, children, friends, publishers – thought or think about him; and, of course, more about his life as a spy. Sisman himself is not entirely convinced by Le Carré’s stated reasons for his reticence about the last of these.
However, Sisman makes it clear in his introduction that, although he and Le Carré enjoyed a mutually respectful professional relationship while the research for the biography was in progress, he didn’t allow himself to be tucked into Le Carré’s pocket. His version of what took place during certain key events in the author’s life (based on painstaking assembly of the facts) often differs markedly from Le Carré’s. This is fascinating, because usually these are also events that have been fictionalised to create important scenes in the novels. Sisman suggests that, over time, Le Carré has conflated his recollection of the actual event with the fictionalised account – which is even more likely in the many instances when he’s created different versions of the same event in several different novels.
This made me think about the constant overlap, and inevitable tension, between fact and fiction. We do always want to know ‘what really happened’: it’s a fundamental trait, part of the curiosity that makes humans the most adventurous and experimental of all primates. But can we ever achieve this knowledge? Does it even exist? It’s the continuing quest of the historian, his or her holy grail, and one that’s bound, however meticulous the research, to result ultimately in failure. The many versions of the Battle of the Somme that have been published this year offer a vivid example.
As a crime writer, I’ve often been intrigued by the different versions of the truth that are presented in courts of law. For example, based on exactly the same set of evidence, Oscar Pistorius was convicted of ‘culpable manslaughter’ by one judge and homicide by another. O.J. Simpson made a histrionic display of not being able to fit on to his hand a bloodstained leather glove left at the scene of his wife’s murder. It was pure courtroom theatre, but enough to introduce ‘reasonable doubt’ into the minds of the jury at his criminal trial, so they found him not guilty; however, he lost a civil court case in which he was accused of the same crime.
Even trickier than facts that rely on interpretation are ‘facts’ that may or may not be the result of distorted memory or belief. Recently, I’ve read several accounts of the Jeremy Bamber murders that took place thirty years ago. Bamber, who is one of a handful of convicted murderers serving a whole-life tariff and who has been told that for him life imprisonment literally means staying in prison until he dies, was accused and found guilty of murdering his adoptive parents and sister and her two twin sons in order to inherit the family wealth. Bamber has always protested his innocence; he’s set up a website that gives his version of events and has quite a large number of supporters who believe him. Having studied these accounts, written from all possible points of view, my own conclusion is that it’s the balance of probability that Bamber did commit the murders. What’s less clear is whether he himself knows this, or whether he either killed his relatives while experiencing a ‘fugue’ and has no recollection of their murders, or perhaps has been proclaiming his innocence for so long that he now believes it himself. This may sound far-fetched, but there is something very odd about his case.
Points of view are slippery things. As a child, I looked up to my paternal grandmother, a petite and elegant lady who kept house for my great-uncle, the youngest of her four brothers. Unlike my other grandmother, she was very up-to-date and well-informed, not just about current affairs, but about the fashions and music of the sixties that interested me. She went out to work, she dressed in smart clothes and she was always ready with good advice, but only when asked. I thought she was just about the perfect role model. However, I noticed that her brothers often spoke to her quite condescendingly. There seemed never to have been any question that she would take the entire responsibility of caring for, first of all, her elderly mother and then her youngest brother, who was physically disabled. At the time, I thought this was just another example of the male chauvinism that was rife in my family, but much later I discovered that she’d been ‘a bit of a goer’ in her youth. They’d given her ‘respectability’, but it seems the debt was not one that could ever be repaid. Their view of her was totally at variance with my own. Similarly, when my parents’ marriage disintegrated, I thought I understood chapter and verse exactly why, having been the reluctant occupier of a ringside seat, but over the many years that have since passed I’ve come to realise that I saw those events entirely from my mother’s point of view: I had and still have no idea what my father thought or suffered.
What did really happen? It’s a constant but almost always unanswerable question. In my latest novel, Rooted in Dishonour, mistaken points of view cost dear. The most skilful novelists are those who can assemble a kaleidoscope of viewpoints and still keep the reader onside, still maintaining that ‘willing suspension of disbelief’ that is the essential ingredient of all successful fiction. A few, like Le Carré, have the rare capability of achieving this while shifting the reader’s perception of the characters over time: thus, if you read all of the Smiley novels in sequence, you begin by thinking that Karla is the devil incarnate and end by realising that he is ‘just’ a man, with all the depth as well as the imperfections that entails. And it begs the question, what really happened? If we didn’t have to ponder that, there’d be no reason for reading any novel and, therefore, no reason for writing it.
15 thoughts on “What really happened?”
The best example I know of ‘what really happened’ is the Japanese movie Ran….
Every witness has his or her own truth…
Rashomon (sorry, huge Kurosawa fan).
I’m always suspect of biographical material regarding writers. Novelists are pathological liars if they’re any good at all. All those literary tricks of glossing over the instances in the tale where on character asking “why would we do that?” which could send the whole thing into the ditch. We suspend belief as readers and plow onward.
Better for David Cornwell to simply drink his scotch and walk his hounds along the cliffs. Our illusions are so much the better when the truth drifts a little from focus.
We should admire the man for crafting inclusive tales revealing the whole milieu of his characters without the plodding exposition we pretend to enjoy in Tolstoy. Frou Frou’s nostrils? Really? We needed that?
Mistaken points of view. Ah, Christine. That’s a real gem right there.
Oops…Of course Rashoman…
Thank you, Hilda and Jack, for dimensions fascinating to consider! Apologies to you, too, for my impossibly late reply. 😦
Fascinating, Christina! As a memoir writer myself, I am very conscious that my memories might not be completely true. They are true memories, but as factual accounts of what really happened, they probably wouldn’t stand up in court. What an interesting post!
Your thoughtful view is one I never want to miss, Valerie. It’s as welcome as ever, even if my response is so late. Thank you! 🙂
Great post. In my former life (working in Child Protection) we had to grapple with the concept of truth, and memory – and the fact that two people can tell the same story from a different perspective and each is telling his/her own ‘truth’. Which makes finding a coherent story to convince a jury and get a conviction hugely difficult (and highlights the courage of young people able to give evidence.)
Gosh, Jo, I hadn’t realised that that was your previous experience! It’s not surprising that you have referred to it here, for different perspectives in Child Protection must be a nightmare to contend with.
Many thanks as always for taking the trouble to read and to comment. 🙂
Doris did, to a degree, live in Westlode Street on terms that were partly her own. She left for a while and worked as a cleaner in London (during WW2) and returned when the family backed down on things she was not prepared to do at any price.
The finest literary work addressing the relativity of memory that I have ever read is Lawrence Durrell’s “Alexandria Quartet”. You have to read all four, in sequence and they can be a little heavy going at first – but they reward reading and re-reading too.
Thank you, Clive, and sorry for not coming back here recently to pick this up. Your take on things is always welcome here! Best wishes.
Hey … you okay over there on your side of the pond? Nothing “spooky” after writing about Smiley’s friend? No stray eastern block renegades?
Seriously, give us a wave if you’re doing okay.
You’d been turning the crack pretty hard with the day gig travel from the pictures and we just want to know you’ve come in from the garden safe and dry.
Hey, Jack! Thank you for being so concerned about me. As you’ll see from my latest post, it’s the work that has carried me off! *waves enthusiastically* Yes, safe and dry. Thank you, as always. 🙂
Re … crank not crack. Spellcheck hates me.
Huge grin! 😀