The Line Between Fiction & Memoir: A Hong Kong Story, by Kathleen Clare Waller
Substack reviews are back, baby!
Favorite Book Quote:
“Who is a Hongkonger?”
“This is a question she had asked over and over again as it was posed to her from afaor or as she tried to make claim to it in research. But it was a hard one to answer. This elusive definition lies in the ephemeral. In mortality. Something about Hong Kong made people feel it more. On the one hand, they feel immortal…partying till dawn at the age of fifty or sixty…finding constant new beginnings. On the other, time passes so quickly in this city. In the blink of an eye, they have been here for eight years. But the ephemeral, the movement, makes them live beyond themselves an constantly redefine themselves.”
“This is a Hongkonger: one who lives in the ellipsis.”
Having studied literature for a long time - her PhD is in Comparative Literature - Waller’s heritage as an author is, at first glance, of the School of Academia. But while her novel possesses that sharp eye for detail that academics regard as crucial for the best literature and the “realism” it conveys of a place and time, A Hong Kong Story not of that school; its profile is that of the School of Life. (I will explain more about my “school criteria” in a future post: stay tuned!)
Its strength: pure, only mildly adulterated life that is stunning in its honesty while also providing a valuable document of Hong Kong life at the height of globalization while celebrating the last days of its freedom as a political entity. (In particular, that part of the 2010s when we pinged each other)
This is its great strength, as is its Fort Knox wealth of detail. But like an aspiring fencer whose innate talents better lend themselves to archery, A Hong Kong Story has ‘a novel’ as its subtitle; but is, in fact, a slightly fictionalized memoir. The memoir is the ur-genre of the written form of the School of Life: pure life recorded with few to no literary mechanisms. A Hong Kong Story is no exception in that regard.
To be clear: memoirs are totally cool and calling A Hong Kong Story a memoir isn’t a disparagement; merely a correction. I have to say that since a lot of bad faith actors out there believe evil penis wielders unfairly call women’s fiction autobiographical as an insult; or conflate the more accurate designation of memoir to imply a failed fiction artist. I can’t think of a single sincere literatus, man or woman, who would do that. And I make no such claim here.
While I tend to acquire more diaries than memoirs since authors, for whatever reason, have tended to prefer them over the memoir form historically, memoirs on my shelf include not only acclaimed authors like Czesław Miłosz (author of my favorite memoir, Native Realm) but also those of figures not directly associated with literature, like Cardinal Mindszenty and General Charles de Gaulle. I mention those two names for a good reason. Any longtime reader of Timeless who agrees with my recognition of the evil of Communism (which should be every humanist and possessor of a moral compass) wouldn’t be surprised that I have the memoir of a freedom fighter as influential and uncompromising as Cardinal Mindszenty. While in France, the memoirs of De Gaulle have a very special place in French letters; I kid you not that for many in France, it wouldn’t be out of place or eyebrow-raising in the slightest to place De Gaulle’s memoirs next to Victor Hugo or Gustave Flaubert. This, of course, makes them essential for understanding literature beyond the narrow confines of the Anglosphere and - alongside Cardinal Mindszenty - strongly highlights my specific relationship to the art of the memoir: heroism, moral fortitude (including spiritually) and heritage in the case of Miłosz. My point being: memoirs are a special literary form and have, at times, been even more intimate - strangely - than poetry.
The present day is an ideal time for the memoir since it resonates with today’s reader’s need for “no bullshit.” (in quotes since literary devices are not bullshit, but unfortunately people have shoved this falsity into their brains and today’s second-rate authors don’t have the talent to prove otherwise) As unadulterated expressions of life, memoirs fit that description to a tee. But not unlike poetry fans, readers of memoirs constitute a specific breed of reader. It goes without saying that fans of the memoir will benefit the most from A Hong Kong Story.
When it comes to the kind of literary lessons “we here” at Timeless love to discuss, Waller’s novel/memoir offers an excellent opportunity to revisit the age-old question that’s always worth a revisitation: where is the line between reality - as seen in the art of the memoir - and the art of fiction with its Felix-The-Cat-like bag of tricks?
One of the great hallmarks of the best fiction (and the reason authors of the well-populated School of Pure Fiction start with short stories) is the ability to extract, if you will, a single drop of a story from the turbulent ocean of life. Be it a young summer spent working at a rural train station and sleeping with a seasoned, older woman in the process (Closely Watched Trains, by Bohumil Hrabal); a boy’s memories of a pony paired with his family’s disinterest in his grandfather’s stories about the Indians (The Red Pony, by John Steinbeck); an infatuation with an American girl in Europe who desires an Italian romance and is, ultimately, willing to die for it (Daisy Miller, by Henry James); a single “job” out of hundreds by an increasingly seasoned thief in Cairo who steals from other thieves, namely the political elites (The Colors of Infamy, by Albert Cossery); a single, meditative afternoon at a temple in Kyoto (A Mountain to the North, a Lake to the South, Paths to the West, a River to the East, by Laszlo Krasznahorkai); the specific, immediate yet eternal thoughts that plague the mind when one’s mother commits suicide (A Sorrow Beyond Dreams, by Peter Handke); or a noteworthy excursion to the Polish capital by a Lublinian magician. (The Magician of Lublin, by Isaac Bashevis Singer)
In other words: for all the scribbling writers do, the task of “plucking” is too seldom discussed, let alone celebrated. And anyone who wants to be remembered for their writing has no choice but to learn how to pluck in a manner that puts the barbers, cosmetists and other such meticulous bodily professions to shame.
A fundamental difference between the memoir and fiction - including a lot of autobiographical fiction - is the memoir’s indifference to plucking, which - from the mass perspective angle of the memoir - is comparable to gold mining. The memoir aspires to include everything - gold, fools gold, ore, gravel, even the dirt - within the confines of its bound pages. Once the pan is taken out of the creek in the California foothills, an adept memoirist equalizes everything with a singular style reminiscent of Vladimir Nabokov’s approach to character control: “my characters are galley slaves.”
At most, a memoir might require more than one volume to contain the entirety that is his or her story. Sometimes the division between volumes is topical. But it’s not mandatory since the memoir’s equalized prose and otherwise indiscriminate use of material necessitates no distinct marker of division. In the era of that nauseating term, “creative nonfiction,” I suspect the art of the memoir is more specialized than before. But at the end of the day, a man or woman with an interesting life who just wants to write it all down has zero obligation to indulge in these specificities.
Before I continue, some moron is gonna misread my metaphor - intentionally even - and think I’m implying A Hong Kong Story is “full of dirt.” This is a metaphor meant to use my home state’s gold mining heritage to clarify the distinct (and, arguably, even democratic) nature of the memoir. I don’t think A Hong Kong Story is dirt, or even dirty. As a memoir I give it five stars, in fact.
If I dwell on the memoir/fiction distinction, it is to avoid confusion for the prospective book buyer and learn something about the art of literature. Nothing more.
Kathleen Waller is an outstanding writer. And I mean it. There is no way to read A Hong Kong Story and not feel the weight of investment Waller has put into it. The weight and, of course, its management; if there is a gym where writers work out writing muscles, Waller seems to know both the entrance’s location and the doorman’s password. Every word is in the right place. It is a book and a tome; a story and a document; about a place and a person; and yes, though it’s unquestionably a memoir it has enough fictional elements to give it more flavor than the average contemporary memoir.
My only reservation is this: I doubt Waller will convince novel readers that A Hong Kong Story is a novel. This is not a unique struggle, by any means: because of the otherwise beautiful cover, some people have mistakenly assumed my debut novel, Calm Before an Earthquake, is for children or young adults. I have since learned that not only must I arrange cover art that accurately conveys what’s in the story; but also establish discreet communication with the target audience that simultaneously matches and transcends the title. Waller has the same problem as me: but where mine was with cover art, hers is with subtitles.
The story begins with the protagonist’s miscarriage. Though utilized, artistically speaking, as a fictional storytelling element, Waller knows how to clean up after her campfires. If it was fictional, it doesn’t matter: I believe her. (Though it is also for this reason that I cannot give a certain percentage as to how much of the story is fictional or memoir; just that enough of it is memoir for the artistry of the memoir to dominate)
A miscarriage is a powerful way to begin; even more powerful is to watch the miscarriage wedge itself between Ivy and her Austrian husband (the wedge being, to my rudimentary knowledge, the one great biographical difference between Ivy and the author). One couldn’t ask for a more powerful beginning. And if A Hong Kong Story were a pure example of the School of Pure Fiction, I believe it would be a bestseller had it been picked up by a major publisher.
But not long after that, the School of Pure Fiction Waller channels in the beginning gives way to the School of Life as represented by the memoir. From that point on, these two schools war with each other throughout the novel. Those sections and chapters describing Hong Kong and the protagonist’s relationship to the city - the best parts of the novel - serve the School of Life, while Ivy’s post-miscarriage social issues feud in this medieval tournament under the banner of the School of Pure Fiction.
A Hong Kong Story thus proceeds lopsided in that, on one hand, it is perfectly readable and qualitative to any reader today; but that, on the other hand, struggles to captivate the reader. By that I mean captivate as a novel. For while some of the most gifted novelists have managed to reinvent themselves and write for different schools - Herman Melville was the best reinventor, though he did it subtly without changing his greater maritime theme - their success lay in consistency. At no point does the School of Life or the School of Pure Fiction fully vanquish the other on the surface. But underneath, at the core of the work of literary artistry that is A Hong Kong Story, the School of Life is the clear winner.
As mentioned, everyone interested in the art of the memoir should not hesitate to add A Hong Kong Story to their book list. However one regards the book after all is said, this is a great milestone for Kathleen Waller and I hope she is proud of herself. I know that I’m proud of her, insofar as “just another fellow on the Internet” like me can warrant that emotion.
But it is also a crossroads moment for Waller. She must either devote herself to the art of the memoir - the School of Life - or to the novel - the Art of Pure Fiction. Or learn how to do both but keep them completely separate. (Which is where being “plucky” really helps) Whatever road she chooses, I’m certain she’ll do well. I very much anticipate revisiting her future work and seeing what choice she’s taken, if any.