Beginnings

What is a memory?

The question seems so inane. Memories are simply what they are: discrete parcels of human experience that form the chronological framework of our lives. There's nothing more to it really.

Or is there?

The other day in my freshman seminar (Memoirs and Memories), I was forced to actually delve into the deceptively simple matter of what constitutes a memory and why should anyone care. My five classmates and I found ourselves arrayed about a table, engaging in a disjointed yet earnest discourse on the nature of memoirs, diaries and their like. Our somewhat abstracted objective was to understand the unique place of memoirs in both literature and history, and our dialogue on the matter spanned topics as disparate as the validity of artistic license in memoir writing and our own personal recollections of the 9/11 world trade center bombings. As we sat there talking, tense with the nervous energy of our first day of college courses, I began to discern certain unifying threads in our discussion, tell tale hints as to what directions our study of memoirs may veer.

What I sensed was as follows:

A) Memories, as intangible constructs of the mind, are incredibly hard to quantify. They seem to be more about randomness and fleeting imagery than anything empirical or logic-driven.

B) Memoirs as opposed to autobiographies are driven by vivid, emotive forces. The rich description of an event and its emotional impact trumps any notion of narrative or structure.

C) Memoirs lend history a color and depth that is lacking in a simple recitation of facts.

As class progresses, I'm sure my interpretation of memories (both mine own and those of others) will continue to burgeon and evolve. This after all, is just a beginning.