645: For about . . .
What a Piece of Work I Am, the Preface concludes
FOR ABOUT A MONTH, in my version, I saw her nearly every night. Most of the time, she talked, and I listened. I took notes; she did not. I tried to get a word in now and then, and now and then she allowed me to, but most of the time she did the talking. She had a lot to tell me. When she had told me all her stories and we had, finally, said our good-byes, I went home, a little dizzy from it all, put the notes into a carton, labeled it “ARIANE’S STORY,” and put it in the cellar. Years passed. She wrote to me; long rambling letters arrived at irregular intervals from distant, exotic places as she meandered halfway around the world. I saved those, too.
In December of 1992, Gregory Tschudin’s film On Display was released and a fierce northeast storm struck, the third severe storm in a few months. The storm battered this old hotel where I make my life, and flooded the cellar, and the film jarred my memory. While I was cleaning the cellar, sorting through the mementos I stored there, many of them now destroyed, I came upon the notes that I had taken during the month I spent listening to Ariane. Now sodden and fragile, they were all but illegible. Her letters, which I had packed in a bundle, fared better. I was able to dry them out and read them. As I read, I found myself reminded of those nights that we had spent together and our conversations, and I was not at all surprised to find that as I recalled the things we had talked about and the time we had spent together I was already beginning to think of writing this book. By the time I had finished the last of her letters I could see the book. I could picture it finished, almost feel it in my hands. I was astonished to discover how much of what I am now I owe to Ariane. In so very many ways, she made me what I am today, even though I made her up. For me she exists at an intersection that is the confabulation of many myths, the anastomosis of several narrative lines, a crossroads in a labyrinth of tales where secret doors lead from one story to another, and she’s waiting there for me. It was she who taught me the sustaining value and rewards of a rich inner life, lived in the imagination. It was she who taught me the clarifying power of words. It was she who taught me to look beyond myself to find myself. She taught me all the things that were essential to my creating a life for myself, and to my creating a self, and she also taught me—largely through example, rereading the letters showed me—how very many things can be explained in terms of clam chowder. Along the way, I see now, she groomed me to tell her story, and so I have. I hope I’ve done it justice. I hope it would have made her proud.
Peter Leroy
Small’s Island
July 26, 1993
[to be continued]
Have you missed an episode or two or several?
You can begin reading at the beginning or you can catch up by visiting the archive or consulting the index to the Topical Guide. The Substack serialization of Little Follies begins here; Herb ’n’ Lorna begins here; Reservations Recommended begins here; Where Do You Stop? begins here.
You can listen to the episodes on the Personal History podcast. Begin at the beginning or scroll through the episodes to find what you’ve missed. The Substack podcast reading of Little Follies begins here; Herb ’n’ Lorna begins here; Reservations Recommended begins here; Where Do You Stop? begins here.
You can listen to “My Mother Takes a Tumble” and “Do Clams Bite?” complete and uninterrupted as audiobooks through YouTube.
You can ensure that you never miss a future issue by getting a free subscription. (You can help support the work by choosing a paid subscription instead.)
At Apple Books you can download free eBooks of Little Follies, Herb ’n’ Lorna, Reservations Recommended, and Where Do You Stop?
You’ll find overviews of the entire work in An Introduction to The Personal History, Adventures, Experiences & Observations of Peter Leroy (a pdf document), The Origin Story (here on substack), Between the Lines (a video, here on Substack), and at Encyclopedia.com.