Nothing on Earth & Sparsely Furnished Worlds : Narrative Fiction and The

University of Wollongong Research Online University of Wollongong Thesis Collection University of Wollongong Thesis Collections 2009 Nothing on earth & Sparsely furnished worlds : narrative fiction and the problem of incompleteness Thomas Gibson University of Wollongong Recommended Citation Gibson, Thomas, Nothing on earth & Sparsely furnished worlds : narrative fiction and the problem of incompleteness, Doctor of Philosophy thesis, Faculty of Creative Arts, University of Wollongong, 2009. http://ro.uow.edu.au/theses/3474 Research Online is the open access institutional repository for the University of Wollongong. For further information contact Manager Repository Services: [email protected]. Nothing on Earth & Sparsely furnished worlds: narrative fiction and the problem of incompleteness A thesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the award of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Thomas Gibson B.A (Hons) (University of Sydney) Faculty of Creative Arts University of Wollongong 2009 DECLARATION I certify that this thesis does not, to the best of my knowledge and belief, contain any material written or published by another person, except where due reference is made in the text. No part of the thesis has previously been submitted for a degree or diploma at any institution of higher education. Thomas Gibson (Candidate) iii iv ABSTRACT Part A: Creative component Nothing on Earth The novel tells the story of an amnesic voyager, or ‘fugueur’, who is trying to retrace his own forgotten journey through the island of Madagascar. As he attempts to uncover what he has been doing in the country, and thus what might have compelled him to travel there, he finds himself repeatedly delayed by the people he meets along his way. But although these encounters on the road distract him from his search, they ultimately prove to be no less important to it than the clues he manages to recover. Raising as they do the themes of loss and memory, place and belonging, hope and nostalgia, they hold up a series of distorting mirrors to his own strange situation. Part B: Theoretical component Sparsely furnished worlds: narrative fiction and the problem of incompleteness The thesis examines the ‘gaps’ in narrative fiction and what they mean for our understanding of fictional objects. In the philosophy of fiction it is sometimes argued that such objects are peculiarly incomplete, due to the fact that they are only partly determined by the fictional text in which they are constructed. What the narrative fails to tell us about the object leaves a gap in the object itself. Against this view, it is just as often argued that the objects are complete within the fiction, although they are only very partially revealed by the lacunary narrative. What the narrative omits to tell us leaves only a gap in our knowledge. It is argued that neither of these positions can give an adequate account of the complex ways in which the gaps in the narrative affect our perception of fictional objects. What the narrative leaves unsaid has a decisive, yet rarely acknowledged, influence on the ‘ontological appearance’ of the fictional world—the sense of its reality or unreality, completeness or incompleteness, particularity or universality, and distance or proximity to the actual and familiar. v In order to explain this influence, the thesis sets out a broad typology of narrative gaps, providing examples of the varied ways in which they can be employed in literary works. At the same time narratology is used to show how the effect of these omissions, or the way in which they are interpreted by the reader, depends fundamentally on narrative form. What emerges from this analysis is a general way of reading narratives ‘in the negative’, according to their kinds and ways of leaving out. Only through such reading is it possible to arrive at a more nuanced answer to the question of how the gaps in the narrative affect the ontological texture of the fictional world. vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS For his help, advice and critical comments at all stages of this project, I would like to thank my supervisor Dr Anthony Macris. For their careful reading of drafts of the novel, and the many corrections and amendments they suggested, I would like to thank my mother Jenny Gibson and my grandmother Joyce Gibson, who sadly never saw the manuscript reach its final form. For giving me time to finish the thesis when there were more babies than hands to hold them, I am grateful to Anne Armstrong. Finally, my deepest thanks and apologies go to Aurelia Armstrong, without whose criticism, counsel, encouragement and forbearance this work would never have been completed. vii viii ∗ CONTENTS Abstract v Acknowledgments vii PART A Nothing on Earth 1-186 PART B Sparsely furnished worlds: narrative fiction and the problem of incompleteness Introduction 1 1. The problem of incompleteness 7 2. Missing time 29 3. Missing space 45 4. Missing thoughts 57 5. Conclusion 73 Bibliography 83 ∗ For ease of reference the pages of Parts A and B are numbered separately. ix Part A Nothing on Earth 1 GENDARMES – NATURE OF THE FUGUE - AN ISOCHRONIC MAP – HOTEL FILEFANA It is still early morning when he finds the station. On the grey cement-block wall of the building, written in police blue, is a sign which reads POLISY and an emblem of a long- horned bull. Without pausing to catch his breath, he runs up the stairs and pushes the door, entering a bare room lined with metal filing cabinets and lit by a single window. At the end of the room, facing him, a man in a pale brown uniform is standing on a desk, reaching up to tap a light tube on the ceiling. The man glances down. ‘Plus tard, Monsieur. Le poste n’est pas ouvert.’ ‘No,’ he gasps, ‘it’s urgent. C’est grave.’ For a moment the man on the desk looks back at the light, then he steps to the floor and takes up a packet of cigarettes, apparently prepared, or at least not refusing, to listen. But now the policeman is waiting he finds that the words have escaped him. ‘I . ’ is all he manages. ‘Vous êtes anglais?’ ‘Oui . non . Australian.’ The policeman frowns at this distinction, or perhaps only at his lighter, which he shakes beside his ear. ‘Et vous êtes tourist?’ ‘No . I don’t know, not exactly.’ So what exactly, the policeman asks, still in French, would he say that he is doing here? ‘Je ne sais pas.’ With no change of expression, the man in uniform draws deeply on his cigarette and leans back on the desk. ‘Vous ne savez pas,’ he says, exhaling. ‘No, that’s right, I don’t remember. Je l’ai oublié. J’ai oublié tout . .’ ‘Oublié,’ the gendarme repeats. Afraid that his voice will fail again, he only nods. It is hopeless. Who will believe him when he can hardly believe it himself? But now the gendarme is reaching out and clicking his fingers impatiently: ‘Votre passeport, Monsieur.’ ‘C’est à l’hôtel.’ The gendarme frowns: ‘Quel hôtel?’ 1 ‘Fila . Filo . .’ ‘L’Hôtel Filefana?’ He thinks so, yes. ‘Et votre nom, Monsieur? Your name?’ ‘F . .’ he begins, but at that moment the interview is brought to a halt. With a sudden bang of the door, a man in a straw hat bursts into the room and starts shouting at the gendarme in an unknown tongue, stabbing his hand towards the street to indicate, presumably, some accident or misdeed outside. In a trail of smoke the gendarme follows the intruder out, not bothering to excuse himself as he leaves. Now left alone, he goes to the desk and takes a cigarette from the gendarme’s packet, which he lights with trembling hands. Through the dust-streaked window he can see a group of boys on a grassless field behind the station practising karate, their thin limbs twisting athletically against the sunlit orange earth. Not possible. From his throat comes a cry he has not heard since he was a child. What has happened to him? He lowers himself onto a chair and sits completely still. On the wall in front of him there are scraps of sticky tape and remnants of posters, a clock whose second hand twitches at the bottom of its arc without moving forward. Everything stands out with a peculiarly distant clarity, as if seen backwards through binoculars. Eight days, he thinks. Eight days of night. He watches the ash from the cigarette break off and settle on his lap, an inch of pale grey fluff. So whose clothes is he wearing? The floral shorts he pulled on in the hotel room are certainly not his—they are hideous—and nor is the shirt, although it has a perfume which he knows. Vanilla, it occurs to him; his clothes smell of vanilla . But as he sniffs at his sleeves he hears footsteps on the stairs and gets up with a start. It is not the gendarme who appears first this time, but another officer, a stocky man with a closely cropped head and an air of authority, a sergeant perhaps, who on seeing him in the room turns back to his colleague to demand an explanation. As the gendarme obliges, the sergeant glances back at him with increasing frequency, each time with a widening smile of amusement which soon spreads to the gendarme’s face as well. When the sergeant is satisfied with what he has heard he holds up a hand and, still smiling broadly, sits down behind his desk. ‘Vous souffrez d’une perte de mémoire, c’est ça?’ That’s right, he answers. He can’t explain it. At this the sergeant’s eyebrows lift ambiguously: ‘Qu’est-ce que vous faisiez hier soir?’ Last night? He doesn’t know .

Load more