The title of this book is apt as, rather than a family memoir, it is more of an epitaph to vanished memory itself. As the author admits: “The search for the past, like the search for the Holy Grail, separates the successful from the failures, and I belong to the latter: assiduous, but unlucky. I have never lost my hope of discovering the kernel at the centre of the mystery, a key of some sort which opens the door to a secret corridor in our old apartment, where a shaft of sunlight falls on a host of other unseen doors.”

The quest was a difficult one as Stepanova tries to reconstruct her family history which covers a momentous period in Russian and Soviet history. It is not surprising that evidence of the lives of ordinary individuals in that period of terror and upheaval is difficult to come by, and that even those who might have memories are unwilling or unable to reveal them. It is to the credit of Stepanova that her mainly unsuccessful efforts help to illustrate just what a difficult period the first half of the twentieth century was for an ostensibly middle class family with some Jewish connections. The story, which is pieced together in a rather haphazard way, comes together by the end of the book. The journey there was somewhat confusing for me as I found it difficult to integrate sections, such as the reflections on the numerous self-portraits of Rembrandt in the chapter of Selfies and their Consequences, with the main family story. But perhaps that is my shortcoming as selfies are an integral component of memory or perhaps it is false memory as they remain transfixed in the moment. Part of what Stepanova is trying to convey is how we often want to remember things differently from the way they actually were, and her family history bears this out.

This is definitely a book that would be worth a second reading when one is less concerned with the story and able to reflect on what the author reveals about memory, and indeed life, itself.

An absolute masterpiece

Whose memories get attention? Which order do they come in? What do they say about the rememberers? How would you write yours?

A beautiful portrait of how going in search of one's family history is at once utterly futile while also being one of the most meaningful experiences of one's life.

I really enjoyed how Stepanova interwove the lives and memoirs of so many people beyond her family, painting a symphonic picture of the world's inter-relatedness, and the universal search for meaning.

Some great reflections on what it means to remember and memory's purpose, but also on the process of curation.

Read this after hearing a discussion with Sasha Dugdale talking about the process of translation. Intriguing stuff.

This book is almost indescribable. It is unlike anything else, even though one of its recurring ideas is that “everything is like everything else.”

Διάβασα την ελληνική μετάφραση από τις εκδόσεις Βακχικόν, η οποία δεν είναι διαθέσιμη προς το παρόν στο Goodreads. Δυστυχώς η μετάφραση έχει θέματα, παρόλα αυτά το βιβλίο είναι πολύ ενδιαφέρον. Δεν είναι μυθιστόρημα, είναι ένα χρονικό όπως αναφέρεται στον υπότιτλο, ένα υβρίδιο, όπου η προσπάθεια της συγγραφέως να ανασυνθέσει την ιστορία των προγόνων της, την οδηγεί στο να συνδυάσει τις αναμνήσεις της με ντοκουμέντα (γράμματα και αντικείμενά τους), με ιστορικά γεγονότα, με μυθοπλασία και με δοκιμιακή γραφή. Η εβραϊκή ταυτότητα, μέσα την Ρωσία του 19ου και 20ου αιώνα, οι κοσμογονικές αλλαγές και πώς αυτές καθόρισαν τους ήρωες του βιβλίου. Η μνήμη και η διαφύλαξή της από τους επιγόνους, τα αντικείμενα, ο τόπος, ο χρόνος.

I'm interested in other's reviews/experiences with this book, because I initially found it so fascinating, and after about 20% in, found it really difficult to return to. I see the comparisons to WG Sebald, which I'm interested in pursuing. I'm also interested in the line from John Williams's nyt review: "This same principle of infinite significance in finite things provides Stepanova’s “In Memory of Memory” with its purpose, its emotion, its interest and its tedium." I guess it was the tedium that stopped me.

Even reading a review ("One’s tolerance for discursion will be tested here. Over the course of a few pages, Stepanova alludes to Odysseus, Orpheus, Medusa, Hannah Arendt, Susan Sontag and Nabokov.") makes me want to pick up this book again! These are all topics I want to read about! Maybe I should just skim the parts of less interest to me...