dgaughran
Banned
- Joined
- Oct 1, 2009
- Messages
- 1,256
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- Location
- Stuck in Sweden
- Website
- davidgaughran.wordpress.com
I think someone upthread mentioned versimilitude rather than veracity, and there is a lot of truth in this.
I think everyone here agrees on the broad points, and the difference is a matter of degree. If we, as novelists, were just to stick to the recorded facts, we would have a dull piece of narrative non-fiction. To bring it alive, we must make guesses. Depending on our level of research that we do (and that we can do), those guesses will either be educated or wild stabs in the dark. But there is still no way we could stand behind them as fact. What we can say is that it is something the character might have said/done given all that we know.
For example, the ending of my novel centres on the two greatest figures in South American history, Simón Bolívar and José de San Martín, when they met to discuss the conclusion of the independence struggle. It was the first time they had met, they spoke alone, and no historical record was made of their meeting, where San Martín resigned to become an anonymous farmer, leaving Bolívar the glory of finishing the Spanish. For two hundred years, San Martín's motives for stepping aside have remained a mystery. I attempt to imagine that conversation, and San Martín's reasons for stepping aside.
The story of what happened at that meeting is an extremely contentious question, in South America at least. All of the available research is very partisan. Argentine historians contend that Bolivar was a vainglorious bully, willing to threaten the entire independence movement, unless San Martin was removed from the picture, and he could be top dog. Venezuelan historians argue that San Martin was a paper tiger, an opium-addled lily-livered closet monarchist who was tired, spent as a political force, and just waiting to hand everything over to a real man. Nobody knows for sure, as there were no witnesses to the meeting, and neither of them spoke much about it afterwards. It’s fascinating to me – the most momentous moment in South American history, and there are no witnesses, no record.
I suspected at the start that the truth may lie somewhere in the middle. I have read numerous books and articles on the subject, but, as a novelist, I had to take a stand. I decided to rely almost exclusively on the comments of the men themselves, most particularly on a letter San Martin wrote to Bolivar after the meeting, complaining about the stories Bolivar was spreading.
I think it was Hilary Mantel who said that the historical record is always imperfect and that a novelist’s real job lies in these cracks. There is no way I could say that what I wrote is what happened with any surety. It's what I think happened, based on evidence. I have a long conversation between the two men at the end of the novel, only parts of which are things I know they said to each other. The rest is the kind of things I think they would have said to each other, given the situation, and their respective personalities, such as we know.
Dave
I think everyone here agrees on the broad points, and the difference is a matter of degree. If we, as novelists, were just to stick to the recorded facts, we would have a dull piece of narrative non-fiction. To bring it alive, we must make guesses. Depending on our level of research that we do (and that we can do), those guesses will either be educated or wild stabs in the dark. But there is still no way we could stand behind them as fact. What we can say is that it is something the character might have said/done given all that we know.
For example, the ending of my novel centres on the two greatest figures in South American history, Simón Bolívar and José de San Martín, when they met to discuss the conclusion of the independence struggle. It was the first time they had met, they spoke alone, and no historical record was made of their meeting, where San Martín resigned to become an anonymous farmer, leaving Bolívar the glory of finishing the Spanish. For two hundred years, San Martín's motives for stepping aside have remained a mystery. I attempt to imagine that conversation, and San Martín's reasons for stepping aside.
The story of what happened at that meeting is an extremely contentious question, in South America at least. All of the available research is very partisan. Argentine historians contend that Bolivar was a vainglorious bully, willing to threaten the entire independence movement, unless San Martin was removed from the picture, and he could be top dog. Venezuelan historians argue that San Martin was a paper tiger, an opium-addled lily-livered closet monarchist who was tired, spent as a political force, and just waiting to hand everything over to a real man. Nobody knows for sure, as there were no witnesses to the meeting, and neither of them spoke much about it afterwards. It’s fascinating to me – the most momentous moment in South American history, and there are no witnesses, no record.
I suspected at the start that the truth may lie somewhere in the middle. I have read numerous books and articles on the subject, but, as a novelist, I had to take a stand. I decided to rely almost exclusively on the comments of the men themselves, most particularly on a letter San Martin wrote to Bolivar after the meeting, complaining about the stories Bolivar was spreading.
I think it was Hilary Mantel who said that the historical record is always imperfect and that a novelist’s real job lies in these cracks. There is no way I could say that what I wrote is what happened with any surety. It's what I think happened, based on evidence. I have a long conversation between the two men at the end of the novel, only parts of which are things I know they said to each other. The rest is the kind of things I think they would have said to each other, given the situation, and their respective personalities, such as we know.
Dave
