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In reference to the earlier discussion of fictive time-fiddling, I ran into an interesting bit in Bryant & May off the Rails (the most recent but one in Christopher Fowler's series, and the latest one I've read). Unlike my previous examples, it's in the text of the novel itself, not in an author's introduction, but Fowler does a lot of fourth wall-breaking in sneaky ways, so it's definitely authorial commentary on a confusing aspect of his series. It's probably self-explanatory (if I note that the book was published in 2010 and takes place at some point in the aughts, hence 60+ years from 1940, which is the ostensible setting (as flashback/memoir) of the majority of the first book in the series). Raymond Land is the Acting Head (1973-present) of the Peculiar Crimes Unit, and Arthur Bryant's continual foil.
"And there's another thing I've been meaning to talk to you about," Land hissed. "Your memoirs. You can't be serious."
"I have no idea to what you are referring, mon vieux tête de navet."
"You should: I found a manuscript of the first completed volume when I was unpacking one of your boxes yesterday morning. What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?"
Bryant regarded him with wide blue eyes. "I'm writing down histories of our cases at the Unit precisely as I remember them."
"That's the problem--you don't remember anything precisely."
"Oh, I have a system for that." Bryant screwed up an eye and peered into his pipe stem. "When I remember two facts but can't recall the event that connects them, I use the bridge of my imagination."
"All I can say is it's a bloody long bridge. You wrote up a full account of your first case--"
"The business at the Palace Theatre, the crazed killer who struck during a rather saucy production of Orpheus in the Underworld. You read it?"
"Yes, I did, and I've never read such a pile of pony old rubbish in my life."
"Obviously I had to make a few changes to protect the innocent."
"A few changes? You say it took place during the Blitz, for God's sake! I know for a fact that you didn't meet John until the 1950s."
"Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't. You met when you were working out of Bow Street Station."
"No, we didn't."
"Yes, you did. Apart from anything else, if your account was true you'd be in your late eighties by now, whereas you're clearly not."
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not. Don't be ridiculous. I'm not denying the basic facts--I've seen the official case notes--but you've moved the whole investigation back by about fifteen years."
"No, I haven't."
"Yes, you have. Stop contradicting me!"
"I'm not. You only think I am."
"I don't."
"You do."
"Just stop it! I know what I'm talking about. The Unit was founded in September 1940, but you weren't in it then. I've read the Home Office file on the place. It was called the Particular Crimes Unit at that point. It didn't become Peculiar until you came along."
"That's not how I remember it. And if that's not how it happened, it's how it should have happened. Far more colourful background material."
I'm not sure if this is more a reflection on time (Bryant and May are presented as being 22 and 19 respectively at the time of the first case (and both turned down for military service), and indefinitely elderly and far past retirement age in the present) or on memory and story-telling (what is truth?), but it's an intriguing addition to the genre.
"And there's another thing I've been meaning to talk to you about," Land hissed. "Your memoirs. You can't be serious."
"I have no idea to what you are referring, mon vieux tête de navet."
"You should: I found a manuscript of the first completed volume when I was unpacking one of your boxes yesterday morning. What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?"
Bryant regarded him with wide blue eyes. "I'm writing down histories of our cases at the Unit precisely as I remember them."
"That's the problem--you don't remember anything precisely."
"Oh, I have a system for that." Bryant screwed up an eye and peered into his pipe stem. "When I remember two facts but can't recall the event that connects them, I use the bridge of my imagination."
"All I can say is it's a bloody long bridge. You wrote up a full account of your first case--"
"The business at the Palace Theatre, the crazed killer who struck during a rather saucy production of Orpheus in the Underworld. You read it?"
"Yes, I did, and I've never read such a pile of pony old rubbish in my life."
"Obviously I had to make a few changes to protect the innocent."
"A few changes? You say it took place during the Blitz, for God's sake! I know for a fact that you didn't meet John until the 1950s."
"Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't. You met when you were working out of Bow Street Station."
"No, we didn't."
"Yes, you did. Apart from anything else, if your account was true you'd be in your late eighties by now, whereas you're clearly not."
"Yes, I am."
"No, you're not. Don't be ridiculous. I'm not denying the basic facts--I've seen the official case notes--but you've moved the whole investigation back by about fifteen years."
"No, I haven't."
"Yes, you have. Stop contradicting me!"
"I'm not. You only think I am."
"I don't."
"You do."
"Just stop it! I know what I'm talking about. The Unit was founded in September 1940, but you weren't in it then. I've read the Home Office file on the place. It was called the Particular Crimes Unit at that point. It didn't become Peculiar until you came along."
"That's not how I remember it. And if that's not how it happened, it's how it should have happened. Far more colourful background material."
I'm not sure if this is more a reflection on time (Bryant and May are presented as being 22 and 19 respectively at the time of the first case (and both turned down for military service), and indefinitely elderly and far past retirement age in the present) or on memory and story-telling (what is truth?), but it's an intriguing addition to the genre.
