Writing as deception

Anatomy of a Fall asks disturbing questions about a writer's intentions

In Justine Triet’s Oscar-winning film, Anatomy of a Fall, a famous author accused of murdering her own husband has her own fiction used against her in court – a character in one of her novels fantasises about that very crime. It is impossible to tell whether Sandra (played by a magnificent Sandra Huller) is guilty: she appears untroubled and calm. A quote from one of her interviews about her work is read out by the prosecution, in front of her young son: “My job is to cover the tracks, so fiction can destroy reality.” 

I wonder how many authors can relate to that quote? At first, it feels manipulative and frightening. The kind of thing a Ripley-esque writer might playfully say, pouring his guests another glass of wine, when asked about his latest literary masterpiece.

But then again, I think many writers are intoxicated by the power they have to shape perceptions of self through their own writing – to others, yes, but crucially to themselves. I am often surprised when meeting a writer whose work I have often read. Their real voice and their written voice feel like two different people altogether. In fact, someone close to me once said the same of mine. 

I think many writers like to think their real voice is the one on the page. The one that is brilliant, funny and clear; that has been carefully pruned, reordered, rewritten – where those anecdotes are sparkling and always so prescient. Perfected or manipulated? What is the difference?

In Rebecca F Kuang’s excellent novel Yellowface, her main character, an unsuccessful author, discovers a half-finished manuscript by her dead Chinese friend, a literary star, and attempts to pass it off as her own. She gets away with it, and becomes the star she always hoped she’d become. She knows, at heart, that she is a fraud, that she has stolen another’s voice, and yet she allows delusion to settle. She begins to think: but this is the voice I deserve, this is me as I should be.

Dickens was the perfect example of an author who used his work to create an idealised personal brand, to use a term he would not have known but might have been interested in. His writing was full of love and compassion towards his victim characters: those he appeared to want to save in real life, railing against child labour and setting up homes for destitute women. In Victorian England he was adored for his philanthropy. And yet the truth is he carried out terrible abuses towards his children and his wife. His fiction certainly covered his tracks, but what did he believe was his reality?

Some writers write to make sense of their lives – William Burroughs became a writer after accidentally killing his wife – others write to make their lives seem more interesting. The other day I read a review of Andrew Stauffer’s biography of Lord Byron, and was fascinated by the suggestion that Byron was a “method” writer. That is to say someone who purposefully did things so that he may write about them, such as seducing someone’s wife at a party.

It is perhaps more honest, however, than the writer who simply makes up stories on the page, having lived none of it. 

In Anatomy of a Fall, Sandra’s husband provokes an explosive fight with her over lunch, the day before his death. He wants to write too, but has never managed to finish his book, and is desperate for Sandra to take on a more active role with their son so that he might have more ‘space’. The fight results in physical blows. During Sandra’s trial, we learn that he recorded this fight, as well as many of their conversations, so that he may write about them. Perhaps he felt his tracks were not visible enough.

This week in links

I’ve been reading this incredible piece of reporting about American neuroscientist Andrew Huberman, whose intelligence and charm somehow enabled him to deceive six concurrent girlfriends into thinking they were his only one. It seems not a week goes by these days without there being some kind of longread/documentary/podcast about a terrible man exposed by women who have created a WhatsApp group. No doubt Netflix has already bought the rights.

And this scathing Washington Post piece dismantling the cult of feted young literary critic Lauren Oyler, who made a name for herself through her own scathing takedowns of works other critics don’t dare to be honest about. What goes around comes around, and now several critics have (a little too obviously) delighted in rinsing Oyler’s new book of essays. The Washington Post accuses her of having very strong opinions with very little to back them up: “ This is not criticism as a practice; it is criticism as a lifestyle brand.”

And, continuing the theme of blurred lines, L’Anomalie, by Hervé Le Tellier: a deeply empathetic sci-fi thriller about a plane that lands twice, with all the same people on board. Which ones are real, and which ones are duplicates? It was a hit in France during the pandemic (and won the Prix Goncourt). I finally took it on holiday and was blown away. It’s available in English.

I’ve been writing about Joel Golby’s new sort-of-memoir, Four Stars: A Life Reviewed. It’s very funny in places, and moved me to tears in others, but – on theme again! – Golby fictionalises many of the ‘memories’ in his memoir (though I only knew that from attempting to fact-check one with his publicist). To what end, though? I couldn’t work it out. 

I can’t stop thinking about the incredible responses my podcast co-host and I have been receiving about how two-part special on parenthood: why does nobody seem to want to have kids these days? We dissect various taboos, from male infertility to the idea of the ‘unnatural mother’, fantasy vs monstrous mother tropes on TV, and why there is an absence of literature on birth, in particular. Have a listen to both episodes here.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, leave a comment or reply to this email. You can also buy me a coffee via Ko-Fi. Say hello on Twitter @eleanorhalls1 or Instagram @elliehalls1