Confabulations

I recently reread Albert Camus’ wonderful book The First Man. In it he searches in his childhood and early years for whatever it was that made him the man and writer he later became. And he does this without a trace of egocentricity. It’s a book about the world at that time and about history.

After reading it, I started to ask myself what has made me the kind of storyteller I am. And I came upon a clue. Nothing comparable to what Camus found. Just one insight to note down briefly.

For as long back as I can remember I have had the sensation of being a kind of orphan. A strange kind of orphan, for I had loving parents. There was nothing pathetic about my condition. Certain material circumstances, however, made this sensation possible and even encouraged it.

I seldom saw my parents. When I was at home I was looked after by a New Zealand governess whilst my mother worked in a kitchen making cakes and sweets to sell on the market. This was in the 1930s and my parents had a hard time making ends meet given their way of living. In the two rooms where the Governess and I lived there was a large wardrobe which she called the Cry Cupboard. When I wept I was put in it. From time to time my mother came upstairs to the two rooms to see how we were faring, and to bring us a box of home-made chocolate fudge.