Joanna Siwiec Response: David Borkowski, Chapters 1-4

[Anonymous]

#666

While Borkowski’s voice is abrupt, simple, and straight, there is something intriguing about the way he uses that method to write a whole book based on the memory of one incident, and nonchalantly brings everything else into the picture. I think what he does towards the end of chapter 1 is rather bold. His story stops, and turns to us–the readers. Usually, a shift in voice and audience makes me rethink what I am reading and whether the author truly needs to tell me what I will miss if I don’t continue reading. Borkowski’s voice is so not restrained, and so past the idea of using “eloquent” language to tell a story. This story has sentence fragments, begins sentences with conjunctions, and lets thoughts run on. There is nothing in this piece but Borkowski’s voice, and nothing that he is keeping hidden anymore.

Something else that is different about Borkowski’s text is that it resembles a lengthy memory chain. He will begin with a memory, talk about it, and then we never get back to the beginning. The repetition of instances throughout the text makes me also question the tightness of this memoir, and whether he is doing it to us on purpose. It somewhat reminded me of a Thomas Hardy novel, where the point is just repeated and slaps us in the face over and over. There’s almost a structure missing from this book, at least with the way the events are described and how they manipulate the length of the chapters. Which I think adds to the voice that is writing this book, as opposed to it being written through structured and tightly intertwining means.

Him setting up the memoir with his memory of being shot is rather brilliant I think. It’s such a vivid portrayal of a secret, and such beautiful language that it is described in. For instance, right at the beginning he tells us, “I’m convinced my ignorance kept me alive long enough to reach the hospital to receive last rites before the all-night surgery that saved me. What you don’t know can’t kill you, but it’s really no way to live.” Those lines grasped me, and I knew the piece I was reading was done with hiding, and what I would get would be the life of a person who needed to write about this–not for anyone but himself.

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