When it comes to memoirs, an author's task is clear: Remember how it happened; then, tell the truth. Writers who draw on personal stories are often dogged by nonfiction's prevailing imperative of factual precision. They should want, above all, to get it right. But what if one has forgotten it, even if that thing feels important enough to write about' Whatever the reason for a memory's erasure'the blitheness of youth, the defense mechanism of blocking out pain, the natural erosion of particulars over time'it often throbs like a phantom limb, no less potent for the absence of details. Faces and words may fade, but their emotional residue frequently lingers. A diligent storyteller might curse these gaps as hopeless obstructions, but the Norwegian author Linn Ullmann has reconceived them as central to her work. 'How do experiences live on, not as memories, but as absences'' asks the narrator of Girl, 1983, Ullmann's latest novel, now translated into English by Martin Aitken. The book...
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