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2In literature as well as in scientific and anthropological studies, islands are often depicted as zoological, botanical and even ethnological conservatories where endemic plants, species, but also cultures and languages may be preserved. According to anthropologist Anne Meistersheim, this has to do with the island’s specific geographical features, in particular its isolation and separateness:
- 1 Original: “La finitude de son espace, de son isolement, font tout naturellement de l’île un conserv (...)
The boundedness of its space and its isolation make the island a natural conservatory. A conservatory for plant or animal species, with original variations due to the phenomenon of endemism, but also a conservatory for human societies, with their own forms of expression, their own ways of life, their own social structures. (2001, p. 111, my translation)1
3Islands indeed seem to have their own peculiar temporality, as their original nature allows their visitors to somehow reconnect with times immemorial (Deleuze, 2004, pp. 12–16), as Charles Darwin himself noted in his work on the Galapagos which is both a travel narrative and a scientific text: “Hence, both in space and time, we seem to be brought somewhat near to that great fact—that mystery of mysteries—the first appearance of new beings on this earth” (Darwin, 1909, p. 400). Late-Victorian author Robert Louis Stevenson had a particular fondness for islands, which were the setting for many of his fictional works, and where he eventually made his permanent home in Samoa. In his essay “Memoirs of an Islet”, he reminisces on a Scottish island which played a central role in his creative process and precisely delineates the island’s ability to serve as a kind of historical, personal, and natural archive, where various strata of memories may pile up and be explored anew.
- 2 Original: “l’examen de l’impact du temps sur la perception de l’espace constitue […] une des charni (...)
4In this article, I thus wish to analyse the way in which Stevenson relied on the island’s archival potential, both in his essays and in his insular fiction, with a particular focus on The Wrecker and The Ebb‑Tide: to do so, I will adopt a geo‑critical approach and rely on Bertrand Westphal’s concept of “stratigraphy”, in line with his view that “the examination of the impact of time on the perception of space constitutes […] one of the cornerstones of geocriticism” (2007, p. 223, my translation).2
- 3 A precise definition of these concepts and how they relate to the island space will be provided in (...)
5I aim to study the link between memory and territory, and the way in which their dynamic interaction may act as a creative driving force and as an endless source of fictional inspiration. Rather than a frozen, immutable site of memory, I would argue that the island becomes, in fact, a place where memory may be reactivated as it is being surveyed, a mutable or heterochronic (Foucault, 1986, p. 26) archive where different temporal and fictional strata are led to creatively interact. This article will thus strive to determine whether the island in Stevenson’s fiction may be read as a Derridean archive, or rather as a Foucauldian heterotopia,3 and analyse how these concepts may help shed light on the link between memory and territory in Stevenson’s works.
6In the passage quoted above, Meistersheim suggests that it is the island’s isolated nature that makes it particularly conducive to conservation, a criterion that is also highlighted by Jacques Derrida as essential to the archive, which constitutes a “place of consignation” conditioned by “a certain exteriority”: “there is no archive without consignation in an external place” (1995, p. 14). The first principle that underlies the archive, according to Derrida, is its link with the origins, as “the term indeed refers […] to the originary, the first, the principial, the primitive, in short to the commencement” (1995, p. 9). Interestingly, the island itself is often defined as an originary place, by Darwin in the passage quoted above, but also by philosopher Gilles Deleuze in his famous essay on desert islands, in which he states that “the island is also the origin, the radical and absolute origin” (Deleuze, 2004, p. 12), a characteristic that he also links to its spatial separateness. The desert island, being in essence isolated from the world, might thus constitute the ideal “external place” (in relation to the mainland), allowing both for the consignation of memories and for a regression to the origins.
7In his essay “Memoirs of an Islet”, Stevenson indeed explains that as a child, visiting the isle of Earraid, which features in several of his works, allowed him to go back in time all the way to the origins:
The ground was all virgin, the world all shut out, the face of things unchanged by any of man’s doings. […] It was older than man; it was found so by incoming Celts and seafaring Norsemen, and Columba’s priests. […] All that I saw and felt my predecessors must have seen and felt with scarce a difference. I steeped myself in open air and in past ages. (1924, p. 63)
8It is precisely the primitive and originary nature of this place (“the ground was all virgin”) combined with its separateness (“the world all shut out”) that allow young Stevenson to travel in time and reconnect with ancient eras that are superimposed on the island’s territory, in a stratigraphic process that is mirrored in the textual space by the paratactic enumeration: “It was older than man; it was found so by incoming Celts and seafaring Norsemen, and Columba’s priests.” Such textual and spatial juxtaposition of the various waves of Scottish occupation turns the island into what Bertrand Westphal defines as a stratigraphic space:
- 4 Original: “L’espace se situe à l’intersection de l’instant et de la durée. Sa surface apparente rep (...)
Stratigraphic space is located at the intersection of moment and duration. Its apparent surface rests on strata of compacted time arranged over an extended duration and that can be reactivated at any time. The present of space interacts with a past that comes to the surface according to a stratigraphic logic. (2007, p. 223, my translation)4
- 5 I take up the metaphor used by Gérard Genette in his work Palimpsestes to refer to processes of int (...)
9He further suggests that: “la stratigraphie spatio-temporelle, dans sa déclinaison esthétique, peut être informée par le prolongement d’une chaîne intertextuelle (ou intericonique)” (2007, p. 199). This palimpsestic5 phenomenon can also be observed in the essay as Stevenson retraces his predecessors’ literal and literary steps and quotes an excerpt from a poem entitled “St Columba’s Island Hermitage” to draw a parallel between Saint Columba and himself, thus abolishing the temporal distance between them through their stratigraphic co‑presence: “So, about the next island of Iona, sang Columba himself twelve hundred years before. And so might I have sung of Earraid” (1924, p. 63). In addition to this intertextual layering, Earraid is in fact the repository of several of his own texts, as he explains that he “put a whole family there, in one of [his] tales; and later on, threw upon its shores, and condemned to several days of rain and shellfish on its tumbled boulders, the hero of another” (1924, p. 60). The verbs “put” and “threw” highlight the spatiality of such an archival process, in which the author uses the island as a place where memories and texts can be piled up: as Lesley Graham notes in her analysis of the spatiality of memory in Stevenson’s late essays, “The significant locale provides a sort of individual lieu de mémoire, a palimpsest of stratified recollections that may be associated with several chronological topoi” (2018, pp. 7–8). Moreover, the particularity of this place is that it allows Stevenson to skim through these texts to go back to “the original memory”, in all its “virgin freshness” (1924, pp. 59–60), thus preserving it from the effects of time: “the little sunbright pictures of the past still shine […] with not a lineament defaced, not a tint impaired”, surprisingly “perdurable” (1924, p. 59).
10Many of Stevenson’s fictional islands also appear as places where one can travel both in space and in time to reconnect with a more primitive form of life, as is the case when the characters of The Wrecker reach Midway Island, where they hope to find a treasure on a wreck:
Above all, the sense of our immitigable isolation from the world and from the current epoch;—keeping another time, some eras old; the new day heralded by no daily paper, only by the rising sun; and the State, the churches, the peopled empires, war, and the rumours of war, and the voices of the arts, all gone silent as in the days ere they were yet invented. (1925, p. 221)
11Once again, it is the island’s spatial and even phonic isolation, which is reflected in the textual space by the semi-colon and the long dash, that leads to a temporal isolation allowing its visitors to break away from the current time and reconnect with the “commencement” (“the days ere they were invented”). This temporal separation is also characteristic of Foucault’s heterotopia, which relies on a principle of heterochrony as he claims that “the heterotopia begins to function at full capacity when men arrive at a sort of absolute break with their traditional time” (1986, p. 26). The “nebular convulsion” metaphor used by Dodd when he first sees the island reinforces the separate and original nature of this space, which still seems surrounded by traces of its own creation:
I was irresistibly reminded of what I had read of nebular convulsions. A thin cloud overspread the area of the reef and the adjacent sea—the dust, as I could not but fancy, of earlier explosions. And a little apart, there was yet another focus of centrifugal and centripetal flight. (1825, p. 195)
12The island and the wreck appear as two distant stars or planets at the dawn of their creation, around which newly formed nebulae revolve, setting them apart from the rest of the world like distant heavenly bodies.
13The main character, Loudon Dodd, again underlines the insular space’s archaic nature when visiting the next island on his route, Oahu, in the Hawaiian archipelago:
- 6 This is a reference to chapter 5 of Sir Thomas Browne’s Hydriotaphia: Urn Burial, where Browne muse (...)
At the thought, it was revealed to me suddenly, how the bungalows, and the Fowlers, and the bright, busy town and crowding ships, were all children of yesterday; and for centuries before, the obscure life of the natives, with its glories and ambitions, its joys and crimes and agonies, had rolled unseen, like the mountain river, in that sea‑girt place. Not Chaldea appeared more ancient, nor the Pyramids of Egypt more abstruse; and I heard time measured by the “drums and tramplings”6 of immemorial conquests, and saw myself the creature of an hour. (Stevenson, 1925, p. 249)
14The island’s separateness (“sea‑girt”) allows for the preservation of an “immemorial” and heterochronic temporality, through the superimposition of the temporalities that the “children of yesterday” and the “creature of an hour” live in. The use of antithetical temporal markers, as well as the comparison of the island with Byzantine Chaldea and the ancient Egyptian Pyramids, highlight how incongruous this encounter between these various epochs is. Interestingly, Foucault precisely uses Polynesian villages as examples of heterotopias that allow past temporal strata to momentarily resurface:
For the rediscovery of Polynesian life abolishes time; yet the experience is just as much the rediscovery of time, it is as if the entire history of humanity reaching back to its origin were accessible in a sort of immediate knowledge. (1986, p. 26)
15It seems that by roaming the island territory, Dodd does experience this “large immediate knowledge” that allows him to “go back to the source” of insular memory and access a form of intemporal truth.
16This archival space is also a zoological conservatory of sorts, where he discovers a strange bird “perched on a table” (Stevenson, 1925, p. 249) in the watch-house, which is itself “perched on the immediate margin of a cliff” (1925, p. 249). This odd “ornithological” specimen is in fact a born Englishman, who is humorously compared to an endangered species: “For the creature (who seemed to be unique, or to represent a type like that of the dodo) entertained me hugely” (1925, pp. 250–251). It is therefore the proud English colonist, a Royal Navy sailor, who becomes an endemic and threatened species, which the American visitor observes with amused curiosity, thus playfully subverting set hierarchies. This potential for subversion and reversion is also characteristic of Foucault’s heterotopia, as they constitute, according to Foucault:
[…] something like counter-sites, a kind of effectively enacted utopia in which the real sites, all the other real sites that can be found within the culture, are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted. Places of this kind are outside of all places, even though it may be possible to indicate their location in reality. (1986, p. 24)
17Such a heterogeneous and subversive “outside” space is hence very different from the archive defined by Derrida, which relies on a principle of “commandment” and is the place where “authority and social order are exercised” (1995, p. 9).
18The Derridean archive is also based on a principle of consignation which “aims to coordinate a single corpus, in a system or a synchrony in which all the elements articulate the unity of an ideal configuration” since “in an archive, there should not be any absolute dissociation, any heterogeneity or secret which could separate (secernere), or partition, in an absolute manner” (1995, p. 10). In Stevenson’s insular archive, heterochrony has replaced synchrony, and heterogeneity, “the unity of an ideal configuration”, as his islands indeed remain full of secrets that keep “separating” or “partitioning” them. On Midway Island, for instance, the island is in fact made of two islets “divided by a narrow channel” (1925, p. 194), one of them containing what looks like the vestiges of a past Robinsonade, the secret story of which will only be told at the very end of the novel when Dodd finally finds the elusive Carthew. It also contains the archival wreck of the Flying Scud that may initially appear as a more traditional form of archive. It is indeed compared to a “Museum of Crooks”, a “dime-museum” (1925, p. 213) and a “library, both literary and professional” (1925, p. 214) that the protagonists relentlessly search to uncover their predecessors’ “secret” (1925, p. 12). This process seems very much akin to archival work as they unearth documents and objects from the wreck and try to interpret their meaning: the use of the terms “exploration”, “forage” (1925, p. 207), “draw forth” (1925, p. 211), “dug out” (1925, p. 221) and “perquested” (1925, p. 22) highlight the seemingly archaeological nature of their work. Yet the violence of this process, in which they “demolish” and “burst in pieces” (1925, p. 206) a great part of the ship, similarly leads to its literal “partitioning” and may be compared to what Derrida defines as “archive fever”, which he defines as a “destruction drive” (1995, p. 19). However, the secret of the wreck keeps eluding them, so that the archive turns out to be paradoxically hollow: “there’s nothing in her” (1925, p. 231). Even the few elements that they manage to gather only confuse them further, as they remain full of inconsistencies and loose ends:
But then that’s inconsistent with the steamcrusher of the sale. That’s the trouble with this brig racket; any one can make half a dozen theories for sixty or seventy per cent of it; but when they’re made, there’s always a fathom or two of slack hanging out of the other end”. (1925, p. 215)
19The secret indeed seems to “partition” the ship since only a fraction of its “racket” or “slack” can be accounted for, as suggested by the percentage and measurement metaphors. Thus, when realising that they cannot make sense of it, they decide to destroy it, in an extreme instance of archive fever. The modernity and subversiveness of Stevenson’s insular archives would thus lie in their being fundamentally heterogeneous and heterochronic spaces, as opposed to the traditional unity, stability and purity of the insular conservatory or archive featured in more typical representations.
20In Stevenson’s novella The Ebb‑Tide, islands embody similarly heterogeneous archives, starting with Tahiti and the ruined prison where the trio of outcasts initially find shelter:
The old calaboose, in which the waifs had so long harboured, is a low, rectangular enclosure of building at the corner of a shady western avenue […]. Within was a grassy court, littered with wreckage and the traces of vagrant occupation. Six or seven cells opened from the court: the doors, that had once been locked on mutinous whalermen, rotting before them in the grass. No mark remained of their old destination, except the rusty bars upon the windows. (2008, p. 143)
- 7 Which means that they are outcasts, drifters or unemployed sailors who live on the outskirts of ins (...)
- 8 It is hard to determine with any certainty whether Stevenson was consciously thinking of Melville a (...)
21The prison itself corresponds to the heterotopia of deviation defined by Foucault as the place where individuals whose behaviour deviates from the norm are placed (1986, p. 25), although its deviant inmates are now voluntarily staying there, having nowhere else to sleep as they are “on the beach”.7 Being a vestige, it also constitutes a form of archive bearing the marks of former occupation, as the lexicon of the trace illustrates: “traces”, “marks”, while the use of the gnomic present “is” suggests its intemporality, as it expresses a timeless truth. These previous occupants included the “mutinous whalermen” who, according to Julia Reid, included Herman Melville: “The three beachcombers shelter in the prison which had once incarcerated Melville and his fellow mutineers” (2006, p. 49). Herman Melville even used this prison in one of his works, Omoo, which highlights the historical and intertextual stratigraphy at work in this space.8
22The traces of these past adventures are thus imprinted on the prison’s walls, which become an obscure palimpsest to which Herrick adds his own contribution:
To and fro he paced like a caged brute; his mind whirling through the universe of thought and memory; his eyes, as he went, skimming the legends on the wall. The crumbling whitewash was full of them: Tahitian names, and French, and English, and rude sketches of ships under sail and men at fisticuffs. It came to him of a sudden that he too must leave upon these walls the memorial of his passage. (Stevenson, 2008, p. 143)
- 9 Original: “[la trace] fêle l’absolu du temps. Elle ouvre sur ces temps diffractés que les humanités (...)
- 10 In reference to Horace’s Odes, III, xi, quoted in the notes to the text: “et nostri memorem sepulcr (...)
23The heterogeneity of this archive is illustrated by the juxtaposition of conflicting languages and histories, such as the Tahitian, the French and the English ones, the authority of which is pre‑emptively undermined by the term “legend”. It is thus very much in keeping with Edouard Glissant’s definition of the trace, which constitutes one of the places where cultures that are threatened with erasure may survive, through a more heterochronic and fragmented conception of time: “[The trace] causes cracks in the absoluteness of time. It opens onto those diffracted times that today’s human communities multiply among themselves, through conflicts and wonders” (1997, p. 20, my translation).9 The generic diversity of the elements composing it makes it all the more heterogeneous, as it contains material objects but also fragments of text, immaterial “memories” and pictorial representations. This disparate jumble of temporal strata can only be explored spatially, through physical, mental or visual forms of pacing: “to and fro he paced”; “his mind whirling through the universe” / “his eyes […] skimming” (2008, p. 143). This prison thus constitutes an essentially “stratigraphic” space, as defined by Bertrand Westphal in the passage quoted above (2007, p. 223). The stratum Herrick adds to it is similarly multilinguistic, intertextual and even intermedial as it is composed of an extract from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (with both words and score) and a poetic verse from Virgil’s Aeneid in Latin, thus constituting an eminently hybrid epitaph or “memor querela”:10
- 11 This is a quote from Virgil’s Aeneid, which is translated in the note as: “O thrice and four times (...)
“Destiny knocking at the door,” he thought; drew a stave on the plaster, and wrote in the famous phrase from the Fifth Symphony. “So,” thought he, “they will know that I loved music and had classical tastes. They? He, I suppose: the unknown, kindred spirit that shall come some day and read my memor querela. Ha, he shall have Latin too!” And he added: terque quaterque beati Queis ante ora partum. (Stevenson, 2008, p. 144)11
24In addition to making the island triply heterotopic (heterotopia of deviation, archive and cemetery), this symbol of death paradoxically triggers the trio’s rebirth as it is precisely at that moment that they are offered an opportunity of escape.
25The insular archive, by enabling this process of memorialisation and exploration of previous fictional and artistic strata, hence triggers the revival of adventure as the three outcasts are asked to sail a “tattered schooner” (2008, p. 173) all the way to Sidney. The ship, moreover, appears as the metonymic vestige of previous adventures that the trio attempts to reactivate by putting it in motion. Herrick, who brings his library made of a “pile of paper novels” (2008, p. 152) and his similarly “tattered Virgil” (2008, p. 124) on board, indeed strives to unearth the memories of maritime vocabulary that these old sea romances encapsulate, as if they could offer the magical formula to put the ship into motion: “[he] overhauled his reminiscences of sea romance for some appropriate words” (2008, p. 155). This intertextual process, as well as Herrick’s addition of a new stratum to the palimpsest of the prison wall, may be understood as a metatextual comment on the way Stevenson attempted to revive insular adventure by revisiting its archive and breathing new life into it. The ship, which Foucault considers as “heterotopia par excellence” (1986, p. 27), embodies a more mutable form of archive for the three protagonists. Indeed, it will allow them to travel forward in space whilst going back in time as they stumble upon an island that appears as a more ancient version of Tahiti, before it was “corrupted” by civilisation (Largeaud-Ortega, 2012, p. 96).
26This island moreover concentrates various strata of myth and fiction, being compared to Plato’s Atlantis (Stevenson, 2008, p. 188) and Virgil’s Zakhyntos (2008, p. 202), while it appears very similar to island colonies or mission stations as depicted in more classical adventure novels such as Ballantyne’s or Marryat’s (see The Coral Island or Masterman Ready for instance). If the character they encounter there, Attwater, embodies a condensed vestige of the imperial explorer, the missionary and the pearl trader, it is perhaps the figurehead that Herrick sees when he first sets foot on the island that best encapsulates this new, mutable form of insular archive, torn as it is between stasis and movement:
From the crown of the beach, the figure-head confronted him with what seemed irony, her helmeted head tossed back, her formidable arm apparently hurling something, whether shell or missile, in the direction of the anchored schooner. She seemed a defiant deity from the island, coming forth to its threshold with a rush as of one about to fly, and perpetuated in that dashing attitude. Herrick looked up at her, where she towered above him head and shoulders, with singular feelings of curiosity and romance, and suffered his mind to travel to and fro in her life-history. So long she had been the blind conductress of a ship among the waves; so long she had stood here idle in the violent sun, that yet did not avail to blister her; and was even this the end of so many adventures? he wondered, or was there more behind? (2008, p. 200)
27The paradoxical conjunction of immobility and movement is given a particularly striking expression through the antithetical phrase “perpetuated in that dashing attitude”, added to the personification and the accumulation of movement verbs to refer to this however motionless statue: “coming forth”, “about to fly”, “rush”, “hurling”. The spatial metaphor of surveying is again used to refer to the mental process of remembering, as “his mind” “travel[s] to and fro” across the mythological associations (“deity”), the historical “life-story” as well as the fictional “adventures” and “romance” this vestige conjures up. The parallelism between the two temporal clauses (“so long […] so long”) illustrates in the very textual space the juxtaposition of various temporal and fictional strata within the figurehead, in a sentence that again brings together the movement of the “ship” and the stasis of the island (“stood here idle”). The figurehead’s immunity to the effects of time is moreover very much in keeping with Foucault’s definition of the heterotopic archive, which is, according to him, “inaccessible to [the] ravages [of time]” (1986, p. 26). Through his imaginative and dynamic exploration of this metonymic vestige of maritime explorations, Herrick is thus able to set the figurehead back into motion by reconciling heterotopic ship and insular archive. This hybrid object, being a fusion of mutable ship and stable land, of woman and “deity”, could thus be understood both as a gateway and a guardian holding the door to more classical “adventures”, as the end of the passage picks up the spatial metaphor to suggest that there might be “more behind”.
28And there is indeed “more behind”, since conjuring up the memories of this stranded figurehead allows Herrick to cross the “threshold” between the schooner and the island territory beyond, which also contains a stock-house that “seize[s] on the mind of Herrick with its multiplicity and disorder of romantic things” (2008, p. 201). The paratactic accumulation of noun groups mirrors the heterogeneity and the chaotic nature of this “curiosity-shop of sea‑curios”, where heaps of objects and props again metonymically stand for past maritime adventures:
Therein were cables, windlasses and blocks of every size and capacity; cabin windows and ladders; rusty tanks, a companion hutch; a binnacle with its brass mountings and its compass idly pointing, in the confusion and dusk of that shed, to a forgotten pole; ropes, anchors, harpoons, a blubber-dipper of copper, green with years, a steering-wheel, a tool-chest with the vessel’s name upon the top, the Asia: a whole curiosity-shop of sea‑curios, gross and solid, heavy to lift, ill to break, bound with brass and shod with iron. Two wrecks at least must have contributed to this random heap of lumber. (2008, p. 201)
29By revisiting this heterotopic archive, Herrick’s imagination is again prompted to revive the ghosts of previous adventures:
And as Herrick looked upon it, it seemed to him as if the two ships’ companies were there on guard, and he heard the tread of feet and whisperings, and saw with the tail of his eye the commonplace ghosts of sailor men. This was not merely the work of an aroused imagination, but had something sensible to go upon […]. (2008, p. 201)
30This recurrent process seems to reflexively illustrate the essence of Stevenson’s art, as he draws on an existing reservoir of memories and fictional layers contained in the island, to “arouse” his (and the reader’s) imagination and revive the “commonplace ghosts” (2008, p. 201) or the “pleasant spectres” he mentioned in his essay “Memoirs of an Islet” (1924, p. 59).
- 12 “There is no archive without consignation in an external place which assures the possibility of mem (...)
- 13 “There is another isle in my collection, the memory of which besieges me” (Stevenson, 1924, p. 60); (...)
31Far from the sterile “repetition” and “reimpression” entailed by the Derridean archive,12 these memories allow for a constant process of renewal, as he notes in the same essay: “But the memories are a fairy gift which cannot be worn out in using. […] yet only by endless avatars, the original re‑embodying after each” (Stevenson, 1924, p. 59). The essence of Stevenson’s creative art would therefore consist in “rightly people[ing]” these spatial memories with the adequate “puppets” (1924, p. 59), in order to constantly “re‑embody” them in an original way. The initially static island “memories” in Stevenson’s “collection” thus turn into active “spectres”, which come to life when Stevenson explores them, as is underlined by the way he personifies them: he suggests that he may “wrong” them by reusing them, while they seem to actively “besiege” him.13 The ambivalence of the essay’s title “Memoirs of an Islet” becomes quite evident here, as it not only suggests that the islet is part of Stevenson’s memories, but also that it may have memories of its own and play an active role in the writing of its memoirs, the formulaic title “memoirs of” being generally followed by a substantive referring to the person writing them.
32Stevenson’s memory itself could finally be understood as a spatial territory, and he clearly underlines its spatiality when he mentions “the great uncharted desert of our future” (1924, p. 64) later in the same essay, comparing living to charting new territories: past, present and future are thus superimposed and condensed on the islet, which just like the text itself, allows Stevenson to travel back and forth in time. Stevenson’s art of writing may then be likened to re‑exploring a stratigraphic and heterotopic archive of history, texts and memories, a mental map of floating “islets” which actively resurface or “swim up instant as ever” (1924, p. 59) in the mind’s eye of the seemingly passive author who, “lying in bed” “seeing” this spatial memory appear as vivid as ever, will “be pricked again, in season and out of season, by the desire to weave it into art” (1924, p. 60).