Memory and history

Memory is much messier than history.
Memory is a trickster, like Coyote, Raven, Brer Rabbit, or Jack the Giant Killer. Some stories say Coyote created the world; some say he burned it. Certainly he made stuff up to suit his own ends. Memory operates with a self-indulgent instinct, creating a world to suit its own needs, often making a mess. So don't trust it.
My memories of the summer of 1968 include the Movement office basement, fund-raising for the SCLC march on poverty using tactics that seemed shady to me, and eating a big dinner for $1 at the Crystal, which some people remember as the Crystal Grille. I don't remember the "Grille" part. I remember snatches of Chicago: the bandshell, Grant Park at night. I went to see Rosemary's Baby and found out afterward about the shootout in Glenville.
In The New York Review of Books last year, journalist Janet Malcolm wrote this:
"Memory glimmers and hints, but shows nothing sharply or clearly. Memory does not narrate or render character. Memory has no regard for the reader. If an autobiography is to be even minimally readable, the autobiographer must step in an subdue what you could call memory's autism, its passion for the tedious. He must not be afraid to invent."
That seems true to me. So does the first line Chapter 1 of Fugitive Days, Bill Ayers' memoir:
"Memory is a motherfucker."
I remember Bill. I probably saw him in the summer of 1968. But nothing is sharp or clear. There's no incident in the novel sparked by something he did or said -- at least I don't think so. He wrote a good memoir, though, a book I'm grateful for.