It is likely that Philippe Grimbert, French author of Memory, was familiar with French philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin’s understanding of the word. Bakhtin contends that
The word in language is half someone else’s. It becomes ‘one’s own’ only when the speaker populates it with his/her own intention, his/her own accent, when s/he appropriates the word adapting it to his/her own semantic and expressive intention. (Dialogic Imagination 293)
Grimbert’s novel is indeed about the word: those words unspoken and unpopulated with intention. And, when those words are spoken, are shared, the story becomes complete and Grimbert’s mission is accomplished. Memory is a story about writing oneself into history and about acknowledging those lost. It is a story about the ways in which secrets and memory affect the imagination.
Grimbert, who is the narrator, reflects upon his life as a lonely and sickly child. He discusses his admiration for his parents, but does so with bitter undertones, as he concentrates more on their physical appearance than on their love for him. He creates an imaginary brother — an older, physically fit brother to whom he can vent his frustrations. It is not until he turns fifteen that he learns the truth of his being, of his parents’ love for each other, and of the existence of Simon, his real brother.
The story is poignant and heart wrenching, not unlike other Holocaust stories of this ilk; yet Grimbert’s expressive intentions become clear as the word is shared, for it is here that Grimbert begins to understand his life, himself, his commitments, and the lost children of the Holocaust. It is also here that he decides to give Simon the grave that is this story.