The Autoblography of Judy Townson: Theory

This is the opening post of this blog. Here I set the stage for my journey into Narrative Inquiry and self study. http://theautoblographyofjudytownson.blogspot.com/2010/02/present-day-setting-stage-for-narrative.html

Taking Notes: Quality in Autobiographical Forms of Self-Study Research (Bullough and Pinnegar, 2001)
http://theautoblographyofjudytownson.blogspot.com/2010/02/taking-notes-anchor-chart-what-makes.html

Narrative Inquiry in Fictional Text

"Ah! and you remember the old time at Bretton?"

"Better," said she, "better, perhaps, than you. I remember it with minute distinctness: not only the time, but the days of the time, and the hours of the days."

"You must have forgotten some things?"

"Very little, I imagine."

"You were then a little creature of quick feelings: you must, long ere this, have outgrown the impressions with which joy and grief, affection and bereavement, stamped your mind ten years ago."

"You think I have forgotten whom I liked, and in what degree I liked them when a child?"

"The sharpness must be gone -- the point, the poignancy -- the deep imprint must be softened away and effaced?"

"I have a good memory for those days."

She looked as if she had. Her eyes were the eyes of one who can remember; one whose childhood does not fade like a dream, nor whose youth vanish like a sunbeam. She would not take life, loosely and incoherently, in parts, and let one season slip as she entered on another: she would retain and add; often review from the commencement, and so grow in harmony and consistency as she grew in years. Still I could not quite admit the conviction that all the pictures which now crowded upon me were vivid and visible to her. Her fond attachments, her sports and contests with a well-loved playmate, the patient, true devotion of her child's heart, her fears, her delicate reserves, her little trials, the last piercing pain of separation.... I retraced these things, and shook my head incredulous. She persisted. "The child of seven years lives yet in the girl of seventeen," said she.

Villette (1853) by Charlotte Bronte

Chapter XXIV M. de Bassompierre

The Autoblography of Judy Townson

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