When one thinks of historical fiction, one might think of the immersive experience of dropping into a different time and place replete with the sights and flavors of that world, but there are other kinds of fiction that grapple with the idea of history itself, where the details and experience can only come to the reader slivered, or shrouded, or fractured and dappled, everything, even the most intimate events, contingent on the limits of a particular perspective and, ultimately, the reticence and unreliability of human memory itself.
My paternal grandfather died three years ago, following his 100th birthday. My last remaining grandparent, he was in good health, mobile and relaxed, savoring the mundane pleasures of everyday life...