Ss.

Cyril and Methodius University – Faculty of Philology “Blazhe Koneski”

Postgraduate Studies in English Literature

Course: Modern/Postmodern British Prose

Topic: The Narrative Time in Atonement

Supervisor: Sonja V. Strezova, Ph.D

Candidate: Date:

Dushan Stojchev, 77 18.03.2011

 The Narrative Time in Atonement

The goal of this essay is to explore McEwan’s novel, and highlight within it the use of the
different narrative techniques pertaining to Narrative time1 as proposed by Gerard Genette.2
More precisely, we will concern ourselves with the notion of the temporal order of the different
elements that compose narrative time(s), and their presence in Ian McEwan’s Atonement.3 As it
can be anticipated from the plural of time, McEwan’s postmodern novel is frequently at odds
with Gennette’s structuralism; an issue which will define and mold the contents of this essay.

Let us begin at the basics and familiarize ourselves with the theory at hand: what is
Narrative time? What is it made of? The following quote by Genette may serve as a convenient
starting point “The temporal duality […], the opposition between erzählte Zeit (story time) and
Erzählzeit (narrative time), is a typical characteristic […] of oral narrative, at all its levels of
aesthetic elaboration, including the fully ‘literary’ level of epic recitation or dramatic
narration.”4

So, we understand that what we may call Narrative time is comprised of at least two
timelines: the time of the thing told (the story), and the time of the narrator/narrative (the
discourse). However, the precise demarcation and tracing of both of these parameters can
appear very problematic in a work such as Atonement. At a glance, we can say that the novel is
interspersed with ponds of unexpected temporal fluidity (mostly within Part One), which then,
throughout the chapters subside into a seemingly concrete chain of linear temporality
approaching the so-called temporal zero degree5 (exemplified by Part Two and especially
Three). Still, this (structuralistic) linearity, as we find out later, is an illusion which is to be
completely dispelled by the finale of the novel labeled as London 1999 (further in the text as
Part Four), which establishes that the narrator, and with it both the time of the narrative
(Erzählzeit), and the time of the story (erzählte Zeit) are false, or in many respects – unreliable.
Furthermore, this unreliability produces certain obstacles and one may even say paradoxes in
our research for (lost?) Narrative time, the surpassing of which greatly exceeds the space of

1 For the sake of clarity, I have taken the liberty to designate the Narrative time which embodies both the
erzählte Zeit (story time) and Erzählzeit (narrative time) with a capital letter “N”, in order to discern it
from Erzählzeit (narrative time) written with a small letter “n”. Narrative time, here and further in the
text is to be understood as the supreme narrative time of Atonement.

2 Gerard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, (New York: Cornell University Press, 1983).
3
Ian McEwan, Atonement, (New York, Nan A. Talese, Random House, 2002).

4 Gerard Genette, Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, 33.

5 “… a kind of zero degree that would be a condition of perfect temporal correspondence between
narrative and story” (Genette, 36). However, confirming our impressions of McEwan’s traces of the zero
degree in Atonement, Genette goes on to say “This point of reference is more hypothetical than real”
(Genette, 36).

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these pages. However, some delineation of these problems is necessary, and the same will be
the task of the following paragraphs.

In order to understand the problems of Atonement’s temporal (dis)order, we should first

shed light on the methods that will assist us in identifying its temporal currents. Another of
Genette’s thoughts may prove helpful:

To study the temporal order of a narrative is to compare the order in which events or
temporal sections are arranged in the narrative discourse – with the order of succession
these same events or temporal segments have in the story, to the extent that story order
is explicitly indicated by the narrative itself or inferable from one or another indirect
clue.6

According to Genette, any discrepancy between these two is considered an anachrony,

while the desired equivalence between these two orders would be considered as the
aforementioned “zero-degree.” However, since we know that Atonement’s narrative structure is
intentionally sabotaged and that no ultimate clear line of narrative time exists (Part Four is
“existentially” ambivalent towards previous Parts Two and Three), then it is safe to say that
things are a bit more complicated for us, but we will return to that later.

In accordance to Genette’s definition given above, it is important to introduce the

possible types of anachrony which can occur in a text, being our tools through which we will
inspect McEwan’s work. In brief, these are the temporal analepsis, the temporal prolepsis, and
the other more specific cases of anachrony. As Genette puts it himself, this works best by:

... designating as prolepsis any narrative maneuver that consists of narrating or

evoking in advance an event that will take place later, [and] designating as analepsis
any evocation after the fact of an event that took place earlier than the point in the
story where we are at any given moment, and reserving the general term anachrony to
designate all forms of discordance between the two temporal orders of story and
narrative.7

Furthermore, the temporal prolepses and analepses can also be internal, or external,
depending on the temporal “location” of the events they convey relative to the temporal field of
any narrative taken as “first narrative”:

We can thus describe as external this analepsis whose entire extent remains external
to the extent of the first narrative. […] The case is otherwise with internal analepses:
[…] their temporal field is contained within the temporal field of the first narrative. 8

The same applies for temporal prolepses. However, although Genette’s definitions are
clear cut and simple, we will now return to the complications concerning McEwan’s novel.

The problem is, again, the unreliability of the story stemming from the unreliability of
the narrative discourse (narrator), which makes it hard for us to discern what exactly should be

6 Genette, 35.

7 Ibid., 40.

8 Ibid., 49-50.

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considered as internal or external anachrony, since many of the false events (stories) function
very well until the “lifting-of-the-veil” by Part Four. In other words, where precisely should we
set the boundaries of our respective “first narrative(s)”? Do we include or exclude the fictional
events (as parts of the story) in the overall story? In other words: if Atonement was a family, do
we adopt the fictional parts of the story as legitimate children, or banish them as bastards? The
novel seems to contain both alternatives and still manages to get away with it. And even if we
follow the novel’s ambivalent example: which “child” do we give priority over the “other”?
However, this won’t do – befitting our structuralist tools our exploration needs to be as precise
as possible, and these postmodern ambiguities force us to a standstill. Is there a way to
reconcile these polarities?

Let us explore these dilemmas deeper: if we, for example, intentionally blind ourselves
and take events of Part Three as something which “really” happened9 (supported by Part Two),
then we should consider its anachronies as internal or external in relation to the temporal field
of its own (first) narrative (which in order to function, must in turn exclude Part Four); however,
if we know that Part Two and Three are largely fictional, along with the temporal fields of their
stories as Part Four enlightens us – then they are in essence external to the narrative of Part
Four, which is the super-narrative, and hence Parts Two and Three are ambivalently present in
the novel itself (i.e. both present and excluded).10 Therefore, how can we designate internality
or externality in relation to something which is in itself, (an) external, fictional appendix to the
narrative presented in Part Four (which envelops all previous Parts)? Part Four excludes Parts
Two and Three, it exiles their temporal fields by proclaiming their versions false and replaces
them with a new, “true(r)” version of events, performing a sort of retrograde re-narration; but
we are unaware of this schism until we reach Part Four’s perceived “deconstruction”. What is
more, there are great omitted periods, gaps of time and story between different Parts of the
novel (temporal ellipses between Parts One and Two, and between Parts Three and Four),
which seem external to their respective narratives regardless of their veracity, while at other
instances the temporal fields of some Parts of the novel overlap (Parts Two and Three). This
discrepancy between “connectedness” hints at some useful information: Part One is less
fictional (in regards to Part Four) than Parts Two and Three, whose temporal fields, thus
fictionalities, overlap more explicitly. This is supported by the fact that Parts One and Four
communicate more directly (via long-distance prolepses). The same is also true of Parts Two and
Three, which however, do not anticipate (prolepse) the narrative of Part Four11 but instead
communicate more intimately with one another via mutual (cyclical) reference12. As we have

9 “Real” as in regards to the novel’s complete story.

10 In fact this constant swaying between real and unreal (within the fictional story of the novel), and
dilemma between valid story and non-story is what makes this effort all the more “schizophrenic” if one
may call it that. The narrator, the story, and the time of the novel are all, in a sense, split. However,
Atonement is complete only by taking London 1999 into account, it being the mind, the head that carries
in itself all of its machinations; hence the story of Part Four it is the truer, more complete story.

11 Part Four in turn communicates to all prior Parts by long-distance analepses. This has an undermining
effect on Parts Two and Three.

12Cecilia’s letter in Part Two, for example, binds three temporal story arcs within itself: it is read by
Robbie in Robbie’s time (Part Two), but was written by Cecilia in Cecilia’s time before Part Two, and then
again, Cecilia’s letter refers to Briony’s letter (denoting Briony’s time in Part Three). So we have a kind of a

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seen, this is a direct consequence of their fictionality, which binds them together in a feedback
mechanism in order to sustain itself.

So, McEwan would not make it easy on us, and this undermining of a reliable narrator
and narrative time (by nesting fiction within fiction) in turn undermines the reliability of story
and story time, which leaves us in a daze of what precisely should be accepted as narrative time
(Erzählzeit), what as story time (erzählte Zeit), and what, in this chaos should be taken as “first
narrative.” In fact, there seems to be no viable, uniting, first narrative. And this is the result of,
again, the narrator who is self-fictionalized, “multiplied”, mutable and truth-shy.13 In fact, all this
does is multiply the narratives, stories, and their respective temporal fields, creating in turn
stories within stories, temporal fields within temporal fields – bouts of occasional metafiction
here and there which also move back and forth. In addition, all of these metafictional narrative
fields can be taken as respective first narratives (arguably stretching ad infinitum by deduction),
and to make matters worse, they are not precisely confined to a specific Chapter, or a Part of the
novel; they seem, instead, spontaneously interspersed largely within the first three Parts, with
the last (fourth) Part acting as a sort of a litmus test for their (non) fictionality. It is a thing
which resembles a metastasis and a cyclical one at that, whereupon a clear, structuralist incision
is nearly impossible to incur. And perhaps, this is only natural taking into account the
diametrically opposite positions of the novel (post-structuralist/postmodern) and the theory
we are applying (structuralist). Our “tools” simply struggle to scoop anything from this “sand.”

Therefore we will adapt, and apply our tools only to those aspects of Atonement’s “text”
which are (more or less) free of post-structuralist structures. In other words, our structuralist
tools will scoop only structuralist “pebbles” (as slippery as they may turn out to be). In doing so,
we will provide examples of some of the more general types of anachrony (analepses, prolepses)
and offer commentary on these examples that illustrate their relative internality or externality;
and last but not least, we will provide examples of the cases of ellipsical anachronies and snares
found in Atonement. Regarding the last two: The first one (ellipsical anachronies) is concerned
with anachronies that reach into the tempo-narrative ellipses that occur in-between different
Parts of the novel: the (give or take) 5 years between Part One and Parts Two and Three, and
the 59 years between Parts Two and Three and Part Four. In essence, these flashbacks into
ellipsed periods of the story can be regarded as external anachronies contained (paradoxically)
within the boundaries of the (otherwise intermittent) tempo-narrative extent of the novel itself
(1935-1999). (And here, again, we encounter post-structural elements.) The second “anomaly”
is exclusively concerned with temporal prolepses. Namely, as Genette notices, the author
sometimes relies on tricks “to fool the reader by sometimes offering him false advance
mentions, or snares – well known to connoisseurs of detective stories” (Genette, 77). And
indeed, we have several cases of these false advance mentions, or false prolepses which never

triple temporal loophole which connects these three timelines (the one of Part Two, the one of the
ellipsed period before Part Two, and that of Part Three).

13Of course, for a narrator of a story to be a fictional character is nothing new, but in this case, McEwan
intentionally injects in Briony (the narrator) a kind of fictionality-within-fictionality, in which a fictional
character admits her own (prior) fictionality, or falsity; in effect there is no one single Briony but a Briony
with an array of many different masks, all of which differ from the “real” Briony in Part Four. In a sense, it
can be said that Briony is the (first?) embodiment (of multiple layers) of meta-fiction in a literary
character.

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come to be nor play out during the novel’s course, and for which snare seems the perfect term.
These too, along with the previously cases of anachrony, will be illustrated in the following
paragraphs.

Analepses. We will start by offering examples of temporal analepses. In fact, we have

one right at the beginning of the novel, a couple of pages in.

1) It goes like this: “At the age of eleven she wrote her first story—a foolish affair,” (Part One,
Chapter 1). Since in Part One Briony is 13 years old, the recounting of the event of her
first story (at age 11) means going back two years before the summer of 1935, all the
way back to 1933. Now, because this analepsis, or reminiscence does not fall within the
first narrative of Part One (being only one day long) but instead takes us two years in
the past, this sentence qualifies as an external analepsis in regards to Part One. However,
this analepsis is also external to the whole of the novel itself, because the reach of the
flashback goes back before the novel’s starting point in time which is initiated by Part
One (1935).
2) A second case of external analepsis appears in Chapter 2 of Part One, this being the story
of uncle Clem’s adventures during World War I which won the family a Meissen
porcelain vase, painted by the artist Höroldt in 1726. McEwan describes Cecilia’s
thoughts about arranging some flowers in the vase, and then, using her memory of her
uncle’s funeral he departs to an even more remote past, told by a letter, in this manner:
“He was on liaison duties in the French sector and initiated a last-minute evacuation of a
small town west of Verdun before it was shelled.” The author then proceeds in telling
Uncle Clem’s adventures. The story of the vase’s past unravels further and we gradually
come to the year of 1726, well outside (and before) of any narrative in Atonement.

Having looked at these cases of external analepses, we will now look at several examples
of internal analepses:

1) In Part One, Chapter 3 recounts the fountain scene which was first introduced in
Chapter 2. In Chapter 3, we witness the event through young Briony’s eyes, and although
what she witnesses is synchronous to the event described in Chapter 2 (i.e. synchronous
with its story time), this act of hers is described in Chapter 3 (later by order of
narrative), therefore representing a breach between story time and narrative time. Since
what we witness in Chapter 3 is a return to what we have already witnessed in Chapter
2, which are both within Part One, this event qualifies as a case of internal analepsis. By
extension, this analepsis is also internal to the whole scope of the novel, i.e. its
internality is doubled.
2) The next disjoint between story time and narrative time occurs between Chapters 10
and 11, with a similar case of internal analepsis, but with an interesting twist of
perspective: the sex scene between Robbie and Cecilia occurs at the end of Chapter 10,
and we witness this through young Briony’s perspective. Then, in Chapter 11, the
interrupted couple joins the others at the dinner table. But then, following Robbie’s
thoughts at the dinner, McEwan takes us back to an anxious Robbie standing at the door
and proceeds all the way to the sex scene, this time recounted in much richer detail, and
terminates this analepsis with the memory of Briony’s interruption, bringing us back at

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 the dinner table. In essence, this analepsis is internal in regards to Part One as well as to
the entire scope of the novel, but, it is also internal in regards to Chapter 11 itself. This is
because the “trip” back in time is happening during the specific story time of Chapter 11
which is separate in regards to other Chapters. In other words, even if we have
separated Chapter 11 as a special piece of text, and have taken its story time as the
respective first narrative, this analepsis would still be internal in regards to it (it occurs
within the Chapter). In view of the previously described case of analepsis, which was a
double one, this one would be a tripled analepsis (internal to Chapter time, Part time,
and novel time).

Prolepses. Let us now shift our attention to the “future”, and remember that temporal
prolepsis is “any narrative maneuver that consists of narrating or evoking in advance an event
that will take place later” (Genette, 40). There are many cases of prolepses in Atonement, and
many of them are found in Part One. Let us start with the internal prolepses:

1) Interestingly enough, the first case of temporal prolepsis is found near the very
beginning of the novel: the third paragraph of Part One’s Chapter 1 presents us with a
glimpse of the future of Briony’s play, The Trials of Arabella: “Briony was hardly to know
it then, but this was the project’s highest point of fulfillment.” This anticipates the
doomed future of her play which will be cancelled a couple of Chapters ahead (and
several hours in the story). Since the reach of the anticipation in this prolepsis falls well
within the temporal extents of both Part One and the novel in general (instead of beyond
their extents or within an ellipsis), this is a case of internal prolepsis.
2) A next case of internal prolepsis can be found in the opening of Chapter 13, which goes:
“WITHIN THE half hour Briony would commit her crime.” This sentence is also a part of a
larger internal analepsis (since Chapter 13 describes the rape scene which was actually
indicated as having already taken place in the previous Chapter 12), but in regards to
the narrative time of Chapter 13, Briony’s “crime” is still ahead of her, to be committed
in the very same chapter, within the half hour. This is, in effect, a case of prolepsis within
an analeptic chapter in relation to what has already taken place in the story (as
indicated in Chapter 12).

Speaking of purely external prolepses in Atonement is a bit problematic, because of the

fact that there are no anticipated events that reach beyond the date of 1999, which is the mark
of the novel’s ending. However, if we assign the Chapter or Part times as first narratives, then
the rules change because there are indeed many instances which point out to future events that
take place in future Parts of the novel in regards to the one we’ve taken as our first narrative.
Therefore, we have:

1) In Part One’s Chapter 3, a 13 year old Briony is musing about writing and reality, but
before long McEwan offers us a prolepsis whose reach surpasses the first narrative of
Part One and launches us 60 years into the future right into Part Four by giving us this
piece of information: “Six decades later she would describe how at the age of thirteen she
had written her way through a whole history of literature, beginning with stories
derived from the European tradition of folktales, through drama with simple moral
intent, to arrive at an impartial psychological realism which she had discovered for
herself, one special morning during a heat wave in 1935.” This jump to the future

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 reveals much about the outcome of the novel (especially about Briony’s future literary
success) and if we take the whole novel as its first narrative then this prolepsis would be
internal. However, in respect to Part One, this is a case of external prolepsis because it
anticipates events far beyond the timeframe of that day in 1935.
2) Another case of a quasi-external prolepsis is present in Chapter 13 of Part One. Briony is
making a decision to blame Robbie for the rape, but we also receive a glimpse of the
effects that this decision will have on her future self: “She would never be able to console
herself that she was pressured or bullied. She never was.”Although the reach of this
prolepsis isn’t too clear, it is nevertheless agreeable that it is a case of external prolepsis
in regards to the first narrative of Part One. It can reach, however, to both Part Three
and Four, in both of which we see a remorseful Briony, torn by guilt.
3) A third case of an “external” prolepsis is found in Part Three. Briony is a nurse in the
hospital reflecting on her writing, and while we witness this, a commentary of her future
regret is shared with us: “In later years she regretted not being more factual, not
providing herself with a store of raw material. It would have been useful to know what
happened, what it looked like, who was there, what was said.” This is a direct pointer to
the events disclosed in Part Four, i.e. London 1999. Hence, what we have here is a case
of external prolepsis if we look at it through the spectacles of Part Three’s first narrative,
but also an internal prolepsis if we consider it through the broader view of London 1999
and the novel in its entirety.

Ellipsed Anachronies. The anachronies falling within the extent of the ellipses in-
between Atonement’s Parts are largely, it seems, of analeptic nature. The proleptic ones would
be the “snares.” However, the analeptic returns to ellipsed periods of time in the story are
helpful because they shed light on events that in retrospect may provide insights to the
“present” story.

1) Some of these are present in Part Two, as Robbie remembers events which occurred
between his arrest and his entering the war. These fall into the 5 years between Part
One and Part Two, i.e. from 1935 to 1940. Here is one of Robbie’s thoughts that refers to
events in 1939: “Here it was again, his only meeting with her. Six days out of prison, one
day before he reported for duty near Aldershot. When they arranged to meet at Joe Lyons
teahouse in the Strand in 1939, they had not seen each other for three and a half years.”
Although this time period is not covered by any of the novel’s Parts, we still learn of
these ellipsed events via Robbie’s memory and McEwan’s use of (“external”) ellipsed
analepses. Furthermore, one more of Part Two’s mechanisms for “time travel” are the
letters of Cecilia which Robbie keeps with himself, and especially her last letter which
refers to yet another letter (Briony’s) which then refers to events depicted in Part Three,
but which (obviously) happened before the events of Part Two and Robbie’s time in
Dunkirk.
2) We also find references to ellipsed periods in Part Four, i.e. London 1999. There are
several instances which refer to events that happened between Part Three (1940) and
Part Four (1999). This is a period of 59 years, during which many things happened as
we learn from old Briony. For example, we learn that her brother Leon had a wife who
died in an accident, sometime between 1940 and 1999: “We crossed the square where
Leon heroically nursed his wife, and then raised his boisterous children with a devotion

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 that amazed us all.” We also learn that Briony even had a husband during this period:
“On my desk was a framed photograph of my husband, Thierry, taken in Marseille two
years before he died.” These are just two examples of ellipsed analepses, but they are by
no means the only ones.

Snares. As we have already explained, snares are false advance mentions. In other
words, they are prolepses into a future that never plays out (or in other words, can be seen as
ellipsed). Snares are employed by the author to keep the readers guessing or in order to
possibly goad them off in a wrong direction, thus enabling surprise and shock when something
unpredictable happens in the story to which the reader is unprepared. By default, snares are
prolepses. Here are some examples:

1) In Chapter 8 of Part One, Robbie is spending some private time at home, wondering
about the future. At one instant we launch into a vision of his future self: “Twenty years
would sweep him forward to the futuristic date of 1955. What of importance would he
know then that was obscure now? Might there be for him another thirty years beyond
that time, to be lived out at some more thoughtful pace?” And then, we get another
snare: “He thought of himself in 1962, at fifty, when he would be old, but not quite old
enough to be useless, and of the weathered, knowing doctor he would be by then, with
the secret stories, the tragedies and successes stacked behind him.” Since we later learn
that Robbie dies in the war, these prolepses are necessarily snares. However, perhaps, if
we regard them in absence of London 1999, and merely consider them in regards to Part
Three (with Robbie alive), and then we may deem these cases mere external prolepses.
2) Another instance of a snare can be found in the following Chapter, 9, of Part One. Here,
we have a hesitant Cecilia dressing up and trying dress after dress in order to determine
the best option. Suddenly, as she sees her reflection in the mirror, McEwan presents us
with a “snare” camouflaged in the form of a guess: “It was her future self, at eighty-five, in
widow’s weeds.” We later find out that Cecilia is killed in a bomb during the London air
raids, hence, she never lives to be 85 years old, let alone a widow. Obviously, and
tragically, another snare.

Conclusion. It must be admitted that neither Genette’s nor McEwan’s work should be
underestimated. The first one’s is a comprehensive, complex piece of structuralist literary
theory filled to the brim with examples for its findings (mostly stemming from Marcel Proust’s
In Search of Lost Time); however, the latter’s is a post-structuralist’s novel boasting masterfully
crafted overlaps of time, version and story; as if intentionally defying structuralist literary
conventions. It contains paradox within a paradox, time within time, story within a story – or,
we can say, fiction within fiction.

In view of Genette’s work, McEwan proves a tough cookie – the case of Atonement
requires far more space and resources for a more comprehensive analysis utilizing Genette’s
Narrative Discourse theories. And even so, can these structuralist theories succeed in examining
such an elusive gem as Atonement? Perhaps yes, but only at the cost of their own confidence.

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 Bibliography

Genette, Gerard. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. New York: Cornell University Press, 1983.

Narrative Discourse Revisited. New York: Cornell University Press, 1988.

McEwan, Ian. Atonement. New York: Nan A. Talese, Random House, 2002.

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