What We Can Know: The Fragile Nature of Knowledge and Uncertainty

The Central Claim: Knowledge as a Fragile Construct

Ian McEwan’s What We Can Know opens with an epigraph from Richard Holmes that positions biography as a pursuit of “human truth, poised between fact and fiction.” This single framing device announces the novel’s core thematic claim: knowledge of other people and of the past is inevitably provisional, shaped by the fragmentary nature of archives, the biases of memory, and the storyteller’s own desires. The novel does not suggest that truth is impossible, but rather that what we can know is always partial, mediated, and entangled with what we choose to believe and love. The story of the lost poem “A Corona for Vivien” becomes a metaphor for this epistemological condition—an absence that haunts the narrative and forces every character, especially the narrator Tom Metcalfe, to confront the limits of certainty.

Tracing Uncertainty Through the Plot

1. The Archival Quest (Chapters 1 and 2)

The narrator’s research in the Bodleian Snowdonia Library in 2119 immediately foregrounds the problem of knowledge. Vivien Blundy’s journals offer only glimpses of her inner life: she records irritation at her husband’s indifference, observations on climate change, and a vague dissatisfaction. Yet her motivations, her secret trips to London with her nephew Peter, and the contents of the lost poem remain opaque. The archivist Donald Drummond presses Tom about a mysterious phone number, highlighting the gaps in the record. Tom must decide whether to invent the inner lives of figures who died a century ago—an act he admits causes “unease, then guilt.” The epigraph’s three questions—what we can know, what we can believe, and what we can love—are dramatized here as Tom wrestles with his professional ethics and personal investment in Vivien’s story. The poem itself, read only by Vivien and then lost, embodies the vanishing point of knowledge: the one copy on vellum disappears, and all that remains are secondhand accounts and anxious speculation about its greatness.

2. The Pedagogy of the Past (Chapters 9–11)

Tom and his wife Rose teach a course on the period 1990–2030, attempting to make the past vivid for twenty-second-century students. Yet the students resist, staging a protest led by Kevin Howard who declares: “We want to talk about now… not then.” This rebellion reveals that knowledge of history is not simply a matter of access to data—it requires a willingness to see the dead as real people. The students dismiss previous generations as “morons” who deserve their fate, a judgment that mirrors the very fragmentary and biased understanding the novel critiques. Tom notes that students only begin to grasp the past when they encounter “detail”—the mundane traces of daily life that turn historical figures from cartoons into fellow humans. But even then, the teacher’s own romanticization of the early twenty-first century, which Rose challenges, introduces another layer of uncertainty. The chapter suggests that knowledge of the past is not a neutral accumulation of facts but an act of imaginative reconstruction that can be distorted by nostalgia or contempt.

3. The Disruptive Discovery (Chapter 21)

After years of searching for the lost poem, Tom and Rose sail to an island where a clue leads them to dig at the ruins of a dairy. They uncover a steel container holding not the Corona but Percy Greene’s violin and a folder of prose. This discovery reconfigures Tom’s understanding: the past does not yield what he expected. The violin belonged to Vivien’s first husband, Percy, who died of Alzheimer’s—a disease that itself erases personal knowledge. The prose folder offers a different kind of testimony, forcing Tom to revise his narrative. Rose then reveals her pregnancy, signaling a personal reconciliation that mirrors the scholarly reorientation. The episode demonstrates that knowledge is often delayed, partial, and transformative in unexpected ways. What Tom thought he knew about the Blundy circle is upended, and the real prize—the lost poem—remains absent, underscoring that some truths may never be recovered.

4. The Framing Devices (Chapters 23 and 24)

The penultimate chapter is a single bibliographic note stating that the entire narrative is a future scholarly edition of The Confessions of Vivien Blundy, edited by Tom Metcalfe, with an introduction by Rose Church and a preface by Donald Drummond. This frame turns the novel itself into a mediated document, reminding readers that even this story is a constructed artifact. Immediately after, the Author’s Note delivers a single sentence: nothing related to the novel is buried anywhere. McEwan here denies hidden puzzles or deeper layers, asserting that all necessary material is openly presented. Yet this declaration of transparency comes after 23 chapters of deliberate ambiguity and fragmentary evidence. The contradiction is intentional: the author offers certainty about the text’s honesty while the story insists on the elusiveness of knowledge. This closing gambit forces readers to consider whether the novel can be taken at its word, or whether the author’s note is itself a sophisticated act of misdirection.

Character Connections to Knowledge and Uncertainty

Tom Metcalfe embodies the biographer’s predicament. He invents inner lives when evidence fails, rationalizing that “in biography the price of invention is unease, then guilt.” His relationship with Rose Church becomes a recurring check on his certainties: she accuses him of romanticizing the past and ignoring its squalor. Vivien Blundy remains unknowable despite her voluminous journals; she deliberately concealed her trips to London, and her true feelings about her marriage to Francis Blundy are filtered through her own selective record. Francis himself, the celebrated poet, is largely absent from the textual record—his ideas about loop quantum gravity and his nervousness before the dinner are known only through notes. Harry Kitchener, the editor-dandy, is described through gossip and contradiction. Even Percy Greene, dead of Alzheimer’s, leaves only a violin as a material trace of his existence. Each character contributes to the theme by demonstrating how much of a life remains opaque to later scrutiny.

Symbolic Anchors of Epistemic Doubt

The lost poem “A Corona for Vivien” is the novel’s central symbol for unattainable knowledge. It is described as “a talisman to the survivors,” but its content is entirely unknown. The poem’s absence generates speculation, longing, and a search that defines Tom’s career. The vellum manuscript on which it was written is physical evidence that disappeared, reinforcing the fragility of cultural memory. Percy’s violin, discovered in the steel container, symbolizes the unexpected knowledge that arrives when the object of a search is not what was anticipated. It reorients the narrative toward a different kind of truth—personal, musical, and tied to a man erased by disease. Together, these objects insist that knowledge is not a stable possession but a process of interpretation haunted by absence.

Complexity and Contradiction in the Theme

The novel’s deepest contradiction lies in its form. Tom admits to inventing subjective states where sources fail, yet the book presents itself as a scholarly edition—a genre that traditionally demands fidelity to evidence. The Author’s Note claims transparency, but the preceding story is built on guesswork, suppressed facts, and selective quotation. Furthermore, the students’ protest shows that even when evidence is abundant (the entire internet preserved), people may refuse to know. The novel does not resolve these tensions; instead, it suggests that knowledge is always a negotiation between what is available and what we are willing to accept. McEwan’s epigraph sets the terms: we can know only within the bounds of belief and love. Certainty may be an illusion, but the search itself shapes meaning.

Study Questions and Answers

1. How does the epigraph from Richard Holmes define the novel’s approach to knowledge?

The epigraph presents biography as a pursuit of truth poised between fact and fiction, treating the biographer’s account as both a friendship and a betrayal. It asks what we can know, believe, and love, framing knowledge as inseparable from emotional and ethical choices. This sets up the novel’s central inquiry into the limits of archival certainty.

2. Why does the lost poem serve as a central symbol for uncertainty?

The poem is read by only one person, then vanishes. Its existence is attested but its content is unknown, making it an object of endless speculation. It represents the absence at the heart of historical knowledge—something that matters deeply yet remains inaccessible. Its disappearance drives the plot while confirming that some truths can never be recovered.

3. In what ways does Tom’s relationship with Rose challenge his understanding of the past?

Rose accuses Tom of romanticizing the early twenty-first century and ignoring its destructiveness. She insists that invention without evidence is unethical. Their running dispute forces Tom to confront his biases and to question whether his version of the past is shaped by nostalgia. Their reconciliation at the end, after the discovery, suggests that knowledge is also relational.

4. What does the discovery of Percy’s violin reveal about the limits of archival research?

Tom searches for the poem but finds the violin and prose instead. This shows that archives and clues can lead to unexpected truths that reorient the entire narrative. The discovery humbles Tom’s controlling scholarly gaze: the past refuses to conform to his expectations, and meaning emerges from what was not sought.

5. How does the Author’s Note complicate the novel’s epistemological stance?

The Author’s Note asserts that nothing is buried and that all necessary material is presented plainly. Yet this comes at the end of a novel filled with gaps, invented inner lives, and a framed narrative. The note may be a final honest statement or a playful denial of the very ambiguity the novel cultivates. It forces readers to decide what to believe about the text itself, mirroring the novel’s thematic challenge.