Varieties of the Fantastic in Fiction

The most horrific part of The Memory Police isn’t the vague totalitarian regime, or objects being disappeared: It’s living with the fact that there are gaps in your knowledge you’ll never be able to fill again.

I stood at the window, where I once stood with my father looking out through binoculars, and even now the small winged creatures occasionally flitted by, but they were no more than reminders that birds mean nothing at all to me anymore.

-Chapter 2, page 43 (electronic edition)

Though early in the novel, I feel this passage best illustrates the story’s emotional core. She knows birds have wings, she knows her father studied them, but she’s lost access to that emotional connection in a meaningful way. In chapter 12, she goes on to explain to R:

Nothing comes back now when I see a photograph. No memories, no response. They’re nothing more than pieces of paper. A new hole has opened in my heart, and there’s no way to fill it up again. That’s how it is when something disappears, though I suppose you can’t understand…

-Chapter 12, page 201 (electronic edition)

This passage directly spells out what she’s experiencing. She’s frustrated by her own lack of information, and even more upset in her attempts to get it back. The experience of trying to hold on to what’s been lost only intensifies the grief she already feels. Bearing this in mind, no one could be shocked by her eventual decision to embrace letting things go.

With just a voice, I think I’ll be able to accept my final moment calmly and quietly, without suffering or sadness.

-Chapter 28, page 582 (electronic edition)

Every loss is a million losses wrapped into one piece: Loss of people, loss of memories, loss of knowledge or possibility for it. This is what The Memory Police is ultimately about: The intricate process of loss and grieving and how it can impact people differently.