Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police (1994, tr. Stephen Snyder 2019) is a conceit-heavy fantasy about a novelist who lives on an anonymous island where entire categories of objects occasionally “are disappeared,” after which the island’s citizens systematically destroy the things in the category, after which the memories of and word for the thing disappear. “Ribbon, bell, emerald, stamp…” (Ch. 1, 5).
It is a multi-step conceit, which is part of its strangeness. Sometimes, as with novels and photographs, the human destruction is central, with bonfires that evoke totalitarian horrors. And sometimes:
The disappearance of the fruit was much simpler. When we woke in the morning, fruit of every sort was falling from trees all over the island. A pattering sound could be heard everywhere, and in the northern hills and the forest park, fruit came down like a hailstorm. Some were big as baseballs, some small as beans, some covered in shells, some brightly colored – fruits of all kinds. (Ch. 12, 95-6)
Part of the fun of the novel is trying to figure out the rules, but be warned that there are none, or anyways they are fluid.
“And what will happen if words disappear?” I whispered to myself, afraid that if I said it too loudly, it might come true. (4, 26)
The Memory Police is a novel about semiotics, about the functioning of language, with strange constraints put on ordinary human capacities. I mean, if the words disappear, we make more words. If we all forget the word “emerald,” we start using “greenstone” or something. But these poor people can’t do that for some reason, maybe genetic manipulation, the only hint of science fiction in the novel. Ogawa wants to watch it all – everything – disappear, not eventually, but quickly.
The narrator is herself a surrealist novelist, and unfortunately Ogawa includes generous abstracts from the dull novel in progress, which features a mute typist imprisoned, by her sadistic typing teacher, in a clock tower filled with broken typewriters. Her captor sews her clothes made from metal and fruit peels. My impression is that contemporary Japanese literature features a fair amount of this kind of quirk. The important thing, as far as I can tell, about the novel-within-the-novel is that the novelist keeps using words that she has supposedly forgotten. Clues, but to what?
Early in the novel, birds are disappeared. Later in the novel, the characters eat chicken. Here we approach a novel I would have enjoyed, where characters successfully outwit the semiotic entropy by shifting signifiers. A chicken is a bird, but chicken is meat. The meat comes from – who cares, it is, linguistically, a separate issue. The final disappearances take a hilarious Dada turn that move towards the novel I was imagining.
The conceit of The Memory Police created a curious Oulipo-like effect for me, where the most banal list of objects – “The rest of the tools of his trade were close at hand – files and cards, a bottle of correction fluid, a letter opener, a stapler” (13, 103-4) – becomes full of significance. Unlike almost all other novels, I cannot assume anything about this history-free, disintegrating world. I have to imaginatively populate it item by item. Weird. It is a little like the moment in Titus Alone (1959) when the “car” appears.
The prose is pretty flat. There are many banal lists of objects. But the conceptual justification is clear enough. Maybe the novel had more interesting words that disappeared.
I liked Peter Gordon’s review of The Memory Police in the Asian Review of Books. He thinks the whole thing is “an allegory on aging and mortality,” which is plausible. I myself was strongly tempted to allegorize, but I resisted.
