The Memory Artists

Finished this book on my train journeys this week; very good, fascinating and incredibly sad. I might have mentioned before that books hardly ever make me cry- this one didn’t either, but it was pretty close at some parts. It was the kind of sad that makes it difficult to go on reading, sad because its real and people actually go through that type of pain, and there’s nothing we can do about it.

On a brighter note, I enjoyed the way the two memory conditions contrasted each other, and how the narration from such fractured viewpoints made reality a bit hazy and difficult to comprehend, reflecting the protagonists’ experience.

The book also aptly demonstrates how the grass is always greener on the other side, and extremes of any kind can make life difficult to live.

Finally and fundamentally, it tells a love story; the unrequited love for a girl who is enthralled by someone else, the love evident in an unlikely friendship that provides acceptance when nobody else can understand, and the love of strangers for a woman in desperate need of care and stability.

It tells of the love of a son for his mother, love that shoulders burdens too heavy to bear, without a hint of bitterness, even though he can barely care for himself. Love for someone unable to remember his name.