He visits the place once, but although he decides not to proceed beyond a few initial tests, it soon becomes obvious that there was more to those tests than the doctors were letting on.įor when he emerges the world has forgotten him. When Marc Lucas loses his wife and unborn child in a car crash – he was driving – he answers an advert for a clinic specialising in the removal of traumatic memories. It is, broadly, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind meets Inception, minus any sense of intellectual curiosity. Sebastian Fitzek's Splinter (translated by John Brownjohn, Corvus, £12.99) was a huge hit in Germany a few years ago. Whatever your view, the war against cliché desperately needs more troops on the front scattered with blurbs along the lines of "HIS MEMORY IS ALL HE HAS – AND NOW HE WANTS IT BACK". Or perhaps the domination of a key strain of popular culture by Philip K Dick has created an ideas vortex from which no one can be bothered to climb free. Perhaps recognition of the internet's infinite capacity is forcing us to consider the limits of our own. M emory is to modern sensation novelists what madness was to their Victorian forebears – an anxiety of the age, ripe for exploitation.
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