Claire Fuller’s The Memory of Animals is an unusual book set in what appears to be roughly contemporary times. The story unfolds through a series of letters from the narrator, Neffy, to ‘H’, who we later learn is an octopus that Neffy freed from an aquarium where she’d previously worked.
The primary narrative follows Neffy, a 27-year-old marine biologist who volunteers in a programme developing a vaccine for a devastating pandemic, eerily reminiscent of our current global situation. The virus, named ‘Dropsy’, causes memory loss, bulging eyes, skin abnormalities, and ultimately, death.
As the pandemic accelerates, Neffy becomes the only successful trial participant, acquiring immunity to Dropsy. Following her severe illness, she finds herself amongst other young adults who were meant to trial the vaccine but, for various reasons, hadn’t. The narrative traces the dynamics of this group as they navigate their isolated existence, grappling with scarce resources, constant danger, and a need to survive. In that respect only, it’s a little bit like “Lord of the Flies.”
A twist in the tale emerges when a character named Yahiko possesses a device that allows some individuals to ‘Revisit’ their pasts and experience old memories, somewhat like using Dumbledore’s Pensieve, but more technologically advanced. This device reveals glimpses of Neffy’s childhood, her relationships with her divorced parents, and the genesis of her fascination, perhaps obsession, with sea creatures, particularly octopuses.
I think it’s fair to say that The Memory of Animals is a unique and most definitely peculiar blend of themes and genres. Partly a love story with octopuses as well as people, it’s also a reflection on human resilience amidst grave crises, a dystopian-apocalyptic sci-fi story, and an exploration of dysfunctionality. These themes are all explored within a narrative laced with a potent mix of metaphors and symbolism, the depth of which I’m not entirely sure I’ve yet comprehended.
While this blend of content may seem absurd at first glance, upon closer reflection it clearly isn’t. The book adeptly demonstrates the intricate interplay of life, science, and emotion, reinforcing that these aspects of existence are intricately intertwined.
If not for my book club, I might never have discovered The Memory of Animals. Although I can’t reveal much, I didn’t anticipate the ending. Despite its unusual twists, I found myself thoroughly engrossed and captivated by it. The narrative is both unsettling and incredibly authentic. It sparks an intriguing thought: how would we assess the impact of this book on ourselves, its readers, in the next two or three decades? Perhaps one day I’ll be able to use a tool akin to Yahiko’s ‘Revisit’ apparatus to find out.