Types of Memory: When is 'Amnesia' Applicable?

"Clive's passionate relationship with his wife Deborah, a relationship that began before his encephalitis, and one that centers in part on their shared love for music, has engraved itself in him—in areas of his brain unaffected by the encephalitis—so deeply that his amnesia, the most severe amnesia ever recorded, cannot eradicate it."

- A Neurologist's Notebook: The Abyss

I found the passage above to best exemplify some of the strengths and weaknesses of Oliver Sacks' writing. The main goal of this line is seems to be to evoke a thought in the reader's head: "not even most severe form of amnesia ever recorded can deny this man love for his wife and for music --how beautiful." (That's the strength)


It is important and interesting to note that Sacks does mention between the dashes that the Clive's encephalitis did not affect those areas any of those areas of his brain, yet he deliberately maintains this characterization for the sake of the narrative. Logically, the sentence is like saying that Clive miraculously maintained the sort of memory of love for his wife through the most severe of ear infections, or really, any unrelated condition. --The reason I find this worth noting as a weakness is because rather than imply a undescriptive quantitative ('deepest') aspect of memory for the sake of the narrative, Sacks could emphasize the qualitative one, and we would end up with a more faithful perspective on what is going on in the brain and why the memory of their relationship was not forgotten along with other aspects of his life. He does this by mentioning the experiment with the needle-handshake and distinguishing emotional memory from other types of memory, but doesn't give us the same coherent idea of neurological underpinnings as he does in other writings. I'm looking forward to LeDoux's upcoming chapter on emotion, which will likely shed more light and detail on this aspect of memory.

Another topic I found interesting was Sacks' discussion of procedural memory with regard to Clive's retained ability to retain piano-playing skills:

"The basis of procedural or implicit memory is less easy to define, but it certainly involves larger and more primitive parts of the brain—subcortical structures like the basal ganglia and cerebellum and their many connections to each other and to the cerebral cortex. The size and variety of these systems guarantee the robustness of procedural memory and the fact that, unlike episodic memory, procedural memory can remain largely intact even in the face of extensive damage to the hippocampi and medial temporal-lobe structures."

I was glad Sacks added this much into the reading, but it left me with a lot more questions. We know that working memory proccesses are different from long-term memory processes which involve conversion via the hippocampi and also the 'reconstruction' process involved in retrieving episodic memories. We've seen in the case of patients like H.M., working memory is stable enough so they can partake in short tasks or have short conversations (like the Lost Mariner, but unlike Clive repeatedly thinking "I'm wake. Now I'm awake. No, now i'm awake").

Are there case-studies that show examples of 'procedural memory amnesia'? Is this because procedural memory completely different in that it does not require a highly specialized system for the reconstruction process? Or is there a way to produce amnesia of procedural memory? I look forward to gaining a better idea of this system...

One point I am unclear on is to what degree procedural memories are not physical. I think cracking an egg into a pan involves procedural memory, but remembering a routinely used omlet recipe might also be immune from retrograde amnesia, though it is difficult to measure since a person with retrograde amnesia typically will still know what an 'omlet' is. No one would argue that knowledge of vocabulary would fall into the same system as the procedural memories assumed to be in subcortical structures such as the cerebrellum, but on a theoretical basis, their coding or representation may be similar, or at least both different from episodic memory in that the content of the past memories cannot simply be split from the ability to learn new memories... Again, looking forward to reading about studies on language disorders and whether or not cases have been found where a patient has retrograde amnesia of vocabulary, or retains loses ability to learn new words, but maintains the past words. This at first thought appears unlikely, though it would help us further divide types of memory and gain clarity on how memories are represented through the brain.

another longish one

Alice Munro is easily my favorite contemporary writer--the Nobel people should hang their heads low for snubbing her as they do, year after year--and I was delighted to see her on the syllabus. She’s a particularly apt choice, given the subject of the class. Sacks, Luria, Skloot--perhaps Nabokov and even LeDoux, though less so, and others--they all write to enlarge our view of the world, to heighten our sensitivity, to wake us up to a certain kind of diversity, and that’s cognitive diversity. One common trait of these writers is empathy; they seek to increase ours and their own. What makes me love Alice Munro is her empathy, her ability to see through another’s eyes, to be sympathetic but impartial, to accept the subtle shifts and interchanges among our strengths and weaknesses and quirks. She’s the ideal writer to tell this particular story.

Alice Munro--very much like Sacks, I think--is aware of our contradictions, of the push and pull of personality. A classic Munro touch: “She looked just like herself on this day--direct and vague as in fact she was, sweet and ironic.” Who better to capture the convolutions of neurological disorder, the constellations of gifts and deficits and sensibilities and disabilities that we’ve been discussing?

When I think back on my own grandmother’s unraveling--she had Alzheimer’s--I remember some of the weird contraries in her behavior. She did the goofy things Fiona does (placing a book in the refrigerator), and the dangerous things (attempting to drive her car over train tracks), and the maddening things (losing a valuable ring, a family heirloom), and the sad things (failing to recognize her own children, whom she saw weekly till the end). But--like Fiona with her “little yellow notes” or like the “motor genius” that Sacks describes--she had unexpected brightenings, flashes of energy and focus and capability, with a slight compulsive quality. She could recall trivia from decades before, even when she forgot to put pants on. She could read the newspaper from front to back, really read it and understand it, although she couldn’t retain the information for long. She could beat almost anyone in almost any card game. Strange contradictions.

It’s interesting that Fiona so obviously holds on to the ability to fall in love, feel great attachment, and show great affection and devotion. Many people, watching relatives succumb to Alzheimer’s, note an emotional unresponsiveness, affective deadness--at least outwardly, as with the “masking” Sacks talks about--and presumably parts of the brain implicated in those emotional functions are vulnerable to decay as well. But this wasn’t the case with Fiona--and to some extent I buy it. I remember feeling vaguely that, even as my grandmother didn’t recognize us or really respond to us, there was some warming-up, some rise in her emotional temperature, when we were present--something of her old self remained. Some part of her remembered us.

And an even older self, hidden before, may now get the chance to emerge from the depths of Fiona’s unconscious, as layer upon layer of her higher mental functioning is stripped away, “pulling everything to rags. All rags and loose threads.” She must have had some dim awareness, if not full awareness, of her husband’s infidelity, and in a sense, in her earlier life, she was always protecting him from his own folly, but the unconscious often stands in a compensatory relation to the ego, taking the exact opposite attitude. Naturally, when she’s ill, she adopts her husband’s particular vice--a vice that isn’t entirely bad, the narrator suggests: “Nowhere had there been any acknowledgment that the life of a philanderer . . . involved acts of generosity, and even sacrifice”--and there is that element in her behavior towards Aubrey.

All right. I’m tired. Time for bed. Sorry for the abrupt ending.

Memento: A keepsake; an object kept as a reminder of a place or event.

I want to explore the connections between Memento and the amnesia case studies that we have read. I am particularly curious as to what everyone has to say about Leonard's anterograde amnesia and his conscious choices in dealing with this state. In Oliver Sacks “The Abyss” he describes the severe retrograde amnesia of Clive, a man who constantly lives in a confused and displaced state. He does not consciously remember how to describe how is wife looks, the lay out of his home, or his favorite musicians. While Clive shares the same disease as Sacks, Mr. T from The Man who Mistook His Wife For A Hat, Clive greatly differs in his approach to his disease. Mr. T is in a constant state of ‘chatter’ in attempts to fuse himself with a narrative, some form of self reference and understanding. While Clive is often talking and joking he does not confabulate as severely and fantastically as Mr. T does. While Leonard suffers from a different kind of amnesia, not effecting his past memories, he still deals with this idea of conscious confabulation Versus Sub-conscious Confabulation. Sacks describes Clive’s memory reconstructions or communications saying that “This sort of confabulation was not one of conscious fabrication. It was, rather, a strategy, a desperate attempt—unconscious and almost automatic—to provide a sort of continuity, a narrative continuity, when memory, and thus experience, was being snatched away every instant.” Leonard's confabulations differ from Clive and Mr. T in that they are conscious decisions at the times when he alters his physical documentations of his life (i.e. polaroids, notes, tattoos). Leonard's confabulations are actually self inflicted manipulations. They are conscious yet, he would forget about his choice in one moment to change his puzzle pieces. He makes these alterations to continue his investigation much like Mr.T would create this “inner narrative” at every moment of the day to continue his story; the one thing that connects a person to themselves, the world around them. What does it mean that Leonard's method of “remembering” is not that at all? It is in fact quite the opposite. Not only does he forget the truth, his version of the truth is self created, skewed to continue to keep himself from actually remembering what actually happened to his wife.
Leonard manipulates himself because he feels that this unsolvable puzzle he has created is the only means to his happiness; his worth. He struggles to find meaning and identity in his life much like many other memory loss patients of Sacks and Luria. There is this sense of struggle to find identity and connection in Leonard's existence.

Aesthetically, I think that this is shown through the choices of setting in the film. Christopher Nolan has purposefully created a Film Noir feel throughout the entire film. Film Noir is stylistically linked to German expressionist films which highlight the concept of physical confusion in one’s environment in relation to the unrealistic sets designed to represent shadow and light. Memento fits in with the idea of being a film noir in a lot of ways--there is moral ambiguity, the concept that the world is inherently corrupt, and certain character types such as the “femme fatal.” The black and white high contrasted hotel shots are the most blatant visual cue to Memento’s alikeness to a Film Noir. Leonard serves as the sinister and dark character who is never pleased, always in a state of loneliness and despair while Natalie serves as the “femme fatal” who uses Leonard to get what she wants. There is also very apparent moral ambiguity regarding Leonard's motives as well as all the other characters in the film. We, along with Leonard, are stuck in this mystery case. We have no understanding or reference to any of Leonard's past except for the “facts” that he has supplied...and he has a memory problem. This unreliable narration is the audience’s window into the film. The scenery surrounding the film is bleak and unrecognizable. We are never told where the film is taking place or given any sort of visual understanding as to where Leonard actually is or has been. We only know that he has been staying in a motel for an undeclared amount of time. Our very idea of what was going on in the movie, or the motives that were supposed to justify Leonard's actions are shattered at the end of the movie, forcing the audience to then do an active re-evaluation of all the previous actions just like Leonard has to do each day .. or every ten minutes. The audience is put into the mind and situation of a person with short term memory loss. We have to take the clips and bits of information that are completely out of order and try to make sense of them. How does Sammy Jankis fit into the story? Wait, who was Natalie again? Her boyfriend ? You are left with all of the questions and seemingly loose ends, but if you are able to piece the story back together in it’s completeness it still doesn’t make complete sense. We are forced to infer just like Clive, or just like anyone with memory loss has to do. You infer what you’ve just done or where you’ve just been.

Lastly, I wanted to comment on the quick editing that Nolan used in small portions of the film. It is actually really hard to catch if you aren’t paying attention but, there are parts of the film when Leonard will be talking about Sammy--for instance, when Leonard is describing Sammy in sitting in the hospital, Sammy is shown sitting in a chair. Very quickly the film cuts for a split second revealing Leonard sitting in the chair instead of Sammy. With this quick edit it becomes apparent, very early in the film, that there is a strong comparison between the two---or as we come to find out that he is Sammy Jankis. This happens again when Leonard is sitting on the couch in Natalie’s house with the TV remote. In a quick edit Nolan reveals an insulin shot in his hand instead of the remote. I think that Nolan has used this quick editing technique to portray the way in which Leonard possibly gets these quick glimpses of reality---The reason I think this could possibly be true is because it seems that when Leonard writes something in cursive either in a tattoo or on his polaroid he doesn’t intend to remember it. Or believe it at least. His tattoo of the “Remember Sammy Jankis” on his hand is in cursive. When he writes down what Teddy is telling him about Natalie he writes it in cursive...just to later cross it out. It is like Leonard is using this technique to ensure that he won’t remember these things or when he does that they are not valid.

Shifting Truths

This week I thought about some of the fiction stories we read in light of a topic that we’ve been discussing in one of my other classes: the concept of truth. In that seminar we’ve been reconsidering the role our idea of truth plays as we interact with others and form relationships. The truths we know are always particular to our won experience and must therefore be considered in context. We are able to have relationships with others because our versions of the truth overlap in such a way that allows us to interact and share common perspectives with regard to experiences. Conflict within relationships takes place when the two people have opposing versions of the truth. It can be resolved if each person presents their perspective and the two eventually come to a consensual new version of the truth. But to engage in conflict there must be enough mutual understanding to allow the two parties to communicate. If there is no overlap in versions of truth, conflict will carry no meaning and the relationship will be empty.
As it relates to our readings, memory is elemental in the way we shape our perspective and develop the truths with which we structure our knowledge and understanding of the world around us. It is our memory of past experiences that allows us to agree upon certain realities, and therefore communicate with others. When a person’s memory starts to break down, these realities deteriorate leading that person to become increasingly detached from the relationships that were once of great importance in their lives. In the Alice Munro story, Fiona and Grant lived together and shared a rich and rewarding marriage for many years, but once her memory starts to go all the life and meaning of their previous relationship is deflated. When he visits her in the home for the first time he is baffled to find that her version of the truth with regard to their relationship has completely shifted. She greets him not as her husband but instead with a vague and formal courtesy. Munro says, “He could not throw his arms around her. Something about her voice and smile, familiar as they were, something about the way she seemed to be guarding the players from him – as well as him from their displeasure – made that impossible” (5). Without her memory of their connection and all their shared experiences, Grant’s implicit understanding of how they should relate to each other in rendered valueless. Their shared version of truth is lost, and thus he senses a new distance between them that he cannot bridge with affection. Since she is living with new truths she is in a new world, and he knows that in this new world she would not recognize the affectionate gestures of her own husband.
The story demonstrates how shifting versions of truth brought on by memory loss can be particularly painful for the people close to the amnesic person when some consensual truths remain in tact. Munro shows this in the scene when Grant is driving to Fiona to the home, and they share the enjoyment of a memory of skiing in the moonlight. Grant thinks, “If she could remember that, so vividly and correctly, could there really be so much the matter with her? It was all he could do not to turn around and drive home” (3). The overlap in understanding that still exists makes the discrepancies all the more hard to bear for the people close to the victim of memory loss.
The issue of truth comes into play in the Walker Percy story, “The Second Coming.” Written from the perspective of someone with an unreliable memory, the narration give the reader the sense of a shifting sea of truths were nothing is solid or certain. In the opening scene we are brought into this bewildering world, where each new circumstance brings old realities into question. Percy says, “As her mind cast about for who or what he might be – a new kind of runner? masquerader from country club party? Halloween trick-or-treater? – she realized she did not yet know the world well enough to know what to be scared of” (Lethem 102). Although she has the capacity to list different possible explanations for her strange visitor, she also recognizes that knowledge of reality and what defines a useful version of the truth is too limited to allow her to understand the situation. She cannot attribute her trouble to amnesia, but instead to a general confusion as to what exactly she has learned from her past experiences. The issue reveals itself in another form when the main character contemplates love and happiness. She thinks, “Is one supposed to do such-and-so with another person in order to be happy? Must one have a plan for the pursuit of happiness? If so, is there a place where one looks up what one is supposed to do or is there perhaps an agency where one consults?” (110). In this part of the story the reader senses the failure of the main character’s mind to do what comes naturally to most people with working memories – that is, construct versions of truth based on experience. While most of us are able to develop ideas about love and happiness simply by remembering our feelings with regard to certain events in our lives, this story lets us consider the perspective of a person who cannot rely on her memory of the past to help her define truths to live by.

Blissful Ignorance? I Think Not...

While reading Oliver Sacks’s “The Last Hippie,” I found myself questioning some of the precepts of yoga. Particularly, the Yoga Sutras-—which, prior to my having taken any cognitive science classes, seemed (to me) to be the ultimate answer to everything-—as it was, apparently for Greg F. and his fellow Krishna Consciousness comrades. [The Yoga Sutras are the ancient Sanskrit notes taken by students of Patanjli—the assumed first ever yoga teacher (who may in fact be several people; this is highly debated by yogic philosophers)—compiled around 200 B.C. The sutras provide the basis for the practice of yoga, of which the physical postures widely known in the western world comprise only one eighth—i.e. only one of the proposed eight limbs of yoga, which catalogue all aspects of leading a yogic lifestyle. Think of it as the bible of yoga]. Granted, I was slightly more naïve at the time, but I have always thought that such scriptures—and I say scriptures without the least intent of sounding religious—contained in them a vast amount of knowledge that was simple, but applicable to the world at large. Of course, the concept of enlightenment—or, Samadhi, in Patanjli’s words—was always well beyond my grasp. However, much of the wisdom contained in the sutras seemed to be validated by (and more clearly illustrated/proven) by the knowledge I acquired in psychology classes, cognitive science classes, and even biology classes.
Concepts concerning being in the present moment, stilling the mind, letting go of material attachments (including attachment to one’s own body), and more have certainly colored my interpretation of the psycho-physiological aberrations we have read about thus far. For example, I believed that Skloot’s mental deficiencies were, in part (though not entirely) a gift: a forced embrace of simplicity that would have been otherwise impossible for him. There also seemed to be a kind of deliverance from the norm in other cases of memory loss, often referred to as a forced existence in an “eternal present” which, I found, strikingly similar to the goals of many meditative practices.
When, however, Sacks compared the symptoms of Greg F’s frontal lobe damage with the assumptions of Swami Bhaktivedanta and his followers, the latter’s opinion seemed utterly…stupid. Thus there was a huge discordance now between something I had very much thought was informative, true (an ambiguous term in itself, but that’s fodder for another post), and accurate. I wondered if I was indeed ignorant or naïve in agreeing with the yoga sutras for so long, and I began reevaluating their importance to me. So I read through them again, especially focusing on the sections discussing Samadhi (a gradation of enlightenment), definitions of serenity and explanations of how one achieves such states.
Thankfully, I was well assured that the sutras did not seem to advocate frontal lobe deficiencies, nor did they seem to propone that any particular cerebral structure would promote a more advantageous mental state. Though, given the era of his writings, Patanjali was probably not well versed in neuroscience, it was clear that what he had to say was obviously not called into working memory by those individuals who deemed Greg “an illuminate…[with] the ‘inner light growing’” (Lethem 197) or one “having achieved ‘detachment,’ and Enlightened One” (Lethem 200).
To these individuals’ credit, it is easy to see where they would have been mistaken. The twenty-seventh sutra (of the second book of the Yoga Sutras) asserts that the wisdom gained en route to enlightenment is “sevenfold [interestingly, enough, Ledoux’s “magic number” of working memory]…One experiences the end of 1) desire to know anything more; 2) desire to stay away from any thing; 3) desire to gain anything new; 4) desire to do anything; 5) sorrow; 6) fear; 7) delusion” (Satchidananda 199). Greg’s reluctance and refusal to learn Braille would seem to match the first qualification; while his reaction to everything with jokes might seem to fulfill the second [indeed, “virtually every object, every person, every sensation, every word, every thought, every emotion, every nuance and tone[,]” as Sacks asserts, elicited a pun from Greg (Lethem 208)]. In turn, qualifications three and four are ostensibly satisfied by Greg’s overall passivity, his “unnatural serenity that his Krishna brethren had percieved, apparently, as ‘bliss’” (Lethem 199). What with his lack of emotion (for the most part) [as Sacks describes, “there was no furious defiance, no raling at Fate, no sense, apparently, of indignity or despair” (Lethem 203)], qualifications five and six are also satisfied. Of course, it would be impossible to misconceive of the seventh entity: delusion. The fact that Greg firmly believed he was not blind, despite the fact that “his eyes showed complete optic atrophy” implies the he was clinging to the delusion of being able to see.
As regards instance, one (Greg’s refusal to learn Braille) it would be impossible to correlate this with a yogic state of achievement, since the very next qualification (that the desire to stay away from anything is supposed to end when one gains wisdom) discounts it as a possibility. (In other words: by refusing to learn Braille, Greg is not adhering to the second tenet of wisdom acquisition, and thus does not qualify as being enlightened.) Examining his incontinent wisecracking, the 38th sutra of book two (which emphasizes the necessity of “continence” [brahmacharya] (Satchidananda 137) disqualifies the behavior from any semblance to samadhic ascension. In turn, instances three and four (with which Greg’s passivity is misidentified) are rendered inapplicable by the requirement of non-distraction for true serenity or truly being present—or, what the sutras refer to as “the restraint of the modifications of the mind-stuff” (Satchidananda 3). The very fact that Greg was uncontrollably drawn in by and reactive to “..everything around [him] and everything within [him]” (Lethem 208) proves the inconsistency of his ostensible passivity. Finally, he indeed shows emotions by his reactions to the greatful dead and the sorrow he displays at hearing about the loss of his father—thus demonstrating the fallacy in the false attribution of Greg’s emotionless state to the end of sorrow and fear.
Appropriately, all such qualifications arguably require the prefrontal cortex, inasmuch as this structure gives rise to the higher-order processing capacities that neurotypical humans are capable of. Applicable to all seven byproducts of wisdom (or to the disappearance of all hindrances to wisdom), as per the yoga sutras, are the distinct capacities of top-down processing (a.k.a. executive functions) illustrated by Ledoux. These include attention (giving rise to mental “continence,” control of emotions, and the filtering of unnecessary stimuli); prefrontal cortical influence over what (temporal) and where (parietal) pathways in object recognition (which would prevent against delusion); and working memory (which, LeDoux argues, makes consciousness possible—and, of course, consciousness is a huge component of the awareness that leads to wisdom).
Thus it is not that the yoga sutras are inherently ignorant, wrong, or naïve (in fact, they, again, seem compatible!). Rather it is their misinterpretation that underlies the apparent idiocy of Greg’s Krishna comrades. Sadly, this misinterpretation led to the exacerbation of a tumor that, originally, could have been removed without adverse consequences experienced by Greg in its overdue extrication.
In this manner, Greg’s story disproves the very notion that ignorance is bliss. Though it may seem, irrefutably, to be just that (as Greg seemed to be blissful, and his symptoms seemed to be embodiments of enlightenment) it is just the opposite: ignorance is by no means bliss. To believe that it is, is to avoid taking full advantage of your prefrontal cortical capacities. (Or, more simply, to avoid the higher order thought processing that distinguishes us as human).

A Glimmer of Hope through Sadness

Much like the case of William Thompson in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, I was very intrigued in the case of Clive Wearing. Both suffer from severe amnesia, and both have trouble creating their own identity. However, the case of Clive Wearing becomes almost a hopeful message in Sacks’ article, at least compared to the case study devoted to Willie Thompson. Both patients suffer from retrograde amnesia, leaving no presence of their past lives in their mind, but with Clive, there is an interesting aspect of his illness. Even though Sacks refers to his case as “the worst case” of retrograde amnesia “ever recorded,” Clive is still able to take some emotional baggage with his disease. He remembers his wife, Deborah, and is much more animated and happy when she is around, and also is capable retaining the entirety of his musical prowess he had before his encephalitis. Sacks constantly states that retrograde amnesiacs are unable to retain any true memories, but are capable of picking up on things told to them as stories, thus explaining Clive’s WWII bunker stories. However, Clive’s musical ability, as well as the knowledge and love of his wife, does not come from his procedural memory, but from something more abstract which Sacks calls emotional memory. Thus brings up the question of Clive’s soul: does he have one? When Sacks asked the sisters at the hospital about Thompson’s soul, they were not eager to answer too quickly. Willie’s memory was so shot that he had to keep a constant narrative running in his head; a vague attempt at memory. Although troublesome to analyze because I do not have retrograde amnesia, I must argue that Willie’s, as well as Clive’s “souls” are intact. Although Willie’s predicament seems far worse, as he is unable to remember anything at all, and has no wife or activity to bring him to himself, the mere fact that he keeps his constant guessing-game narrative is a sign that there is some sense of loss. Sacks notes in “The Abyss” that retrograde amnesiacs have no idea that they suffer from amnesia. I would argue with some smidgen of hope that this statement is not true. It is very apparent in Willie’s case study that his narratives always begin with a strong sense of who the person standing in front of him is, but as he continues to guess their identity, and get it wrong, he becomes more and more frustrated and aware of the fact that he cannot remember. Granted, after this goes on for a certain period of time, Willie relapses and goes back to his strong assertions. In the case of Clive, he is unaware that he has no episodic memory, but he is aware that something is wrong. Clive’s wife Deborah notes that in the earlier stages of Clive’s amnesia, he would slowly seep into a depression like state, a “never-ending agony.” The actions of both of these patients shows that there is some resonating feeling of loss present in their minds. Unfortunately for both, it comes in a sad realization that they are losing their memory. Although they do not know this directly, they are certainly aware that something is wrong. This brings me to my next point, which is where this sense of self comes from. What it is in the nature vs. nurture argument that makes the sense of the self so strong that one can realize, even with retrograde amnesia, that something is wrong. Through Sack’s writing, it is not apparent to the reader the extreme emotions presented by Clive because Sacks is constantly describing his witty antics, but through small snippets from Deborah and Clive’s documentary, we do get a side of Clive that is truly upsetting. But this upsetting and unsettling side of Clive becomes a glimmer of hope because there is a chance that the self is there. This argument is solidified by his love for Deborah and for his music. It is unfortunate that the soul must be realized at such great a cost. 

Questions To Which I Can't Remember the Answers.

I am immediately struck by the different ways that the authors chose to manifest the amnesia in each piece. In many of the pieces, I did not realize until the end who the amnesiac was or what the instance of memory loss was until I got to the end of the piece and had a moment to think about it. This could very well be a reflection of me, but I like to think that it is reminiscent of the many different ways we use memory and how it can be affected.

I was especially intrigued by Philip Dick's "I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon". I certainly, upon first reading it, would not have grouped it as part of literature on amnesia. But, I love the idea that memory, however concrete we all would like to believe it is, is malleable; also, the thought that memory is more about the general feeling than it is the exact event. Kemmings is so overcome with the guilt he felt during each instance that there is nothing strange to him in remembering the cat eating the bird in conjunction with his French wife and their crumbling house. Though the types of guilt are different, he doesn't necessarily remember the specific instances. Instead, he jumbles them all together into one blanket of guilt spanning many many years. I know it's true for myself that if there wasn't some sort of intense feeling, be it excitement, outrage, or something else, I tend to forget the details of an even fairly easily. This is interesting though, because on many of the occasions where such feeling is involved, I am so overcome by the memory of that feeling that I could not, in a million years, accurately describe the events that preceded it.

LeDoux, in Synaptic Self, supports the idea that working memory serves as temporary storage and each memory can be interrupted when another process "bumps" it out of it's spot. So why don't we continuously replace long term memories instead of just pushing older memories deeper into our subconscious? How did Kemmings memories get jumbled? Was it really just because he was so overcome with guilt that he couldn't enjoy a good memory without something in it triggering the bad memories of his past? Or is it something similar to the working memory -- can one memory bump it's way into another? I'm reminded of the way S. remembers things in Mind of Mnemonist -- by placing them in rows along streets and in their respective countries. Clearly that is an extreme form of memory, exacerbated by his synesthesia, but could that same idea be applied to "normal" memory? Who's to say that the reason Kemmings associates all these guilty memories and mixes them all up couldn't be that he has placed them all in the same general area, and his "view" of each of them is over-shadowed by the next memory?

If memory is so malleable, and it is so easy to mix together a group of thoughts no matter how old they are, is it still something to be trusted?I can't imagine that even with the faults memory is not beneficial to humans and animals alike, but I do find myself questioning the authenticity of my memories now more than ever before. With regards to this piece especially, I have a much greater appreciation for the way my brain processes my memories and what "amnesia" actually is, as well as a more prevalent distrust of what I've recorded as fact.