MNEMOSYNE E N G L I S H
S O C I E T Y
L I T E R A R Y
D E C E M B E R
E D I T I O N
M A G A Z I N E
ENGLISH SOCIETY LITERARY MAGAZINE DECEMBER EDITION
-contents[POETRY] The
Pensive God
Forget
by
by
Me
5G
5G
Not
Christian
Jade by
2F
Yau
Duong Gloria
Mak
[SHORT STORIES] Perpetua What
Did
I
by
Do
5I
Matthew
This
Cherry The
Winding
The
Final
Morning?
by
3G
Wong
Tape
Smile
Kwok
by
by
4G
4C
Jodie
Li
Ambrose
Leung
[COMMENTARY] The
Cure
for
Hanahaki
by
5G
Ivy
Wong The
Theme by
of
Memory
in
The
4G
Jasmine
Kwok
Giver
page 02
March 2
Vol. 56
The Pensive by 5G Christian Yau I donate my head of gold To the transparent mirror that seems To be shifting ever so slowly. I am Sinking; You take me down a familiar path: Papers on ink, smoking tees above A red-brick precipitate. A million miles Lie ahead; a journey that begins with A single step—the choice is but a toss Of a coin. I toss my coin into The wishing well. Take me back.
Take me back to when we walked Bare-feet across the creek, all smiles; When we walked down the tired stairs With pieces of white stuck to our backs— When my headphones blasted A soft nocturne in broad daylight; When we stood round our flame By the pensive, star-gazing, And yellow and blue meant nothing But the grass beneath my feet.
page 03
God by 5G Jade Duong white eyed white sunken hollowness white canvas a self proclaimed white God made of marble tiles and porcelain stoic nuance blood seething out of concrete tongue i wonder if i deconstruct and peel your dermis would my broken chisel find itself kissing
the mosaic floor where we hear the chimes of fractured bones that echo the bursting sparks of red blood on an october night in which the devil’s spit stings my big toe like the lies and threats thrown in the crystal elevator in the clouds that rebound on the glass surface like the stygian vault overflowing with biblical allusions of injustice you threw across the hallway with a large thud on the wood made from the english bow and arrow you bestowed upon me as a fierceful guardian of your inferior pride
and when i, you, them as the arrow flies pierces through my mother’s heart and the crimson seeps through her pink hoodie into the uterus where sweats and beads of tears cannot produce the son you want to save humanity with but a punishment for the virulentness of your word passed down as gospels
i, no longer the little girl who rides the chariot engraved with initials of your sins i give you back the rib that is stained with your fingerprint like a crime scene no longer do we bleed the same ichor nor cry the same screams of greed and green forget the flesh forget the veins forget the eyes into the Lethe i drown.
page 04
Forget Me Not by 2F Gloria Mak Light as a feather, slippery as an eel, Memories fade in and out as my mind draws near. Sometimes they seem far, far away, forever staying at the rear, Other times they keep replaying in my head, so close, so true, so real.
Some say the recalling of distant memories is a savage swindler’s prank, Holding out your hand waiting with bated breath, expecting to breach. Yet the tyrannical trickster scoots away, just out of reach, Until at last, you have no other choice but to surrender, your mind completely blank.
Some say the evocation of obscure recollections is a heinous hypocrite’s lies, A dim beacon of light hovering far off in the immense darkness all around. Yet while you approach closer and closer, without a single sound, You are once again plunged into the void of shadows as the feeble illumination dies.
Be that as it may, some memories do, in fact, stand out from the rest, Like a soaring mountain in a plain of diminutive grass, a red rose amongst a sea of blue periwinkles. Reminiscences of you and your family at the beach, smiling so much that your faces reveal wrinkles, Or having a sleepover party with your dearest friends, perhaps even when you score full marks on your test.
Hold these precious moments close to your heart, don’t let them slip away, For they are your anchor, your shield, your shining blaze in the starless night. They will be your counsellor, guiding you down the path of right, And most important of all, they will bestow you with all that you need every day.
page 05
Perpetua by 5I Matthew Kwok A flash of light bursts into her eyes, and she cries out in pain.
She was born in the early 1300s to a poor family in France, by the name of Perenelle. It was sheer fate that she married the eccentric Nicolas Flamel, and pure dumb luck that she had gotten caught in one of his experiments. Her husband, in an effort to produce the Philosopher’s Stone, caused a raging fire that killed them both. Perenelle did not expect to wake up as a baby, fully intact with all memories from her past life. She has taken up many names across many lifetimes, and somewhere along the way, Perpetua arose.
At first, retaining memories was what interested Perpetua. For the first few hundred years, Perpetua made it her goal to learn about everything, ranging from practical arts such as medicine to more obscure interests, such as singing. Being able to transfer knowledge and wealth across generations made her rich, and by the 1900s, she had amassed a fortune large enough to last her a few more lifetimes. At this point, she was content to kick back and watch society unfold and develop, but history had other ideas.
The First World War shook Perpetua to the core, the atrocities and horrors were unlike anything she had ever witnessed in the past 600 years. Caught up in the warfront, she watched firsthand as her world was torn apart, her fortune obliterated and society crumbled. During those years, her retaining memories were greatly helpful, and she saved many a life working as a medic for injured soldiers. When the war was finally over, Perpetua did not breathe a sigh of relief. For the first time, she did not want to remember, she wanted to forget.
page 06
Throughout those 600 years, Perpetua had tried to keep her abilities a secret, hiding her fortune from the public to live a private life, but someone had other plans. Hitler, seeking revenge for the humiliating loss in the first world war, was looking for supernatural means to gain power over Germany. As a resourceful man, it wasn’t long before Perpetua fell into his grasps. She had barely started a new lifetime, in a body that was only fifteen years old, but that didn’t matter to Hitler. Using her memories, the Nazi Party soon controlled Germany, and the Second World War began. It was also due to Perpetua that the mass execution of Jews came into place, her extensive knowledge contributing greatly to the construction of concentration camps and the gassing chambers. Perpetua was tortured, both physically and mentally, and despite wishing she could forget all of the atrocities she helped commit, the memories stayed with her even after the Second World War ended.
That was the start of Perpetua’s misery. At first, she was unbothered by the passing of time, the death of people she knew never really affected her. Having witnessed the terrors of humanity firsthand, deaths now lingered in her mind. She wouldn’t forget them, she couldn’t forget them. Memory was now more of a curse than it was a blessing. No matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to shake off the guilt, the pain, the horror. While the rest of the world moved on, Perpetua couldn’t. Her memories were still vivid, utterly traumatizing to even recall. Burdened by all the distress, Perpetua no longer reincarnated as a healthy baby, starting to die in her lifetimes as an infant before reaching older ages.
In all her lifetimes, Perpetua had seen, experienced, and witnessed many horrific events. In a hopeless bid to stop the overwhelming torment, she tried to imagine what death would feel like. Incapable of moving forward, she curled up into a ball and hid from the world. She cried out for help in the void, desperately yearning for something else, for something less, and eventually, the void answered back.
page 07
What Did I Do This Morning? by 3G Cherry Wong I fell flat onto my bed that night, sighing in relaxation as I reminisced of the fruitful Christmas party Rose had held. All the delicious food, the dynamic pop songs, the electric atmosphere…
Oh, right.
Snatching up my Doughnut backpack, I pulled out the wrapped gift I’d received from our generous host. I tucked my present under our glowing Christmas tree, which was twinkling brightly like the diamonds in the sky. With one last peek at the ornamental, multi-coloured street, I curled up into my bed covers and went to sleep, fervently wishing that everyday was Christmas day.
Morning soon arrived in a blink of an eye. Christmas! As the balmy sunlight poured through the window glass into my bedroom, I wasted no time lying in bed like usual and trundled off to open the presents in glee. In my world, customs didn’t matter, only gifts did. Kneeling in front of the tree, my hand hovered over the presents indecisively as I tried to decide which present to unwrap first. Wait. I’m wasting time. Never mind, random pick! Let’s open Rose’s first! Wait, there’s a note on it. Oh, June made it! Hmm let’s see what we have here…
I gasped.
-
It was Monday. I woke up much earlier than usual. I changed, brushed and combed my hair. I stumbled down to the kitchen in a quick manner. I had to eat oatmeal. I’m done. I stepped into my snug boots. I said goodbye to my mom. Then my dad. I marched towards school, keeping my eyes on the ground.
I got to school long before the school bell rung and sat down. Surprisingly, almost everyone had arrived too. Even the teacher was there, clutching a textbook in his right hand.
page 08
There was still half an hour till school began. What should I do? Were there any activities I could join in? I can't remember any. I think I faintly remember something called morning Bible reading, are we supposed to do that? Suppose I don’t know how to do that? Whereas I remember doing that before… how queer…
Suddenly something clicked in me. Oh I remember now. Bible verses reading. Today we should be reading page 54 of the New Testament. Our Bibles were in our lockers. We could get them by taking out our keys and strapping them into the keyholes of our lockers.
In an instant everyone was doing the same thing, teacher included. Very soon, we all found our Bibles. We started reading out aloud. And louder. And louder. The teacher was the loudest. Until the neighbour classes all poked their heads in and chorused, ‘Will you shut up?!’ We all tilted our heads up to look at them for a moment. How should I respond? Should I use the outside-school way or inside-school way. I wasn’t sure. So I continued reading. Reading is my mandate now. Others followed. Then we were all reading again. I knew we were extremely noisy. And disturbing. But the only thing we knew how to do was to read the Bible. We read louder and louder again, until a band of prefects stamped into our classroom in the utmost fury. ‘We can even hear you on the streets! Where is your discipline! What is the 3rd Rule in the Hamston Book of Disciplinary!’
I heard a tender, wee voice start whispering the rule, whilst we were all frozen in our spots, trying to remember the rule. Then we started to remember. ‘It is the basic responsibility of students to remain disciplined and considerate at all times!’‘
Oh so you do know! I guess you all know what it’s going to be? A record on the naughty list for you all and detention after school tomorrow!’ A roly-poly prefect announced smugly.
Silence. Our blank expressions didn’t alter the least. A staring contest commenced between us and the prefects.
‘Well then, I guess that’s it.’ The prefects said finally, looking a bit off. Everyone left the classroom, except for us and our class teacher.
page 09
What was I doing? Was this right? What were we going to do next? What did we usually do at school? To my confusion, I couldn’t remember anything from my past. Only a routine
of
brushing,
dressing,
combing
and
climbing
down
the
stairs
at
an
exact
minute.
At 10 PM, I slipped into the cozy, homey bed, knowing I was going to sleep.
Automatic feelings. Blank minds.
What did I do this morning?
-
My name is June. My affluent family. My sister Rose, always beaming like the sunshine daisies. My classmates, always grouped together, chatting and grinning. Me, the solo. The left out. The one who nobody ever cared about.
Because I had amnesia. That simple reason.
They thought it made me naïve. Laughed at me behind my back. My parents despised me. They thought I was a disgrace. They believed me to be no more than a mole, who should stay underground and never expose itself to sunlight.
But
it
wasn’t
true!
My
attention
span
and
intelligence
was
equivalent
to
all
my
classmates. All I lacked was a bit of organisation and memories.
I tried to make friends by maintaining a proactive and open attitude. I wanted to prove to everybody that just because I was a bit different inborn didn’t mean I wasn’t like them. But every time I forgot something and stood in the middle of the classroom, digesting where my next destination should be, I would hear nothing but giggles and something sardonic like, ‘She forgot again? Oh my god, she’s amazing… ’
All the agony and pressure overtook me. PTSD paraded right into my life. More anguish. More stress. The loop replays itself.
‘When is the Christmas party again?’ A week ago, I inquired my mom. My dad sighed and put on his spectacles, examining me like he always did.
page 10
‘Is this the 9th or the 10th time she’d asked, darling?’ My mom turned to him.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He said, tearing them off, tearing me from his vision and life. ‘She’ll always be the same.’
‘Hey sis!’ Rose came bounding towards me. ‘Do you think I should use the pearl-white gown or the shimmering fairy costume for the party next week?’
I scratched my head, trying to remember what those two costumes looked like.
Rose shook her head in disapproval. ‘Not again. Oh June, will you ever use your brain cells?’
‘I do.’ I answered calmly.
‘Right, tell me then, where did we go this morning?’
I knew she was going to ask that. I had the answer secured in my head already. The Chanel Shop! Mom and Dad would recognise my improvement.
‘We went to--’ I paused. That’s funny. The word escaped. I couldn’t remember the word I was going to pronounce. I really remembered it. Just a second ago. I diverted my eyes to my parents’ faces. They weren’t even looking at me anymore.
Where did I go this morning?...
'Chanel, my little baby sister.’ Rose crooned.
‘Oh yes!’ I clapped in a silly manner before I realised I had fallen for the trick. The expression on my sister’s face was repulsive…
‘Nap more, baby sis. Oh, and you better start making your wish for this Christmas now. Otherwise there’s a tremendous chance Santa’s not gonna grant it and you’re going to spend another year in misery.’
‘You shut up!’ My face heated up. My ears were burning. I couldn’t take it anymore.
page 11
‘June!’
‘All I lack is stabilised memory! Do you think I want to be born like this? To be obliged to follow a routine of brushing, dressing, combing and climbing down the stairs at the exact minute and exact time every day just so that I wouldn’t mess up my daily life?’ I yelled lividly.
‘Go to your room now!’ My mother ordered, her knuckles white. ‘You’re a disgrace.’I held out a finger at them.
‘I wish I could control all your memories… I wish you could all experience… the trauma I’m going through.’
Without bothering to look back, I raced into my bedroom and slammed myself onto my bed. I’m a mess, I’m a loser… I started to sob in desolation. Tears slid down my face and I gulped and wailed, bereft of hope, when a shooting star flashed across the evening sky in a heavenly state.
I sat up fast and made my wish, then wiped my tears. Revenge would be sweet. Everyone would suffer. There would be no escape. My classmates would go first. They could experience my daily routine! For a day! All the blankness and uncertainty of life! Their memories deleted, their thoughts altered.
I screamed at the top of my lungs:
‘AND FINALLY, THEY WOULD ASK, “WHAT DID I DO THIS MORNING?” !’
page 12
The Winding Tape by 4G Jodie Li “3… 2… 1! click”
I jerked up to a start, puzzled as the pitch blackness clouding before me gradually faded away. Where was I? Glancing around, familiar faces came into sight-- Anne, Joseph, Lily… Aha! Fiona! A scheme unfolded seamlessly in my mind. I could already envision her innocent, doe-like eyes widening with fear as I crept behind her, waiting for the perfect moment to give her a shock.
“Ah!” I hollered at the top of my lungs and grabbed Fiona’s ponytail.
Nothing happened. Not even the slightest astonishment. Instead of the high-pitched scream I had anticipated, Fiona sat motionlessly at her seat, with her eyes fixed on the screen before her, unbothered. Confused, I scanned around. Everyone was wearing all black, with a solemn grief hanging behind their stares. Was this some sort of halloween gathering? Why were… Glimpsing down, I realised I was the only one clothed in my baggy pants and muddy-yellow shirt. Huh?
“Waah!”
I lifted my gaze. It was only then did I notice a tape playing on the screen. A newborn baby was pictured in the centre. Its turquoise eyes met with mine, glistening like stars. I took one step closer. Its face glowed with vitality, with milk spots scattered across its strawberrypink cheeks. I could almost hear its mother’s laughter, marvelling in a symphony of relief and joy. Wait… I lunged forward to get a closer look. Wasn’t that…. me?
page 13
I stumbled backwards. No way. Why was I on the screen? Why was nobody voicing out? Why did everyone look so melancholic? What was happening? I clutched onto the handle of a chair nearby, standing myself up. Nobody spared me a single glance. Weird.
Before I could come to my senses, another scene popped on the screen. Hold on…that’s…that’s my first piano contest! A warm flush ran through my spine and I couldn’t help but let a giggle escape. I could still vividly recall all the details on that night--my shivering fingers when I froze on stage, my fright as I tried my best to hit the keys on the music score, and of course my papa sitting on the front row cheering me on. But why were these clips playing? In the blink of an eye, the tape skidded to the next scene. There I was, again, wearing a long violet graduation cape. I laughed as I tearfully watched myself on the screen. It was just yesterday when I graduated in all smiles, blossoming with a visionary and a future.
The film moved on the next clip. This time a young man stood, in a stark white, immaculate double-breasted suit, with his well-groomed tie leaving no speck of dust. His hair was styled neatly with gel, flashing before daylight. My eyes trailed along his features until I met with a pair of familiar turquoise eyes, like a deep sea plunging into my soul. I watched as a lady glided on the aisle in a silk wedding gown, her curls falling perfectly into place.
“Sniff sniff…” I turned around. “Peter…my Peter…” A frail old lady sat behind me, wiping her tears streaming down her face with the corner of her sleeve. Her sparse grey hairs danced against her copper skin. Why was she calling my name? Who was she?
“Zelie. It’s going to be alright. Come on, dear. Don’t cry.”
page 14
Zelie (I guess that was her name) buried her face into the arms of a lady next to her. Her sobs echoed across the room as her sorrow transcended like dominoes. Within a second, the entire room of people started bawling in tears. I stood dumbfounded as I watched people of every age lower their heads, faces covered in tears.
The tape never stopped rolling. It continued on and on with scenes of the newly weds, their house, their kids…questions swirled around me as I tried to make out of the confusion and chaos in the room. Who were these people? Who was the man in the tape? Why were we all here watching this film? Should I also be breaking down in tears?
Wrong question.
My stomach clenched as the tape arrived at a final portrait of an old man.
“Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death. --Isaiah 57:2”
Beneath the picture, marked my name -- Peter Geoger Brown 19392010
page 15
The Final Smile by 4C Ambrose Leung It was a warm, cloudy day, as the sun streamed through tiny gaps in the clouds.
I was
in my study room, packing my stuff into a bulky suitcase when my mother’s unmistakable rhythmic footsteps coming from the corridor grew increasingly loud. ‘My goodness!’ my Mum shrieked as she passed by my room. ‘Your room is in shambles and your stuff is all over the place!
Please don’t be so disorganised.
No one would like to return here
later simply because you’ve forgotten a thing or two! The lorry truck will arrive in an hour, so please speed up!’
I rolled my eyes as usual and grumbled, ‘Mum, you’re
disturbing me! Can’t you just mind your own business?’
My name is Chris and I am a Form 1 student.
I live with my father in an apartment in
Central. I go to school in Sai Kung and it takes me two hours, give or take, to commute to and from school. I have to wake up at the crack of dawn every school day and I find myself
arriving
immense
home
bleary-eyed
inconvenience
and
entering secondary school.
led
under to
a
extreme
drastic
exhaustion.
drop
in
my
All
this
academic
has
caused
results
since
We all knew that this situation could not go on any longer
and something had to be done.
After thorough discussions, we came to a conclusive
decision – to move to the New Territories.
Today was the big day. The lorry truck was about to arrive and we would move into our new apartment soon. As I was packing my stuff in my study room into a suitcase, out of the
blue,
something
shiny
gleaming
at
the
back
of
my
drawer
caught
my
eye.
Intrigued, I reached in and took it out. I was surprised to find out that it was, in fact, a tarnished pin.
It seemed somewhat familiar, yet I had no memory of it.
Thinking it
might be another one of Mum’s old things, I went out and asked her what it was. When Mum saw the pin and my puzzled look, she chuckled. ‘Your memory’s gotten a bit rusty, no? me
You received this from your former English tutorial teacher, Miss Lucy. you’ve
forgotten
her
already!’
The
moment
Mum’s
words
sank
in,
Don’t tell memories
immediately flooded into my mind and I could vividly remember every minuscule detail of
what
happened
regarding
this
pin.
It
was
as
if
the
incident
happened
just
yesterday. My eyes were instantly filled with tears...
page 16
My memories traced back to a day four years ago. I was about to go to Miss Lucy’s house for my weekly lesson when I suddenly received a call from Miss Lucy’s husband. He informed me of devastating news – Miss Lucy had caught a serious disease and was in grave danger.
Miss Lucy had been teaching me English since I was three.
Miss
Lucy had not given birth to any children, so she treated me as if I was her son, and we shared countless pleasant memories.
I could always share my secrets with Miss Lucy. I
once wept when I told her that I was bullied by some classmates at school.
She
listened compassionately and sympathetically, comforted me and told me to stand firm and speak up the next time I encountered those bullies at school.
Miss Lucy never
wasted time and she made every moment a precious learning opportunity.
Once my
mum was late to pick me up from her house after a lesson. Miss Lucy then surprised me with her knowledge of biology by teaching me the names of the plants that she had grown in her magnificent little garden and the importance of plants to our health, the environment and the ecosystem.
Miss Lucy wasn’t harsh and she never told me off.
When I came across any difficulties and challenges in English, she encouraged me to never give up.
She inspired me by constantly saying that with determination, humility
and hard work, anything is possible.
I dashed to the hospital with Mum as light rain began to fall.
Various memories
between Miss Lucy and I flashed back into my mind. The moment I saw Miss Lucy, I was astounded. mess.
Miss Lucy, clad in black, was on her bed.
Her hair was in a large, fuzzy
She looked as skinny as a rail and was pale and haggard, as though a puff of
wind could blow her down.
When she saw me, she reached out with trembling hands
and said, with a dry, raspy voice, ‘Chris, is it you? never seen Miss Lucy in such a disarray.
Come over here, my child.’
I had
I was so stunned that I was frozen and was
deaf to her plea. How could this be Miss Lucy, who always wore a sincere, broad smile on her face?
How could this be Miss Lucy, who was always alive and energetic?
How
could this be Miss Lucy, who always had a sonorous and resonant voice?
I finally plucked up the courage to speak as I went to her side. How are you feeling? adverbs...’ smiled.
You must recover!
‘Miss Lucy, this is Chris.
You still haven’t finished teaching me about
Tears welled up in my eyes and raced down my cheeks.
Miss Lucy then
It was the same smile she gave me when I told her I scored full marks in my
English examination.
The same smile she gave me when she encouraged me to never
give up. The same smile she gave me when she greeted me at her door every lesson.
page 17
‘Silly Chris, please don’t cry. You are one of the happiest and most optimistic students I have ever taught.
I miss your smile.
I can’t bear to see you weep like this!’
said Miss
Lucy. As I shed more tears, I recalled another precious memory. That day, I also cried.
At the age of three, I had my very first English lesson with Miss Lucy.
Since Miss Lucy
was a stranger to me then, and I found English baffling to take in and understand, I kept crying at the beginning of the lesson.
Miss Lucy attempted to use all kinds of
methods to get on with the lesson, but in vain.
I eventually calmed down after Miss
Lucy agreed to let me sit on her lap throughout the lesson.
I was so mischievous that I
even requested Miss Lucy to buy me my favourite flavour of ice cream after the lesson, despite causing her so much trouble! Oh, how capricious was I!
‘Please stop crying, Chris.’ Miss Lucy’s voice whisked me back from my memories to the present.
‘Chris, my favourite student, please stop crying.
go in life.
You still have a long way to
Work hard, so that your parents can be proud of you, so that your teachers
can be proud of you, but most of all, so that you can feel proud of yourself.’ handed me a glimmering golden pin.
‘Chris, here is my favourite pin.
She then
My mother gave
it to me when I was a little girl. Please keep it safe...’
It was then time for me to leave.
As I was walking out of the room, I glanced back at
Miss Lucy just in time to catch her flash her familiar smile in the corner of my eye for the final time...
Tears were streaming down my face once more as I held the pin close to my heart and returned
to
my
study
room.
Although
Miss
Lucy
has
gone,
her
compassion
and
sincerity, as well as the fond memories between the both of us, have, and will always, belong to a special place in my heart.
Carefully placing the pin into my suitcase, I
knew that Miss Lucy could count on me to keep it safely down the years.
Looking up into the sky, between the tiny gaps of the clouds, I could catch a glimpse of Miss Lucy smiling down at me…
page 18
The Cure for Hanahaki by 5G Ivy Wong "My love is like a red, red rose; that’s newly sprung in June" - A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns
*obligatory disclaimer:
since this is a discussion of a fictional disease,
this is all subject to the author’s own perspective and opinion, and very much not subject to any physical laws of the real world.*
Imagine your lungs filling with flowers, roots taking root in your bronchi, choking you with every breath. You cough, and out spills a handful of petals, stained bright with blood. And like every cliche character ever, you muffle your choking with one hand, stuffing the petals in your pocket/the trash can with the other.
The Hanahaki trope is one that is frequently seen in fanfiction and manga, having been popularised by Japanese shoujo manga in 2009, with the release of The Girl Who Spit Flowers. Hanahaki is a fictional disease in which a person begins coughing up flower petals when they develop
an
unrequited
love
for
another.
Inspired
by
tuberculosis,
patients with Hanahaki disease grow flowers in their lungs over months or even years, which they cough out, thorns and roots stabbing into their lungs and the foreign growth ultimately causing their untimely demise. The cure is, predictably, having their feelings returned, usually sealed with a kiss. A happy ending all around, no one dies, they date and live happily ever after, the end.
page 19
Except. There’s another cure. The patient can choose to undergo a procedure in which the flowers and plants are surgically removed from the patient’s body. The downside? All romantic feelings for their love will disappear, as well as a few side effects. There are variations on the types of side effects, including loss of the ability to feel affection, and loss of the memories of their beloved. And thus, most patients do usually refuse surgery, preferring death over losing their feelings.
Luckily, Hanahaki is a fictional disease, or I’ll expect there’ll be people coughing up blood and flowers every other corner. But about the removal procedure: the surgery removes the flowers, a physical manifestation of how the unrequited love hurts the person. So why does it also remove the memories of their beloved?
Let’s talk about the progression of the disease. Have you ever fallen in love? Developed romantic feelings of any sort towards anyone? One of the cliches of romance is that you lie awake at night, fantasizing about, I dunno, holding your crush’s hand and kissing them under starlight. Or, if you’re luckier, you replay your interactions with them, over and over and over, reading more and more into them each time. Obviously, as Hanahaki Disease is fictional, we have no way of knowing whether the progression is linear. However, think about any crush you’ve had. How linear was that? Did it grow progressively, or exponentially? The more you think about them, the deeper you fall, right? So let’s assume that Hanahaki works the same way: The deeper you fall in love, the more serious the disease, and the more fatal the flowers get. The seriousness of the disease is closely linked to the depth of feeling. And the longer you pine after your unrequited beloved, the more fatal the disease gets.
How closely linked is memory to love?
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If you are prompted to think about love, what’s the first thing you think of? Is it the cheesy Valentine’s-Day-pink-font block letters on every stock image ever? Is it a cascade of hearts and stars? Is it warmth in your heart and a swirl of butterflies in your stomach? Or do you think about moments in your life where you felt loved, moments where you loved in return? Even if we talk about another feeling, like happiness, it’s quite likely that you thought about moments where you were happy, instead of evoking the emotion itself. Through remembering those moments, you remember the feeling of happiness, and in turn become happy. In theory. (Does this spark joy?)
Then logically, the same would go for love. Your feelings would be deeply linked to your memories of a person, which makes sense. One develops feelings after one forms a proper connection, and the only way to do that is through repeated interactions, which would create memories of that person. And thus, through induction, we can infer that feelings for a person would be deeply connected to your memories of them. That’s why they say absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? You have so much time on your hands, and so little time with them, and all you do is play your memories over, and over, and over, letting yourself fall deeper and deeper. Our life is one long stream of consciousness, and both memories and emotions are baggages we carry with us, barrels of sap bouncing along the river, tied together. It just makes sense for emotions to be linked so strongly to the memories in which we feel them.
So this is why the cure for Hanahaki removes the feelings. With only the removal of the plant, the retained feelings will inevitably lead to the redevelopment of the disease. By removing the feelings, there’s less chance of a patient falling straight back into deepest unrequited love and relapsing. By removing the memories, the patient lacks a foundation to base their feelings on, and with a lack of memories and a lack of contact, the feelings will soon disappear even if they weren’t already surgically removed.
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How far would the person be removed from your memories anyway? Would the whole memory be wiped, or would there be a fuzzy blank spot where that person should be, an itch you can’t quite scratch but aren’t quite aware of. If you walked past them, would you recognize them? Is it not unfair, in circumstances between friends, to let one side’s memory removal ruin a friendship? Do not mistake me for cruel and callous. I am not advocating for the death of a person who’s only mistake was to fall in love. But how far would the removal of memory go?
Let’s talk about ethics.
Is it ethical to remove feelings or memories? Obviously, there’s no possible way to base it on current medical procedures, as there do not seem to be many that accomplish either. Of course, one of the examples that come to mind would be ECT, most commonly used to improve the condition of patients with mental illnesses. It, too, has the side effect of possible memory loss. Neurosurgery also has the possibility of brain damage, memory loss, emotion loss, etc, although the chances are extremely slim. However, these side effects are only probable, not definite. What is agreed is that the benefits to the patient heavily outweigh the risks. ‘Beneficence’, to do good to the patient, is one of the four pillars of medical ethics. Doctors have a duty to do no harm, but also to actively do good. However, to a hanahaki patient, it’s probably far more terrifying for them to have the surgery to cure their feelings and the disease. Imagine going under the knife, waking up, and not knowing who your best friend was. Where there used to be a sheath of memories, now lies a blank slate. Hanahaki patients often choose not to undergo the surgery, preferring whatever short life they can have with the emotions they enjoy, their fond memories, and the one that they love, rather than losing it all for a life that, to the theme of the present, lacks meaning.
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Obviously, it seems more ethical to have them undergo surgery and live a longer life. It’s just a heartbreak, they’ll get over it! But what if their memories of that person are so closely linked to their memories of life? How far will the removal of the memories go? An example: the lifelongbest-friends-to-lovers trope. If person A is in love with their best friend, B, and undergoes surgery, how much of their life will they forget? If C is in love with their classmate/colleague D, how much of their professional life or academic knowledge will they forget, having learned it in a scenario in which the other person was present? How many of their happy memories will they lose? The removal of feelings is such a small thing, but if your memories are linked to your feelings, and the memories you have of that person are such an integral part of who you are, such an integral part of your life, then the surgery could have devastating consequences.
Memory and love are so closely intertwined. The surgery removes both feelings and emotions, curing the root cause of Hanahaki Disease, but citing the removal of one of them as a side effect. Does the removal of the love erase the memories, or does the erasure of the memories eliminate the love? As Hanahaki remains a (thankfully) fictional disease, we may never find out.
Dear reader, I leave you with one final question: Imagine that the Hanahaki surgery only has one effect, removal of the love or removal of the memories. What’s more terrifying, not remembering the person but knowing that there’s just something, someone, missing, searching all your life for that empty spot like your tongue unconsciously probing at a gap where a missing tooth should be, or remembering every interaction with that person, every touch and glance and word and moment, remembering how you were so deeply in love with them, but not being able to feel the love? This is a lose-lose situation, and the losing move was to fall.
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The Theme of Memory in The Giver by 4G Jasmine Kwok “Memories are forever.� The Giver by Lois Lowry illustrates the significance of memories through the story of Jonas, a teenage boy. The story is set in a utopian society in the future, where everyone lives harmoniously. Being selected as the Receiver of Memory by the Chief Elder, Jonas has the responsibility to keep the collective past memories of the society. Upon receiving the memories from the previous Receiver, who is referred to as The Giver, Jonas uncovers the horrifying truths behind the presumably idyllic society. Jonas is then motivated to release these hidden memories to the whole community, to stop their numbness and ignorance towards the society they live in. The book ends with Jonas fleeing from their society and entering an unknown landscape, vowing to protect himself and those he loves.
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Though this novel is futuristic, the occurring concept of memory throughout the plot is highly relevant to our society nowadays. The setting of this novel is an utopian society, which is unachievable but always aspired by the public. By presenting a pessimistic view towards the utopian society, the author proves how an over-idealised community is not as divine and stable as we think. Through describing Jonas’ change of attitude towards the society after becoming the Receiver, the author proves how painful experiences are important for a community to ameliorate their present sufferings. While some people may try to forget traumatic and painful memories, this novel demonstrates how they are the only way for improvement and expressing emotions, both as an individual and a society as a whole, similarly to how we learn from mistakes. Lowry demonstrates how the real utopian society can only be achieved with the presence of memories, including both positive and negative ones. Many people, myself included, would think that a modern, harmonious and safe society would be the perfect one to live in. The way the author presents the importance of memories, comparing the idyllic society in the beginning and the horrendous memories of the same society Jonas saw, allowed me to consider the whole concept of “utopian society” in a new perspective. In some ways, the author characterises the society Jonas lives in as the antagonist of the story, portraying it as tyrannical and unloving, thus further emphasising the vital role of memories in progressing a community.
The portrayal of memory in the novel is also remarkable, as Receivers of the society are the only citizens to collect and transmit memories in the book. Memories in the book are also described in a vivid way, allowing people like Jonas to have genuine experiences when they recount a memory instead of it merely being something in their head, hence exemplifying the ability of memories to impact and enrich an individual’s life. We can see that the author portrays memory as something rare and supernatural, thereby showing the power and significance of memories. The description of Jonas escaping his community also stood out to me.
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The author starts by describing various sceneries and landscapes to display the effect of memories on Jonas, including the river and the mountain covered with snow. These landscapes act as a gateway for the new territory that Jonas is escaping to, representing the fact that Jonas has left his past behind and continued onto a brand new part of his life, choosing his own fate. Apart from geographical landscapes, the author also includes scenes of hunger and danger, foreshadowing how the society Jonas has escaped to is no longer peaceful and harmonious, again conveying how painful events and memories are inevitable but significant for a community. As this scene is set at the end of the novel, the author is able to portray the ending in a very ambiguous way, not mentioning whether Jonas managed to survive his escape, nor the condition of the new territory he is in. This implies that Jonas’ life after leaving his community may be unstable and unpredictable, directly contrasting with his planned and controlled life in his original community. However, the tone remains hopeful, emphasising how the act of escaping from the idyllic society itself is commendable, regardless of the condition of the new territory.
The innovative setting and captivating plot of this novel, as well as the author’s unique take on the concepts of utopia and memories, is why I consider it to be one of the most interesting books I have come across.
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