The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [36]
“Where else?”
His mother used to read this novel to him, at Noel’s insistence, almost every night for six months, from May 14 to November 11, 1977. As much as the book, he loved the colours of his mother’s voice and the ambrosial scent of her skin: lily-of-the-valley with a whisper of lime.
“You’re not turning into a Struldbrug, Mom. They’re immortal.”
“They’re old and demented, you mean. Can you tell me the story, Noel dear?”
“I’m not sure I can remember it all. I may have to get the book, although I haven’t seen it in a while. It may be in the attic.”
“It’s from the Voyage to Luggnagg.”
“Is it?”
“Are you losing your memory, Noel?”
“No, I just … I’ll give it a shot. It’s murky, though. And there might be a few bits missing:
The Struldbrugs commonly acted like mortals, till about thirty years old, after which by degrees they grew melancholy and dejected. When they came to fourscore years, they had not only all the follies and infirmities of other old men, but many more which arose from the dreadful prospect of never dying. They were not only opinionative, peevish, covetous, morose, vain, talkative, but uncapable of friendship, and dead to all natural affection. Envy and impotent desires are their prevailing passions …
They have no remembrance of anything but what they learned and observed in their youth and middle age, and even that is very imperfect. And for the truth or particulars of any fact, it is safer to depend on common traditions than upon their best recollections. The least miserable among them appear to be those who turn to dotage, and entirely lose their memories; these meet with more pity and assistance, because they want many bad qualities which abound in others.
As soon as they have completed the term of eighty years, they are looked on as dead in law; their heirs immediately succeed to their estates, only a small pittance is reserved for their support … “
Noel opened his eyes as the words became garbled, like portions of a video erased or recorded over. “Here it gets blurred, Mom. Then it goes:
At ninety they lose their teeth and hair, they have at that age no distinction of taste, but eat and drink whatever they can get, without relish or appetite … In talking they forget the common appellation of things, and the names of persons, even of those who are their nearest friends and relations. For the same reason they never can amuse themselves with reading, because their memory will not serve to carry them from the beginning of a sentence to the end; and by this defect they are deprived of the only entertainment whereof they might otherwise be capable.
The language of this country being always upon the flux, the Struldbrugs of one age do not understand those of another, neither are they able after two hundred years to hold any conversation with their neighbours the mortals; and thus they lie under the disadvantage of living like foreigners in their own country …”
Noel stopped when he realised he’d lost his audience. He bent towards his sleeping mother’s face—so pale, so lifeless—as if to hear some last word. Swift’s days ended in memory-crippled dementia he recalled as he drew closer, felt her breath mingle with his.
October 4. Tonight we watched a documentary on actor Christopher Reeve and his battle to recover from his spine injury. Mom said she hoped with all her heart that he was still around when they found a cure. “Do you think they’ll find a cure?” she asked, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I’ll never know what happened to him, because I’ll be dead before him. Or have lost my mind.” “Mom,” I replied, with my arm round her shoulder, “you’ll both be cured—I know it, I have a gut feeling. I bet you’ll both be cured in the same year! That’s my prediction. You can beat this, don’t give up. Use Superman as inspiration.” (Superman! The TV actor became an alcoholic and put a bullet in his head; the movie actor became a quadriplegic after falling off a horse.)
October 15. I’ve asked