53 pages • 1-hour read
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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of death, suicidal ideation, and animal death.
Anthony Doerr has said of his writing that he strives “toward complexity, toward questions, and away from certainty, away from stereotype” (Mohar, Christopher. “Prayer, Inquiry, Memory: An Interview with Anthony Doerr.” Fiction Writers Review, 8 Mar. 2022). Fittingly, the themes in Memory Wall revolve around contemplation more than instruction. They pose questions rather than moral lessons. Together, the stories in this collection explore three central questions about memory: What does memory mean to humans?; how does memory shape the experience of loss?; and finally, what will be preserved from the inevitable ravages of time?
Doerr’s approach to the first question—what does memory mean to humans?—can be distilled into a more specific examination of how memories comprise the self. Alma’s battle with dementia in “Memory Wall” exemplifies the relationship between memory and selfhood. She has hundreds of cartridges containing her extracted memories, each representing one experience and one tiny part of the whole of her existence. Evidence of increasing chaos in the wall’s organization mirrors the erosion of self that occurs in Alma as her neural pathways break down, severing access to her memories. In “Village 113,” the seed keeper observes the countless objects people take with them as they move away. They derive meaning from the item because each one is linked to personal memories and thus to their identities. In “Afterworld,” Esther questions the idea of a separate reality outside the mind, asking, “Isn’t everything that’s real only real in our heads?” (211). In her view, perception shapes reality, and memory shapes perception. Ultimately, Memory Wall illuminates memory’s role as an interpreter: It translates experiences into meaning and identity.
Doerr’s exploration of memory’s relationship to loss in these stories is layered. It can be a source of loss, as Alma’s dementia demonstrates in “The Memory Wall.” The seed keeper in “Village 113” worries the flooding of her village will erase its history because she believes the memories of life there are inextricably tied to their place of origin. In addition, the collection examines how memories of loss can be a source of trauma. In “Procreate, Generate,” the deaths of Imogene’s parents showed her that life is fragile, and loss is inevitable. This made her afraid to be vulnerable and bring life into the world, leading her to withdraw from her husband and tempting her to run away or give up. Memory can also be part of a mechanism for coping with loss. In “The Demilitarized Zone,” Davis clings to holiday traditions as his marriage dissolves and his son is at war, connecting those traditions to happy memories of the life and family he still longs for.
Many of these stories equate the passage of time with inevitable decay, death, and erasure, but they also suggest that part of human identity can persist. Alma’s memory extraction is portrayed as an attempt to “fight off oblivion” in order to “fend off her inevitable erasure” (6, 28). The seed keeper, assigned to the role of preservation, observes, “There is almost nothing, it seems, people cannot take with them” (153). The implication is that loss of a place is not the same as loss of identity and history. In “The River Nemunas,” Allison finds that connecting to her mother through memories and nature is a way to honor and preserve her mother’s life and legacy. After Esther’s death in “Afterworld,” Robert sees how her memories become part of the world and intertwine with new memories made by new generations. These revelations culminate to answer the question about preservation with another question, albeit a rhetorical one: If memory remains, can anything truly be lost? Doerr explores this question without offering answers, but the optimistic tone of the collection offers hope that identity exists beyond memory and that memory itself can be a source of comfort.
Throughout Memory Wall, Anthony Doerr demonstrates a keen awareness of the influence that history has on the human experience. He presents time on minute and grand scales, juxtaposing the human lifespan against geological time scales to illuminate how perspective can change ideas about existence. His characters sometimes share this historical consciousness. At other times, they are mired in the here and now, unable to see how their conflicts can be resolved or how balance can be restored. They gain this awareness by recognizing how their lives intersect with the past and with the lives of others. The stories in this collection portray memories as a bridge: They connect one generation to another and individuals to the human species, forming a collective unconscious that helps people derive meaning from existence.
Two stories in particular, “Procreate, Generate” and “The River Nemunas,” explore intergenerational connections on the smallest interval, between parents and children. As Imogene waits to learn if she’s pregnant at the end of “Procreate, Generate,” she has a memory of her parents from her childhood. The memory itself is nothing pivotal, but its placement in the narrative highlights the symbolic link between memories and intergenerational connections. Like Imogene, Allison loses both parents at an early age in “The River Nemunas.” Unable to learn about her mother’s past directly from her mother, Allison must rely on other sources: Grandpa Z and Mrs. Sabo’s memories, photographs, and an intuitive, shared connection to the river and the land around it. Memories, then can become part of the fabric of the world. They become harder to interpret in this form, as Allison notes: “The urge to know scrapes against the inability to know. What was Mrs. Sabo’s life like? What was my mother’s? We peer at the past through murky water” (183). Both characters demonstrate the challenges of making sense of the world without their parents, whose memories would guide their sense of belonging and identity.
In “Memory Wall,” Doerr approaches the topic from a longer perspective, as Alma tries to distill the meaning of her life amid memories of her husband attempting to understand humans’ place on a geological time scale. It is Harold, though, who gains new awareness by recognizing the intersections where individual existence meets human history. Looking at ancient fossils in his youth, he says, “We think we’re supposed to be here, […] but it’s all just dumb luck, isn’t it?” (9). In his sixties, after taking up fossil hunting, he says he’s “reclaiming something vital, finally trying to learn about the places he’d grown up, grappling with his own infinitesimal place in time. He was learning to see, he said, what once was: storms, monsters, fifty million years of Permian protomammals” (29). Harold now sees the connections between his life and all that occurred in the same place before him. He senses the ancient memories that have become part of the earth and stone and recognizes how they contribute to his identity and sense of self, placing himself in the context of a larger historical framework.
Many characters in these stories demonstrate something akin to the collective unconscious, a part of the unconscious mind theorized to be shared by all humans, containing a set of instincts, memories, and ideas that are not learned but rather inherited from an ancestral past. In “Village 113,” protests against the dam and encounters with scarcity mirror ancient, archetypal scenes: “Here, a thousand years ago, monks lashed themselves to boulders. Here a hunter stood motionless sixteen winters until his toes became roots and his fingers twigs” (127). The seed keeper is connected to these ancestors through this collective unconscious, as if their memories have been hibernating in the forests, cliffs, and caves around her. These intersections between individuals, generations, the species, and the past become meaningful because they reveal how small acts, preserved and shared through memories, can resonate through time and become part of a larger context.
Many of the conflicts in the stories of Memory Wall are shaped by an individual character’s perception and perspective. Without the benefit of hindsight or distance, they’re unable to recognize the various forces influencing their lives or the implications of those complex interactions. Sometimes these characters gain insight while other times, the narrator shares wisdom the characters haven’t yet gained, emphasizing larger patterns and implying that conflicts will be resolved eventually. These larger patterns all suggest that the forces of the world, both concrete and abstract, always return, eventually, to a balanced state. Death and destruction are followed by renewal through rebirth and creation, and much of the world’s balance occurs through forces outside human control. However, these stories reveal that often individual choices and actions can help maintain or restore balance, while in other times, patience will result in the world balancing itself.
In “Village 113,” Doerr examines the effect that one person’s choices can have on restoring balance through the preservation of knowledge. The story depicts a conflict between nature and human society, symbolized by the destructive effects the government-funded dam will have on the river and the village. The seed keeper, overwhelmed by the sense that her village’s entire history will be lost when it’s submerged, considers staying and drowning with it. In the end, she chooses to leave, hoping her small acts of preservation—taking her seeds and her memories with her—will make a difference. Afterward, she helps nine-year-old Jie plant magnolias and observes, “We go round the world only to come back again. A seed coat splits, a tiny rootlet emerges” (153). This insight highlights her ability to share her knowledge about seeds and the village with the next generation. Her choice to live allows her to help restore what’s been lost, illustrating how one person’s conscious decisions can help restore balance.
Doerr also explores how the individual can restore the balance between nature and human society. In “The Demilitarized Zone,” a crane is killed in a war zone. The son’s choice to bury the crane, despite personal risks, is a seemingly small act, but it shows humanity and an understanding of even the indirect impact of human actions on nature. During war, the most emphatic example of human violence and destruction, humanity can seem elusive; however, when it appears, it creates ripples. Instead of being court-martialed, the son returns home, and his return helps Davis to balance the loss of his marriage and renews his hope.
However, Doerr also reflects on the fact that some balances are naturally achieved despite humans’ desire to avoid them. In “Afterworld,” the horrors of the Holocaust lead Esther to feel life will forever be out of balance. She notes, “After the war, it amazed me that the world could still make young people” (221). Her grandson, Robert, also feels a sense of imbalance after Esther dies. However, he comes to see her death as part of a natural cycle:
Every hour, Robert thinks, all over the globe, an infinite number of memories disappear, whole glowing atlases dragged into graves. But during that same hour children are moving about, surveying territory that seems to them entirely new. They push back the darkness; they scatter memories behind them like bread crumbs. The world is remade (241).
Robert’s adopted sisters represent a new generation as the source of renewal by which the world will be remade and balance restored. This final story in the collection reminds readers that change and balance are not always under human control; despite that fact, Doerr argues, there is still hope to be found in the renewal that naturally balances loss.



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