words by Millie Harris

On a nameless island, objects vanish one by one — perfume bottles, calendars, even body parts… and with them fades every trace of their existence, memory included. This is the chilling premise of Yōko Ogawa’s novel The Memory Police (1994) telling of an unnamed narrator, a novelist, living on an island where entire categories of items vanish overnight, erased both physically and mentally. Enforcing these disappearances is the titular Memory Police who ensure the island’s inhabitants obediently forget what they must. The concept itself is fascinating and rich with potential. Yet, for all its intriguing premise, the execution leaves something to be desired, creating an experience simultaneously captivating and frustrating. 

The plot, such as it is, moves at a gentle, almost meditative pace, quite different from typical dystopian fiction. While I found the pace frustrating at times, there is a way in which its slowness works at times. The lack of urgency mirrors the numb acceptance of the islanders themselves; the form and content reflect each other. This alignment gives the book a certain integrity. It commits fully to its style, even if that doesn’t suit every reader. 

The Memory Police initially seem to promise a traditional villainous presence. However, they act mostly as background figures—menacing in concept, but rarely truly impactful in practice to our protagonist. Island residents accept their interventions without meaningful resistance or deeper inquiry. As a result, tension is ever-present but it ultimately leads nowhere. Instead of an overarching storyline or meaningful confrontation, the novel presents itself as a reflection of everyday life in unsettling circumstances where people quietly accept their losses and move on. This quiet acceptance, while perhaps thematically intentional, creates considerable narrative issues. For much of the novel there is an expectation of clarity that never comes. Ogawa provides minimal background or explanation for why society functions as it does. There’s no exploration of the history or reasoning behind the Memory Police’s existence or their methods. As intriguing as the central concept may be, the lack of context becomes a distraction. The novel’s setting exists in a kind of vacuum, devoid of deeper historical, political or social frameworks. To some extent, the novel’s refusal to provide answers can be read as allegory in itself where the lack of explanation mimics the erasure of memory. Yet, even if thematically defensible, this ambiguity too often comes at the expense of engagement. 

Characterisation further complicates the narrative as the protagonist herself remains quite distant throughout. Despite spending so much time within her perspective, it is hard to find any personality traits or distinctive characteristics she possesses. She appears passive and subdued, defined primarily by loss, emptiness, and little else. Ogawa repeatedly emphasises that the narrator feels deep sadness and desperation, depicting scenes where she cries alone or sinks to her knees overwhelmed by sorrow at the sights unfolding before her. Yet, paradoxically, the prose rarely succeeds in conveying genuine emotional intimacy. Part of this may also be the effect of translation. The Memory Police is originally written in Japanese; reading it in English means encountering the story filtered through another writer’s choice of tone and rhythm. Some of the emotional coolness may belong to Ogawa, but some of it may also be a consequence of language that has been reshaped, where nuance and cadence inevitably change in the act of translation. An unfortunate consequence of this is how the readers might acknowledge logically that the protagonist feels pain, but the novel’s detached narrative voice prevents much emotional connection. On the other hand, although the narrator’s emotional distance can be alienating, her voice does have a hypnotic quality to it. She describes loss with a calmness that mirrors the passivity of the islanders themselves. While that restraint keeps the reader at arm’s length, it also deepens the sense of unease. Each disappearance feels less like an event and more like an inevitability. That inevitability is where the novel’s horror lies. 

The supporting characters fare a little better, but not to a truly noticeable extent in which their presence improves the quality of the story. Instead, they seem to be there simply for the role they play in furthering the narrative. Much of the protagonist’s interaction with R, the editor of her novels who then turns into the man she shelters from the Memory Police, is polite but strangely shallow. They spend considerable time expressing gratitude toward each other and having deep monologues describing what has been lost. Their conversations are courteous but lacking in emotional authenticity. Their relationship feels functional rather than intimate and special, adding to the narrative’s sense of detachment. The cast beyond the central figure contributes to the atmosphere but not to narrative drive. They simply orbit our protagonist.

This emotional disconnect becomes particularly problematic in the novel’s romance, which is arguably its weakest aspect. The romantic relationship emerges abruptly and without a believable foundation. The protagonist and her love interest interact in ways that lack genuine chemistry and their sudden intimacy feels forced, almost arbitrary. Rather than exploring emotional complexity or longing, Ogawa simply states that the protagonist has fallen in love with a bluntness that feels jarring and unearned. The relationship adds little to the story beyond superficial complication. If Ogawa intended to depict how emotional connections deteriorate in the wake of memory loss, the thematic point is insufficiently explored to justify the awkward inclusion of the romance. 

There is an internal story embedded within the narrative, a novel the protagonist is writing, which mirrors some of the protagonist's struggles. This fictional story features a woman gradually losing her identity as her partner steals her voice, eventually replacing her entirely. This internal narrative seems to gesture toward themes of self-erasure, identity loss and the fear of abandonment within romantic relationships. Yet the connections between this internal novel and the primary narrative are tenuous at best. Although interesting conceptually, the parallels are too subtle and vague to add meaningful depth. Again, the prose remains distant, failing to evoke the visceral emotional response such allegorical parallels ideally should. It does, however, also gesture towards a metafictional layer: in a world where objects and memories vanish, the act of writing becomes the final attempt at preservation. Yet, ironically, even this fails to fully resist erasure, mirroring the fragility of stories themselves.

Perhaps the novel’s greatest missed opportunity lies in its thematic potential. The idea of memory as essential to identity is undoubtedly compelling and Ogawa gestures toward powerful existential questions: what remains of individuals when their memories fade? What defines humanity beyond the persistence of memory? Yet, curiously, these questions remain underexplored. Ogawa prioritises atmosphere over thematic substance, leaving the most promising intellectual and emotional threads frustratingly unresolved. Similarly, while the novel seems poised to critique authoritarianism or political oppression, the absence of concrete explanations for the Memory Police’s actions means this critique remains speculative rather than insightful. Readers are left to guess at intentions, filling gaps Ogawa never quite addresses herself. However, the novel's underlying suggestion that the act of forgetting is not just a loss, but the gradual dissolution of the self, allowed the book to become a true page turner—compelled by  a sense of wonder about how far the author would go with the concept. Perhaps the cruelest truth the novel offers is that we might be complicit in our own disappearance, culpable to our own passivity to what is taken from us. What is human, Ogawa suggests, is precisely that which cannot withstand forgetting. To forget is to lose ourselves entirely. All of these points are suggested in the novel, yet none are explored at length.

Stylistically, Ogawa’s prose is undeniably luminous. She can describe a scene as ordinary as snowfall or the silence of a street and make it feel elegiac, touched with fragility. These passages elevate the novel, reminding us why its atmosphere can be so absorbing, even when its narrative falters. It is in these moments of clarity, where the writing sharpens, that The Memory Police leaves its deepest impression. Nevertheless, when the narrative does demand emotional weight, particularly during the illogical or surreal developments toward the end, Ogawa’s prose proves inadequate. The elegance that elevates the writing seems to falter precisely when intensity and passion are most needed.

I admire the courage of the ending. It doesn’t offer resolution or clarity, but instead doubles down on the book’s own logic: things fade, and what is left behind is silence. That lack of catharsis might frustrate, but is consistent with the novel’s vision. It leaves the reader with the same sense of absence the characters endure, which is fitting if not exactly comforting.

Despite numerous shortcomings, there remains a compellingly beautiful sadness within The Memory Police. Even though the book left me unsatisfied in places, I cannot deny the originality of the premise. Disappearances as a mechanism for erasing both objects and memories is an idea I hadn’t encountered before in fiction. It is not the typical dystopian setting of revolution or resistance, but is something much stranger and more subtle in its horrifying aspects, which makes it stand out. Ultimately, The Memory Police will resonate most with readers drawn to slowly paced, allegorical explorations of memory and loss, rather than those seeking the momentum or confrontation of traditional dystopian fiction. Even if the characters feel hollow and the romance unconvincing, the sense of atmosphere and concept are strong enough to make the read memorable in its own right.