Memento Mori: Wait, what was I talking about?

Memento Mori. Wow. What a story. THIS is what a short story is supposed to be: compact, yet fulfilling, like an Irish car bomb (the drink, not the IRA specialty). This is what I had hoped “The Killers” would end up; a well-written story that, most importantly, has an intelligible plot that isn’t based on five-word sentences of dialogue.

This is a work of art, and I see why the author’s brother made it into a movie. The suspense in it is incredible, and the plot is intense. It had me sucked into its various little twists and turns from the very beginning. A labyrinth! That is what I would compare “Memento” to. You turn this way and that, usually needing to retrace your steps, end up at the beginning to put it one way. In the end you reach the labyrinth’s core, yet you still do not know what awaits you.

I love the passage of time in this story, or the lack thereof perhaps. The protagonist seems to have been there for perhaps months or even years. But in his and the reader’s point of view no time at all has passed. The deadly attack happened just yesterday perhaps.

I love the internal struggle of the protagonist. I hate to have to try to find “deeper meanings” and “deeper truths” that people insist that all stories have. When I have to find the alleged wisdom, I find my answer is artificial, because it is. It’s a lie. I found no deeper insight in to my psyche or anyone else’s mental faculties for that matter. This story gives no insight into myself. It does, however, give me exactly what I want in a story such as this: this is a riddle to be solved. If I have to dig deep and solve the riddle of this story, then I love it, I love the challenge. Thus, to be able to sit down and watch someone else try to dig deep is infinitely more enjoyable than to try to sift through philological and philosophical rubbish to find a meaning for myself.

And that's my two cents on a priceless story.