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I knew going in I was going to like Forgetfulness. It’s one of those intuitive things you feel, based off your limited knowledge of an actual text, the text of which fulfills your expectations even while playing with expectations upon the actual reading.
The novel is adept at a variety of fields of study. Mejia plays with concepts of quantum mechanics such as Schrodinger’s cat and the Heisenberg uncertainty principle (which in the context of art and in this specific book, is rather fascinating and even humorous), as well as an uncanny but cool understanding for the language of music and the visual arts.
In fact, what makes the novel particularly impressive is its ability to transpose so many other forms of art onto the page, as the written word, particularly music (which would make sense, with the novel focusing on the Modernist Austrian composer Anton Webern) and the visual arts. This desire to transpose other forms of art into a work of literature is an interesting, contemporary strand that has found its way in Metamodern literature (for lack of a better word …), especially the more experimental works in this contemporary setting. While literary works in the past century have thought about the intersection of disciplines (the architects of Structuralism come to mind, what with their infusion of philosophy/literary criticism, linguistics, and anthropology), the blatant transposition of many different forms of art into one medium is something that seems less explored in the past, which is why I mention this as an important strand in current experimental literature.
The book reminds me of Danielewski’s House of Leaves, because the book also plays with typography and plays with layers of text (for instance, the text of the novel juxtaposed with a quotation from a writer, or freely dipping in and out of “plot” or mere description to other elements that compose a novel), but it is less chaotic, which works to the novel’s advantage. Not because it makes the book more palatable or easier to read, but because it makes the book feel more controlled. While House of Leaves is a great book that I admire for many reasons, Mejia’s novel feels more controlled with this style of writing, which really adds to the richness of the text.
The novel’s eclectic stylistic nature also works to its advantage. There are moments where I feel like I am reading a novel by Charles Dickens or Anthony Trollope, because a scene is painted so well, so masterfully; there are times where I feel like I’m reading some strange and other-worldly Postmodern text, like something by Pynchon or Deleuze (in fact, the rhizome seems an appropriate metaphor for understanding this novel); other times where I feel the weight of Modernism, particularly with the powerful quotations from Modernist writers and musicians, such as Freud or Musil (and of course, Webern). I also enjoyed the quotations from Goethe, particularly those from Goethe’s masterwork on color. Such quotations help illustrate an important point of this great experimental novel: the importance of thinking of aesthetics when viewing/listening to/or reading a work of art, and the idea that (with Goethe in mind), we can always know the physical elements that cause us to see color (or words across a page), but not necessarily explain anything about how color makes us feel or what color actually does for us or to us. Indeed, it’s the same for art: what does art do to us, is what this book seems to be asking. And while on the topic of German artists, it would be appropriate to mention Holderlin’s quotations, which amplify the text: Holderlin was a very unique individual with a deep understanding for art and feeling and language, and while tortured yet brilliant artists like Holderlin (in terms of their personalities and legacy) might seem a cliché in the West’s understanding of the artist, in Forgetfulness the effect is that of wonder and awe at how someone can tap into and penetrate something so explosive and meaningful.
It would not be a mistake to call this book “high literature.” The book has a deep understanding that after Modernism, art could never be the same again. I can’t help but think of the passage that begins, “But what has happened?” It is an important passage that goes on to describe the irreversible but important change to art caused by Modernism: art is no longer about beauty (though Mejia’s novel is and can be “beautiful”) and melody, but about powerful expression. That, to me, is what makes this book “serious literature,” because it has a deep understanding of the changing nature of art, unlimited and true to its form of expression and not to any dedication or subservience to the Great Masters (though while simultaneously understanding the work of these Great Musicians). This might seem counterintuitive at first, but it works to the novel’s advantage, and makes a lot of sense as the novel progresses.
It also makes sense when considering the publisher, FC2, an intense and reputable publisher with an emphasis for extreme experimentation and a need to challenge any convention, pushing boundaries beyond their necessary and logical breaking points. I am familiar with some titles/authors published by FC2, but feel a comparison of Forgetfulness to Lance Olsen’s Calendar of Regrets is appropriate and apt: that is, both novels are similar with their dense and fragmented writing styles, which could only come from a deep knowledge of literature and the ability to manipulate/communicate several complex themes at once, as well as taking into account that both novels think seriously about what the book as a form/medium can do, whether this includes disrupting linear narratives or thinking seriously about how novels can potentially be put together, but in an unorthodox yet unexpected way. Both novels strike me as “complex yet not necessarily incomprehensible,” an idea that is expounded at one point in Forgetfulness when describing Modernist music; for novels like these, this seems appropriate: as Heidegger would suggest, words don’t always have to make immediate sense to be meaningful, just as listening to Modernist music doesn’t have to conform to have meaning.
And in terms of FC2, one could definitely say that the publisher is putting out good work: they understand, like Mejia, that the avant-garde in art, which started a little bit before the Modernists in the twentieth century, is its own movement, has become its own independent project and living organism, as the novel Forgetfulness suggests at one point in a passage.
I was fortunate enough to take a literature class with Mejia, and one will find upon reading this novel Forgetfulness that it is a very knowledgeable book, just as Professor Mejia is.
One thing that strikes me about the novel is its unique attention to detail, at times reminding me of T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, where there are many varied details coming together to form a Picasso collage of sorts. There is also a deep sensitivity to the book as well. I was fortunate enough to see Mejia read from this book, and the sensitivity was certainly apparent in his reading, and is apparent upon me reading this novel.
What appeals to me the most about this book is its deep understanding of the unlimited nature of artistic expression/anti-expression. While this comes through in the actual formatting of the novel, that is there for seemingly only aesthetic decoration (upon thinking of how the movement Aestheticism is used in the novel); the deeper unorthodoxy of the novel is exemplified and represented by the free-flow of language and ideas in the book. Mejia has managed to, with this book, tap into intense artistic expression that is at once magnificent and grand (like a symphony), but also rebellious and iconoclastic. To understand the beauty of what makes art art and yet simultaneously deconstruct that is something I have found very difficult to do or understand, but Mejia has done just fine on that count. The book can easily inspire any troubled or failing writer to pick up their pen and do something: express, and do it with an uninhibited freedom, before the void of literature yanks it right out of your hands: but do it with a deep understanding, first and foremost.
Before I move on, I have a quick note on the actual structure of the novel, which is split up into two parts. Because the novel is experimental/complex/multi-layered, I found the second-half of the book very challenging. One thing that appealed to me about that part, however, the Triologue, was simply that what was very apparent was the sensitivity I was mentioning before, and feeling. While the Triologue itself is hard to follow, what works well for me aside from the complexity of the structure is the intense feeling/feelings that arise from the text and within me (upon reading the text). That is difficult for an artist to do, but again, I take you back to Heidegger.
I like novels/works of fiction that are eclectic and of or related to the polymath: in addition to literature (which would include everything from novels to philosophy), I also read and study science, particularly physics and its branching field of study, quantum mechanics. I would like to take a moment to focus on the last passage of the novel: “The record is clean. There are no pops, no skips, no repetitions as the particle music unwinds from its shimmering blackness, as the names Schonberg and Berg and Webern slowly turn around the spindle, as the Archivist lies down and closes his eyes in the starless dark.” I recall Einstein iterating (roughly) the idea that he may be able to explain the sound waves of a symphony, but that it doesn’t have any impact on what he actually feels about the music (again, referring back to a theme of Goethe’s). It seems, then, pretty clear what this particle in this passage is referring to: a kind of freedom. When I think of quantum particles, based off the limited research I have done, I think of a free-moving particle, capable of doing essentially whatever it wants; juxtapose this freedom (of particles, of art, of particles of art) with the enjoyment of what the Archivist is feeling, and I think the image is not only striking but also very clear. I find it incredibly powerful as well, and feel that this final passage wraps up the theme of quantum mechanics and music/art/literature rather nicely in this novel.
In the end, that last image also carefully captures how I feel about the work: it definitely leaves me thinking, comfortable in a starless room and simply, thinking. And enjoying. Living and breathing, breathing in the art. Mejia’s only request upon me reading this novel was that I let it make its music; to say that it did is an understatement, of course, but I don’t want to overwhelm any potential reader of this review, so suffice to say: I loved the book and all that it had to say, and I cannot forget something of this caliber.

I didn't expect to love this book, in fact I came to it as if it were going to be a chore. I came away completely in love with it, entranced by the language, drawn in by the ideas.

Mejia's book is a masterpiece. To make a successful book, if you're going to experiment with form, you have to make the prose so beautiful, so rewarding, that the reader is not only willing but happy to do the extra work of deciphering your unfamiliar structure. This book was such a delight, completely without traditional plot or characters, that I couldn't put it down. I don't know when I've had that experience with a book that looked so challenging in form. At the end of the day, I truly felt that Mejia's approach was the only way to present the material in the way he envisioned. It was an absolute success. Made me care about things I didn't really care about, and think about things I'd never considered. A beautiful read.

A beautifully rendered book in which every "note", like Anton Webern's, is heard distinctly, resonating through each change, shift, and tone. Like Beckett, but using more than just language as an experiment - history, music, and the creeping (and creepy) sense of the zeitgeist breathing everywhere.

Although I would recommend having somewhat of a knowledge of Schonberg, Webern, and Berg, as well as the political environment between the World Wars, it is not essential to the enjoyment of this book. Background information helps elucidate the separate elements (this is a very elemental novel), this story is so transfixing as to hold anyone's attention with an interest in new forms of fiction.

I can't wait to read it again.