“<When I was ambassador, it was my habit to say all sorts of meaningless things. You should try it. It’s quite enjoyable.>”
I read an article recently going over what the author believed were some of the shortcomings and strengths of the various pieces of media being produced in the wake of Disney’s takeover of the Star Wars universe. One of the strengths, it argued, of the original films that seemed absent from the sequel trilogy was the sense of the Star Wars universe not only as a place on the screen, but as a place to live and visit. A place that other people, actual people, lived in. That existed, and invited viewers in, and made them long, one way or another, to be a part of it.
Some of the best pieces of fiction, I think, encourage this view as well. One of the things that made Harry Potter such a cultural phenomenon in my generation was the grip it had on the childhood imagination of “I could go there.” We, the nascent Potterheads, knew our houses, our wands, the pets we’d bring and the classes we’d take. It was like that through a lot of the fandoms growing at the time. These were not just shows to watch or books to read or movies to go see but they were actual, living worlds that encouraged participation, belonging, and purpose through their worldbuilding and characters. It’s peak imagination, integration, and enchantment. The goal of any writer, really.
A Memory Called Empire, by Arkady Martine, takes those beautiful, intoxicating impulses, and teaches you to loathe them.
It lets you know this from the start, of course, with what may now be my favorite epigraph:
“This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever fallen in love with a culture that was devouring their own.”
From the perspective of the outsider, Mahit Dzmare, the new ambassador from the Lsel Station to the capital of the neighboring Teixcalaanli Empire, we see the grip of a world, a power, an empire, with the kind of goals that are supposed to make a narrative enchanting. Martine knows this, too. Teixcalaanli culture is steeped in literary allusion, poetic and narrative impulses and dances, and reference upon reference that not only draws the reader into the world, but Mahit as well.
But then we, as Mahit, must stop and center and remind ourselves of the empire’s emphasis on division, of status between what it means to be a citizen, a person one feels, and its emphasis on consumption and expansion. The questions of identity (how big IS the concept you ‘you’ anyway?) and belonging (nevermind, allegiance) loom large over the narrative, and drive as much of the conflict internal and external as they add another layer of complexity, enchantment, and repulsion to the world we both long to be apart of and must resist being swallowed by. There is no safe world behind the flowers, no protection from the light of the sun, and only rarely beauty behind the flowing lines of poetry.
My only real critique comes in the timeline. Not even the actual plot or pacing (both seem fine), but with the span of time the events of the novel are supposed to have taken place. The characters do note it, not that admitting this necessarily excuses how it can feel a little jarring. This is a minor critique, to be sure, but worth mentioning all the same, and I did not find that it detracted from the narrative as a whole.
But as an aspiring writer, I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy for just how effective these ideas, and the worldbuilding they dance with, are executed. Teixcalaan, and the City, throb with life and history, wither under intrigue and whispers. This is a world that feels lived-in, and one that runs the risk of having the reader want to live in it as well. The characters know this too, whether they be the Teixcalaanli in full comfort and knowledge that they are the gem in the center of their imperial crown, the height of civilization (be careful of that word), the sun whose rays illuminate the universe. Mahit knows this, remembers it even if not all the memories are her own, and plays whatever part she must to warm at the edge of those golden sunrays without being blinded by them. It’s a breathless, limitless entanglement, and an overall enjoyable read.
As this review comes to a close, I cannot help again but think of Disney. An empire of culture and nostalgia, powerful beyond whatever we may believe. It’s swallowed universes, stories, and memories into itself. It’s enchanting, magical one might say, and expansive. There are songs, there is a culture and a brand all its own, and very few things untouched or unchanged by it.
Think about that for a moment, and then consider that it’s still growing.
How many people visiting Disneyworld never want to go home.
