[I try to start my day writing 250 words on anything. I’ll post one every Monday until I run out of good ones.]
In his novel 1984, George Orwell introduced the “memory hole,” a chute leading to an incinerator that destroyed forbidden history. It’s a tool of the sort of totalitarians who used to airbrush disfavored Soviet generals out of May Day Parade photos.
As a person who can lose sleep over embarrassments or offenses going back to elementary school, I’m a fan of the memory hole.
Long ago, I realized I was probably the only person on Earth who remembered many of the social disasters I still fretted about. At most, someone else might have half a memory of a thing that happened involving someone they used to know but whose name they’ve long forgotten.
If that’s so—if there’s no record of the disaster except the one replaying in my head—then it’s as good as if it never happened. I can let it go.
Understand that I’m not talking about getting away with crimes. Just the day-to-day unintended fumbles and stumbles we all commit, especially when we’re young. Things we wish we hadn’t done, humiliations we wish we hadn’t suffered, feelings we wish we hadn’t hurt.
“Oooh, I could have handled that better.”
Of course, the ultimate memory hole is death. I’m not in favor of eliminating witnesses, but isn’t there some peace of mind in knowing that eventually nobody alive will know of your transgressions? I’d like to be remembered after I’m gone—that’s one reason people write books—but there’s certainly some relief in the prospect of oblivion.
