Hypertext notwithstanding, there are more layers of story here that are open to readers beyond my own level of scientific knowledge, or in fact, beyond my level of experience in any of the areas upon which the novel touches.
That Ham has chosen the scientific field of physics in which to proceed is very telling of his character and as I’ve mentioned previously, may in fact be Ham’s own way of bringing a sense of logic to his own rather illogical world that is not grounded in stats and data. But his dedication to string theory applies to other areas of his life, and the reader who would be somewhat knowledgeable will have a better, or maybe merely different, understanding of the story. My own very limited comprehension of string theory and the like will certainly be one of ignorance tempered by imagination to bring up images of bodies merging, distancing and reapproaching, and that’s my own connections made of what I’d call the surface story: that of Ham and his movements through time and space and in particular, his reaching out for family both to his mother and to Pen.
Both of these women, it would seem to me, are from different galaxies.
Strictly following story line, there is plenty of action and drama to hold even the romanticist.
And if there be a sensitive among the scientists, the relationship between reality and the unknown is fine enough to invite the mind seeking possibilities.
(Ham on trees)
Remembering the trees can be said when one recalls trees "seen" or otherwise experienced (after observation, unless one can remember an event that has yet to happen, which may or may not be quantum memory) or in another context, removed from the proximity of the trees, yet one can tell someone else, "Remember those trees?"
But what are the memory trees? They aren’t the physical specimens. They are tree ghosts. Incomplete, shapeless, massless. They are nothing. Are they nothing? How do they occupy?
I’ve no idea how far I have invaded into this world the author has created. There is no book to hold open at reading point to tell me that I’ve traveled only quarter-way into it. There is nothing to let me know how much reading space of pages equal to time the hero has to get his shit together. To find his father-mother-brother-lover-self. Or if he will. Or, for that matter, if he will have any Eureka! moment that will make his life fit back together in a solid whole.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology