“The Man Who Walked on the Moon” emphasizes the subjective nature of memory and the highly variable—and unreliable—way that people conceive of the past. Although history itself might be set in stone, the way people process and reimagine past events ultimately depends on multiple factors, including their own motives for remembering things a certain way. For instance, the narrator of “The Man Who Walked on the Moon” takes advantage of the malleability of his own memory and uses it to reshape the way he thinks of himself: if he says he went to space, nobody can deny him that. Similarly, when Scranton claims that photos of the Apollo missions torn from popular magazines are his own pictures, he demonstrates an unwillingness to accept the real version of history, and it’s quite difficult for anyone—the narrator included—to refute him, despite the fact that it’s quite obvious that Scranton wasn’t part of the Apollo missions. Seemingly inspired by Scranton’s willfully incorrect memory of the past, the narrator eventually uses the flexibility of memory to serve his own means. In doing so, he shapes for himself a new identity that is preferable to that of a failed journalist, husband, and son. Under the guise of an “ex-astronaut,” he can change his habits and reinforce a past that never existed. Memory is, in this sense, deeply subjective but also somewhat pragmatic, as the narrator uses it (or some deluded version of it) as a tool to justify an entirely new life. Like Scranton’s memory, the narrator’s memory effectively becomes his history. In turn, “The Man Who Walked on the Moon” highlights the tricky idea that the stories we tell ourselves about history are often just as important as what actually happened.
Memory vs. History ThemeTracker
Memory vs. History Quotes in The Man Who Walked on the Moon
The Man Who Walked on the Moon Quotes
[N]o doubt you think that I am a minor clerk who has missed promotion once too often, and that I amount to nothing, a person of no past and less future.
For many years I believed this myself. I had been abandoned by the authorities, who were glad to see me exiled to another continent, reduced to begging from American tourists. I suffered from acute amnesia, and certain domestic problems with my wife and my mother.
As I sat there, guarding the brandy I could barely afford, I resented Scranton’s bogus celebrity, and the tourist revenue it brought him. For years I, too, had maintained a charade — the mask of good humor that I presented to my colleagues in the newspaper world — but it had brought me nothing. Scranton at least was left alone for most of his time, something I craved more than any celebrity.
I peered at Scranton, expecting some small show of embarrassment. These faded pages, far from being the mementoes of a real astronaut, were obviously the prompt cards of an impostor. However, there was not the slightest doubt that Scranton was sincere.
Nonetheless, Scranton had travelled in space. He had known the loneliness of separation from all other human beings, he had gazed at the empty perspectives that I myself had seen. Curiously, the pages torn from the news magazines seemed more real than the pilot’s log-book. The photographs of Armstrong and his fellow astronauts were really of Scranton and myself as we walked together on the moon of this world.



