Station Eleven is delightful and complicated and a well-needed antidote to the brutal banality of much post-apocalyptic fiction.
Emily St. John Mandel has posited a world where a horrifically virulent disease has wiped out something like 499 of every 500 people. The devastating impact of this is handled with a lyrical grace that is stunning, in one chapter simply listing out all of the things that simply fall apart. The practicalities are intriguing as well: the sheer abundance of bodies makes cities inhospitable, with the survivors trying to rebuild their lives either constantly on the move, in small enclaves that emerge in the sparsely populated intersections of abandoned highways, or small rural communities. It all holds together, and if perhaps she underestimates the speed with which bits of technology would reappear, that is a small quibble easily surrendered.
The book follows several strands simultaneously, moving around in time with little effort and with a clarity that is rarely found in the genre. The protagonist was a child when the disease struck, and her harrowing first two years of survival are only referenced and never fully described. This is the antidote mentioned above: St. John Mandel writes about what happens after all the rape and carnage, what is left once the bloodbath has faded. Don’t get me wrong: there is grave peril in the book (and some rape and carnage), and clear acceptance that not everyone, perhaps not even most, would be guided by their higher nature in such circumstances.
But the focus is on a traveling symphony, a group of artists whose caravan moves along a small route in the Midwest, stopping to alternate classical music with performances of Shakespeare, their lead wagon covered with a slogan pilfered from Star Trek, Because Survival is Insufficient. Lovely. Their camaraderie and commitment to the transformational potential of performance is captured sweetly, and the relationships that matter most are generally among these characters.
The overall plot is compelling, but not the reason to read the book. Instead, it’s the smaller things: the description of the arc of discovery for many characters that this is not just another news story, but a legitimate global disaster; the creation of a museum of artifacts from before the disaster in a small airport lounge; the subtle presentation of character’s weaknesses in a way that doesn’t alienate us from sympathizing with them.
Another quote (and contra Sartre): Hell is the absence of the people you long for. Ultimately, Station Eleven is about that hell, and the slow recreation of humanity on the other side of the passage through it.
Highly recommended.
#WhatIWishICouldDo
The ability to move from narrative thread to narrative thread without confusing or annoying the reader. I was never unsure of where or when I was, and I was fairly equally engaged in each of the strands, whether they ultimately connected or not.