Bibliography VII

“Station Eleven” – Emily St. John Mandel

Once in a while a story comes along that alters my perception of the world. This is such a story.

Written in a similar-but-not-really style as The Night Circus, it, too, is a glass box of jewels. In this instance, however, the box is tinted. The jewels within are as luminous, as colourful, as rich and multi-faceted, but seen through darkened glass, the overall effect is somber. Glorious. Terrifying. Romantic. Despairing. Panicky. Violent. Tranquil. Remorseful. Wistful. Hopeful.

Brilliant.

Those who must label everything call it a sci-fi novel, but it’s really about people: people at the end of the world, people surviving the end of the world, people creating a new world. Humans are nothing if not resilient. We’re also fairly flexible; as one of the main characters observes, we can adapt to anything.

I admit, I resisted this one at first. A friend requested it for Christmas, and when I read the dust jacket I thought, oh, cheerful. A global pandemic takes out ninety-nine percent of the earth’s population practically overnight and the remaining one percent must figure out how to continue in a world where everything and everyone they’ve known no longer exists. It’s told in such a way that the horror is broken up by vignettes culled from the characters’ lives, both before and after the flu. One twist is a main character dying of a heart attack in the opening scene, yet through flashbacks and flash forwards, his life and the people in it become integral to the proceedings. In this way, the reader is spared the stress of a chronological buildup, given a breather from the spreading panic of passengers diverted to and eventually stranded at an airport, or a freaked-out city dweller hauling grocery carts of supplies through a snowstorm to his brother’s apartment. The world after the flu features a band of travelling players moving from settlement to settlement, performing Shakespeare for the locals “because survival is insufficient”. Incredibly, Ms. Mandel manages to tie all these threads together around the central theme and paints both worlds with a stark and desperate beauty.

Why did I pick it up at last? GRRM recommended it. Erin Morgenstern wrote a blurb for it. My waiting-for-the-end-of-the-world buddy loved it, though I’m unsure why at this point. I must discuss with her when I return her copy. She loaned it to me but, again like The Night Circus, I intend to read and re-read Station Eleven, ergo a copy of my own is imminent.

On the day I finished reading, I took a long walk through the neighbourhood and paid specific attention to the things around me: careless cars speeding along the road, the infernal joggers plugged into their iPods, gaggles of tourists juggling cameras and Starbucks cups. The convenience of my cell phone, of electric light and running water. Of lawn mowers and float planes and freighters loaded with shipping containers from across the Pacific Ocean. Then I looked at the gardens and imagined them overgrown, the flowers a haphazard tangle of colour instead of neatly trimmed and deliberately placed. Butterflies and hummingbirds flitting from bloom to bloom, crows pecking idly at the grass between the rocks. The wind whispering in my ear. I know this will end someday. Whether I end before, with or after it, I don’t know. Some things will endure. Natural things. The bugs and critters and plants and sky will continue as if we were never here. So will those of us who are left.

Will we create something better the next time? Or will we just want to go home?