by Emily St. John Mandel
Knopf 2014
352 pages Fiction
In the near future, a pandemic called Georgia Flu wipes out
much of the world's infrastructure, and the remaining people are left with
nothing. Small colonies of people survive like pioneers in settlements across
the landscape. The particular landscape of Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel is Michigan, although
much of the pre-pandemic activity takes place in Toronto and Los Angeles.
However, the setting is immaterial to the plot, because what is left is
desolation.
As a little girl, Kirsten meets a famous actor, Arthur Leander, when she was performing in a production of King Lear in Toronto. It happened to be the night
Leander died—right before the Georgia Flu destroys everything Kirsten knows. Twenty
years later, she finds herself acting in a Shakespearean theater/musical
ensemble called the Traveling Symphony. They are a ragtag group of survivors
who travel the coastline of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron entertaining the small
villages of survivors.
The storyline
goes from past to present, weaving the motley group of characters together,
until plot lines converge at a former airport that serves as home to 300 people,
including children born in the years after the calamity. The children know
nothing about electricity, cell phones, or even stiletto high heels, but they
know a lot about survival. Arthur Leander is the tie that binds all the
characters and the artifacts together—that and King Lear and the saying
tattooed on Kirsten's arm—"Survival is insufficient."
Unlike many dystopian authors, Mandel is not caught up in a
specific genre. Although several reviewers were put off by inconsistencies in
the level of dystopia, or the details of survival, or even the science fiction
references, all were completely enthralled by Mandel's meditations on the value of life, of happiness, of—dare we say it—joy.
Mandel objects to Station Eleven being categorized as science fiction, although
it is set in a future time. She sees her novel as literary fiction, and I would
have to agree with her. Although there are elements of science fiction and
there certainly are dystopian elements, Station Eleven is so reflective and pensive
that it defies description. It did remind me of The
Road by Cormac McCarthy, but Station Eleven is more encouraging in the emphasis
that the author places on human resiliency and the possibility of a better future. The reviewer in SF
Gate says: "The novel is less
horror story than elegiac lament; its pacing is slow and its style understated.
Station Eleven is terrifying, reminding us of how paper-thin the achievements
of civilization are. But it’s also surprisingly — and quietly — beautiful."
I was particularly struck by the way in which the
ordinariness of life is emphasized in Station Eleven. These are people who have
lived for 20 years without the niceties of life in the past civilization. They do not even choose to
live in abandoned houses. The old life is completely abandoned. One reviewer
remarks, "Station Eleven implies that a major collapse might cripple the
world, but would not ruin it, nor the people who remain in it." Also
significant is the purpose of the Traveling Symphony. They visit the small villages
playing music and performing Shakespeare, because that is what people want—that
is beauty that they can cling to.
I wrote an essay
about a year ago about why teenagers love dystopian novels in which I mused
that perhaps society is preparing itself for an apocalypse. The SF Gate
reviewer remarks: "This is the
power of dystopian stories, which remain all the rage this year: They shed
light not only on our present anxieties about humanity’s collapse, but on how
people act when they’re placed, more or less, in a vacuum."
As I tramped up and down the familiar Lake Michigan
coastline with Kirsten and the Symphony in Station Eleven, I was reminded of
something my son told me the day after he and his sister lived through
September 11, 2001. He said that all he could think about was that my husband
and I would come as close to the city as we could, find them, and drive to the
family cottages on Lake Michigan where we would all be safe.
The SF
Gate review.
The New
York Times review.
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