The end of the world--or is it?

One of the many benefits of participating in a book discussion group is being nudged, occasionally, toward books you wouldn’t ordinarily choose. I know many people who don’t like to join book groups because they are “forced” to read books they don’t like—they’d rather read their own choices exclusively. And I get that. There are so many books, and so little time…

But sometimes the book group nudge is just what you need to discover something wonderful, something you’d never have chosen on your own.

Case in point: Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel.

Typically, if I’m reading a book review and see the tags “science fiction” or “dystopia,” my eyes glaze over and I move on. I know my favorite genres, and those don’t apply.

So, I’d never have read Station Eleven, if it hadn’t been a selection of my book group about  a year ago. Even then, I was not inclined—hmmm, maybe this would be a book I’d just skip and maybe even skip the meeting. But I like the woman who recommended it, and I respect her judgment, so I gave it a try. Am I ever glad! It’s a book that resonated in my mind and dreams for days. In fact, I recently re-read the novel and liked it even more than the first time.

The basic premise: a horribly virulent pandemic flu wipes out most of the population of the world and basically brings civilization as we know it to a halt. No electricity. No Internet. No cell phones. No water or sewer systems. No planes, trains, or cars. No grocery stores. No hospitals or antibiotics. 

And, because the mortality rate is 99%, no chance—or virtually none—that your family, loved ones, or friends have survived.

How would you cope? After a dramatic opening the evening before the flu hits, the novel fast-forwards to Year 20, introducing us to an array of characters who did survive and have coped. Among them are dozen or so people who have formed a traveling troupe to perform classical music and Shakespeare for people in towns around the Great Lakes.

Shakespeare—really? Aren’t there more compelling needs for the remnant of civilization? According to St. John Mandel, Shakespeare and music are as important as ordinary sustenance. This phrase echoes throughout the book: “Survival is insufficient.” (Star Trek fans will recognize the phrase from a Star Trek Voyage episode.)

So, the Traveling Symphony performs, with battered instruments and ragged costumes, transcendent music and poetry for small communities eager to be lifted out of their survival mode. After a few days in each town, the Symphony hitches up its horse-drawn wagons and heads to another town. This peripatetic troupe of  musicians and actors form an extended family: “…it was their only home.”

Only, sometimes, the players are met with hostility or overt violence. A religious zealot threatens them. In this fractured world, who can be trusted?

As counterpoint to this atmosphere of dark uncertainly, the novel opens with a dramatic scene on the last day before the pandemic hits. A well-known Canadian actor, Arthur Leander, dies of a heart attack during a final scene of King Lear staged at a Toronto theater. The novel traces Arthur’s professional rise and personal life, cutting back and forth in time, providing a more conventional narrative to counter the story of the pandemic’s aftermath.

Initially, it’s not clear how the two stories relate. But several strands align over time. Kirsten, a little girl who acts in Lear becomes the fearless leader of the Traveling Symphony. A lawyer friend of Arthur’s becomes the de facto curator of the Museum of Civilization, which contains a collection of objects from “before”, eg, an iPhone, a driver’s license, a laptop, a pair of stiletto heels. A paparazzo who stalks Arthur’s wives grows into a skilled medical provider and resourceful family man. And not least, a graphic novel—Station Eleven—links several characters and is, itself, a survivor—and a metaphor for how to re-build society after disaster.

The book is smart, with an impressive structure and an unfussy, eloquent style. Although the novel is dark and sometimes tense, a current of humanity runs through the story. And, at the end, a hint of hope and light (literally) promises to begin to heal the 20-year collapse of civilization.