This is one of those books I admire rather than love. There's something so fascinating about the central setting and metaphor: the algal tide that dries and flays, the spreading plague, the revolting meat product. I wonder if it hits differently because we all have that experience of contagion and isolation thanks to covid, except that the actual pandemic wasn't nearly so intertwined with setting. More, there's that ongoing commentary on consumption, with the meat and the causation and the young boy who can't stop eating.

I wondered, while reading, if the namelessness of the protagonist was really necessary, and on balance I think that it is. Her essential anonymity is indicative of the amalgamation that's the most depressing part of this very depressing story - life in this city, from the food to the faces, has blended down into product, and the consumption of product, and in the midst of this the individual counts for very little. It's the ending that's most interesting to me, though: the city is emptying, its inhabitants turned to refugees fleeing inland, but the protagonist, who is almost disgusted with wasted effort, it seems, decides to stay. Her life is likely to be hopeless and alone, but I can't help but sympathise. Under the circumstances, I think I'd rather be alone too. It feels a bit like the last piece of freedom available... the ability to sink, still anonymous, into the remnants of city and be forgotten.

It's so interestingly dreary. I feel the need to read it again, just to wallow in it.