This book, which reads like many other post-apocalyptic novels, is mainly interesting for the fact it was published in 1912 (when such fiction was much more scarce) and for the fact that it’s from Jack London.

The story follows an old man, one of the remaining few who remember the world before it collapsed in the wake of a terrifying plague, as he desperately, fruitlessly tries to educate the next generation. This generational, ideological, conflict, rather than simply the challenge of survival, was also an interesting one. There’s something relatable and poignant about watching a man try to describe a different world, a wholly distinct and vanished age, to people who have no frame of reference for understanding it. The youngsters, our protagonists’ grandsons, think he’s full of nonsense and are only interested in hearing about earlier civilization insofar as it may assist them in their current, simplified lives, “I’m going to get Granser to remember this here gunpowder stuff,” Edwin said softly, “And then I’ll have you all on the run.”

Ultimately this was a pleasant, if too brief, read.