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davramlocke's Reviews (777)
I was trying to think about when post-apocalyptic literature began. I don't know that there is any, that I am aware of, pre-cold war, nuclear-fallout stuff. Maybe some early zombie movies? This dearth of post-apocalypse media is odd given that humanity has dealt with large-scale disease before. How did no one think to write a novel after the great plagues swept through Europe? Were they religiously afraid of tempting God to send them something worse? Was popular literature just not common enough then? Genre and pulp fiction were certainly frowned on, but it's hard to believe no one took the time to imagine what the end of the world would look like.
Now we have a wealth of such media. The Walking Dead, Fallout, The Road, The Hunger Games even. These worlds have all explored what it means to be a survivor in a world that's collapsed. There is something romantic about this idea that appeals to our current society. I can only speculate here, but I suspect that many people feel that the world is just too much. It's all become too complicated with too many people and too many ideas. Technology has overwhelmed us, and to some, hitting the reset button and starting over from the days of caves has a certain simplistic beauty.
Emily St. John Mandel explores this idea in her novel, Station Eleven. It would be easy to lump Mandel's work in with some of the other genre tales out there, like ones I mentioned above, but I believe there is something more genuine to her work, and certainly less cynical, that makes it stand out among the pack.
For one, Mandel's apocalypse hits real close to home by imagining a super-flu, something beyond the swine or bird flus or whatever other deadly diseases some of us have seen in our lifetimes. Station's Georgia Flu is efficient, quick, and wipes out a purported 99% of the population (she gives that figure in the book, but I am unclear how such data could have been compiled post-wipeout). Is it possible? Yep. Probably more possible than any nuclear fallout or zombie apocalypse because it would be almost completely out of human control. Nuclear weapons are continually held back because even the worst politicians seem to understand the devastation. Zombie apocalypses are fantasy. But a disease that worked fast and flew from lung to lung through the air? That has happened, and it would only take a mutated version of flus we currently see every year to see it done. At least, that is my limited understanding of epidemics.
What I like about Mandel's vision of the apocalypse is that, like many of these genre titles, it is not the disease or some outside force that survivors have to worry about, but rather one another. This is a common trope of these types of stories. Yes, the zombies may get you, but zombies are dumb. You are more likely to die to another human. Mandel eliminates the outside force completely. Once the flu has done its job, its gone, and society has to figure out how to move on dealing only with one another. Human relationships have always been the backbone of good storytelling, and Station Eleven is no exception.
That is not to say that there isn't tension, and there are bad people in this book. But Mandel's vision of life post-disaster is one more of hope than it is of dread. Her main characters are musicians and actors in a traveling troupe that wander the northern parts of the midwest bringing joy and music to other survivors. Their motto is, "Because survival isn't enough." Even the bad people in this book aren't bogey monsters with no motive but to rape and murder. They are characters with gradations of morality, often misguided, who simply can't figure out the proper way to survive in a world gone wrong.
Mandel also takes risks that I can respect from a writing standpoint. She jumps around all over time. One chapter can be post-fall, the next an oral history, the next a series of letters. She doesn't seem to fear any lack of continuity in this method, and her confidence is rewarded because it all meshes together in a cohesive and interesting way. As a writer, this is something I long to accomplish in as deft a way as she has managed.
I think my only real complaint with the novel is that some of its main characters are not as interesting as I feel they should be. Arthur Leander is one who I think is very well written, which is ironic as his story could be considered the least relevant to the actual plot of Station Eleven. I don't think it is, and in some ways the entire story revolves around him and the people whose lives he touched. But he dies before the flu even hits. It is a testament to Mandel's ability to craft that character that I still wanted to read about him. But, Kirsten Raymonde, the supposed main character and the woman whose eyes we see through the most, is fairly forgettable. I wonder if this is intentional and maybe acts as some type of commentary on someone who has existed almost entirely in the post-apocalyptic world. Is she an every(wo)man? Simply a pair of glasses that we as the reader are allowed to view the world through? She has a personality, no doubt, but there isn't anything that makes me want to remember her or, frankly, even root for her. I wish I could put my finger on what is missing. Other characters in the traveling troupe are similar, and to many Mandel doesn't even give a name. She simply calls them tuba or second cello or something. So maybe there are good reasons for making the post-apocalyptic characters less interesting than those who lived before the fall. Or maybe they're just tougher to write about.
Despite the potential mis-characterizations, Station Eleven is probably one of the most finely written post-apocalyptic novels I have ever read and does something to elevate the ideas presented above the moniker of "genre," much as McCarthy's The Road did before Mandel. It is a recommended read regardless of whether or not you're interesting in the end of the world. And honestly, if it happens, this feels like the way things might pan out. But that's a big if.
Now we have a wealth of such media. The Walking Dead, Fallout, The Road, The Hunger Games even. These worlds have all explored what it means to be a survivor in a world that's collapsed. There is something romantic about this idea that appeals to our current society. I can only speculate here, but I suspect that many people feel that the world is just too much. It's all become too complicated with too many people and too many ideas. Technology has overwhelmed us, and to some, hitting the reset button and starting over from the days of caves has a certain simplistic beauty.
Emily St. John Mandel explores this idea in her novel, Station Eleven. It would be easy to lump Mandel's work in with some of the other genre tales out there, like ones I mentioned above, but I believe there is something more genuine to her work, and certainly less cynical, that makes it stand out among the pack.
For one, Mandel's apocalypse hits real close to home by imagining a super-flu, something beyond the swine or bird flus or whatever other deadly diseases some of us have seen in our lifetimes. Station's Georgia Flu is efficient, quick, and wipes out a purported 99% of the population (she gives that figure in the book, but I am unclear how such data could have been compiled post-wipeout). Is it possible? Yep. Probably more possible than any nuclear fallout or zombie apocalypse because it would be almost completely out of human control. Nuclear weapons are continually held back because even the worst politicians seem to understand the devastation. Zombie apocalypses are fantasy. But a disease that worked fast and flew from lung to lung through the air? That has happened, and it would only take a mutated version of flus we currently see every year to see it done. At least, that is my limited understanding of epidemics.
What I like about Mandel's vision of the apocalypse is that, like many of these genre titles, it is not the disease or some outside force that survivors have to worry about, but rather one another. This is a common trope of these types of stories. Yes, the zombies may get you, but zombies are dumb. You are more likely to die to another human. Mandel eliminates the outside force completely. Once the flu has done its job, its gone, and society has to figure out how to move on dealing only with one another. Human relationships have always been the backbone of good storytelling, and Station Eleven is no exception.
That is not to say that there isn't tension, and there are bad people in this book. But Mandel's vision of life post-disaster is one more of hope than it is of dread. Her main characters are musicians and actors in a traveling troupe that wander the northern parts of the midwest bringing joy and music to other survivors. Their motto is, "Because survival isn't enough." Even the bad people in this book aren't bogey monsters with no motive but to rape and murder. They are characters with gradations of morality, often misguided, who simply can't figure out the proper way to survive in a world gone wrong.
Mandel also takes risks that I can respect from a writing standpoint. She jumps around all over time. One chapter can be post-fall, the next an oral history, the next a series of letters. She doesn't seem to fear any lack of continuity in this method, and her confidence is rewarded because it all meshes together in a cohesive and interesting way. As a writer, this is something I long to accomplish in as deft a way as she has managed.
I think my only real complaint with the novel is that some of its main characters are not as interesting as I feel they should be. Arthur Leander is one who I think is very well written, which is ironic as his story could be considered the least relevant to the actual plot of Station Eleven. I don't think it is, and in some ways the entire story revolves around him and the people whose lives he touched. But he dies before the flu even hits. It is a testament to Mandel's ability to craft that character that I still wanted to read about him. But, Kirsten Raymonde, the supposed main character and the woman whose eyes we see through the most, is fairly forgettable. I wonder if this is intentional and maybe acts as some type of commentary on someone who has existed almost entirely in the post-apocalyptic world. Is she an every(wo)man? Simply a pair of glasses that we as the reader are allowed to view the world through? She has a personality, no doubt, but there isn't anything that makes me want to remember her or, frankly, even root for her. I wish I could put my finger on what is missing. Other characters in the traveling troupe are similar, and to many Mandel doesn't even give a name. She simply calls them tuba or second cello or something. So maybe there are good reasons for making the post-apocalyptic characters less interesting than those who lived before the fall. Or maybe they're just tougher to write about.
Despite the potential mis-characterizations, Station Eleven is probably one of the most finely written post-apocalyptic novels I have ever read and does something to elevate the ideas presented above the moniker of "genre," much as McCarthy's The Road did before Mandel. It is a recommended read regardless of whether or not you're interesting in the end of the world. And honestly, if it happens, this feels like the way things might pan out. But that's a big if.
Basically, after the first ten pages of this book, my thought was, "Okay. I've discovered George Saunders." I'm poised to read the rest of his collections now, and find him worth the hype (not that I'd even heard of him until this book was released). Great stories, and dark and funny in the most unique way.
Why do I love dragons? Is it their impossibility? Even with hollow bones, something that large carousing through the air with nothing but muscle power is pretty unbelievable. Is it their ferocity? I do also love bears and sharks (at a distance). Is it their mythical nature? I tend to be drawn towards those creatures too strange to exist in our world: the phoenix, flying whales, giant wolves who swing swords around in their mouths. You know - that nonsense.
But dragons are special even among the extraordinary. It was only when starting The Summer Dragon that I realized: outside of The Hobbit, I have never really read a great book about dragons. I've read a few decent ones, and more than a few middling attempts, but very rarely outside the Tolkien Legendarium has there been a novel wherein dragons were well represented. The Eragon series was fine at first, but really buried itself further in. I couldn't read past the first Pern novel because I thought it was poorly written and stumbled around on shaky plot. I read one or two of the Temeraire books, but wasn't hooked and was maybe even a little offended at the complete subjugation of dragons as war mounts. And of course Game of Thrones has three dragons, but those books aren't about dragons (unless you consider Daenerys one).
Yes, plenty of books have dragons in them, but few are truly about dragons. The Summer Dragon is definitely about dragons, both mythically and practically speaking. But does it do these magnificent impossibilities justice? Kinda.
The basic plot of The Summer Dragon is that dragon roosts, places where dragons are raised and trained for the military, are being attacked by an outside force of evil bad guys. The book focuses on Maia, the daughter of a master trainer, and her attempts to find her place in the dragon-world. Eventually, Maia gets her own dragon, who she raises and bonds with. War comes to the aerie, and people fight. That's putting it in simple terms.
The book is about Maia, but also about dragons and her dragon, Keirr, specifically. These two share a bond that transcends friendship, and certainly surpasses any master/slave relationship. They are linked in mind, and the thing I most appreciated about the book was the respect afforded to these extremely intelligent, beautiful creatures. There is even a scene where a dragon rider calls his dragon a beast, and with that simple clue we can infer that he is a bad dude and that we will not like him.
So there is no doubt that this a book about dragons. The trouble is, there is so much thought given to the care and training of dragons that very little creativity is leftover for actual story. Characterization also takes a bit of a hit. This is mostly fine because, honestly, I would read a training manual if it described the kind of dragon-riding details that The Summer Dragon does. In some ways it doesn't need a plot. But I'd prefer to read a well-thought out novel that surprises and engages me with storytelling. The Summer Dragon tries this, and its world-building is actually quite good even if it's limited to a few miles, but there was very little to compel me to turn those pages outside of seeing what cool things dragons could do.
And so I am still left with the problem of loving something that very few people write about well. Todd Lockwood's art definitely captures the majesty of draconis. He began his book career as an artist, and I loved seeing his renditions scattered throughout the book. They manage to convey some sense of his vision without derailing too much of my own (the reason we don't cram illustrations into every book we write is because reader imagination is one of the most important aspects of the process).
Will I ever get the dragon book that I seek? Is it simply not possible to write about dragons in a way that this book reviewer wants? I guess that remains to be seen. Keep an eye out for my upcoming novel about dragons.
But dragons are special even among the extraordinary. It was only when starting The Summer Dragon that I realized: outside of The Hobbit, I have never really read a great book about dragons. I've read a few decent ones, and more than a few middling attempts, but very rarely outside the Tolkien Legendarium has there been a novel wherein dragons were well represented. The Eragon series was fine at first, but really buried itself further in. I couldn't read past the first Pern novel because I thought it was poorly written and stumbled around on shaky plot. I read one or two of the Temeraire books, but wasn't hooked and was maybe even a little offended at the complete subjugation of dragons as war mounts. And of course Game of Thrones has three dragons, but those books aren't about dragons (unless you consider Daenerys one).
Yes, plenty of books have dragons in them, but few are truly about dragons. The Summer Dragon is definitely about dragons, both mythically and practically speaking. But does it do these magnificent impossibilities justice? Kinda.
The basic plot of The Summer Dragon is that dragon roosts, places where dragons are raised and trained for the military, are being attacked by an outside force of evil bad guys. The book focuses on Maia, the daughter of a master trainer, and her attempts to find her place in the dragon-world. Eventually, Maia gets her own dragon, who she raises and bonds with. War comes to the aerie, and people fight. That's putting it in simple terms.
The book is about Maia, but also about dragons and her dragon, Keirr, specifically. These two share a bond that transcends friendship, and certainly surpasses any master/slave relationship. They are linked in mind, and the thing I most appreciated about the book was the respect afforded to these extremely intelligent, beautiful creatures. There is even a scene where a dragon rider calls his dragon a beast, and with that simple clue we can infer that he is a bad dude and that we will not like him.
So there is no doubt that this a book about dragons. The trouble is, there is so much thought given to the care and training of dragons that very little creativity is leftover for actual story. Characterization also takes a bit of a hit. This is mostly fine because, honestly, I would read a training manual if it described the kind of dragon-riding details that The Summer Dragon does. In some ways it doesn't need a plot. But I'd prefer to read a well-thought out novel that surprises and engages me with storytelling. The Summer Dragon tries this, and its world-building is actually quite good even if it's limited to a few miles, but there was very little to compel me to turn those pages outside of seeing what cool things dragons could do.
And so I am still left with the problem of loving something that very few people write about well. Todd Lockwood's art definitely captures the majesty of draconis. He began his book career as an artist, and I loved seeing his renditions scattered throughout the book. They manage to convey some sense of his vision without derailing too much of my own (the reason we don't cram illustrations into every book we write is because reader imagination is one of the most important aspects of the process).
Will I ever get the dragon book that I seek? Is it simply not possible to write about dragons in a way that this book reviewer wants? I guess that remains to be seen. Keep an eye out for my upcoming novel about dragons.