Book Review: Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel

Out of ten, this book is an eleven.

Station Eleven is a 2014 science fiction novel written by Emily St. John Mandel. It follows a plethora of characters through the apocalypse—a global pandemic brings an end to modern civilization—all of whom are connected by the actor Arthur Leander. Arthur dies on stage in the opening scene, and later that night the "Georgian Flu" sweeps across the Earth. We then jump between times and places, discovering how all the characters of our cast are connected to Arthur and how he influenced and continues to influence them.

Station Eleven is a fresh take on the post-apocalyptic genre. The focus of the novel is less on how characters survive but on how they react to simply living in this new, post-technology world. There are no zombies, no continued threat. The Georgian Flu burnt itself out with the rest of humanity, and all that is left are people adjusting to the new normal of wherever they were able to survive. We see little of the drama of the collapse of civilization; tension does not come from wondering if our characters will survive—we know quite often if characters will live or die and when in the future (aside from protagonist). There is no dystopia, simply the practicalities and horrors of living in this new world.

I describe it in the negative because the actual substance of the book is difficult to talk about in broad strokes. Arthur's story is about the effects of fame and the regrets of his life. Jeevan, the character through which we see Arthur's death, never interacts with any of the other perspective characters after that opening moment. His story is about loss and isolation, but there he sees little external conflict even as he journeys from Toronto to Virginia. We see Miranda, Arthur's first wife, struggle her whole life to produce a comic book, her passion project. Her story is about art, what influences it, what drives her to create it, and how effects people in unexpected ways. These stories, and others, are scattered and interspersed; achronological vignettes of life.

The effect is that there is no real sense of 'plot,' in the traditional sense. Kirsten Raymonde, a girl in Arthur's play, is arguably the story's protagonist, but the more traditional elements of conflict that accompany her journey across the remnants of America are the weakest aspects of the novel. The theme of that conflict (a girl who has left her past behind vs a boy who is stuck in his childhood) is strong, but the actual mechanics of plot (Kirsten meets 'the Prophet', Kirsten is perused by the Prophet, Kirsten confronts and overcomes the Prophet—your traditional three-acts/Hero's journey) feel awkward when paired with the otherwise fluid structure of the book's narration. What appeals instead is the mood of the whole work. It is nostalgic, somehow. It is tragic and hopeful all at once. The writing on display is superb; grounded and simple. The characters are so genuine that I was brought to tears at the end, not because any of them had died, but because I knew I could not go on with them. Jumping back and forth between so many people would seem to weaken them, but the connections between their lives make them seem that much more real.

I did not take any notes while reading this book (I usually don't), as I was burnt out from analyzing The Expanse, but I feel I've done a disservice to this work. The intertwining of stories creates a rich tapestry of theme and meaning, and I have barely scratched the surface of how it all fits together.

Station Eleven has many themes, but most of all it is about the act of living. It is about growing up and realizing that you cannot go back. "Adulthood's full of ghosts," a character states at one point. And it is true. Characters are haunted by those they have killed; Miranda haunts Kirsten through her comic books; and Arthur haunts everyone of the people who survive him. This book will haunt me, and I recommend emphatically that you let it haunt you too.

Station Eleven is available wherever books are sold.