Formerly Friendly Midwesterners are Stabbing People

a review of Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel

“What is to be said other than… coronavirus vibe on our vibes,” I journaled on March 11th. More prescient words have never been written. Now, as we grind our teeth through month 5 of glöb pandem, is a good time to ask ourselves how things could be worse.

I don’t seek out dystopian fiction because my brain can dispense potential horrors for free, so it’s like why spend $11.99. Station Eleven is a story involving a pandemic worse than ours, because there was no “let us everyone bake sourdough” or kitchen-counter scallions phase. People succumb to the virus in 3 hours, like a slow-release edible. I couldn’t help but wonder: what if everyone wore a mask? 

The story centers on this traveling troupe that performs Shakespeare and classical music because it seems in a post-pandemic world “the arts” are boring again. Would love to rewrite this about a group of improvisers and soundcloud rappers. I don’t know why the post-pandemic world has to be so glum! 

As in Severance, the midwest is the post-pandemic place to be. Fresh water, no hills, malls, etc. But as with most aspects of the post-pandemic world, the vibe is off. Formerly friendly midwesterners are stabbing people and joining cults and generally appealing to humanity’s basest instincts. Station Eleven is also missing the pandemic cohort who vacation in the Hamptons and ignore how crises lay bare society’s inequalities. You KNOW that while Jeevan was reckoning with the death of his wheelchair-bound brother, there was a crew of 20-somethings drinking scorpion bowls at Montauk End of the World.

This book tells lots of lofty truths about humanity: we are all interconnected, if you read the bible without a critical eye you might start a cult, material objects are simultaneously meaningless and extremely important. It was missing a sappy ol’ love story, and served a weird platonic friendship in its place instead which is like…. ok that’s nice, but I feel like more people would be boning... Romance lacuna aside, St. John Mandel’s writing creates a swift current for the plot, and you could read this book in 3 hours if an all-consuming virus required it.