For some unknown reason, I have a strange habit of reading post apocalyptic science fiction novels during my vacations. It started a long time ago when I went on an extended trip with my in-laws. During one particular trip, I read 2 or 3 novels. I remember being completely immersed in a world desolate and void. A world in which society violently returned to utilitarian values. In these worlds, society returns to value food, clean water, and shelter. At the same time, things like paper money, luxury automobiles, and oddly enough, women’s high heeled shoes become almost worthless. I enjoy reading these books because they remind me of the intrinsic worth of objects without regard to the hype and marketing value surrounding these objects. Designer jackets and clothes become no more valued than bargain clothes are the nearby Goodwill.
Station Eleven is a wonderfully written post apocalyptic science fiction novel by Emily St. John Mandel. But the book is different in the sense that it doesn’t dwell on society’s breakdown. It touches upon a virus named the “Georgia Flu” which rapidly travels from Moscow. In a matter of days, society comes to an abrupt halt. Electricity stops in a matter of weeks, water after that. And then the novel fast forwards to a society haunted by a person nicknamed the Prophet who believes the flu is a modern version of the Angel of Death. In that regard, he comes to believe that he represents a sort of “light” to spread across the world. In reality, he is a terrible leader who kidnaps and terrorizes people who cross his path.
The idea of a “Prophet” in Station Eleven is a little disheartening. Very quickly I felt like I was reading a variant of The Walking Dead, where tribal leaders battle nearby city-states for resources. I was actually glad he book didn’t dwell on the concept of a prophet leader too much. The book largely follows a group of actors dubbed “The Traveling Symphony” which perform acts of Shakespeare in a world where “Survival is Insufficient”.
The idea of Station Eleven surrounds a comic book. The new society regards the comic book as gospel. And they largely don’t understand the accomplishments of humanity. Have we ever been to the moon? Have we ever colonized another planet? I love how the book reconciles that so much of society is lost within 1 or 2 generations. Children play around planes grounded indefinitely. So much of school touches upon things like vaccines, antibiotics, and insulin of a treasured past life.
One of my favorite parts of this novel touch upon Clark, who formerly worked in as a management consultant whose job was to evaluate executives. In one scene, he interviews a woman about her boss. Clark begins the interview with:
“I’m sorry I’m late”, he said to his interviewee, who shrugged and gestured him into the visitor’s chair.
“If you think two minutes counts as late, we’re not going to get along very well.” Was that a Texas accent? Dahlia was in her late thirties or early forties, with a sharp-edged haircut and red-framed glass that matched her lipstick.
Clark went into the usual introduction and preamble about the 360º they were doing, her boss as the target, the way he was interviewing fifteen people and it would all be anonymous, comments split off and categorized into separate reports for subordinates, peers, and superiors with a minimum of three in each group, etc. He listened to his voice from a distance and was pleased to note that it sounded steady.
“So the point,” she said, “if I’m understanding correctly, is to change my boss?”
“Well to address areas of potential weakness,” Clark said. Thinking of Dear V. Again as he said this, because isn’t indiscretion the very definition of weakness?
“To change him,” she insisted with a smile.
“I supposed you could see it that way.”
She nodded. “I don’t believe in the perfectibility of the individual,” she said.
“Ah,” he said. The thought that crossed his mind was that she looked a little old to be talking like a philosophy undergrad. “How about the improvement of the individual, then?”
“I don’t know.” She leaned back in her chair, arms folded, considering the question. Her tone was light, but he was beginning to realize that there was nothing flippant about her. She was remembering some of the offhand comments her colleagues had made about her in previous interviews, when his questions had come around to the team. Someone had called her a little different. Someone else, he remember, he used the word intense. “You’ve been doing this for a while, you said?
“Twenty-one years.”
“These people you coach, do they ever actually change? I mean in any kind of lasting, notable way?”
He hesitated. This is actually something he’d wondered about.
“They change their behavior, “ he said, “some of them. Often people will simply have no idea that they’re perceived as needing improvement in a certain area, but then they see the report…”
She nodded. “You differentiate between changing people and changing behaviors, then.”
“Of course.”
“There’s the thing,” Dahlia said. “I’ll bet you can coach Dan, and probably he’ll exhibit a turnaround of sorts, he’ll improve in concrete areas, but he’ll still be a joyless bastard.”
“A joyless…”
“No, wait, don’t write that down. Let me rephrase that. Okay, let’s say he’ll change a little, probably, if you coach him, but he’ll still be a successful-but-unhappy person who works until nine p.m. Every night because he’s got a terrible marriage and doesn’t want to go home, and don’t ask how I know that, everyone knows when you’ve got a terrible marriage, it’s like having bad breath, you get close enough to a person and it’s obvious. And you know, I’m reaching here, but I’m talking about someone who just seems like he wishes he’d done something different with his life, I mean really actually almost anything – is this too much?”
“No. Please go on.”
“Okay, I love my job, and I’m not saying that because my boss is doing to see my interview comments, which by the way I don’t believe he won’t be able to tell who said what, anonymous or not. But anyway, I look around sometimes and think – this will maybe sound weird – it’s like the corporate world’s full go ghosts. And actually, let me revise that, my parents are in academia so I’ve had front-row seats for that horror show, I know academia’s no different, so maybe a fairer way of putting this would be to say that adulthood’s full of ghosts.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I quite— “
“I’m talking about these people who’ve ended up in one life instead of another and they are just so disappointed. Do you know what I mean? They’ve done what’s expected of them. They want to do something different but it’s impossible now, there’s a mortgage, kids, whatever they’re trapped. Dan’s like that.”
“You don’t think he likes his job, then.”
“Correct,” she said, “but I don’t think he even realizes it. You probably encounter people like him all the time. High-functioning sleepwalkers, essentially.”
What was it in this statement that made Clark want to weep? He was nodding, taking down as much as he could. “Do you think he’d describe himself as unhappy in his work?”
“No,” Dahlia said, “because I think people like him think work is supposed to be drudgery punctuated by very occasional moments of happiness, but when I say happiness, I mostly mean distraction. You know what I mean?
“No, please elaborate.”
“Okay, say you go into the break room,” she said, “and a couple people you like are there, say someone’s telling a funny story, you laugh a little, you feel included, everyone’s so funny, you go back to your desk with a sort of, I don’t know, I guess afterglow would be the word? You go back to your desk with an afterglow, but then by four or five o’clock the day’s just turned into yet another day, and you go on like that, looking forward to five o’clock and then the weekend and then your two or three annual weeks of paid vacation time, day in and day out, and that’s what happens to you life.”
“Right,” Clark said. He was filled in that moment with an inexpressible longing. The previous day he’d gone into the break room and spent give minutes laughing at a colleague’s impression of a Daily Show bit.
“That’s what passes for a life, I should say. That’s what passes for happiness, for most people. Guys like Dan, they’re like sleepwalkers,” she said, “And nothing ever jolts them awake.”
Conversations like these make Station Eleven a novel worth remembering. Emily St. John Mandel fills the novel with scenes from the corporate life that are odd yet still beautiful. In the discussion above, I loved how the interviewee was described as a woman with lipstick that matched her glasses. And her description about her boss being sufficiently miserable. These moments convince me that Emily St. John Mandel once lived this world, or is a supremely emphatic author.
Later on in the book, Clark is sitting with a friend (also a former executive) while discussing some of his reports.
“Subordinates,” Garret said. “Okay, so under ‘Communication,’ here’s the first comment. ‘He’s not good at cascading information down to staff.’ Was he a whitewater rafter, Clark? I’m just curious?”
“Yes,” Clark said, “I’m certain that’s what the interviewee was talking about. Actual literal cascades.”
“This one’s my other favorite. ‘He’s successful in interfacing with clients we already have, but as for new clients, it’s low hanging fruit. He takes the high-altitude view, but he doesn’t drill down to that level of granularity where we might actionize new opportunities.’”
Clark winced. “I remember that one. I think I may have had a minor stroke in the office when he said that.”
“It raises questions,” Garret said.
“It certainly does.”
“There re high altitudes, apparently, also low-hanging fruit, also grains of something, also drilling.”
“Presumably he was a minor who climbed mountains and factionalized an orchard in his off-hours. I am proud to say,” Clark said, “that I never talked like that.”
“Did you ever use the phrase ‘in the mix’?”
“I don’t think so. No. I wouldn’t have.”
“I hated that one especially.” Garret was studying the report.
“Oh, I didn’t mind it so much. It made me think of baking. My mother would buy these cookie mixes sometimes when I was a kid.”
“Do you remember chocolate-chip cookies?”
“I dream of chocolate-chip cookies. Don’t torture me.”
Garret was quiet for so long that Clark opened his eyes to make sure he was still breathing. Garret was absorbed in watching two children playing on the tarmac, hiding behind the wheels of the Air Canada jet and chasing one another. He’d become calmer over the years but remained prone to episodes of unfocused staring, and Clark knew by now what his next question would be.
“Did I ever tell you about my last phone call?” Garret asked.
“Yes,” Clark said gently. “I believe you did.”
Garret had a wife and four-year old twins in Halifax, but the last call he’d ever made was to his boss. The last words he’d spoken into a telephone were a bouquet of corporate cliches, seared horribly into memory. “Let’s touch base with Nancy,” he remembered saying, “and then we should reach out to Bob and circle back next week. I’ll shoot Larry an email.” Now he said the words “Circle back next week” under his breath, perhaps not consciously. He cleared his throat. “Why did we always say we were going to shoot emails?”
“I don’t know. I’ve wondered that too.”
“Why couldn’t we just say we were going to send them? We were just pressing a button, were we not?”
“Not even a real button. A picture of a button on a screen.”
“Yes,” Garret said, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“There was not, in fact, an email gun. Although that would’ve been nice. I would’ve preferred that.”
Garret made his fingers into a gun and aimed it at the tree line. “Ka-pow!” he whispered. And then louder, “I used to write ’T-H-X’ when I wanted to say ‘thank you.’”
I did that too. Because, what, it would’ve taken too much time and effort to punch in an extra three letters and just say thanks? I can’t fathom it.”
Station Eleven is a book that lightly touches on the actual collapse of society in the wake of a deadly virus. Instead, it spends worthwhile time diving into the odd moments of life in and out of the corporate office. And dwells around a famous actor and his first love and first wife. One of my favorite parts of the book consist of the fact that the Georgia Flu does not discriminate. Some of the most beloved characters die in seemingly ironic ways whereas ancillary characters survive by something as happenstance as not touching a contaminated surface. In this way, Station Eleven touches upon an array of colorful characters that are forever changed as society responds to a deadly flu.