Sometimes, you find books that are good books, and you notice how they are good books, and you like the parts that make them good books, but you don’t like them. Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel is such a book for me. It’s not the characters – they are vivid, and real, and neither horrible nor brilliant people. It’s not the plot – the story wanders a bit, and is mostly slice-of-apocalyptic-life, but it’s a good story. It’s not the writing – the language is precise and beautiful and conjures up images and feelings in your mind.
It’s maybe just that reading this book while depressed is not a good idea. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not the post-apocalyptic parts that are bad. It’s the parts that play in our world, where everything is still working, where no plague has yet devoured humanity. Those parts hooked me, the way a fish is hooked, and then caught, and then consequently gutted.