Station Eleven by Emily St John Mandel

For me, this was the worst book I’ve read in years.  And I don’t mind reading bad writing: it can be a positive experience critiquing them.

However, the pace was so slow, that when I got about 100 pages in, when the story was doing a time-shift, I got an interesting book from the library’s new-shelf called, “The Passenger” by Lisa Lutz, also 300 pages.  I started at noon and finished just after 8:00 pm.  It had a riveting plot with deep characters, action and surprises, and I learned something.

All those things were missing from “Eleven”.  Fast-paced plot(?) – there seemed to be a dozen plots, held together not by a web of steel, but little meandering rivulets of tenuous water.  Deep characters(?) – I would pass on a free glass of Grande Dame Veuve Clicquot, rather than sit with any of them; they’re not just boring, but despicable.  Then again, we’ve never been allowed beyond their surface veneer.

It certainly wasn’t “compelling”, as Ann Patchett promised.  I didn’t find it “lyrical” as did the Seattle Times.  There was nothing “tender and lovely” about the book at all in my opinion.

Then plot again – plot needs ups and downs, successes and failures, maybe even an end-goal.  My “Lutz” book had murders and love stories, suspense and secrets, with sprinklings of mayhem and reckoning.

Sometimes these sorts of tales are written because of a life’s cause like Global Warming, or big pharma, or the Military-Industrial Complex.  I found none of that sort of passion here: no message.

The writing is thin and yet cluttered.  3-4 time-frames is two too many for this author.  And who cares anyway?  There was no development of a thread; not a person, nor a cause.  There was just minimal scene painting.  I disliked each and every character.

I was not surprised to get to page 200 [the airplanes], and find that the writing style was the same, and on purpose – more characters, more points of view.  I guess in the spirit of readership stamina, the target was nothing less that the gold medal.

Again, my pace was ten pages a session, and by the time I had read 200 pages, I had found another interesting book.  I had passed on an Anne Rice book and the person said, “Oh, I love Anne Rice.”  I replied, “This is not a werewolf book.”  The rejoinder was, ”I love her other stuff”.  So, I did some research and found “Belinda,” of which I’d never heard.  Wow, first class writing: Anne Rice at her best.  This had “lyricism”, poetic descriptions of her native New Orleans, juxtapositioned with the Haight in San Francisco.  It had “tender and lovely” moments, as when Jeremy and Alex share their more intimate encounters.  It was a lot of things, and I wanted to read the under aged sex [Lolita] bits, before I passed it on.

These 400 pages took only a few days: why not – good writer, great plotline, narrow scope, and lots of ups and downs, focused – that was Belinda.

Back to “Eleven”; was there any meaning to all of this?  Now we had the interrogator/journalist, were these 30’s/90’s icons, for or against the state?  “Who’s on first. No what’s on second”, Marx Brothers type dialog.

I lost where I was, never sure what was being said – Fin de Siècle.