By the recommendation of a dear friend, I picked up this compact novel — a delightful morsel I devoured in two days, putting me in a mood that lasted for even more.
A reviewer described this as a ‘pastoral dystopia’, which is a succinct, accurate description of the setting. I say ‘setting’ specifically, than ‘genre’, because its true genre stripped of the sci-fi cloak, is that of humanness and humanity.
At its core, it is about finding meaning: what it means to be human in context of others, within a community, and especially to be a human woman. It is about how memory, hope, loss, loneliness, and death informs this search.
The dystopian setting is but an excellent vehicle and vessel in the exploration of these themes. The plot is driven by the whats, hows and whys. The characters and reader alike are kept desperate to know the truth of what led to their present. Rather than tiresome philosophical musings of ‘humanness’, these questions naturally arise in the more tantalizing and concrete search for clues on what had happened in this post-apocalyptic not-Earth.
It is a tightly written novel, every word serving their purpose. And in its simplicity of prose, the depth of our narrator’s frustrations, joys, and aloneness rings clear — a note of tragedy you cannot rid of in your head after.
Harpman meticulously constructs a world that gives the nostalgia a unique flavor: the narrator always had enough for survival. There was no real, explicit danger. She experienced and witnessed love and companionship, she had a vague concept of a ‘normal life’, though always second-hand and beyond her comprehension. She had a community for most of her life, yet it was fragile, tenuous, and steadily frittering away.
The implicit confusion, longing, and displacement of the unnamed narrator is reminiscent of Kathy H’s yearnings in Never Let Me Go (to be human, woman, loved). And the other 39 women and their opaque, not quite reachable memories of a past life? They are a neat parallel to one of my favorite post-pandemic wasteland fics, Station Eleven. If you liked either books, you will likely enjoy this title.
I recommend listening to the Carpenter’s rendition of The End of The World as you read, or after you read this. It will do a number to your heart.
Now if you have a masochistic streak and want to sink into the sublime pit of dystopian nostalgia (yup, join the gang), try also Anyone Who Knows What Love Is, a choice pick from one of the earlier Black Mirror episodes.
Q 