I finally read Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel. Not sure what explains the rave reviews. Perhaps another case of a literary author attempting a genre work. It was deeply ok, verging on mediocrity. I didn’t quit reading mainly because it was so short. Got through it in a few hours. Don’t really recommend.

Nothing in the work is bad, exactly. It sprawls across time in a way that doesn’t reveal much. What’s this book attempting to say? I don’t know. Something about fame, and being known, but it doesn’t say enough. There’s nothing there. It’s a stage with no play. The best parts, and the parts that could’ve made something great, were about Miranda and her project. The rest were just present and accounted for.

Read Earth Abides for a similar theme, tone and feel and a far-superior novel.