I’ll try to trace the hold the book has on me, but what can I really say? Reading Station Eleven is like slowly peeling an orange, tearing it bit by bit until you’re at the sticky center. It’s sweet and it lingers, but oh, it stings, that little sun in your hands.
It’s a story about nostalgia: not only for what could have been but for what still exists buried underneath—like fingers on an out-of-tune cello playing a hollow song from muscle memory. Or maybe it’s always there, buzzing above our skin, like light moving over the surface of the waters, over the darkness of the undersea.Read More