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Preview — Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel
There are children on the island who go barefoot all summer and wear feathers in their hair, the Volkswagen vans in which their parents arrived in the ’70s turning to rust in the forest.
I’m talking about these people who’ve ended up in one life instead of another and they are just so disappointed. Do you know what I mean? They’ve done what’s expected of them. They want to do something different but it’s impossible now, there’s a mortgage, kids, whatever, they’re trapped.
Outside the world was ending and snow continued to fall.
It’s surprising how quickly the condition of living out of a carry-on suitcase on a bench by a departure gate can begin to seem normal.
“Why did we always say we were going to shoot emails?” “I don’t know. I’ve wondered that too.” “Why couldn’t we just say we were going to send them? We were just pressing a button, were we not?” “Not even a real button. A picture of a button on a screen.”
He found he was a man who repented almost everything, regrets crowding in around him like moths to a light. This was actually the main difference between twenty-one and fifty-one, he decided, the sheer volume of regret.