cyphomandra

Or, an assortment of apocalypses, but that's not entirely fair, as only the Pfeffers are really making a concerted effort to destroy most of modern civilisation. Even then it's pretty US-centric, although Australia does have all its coastal towns destroyed by giant waves (something Canberrans (Canberrese?) will no doubt be thrilled about).

What I like a lot about the first one of these (Life as we knew it) - before I go into more plot-revealing detail - is that it avoids the two main plots of this genre. No doubt completely contradictory examples will occur to me after I post this, but most immediate post-apocalyptic fiction that I've read propels the action forward by giving it a quest structure, with the characters struggling to get to a place (or sometimes a person - I keep thinking of The Stand here) that represents either something of the old world or a new beginning. Sometimes it's not a map-crossing quest so much as an attempt to construct a new society, an idea I would like much better if I didn't keep running into rather dodgy libertarian ones with very dubious gender politics (and no, one Sheri Tepper does not make up for Heinlein, Pournelle and rather too much SM Stirling). Anyway, if it's not a quest or a rebuild, it's usually the relentlessly depressing acceptance of inevitable doom (um. Examples would of necessity involve spoilers - how about Raymond Briggs' When the Wind Blows, a post-nuclear nothing ends well graphic novel that depressed me so much that I have no qualms about spoiling it for everyone else? Read his Ethel & Ernest instead). Life as we knew it does neither of these, and I kept catching myself expecting it to; what works so well is that it doesn't. Nothing will ever be the same, but that doesn't mean that things stop, or become more significant. It's a very ordinary post-apocalypse novel.

Robert C O'Brien's Z for Zachariah might be similar, actually, but it's a long time since I read it. And I'm discounting all the long-time post-apocalypse fiction out there for the purposes of my sweeping generalisation.

( Susan Pfeffer, Life as we knew it. )

( Susan Pfeffer, the dead & the gone )

( Meg Rosoff, How I live now. )

( Malorie Blackman, The stuff of nightmares. )

This could possibly be more cheerful. Here, have a link to multiple Beakers singing Ode to Joy. I'm not sure this ends well, either, but at least most of the rest of the world seems unaffected.

Two up this time, and none of the previously mentioned ones finished. I decided I wasn't in the right mood for more Cherryh, and both the other 1941 ones are in the wrong rooms (they're rooms I use, but I haven't felt like reading in them).

( Malorie Blackman, Noughts and Crosses. )

Marianne Robinson, Gilead.( This is a good book - in the moral sense as well as the aesthetic one, which is difficult to do. )