Sunday, March 8, 2020

the last book I ever read (Station Eleven: A Novel by Emily St. John Mandel, excerpt twelve)

from Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel:

The truth was, the clarinet hated Shakespeare. She’d been a double major in college, theater and music, a sophomore the year the world changed, lit up by an obsession with twenty-first-century experimental German theater. Twenty years after the collapse, she loved the music of the Symphony, loved being a part of it, but found the Symphony’s insistence on performing Shakespeare insufferable. She tried to keep this opinion to herself and occasionall succeded.

A year before she was seized by the prophet’s men, the clarinet was sitting alone on the breach in Mackinaw City. It was a cool morning, and a fog hung over the water. They’d passed through this place more times than she could count, but she never tired of it. She liked the way the Upper Peninsula disappeared on foggy days, a sense of infinite possibility in the way the bridge faded into cloud.

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