Heteronym
New Member
An early dystopian short novel from a writer I had never read before, The Scarlet Plague is hardly a mind-blowing masterpiece of the genre. However, unlike in most dystopian novels I’ve read the world is not only ruined, it’s irreversibly doomed to remain ruined for a long time. And that's good on my book.
A grandfather hunting with his savage grandchildren decides to educate them about the Scarlet Plague, a mysterious disease that killed most of the human population many decades before: such a vicious disease it was, the narrator estimates only a few thousand people must be alive on Earth. He is one of the oldest survivors and so remembers everything clearly; his grandchildren, however, born in a dead world, are practically little beasts: there are disturbing scenes in which they amuse themselves playing malicious pranks on the old man. And they’re the only people the narrator can hope to pass on some of his wisdom to make sure the world can return to civilization. But as he narrates the end of the world, there’s an idea that the kids don’t care at all about his wisdom or they misunderstand it.
The Scarlet Plague has a bleakness and hopelessness that I’ve only found in 1984. Even Lord of Fliesand Blindnessseem cheerful; but London’s novel is a final farewell letter to Mankind.
I only regret the author didn't dwell longer on the feral nature of the children, on the end of knowledge, on the small surviving societies that scrape a living waiting the inevitable. There’s a lack of world building that removes some of the book’s wonder. But it’s still an enjoyable read.
A grandfather hunting with his savage grandchildren decides to educate them about the Scarlet Plague, a mysterious disease that killed most of the human population many decades before: such a vicious disease it was, the narrator estimates only a few thousand people must be alive on Earth. He is one of the oldest survivors and so remembers everything clearly; his grandchildren, however, born in a dead world, are practically little beasts: there are disturbing scenes in which they amuse themselves playing malicious pranks on the old man. And they’re the only people the narrator can hope to pass on some of his wisdom to make sure the world can return to civilization. But as he narrates the end of the world, there’s an idea that the kids don’t care at all about his wisdom or they misunderstand it.
The Scarlet Plague has a bleakness and hopelessness that I’ve only found in 1984. Even Lord of Fliesand Blindnessseem cheerful; but London’s novel is a final farewell letter to Mankind.
I only regret the author didn't dwell longer on the feral nature of the children, on the end of knowledge, on the small surviving societies that scrape a living waiting the inevitable. There’s a lack of world building that removes some of the book’s wonder. But it’s still an enjoyable read.