When I think of ‘the leftovers’, my mind wanders to Thursday night’s dinner in my house. That’s leftovers night. It’s a bit sad, wilted, disappointing. Though it’s been zapped in the microwave, it’s not piping hot all the way through. There are cold patches within. It feels a little like giving up. Sure, you’re doing the Right Thing by not wasting what is left, but it’s not the same as it was before. It’s less. And that cannot be overcome.
That’s what life is like for those who remain after the rapture, or whatever the heck happened to billions of people who were suddenly erased from existence. Nothing is the same. Parts of life are improved for some, as they find new value in those that remain. For others, they are left with little save for bitter, unanswerable questions.
How society reacts to this is fairly predictable. Cults appear as lost souls search for meaning. Charlatans who promise to ease the pain of the leftovers crop up, espousing hope and healing. Teenagers languish and rebel. Every attempt to dress up life after the rapture (community celebrations, singles mixers, school events) just feel a bit sad. Some people’s families emerged from the erasure intact, but that doesn’t leave these families unchanged. One character who features in the novel lost her whole family, and tries to find a way to go on under the weight of her loss that the pitying stares of the townspeople.
I never made it through the entirety of the TV show that is based on this novel, and the episodes that I did watch have dissolved in my mind, so I approached The Leftovers with a blank slate.
This is a painful and contemplative novel about humanity and resilience and the meaning of life itself. It spoke to me in a quiet way. While I wouldn’t shout from the rooftops about it’s unparalleled brilliance, I am happy that I took the time to read it, and sit with the discomfort that it brought. It’s not a light summer read, but is still satisfying in its own way.
Overall, 3 hastily scrawled forehead targets out of 5.