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Station Eleven

Station Eleven - Emily St. John Mandel The writing was pretty but not enough to distract me from the errors and plot problems. The interesting staging of Lear wasn't enough, nor the conceit of referring to the symphony members by seat, rather than name. Shakespeare and plague: this could have been my favourite book.
But no, instead it tweaks a particular nerve that's lain dormant since Never Let Me Go. A sort of intellectual outrage comes over me and not only can I not enjoy the story, but I am incited to fisk. It's not pretty, nor is it kind to my family who've listened patiently to my random comments.
Usually it isn't a problem that others enjoy styles or genres or romantic predilections different from my own. There isn't even a passing desire to sneer or judge, I shrug off the difference of opinion, and will champion everyone's right to follow their bliss (as long as the parties involved are consenting adults). Then along comes a work of literary fiction that resembles science fiction, and I cannot get over it. Faster than light travel? Teleportation? Antigravity? I can suspend my disbelief with no trouble at all. But the position that there are no bras in space even though there is some kind of artificial gravity? That's just wrong, George. Embarrassingly wrong.

So, anyway, this is the book for this decade that I could not enjoy, or really tolerate even, because of factual errors in my areas of professional expertise. And also a lot of WTF moments which weren't wrong, just jarringly weird.

Feel free to share works of art that reflect a less-than-full comprehension of your fields of interest. Or, you could just mock me, if no one ever gets your (job, hobby, education, cultural history, local geography, etc.) wrong. And also, I'm curious: do you deduct stars if a work of fiction is wrong? It seems appropriate to my opinion, but also kind of punitive.