70 new york | march 16–29, 2020
The CULTURE PAGES
Knopf confessed she was worried about
reading it, that it “won’t live up.” Their fears
were not borne out: The novel has already
roped in gushing advance reviews, and it’s in
its third printing, even though it doesn’t
publish until the end of March.
The Glass Hotel, which has some prick-
ling connections to the world of Station
Eleven, revolves around disaster of another
kind: a multibillion-dollar Bernie Madoff–
style Ponzi scheme in 2008 Manhattan.
Financial-crisis drama doesn’t have the
same ring of ex citement as, say, a deadlycough that flattens the world. But unlike
Station Eleven, this is a disaster in which
Mandel can point a finger at a perpetrator.
It ’s bleaker than the end of the world.in the summer of 2015, Mandel was on
her second tour of the U.K. for Station
Eleven. She had just taken home the Arthur
C. Clarke prize and was a finalist for the
National Book Award. Late one night, she
was in her hotel room booking plane tickets
for her boss at Rockefeller University’s can-
cer-research lab, where Mandel had worked
as an administrative assistant for seven
years, when she realized the absurdity of her
situation. Station Eleven had been such aSales of Station Eleven are suddenly up. In Emily St. John
Mandel’s 2014 blockbuster hit, the “Georgia flu” wipes out over 99 per-
cent of humanity—it moves so quickly that within 24 hours of the virus
reaching America, all air travel is shut down. Cell lines jam, and phones
stop working within two days. In under a week, television stations have
gone to static as entire production crews die out. Spread via tiny aerosol
particles, the Georgia flu is like our seasonal one and, yes, the coronavirus,
on steroids—mercury-popping fevers, rattling coughs, respiratory dis-
tress, followed by death.smash success that she wasn’t even planning
her own travel anymore. But here she was
selecting seating assignments for someone
else. “If you’re from a working-class back-
ground,” she says, “it’s really hard to let go of
that day job.”
She did let go, spurred by a realization:
She couldn’t do the job and continue to pro-
mote the novel, work on her next one, and
parent her daughter, Cassia, now 4, with her
husband, Kevin Mandel, a ghostwriter and
headhunter. Station Eleven had done that
rare thing, which even the most critically
celebrated authors struggle to achieve—it
gave her, she says, “more money than I ever
would have imagined having in my entire
life.”
Mandel is vague about what this means.
“Nobody with money thinks they’re wealthy,”
she offers, “but it’s enough to remodel my
house. People who say that problems can’t
be solved with money, I don’t know ... Show
me the problem!” The money, it seems, is
more than just enough to remodel. She sold
the TV rights to Station Eleven to HBO
Max; The Glass Hotel has gone to NBC, and
on the day we met, she was deep in pilot
drafts. She’s 41, and she’s crossed over into
another life.
Mandel grew up “very much without”
money in a forest on Denman Island (“about
the same size and shape as Manhattan, but
with a thousand people”) off the east coast of
Vancouver Island. It’s a place with two stop-
lights, “beautiful and claustrophobic.” She
could feel the tenuousness of humanity’s
hold over nature. “When you take it for
granted water comes out of your tap,” she
says, “you’re thinking differently than where
I grew up, where we’d run out of water con-
sistently in the summer and switch to a
backup system.”
Mandel was homeschooled because of
what she calls the inadequacies of rural edu-
cation, her “counterculture” parents, and
dance, which she pursued seriously until her
early 20s. At 18, she left the island to attend
the School of Toronto Dance Theatre with-
out a high-school diploma or a GED. By 21,
her passion for dance had waned. She
bounced around Toronto, Montreal, and
New York. To support herself, she worked
jobs like manning the stockroom of a now-
shuttered Montreal chain store, Caban,
where she earned $8.50 an hour, showing
up at 7 a.m. to unload trucks. “There were
mornings when it was minus-20 Celsius,”
Mandel recalls. She liked the nature of the
work—her characters, too, are often settled
in hands-on, rhythmic jobs like tending bar.
The story of how Mandel began writing is
almost odd in its lack of velocity. As part of
her homeschooling curriculum, her parents
had asked her to write every day, and the“I don’t know who in their right mind
would want to read Station Eleven during
a pandemic,” the perplexed author wrote
on Twitter, to which her readers replied:
We would. Inhaling a novel about a conta-
gion that brings civilization to an end
while news about covid-19 sends hand-
sanitizer sales vaulting doesn’t sound logi-
cal. But there can be something reassuring
about taking in a fictional disaster in the
midst of a real one. You can flirt with the
experience of collapse. You can long for the
world you live in right now.
“The virus in Station Eleven would have
burned out before it could kill off the entire
population,” Mandel points out when I ask
the question legions of fans are sending her
way: Is she worried? The author is preter-
naturally composed—dressed in a checked
toffee blazer and mahogany boots, she has
an air of Betty Draper just returned from
riding lessons. “I sound reassuring, right?,”
she says. She also has a mischievous streak.
Her face turns stoic. “It’s frightening, and we
need to keep an eye on it.” Then she waggles
her eyebrows: “Famous last words before
the whole nation collapses!”
Station Eleven sold 1.5 million copies, a
hit with sci-fi fans and highbrow-fiction
devotees alike that elevated Mandel to liter-
ary stardom. Published after a mid-aughts
deluge of postapocalyptic novels, it doesn’t
fit the standard mold. Mandel isn’t inter-
ested in the flu’s aftermath, with the accom-
panying pillaging and clan-building. She
imagines how society might have remade
itself 20 years later. Readers loved that it
bypassed the clichés of civilians turning
against one another and instead made sense
of chaos.
There’s considerable pressure on her fol-
low-up, The Glass Hotel—so much so that
her editor, Jenny Jackson, wrote a note to
readers explaining that even a sales rep at PREVIOUS PAGE: HAND COLORING BY LINDA SCHOONOVER“There’s
something almost
tedious about
disaster ... At first
it’s all dramatic, but
then it just keeps
collapsing.”ADTRANSMITTEDADVANCED FORM
TRANSMITTED
________ COPY ___ DD ___ AD ___ PD ___ EIC0620CR_opener_mandel_lay [Print]_36894865.indd 70 3/12/20 3:08 PM70 newyork| march16–29, 2020TheCULTUREPAGESKnopfconfessedshewasworriedabout
readingit,thatit “won’t liveup.” Theirfears
werenotborneout:Thenovelhasalready
ropedingushingadvancereviews,andit’s in
itsthirdprinting,eventhoughit doesn’t
publishuntiltheendofMarch.
TheGlassHotel, whichhassomeprick-
lingconnectionstotheworldofStation
Eleven,revolvesarounddisasterofanother
kind:a multibillion-dollarBernieMadoff–
stylePonzischemein 2008 Manhattan.
Financial-crisisdramadoesn’t havethe
sameringofex citementas,say, a deadlycoughthatflattenstheworld.Butunlike
StationEleven,thisis a disasterinwhich
Mandelcanpointa fingerat a perpetrator.
It ’s bleakerthantheendoftheworld.inthesummerof2015,Mandelwason
hersecondtouroftheU.K. forStation
Eleven.Shehadjust takenhometheArthur
C.Clarke prizeandwasa finalistforthe
NationalBookAward.Lateonenight,she
wasinherhotelroombookingplanetickets
forherbossatRockefellerUniversity’scan-
cer-researchlab,whereMandelhadworked
asanadministrativeassistantforseven
years,whensherealizedtheabsurdityof her
situation.StationElevenhadbeensuchaSales of Station Eleven are suddenly up. In Emily St. John
Mandel’s 2014 blockbuster hit, the “Georgia flu” wipes out over 99 per-
cent of humanity—it moves so quickly that within 24 hours of the virus
reaching America, all air travel is shut down. Cell lines jam, and phones
stop working within two days. In under a week, television stations have
gone to static as entire production crews die out. Spread via tiny aerosol
particles, the Georgia flu is like our seasonal one and, yes, the coronavirus,
on steroids—mercury-popping fevers, rattling coughs, respiratory dis-
tress,followedbydeath.
smash success that she wasn’t even planning
her own travel anymore. But here she was
selecting seating assignments for someone
else. “If you’re from a working-class back-
ground,” she says, “it’s really hard to let go of
that day job.”
She did let go, spurred by a realization:
She couldn’t do the job and continue to pro-
mote the novel, work on her next one, and
parent her daughter, Cassia, now 4, with her
husband, Kevin Mandel, a ghostwriter and
headhunter. Station Eleven had done that
rare thing, which even the most critically
celebrated authors struggle to achieve—it
gave her, she says, “more money than I ever
would have imagined having in my entire
life.”
Mandel is vague about what this means.
“Nobodywithmoney thinksthey’rewealthy,”
sheoffers,“butit’s enoughtoremodelmy
house.Peoplewhosay that problemscan’t
besolvedwithmoney, I don’t know...Show
metheproblem!”Themoney, it seems,is
morethanjustenoughtoremodel.Shesold
theTVrightstoStationEleventoHBO
Max;TheGlassHotelhasgonetoNBC,and
onthedaywemet, shewasdeepinpilot
drafts.She’s 41,andshe’s crossedoverinto
anotherlife.
Mandelgrewup“very muchwithout”
moneyin a forest onDenmanIsland(“about
thesamesizeandshapeasManhattan,but
witha thousandpeople”)offtheeast coast of
VancouverIsland.It’sa placewithtwostop-
lights,“beautifulandclaustrophobic.” She
couldfeelthetenuousnessofhumanity’s
holdovernature.“Whenyoutake itfor
grantedwatercomesoutofyourtap,” she
says,“you’rethinkingdifferentlythanwhere
I grewup,wherewe’d runoutofwatercon-
sistentlyinthesummerandswitchtoa
backupsystem.”
Mandelwashomeschooledbecauseof
whatshecallstheinadequaciesof rural edu-
cation,her“counterculture”parents,and
dance,whichshepursuedseriouslyuntilher
early20s.At18,sheleft theislandtoattend
theSchoolofTorontoDanceTheatrewith-
outa high-schooldiplomaora GED.By21,
herpassionfordancehadwaned. She
bouncedaroundToronto,Montreal,and
NewYork.To support herself, sheworked
jobslikemanningthestockroomofa now-
shutteredMontrealchainstore,Caban,
wheresheearned$8.50anhour,showing
upat7 a.m.tounloadtrucks.“Therewere
morningswhenit wasminus-20Celsius,”
Mandelrecalls.Shelikedthenatureofthe
work—hercharacters,too,areoftensettled
inhands-on,rhythmicjobslike tendingbar.
Thestoryof howMandelbeganwritingis
almostoddinitslackofvelocity. As part of
herhomeschoolingcurriculum,herparents
hadaskedhertowriteeveryday, andthe“I don’t know who in their right mind
would want to read Station Eleven during
a pandemic,” the perplexed author wrote
on Twitter, to which her readers replied:
We would. Inhaling a novel about a conta-
gion that brings civilization to an end
while news about covid-19 sends hand-
sanitizer sales vaulting doesn’t sound logi-
cal. But there can be something reassuring
about taking in a fictional disaster in the
midst of a real one. You can flirt with the
experience of collapse. You can long for the
world you live in right now.
“The virus in Station Eleven would have
burned out before it could kill off the entire
population,” Mandel points out when I ask
the question legions of fans are sending her
way: Is she worried? The author is preter-
naturally composed—dressed in a checked
toffee blazer and mahogany boots, she has
an air of Betty Draper just returned from
riding lessons. “I sound reassuring, right?,”
she says. She also has a mischievous streak.
Her face turns stoic. “It’s frightening, and we
need to keep an eye on it.” Then she waggles
her eyebrows: “Famous last words before
the whole nation collapses!”
Station Eleven sold 1.5 million copies,a
hit with sci-fi fans and highbrow-fiction
devotees alike that elevated Mandel to liter-
ary stardom. Published after a mid-aughts
deluge of postapocalyptic novels, it doesn’t
fit the standard mold. Mandel isn’t inter-
ested in the flu’s aftermath, with the accom-
panying pillaging and clan-building. She
imagines how society might have remade
itself 20 years later. Readers loved that it
bypassed the clichés of civilians turning
against one another and instead made sense
of chaos.
There’s considerable pressure on her fol-
low-up, The Glass Hotel—so much so that
her editor, Jenny Jackson, wrote a note to
readers explaining that even a sales rep at PREVIOUS PAGE: HAND COLORING BY LINDA SCHOONOVER
“There’s
something almost
tedious about
disaster ... At first
it’s all dramatic, but
then it just keeps
collapsing.”