I enjoyed this book for about 60%, because 1) I had previously enjoyed Lionel Shriver’s writing about mortality and the stark, deep sense of complete alienation it evokes in most people; 2) I had previously enjoyed, and still did, Lionel Shriver’s writing in general; and 3) I am apparently really thick and it takes me 60% of a book to realise someone is not giving their characters really shitty opinions in order to craft interesting drama but in order to use their characters as unsubtle mouthpieces to sermonise about their OWN really shitty opinions.
Here's the thing, I don’t usually go out of my way to find out authors’ personal opinions on various issues, though of course in certain cases it’s completely impossible not to learn when someone whose writing you enjoy or enjoyed is being a deeply odious scumbucket about something important. I don’t mind admitting I frequently kinda wish social media didn’t make it impossible to take a “never meet your heroes” stance with authors. That not being possible anymore, it kinda depends on what the opinion is about. For example, I know Robin Hobb, one of my absolute favourite authors, is categorically opposed to fanfiction. I think that’s an outdated and probably uninformed stance but IDGAF, she is entitled to that opinion, and more importantly, she’s not using her clout as an author to go on a crusade against it so it doesn’t really hurt anyone. (On the other end of the opinion-having and power-abusing spectrum, fuck JKR.)
I don’t know where this book falls on that spectrum but I do know that once I realised what Shriver was doing (basically, preaching non-stop), it soured me on the book very quickly and I ended up not finishing it, although I had been enjoying the thought experiment. The main characters, an initially middle-aged married couple, make a pact to commit suicide at 80 in order not to disintegrate into dementia and physical decline and be a burden on their children and the health system. Each chapter of the book explores a different version of events in which they either go through with their plan or don’t, or only one of them does, and the various consequences of each choice. It was really interesting, and if the dialogue was weirdly exposition-heavy, with characters holding forth for pages and pages about various current issues in stilted, info-dumping ways that no ordinary human being would employ in casual conversation, well, I put it down to the characters being elderly, set in their ways and opinionated. But as the story evolved and it became clear that events like Brexit and COVID-19 were going to feature heavily in this book, the vibe that started to permeate the narrative was distinctly sneery, smug, and authorial-voicy. The first few times when one of the characters admitted with a tee-hee-aren’t-I-naughty twinkle in their eye that they’d voted Leave in the Brexit referendum, I rolled my eyes but went with, okay, that’s a reasonable conflict to introduce between a long-married couple. When the other character railed against lockdowns and other anti-COVID measures and frequently wailed about ~tHe eCoNoMy~ and how everyone was just being hysterical (conveniently Shriver left out the UK’s initial “herd immunity” tack and the way the constant hesitancy about lockdowns actually contributed to so many more deaths), I thought, okay, I’m not entirely sure that’s in character for this person, but sure.
Then we got a chapter where the cure for aging is found and everyone ends up in this bizarre utopia where everyone is physically 25, there is no war or crime or poverty anymore (no details on how) and things like racism or homophobia just don’t exist anymore (again, absolutely no indication what lack of aging should have to do with those things), and people play around with “transgenderism” as a lark. It was a vaguely benign sci-fi experiment on the surface, if backed by absolutely no credible worldbuilding, but the tone of the whole chapter was – well, gross. It was condescending. It was belittling, it made stupid jokes about racism and gender and it didn’t engage in a meaningful way with a single one of the issues it swept under the rug as being basically silly and irrelevant in a future where everything was perfect just because everyone was young and healthy. (Don’t get me started on the fatphobia throughout this book.)
At that point I sighed and went and did the googling, and – quelle surprise – found out that Lionel Shriver thinks “gender politics” are unnecessary and stupid, cultural appropriation is not a real thing, the world is “too PC,” Brexit is awesome, the economy is more important than people’s lives, and when people call her out on racist shit, it’s just because everyone’s too woke and she’s an honest person. You know, middle-aged rich cis white lady problems. The burden.
Meanwhile, in the book, the next chapter tackles the migrant crisis. In which the UK is overrun by savage hordes from the east who end up taking up every square centimetre, including Buckingham Palace and all the museums, bringing anarchy and strife, tearing down the art in hallowed halls and camping by the millions in entitled fetid squalor. The poor main characters, now in their 100s, are banished to their own attic while migrants in search of “a better life” (yes, it’s put in quotes, much like other completely ridiculous concepts elsewhere in the book, like “social distancing” and “inequality”) overrun their house and eventually decapitate the poor old dears with machetes. You could give her the benefit of the doubt and call it satire but by that point she’d made it amply clear that it wasn’t.
At a particularly cringeworthy moment, she even goes for a Stephen-King-in-the-Dark-Tower moment and has the characters reference one of her own books, discussing how “that Shriver woman” accurately predicted the economic downfall of the western world.
I wish I’d stopped reading before then, but like I said, I must be really thick. But not thick enough to finish this hateful tripe, to spend another moment deliberating whether Lionel Shriver should or should not be put into the deeply odious scumbucket category, or to spend another thought or dollar on any of her books.