The world is in big trouble. At least, it is in this 1957 dystopia. Our planet, ravaged by atomic bombs, is infected by a deadly dust that is slowly making its way southward to Melbourne, Australia, the last large city standing.
Death is on its way to all Earth's remaining inhabitants. News reports announce every time another city falls, and it's just a matter of time before the cholera-like symptoms finish off the last of the human race. Good times.
Despite this knowledge, the people in this book exhibit a deep seeded denial. They are planting next year's garden, buying gifts for their (surely) dead relatives in America, planning fishing trips, pricing lawn mowers, and worrying over their baby's first tooth breaking through.
This was interesting to me at first, because I do believe there's a psychological truth to that type of behaviour. As humans, we tend to believe it can happen to someone else, somewhere else, but not to us. This is a thing.
But it grated on me as the 300 page book progressed, and the dust made its way closer to Australia's southern coast. Shute's characters lay down and take their fate with an unconvincing placidity. Not for a minute do I believe that everyone would just stay home and die rather than shuffle southward to where it is safer. Declining to even attempt to extend their lives, no matter how slight the chance. Not for a minute do I believe there would be such civilized acceptance of mass extinction. There would be madness, desperation, looting, and harebrained schemes for survival.
There's none of that in these pages. In fact, the one character who said "to hell with it, I'm doing as I please before I die" becomes remarkably tame and proper as her doom approaches.
Let me tell you, whatever it says about me, I would NOT plant daffodil bulbs if the end was near. I would be fighting for a ticket to the South Pole, or stow away on the last working submarine, even if it could only guarantee a few more weeks of life.
On a technical note: this is my first time reading Nevil Shute, and while he is a competent enough writer, his dialogue conventions really drove me up the wall. He loves to refer to each character in a myriad of ways. For example, our protagonist Peter Holmes is referred to in dialogue as "Peter", "Peter Holmes", "the Australian", "the liason officer", "the young naval officer", "the officer", "the host" and probably more that I didn't catch. Dwight Towers was known as "Dwight", "Dwight Towers" "Commander Towers", "the American", "the captain", and many more. I found this style of cycling through the different names really distracting and confused the psychic distance between reader and character.
Also, the author went nuts on page 112, using the word "it'ld" four times and "that'ld" once (never to do so again for the rest of the book). Oh, and introduced me to the Australian term "dinkum" (it's not an insult, strangely enough).
While On the Beach does express the awful fear of nuclear war so typical of mid-last-century, I found this novel both depressing, and a little bit silly.
He paused, thinking of the flowering trees that he had seen on the shore through the periscope, cascaras and flame trees, the palms standing in the sunlight. “Maybe we’ve been too silly to deserve a world like this.”
The scientist said, “That’s absolutely and precisely right.”