When one thinks of the rapture, it's usually in such a religious event. Those who have been faithful will ascend to heaven while the rest of the "sinners" will be left on Earth to wallow in the misery. It's a fairly hacky premise, but one that inspired Tom Perrotta to do the most ingenious thing. Instead of focusing on the religious aspect, he decides to create a powerful and secular story of grieving, of wondering what life would be like if major components were changed. What makes the book an engaging read is not that it has a deeply moving portrait of the grieving process, but that even in this there is something that everyone forgets. It's the need to move on, to prove that the world isn't over. While the emptiness may never be filled, something can hopefully distract from it, making the world a better place. This book is about trying to find that optimism and doing so with such inventive power.
The premise begins simple enough. For most people in "The Leftovers," the world changed while their back was turned. They took for granted the theory that the people they loved would be there when they wandered to the kitchen, looked over at a nagging threat. Small things are what took away their goodbyes, and it's what makes the opening of the story so horrifying. The sudden absence overwhelms every character, needing a moment to process the shock. While this is only present in the opening chapter, the impact slowly ripples through the rest of the text, finding the whole social structure changing significantly. Cults like the Guilty Remnant have been formed to remind people of the terrible implications. Others highlight the celebrities who have come and gone.
Perrotta's greatest gift in this novel is how he builds the world. It takes place in a world that feels very familiar, especially for late-2000s America. It's the type of book that can take SpongeBob Squarepants reruns and explore how it distracts from character pains, growing numb to the repetition of something so innocent. Any comedy derives from the absurdity of this scenario, where youth moves on with their familiar exploits of drugs and sex, trying to cope in their own way. For Norah Durst, it's especially hard because she is dealing with some deeper grief, something that hides in the mystery of the pages.
The world gradually changes throughout the different chapters. Even if the center is depressing, everything around it begins to blossom with small bits of optimism. Some of it is escapism, others genuine effort to move on. Whatever it is, there's an intimate focus on this that Perrotta creates a painful novel that barely feels that way. These characters may feel damaged, but they feel like they exist in a community, not unlike the real world. In some ways it's a clever device to comment on contemporary culture, finding the power of religion and how trauma can drive people to criminal behavior. Everything feels like it's rewiring itself to be something normal, and it's most interesting to see it clash with the various leads, especially Norah, who hasn't been able to change back.
While the novel may at times feel slight, it definitely commits to some harrowing passages, including a third act that unveils the deeper intentions of the characters. Somewhere in the push and pull of happiness and sadness is the feeling of growth, that something will change for the better. Even if it's a sometimes difficult book to read, it ends up with a note of hope, believing that in the wake of a disaster is the chance to be reborn, to create something worth holding close and cherishing. One cannot live in fear of the rapture happening again. All they can do is try and live every day to its fullest to have as little regret for if that ever happens.
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