"Some day men will read again."
Excerpt:
Every plague leaves its mark on the world: crosses in our graveyards, blots of ink on our imaginations. Edgar Allan Poe had witnessed the ravages of cholera in Philadelphia, and he likely knew the story of how, in Paris, in 1832, the disease had struck at a ball, where guests turned violet blue beneath their masks. In Poe’s story “The Masque of the Red Death,” from 1842, Prince Prospero (“happy and dauntless and sagacious”) has fled a pestilence—a plague that stains its victims’ faces crimson—to live in grotesque luxury with a thousand of his noblemen and women in a secluded abbey, behind walls gated with iron. At a lavish masquerade ball, a tall, gaunt guest arrives to ruin their careless fun. He is dressed as a dead man: “The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have difficulty in detecting the cheat.” He is dressed as the Red Death itself: “His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of his face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.” Everyone dies, and because this is Poe, they die as an ebony clock tolls midnight (after which, even the clock dies): “And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”
More often, a remnant of life survives—a reminder of just how much has been lost. In Jack London’s “The Scarlet Plague,” published not long before the 1918 flu pandemic, a contagion kills nearly everyone on the planet; the story is set in 2073, sixty years after the imagined outbreak, when a handful survive, unlettered, “skin-clad and barbaric.” One very, very old man who, a half century before, had been an English professor at Berkeley predicts good news: “We are increasing rapidly and making ready for a new climb toward civilization.” Still, he isn’t terrifically optimistic, noting, “It will be slow, very slow; we have so far to climb. We fell so hopelessly far. If only one physicist or one chemist had survived! But it was not to be, and we have forgotten everything.” For this reason, he has built a sort of ark—a library—hidden in a cave. “I have stored many books,” he tells his illiterate grandsons. “In them is great wisdom. Also, with them, I have placed a key to the alphabet, so that one who knows picture-writing may also know print. Some day men will read again.”
from:
https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/how-do-plague-stories-end
via:
https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2021/3/25/2022716/-Thursday-Pundit-Round-up-Coming-Attractions?utm_campaign=trending
