I read this book for the Mount TBR
Reading Challenge hosted over at My Reader’s Block from January 1 – December 31, 2015. The challenge is to read books
that you already own.
The Poison Belt
– Arthur Conan Doyle, 1913
The world might run into a belt of poisonous ether from
outer space. Professor G. E. Challenger summons his
partners in adventures from the novel TheLost World. They are tactless Professor Summerlee, relaxed but ready Lord
John Roxton, and journalist Edward Malone. Malone is a cub reporter, the
perfect wide-eyed character that an adolescent male reader can simultaneously identify
with and deride as a greenhorn.
Nothing if not a realist, Challenger
envisions no methodology with which to ameliorate impending doom for the entire world
population. He encourages his colleagues to bring oxygen tanks to his country
residence so they can wait for the end in a clean room sealed by
varnished paper.
And therein lies the major
problem of the book. Our brave band first spends time in the sealed room. Then
they drive their motor to London. They only observe the terrible effects of the
poison belt. They don’t really do anything. I suppose the teenage audience
would get off on fires burning down New York, Orelans, and Brighton. Not to
mention, the nihilism of:
You are to picture the
loveliness of nature upon that August day, the freshness of the morning air,
the golden glare of the summer sunshine, the cloudless sky, the luxuriant green
of the Sussex woods, and the deep purple of heather-clad downs. As you looked
round upon the many-coloured beauty of the scene all thought of a vast
catastrophe would have passed from your mind had it not been for one sinister
sign—the solemn, all-embracing silence. There is a gentle hum of life which
pervades a closely-settled country, so deep and constant that one ceases to
observe it, as the dweller by the sea loses all sense of the constant murmur of
the waves. The twitter of birds, the buzz of insects, the far-off echo of
voices, the lowing of cattle, the distant barking of dogs, roar of trains, and
rattle of carts—all these form one low, unremitting note, striking unheeded
upon the ear. We missed it now. This deadly silence was appalling. So solemn
was it, so impressive, that the buzz and rattle of our motor-car seemed an
unwarrantable intrusion, an indecent disregard of this reverent stillness which
lay like a pall over and round the ruins of humanity. It was this grim hush,
and the tall clouds of smoke which rose here and there over the country-side
from smoldering buildings, which cast a chill into our hearts as we gazed round
at the glorious panorama of the Weald.
There is a minimum of philosophical talk about the large
questions that inevitably get asked by the last people in the world. The high
point is stoical Challenger’s “cheerful acquiescence in whatever fate may
send.” He says, "Without being a fatalist to the point of nonresistance, I
have always found that the highest wisdom lies in an acquiescence with the
actual." There are worse messages thirteen-year-olds could take in, as
prone as they are to shoulding themselves, shoulding others, and shoulding the
world.
Anyway, because of the lack of action, I can only
recommend this easy to read but disappointing sequel to the action-packed The Lost World only to the most
enthusiastic of Conan Doyle completists or grad students with a professional
interest in comparing early SF writers.
I agree that it might be disappointing if the reader is looking for an action-packed adventure. Having not read The Lost World first, I noted the lack of action and took the story as a morality play asking us to consider what is really important in our lives and to take more notice of the small, everyday pleasures that we often miss in our hurry to get ahead and get things done. What would we miss most if all of our fellow man and living creatures were suddenly silent?
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