As a child, "Mark Spitz" (the ironic nickname of the otherwise unnamed
main character who can't swim) dreamed of living in Manhattan,
captivated by the bright lights and soaring buildings of his family's
visits to his Uncle Lloyd. Ultimately, he does make it to New York City
but not in the way he imagined he would. Instead of a modern luxury
apartment, his home is "Fort Wonton" in former Chinatown; rather than a
career as a lawyer, his profession involves killing undead stragglers
left after a first pass by the military. This is not the stuff of
childhood dreams. It's nightmarish. And Spitz's childhood love of
monster movies adds yet another layer of irony to his fate as a zombie
hunter.
Colson Whitehead's post-apocalyptic, dystopian zombie novel is a complex
mix of mischievous irony and grotesque imagery, sprinkled with
violence, alternating hope and desperation. It isn't a work easily
defined by any one genre. On the surface it's a tale of survival in a
world taken over by zombies that eat and infect those who stumble across
their paths versus those who battle to take back the world.
Delving more deeply, it becomes apparent Whitehead takes particular
pleasure in playing with his readers. This masterful, award-winning
writer tells jokes with such a straight face it's disarming. His humor
is dry, so understated it takes the reader aback wondering what his
intention really is. The answer? He's flexing an extremely well
developed writing muscle, pulling off a very difficult, advanced style,
producing a multi-layered novel of slyly deceptive depth.
Ludicrous details like a former porn star becoming the head of what's
left of Italy, distributing glamour girl shots of herself to raise
morale like some post-apocalyptic Rita Hayworth, showcase the author's
wry wit. During the initial horror and pandemonium - the government
claiming the whole thing was an isolated terror attack - commuters
become alarmed, not when police cars surround their train, but when they
start losing internet connectivity. No wonder the hopeful term for
eventually restarting the world is referred to as a "reboot."
Whitehead is in his element poking fun at modern life, particularly
adept at getting in subtle digs without crossing the line into parody or
overt sarcasm. But it isn't all social satire. The story is also
poignant, and there are occasional moments of tenderness. Each survivor
carries a "Last Night" story, a memory of the final moments of blessed
ignorance before the world fell apart and the extent of the horror
became clear. As they share their stories, so does Whitehead expand the
depth of character development; he compares and contrasts the
experiences of those from different walks of life, thrown together by
universal pandemic.
The result is a cross-section of Americans battling a cross-section of
the undead: the half-crazed, uninfected are barricaded in bunkers of
their own making, and they shoot at anyone who comes near - friendly or
not; the zombie "skels," are actively attacking and spreading the
disease; and the horribly sad, doomed, and soulless infected, go through
their last motions over and over, unaware they're even dead.
Zone One may not be Whitehead's finest novel, but it's a
satisfying, riveting read. The beautifully long, descriptive sentences
are richly sensuous, and the languid plot is driven by characters
rendered life-like through the author's choice of third-person
omniscient narration. Those in love with the written word will most
appreciate Whitehead's magic. Lovers of zombie genre novels may find it
less appealing. It's a story to be savored slowly, melting on the tongue
like fine chocolate. While not a masterpiece, Zone One is a distinct cut above the average and an impressively multi-layered novel that is well deserving of praise.
Books Magazine
Review
A highly literary, humorous, and richly sensuous novel that reflects on the irony of fate in post-apocalyptic Manhattan
