Two-Person Book Club: Southern Reach Trilogy

One of the biggest impacts I’ve had from the books I’ve loved has been sharing that joy in groups, with friends, in communities, and with my partner. It was her idea to call it Two-Person Book Club and I couldn’t think of a better way to phrase it. Also, we get a kick out of the fact that clubs need more than two people.

Don’t judge me.

There’s no rhyme or reason to our book choices beyond getting both of us to agree to read a given book. Sometimes I’ve grabbed the e-book version so I could read on breaks at work or beside my person while in bed or on the couch.

We don’t talk much about the book until we’re both done. Partly to prevent spoilers and, more importantly, to avoid tainting how the other person is experiencing the read. The whole point is to see what each of us struggled with, what we thought the book was about, and how we each felt about it.

I might talk like this about other books we’ve shared in the last few years if readers on Vocal are interested.

It was Like a Second Meet-Cute

We decided to celebrate our relationship a little differently. Instead of the typical Valentine’s Day routine, we’d go to a bookstore and indulge. But not just for each of our own interests; we’d agree to a book that we’d read together as well. She runs her own business and I have a day job, so lining up our schedules isn’t always easy. One copy was all we needed, then, because we’d take turns as time allowed.

We’re both intrepid in our pursuits, so rather than testing the waters with something easy, we decided upon Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach Trilogy. It was the omnibus edition. Most people will probably recognise the title of the first book, Annihilation. There’s a movie starring Natalie Portman.

We also watched the movie together after reading. For discussion. And snuggles. And snacks. The movie, if you’re curious, did a phenomenal job of capturing the book. Which is a daunting task for a filmmaker – the trilogy doesn’t lend itself to film. Sadly, no follow-up movies were made, but that might have been for the best. The director himself has stated outright that he’s content with the movie as-is and that it tells a complete story. Which is true.

The Southern Reach Trilogy

VanderMeer is known for writing in the genre of new weird, and this trilogy is no exception. My partner was entirely new to the genre. I was aware of it, and might have come across the odd short story, but it was off my beaten path. It’s influenced by H.P. Lovecraft and tends to question reality. It might have nightmarish sequences or situations that are eerie or unknowable. As the name implies, it’s less about fear and more about the – well, weird.

Southern Reach has many important parts that leave what’s real unclear. It’s not grounded. The first book, Annihilation, introduces us to the main character: Biologist. She is part of a team who are also only known by their jobs or roles. There’s an anomaly, a sort of slowly expanding dome-bubble, that is the core of the story. Biologist is part of an expedition to find out what’s up. Anyone or anything returning from the anomaly shows strange changes and either dies or transforms.

Whole chunks of the story follow the personal experiences of characters who aren’t entirely sure of what they’ve gone through. They compare stories and find inconsistencies. There are times when we’re not sure exactly how much agency the territory has, if the characters are dreaming, if the place is a dream, or even if it’s showing them dreams while awake.

The second book, Authority, talks about a character who goes by the name of Control. Until we find out his name is John. He’s part of the Southern Reach, a sort of black ops military research organisation. They’re the ones poking the bubble with metaphorical sticks in the shape of Hummers.

It’s a head game. The story is meant to be more experienced than understood, and making sense of it is almost the domain of the reader. It’s challenging to say what the book was really about or even give a clear description of what you’re in for.

Is it scary? In parts, yes. What I call the Nope-bear kept me up most of the night after we saw the movie. But as a whole, it isn’t really horror. Is it science fiction? Not really, since we never get any firm answers and it’s not really extrapolating from what we know of technology or the universe. But it feels like those SFs that explore new worlds. Action or adventure? There’s some of that in places that I’m going to call Ruins of Hard Pass, Forest is Your Frenemy, and Peanut Butter Belly Time.

The third and final book, Acceptance, gives us something that I’m going to call an ending. Unlike a typical mystery, we don’t have the solution laid out for us when this book is done. It’s not like a science fiction in which everything makes sense when the curtain falls. New weird doesn’t do that on a good day. To wit: who’s doing the accepting or reaching a state of acceptance?

What We Got Out of It

I hold a BA in English Language and Literature, which fits well with how I think about storytelling and the act of writing. My partner chose a different path. We’re different people in so, so many ways. Yet we share enough in common not only to have a relationship, but also to want this Two-Person Book Club in the first place.

We disagreed about quite a few of the questions we asked of the trilogy.

The single biggest dispute we had was that I argued the second book was unnecessary. The ten pages or so of information that’s at all consequential could have been part of the epilogue of the first book or the prologue of the third. My partner firmly disagreed, but don’t get me wrong – we both ultimately enjoyed the Southern Reach trilogy. We had a lot of fun bandying theories back and forth.

A read like this is great to share with others as it changes not only yourself, but helps you get to know the others you’re sharing it with. On top of that, it deepens and enriches your understanding of the text precisely because of the difference in emphasis that different readers will have.

What was the Nope-bear? What was it doing there, and why do the “animals” (for lack of a better word) not constantly attack? What was that reality-warping bubble? Where did it come from? What did the changes in the characters represent? What was that writing about in the underground tower? And who or what was the entity doing the writing?

We had some fun chewing on these and myriad other questions.

Then we poked around online to see what the commentary was like and learned that VanderMeer had based the trilogy off a dream. That was it. He had no purpose, no great message. He just thought (correctly) that it was cool.

My partner was okay with this.

I was not. As a result, the big change I took away from my experience of having read the Southern Reach was my engagement with the concept of the death of the author.

For those of you who don’t care much for English majors and our shenanigans, “death of the author” is the idea that a text exists independently of who wrote it. For example, Tolkien hated it when people described The Lord of the Rings as a war allegory. He couldn’t stand allegory in general, never mind having his own book taken in that light.

But he was free to shout and scream until the Nope-bears came home. Nothing was stopping readers from taking the story as an allegory.

It’s not the lack of author control that bothers me. I’m okay with that. It’s not even that the story is open to interpretation. I love interpreting. It’s fun to play with theme, symbol, and metaphor to create new meaning. But this takes “it was just a dream” to a whole new level.

How do you go through the labour of creating three books tied together as one unit, for no other reason than doing it? It’s not about intention or having an impact society, encouraging readers to do or believe certain things, or any other specific result. It’s just…raw art.

This was one of the things I wrestled with in 2022-3 as I shared here.

While that struggle has been difficult, I think I’m a better writer and reader because of it. What’s more, Southern Reach was great for exploring a work outside our comfort zone or usual tastes. Finally, the very fact that it is raw art – done for its own sake, without goal or guile – is helping me to approach my reading and writing for the experience. Not for theoretical analysis or concrete goals.

The bubble-anomaly in the story was to its world as a book is to its reader: a gateway to a different way of being.