The Necessity of Art in Station Eleven Ever since I can remember I have loved theatre. It’s been a constant presence, and an important touchstone, in my life. However, for as long as I’ve loved theatre, I have also been ridiculed for my enjoyment of it. As a child, my interest was tolerated as something precious, something I was bound to grow out of. My parents and teachers would sit in the audience, clapping and cheering me on, all the while thinking to themselves “I bet she’ll make a great lawyer one day.” They thought, like most of society, theatre was an unnecessary luxury; a pastime for the rich and powerful, for those who didn’t have to worry about putting food on the table, or clothes on their children’s backs. Certainly not something that one makes a career out of. It was inevitable that I would eventually wake up and announce my decision to study psychology or journalism. Now, I am only weeks away from legal adulthood, and that day still hasn’t come. As I apply for university theatre programs, I find it difficult to justify my choices and yet I still continue to make them because I can’t imagine being happy doing anything else. My novel, Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven takes place in a world stripped bare by an influenza that wipes out 99.9% of the population. Kirsten Raymonde, the novel’s primary protagonist, is one of the few survivors. In the twenty years since the collapse, the world has become a savage, lawless place, where thievery runs rampant and murder is commonplace. To be sure, Kirsten’s post-apocalyptic world is not one entirely unfamiliar to us. From The Hunger Games to The Walking Dead, dystopias are a dime a dozen. What sets Station Eleven apart is its willingness to confront what its counterparts miss: the role of art in survival-oriented societies. While most authors depict their heroes and heroines scavenging for food or