How High We Go in the Dark

(em português: sol2070.in/2025/04/livro-how-high-we-go-in-the-dark/ )

How High We Go in the Dark (2023, 320 pages) by Sequoia Nagamatsu. I stumbled upon this book randomly: I found the synopsis intriguing and was curious about this recent dystopian bestseller I had never heard of. What ultimately led me to read it was Alan Moore’s recommendation:

"Haunting and luminous . . . Beautiful and lucid science fiction. An astonishing debut."

The setting is a pandemic that wipes out most of humanity, caused by a virus released with the thawing of Arctic permafrost. In other words, it’s a climate fiction novel about an accelerated end-of-the-world scenario. We follow the stories of different characters over the following decades, presented like independent short stories, but all interconnected through the environmental context. There’s also a central plotline that gradually unfolds in the background. All stories focus on family or romantic relationships, most involving loss and grief.

This is the central theme of the novel — how people respond intimately and emotionally to the losses of an apocalypse — developed brilliantly, deeply, and movingly, full of pop and nerd culture, with a bit of rock ’n’ roll.

With billions dying from the pandemic, one sector comes to dominate the economy: the funeral, palliative, or hospicing services. Megacorporations form around death. Instead of Big Tech, what rules is a kind of “Big Death.”

One of the most devastating stories takes place in a kind of Disneyland for child euthanasia, where terminally ill children spend their last day in intense fun, dying on a roller coaster.

In another, the protagonist has a menial job in a “eulogy hotel”, where those who can afford it house their dying loved ones to spend their last days in luxury.

The sci-fi setting serves as a stage for stories of lives marked by death. But that’s not all. There’s a mystery surrounding the virus’s origin that leads to cosmic revelations, including an intriguing otherworldly dimension and the challenge of regeneration (more on that in the “Spoiler” section).

This format of human stories connected within a larger sci-fi framework reminded me of the classic The Martian Chronicles (1950), where master Ray Bradbury imagines the very personal lives involved in the colonization of Mars.

Another distinctive element is that almost all the characters are of Japanese descent, although most stories take place in the U.S., with a few in Japan. The often uneasy intergenerational experience of families who migrated to the U.S. appears frequently. This isn’t just a reflection of the author’s Japanese-American identity — there’s a fantastical element that centrally connects the Asian archipelago to the plot.

These highly speculative elements, which break the predominant realism, might surprise or even shock readers fully immersed in the powerful human dimension of the stories. At times I thought, “Where did that come from?!” But upon closer reflection, these elements don’t come out of nowhere — they had been subtly foreshadowed throughout the stories.

The way the various characters are connected is intricate, and I got lost a few times. I’d have to reread it to fully grasp everything. Still, I didn’t find that crucial and enjoyed the book regardless.

Spoiler: Fantastic and Supernatural Elements
The title of the book refers to a scene in a post-death beyond, where a crowd of people who died in the pandemic, immersed in total darkness, build a human pyramid to see how high the darkness goes, or whether they could escape. What they manage is to lift a baby to the top — where gravity is almost absent — and the child ascends from there to be reborn.

It’s a fantastic and surreal chapter, so central that it gives the book its name: “How High We Go in the Dark.” But I didn’t quite understand how it connects to the other stories, except that some of the lives portrayed there had already been told.

Midway through the book, an ark carrying 50 chosen people escapes a depopulated and virus-ravaged Earth in 2037, on a journey in search of a habitable planet. The ship is powered by artificial micro-black holes, following the discovery of this revolutionary technology, told in another chapter. They spend 6,000 years in cryogenic suspension, with key individuals waking periodically to assess potential planets along the way.

They pass a dead planet with ruins of an advanced civilization, while on Earth, centuries have gone by and humanity has already regenerated and flourished again.

In the end, an immortal alien species is revealed, responsible for creating and caring for worlds like Earth. The woman who designed life on Earth had been living on the planet since its beginning, and the body of the mixed-race Neanderthal — with a strange glow in her chest from where the virus escaped — was her daughter. The virus was the accidental result of something that shouldn’t have happened: interspecies crossbreeding.

These elements completely break the realism that dominates 90% of the book. Since they make up a much smaller portion of the story, even though they explain the rest, I felt they were a bit disconnected, despite their intriguing quality.

It doesn’t ruin the book, and I definitely recommend it.

I read this for the #SFFBookClub January book pick. How High We Go in the Dark is a collection of interconnected short stories dealing with death, grief, and remembrance in the face of overwhelming death and a pandemic. Despite getting very dark, I was surprised at the amount of hopefulness to be found in the face of all of this.

It was interesting to me that this collection had been started much earlier and the Arctic plague was a later detail to tie everything together. Personally, I feel really appreciative of authors exploring their own pandemic-related feelings like this; they're certainly not often comfortable feelings, but it certainly helps me personally, much more than the avoidance and blinders song and dance that feels on repeat everywhere else in my life.

It's hard for me to evaluate this book as a whole. I deeply enjoyed the structural setup, and seeing background characters narrate their own chapters added quite a bit of emotional nuance. Pig Son especially would have hit differently without the background from a few chapters earlier. Some of the stories were quite full of knives, but my one complaint is that some stories in the back half felt like retreading similar grounds of grief and remembrance; they just didn't have the same level of impact for me. Both the final chapter and the title-generating chapter were thematically strong, but didn't quite carry the same level of emotional weight or closure that I wanted. I am not sure subjectively why I felt this way, but I think this is some of the flipside of its short story nature--that there's only a consistent emotional thread running through the book rather than a character or plot arc.

I'm really glad to have read this, and feel like a lot of these stories and feelings are going to stick with me for a long while.

Are we ready yet for a pandemic thriller? Will we ever be?

This is a book of connected short stories taking place before, during, and after a terrible pandemic causing LOTS of casualties. As if this wasn't traumatizing enough, the victims are mostly children. More trauma? Why yes, in this book, people handle death, grief, and funerals very differently from what we are used to. Traumatizingly so.

While the stories themselves are intriguing, I did have trouble finding out what was going on, and how everything is connected. That can be ok - but here I felt somewhat disoriented. What bothered me more was the outright neglectful way that premises were brought up briefly, never to be mentioned again. Lots of loose threads left me wanting more - with disappointment rather than excitement.

This books is worth a closer look if you like reading about loss and grief (did I mention the trauma?). If you're looking for a tight-knit narrative where everything comes together nicely, you better keep looking.

How High We Go In the Dark by Sequoia Nagamatsu. It will make you weep; it will give you hope and destroy you at the same time. 5 stars.

I meant to read at least ten other books before this one, but when I sat down to check out the first few pages, I just kept reading straight through to the end. The world building style reminded me of David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas in that it brought seemingly unrelated stories together woven through with finely connected threads. Each segment has an expertly introduced setting and characters of its own, and the writer brings us into harmony with them all, as well as with the work as a whole.

The ending may not appeal to everyone, and did not quite fully appeal to me, but it works in the context of the book, and I enjoyed the skill with which Nagamatsu delivered it despite being a little alienated by the direction it went.

This book is worth every minute.

If I had known ahead of time what the structure and focus of this book was, I probably wouldn't have read it. That would have been my loss.

"How High We Go In the Dark" is a series of interconnected short stories set in the same world. This is not my favorite structural style: I prefer to follow a set of characters from beginning to end. Nagamatsu, though, has a rare talent for sketching out characters you can quickly attach to. I felt sorrowful every time I reached the end of a chapter and had to say goodbye.

In this way, the structure was a good fit for the world itself, and the story the author wanted to tell: one focused on death, loss, and how it transforms us. With some frequency, leaving a character at the end of their chapter meant watching them die.

This is one the most depressing novels I've ever read, but it also deeply creative, empathetic, hopeful, and beautiful. It was satisfying seeing the strands from earlier chapters weave their way through the later ones. In a lesser writer's hands, this novel would be unbearable, but in Nagamatsu's, it becomes something hard to bear, yet worth bearing.