Teresa Holten
St. Venantius Fortunatus Writing Group
No children have been born in decades and no one can figure out why. Science cannot cure this global epidemic of infertility. How will humanity respond to becoming an endangered species? Author P. D. James explores this in her 1992 alternate-reality dystopia, The Children of Men.
Middle-aged Oxford historian Theo Faron leads a quiet life since he left his government position. When a group of activists ask Theo to deliver their list of social reforms to his former colleagues, Theo sees no harm in cooperating—but in the words often attributed to Oscar Wilde, “No good deed goes unpunished.”
Told from Theo’s perspective, The Children of Men is divided into two parts. The first part, “Omega,” focuses on world-building. We’re told that “overnight, it seemed, the human race had lost its power to breed.” Institutions once tasked with preserving a legacy and preparing generations to come have been repurposed and reallocated. The new goal is to make still-contributing members of society as mentally, physically, and emotionally comfortable as possible, for as long as possible. Non-contributing members of society receive far less humane treatment—which the Five Fishes (the activists mentioned earlier) want to change.
The author’s world-building is exemplary. As seen through Theo’s eyes, James paints a portrait of a society that is sterile in multiple ways. People go through the motions of day-to-day life, but few are really living. There is no joy in this world; no despair; no rage. It’s all just . . . sameness for its own sake.
The second part, “Alpha,” describes the impact that change has on a society determined to maintain the status quo. A surprise (and miraculous?) pregnancy leads the Fishes to enlist Theo’s help once more. This time, Theo is asked to take the mother-to-be off the radar before the government can discover (and exploit) her. In helping the mother-to-be, Theo becomes a fugitive.
The second half of Children leans more heavily on the characters. The author’s neutral, understated voice, used so effectively in world-building, becomes more problematic when used for characterization. James provides little explanation of the characters’ inner lives or true motives. Readers who struggle to infer meaning beyond stated facts may find this somewhat off-putting.
As someone on the autism spectrum, I rely on authors’ use of emotion-laden verbs and modifiers to help me understand and connect with their characters. I struggled at times to understand why James’s characters said or did certain things. James’s style kept me removed from the characters, to the point where I neither connected with them nor really cared what happened to them. This may not be an obstacle for more allistic individuals.
To be clear, The Children of Men is not science fiction. The author expects readers to accept the core premise that humans simply cannot create offspring either through natural or scientific means. There is no exploration of continuing the human race through such techy means as cloning, genetic engineering, or cybernetic enhancements. (Readers who want something more along those lines should consider Richard Morgan’s Altered Carbon or the works of Philip K. Dick.)
Children is an exploration of human nature. As a species, we’re hard-coded to replicate. A goodly chunk of human existence is tied up in this fact. The very existence of museums, schools, libraries—culture itself—assumes that future generations will exist. When all that is taken off the table, James asks the reader: How will humanity fill the void?
Through her characters’ actions, James suggests that we can find meaning in one another, regardless of what the future may hold. The future doesn’t matter; we’re here now—and now is reason enough. By treating everyone with dignity and respect, regardless of their “usefulness,” we make existence better for all of us. The Children of Men isn’t easy to like. Readers looking for heart-pounding suspense may find James’s restrained prose rather dry and unengaging. Readers of a more philosophical mindset are more likely to appreciate The Children of Men for what it is: an exploration of what drives human behavior beyond the desire to procreate, prepare for future generations, and leave a legacy. Taken on its own terms, The Children of Men is a thought-provoking read and well worth the time.