I Am Legend

On those cloudy days, Robert Neville was never sure when sunset came, and sometimes they were in the streets before he could get back.

I Am Legend (which has very little in common with the Will Smith movie) is a quick read with an interesting premise built around an innovative blend of science fiction and fantasy: namely, what if vampirism was a real phenomenon explainable by science?

That premise is definitely the highlight of the novella. It's very fun to see very traditional vampires—the kind that drink blood, are repelled by garlic and crosses, attempt to seduce their prey, and can be killed by sunlight or a wooden stake—in a sci-fi thriller with a hero attempting to explain it with science and psychology. (Matheson does a bit to make the creatures his own, namely that, in his world, vampires possess very little cognitive ability.) And the explanations that the author presents, while probably filled with holes obvious to anyone with expertise in the field, are satisfying enough to fulfill the author's promise. It's a novella, after all, meant to explore a fun idea, not to stand up to rigorous scientific scrutiny or the intellectual interrogation that would be given a full-length novel (I mean, the central idea that

our hero is the first person to think of sticking a blood sample under a microscope, to say nothing of his ability to figure out the science by himself,

is laughable; some suspension of disbelief is required). The plot itself is very entertaining, if quite bleak, and has several nice twists (including the ending and "title drop"). Matheson includes several flashback scenes, but thankfully doesn't dwell that much.

Thematically,

I Am Legend has very little in common with early vampire novels. Gone are any allegories about religion or the nature of evil. Instead, Matheson explores the nature of what makes a legend, the abnormal vs. the normal, the necessity of violence, and what he sees as the insanity and despair that is the product of religion. Unfortunately, he also spends quite a bit of time exploring how men (or at least our main character—perhaps I'm unfairly extrapolating here) are almost completely subservient to their constant desire for sex. It never gets graphic, but is still fairly disturbing to watch Robert

lust over the female vampires; repeatedly single out said female vampires for his experimentation; kidnap, ogle, and eventually have implied sex with Ruth; and tell us that a couple of years ago he probably would have raped her, but now he can control himself because of his focus on finding a cure;

; all of which is presented as perfectly normal and not

slightly misogynistic. The continual objectification of women is uncomfortable, but it's not clear that the author intends it to be. Then again, I suppose there's a chance Matheson is actually intending that readers interpret Robert as being "the bad guy," or at best an anti-hero, but there's nothing in the novella that really suggests that kind of self-awareness.

The major weakness is probably the characterization. Robert is a walking cliché, an alcoholic with anger issues who's really sad everyone's dead but is determined to find a cure (in between glasses of whisky, classical records, and drunken rampages through his home). The most interesting thing about him is that he has conversations with himself in his head, which at least isn't something that's de facto included in this type of stock character. It all works within the story just fine, but he's not an especially complicated or well-rounded personality. The discussions he has with his wife in the flashback scenes feel like they were written by someone who has never had an interesting conversation with another person and are just stock dialogue line after stock dialogue line (

"Don't get up if you don't feel good, honey," "I'll be all right," "I was just resting," "No, thank you, sweetheart," "Is there anything you want before I go?" etc. etc.)—these scenes go on far longer than is needed to get the point across. In fact, as a whole, the writing is effective at building tension, keeping up the fast pace, and painting some decent imagery, but is not especially noteworthy or powerful.

All told, a fun popcorn read, if not one that is moving, beautiful, or profound.

Some favorite passages:

“The strength of the vampire is that no one will believe in him.” Thank you, Dr. Van Helsing, he thought, putting down his copy Of “Dracula.”

That was what the situation had been. Something black and of the night had come crawling out of the Middle Ages. Something with no framework or credulity, something that had been consigned, fact and figure, to the pages of imaginative literature. Vampires were passé; Summers’ idylls or Stoker’s melodramatics or a brief inclusion in the Britannica or grist for the pulp writer’s mill or raw material for the B-film factories. A tenuous legend passed from century to century.

And, before science had caught up with the legend, the legend had swallowed science and everything.

Gradually the room shifted on its gyroscopic center and wove and undulated about his chair. A pleasant haze, fuzzy at the edges, took over sight. He looked at the glass, at the record player. He let his head flop from side to side. Outside, they prowled and muttered and waited.

It was the germ that was the villain. The germ that hid behind obscuring veils of legend and superstition, spreading its scourge while people cringed before their own fears.

Here he was with no future and a virtually hopeless present. Still plodding on.

What had impelled him to enclose the house, install a freezer, a generator, an electric stove, a water tank, build a hothouse, a workbench, burn down the houses on each side of his, collect records and books and mountains of canned supplies, even-it was fantastic when you thought about it-even put a fancy mural on the wall?

After the first few weeks of building up intense hope about the dog, it had slowly dawned on him that intense hope was not the answer and never had been. In a world of monotonous horror there could be no salvation in wild dreaming.

Yellow journalism, though, had been rampant in the final days. And, in addition, a great upsurge in revivalism had occurred. In a typical desperation for quick answers, easily understood, people had turned to primitive worship as the solution. With less than success. Not only had they died as quickly as the rest of the people, but they had died with terror in their hearts, with a mortal dread flowing in their very veins.

To regain consciousness beneath hot, heavy soil and know that death had not brought rest. To find themselves clawing up through the earth, their bodies driven now by a strange, hideous need. Such traumatic shocks could undo what mind was left. And such shocks could explain much. The cross, first of all.

Time had lost its multidimensional scope. There was only the present for Robert Neville; a present based on day-to-day survival, marked by neither heights of joy nor depths of despair. I am predominantly vegetable, he often thought to himself. That was the way he wanted it.

And he was afraid of the possible demand that he make sacrifices and accept responsibility again. He was afraid of giving out his heart, of removing the chains he had forged around it to keep emotion prisoner. He was afraid of loving again.

And suddenly he thought, I’m the abnormal one now. Normalcy was a majority concept, the standard of many and not the standard of just one man.

Robert Neville looked out over the new people of the earth. He knew he did not belong to them; he knew that, like the vampires, he was anathema and black terror to be destroyed. And, abruptly, the concept came, amusing to him even in his pain.

A coughing chuckle filled his throat. He turned and leaned against the wall while he swallowed the pills. Full circle, he thought while the final lethargy crept into his limbs. Full circle. A new terror born in death, a new superstition entering the unassailable fortress of forever.

I am legend.

the dog dies