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She had never entirely let go of the notion that if she reached far enough with her thoughts she might find someone waiting, that if two people were to cast their thoughts outward at the same moment they might somehow meet in the middle.
Every character in Station Eleven, whether they live before or after the apocalypse, exists in the space between loneliness and connection. Persevering in the search for human connection, no matter how slim the odds, is a shared theme throughout every storyline. Despite knowing that telepathy is technically impossible, Kirsten does believe in the possibility of the meeting of minds across distances. She needs to believe this in order to emotionally survive the hardships and solitude of her current life. The novel finds small ways to prove Kirsten’s belief true. For instance, Kirsten finds meaning and emotional relevance in the Station Eleven comics—in essence, her and Miranda’s minds are meeting and understanding each other across time and space.
It is possible to survive this but not unaltered, and you will carry these men with you through all the nights of your life.
Kirsten’s life is harsh, and she needs to remain practical about survival: she has killed people, and likely will kill more, as will many of her peers. While her circumstances have made her bluntly realistic about death, she hasn’t become cold or apathetic about killing. She and August learn through experience that they will carry the emotional burden of having taken another human being’s life throughout the rest of theirs. Even though they have survived, and may see happier times, they are forever changed in a very painful way by the act of killing.
Perhaps soon humanity would simply flicker out, but Kirsten found this thought more peaceful than sad. So many species had appeared and later vanished from this earth; what was one more?
Those who live through the pandemic have become practical and unsentimental when it comes to humanity’s place in the universe. After seeing the vast majority of humans destroyed by a virus, survivors like Kirsten understand that humans are no greater than any other species—we are all ultimately at the whim of the universe, and, like many species before us, we are subject to extinction. For Kirsten, this realization isn’t upsetting. There’s something comforting about humanity’s relative smallness in comparison to the vast recesses of time and space. Without us, the world would go on, and Kirsten finds peace in this knowledge.
Hell is the absence of the people you long for.
Kirsten often comments on the definition of hell, and these definitions change depending on her circumstances. Generally, Kirsten moves between two theses: the first, that hell is other people, and the second, that hell is the grief you feel for those you’ve lost. These somewhat juxtaposing ideas mirror the many other contrasting themes in Station Eleven revolving around loneliness, solitude, and freedom versus companionship, fame, and societal responsibilities. Just as many characters have difficulty choosing their preferred way of living between the two, Kirsten oscillates between being cynical about other people—they’re violent and frustrating and complicated—and yearning for human connection and for the people that mean the most to her.
