How High We Go in the Dark

“I walk the mile to the crater’s edge. I imagine the virus and anything else the ice has kept hidden from us being sucked into the figurine, its stone belly filled with all that can harm us. I tell my daughter I love her and throw the dogū into the crater, waiting for all that has been unburied to be retaken into the earth. I walk back to the outpost. I can barely breathe.”

Cliff engages in a ceremonial act of cleansing, out of options and desperate to do something. Although the symptoms of the virus are still ambiguous, his inability to breathe foreshadows his eventual status as one of the plague’s first victims.

“‘Thank you for giving us a way to say goodbye. We didn’t want him to die in some hospital overflow center,’ the father said, pulling me close, whispering in one of my giant mouse ears. ‘I know you’re just doing your job, but you gave us one more day with our boy.’”

This moment is meant to be as jarring as it is heartbreaking. Skip is dressed in a mascot costume, adding an element of the absurd as he escorts children to the ends of their lives. However, the absurdity also adds levity to one of the most difficult decisions a parent can make, showing the importance of his work. This tender moment breaks the facade of the theme park through an acknowledgment of grief in an otherwise “happy” place.

“She looked down at the tracks from her feet, reached out for my hand. ‘I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should take him to the park while he’s well enough to enjoy it.’”

This powerful moment underscores the theme of The Difficulty of Choice as Dorrie realizes that she’s running out of time with Fitch. Instead of waiting for a drug trial or similar opportunity to prolong his painful life, she decides to help him pass away in as positive a way as she can, giving him joy while she still can.

“He asked me if we could get ice cream after, and I wanted to tell him he could have all the ice cream he wanted. I studied his face and wondered if this was just the last wish of an astronaut who knew he might not be coming home.”

Skip struggles to say goodbye to Fitch in a moment that shows both the simple joy of childhood and also the harsh reality the characters live in. No ice cream is waiting for Fitch, and part of him knows it. Instead, he imagines a world in which he gets off the ride, a world in which he’s capable of healing. The fantasy makes the reality easier, giving them one last moment before the end.

“Opportunities are like little seeds floating in the wind. Your life is there. Some people have a big net to collect them all. Other people need to pray that the right seeds, the best ones, make their way to them with just enough bad ones to appreciate the good.”

Jun’s father creates an extended metaphor, comparing what life has to offer to seeds. An undeniable amount of chance plays a part in a person’s search for betterment and opportunity, and that chance varies heavily depending on who a person is and what their circumstances are like. This, while unfair, is a true depiction of what it’s like to grow up with something that makes a person a minority, as many conditions can limit someone’s access to opportunities. This quote is a further reflection of the world builder’s perspective, which reinforces that many components go into making someone (or something) successful.

“Cut out the goddamn sushi. Cut out all food coming from over there—Russia, Asia, all the first epicenters. If you don’t hunt it, don’t trust it. I see my mother looking down when the talk-show host says this, the waiting room filled with other Asian families.”

The author encapsulates the confusion and shame of a virus, which often centers on blaming innocent people simply because of proximity. This occurred during the outbreak of the COVID-19 virus just like the fictional Arctic plague in the novel. This passage shows that no one is spared from illness, and blame-placing does nothing except spread unnecessary hate.

“How do you tell a child that he’s going to die?”

David’s question is a tragic one that encapsulates the desolation of being the parent of a sick child. It’s a question that Dorrie was unable to resolve in Chapter 2, “The City of Laughter,” when she finally resolved to take Fitch to the park. David seeks an explicit interaction, a clear outline of next steps. He seeks closure in a confusing world, ending up perpetually unsure of the best course of action. It’s especially important that he has started to think of Snortorious as a child rather than a pig, exploring a new side of empathy.

“I probably should have returned home at some point to patch things up before my dad died. Instead, I did what my mother told me to do: I left and never went back. It was easier pretending I was alone.”

Dennis’s indecisiveness is paired with wistfulness as he ponders what could have been rather than what is. He acknowledges his own failures and faults in having not addressed a problem while his father was alive but doesn’t rectify that choice when he learns of his mother’s illness. The situation is so complicated that he’s not willing or able to put the effort into fully understanding and altering it, instead opting into a lack of community.

“A banner ad on the wall tells us to cherish Ayano’s memory by enjoying life via a buffet at the food court in tower 2.”

While sharing a moment of joint reconciliation and mourning with his son, the robo-dog repairman can’t help but notice the advertisements on the wall where they visit his wife’s ashes. This moment, and the many subtle moments like it throughout the plague-ridden chapters of the book, highlight the commodification of death and how death is changed by capitalism. It’s meant to be jarring, a harsh juxtaposition between the high levels of emotion of the two characters and the comparatively cold world that emphasizes profit over humanity.

“I don’t know what I’ll do with the files. It doesn’t seem right to leave them locked away. I imagine studying the artifacts or setting them on fire, like that time I saw a family friend burn what she called ghost money at her grandmother’s Chinese funeral, to ensure a rich afterlife. For Laird, I would burn the articles to set him free, to let him know he did all he could—a cosmic stamp of approval sent through the ether.”

Aubrey struggles to understand how she should honor Laird and dispose of his belongings, understanding that they’re a facet of him but also noting that they no longer serve their intended purpose. She compares ceremonial burnings, believing that in burning the papers she may be able to free Laird of some of the trauma he carried in life. In doing so, she honors a different kind of richness: the richness of knowledge.

“My engineer father once told me that marriage and who you fall in love with are largely a matter of chance, chemicals, and how far you’re willing to drive. He said who your kids turn out to be is even more of a crapshoot. I blame some of my failings with human connection on this man.”

Bryan’s father attempts to reduce love and connection to something more mathematical. His dismissive nature about love and marriage directly contrasts Bryan’s experience with Theresa, which is more instinctive in nature. This coldness provides context for Dennis’s earlier resistance in indecisiveness. Further, this moment starkly contrasts with what the world builder later tells her daughter: She says that possibility is often tied to chance and love.

“We had so many questions and someone will certainly return to answer them. The inhabitants likely knew for a long time that their world was dying. Perhaps this is both a comfort and despair, a reminder that we are not alone, that we are still here.”

The USS Yamato encounters the first sign of alien life as it passes by a planet that is lifeless but covered with signs of civilization. Its appearance is a reflective moment that shows the crew the worst possible situation. They know by this point that Earth has found a cure to the plague and is working toward solving the climate crisis, alleviating some anxiety that this is a portent of Earth’s future. However, it’s also a stark reminder that they’re currently the only known intelligent life, isolating them and making them more dependent on each other.

“You’ll cry and be uncertain at first. That’s okay. But there’s a whole universe waiting for you. I’ve helped you this far, little one. We helped each other get here. But now, now is your time. It’s time to lead me into the red grass and tell me the story of how we get to be. It’s time to wake up.”

Miki’s letter to her granddaughter is the embodiment of hope. She acknowledges the difficulty of their situation but grants Yumi the ability to decide their future. In doing so, Miki notes that the mistakes of her generation and generations past ultimately contributed to the near hopelessness of the present. Her letter to Yumi is in part a changing of the guard, a proclamation that the next generation will give them a better future. The use of the words “get to be” is especially poignant because it identifies the privilege of being alive and part of the colonization effort.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay? I’m happy to take you to the store, or accompany you on a walk, or to the hospital. Maybe it won’t be so bad if we do it together.”

Dan opens his email to his neighbors with this offer, opening the door of community by offering to be fully present for his peers. The narrative later reveals that this is a significant offer from Dan, rooted in his transition away from introverted tendencies and toward community. Dan is a unique character in that he has done his growing before the chapter starts. The email he writes is the result of his inner turmoil, but that struggle is apparent only through his recollection of recent events.

“All I know is this: I will continue to wake up and tell my family I love them, something I never did enough when they were alive. I will go grocery shopping at midnight. I will tell strangers online that I’m sorry for their loss, and I will eventually wash the bedsheets and their clothes and be okay with a quiet home. Maybe, with help, I will wave at you when you cross the street. I will begin setting the table for one.”

Dan uses repetition to try to reinforce his commitment to healing and his efforts to improve himself. He states “I will” as a prophecy, outlining his desire as if that will make it real. He acknowledges the ways that he has already mourned, noting that it’ll take time for him to change, but also upholds faith that in the presence of a community he can overcome his grief.

“Like them, he has nothing left, and yet he’s still one of the lucky ones—he never got sick, he survived.”

Akira’s experience involves the complex survivor’s guilt associated with surviving a calamity. He’s in an objectively difficult situation, having no job or home, yet he continues to conceptualize himself as “lucky” because he escaped the plague itself. The result is that he’s further alienated, as he was stripped of his community during the plague and now can’t find a place to belong. He craves community but doesn’t know how to construct it, which leaves him in social limbo.

“Everybody deserves a little time to feel normal. Maybe some people aren’t ready to be out in the real world just yet, you know?”

Ms. Takahashi provides an empathetic perspective to the more dismissive views surrounding virtual reality and its use in the post-plague era. She suggests a gentler reentry into society for people who have been grappling with fear for years. Her statement gains further importance in light of her being a reincarnation of Nuri, the world builder’s daughter. It shows an increased understanding of the needs of others, highlighting how she has grown into an adult in the world builder’s absence.

“I am sure I’ve glorified our brief moments together, all our late-night video chats, for so long it’s easy to forget, standing over your body, that maybe I never really knew you at all.”

The sculptor explores the differences between fantasy and reality as he prepares Mabel’s body to be transformed into an ice sculpture. He acknowledges his own role in perpetuating a dream that couldn’t become real, questioning himself so much that he comes to question their whole relationship. He exemplifies what happens when a person doesn’t have closure and this lack of finality leads to second-guessing.

“Before there is nothing left to hold, I want to tell you all the things I never got to say, what I would have said if I could have played a larger role in what remained in your life. I could have loved you; I did anyway (and maybe if our lives had been different you could have loved me, too). I tell you a million other little things until nothing remains of your kirin-mermaid self except for a piece in my hands the size of a large hailstone, until that too melts.”

The sculptor speculates on possibility as he says farewell to Mabel in an extension of the strange funerary ceremonies that have developed following the Artic plague outbreak. His acts of speculation are also acts of mourning, as he says goodbye to a future he can’t have. His hopes become as mythical as the kirin-mermaid that Mabel was carved into, despite his attempts to hold onto her, as he symbolizes by holding the melting ice.

“The grain of rice I took when I had left had given me the strength to leave and become. This child gave me a reason.”

Rina holds onto a belief in her grandmother’s traditions while also looking forward to new traditions and the new life granted by her unborn child. The grain of rice symbolizes her ability to take what is old and reforge it to suit her new needs. It shows how people adopt and adapt traditions, acknowledging that although they may encounter resistance along the way, they must do what they need to do to find peace.

“There would be more conversations and arrangements to come—visits to Chicago, visits to Japan when my child was old enough—but right then I sat silently, on ripples of sand made of light with my mother and father, and listened to Jiji’s music, clinging to the perpetual flurry of cherry blossoms that held us together.”

Rina shows her humanity as a narrator as she experiences this moment of mourning with her parents. Her thoughts blur together, combining the future and present in a long stream of consciousness centered at the coexistence of grief and anticipation. This final paragraph of her story conveys the hope that she’ll reconcile with her loved ones and be able to have both communities she desires, granting her child citizenship in two different ways of life.

“I saw a civilization that could destroy itself before it even reached the nearest star. But I also saw a world that would be the first to witness the quiet of intergalactic space and walk on the ruins of whatever remains of us.”

The world builder provides a broad perspective of Earth and its habitants. In doing so, she can provide valuable insight into Earth’s true potential. She doesn’t shy away from the crueler potentials of the planet but acknowledges the brilliance of its people. In doing so, the world builder provides a moment of reflection by serving as an outside observer. By experiencing her own wonder at humanity’s endeavors, she invites contemplation of the ways that humanity has shown its capabilities.

“‘Some of it is chance,’ I explained. ‘Hope, love, ingenuity. Possibility is more than what runs through our veins, little one.’”

The world builder’s lesson to her daughter on what makes a successful planet is also a lesson in what causes everything to be successful. Luck is only a portion of what goes into something thriving. While foretelling success is often impossible, controlling the factors that go into a venture, positively influencing a given outcome, is possible.