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I first read this along with every other 'plague' book I could find back in the 1980's after reading Bring Out Your Dead: The Great Plague of Yellow Fever in Philadelphia in 1793 by J.H. Powell, a serendipitous, out-of-print thrift store find that was among the most engrossing books I had ever read. It was the early days of AIDS and I wondered at the different ways people respond to epidemics, so I read The Plague on that level only. It was interesting to return to the book now understanding that it is an allegory. I actually enjoyed it much more over 30 years ago, but maybe that was because I was trying to understand the different responses and wondered if humans had progressed and now handled epidemics with more wisdom and compassion. Wisdom...mostly yes. Compassion...not so much.
Although it has been three decades since reading The Plague at about the same time as Journal of the Plague Year, I recall that I liked Defoe's story best. When beginning The Plague this time, I had a memory of bleakness and that was it. Yet mention Journal of the Plague Year and I still see and hear the streets of London, and the frightened people with their posies, and the occasional sick person angrily intent upon infecting others. I can almost smell London in 1665. I think it was all the detail which I loved. I understand fantasyfan believing that Defoe illustrated the 'absurd' or 'murderous innocence' more convincingly, or at least more memorably, than Camus.
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