The Tin Drummer

I'm trying to read On the Beach by Nevil Shute again. As a paranoid nuclear nut it ought to appeal to me, but I find it dull and more reminiscent of a nineteenth century novel of manners or character than an account of the last days of life on earth. Where's the sense of everything completely collapsing? I suppose it happens slowly and quietly, even while people insist on old rules and ways of living. But this is the point made forcibly by Threads. No such period of traditional living could happen after a nuclear war or in the death days of the world. Like dogs, our veneer of civilisation is thin. I will continue with it, even though I know what happens in the end.