(Hoping that if I put an # in the title it will do what it is meant to do)
There will be legends, he thought, of broad avenues celestially lit, of the hurrying millions who lived together without plotting each other’s deaths, of railway trains and aeroplanes and motor-cars, of food in all its diversity. Most of all, perhaps, of policemen – custodians, without anger or malice, of a law that stretched to the ends of the earth.
John Christopher, The Death of Grass, 1956
This picture of what we’ll miss is pretty urban. In this book, like in John Wyndham’s Day of the Triffids, people have to flee the cities to survive in a desolate countryside.
