THIS ESSAY WILL CHANGE THE WAY YOU SEE LITERATURE IN THE ANTHROPOCENE AGE! READ IT SOON AND PASS IT ON TO LITERARY CRITICS AND CLIMTE JOURNALISTS WORLDWIDE. ALREADY TRANSLATED INTO CHINESE!
''Six proposals for the reform of literature in the age of climate change''
Today, global cosmopolitan culture [is creating massive ] chaos. Power is concentrated in the hands of a few independent corporations and states, each strong enough to escape environmental regulation, none with the will or mission to provoke change in themselves or others. Day after day, human activity fills the atmosphere with carbon, transforming Earth’s climate, melting the polar ice caps, already destroying the homes and habitats of the planet’s many creatures—including ourselves. Yet we lack the ability to visualise these problems, to locate their source in our own actions and lives, to tell and transform the stories of the interactions between our behaviour and our biome.
This is not a failing of science, the science is quite clear: it is a failing of culture. The single most influential artwork of climate change remains Al Gore standing in front of a Powerpoint presentation ten years ago. Global culture has not just failed to adapt to the challenges we now face: it actively prevents us from facing those challenges.
To change this, we need to break with our existing traditions of art and media, even if that means rejecting some of the works we love most.
1. Reject Progress Narratives
Narratives of progress lie at the heart of present-day human excess. In science, politics, and art, humans project an endlessly mounting series of conquests — the “creative destruction” of global capitalism, modern amnesia overriding old knowledge, scientific innovations making old models obsolete, and Ezra Pound’s notorious “Make it new” driving the avant garde.
With these narratives holding sway, we are unable to imagine stories of forgetting, stories of healing, stories of repudiation.
Progressive logic refuses to account for the inevitability of declining access to water, air, and arable land.
....in the same way, a nation’s economic success justifies the increasingly miserable conditions of its people, animals, and plants.
2. Retire the portrait of the single soul
Most stories specifically identify individuals who profit from narratives of progress, whether intellectually or materially. In Joyce’s epiphany model, the reader sees some moral profit. In the standard adventure story, it’s both the reader, who is entertained, and the hero—Phileas Fogg makes it ''around the world in 80 days,'' Katniss has a family with Peeta, James Bond ''gets'' the bad guys. The triumphal feeling of these stories comes from their selective attention to just a tiny part of the network of relationships that enfolds their characters.
In the stories we need, though, nobody exists outside of some reference to social and physical contexts. Life touches at life from all points on the globe at all times.
Individualism is an intervention we make into our environment.
This is the original sin handed down from Thoreau’s Walden: pretending no one else exists, unmaking the blacksmith that sold Thoreau US$3.90 worth of nails, the man who carried his luggage to his pond-side cabin, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, who housed and fed Thoreau while he edited the manuscript. Readers experience a book as one person speaking to another, almost epistolary, missing the way in which a book is a collaboration of many hands. Romantic ideas of the artist slaving away at a desk alone in the middle of the night prevent us from seeing the way in which all artwork is the product of many minds thinking together.
Reducing literature to a procession of isolated actors (or authors) belies the responsibility readers have to see the disastrous paradigm in which a focus on individuals occludes acts that harm the broader community.
3. Stop yelling over the biomes
The forest is not your canvas. The blue sky does not symbolise possibility. The lone gull scrabbling in alley dirt far from the ocean is not your emblem. The extent to which metaphors have colonised nature is the extent to which we fail to see the leaf blight, the greenhouse, and the unused concentration of food calories in the dumpsters of our cities. It will be impossible to seriously consider systems of living beings when we force them to conform to anthropomorphic narratives and tropes.
Our self-regard produces our ignorance.
This habit has its darkest dimension in the world of children’s media. Animals today are maximally commodified, absolutely lacking in the will to survive, reconfigured to serve the human person in everything from psychological comfort to sexual fantasy. If you want to teach a child that an animal is a kind of crippled person, give them Black Beauty. If you want to make them believe that an animal is a slave, show them Lassie. The culture is filled with welcoming, deluded fantasy versions of the natural world.
4. The poor cannot always be with us
In the last 20 years, advanced economies have taken pride in their modest decreases in emissions per capita, completely ignoring the way in which this is possible because of the exportation of manufacturing to the global South.
These types of inequities are almost always accompanied by moralising fictions.
Full partnership for everyone in a global ecosystem means redistributing the rewards that the developed world has already incurred by harming it.
The romanticization of the materially poor as environmentally ethical appears most often in travel writing, but is visible in work from Dances with Wolves to the distinction drawn between the Emishi villagers and the citizens of Irontown in Princess Mononoke. In communities without access to capital, people do consume less and pollute less, but their poverty is nonconsensual, unsustainable, and immoral. It leaves them no recourse but to strive for the same economy of mass consumption modelled by the global North.
Understanding what it means for a community to be materially poor and food insecure should shape our reading.
5. Choose systems over objects
From the humblest grammatical formulation all the way up to the way we conceptualise our most cherished ideals, the English language is choked by metaphors of possession and exchange, and sorely lacks metaphors of membership and interrelation.
When Robinson Crusoe finds himself alone, his mind dwells overwhelmingly on the things he can obtain and construct. He makes inventory after inventory, moving quite naturally between objects and animals and even, in the case of Friday, people. We can feel, reading the book in the present day, that one of the issues he is working through is his relationship with his father, who encouraged him to pursue a stable apprenticeship rather than going to sea; the accumulation of shipwreck nails and goats stands in for the accumulation of capital that would have been possible in sedate Britain. But Crusoe has no way to talk literally about his father, or the tenuousness of their connection. Without his fixation on objects of value, he would entirely lack the kind of language that one might use to describe his love and distance. We see the descendants of this muteness in every diamond advertisement; it is especially clear in Station Eleven, where the inert and unusable objects of a pre-apocalyptic society anchor, physically, the virtues of the post-apocalypse, collected in a museum that serves as a kind of cradle of civilizational continuity.
We too often connect by giving and taking; we see environments only as a motion between the absence of objects (nature) to the presence of objects (wealth); we miss the true identity of our situation as a web of interactions that are already in a relationship to us, and whose future depends on the thoughtfulness of those interactions.
It is becoming increasingly easy to pass over Knausgård’s ''My Struggle'' out of mistrust in its apparent self-interest and individualist closure. Meanwhile, readers increasingly spend their time poring over the details of fantasy worlds, delighted to learn how characters on distant planets feed themselves, communicate without voices, engage in rituals of self-sufficiency and health.
6. Literature can no longer hang outside the world
The coming of climate change brings with it a pressing need for practical ethics, decisions made in the absence of perfect information but in the face of very real problems tethered to bodies, ecosystems, and histories. It requires the transformation of the relationship between imagination and actions.
The fact of climate change is as true as any product of science can be, but no popular consensus and no action seems possible.
Writing fiction must become more than an exercise in personal fulfillment, ambition, or hunger for fame.
This short essay is not intended to persuade or to hector those of you who have no interest in changing the relationships between humans and their environments.
.....Take these words as tools, add, subtract, mutate, disagree: go make fiction. So much of what comes next is in your hands.