Things I learnt reading climate change fiction this year

For the second half of the year, as part of a book-length research project that I started working on, I began reading a few books, fiction mostly, to go along with my academic reading about climate change, environmentalism and renewable energy. I learnt quite a bit from these, and this is my attempt at putting into words (or excerpting) some of the key things from each, plus a short note at the end. Most are not from this year, but they’re all reasonably recent. In the order that I read them:

Aurora – Kim Stanley Robinson

Not really climate fiction, per se, but the story of a generation ship with several fully functioning ecosystems that eventually makes the return journey to earth there’s plenty of relevance. One of the main themes that causes the colonists to give up on their mission (aside from the inhospitable location that was chosen for settlement) is that the generation ship, despite featuring lots of futuristic 3D printing for any kind of material they could want (and a generous amount of raw material to print from) there are ecological issues to do with staying in such a small total biosphere. The bacteria and viruses reproduced (and thus evolved) at quite different rates to plants and animals – imagine the situation in a modern hospital and then lock everyone inside for three hundred years and you get the bacterial picture. This was but one problem facing the ship, others were recycling and ‘fixing’ certain elements: nitrates in the soils, calcium in human and animal bones, and salt, always ‘too much salt’ and so on and so forth. The ecological aspect of it was one of its most compelling dramatic engines, and one of its chief engineers talked about the problem of maintaining the ship in this way as an issue of metabolism which is one that has come up in other theory that I’ve been reading lately (Jason W. Moore’s ‘Capitalism in the Web of Life’).

Once the ship gets back home, however, they arrive to (naturally) a climactically changed planet – and though this isn’t fleshed out a great deal in this book I think his other one set in the same time period does more. Still, there’s a really great passage about beaches and an implied expansion of the littoral zone of beaches. Naturally, all the beaches are gone, but there are some who dedicate their lives to rebuilding them. I found it a seriously compelling image, and here’s an excerpt:

The earthmover moves sand from the giant piles of it in their receiving area, out onto the strand itself. In the horizontal light of late day they rumble and bounce down a long ramp to the new beach, now covered with vehicle tracks. Past smaller vehicles of various kinds, some plowing smaller and smaller piles of sand into flat surfaces or pushing up dunes at the back of the beach. The important thing is to accept the new sea level and work with it, the people operating the earthmover tell her; it won’t go back down for centuries at best, and may never recede at all. But they are confident it won’t go any higher either; all the ice in the world that is likely to melt has already melted. There’s still a considerable ice cap in eastern Antarctica, but with temperatures stabilized at last, that one is likely to stay there. If not, well, too bad! More beaches to build!

For now, this is sea level. Tides here slosh up and down a vertical distance that averages three metres, more in the neap tides when the moon is closest to Earth. Tides really are a matter of tidal attraction between Earth and Luna. Tug of gravity, spooky action at a distance. Source of a great deal of life on this planet, possibly even the appearance of life, some say.

They are making sure the high-tide mark is well below most of their new strand, which will be one hundred meters wide at least. Behind the strand they are building dunes, and planting and introducing all the dune life. And during low tides, the wet strand that is temporarily exposed is made mostly of sand, with only some rocky areas under points in the bluff, for tide pools and the like. All these parameters and elements are designed, engineered, built, monitored. Freya sees it: this beach is their artwork. These people are artists. (p.443)

The Year of the Flood/MadAddam – Margaret Atwood

The next book(s) I read after that was The Waterless Flood by Margaret Atwood, which is about a group of back-to-nature fundamentalists who, responding to the environmental depletion around them and the advancement of corporate control (Corp’s control basically everything) have decided that there will come a disaster to wipe everyone off the planet and they alone might escape it. They life full vego lives, have saints like Jane Goodall and other environmentalists, are generally harmless and kind of wonderful actually. The Waterless Flood is a calamity that does indeed wipe everyone out and mostly the God’s Gardeners do actually survive, but that’s kind of just the backdrop on which everything plays out.

The main thing that I took away from it was actually quite similar to what Timothy Morton calls ‘ecology without nature’, and it’s essentially that there is no pristine earth/Nature/environment and there can be no going back. In response to the massive, unabated extinctions of the time it’s set in (the semi-distant future, I’d guess 20-50 years from now?) the corporations actually genetically modify a small number of animals to survive and be profitable and so on. Mo’hairs are goats/sheep but with human hair (wigs!) and there are a bunch of other weird things too.

The other thing that’s just kind of interesting from a climate fiction perspective is that climate change is just another kind of silent, unspoken and assumed facet of the world they live in – everyone goes out wearing sunscreen all the time, it’s always hot and horrible, and there are constant afternoon thunderstorms because that’s the new climate. Meanwhile, life in all its fucked up forms goes on. It’s not a bleak image, but it’s not a particularly one either – it just is.

A few fleeting mentions of climate change consequences that I took note of – there’s a mention of a “Wisconsin desert” which is a nice and effective way of communicating that particular image, someone says at some point “used to be a fall variety when we still had fall”, a couple mentions of off-shore unstable high-rises (sea level rise) and then this really quite evocative passage. It comes in a kind of flashback to an even earlier period that the main character has:

By the time she had moved to college, the wrongness had moved closer. She remembers the oppressive sensation, like waiting all the time for a heavy stone footfall then a knock at the door. Everybody knew. Nobody admitted to knowing. If other people began talking about it you tuned them out, because what they were saying was both so obvious and so unthinkable.

We’re using up the earth. It’s almost gone. You can’t live with such fears and keep on whistling. (p.319)

From the acknowledgements at the end of the book, Atwood writes: ‘The year of the flood is fiction, but the general tendencies and many of the details in it are alarmingly close to fact.’ (p.573)

I also read the sequel to the trilogy MadAddam, which is interesting as well, but maybe not quite as good. Less to say about climate anyway, because a lot of it is just in the set-up – though we do get some more backstory on how things deteriorated – e.g. one main character is involved in dumping garbage up north in order to feed starving polar bears. It’s a kind of rich charity folly, and perfectly extrapolates from contemporary coordinates.

The Water Knife – Paolo Bacigalupi

This one was really interesting, it’s basically near-future sci-fi genre fare, with fairly workmanlike prose, pretty neat characterisation and a story that gets really, really interesting as it all revolves around tight water restrictions. The gist of it is that in the future Dustbowl America expands from Texas on up, spreading desertification, chaos, and social dysfunction to the point that state borders are closed. It’s the disintegration of the united states with an ecological driver behind it. Water doesn’t so much become a defacto currency, so much as access to water becomes highly constrained and commodified. Arcologies of entirely sealed habitats are the realm of the 1% and the rest of the population (including a great huddled mass of refugees from the state of Texas) are forced to eke their survival out in the dusty exterior world. Solar power is ubiquitous, fossil fuels are rare, and states have their own militaries – extending their quasi-legal property rights through military might in order to secure water for their populations. The titular ‘water knife’ is a character well versed in cutting off whole cities, towns and suburbs access to water. Highly fascistic and militarised regimes ensue, violence and exploitation are everywhere as people are so economically desperate to obtain enough money to buy water just for the bare essentials. Water is charged by the gallon through taps and ‘red cross relief wells’.

The plot spirals out of control as ancient senior water rights once belonging to a group of Indians (the hohokum tribe – whose name literally means ‘used up’, a rather foreboding omen) are lost, chased after by every political actor in that part of the world (Nevada, Arizona, California) as they try to get their hands on a legal guarantee to a lot of access to water. At first I found it all a bit extreme – I didn’t think it was actually all that plausible… but then I started reading around a bit and talking to some people about the stuff that the book assumes about water in that part of the world and all of the issues that he extrapolates out into the future become a bit more worryingly plausible. It’s based around (and features frequent mentions of) a 1986 book about water history and access in western America called ‘Cadillac Desert’. I haven’t read it yet, and I might not get around to it, but just looking through some of the topics it covers has already been interesting. Learning from where, and how, Los Angeles gets its water was a bit of a shock.

Like the other books I read this year that feature climate change as a feature of their fictional settings, this one too – even in spite of how terrible it a vision it is – left me at the closing with a strong sense that all these challenges that we are likely to face aren’t insurmountable, and that human life will probably continue in the face of tragedy. Having engaged with some of these climate scenarios now, and having spent the time dwelling within them, what was formerly the shroud of not-knowing that enveloped the future of our unfolding planetary disaster has been slightly pulled back. Now instead, I feel like I have a slightly better handle on if not the specifics, since the specifics may well be wrong, then at least the dynamics that may come into play. Once again, it seems, fear of the unknown is a large part of the problem wider society faces in addition to the other practical challenges of climate change.

I said in Melbourne at my talk for DiGRAA about the book-length work on this that I’m writing, and that if I were an artist, I would make climate change art. If I were a painter, I would paint climate change. If I were a labourer, I would try to labour on projects that will in some way contribute to the larger efforts to address climate change. I really do believe that a fundamental reorganisation of society is not just necessary, it is already starting to happen. A colleague of mine is doing research on public sector unions in the US who are starting to acknowledge the problem that heat in the workplace is a health and safety issue for people like police, emergency services, and so on. Climate change is just at the start of a process of moving out of the periphery and into a central concern of the political sphere – going from being just an “issue” to a central, everyday aspect of our lives. It’s going to happen quicker than anyone imagines, and we should try and get out in front of it as much as possible. Imagining these futures and how we are likely to exist within them, how they are going to impact on our own areas of work, our daily routines in our lived environments is going to be a critical project for the next several years if we are to avoid a reactionary political force taking advantage of it.

Please join me in this in whatever small ways you can – read some climate books and let us have a chat about them. Think about what climate change means for you and your workplace, where you live, and what you might want to start doing now to prepare. Maybe it’s planting a drought tolerant tree in your backyard. Maybe it’s adding another angle to your art, or your research, or your consciousness when you engage with media. Maybe it’s getting your landlord to sign up for solar power. Maybe it’s simply getting involved with a group like Solar Citizens or reading more stories from Renew Economy. Whatever it is, there is nothing too small that it’s not worth doing. There’s also no time to lose, and I promise that eventually, rather than climate change being a scary or fearful thing, knowing more about it actually lessens the worry. The fear eases. It’s hard but important work to imagine the future – any future, let alone a better one. But that’s what we’re here for.

Raymond Williams with a word on climate aesthetics


industry_power-generation_1Two short excerpts from Raymond Williams’ essay ‘Culture is Ordinary’ (which is nice for lots of reasons) – but these two are important things to keep in mind for climate activists and action. The first is about the working class’ relationship to (industrial/mechanical/electrical) power and the real benefit to life that it brought, which is worth keeping in mind when we talk about energy, etc.:

For one thing I knew this: at home we were glad of the Industrial Revolution, and of its consequent social and political changes. True, we lived in a very beautiful farming valley, and the valleys beyond the limestone we could all see were ugly. But there was one gift that was overriding, one gift which at any price we would take, the gift of power that is everything to men who have worked with their hands. It was slow in coming to us, in all its effects, but steam power, the petrol engine, electricity, these and their host of products in commodities and services, we took as quickly as we could get them, and were glad. I have seen all these things being used, and I have seen the things they replaced. I will not listen with patience to any acid listing of them – you know the sneer you can get into plumbing, baby Austins, aspirin, contraceptives, canned food. But I say to these Pharisees: dirty water, an earth bucket, a four- mile walk each way to work, headaches, broken women, hunger and monotony of diet. The working people, in town and country alike, will not listen (and I support them) to any account of our society which supposes that these things are not progress: not just mechanical, external progress either, but a real service of life. Moreover, in the new conditions, there was more real freedom to dispose of our lives, more real personal grasp where it mattered, more real say. Any account of our culture which explicitly or implicitly denies the value of an industrial society is really irrelevant; not in a million years would you make us give up this power. (Williams, ‘Culture is Ordinary’, 1958, p.9)

Williams description puts paid to the idea (widely held among some back-to-nature types) that power is somehow an inessential and a luxury (think of the way that boomers talk about the number of unnecessary “devices” that young people use today, Cf: this tweet by old mate Donnie).

The second excerpt is about the relation between power–technology and aesthetics, and the idea that power technology = ugly:

[This] false proposition is easily disposed of. It is a fact that the new power brought ugliness: the coal brought dirt, the factory brought overcrowding, communications brought a mess of wires. But the proposition that ugliness is a price we pay, or refuse to pay, for economic power need no longer be true. New sources of power, new methods of production, improved systems of transport and communication can, quite practically, make England clean and pleasant again, and with much more power, not less. Any new ugliness is the product of stupidity, indifference, or simply incoordination; these things will be easier to deal with than when power was necessarily noisy, dirty, and disfiguring. (p.10)

I highlight this point precisely for how, well, obvious and banal it seems even at the same time as so much power generation still does produce incredible ugliness. Tesla seems to get that aesthetics are important. Of course, others disagree but that’s the nature of taste. One of my favourite photographs (one i’ve linked here on the blog before) illustrates the sharp contrast between modes of power generation and their effect on the landscape. I also think one of the reason Joe Hockey’s “wind farms are ugly” type comments gained so much traction is that people, instinctively or intuitively, understand the importance of regimes of taste in the making-or-breaking of technology. My work on the aesthetics of renewable power generation has tried to contribute to that sense, and I think it will only become more and more important.

Of course, the other thing that the photo of the open-cut coal mines next to the wind farms makes clear is the way that fossil fuel production gets to neatly shift or obscure its impacts away from the public eye, while new technologies like solar and wind come under immediate and intense scrutiny just for their ‘newness’. By contrast, legacy industries and their impacts are just facts of life.

Aesthetic Seriousness

“Over the centuries, empirical, clear thinking has become branded with the image of Default Men. They were the ones granted the opportunity, the education, the leisure, the power to put their thoughts out into the world. In people’s minds, what do professors look like? What do judges look like? What do leaders look like? The very aesthetic of seriousness has been monopolised by Default Man. Practically every person on the globe who wants to be taken seriously in politics, business and the media dresses up in some way like a Default Man, in a grey, western, two-piece business suit. Not for nothing is it referred to as “power dressing”. We’ve all seen those photo ops of world leaders: colour and pattern shriek out as anachronistic.” – Grayson Perry’s editorial intro ‘Rise and Fall of The Default Man


Perhaps the first and foremost important characteristic to acknowledge about internet comments is that they are opportunistic. All their other features emerge from and are explained by this.

One Hundred Years of Solitude

“Actually, in spite of the fact that everyone considered him mad, José Arcadio Sugundo was at that time the most lucid inhabitant of the house. He taught little Aureliano how to read and write, initiated him in the study of the parchments, and he inculcated him with such a personal interpretation of what the banana company had meant to Macondo that many years later, when Aurelian became part of the world, one would have thought that he was telling a hallucinated version, because it was radically opposed to the false one that the historians had created and consecrated in the schoolbooks. In the small isolated room where the arid air never penetrated, nor the dust, nor the heat, both had the atavistic vision of an old man, his back to the window, wearing a hat with a brim like the wings of a crow who spoke about the world many years before they had been born. Both described at the same time how it was always March there and always Monday, and then they understood that José Arcadio Buendia was not as crazy as the family said, but that he was the only one who had enough lucidity to sense the truth of the fact that time also stumbled and had accidents and could therefore splinter and leave an eternalized fragment in a room.” Garbriel Garcia Marquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude, p.355.

This is my second favourite passage from the whole book (the first one involves a two page long description of some rather animated and purposive blood trails and their passage throughout a town, across roads, under tables, skirting objects, etc. Blood is fairly magical in this book. Heck everything is magical, its fair to say.)