Showing posts with label James Bridle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label James Bridle. Show all posts

Monday, December 12, 2022

Top 10 books of eco-fiction


The Road by Cormac McCarthy



Top 10 books of eco-fiction

As the climate crisis grows ever clearer, the best fiction can help realign our conception of nature


Michael Christie
12 February 2020


As our real-world ecosystem further devolves, we’ll soon move into the pining-for-our-ex-phase of the relationship – watching the BBC’s Planet Earth documentaries like old wedding videos after a nasty divorce. But books can reconfigure our conception of nature for the better.

My new novel, Greenwood, begins in 2038 on a remote island off the Pacific coast of British Columbia, where wealthy tourists flock from all corners of the dust-choked globe to visit the Greenwood Arboreal Cathedral­ – one of the world’s last remaining forests. The story then travels back through time, telling the story of a family inextricably linked to the trees, from a biologist to a carpenter to an eco-warrior to a blind timber tycoon, describing how we went from fearing and mythologising our forests, to extracting enormous wealth from them, to fencing them off as luxury retreats.

Here are 10 great novels that have taken on this overwhelming story.

1. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
The mother of all eco-fictions, a book that chronicles a man-made climate disaster before we knew what to call it. The dispossessed, hungry, and homeless migrate through baking dust in search of better lives, only to be turned back by callously protectionist locals. Sound familiar? It’s also a heartbreaking testament to the fact that eco-fiction need not be speculative. And even the most hard-hearted readers will be softened by Steinbeck’s eternally revolutionary idea: “Maybe all men got one big soul ever’body’s a part of.”

2. The Word for World Is Forest by Ursula Le Guin

A prescient novella about an interstellar logging colony, written by perhaps our greatest practitioner of “literary sci-fi”. Published in 1972, Le Guin’s book asserted that colonialism, extractivism, and environmental despoliation are endemic to humankind, and we surely haven’t proved her wrong in the years since. Concerning her novella’s similarities to the blockbuster film Avatar, which Le Guin described as “a high-budget, highly successful film” that “completely reverses the book’s moral premise, presenting the central and unsolved problem of the book, mass violence, as a solution”, she wrote: “I’m glad I have nothing at all to do with it”. 

3. Gold Fame Citrus by Claire Vaye Watkins
In her bold and strange novel, Watkins disassembles the mythology of the American west, paying particular attention to its brutal expansionism and unquestioned promise of personal reinvention. The story concerns a young couple trying to navigate post-apocalyptic California, where severe drought has baked the once fertile landscape into sandstorms and squalor. Peopled by wandering cults and water dowsers, Gold Fame Citrus shows us that perhaps the notions of “Shangri-La” and “Man-Made Hell on Earth” are two sides of the same ideological coin.

4. The Drowned World by JG Ballard
Published in 1962, and only Ballard’s second book, The Drowned World ought to be recognised as one of the pioneering works of climate fiction. By 2145, global warming has made slush of the ice caps (we knew this would happen, Exxon!), the seas have risen, and tropical swamps and jungles now dominate most of the Earth’s surface. A group of surveyors are sent from Greenland to soggy, flooded London to determine whether the southern world can someday be reclaimed. Writing during the era we believed most fervently that the world was ours to mould and shape, Ballard warned us that it wasn’t.

5. The Overstory by Richard Powers
Not the apocalypse so much as the prequel to it. Armed with more tree-related research than you can stack in your woodshed, Powers decentralises humans from his story to great effect, demonstrating how wanton deforestation and the reckless disregard for the complexity of natural systems have landed us in the mess we’re in. If you don’t come away from this novel with a deeper appreciation for trees, then you’re probably the CEO of a leading forestry company.

6. Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward
This brilliant National Book award-winning novel concerns the plight of Esch, a poor and pregnant 15-year-old, living with her family in Bois Sauvage, a mostly black Mississippi bayou town sitting smack dab in the path of hurricane Katrina. Set during the 12-day lead-up to landfall (plus a few days of aftermath), this mythic tragedy demonstrates what it means when the most vulnerable (and immobile) of us are struck by disaster. No novel draws a better link between personal traumas and climate traumas. In the storm’s wake, Esch muses: “Suddenly there is a great split between now and then, and I wonder where the world where that day happened has gone, because we are not in it.”


The Road

7. The Road by Cormac McCarthy
Though the exact cause of the calamity that necessitates all kinds of scrabbling barbarism remains unclear, its human ramifications are described with ruthless specificity. In an interview, McCarthy later claimed that he imagined the disaster as the aftermath of a comet strike, but I don’t buy it. This is eco-fiction through and through. And now that I’m a father, I can’t help but read The Road as an ode to parenting in a fallen world; to sighting the disaster that you hope your children won’t have to face, but know deep-down they will and must. Regularly I have my own Road-type conversations with my sons: “Why do we buy gas if it’s destroying our planet, Dad?” “Because I need to get to work.” “Then why don’t you work somewhere closer to our house?” and on it goes. I mean really, what’s the best way to tell a child that this wondrous world they’ve just come to know is hurtling towards ruin?

8. American War by Omar El Akkad
Omar El Akkad tapped into his experience as a journalist in Afghanistan and the Middle East to prophesy a whole new history for the US, including the second civil war of 2074, which was just as barbaric as the first. The conflict was kicked off when the northern states outlawed fossil fuels after Florida was flooded with seawater, and, naturally, the southerners revolted, and the country again tore in half. A harrowing reminder that our old wounds can flare up in times of greatest turmoil.

9. Clade by James Bradley

The best eco-fiction doesn’t present our reckless alteration of the natural ecological order as a single apocalyptic event, with us playing the resident despoilers and the Earth our helpless victim. Instead it reminds us of our profound and inescapable interconnection with the natural world. Clade, Australian novelist James Bradley’s ingenious novel, tells the story of many generations of one family, all played out on a stage that is being incrementally destroyed by climate change, though few of the characters notice. Clade reminds us that world indeed won’t end with a bang, but with a long series of breakdowns, extinctions, die-offs, fires, floods, droughts, blights, and dust storms, during which our human lives will carry on just as messily as ever. And perhaps our greatest sin of all will be our failure to notice.


10. Flight Behaviour by Barbara Kingsolver
In rural Tennessee during an unrelenting period of unseasonable rain, a young woman named Dellarobia happens upon the uncanny spectacle of millions of monarch butterflies congregating in a field near her house. As competing interests fight to worship, capitalise upon, or preserve this unique phenomenon, the ensuing “Battle of the Butterflies” is a lesson in our frustratingly human tendency to focus on symptoms instead of root causes. As she watches the frenzied media coverage on her television, Dellarobia observes: “Nobody was asking why the butterflies were here; the big news was just that they were.’”


Saturday, July 7, 2018

2018, as picked by writers / Part one

 








2018, as picked by writers – part one

Surrealist artists, dogged detectives, modern lovers and spies behaving badly ... leading authors pick their best books to enjoy these holidays

Saturday 7 July 2018

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Meg Wolitzer’s The Female Persuasion (Chatto) is wonderfully dense and wise, a page-turner that succeeds both at character and ideas. It felt true to life.

Cuz: The Life and Times of Michael A (Bodley Head) by Danielle Allen, a memoir about the loss of a beloved cousin, is unbearably moving. It illuminates the injustice often meted out to young black men by the American criminal justice system.

Uzodinma Iweala’s Speak No Evil (John Murray), in which a young Nigerian American comes out as gay, is a coming of age story about the difficult, churning mix of family expectations. It is elegant and elegiac, and evokes Washington DC with subtle power.

John Banville

Order of Time

The Years by Annie Ernaux (Fitzcarraldo, translated by Alison Strayer) is a remarkable work, a truly innovative autobiography that opens new ways of remembering and recuperating the past.

The Long Take, by Robin Robertson (Picador), is a narrative in verse set in the immediate post-war years in America, that is at once heartbreaking and bracing. Think of it as the best black and white 1940s movie you will ever encounter in print.

The Order of Time, by Carlo Rovelli (Allen Lane, translated by Erica Segre and Simon Carnell), hardly seems like pool-side reading, but anyone with the least interest in the science of the physical world will be by turns astonished, baffled and thrilled by what Rovelli has to say about the true nature of time, which has little in common with our everyday conception of it. Rovelli is the poet of quantum physics.

Seamus Heaney 100 Poems (Faber) is an essential collection, which the poet meant to make before he died, and which the Heaney family have now completed. A feast of beauty.

Julian Barnes

I’ve greatly enjoyed two group biographies: Agnès Poirier’s rich and funny Left Bank (Bloomsbury), about cold rooms and hot ideas in postwar Paris; and Martin Gayford’s wise and generous Modernists and Mavericks (Thames & Hudson), about artists in London from 1945 to 1970. And what to read in homage to Philip Roth? Maybe American Pastoral.

Sebastian Barry


Mark O’Connell’s To Be a Machine (Granta), a very lively book about transhumanism, won the Wellcome prize. Sally Rooney is 27 and so won’t be worrying about mortality – she entered the landscape fully fledged in the now traditional Irish manner, and with great power, – like Katherine Mansfield and Elizabeth Bowen fused together – with Conversations with Friends (Faber). Just in case it gets lost in the newer dazzle, it’s worth mentioning again Red Dirt (Head of Zeus, 2015) by EM Reapy, which won the Rooney prize, an Irish stormer set in Australia.

William Boyd

I’m lucky enough to be reading Only to Sleep by Lawrence Osborne (out from Hogarth in September). A brilliant Raymond Chandler continuation novel with an ageing Philip Marlowe. Osborne and Chandler are a perfect match. Luke Kennard’s wit and astonishing virtuosity, so present in his poetry, have safely made the journey to his beguiling first novel The Transition (4th Estate): very funny, gimlet-eyed observation. Talking of poetry, Michael O’Neill’s latest collection Return of the Gift (Arc) is wise, lucid and pitch perfect.

Mary Beard

Home Fire

I just read Kamila Shamsie’s Home Fire (Bloomsbury). It’s brilliant in itself, but it also made me rethink Sophocles’s Antigone, on which it is loosely based. For some high-fibre holiday reading, I shall be packing Josephine Quinn’s In Search of the Phoenicians (Princeton), which dares to ask whether that famous ancient people really existed, and promises to expose the modern fantasies and ideologies that created them.

James Bridle

Broad Band (Portfolio) is a brilliantly written and necessary history of our foremost cultural technology by Claire Evans. It illuminates the occluded contributions of many women to the medium over more than 150 years, and transforms our understanding in doing so. From mathematicians to community managers, engineers to speleologists, Evans shows how the internet’s past, present and future are all utterly contingent upon its radical diversity.

Daniel Trilling has spent years tracing the routes taken by migrants from across Africa and the Middle East to Europe, meeting people and keeping in touch with them along the way: in camps, in cafes, and on Facebook. In Lights in the Distance (Picador) he tells their stories – or, more often, allows them to tell their own – calmly, clearly and deeply affectingly, never losing sight of the violence, brutality and pervasive racism that underlies and maintains the present situation.

Kayo Chingonyi


Let Me Be Like Water by SK Perry (Melville House) is a wonderful debut novel about how we find our feet again after a bereavement. It’s one of the best evocations of the grieving process I’ve read and is written in a fluid engaging style that draws you in to the protagonist Holly’s world.

There is not a word wasted in Fondue, the second collection of poems by AK Blakemore (Offord Road). I was struck by Blakemore’s gift for crafting memorable and devastating images that stay in the mind long after you’ve closed the book.

I saw Michael Donkor read at Brixton library recently and was enthralled by the extract he shared from his debut novel Hold (4th Estate), which moves between London and Ghana. I am looking forward to reading it in full.

Jonathan Coe

Far and away the funniest (and saddest) new book I’ve read this year is The Collected Letters of Flann O’Brien (Dalkey Archive), although I’m slightly reluctant to suggest that anybody packs this 600-page doorstop in their beach bag. Otherwise, having just finished writing a novel myself, I’m eager to dive back into other people’s fictional worlds, and am looking forward, equally, to Whistle in the Dark (Viking) by Emma Healey – which I’m told is even better than the excellent Elizabeth Is Missing – Old Baggage (Doubleday) by Lissa Evans (a novel of the suffragette movement that promises to be both warm and funny) and, for a bit of cold-eyed post-Brexit satire, Perfidious Albion (Faber) by Sam Byers.

Anne Enright

The Mars Room Rachel Kushner

I am really enjoying Catherine Lacey’s short stories Certain American States (Granta) so will read her first novel Nobody Is Ever Missing to catch up. She is playful and smart, one of a generation of American women who seem entirely unafraid. Rachel Kushner’s The Mars Room (Jonathan Cape) shows what happens when a smart writer gets truly serious. It is a necessary and compelling book, and this year’s must read. I will also bring proofs of Robert Alter’s translation of the Bible (out from Norton in December), the first single author translation ever to be published, and Human Relations and Other Difficulties (Profile), a collection of essays by Mary-Kay Wilmers, whose intelligence I find endlessly opaque and interesting.



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