Literature and the Anthropocene

The Anthropocene has fundamentally changed the way we think about

our relation to nonhuman life and to the planet. This book is the first to
critically survey how the Anthropocene is enriching the study of literature
and inspiring contemporary poetry and fiction. Engaging with topics such
as genre, life, extinction, memory, infrastructure, energy, and the future,
the book makes a compelling case for literature’s unique contribution to
contemporary environmental thought. It pays attention to literature’s
imaginative and narrative resources, and also to its appeal to the emotions
and its relation to the material world. As the Anthropocene enjoins us to
read the signals the planet is sending and to ponder the traces we leave on
the Earth, it is also, this book argues, a literary problem.
Literature and the Anthropocene maps key debates and introduces the
often difficult vocabulary for capturing the entanglement of human and
nonhuman lives in an insightful way. Alternating between accessible
discussions of prominent theories and concise readings of major works
of Anthropocene literature, the book serves as an indispensable guide to
this exciting new subfield for academics and students of literature and
the environmental humanities.

Pieter Vermeulen is an associate professor of American and comparative

literature at the University of Leuven, Belgium. He is the author of
Romanticism after the Holocaust and Contemporary Literature and the
End of the Novel: Creature, Affect, Form.
Literature and Contemporary Thought

Literature and Contemporary Thought is an interdisciplinary series pro-

viding new perspectives and cutting edge thought on the study of Lit-
erature and topics such as Animal Studies, Disability Studies and Digital
Humanities. Each title includes chapters on:

 why the topic is relevant, interesting and important at this moment

and how it relates to contemporary debates
 the background of and a brief introduction to the particular area of
study the book is intended to cover
 when this area of study became relevant to literature, how the relation-
ship between the two areas was initially perceived and how it evolved

Edited by Ursula Heise and Guillermina De Ferrari this series will be

invaluable to students and academics alike as they approach the
interdisciplinary study of Literature.

Available in this series:

Literature and Law

Mark Fortier

Literature and the World

Stefan Helgesson and Mads Rosendahl Thomsen

Literature and Materialism

Frédéric Neyrat

Literature and Social Media

Bronwen Thomas

Literature and the Anthropocene

Pieter Vermeulen
Literature and the
Anthropocene

Pieter Vermeulen
First published 2020
by Routledge
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Contents

Acknowledgments vii
Series Editors’ Preface viii

Introduction: Naming, Telling, Writing—The Anthropocene 1

Literature and the Naming of the Present 1
The Anthropocene and Its Others 9
Literature and the Anthropocene: Four Affordances 19
The Book: Anthropocene Agencies, Anthropocene Temporalities 29

PART 1
Anthropocene Agencies 35

1 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 37

Ecopoetics and Form at the End of Nature 37
What Was Ecocriticism? 43
Differentiating Difference: Form and Environmental
Humanities 49
Environmental Humanities at Sea: The Ocean and the Life
of Form 53

2 Genres, Media, Worlds 60

Deranged Realism: Genre and Affect 60
Poe–Pi–Pym! Literature vs. Antarctica 66
Earth, World, Globe, Planet 72
Media Affordances: Photography, (Post-)Cinema, Literature 77
vi Contents
3 Objects, Matters, Things 84
Other-than-human(ism) 84
Matter vs. Object 88
Unsafe Spaces, or, The Matter of the Glister 93
Scale Shiftiness 96
Storied Matter in the Anthropocene Scriptorium 100

PART 2
Anthropocene Temporalities 105

4 Dominations 107
Anthropocene Angels 107
Anthropocene Memories 110
Anthropocene Turtles: Mining the Indigenous Archive 114
Anthropocene Swans: Mourning the Future 117
Anthropocene Wilderness: After Conservation 122

5 Emergencies 126
Emergency vs. Infrastructure 126
Infrastructural (In)visibilities 129
Off the Road/On the Grid: Literature Dreaming of
Infrastructure 135
Energizing Infrastructure 138

6 Residues 144
The Poetics of Extinction, or, Beach Reading 144
Denial: Apocalypse against Extinction 151
Detachment: The Afterlives of Extinction 156
Indifference: Cosmic Insignificance 162
Misanthropy: Anti-Natalism, Exterminism, and Peripheral Life 165

Glossary 172
References 180
Index 193
Acknowledgments

This book concludes a five-year period of thinking and writing about the
relation between literature and the Anthropocene. I want to thank the
people who invited me to talk or write about this topic and encouraged
me to develop my ideas: Brigitte Adriaensen, Lucy Bond, Holly Brown,
Liliane Campos, Marco Caracciolo, Stef Craps, Rick Crownshaw, Ben
De Bruyn, Kári Driscoll, Joanna Freer, Tom Idema, Suzanne Knittel,
Yvonne Liebermann, Birgit Neumann, Jessica Rapson, Mads Rosendahl
Thomsen, and Lars Saetre. In Leuven, I was fortunate to be able to dis-
cuss many ideas with my colleagues at the literature department, and I
especially want to thank Lieven Ameel, Sascha Bru, Ortwin de Graef,
and Tom Toremans for their companionship and advice. Tom Chad-
wick, Kahn Faassen, Reuben Martens, Ella Mingazova, and Ioannis
Tsitsovits developed congenial doctoral projects from which I learned a
lot. Many of the ideas in this book were beta tested on an excellent
group of students in a 2018 masters course on contemporary American
literature and the Anthropocene. Leanne Rae Darnbrough and Lisanne
Meinen read most of the manuscript and provided invaluable feedback in
the final stages. At home, Mats and Stine remind me every day that
finding forms for planetary collapse is not a merely theoretical exercise,
but a matter of survival. I couldn’t wish for a better companion than
Mirjam to spend the end of the world with. I dedicate the book to her.
Series Editors’ Preface

Since the turn of the millennium, literary and cultural studies have been
transformed less by new overarching theoretical paradigms than by the
emergence of a multitude of innovative subfields. These emergent research
areas explore the relationship between literature and new media technol-
ogies, seek to establish innovative bridges to disciplines ranging from
medicine, cognitive science, social psychology to biology and ecology, and
develop new quantitative or computer-based research methodologies. In
the process, they rethink crucial concepts such as affect, indigeneity,
gender, and postcolonialism and propose new perspectives on aesthetics,
narrative, poetics, and visuality.
Literature and Contemporary Thought seeks to capture such research
at the cutting edge of literary and cultural studies. The volumes in this
series explore both how new approaches are reshaping literary criticism
and theory, and how research in literary and cultural studies opens out
to transform other disciplines and research areas. They seek to make
new literary research available, intelligible, and usable to scholars and
students across academic disciplines and to a broader public beyond the
university interested in innovative approaches to art and culture across
different historical periods and geographical regions.
Literature and Contemporary Thought highlights new kinds of scho-
larship in the literary and cultural humanities that are relevant and
important to public debates, and seeks to translate their interdisciplinary
analyses and theories into useful tools for such thought and discussion.

Ursula K. Heise and Guillermina De Ferrari

Introduction: Naming, Telling,
Writing—The Anthropocene

Literature and the Naming of the Present

In the last decade, the notion of the Anthropocene has gained an almost
viral popularity. After it emerged in the earth sciences, use of the term
has proliferated in the art world, in environmental thought, increasingly
also in literary and cultural studies, and, more recently, in public dis-
course. But if the term has many users, it has few enthusiastic fans, as
many consider the term too abstract and too grandiose, too hip and too
glib. As we will see, there are good reasons for this resistance. Still, that
dissatisfaction is no reason to let go of the word (as if words could just
be policed out of existence): disappointment is almost unavoidable in the
face of the far-reaching environmental and social challenges that the
Anthropocene is supposed to name. Naming the present is necessarily
provisional and ongoing work, and it is a task that is inevitably
speculative and imaginative. This is only one reason why literary and
environmental thinking can enrich one another in coming to terms with
the Anthropocene.
Take, as an example, Jeff VanderMeer’s (2014a) Annihilation, the first
novel in the Southern Reach trilogy. Annihilation tells the story of an
expedition of four scientists sent to investigate the mysteries of Area X, a
seemingly pristine region of coastline separated from the rest of the
United States by an invisible border. Life in Area X is not merely wild, it
is positively weird: on top of black bears, coyotes, and huge aquatic
reptiles, there is also an undetermined “low, powerful moaning at dusk”
(5), and the crew later stumbles upon “a vast biological entity that might
or might not be terrestrial” (90). The status of this entity, which will
later be called “the Crawler,” is deeply uncertain: does it belong to the
earth? Is it a cosmic force? Or a shared hallucination by the crew
members? This radical ambivalence makes Area X “weird” in a more
2 Introduction
strictly literary sense. In literary history, the notion is customarily linked
to the so-called “old weird” fiction of writers like H.P. Lovecraft, who
wrote cosmic horror stories that, in Lovecraft’s own words, indulged a
“breathless and unexplainable dread of outer, unknown forces” and
evoked “the daemons of unplumbed space” (Lovecraft 2011, 1043). Like
the old weird, the work of VanderMeer is invested in strange and
disorienting entities and feelings. Still, and unlike the old weird, Van-
derMeer’s so-called “new” or “ecological” weird does not allow the
human to survive the encounter with alien forces unscathed. In the
Southern Reach trilogy, it is not clear whether the strange entity is an
illusion, a creature, or “‘merely’ a machine” (191), but it is clear that
human life will have to find ways to live together with it as the entity
actively “creates out of our ecosystem a new world” (191). While the
title of the first instalment in the trilogy evokes a feeling of cosmic
horror (annihilation!), the final instalment (Acceptance) conveys a sense
that altering the terms on which human and nonhuman lives coexist is
something to welcome rather than resist.
Still, the trilogy’s embrace of the erosion of the borders between the
human and the nonhuman is not unconditional. Many of the institutions
and forms of life that we have constructed rely on a firm distinction
between human and nonhuman entities. Our legal systems, for instance,
assume that only human beings ever do things intentionally. If the
organism in Annihilation, then, has an “intelligence … far different from
our own” and displays “processes and aims [that] are utterly alien”
(191), the novel invites us to consider the unfamiliar idea that a nonhu-
man thing can also have aims, plans, and designs of its own, and that
human beings now have to share their agency with other kinds of forces.
The narrator, a biologist, wonders what the nonhuman entity’s alien
intelligence might mean “for the collection of cells and thought” that
comprise her (172), when even the thoughts she thinks that she thinks
might not be her own, but rather the effect of the organism “pulling
these different impressions of itself from [her] mind and projecting them
back at [her], as a form of camouflage” (179). It is not just that the
boundary between human and nonhuman is an unstable one, it is also
that the border seems to cut right through human communities, bodies,
and even psyches. Human life, Annihilation suggests, is fundamentally
entangled with nonhuman lives.
So how do we begin to understand those entanglements? How do
we approach a reality in which traditional divisions no longer hold?
What happens to the scientific disciplines through which we
 Introduction 3
customarily study the world? In this new dispensation, the neat divi-
sion between the sciences (which study nature in splendid isolation
from human intervention) and the humanities (traditionally dedicated
to the study of society and culture) becomes an obstacle in the effort
to come to terms with a new reality in which the human and nonhu-
man realm are deeply entwined. Neither the sciences nor the huma-
nities are particularly well equipped to capture that entanglement on
their own. It will be one central argument of this book that literature
is an important resource for approaching this uncharted territory, this
intellectual Area X—and this is why I begin this book with a literary
example, the first of many to follow. In VanderMeer’s trilogy, the
eponymous Southern Reach is a government agency commissioned to
study and conceal Area X. It confronts Area X’s challenge to existing
disciplinary divisions by delegating an interdisciplinary team, consist-
ing of a biologist, an anthropologist, a surveyor, and a psychologist
(the linguist drops out at the last moment). At the end of the novel,
only the biologist survives. Rather than an interdisciplinary sum of
existing disciplines, it seems, we will need novel ways of apprehending
the entanglement of human and nonhuman lives. In the first chapter of
this book, I show how the interdisciplinary field of the environmental
humanities has, in recent years, increasingly come to serve as a rubric
for such innovative knowledge work. Because developments in this
field resonate with exciting innovations in contemporary literature,
this book will not only survey the interface of literary and environ-
mental thinking, but also present and analyze a significant sample of
the most pertinent literary engagements with the altered relation
between the human and the planet.
At the beginning of the century, that new planetary condition
received the by now familiar name of the Anthropocene (literally
meaning “the new epoch of humans”). While the term had been used
before by the biologist Eugene Stoermer, it became prominent when the
Nobel Prize-winning atmospheric chemist Paul Crutzen declared in
2000 that the Holocene, the relatively stable and mild geological epoch
in which human life had flourished for 11,700 year, was coming to an
end, and that we needed a new name for a new epoch. The culprit:
human life. In the past three centuries, Crutzen notes, human action
has come to expand its reach over the whole planet, and its impact on
the climate and on chemical and geological processes has become ever
more intensive, which leads him to suggest the Anthropocene as the
proper name for this new epoch in which humans have become a
4 Introduction
proper geological (rather than merely social or biological) agent akin to
meteorites and volcanoes. Crutzen (2002) looks around the globe and
sees a planet that has been thoroughly shaped by human intervention:

About 30–50% of the planet’s land surface is exploited by humans.

Tropical rainforests disappear at a fast pace, releasing carbon diox-
ide and strongly increasing species extinction. Dam building and
river diversion have become commonplace … Energy use has grown
16-fold during the twentieth century, causing 160 million tonnes of
atmospheric sulphur dioxide emissions per year, more than twice the
sum of its natural emissions. More nitrogen fertilizer is applied in
agriculture than is fixed naturally in all terrestrial ecosystems; nitric
oxide production by the burning of fossil fuel and biomass also
overrides natural emissions.
(23)

Crutzen’s litany (which is about twice as long as the parts I quote here)
makes the oversized impact of human action on the planet absolutely
clear. At the same time, it is hard to imagine a reader capable of
understanding all elements of it. To fully appreciate the significance of
the facts that Crutzen enumerates, a reader would need to know
demographics, atmospheric chemistry, climatology, engineering, and
more. This is not something Annihilation’s interdisciplinary crew could
pull off.
This book not only argues for the relevance of literature, but also of
literary studies, for coming to terms with our Anthropocene condition.
Crutzen’s catalogue offers a good occasion to illustrate that relevance (and
we will see in the third chapter on “Objects, Matters, Things” that the
catalogue or the litany is a key stylistic feature in Anthropocene writing).
If Annhilation’s crew had contained someone trained in the study of lan-
guage, and especially literature (and remember it almost included a lin-
guist), that someone could have suggested that an information dump that
ranges across disciplines is less effective for the disinterested communica-
tion of facts than for making a particular affective impression on readers.
Such an accumulation of facts, delivered in a monotone sequence of
declarative sentences, not only aims to inform readers—it is as likely to
overwhelm and exhaust them. Literary studies has the expertise to explain
that effect. Crutzen’s relentless and cheerless accumulation of worrying
facts brings readers to the limits of their capacity to process information.
In that sense, it has something to do with the romantic aesthetic of the
 Introduction 5
sublime, which aimed to inspire awe and terror, yet it deviates from it in
providing the particular combination of astonishment and boredom that
cultural critic Sianne Ngai has identified as “stuplimity.” The traditional
sublime staged “the instantaneous or sudden defeat of comprehension” in
the face of the infinite and elemental (not unlike Lovecraft’s cosmic
horror); stuplimity, for its part, rather operates through “an extended
duration of consecutive fatigues” (Ngai 2007, 19). The dispiriting effect of
the stuplime consists in a combination “of boredom and astonishment, of
what ‘dulls’ with what ‘irritates’ or agitates, of excessive excitation with
extreme desensitization or fatigue” (16). As Ngai explains, such a creeping
fatigue does not inspire action or a desire to escape from the systems in
which we are trapped. Her category helps us understand the awkward and
disorienting effect that Crutzen’s catalogue has on the reader: half-informed,
overwhelmed, aware that things are bad and need to change, … but then
what?
Descriptions of the Anthropocene, even seemingly sober and
descriptive ones like Crutzen’s, are never simple statements of fact. We
tend to think that a straightforward sum of incontrovertible scientific
observations adds up to a watertight conclusion—in this case, the rea-
lization that the moderations of the Holocene are over, and that human
action has shifted the planet to a new epoch, an epoch we can name the
Anthropocene. Yet the process of naming a new reality is considerably
more complicated, for at least three reasons. First, the facts that point
to the reality of the Anthropocene are in no way simple empirical
observations: measuring global sulphur dioxide emissions and compar-
ing those numbers to past emissions and to future reserves, for
instance, relies on the harvesting of global data on a scale that can only
be processed by vast computational infrastructures—what Paul
Edwards (2000) has called the “vast machine” of data models, simula-
tion models, and reanalysis models (xv). Without observation instru-
ments, algorithms, and the availability of vast computer processing
capacities, there would simply be no data, and no scientific facts about
the changing earth system. For climate change skeptics and deniers, the
obvious conclusion is that these data are fabricated, doctored, and dis-
torted; for people more familiar with the procedures of science, this is
simply how facts are established. Edwards makes it clear that observa-
tion and modeling have generated a clear consensus about the reality of
climate change since the 1990s (7).
But how do we translate such a robust scientific consensus into a
new name? Like all speech acts, that of baptizing a geological epoch
6 Introduction
relies on a number of institutional conditions (and this is a second
complication). These institutional realities are quite sobering. Since
2009, an interdisciplinary Anthropocene Working Group (AWG) has
been mandated by the International Commission on Stratigraphy’s
(ICS) Subcommission on Quaternary Stratigraphy (SQS) to assess the
viability of the term as a geochronological unit. The group’s 2017
“Summary of Evidence and Interim Recommendations” makes evident
the entanglement of scientific observation and bureaucratic process.
The group “holds the Anthropocene to be stratigraphically real,” as
there is a sufficient number of stratigraphic signals that show the earth
system moving away from Holocene values (Zalasiewicz et al. 2017,
55). The group’s conclusions, we read, were not reached by consensus,
but by an “informal and non-binding” email ballot (58). After eight
years, the working group points out that a lot of work remains to be
done: the selection of sites for further analysis, a full description of
relevant signals, the preparation of a formal proposal to the SQS,
endorsement by the SQS, referral to the ICS, and, in case of a favorable
vote, ratification by the Executive Committee of the IUGS (59). We are,
to say the least, not quite there.
Except, of course, that we are. As the world is witnessing wildfires at
the Arctic and Brazil’s accelerating destruction of the Amazon, the
whole ratification process seems somewhat beside the point. At the end
of the Working Group’s paper, the authors note the irrelevance of the
bureaucratic steps they have just patiently enumerated: “Whichever
way this particular process ends, it is clear that human beings are now
operating as a major geological agent at the planetary scale, and that
their activities … have imprinted an indelible mark on the planet” (59).
Crutzen (2002) himself similarly registers some impatience with termi-
nological disputes and ends his 2002 article by reminding his audience
of the challenges ahead: “A daunting task lies ahead for scientists and
engineers … This will require appropriate human behaviour” (23). As
Crutzen’s fairly provincial appeal to only “scientists and engineers”
already suggests, he believes in the viability of “large-scale geo-engi-
neering projects,” but he admits that this preference is not based on
scientific fact but remains a matter of conjecture: “At this stage,” he
concludes, “we are still largely treading on terra incognita” (23). A
third reason the Anthropocene is a contested name, then, has to do
with the inevitable slippage between painstakingly established scientific
facts and deeply-felt value commitments, between patient description
and an urgent need to act.
 Introduction 7
The fact that the production of data relies on models and infra-
structures; the slow ratification process by the geological community,
which makes it easy to dismiss artistic, literary, or humanities-based
engagements with the notion of the Anthropocene as premature (even
if, in reality, they might already be too late); and finally the fact that
the notion registers less “a matter of fact” than what Bruno Latour
(2004), an important voice in humanistic reflections on the Anthro-
pocene, has called “a matter of concern”—all three factors make the
Anthropocene a name that will never be fully adequate, and that can
only ever be a misnomer for a complex and open-ended cluster of
observations, procedures, affects, commitments, and values. The notion
has few explicit advocates, and people using the term are often quick to
point out their own reservations about it. But if no one is exactly for
the Anthropocene (with the possible exception of Diane Ackerman
[2014] in her book The Human Age), it has undeniably been productive
as a term of debate. The Anthropocene is something one can be against
(as in the titles of works by Daniel Hartley [2015] and T.J. Demos
[2017]), and it is a name that has invited many alternative coinages that
claim to better capture current realities and challenges. Steve Mentz
(2019) has identified no less than 24 ’cenes that have been coined in
what he whimsically calls “the Neologicismcene”—underlining that
“the new epoch of humans” is also the epoch in which humans can’t
stop inventing new names for their predicament, if only because no one
name precisely nails it. In the next section, we will look at notions such
as the Chthulucene, the Capitalocene, and the Plantationocene. These
terms in different ways argue that the Anthropocene’s invocation of a
human collective overlooks substantial differences between different
human communities, and fails to convey that some (typically privi-
leged) constituencies bear much more responsibility for the ongoing
planetary crisis than the (often disadvantaged) groups that suffer from it
most directly. The term, for the proponents of these alternative names,
is not only a misnomer, but also serves as a kind of disingenuous
disclaimer that dissolves accountability.
The Anthropocene as misnomer and disclaimer: perhaps such linguis-
tic infelicity is unavoidable when we are inhabiting what Crutzen calls
“terra incognita,” an earth we no longer know. Our disciplinary
traditions, whether in the humanities or the sciences, have not prepared
us for the novel constellations of the human and the nonhuman. Let’s
turn to VanderMeer’s Annihilation again. Here, the terra incognita is
called Area X, and is not situated in the void, but in the debris of human
8 Introduction
civilization, amidst “eerie signs of human habitation” (5). In this realm,
names don’t function as they do in more hospitable environments, and
none of the characters are referred to by their names, only by their dis-
ciplinary identities (which, as we saw before, also fall short of under-
standing the weirdness of the area). As the biologist notes: “we were
always strongly discouraged from using names: We were meant to be
focused on our purpose, and ‘anything personal should be left behind.’
Names belonged to where we had come from, not to who we were while
embedded in Area X” (9).
“Embedded in Area X”: this pretty much describes the way human
life now has to find a way to cohabitate with the nonhuman forces with
which it is irrevocably entangled. This is a situation, Annihilation
notes, in which customary names don’t belong. It is a situation in
which language, rather, needs to find ways to test and tune an unset-
tling and untried constellation of things, forces, and affects. This is
precisely what VanderMeer’s atmospheric, patient, and almost ambient
mode of describing Area X achieves. If I have drawn on a literary work
to introduce the multifarious complexities that beset the name
“Anthropocene,” it is from the conviction (which I share with Van-
derMeer and many of the authors I turn to in the rest of the book) that
literature’s imaginative, narrative, affective, and reflexive resources
have a role to play in updating the knowledge infrastructures we need
to reconnoiter new intellectual territories. If Crutzen believes that
“scientists and engineers” will help us settle these new territories, this
book shows how literature and literary studies can help the broader
project of the environmental humanities unsettle such engrained but
obsolete disciplinary certainties.
The inadequacy of the name of the Anthropocene is one reason why
this book sticks to it. The name is less a rigid designator with a stable
referent (for all the reasons discussed above) than a rubric that has, since
the beginning of the century, increasingly come to cluster concerns over
the human impact on the planet. The term has been undeniably productive
as a catalyst for ecological concerns, and for discourses and practices
through which human anxieties and aspirations are articulated. The term
has generated fewer defenses than arguments against it or in favor of
alternatives for it, but such arguments end up demonstrating the useful-
ness of the term in fueling argumentation, reflection, and debate about
crucial aspects of the genealogies, challenges, and prospects that make up
the present. The Anthropocene, in other words, becomes useful if we
accept that is inevitably a misnomer. It covers a makeshift assemblage of
 Introduction 9
discourses, terms, protocols, and experiments that never fully hit home—if
only because home turns out to be a weirder place than we remember. For
Bruno Latour (2017), the reason to stick to the name is that it makes it
possible to “stay with the trouble” (100n77). Latour borrows this phrase
from Donna Haraway, who, even though she rejects the term, calls for an
attempt “to be truly present”; for Haraway (2016), the challenge is to
refuse to transcend the challenges of the present, and to inhabit the “now”
as “mortal critters [Haraway’s term for ‘microbes, plants, animals,
humans and nonhumans’] entwined in myriad unfinished configurations of
places, times, matters, and meanings” (1, 169n1). As I show in the rest of
this book, literature and the study of literature are two vital resources for
learning to inhabit the present—for the hard work of what Haraway calls
“getting on together” (10).

The Anthropocene and Its Others

Except in the rarified realm of stratigraphy, the Anthropocene has no
robust real-world referent, but it has managed to assemble a number of
phenomena that provide evidence for the far-reaching consequences of
human action. The most obvious one is climate change, which entered
public consciousness in the 1980s (well before the notion of the
Anthropocene began its career), often under the name of global warm-
ing. While the Anthropocene is popularly still tied to anthropogenic
climate change, the term also covers processes such as ocean acidifica-
tion (which is a consequence of increasing carbon dioxide levels),
global population growth, resource depletion, massive species extinc-
tion, and ecosystem simplification more generally. Cumulatively, these
phenomena point to the unsustainability of the human exploitation of
the planet. Our species uses about one third of the continental biomass
available every year for its own sustenance; 97 per cent of the biomass
of land vertebrates consists of humans and their domestic animals
(Bonneuil and Fressoz 2016, 7–9). And the planet is not only full of
human life, it is also full of the nonhuman stuff that is needed to sup-
port that life. Jedediah Purdy (2019) reports that “the material habitat
that humans have created for themselves in the form of roads, cities,
rural housing, the active soil in cropland, and so forth” is estimated “at
thirty trillion tons, five orders of magnitude greater than the weight of
the human beings that it sustains” (21–22). The Anthropocene expres-
ses the fact that human designs have thoroughly colonized the planet to
10 Introduction
the point that no margins or sites of refuge for different ways of being
or even biological diversity remain.
The Anthropocene presents a thoroughly humanized earth, but this
does not mean that earth is under human control. The problem is that
the different manifestations of the Anthropocene are neither linear nor
localized, neither reversible nor containable. Developments like popula-
tion increases, intensive farming, and the unlocking of energy resources
have at one time undeniably served to increase human welfare, and in
some cases still do, but they have set off ecological and chemical pro-
cesses that interlock with one another in ways that destabilize the earth
system as a whole. In the Anthropocene, the hydrosphere (the watery
part of the earth), the atmosphere (gases), the cryosphere (the planet’s ice
mass), the lithosphere (the solid parts), but also the economic and energy
systems that tap into these and the social and symbolic orders that we
have developed to inhabit them have begun to interact in ways that are
less predictable than ever.
Take, for example, the effect of rising temperatures on Arctic ice melt:
disappearing ice will result in warmer and expanding oceans, rising sea-
levels, threats to coastal constituencies, patterns of geographical disloca-
tion and mass migration, political instability, among others. If these
effects are increasingly speculative (the first few are decidedly not), they
are also far from unlikely. Another feature of Arctic thaw is that the
process is self-accelerating: once sea ice disappears, less of the sun’s heat
will be reflected and more will be absorbed by the planet, which will
accelerate the warming that propels the melting in a positive feedback
loop. The instability of the earth system is often expressed through the
notion of “tipping points”: moments when accumulated changes in
degree suddenly and irreversibly shift to changes in kind. Literary critic
Timothy Clark (2015) has referred to the Anthropocene as a “threshold
concept”: a “necessarily vague but insidious border” (48) beyond which the
predictions, practices, and habits on which we rely become inoperative.
This is the terrain Paul Crutzen referred to as terra incognita.
Clark emphasizes that the Anthropocene is also a threshold concept
for the ways we make sense of the world: it names a brink where
“modes of thinking and practices that were once self-evidently adequate,
progressive, or merely innocuous become, in this emerging and counter-
intuitive context, even latently destructive” (21). For Claire Colebrook
(2012) too, the Anthropocene calls for new concepts, imaginaries, and
vocabularies, as it provides “a threshold at which all ‘our’ concepts of
horizon, milieu, ethos and polity are voided” (188). Even “the terms of
 Introduction 11
our ethical vocabulary—justice, fairness, respect, forgiveness, hospitality
or virtue” (185)—are no longer self-evident. Indeed, what does hospital-
ity mean when one species (ours) has so clearly crowded out its hosts?
How can we describe behavior as virtuous when it may have unpredict-
able long-term outcomes that harm distant others? And, to shift from
ethical to political challenges, what is the role of nations when responses
to global destabilization seem to require supranational forms of govern-
ance beyond the nation? How viable are forms of “eco-cosmopolitan-
ism” that imagine connections across national borders (Heise 2008) or
multispecies assemblages that look for interactions across species borders
(van Dooren et al. 2016)? These questions are new and urgent; they are
as hard as they are unavoidable.
Most criticisms of the Anthropocene believe the term not only gen-
erates these questions, but also directs us to incorrect or insufficient
answers. In the rest of this section, I highlight four such criticisms, and
introduce the (often playful) terminological alternatives that critics have
proposed. I consider the criticism that the notion misrepresents the cen-
tral role of capitalism in the exploitation of the natural world; that it
unjustifiably unifies human constituencies at the abstract level of the
species; that it overlooks the implication of nonhuman actors in chan-
ging planetary constellations while it privileges technological fixes and
succumbs to technological determinism; and that it overplays the
uniqueness of the current crisis and fails to locate present concerns in a
longer history of ecological awareness. All of these points are relevant,
and they underline that the Anthropocene is more useful as a catalyst for
debate than as a fully adequate name for the present. In this spirit, we
can welcome notions such as the Capitalocene, the Plantationocene, the
Chthulucene, or even the Oliganthropocene and the Homogenocene as
helpful additions to the ongoing debate over the challenges we face.

The Anthropocene Misrepresents the Role of Capitalism

(Capitalocene, Plantationocene)
When Paul Crutzen coined the notion of the Anthropocene, he pro-
posed the late eighteenth century as its starting point. This date is not
uncontested: as we will see below, the Anthropocene Working Group
proposes the post-Second World War period as a more appropriate
marker. Crutzen wanted to foreground the role of the Industrial
Revolution in the alteration of the earth system. On this account,
James Watt’s invention of the double action steam engine in 1784 kick-
12 Introduction
started the transition to coal fuel that powered the Industrial Revolu-
tion that in its turn triggered the relentless rise of atmospheric carbon
dioxide levels. This perspective privileges technological innovation over
capitalist dynamics. As Andreas Malm (2016) has shown, fossil fuel is
not magically more efficient, abundant, or reliable than, for instance,
hydraulic power, but it is easier to make a profit from it: fossil fuel
extraction can easily be located in areas where labor is cheap, and it
allows for competition (rather than requiring intense collaboration, as
hydropower does) between entrepreneurs.
This is only one example of how far-reaching ecological changes
emerge as a result of capitalist forces rather than technological break-
throughs. Proponents of the term Capitalocene argue that Crutzen’s
“official” narrative is not only too focused on technology, but also on
Western modernity, especially on the British Industrial Revolution, and
fails to factor in that capitalism has reorganized the global ecological
system in an encompassing and intensive way for centuries. The viability
of investments in steam energy, for instance, depended on the availability
of the transatlantic slave trade, which provided cheap labor; of large and
violently depopulated territories in the New World; and of a broad
global demand for inexpensive cotton cloth (Malm and Hornborg 2014,
63–64). Capitalist trade networks, in other words, had to be in place for
Watt’s steam engine to have the effect it had. The immensely profitable
cotton monoculture in the Caribbean was only possible because slaves
were fed by agricultural products from North America and cod from
Newfoundland, while Britain could only dedicate its own soil to the
production of grain, wood, and animal fodder by “outsourcing” the
cultivation of cotton fiber to its colonies (Bonneuil and Fressoz 2016,
232–33). The notion of the Capitalocene wants to highlight how global
trade networks and class and colonial relations fundamentally shaped
the planet. It reminds us that capitalism, ever since its emergence in the
fifteenth century, has revolutionalized the landscape and has been an
“environment-making” force. In Jason Moore’s (2017) words, the notion
situates the rise of capitalism “historically and geographically, within the
web of life” (608–609).
Proponents of the Capitalocene are not unaware that the human
impact on the make-up of the planet is not exclusive to capitalism. The
ecological record of twentieth-century communist states is notoriously
dismal, and today not-quite-capitalist China is the world’s largest source
of carbon emissions (in total, not per capita). Paleoclimatologist William
Ruddiman (2003) has proposed the so-called “Early Anthropocene
 Introduction 13
Hypothesis”: he argues that early agriculture, starting well before capit-
alism some 8,000 years ago, initiated emissions of greenhouse gasses that
affected climate developments. Still, foregrounding capitalist dynamics is
helpful for comprehending the massive scale of human impact (and I
turn to the crucial issue of scale in my third chapter), and it has the
potential to politicize talk about the environmental crisis. Capitalist
exploitation has always entailed the redesigning of landscapes (think of
the imposition of cotton monocultures) and the circulation of bodies
(think of the slave trade).
The notion of the Plantationocene (launched tongue-in-cheek during a
2014 roundtable) nominates the plantation as the paradigmatic historical
site where capitalism wreaks its destructive work (Haraway et al. 2016,
556). Situated at the intersection of forcibly displaced labor, long-distance
financial investment, and intensive cultivation of the soil, the plantation
is a systematic practice of relocation that initiates a major upheaval in
the relations between humans, animals, plants, and other organisms. It
conveniently allowed privileged constituencies to treat violence to people
and the environment as a distant and invisible concern. The slave plan-
tation system, in Donna Haraway’s (2016) words, “was the model and
motor for the carbon-greedy machine-based factory system,” and it
“continues with ever greater ferocity in globalized factory meat produc-
tion, monocrop agribusiness, and immense substitutions of crops like oil
palm for multispecies forests and their products” (206n5). The notion of
the Homogenocene, proposed by the entomologist Michael Samways in
1999, captures this sense of a planet in which biological and cultural life
have increasingly become the same everywhere (Mann 2011, 23). Like the
Capitalocene, the Plantationocene reminds us that global change is less
the result of technological breakthroughs than of structural processes
that move human bodies and other biomass around the world in the
name of profit.

The Anthropocene Gives Us an Insufficiently Differentiated

Humanity (Oliganthropocene)
These accounts make clear that different constituencies are differently
implicated in processes of planetary change, and that the notion of the
Anthropocene levels out these differences through the overly abstract
notion of the anthropos, the human. Analytically, it is less than useful
to group, for instance, chattel slaves and long-distance investors as
members of the same species. Not only do affluent Western consumers
14 Introduction
with vast carbon footprints bear a disproportionally larger responsi-
bility for environmental deterioration than destitute peasants in the
Global South, the fallout of those changes also affects different con-
stituencies in vastly dissimilar ways: the impact of Hurricane Katrina
on black and white neighborhoods in New Orleans or the threat of
rising sea levels in a rich country like the Netherlands and an impo-
verished one like Bangladesh illustrate the differentiated vulnerability of
distinct groups. This gives the lie to the facile claim that in a climate
changed world, there are no lifeboats. As Malm and Hornborg (2014)
write, “[f]or the foreseeable future … there will be lifeboats for the rich
and privileged” (66). Today, such lifeboats often take the shape of a
luxury doomsday bunker or even of a rocket, as in SpaceX CEO Elon
Musk’s much-hyped ambition to colonize Mars in order to, in Musk’s
own words, “safeguard the existence of humanity” (Assis 2015). The
vaguely humanitarian rhetoric obscures that at best, planetary reloca-
tion can accommodate an infinitesimally small segment of the human
population while it will abandon billions to a heating and drowning
earth. In such scenarios, the pious invocation of the species transpar-
ently serves as an alibi not to address the degradation of the lifeworld.
This state of affairs has led geographer Erik Swyngedouw to propose
the term Oliganthropocene to accentuate the vast inequalities in the
responsibility for and the response to environmental threats (Bonneuil
and Fressoz 2016, 71).
Invocations of something as grandiose as the species need not be
cynical or sinister. Historian Dipesh Chakrabarty, arguably the most
influential theorist of the Anthropocene in the humanities, maintains that
the upscaling of human life to the necessarily abstract level of the species
holds a particular political promise. For Chakrabarty (2009), while it
may be impossible to “experience ourselves as species” (220), and while
our species identity thus necessarily remains an imaginative and spec-
ulative affair, this very abstractness holds room for the imagination of a
better future that is not disabled by lingering legacies of injustice and
inequality. Species, Chakrabarty surmises, “may indeed be the name of a
placeholder for an emergent, new universal history of humans that
flashes up in the moment of the danger that is climate change” (221).
One problem with the “shared sense of a catastrophe” (222) on which
this imagining of human collectivity depends is that it obscures, in Rob
Nixon’s (2014) words, vastly “unequal human agency, unequal human
impacts, and unequal human vulnerabilities.” Nixon’s own contributions
to debates over the Anthropocene have advocated a disciplined focus on
 Introduction 15
the storytelling practices and the forms of activism that make up an
often overlooked “environmentalism of the poor.” For Nixon (2011), the
non-spectacular, attritional deterioration to which the global poor are
exposed is hard to talk about and to make visible: such “slow violence”
(his coinage), a violence of delayed destruction that is dispersed across
time and space, does not really lend itself to the spectacle-driven tem-
plates of contemporary media culture, or even to the drama-dependent
formats of literary storytelling (2). More attention to issues of environ-
mental justice can enrich, nuance, and correct the all too sweeping talk
about species that the notion of the Anthropocene invites.

The Anthropocene Fails to Factor in Nonhuman Agents (Chthulucene)

As the Anthropocene puts forward a robust and internally undifferentiated
anthropos, it promotes the human as a supposedly unique and exceptional
agent. The human is imagined to be not just the cause of current crises
(the previous two subsections already pointed up the problems with that
account), but also their victim and, most problematically, their heroic
solution. Such a sustained emphasis on human autonomy forgets that
environmental debasement has spun out of human control. This does
emphatically not mean that all we can do is sit back and enjoy the show
of our own undoing: affirming human responsibility and agency is crucial,
yet so is insisting on the distinction between agency (which is a feature of
human, nonhuman, and technological agents alike) and autonomy (which
is an illusion that the Anthropocene forces us to abandon). Bruno Latour
(2017) underlines that being a subject, and acting in a concerted and
intentional way, does not mean “acting in an autonomous fashion”:
instead, “it means sharing agency with other subjects that have also lost
their autonomy” (62). In a similar vein, Derek Woods (2014) has remarked
that the subject of the Anthropocene is not the human species, but rather
“the sum of terraforming assemblages composed of humans, nonhuman
species, and technics” (134). The processes that are changing the ways we
inhabit the earth are as much about the disempowerment as about the
responsibility of human agents.
Official Anthropocene discourse does not see technology as a source of
human disempowerment: technological devices are seen as prostheses
that extend human power rather than as forces that also limit it. This
conception feeds technocratic fantasies that we can engineer our way out
of the crisis. For Crutzen, for instance, the notion of the Anthropocene
highlights “the immense power of our intellect and our creativity, and
16 Introduction
the opportunities they offer for shaping the future” (Crutzen and
Schwägerl 2011). In this upbeat discourse, capitalist markets are counted
on to foster a “green economy” that will generate and promote sustain-
able solutions (Demos 2017). In the 2015 “Ecomodernist Manifesto,” a
group of eighteen scientists and activists cheerfully commit to the possi-
bility of “decoupl[ing] human well-being from environmental destruc-
tion” through “a sustained commitment to technological progress”
(Asafu-Asjaye et al. 2015, 29–31). Through technological developments,
human action can transcend its environmental limitations and enter “a
good, or even great, Anthropocene” (6). Limiting economic and techno-
logical development is unwelcome, as accelerated technological progress
will make it possible to let natural territories “re-wild and re-green” (15).
This scenario relies on a denial of shared agency; it celebrates human
autonomy as a power that will release the nonhuman world from its
entanglements with us. For ecomodernists, the technological con-
trivances we design allow us to transcend our ties to the planet and grant
nature what we decide it deserves.
To convey human life’s implication in the earth system, Bruno
Latour introduces the terminological distinction between “the
Humans” and what he calls “the Earthbound.” The Humans believe we
simply need an ecomodernist, technocratic update of the dispositions
that successfully guided the species through the Holocene; Latour’s
(2017) coalition of the Earthbound, in contrast, accepts that the terms
of our dwelling on the planet need to be renegotiated (248). The
Earthbound are not at war with the planet, but they need to be pre-
pared, Latour believes, to declare war on the Humans. What is at stake
in that war are the imaginaries and practices through which we inhabit
the unstable earth to which we are bound. What is needed, for Latour,
is a promiscuous recombination of religious, scientific, artistic, and
governmental practices. The Earthbound are both inevitably attached
(bound) to the earth (or what Latour, borrowing from the geophysicist
James Lovelock and the microbiologist Lynn Margulis, prefers to call
the anti-systemic assemblage of “Gaia”), as well as heading (bound) for
a different relation to the planet. Latour’s imagined collective is by
definition not the whole of humanity (this is different from Chakra-
barty’s species thinking); he underscores that a political struggle must
be fought between opposing constituencies. The insistence on struggle
allows Latour to emphasize human responsibility and agency without
fantasizing about an abstract global collective.
 Introduction 17
Latour’s intervention arguably stays too close to traditional human-
centered perspectives. This is the point of multispecies thinker Donna
Haraway, whose notion of the Chthulucene may be the most radical
proposal to affirm the role of different life forms in the changing life-
world. Against Latour’s confrontational stance, Haraway (2017) calls for
“compositionist practices” in which the Earthbound “entangle with the
ongoing, snaky, unheroic, tentacular, dreadful ones, the ones which/who
craft material-semiotic netbags [that are] of great use in bringing home
and sharing the means of living and dying well” (40–43). The notion of
the Chthulucene has nothing to do with H.P. Lovecraft’s cosmic monster
Cthulhu: as I noted in the previous section, most productive literary and
theoretical engagements with the destabilized present complicate the
allure of cosmic horror. Instead, it replaces the Greek anthropos with
echoes of the Greek khthonios, which means “of the earth” (173–74n4).
Haraway’s earthbound multispecies assemblage avoids “a comic faith
in technofixes” (3) and is instead committed to “staying with the trou-
ble,” to live, “somehow, on a vulnerable and wounded earth” (10).
Haraway’s temperamentally playful, intellectually promiscuous, and
formally experimental intervention shifts the terms of debate away from
high scientific seriousness to an almost comic exuberance: it advocates an
“earthly worlding [that] is thoroughly terran, muddled, and mortal—and
at stake now” (55).

The Anthropocene is Historically and Culturally Myopic

The “now” in which life is at stake points to the curious temporality
of the Anthropocene, which will be an organizing concern of this
book. The Anthropocene has burst upon the scene in the new millen-
nium as if we suddenly realized that we have always been enmeshed
with nonhuman agents. Suddenness and shock clash with the almost
unimaginable slowness of geological and evolutionary time; urgency
meets immobility. The exponential rise of Anthropocene talk makes it
tempting to think of contemporary ecological awareness as unprece-
dented. Kate Marshall (2015) has baptized the current moment “the
Anthropocene’s reflexive phase” (11), a phrase that distinguishes our
current hyperawareness from a period in which our actions unre-
flexively, almost unconsciously, eroded their geological and biological
basis. Such a micro-scenario in which the present is endowed with a
higher level of reflexivity than the past is all too familiar: it repeats
the move in which modernity relegated the past to the status of dark
18 Introduction
and premodern Middle Ages. It also recalls sociologist Ulrich Beck’s
thesis of a second modernity or a reflexive modernization, in which
society manages the unintended consequences of a reckless first mod-
ernity. In the context of the Anthropocene, positing such a sequence
invites the idea that human reason and prowess have finally come to
their senses and will engineer a way out of the crisis.
This two-step scenario is historically inaccurate. Christophe Bonneuil
and Jean-Baptiste Fressoz’s 2016 book The Shock of the Anthropocene is
a magisterial riposte to such a “story of an awakening” (73). As they
show, the period between 1770 and 1830, where the official narrative
situates the start of the Anthropocene, was marked by a clear awareness
of the tenuous interdependence of nature and society (76). Ecological
awareness was not unavailable so much as it was actively marginalized.
For Bonneuil and Fressoz, a facile narrative of reflexive awakening per-
petuates that marginalization and distorts the prehistory of our current
environmental concerns. The present is not blessed with a unique insight
into the interrelations of human and nonhuman processes; it is, instead,
“the culminating point of a history of destructions” (171). The Shock of
the Anthropocene’s revision of the present shows that Western moder-
nity cannot plead ignorance about its destruction of the planet: “our
ancestors destroyed environments in full awareness of what they were
doing” (196). This raises important questions about the role of knowl-
edge in the human (lack of) response to environmental degradation. Is it
a matter of outright denial of the facts? Or is the key the spread of
uncertainty by what Naomi Oreskes and Erik Conway (2010) have called
“merchants of doubt”? Or is it a massive case of disavowal, a situation
in which people know the facts but yet find themselves unable to act on
that knowledge (“I know very well … but all the same”).
By robbing the past of its innocence and the present of its claim to
intellectual superiority, such a historical perspective connects to Latour’s
intervention by affirming the ineluctability of struggle. Environmental
awareness from the past can then be mobilized as part of an archive of
resistance against planetary deterioration. Take, for instance, a literary
classic like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818). Traditionally read as a
relay for anxieties over technological progress and science turning
against the human life that created them, the novel also bears the imprint
of Shelley’s experience of the rural poverty and pervasive stormy weather
that overcame Europe in 1816, the “Year without Summer.” These
disturbances were a consequence of the eruption of the Indonesian vol-
cano Mount Tambora, a geological event that resonated around the
 Introduction 19
globe (Higgins 2017; Wood 2014). Read in this light, the novel becomes a
testimony to the tenuous interlinking of human lives and their environ-
ments and constitutes an early awareness of creaturely vulnerability that
still speaks to the present.
Nor is it only the past that populates such an archive of awareness, as
there are also founts of Indigenous ecological knowledge that remain
largely unexplored. As I investigate in more detail in the fourth chapter
(“Dominations”), for many Indigenous groups, the wholesale destruction
of lifeworlds is nothing new but a recurring feature of life since the onset
of the Western colonization of the world. For centuries, Indigenous cul-
tures have been responding to the kind of environmental destruction that
Western constituencies are only beginning to contemplate. As Kyle
Powys Whyte (2017) notes, Anishinaabek (a group of related Indigenous
people in Canada and the USA) are already living the dystopian future
more privileged audiences only see on their film screens, as “settler
colonial campaigns in the Great Lakes region have already depleted,
degraded, or irreversibly damaged the ecosystems, plants, and animals
that our ancestors had local living relationships with for hundreds of
years” (207). The lived reality of resource extraction and environmental
racism informs, for instance, a novel like Leslie Marmon Silko’s Alma-
nac of the Dead (1991), which imagines a cross-ethnic alliance against
settler colonialism and environmental deprivation that is even more
acute now than it was when the novel was published almost three dec-
ades ago (Streeby 2018, 52–58). If the Anthropocene can overcome its
historical and cultural myopia, there is, unfortunately, a lot to learn
from these archives.

Literature and the Anthropocene: Four Affordances

The short examples of Almanac of the Dead and Frankenstein point to
the focus of this book: the interface of literature and the Anthro-
pocene. They show how insights into the entanglement of nature and
society and of life and geology make it possible to revisit literary his-
tory and read Moby-Dick, for instance, as a dramatization of the
human’s destructive mania in the face of a willful nature, or appreci-
ate the extent to which Jack Kerouac’s On the Road powers its iconic
account of American freedom and transcontinental mobility through
the obscene expenditure of fossil fuels. An Anthropocene perspective
attunes us to elements that we have come to take for granted in
the history of literature and art. Take, for instance, a painting like
20 Introduction
Claude Monet’s widely reproduced and taught Impression: Sunrise
from 1873, which presents the color effects incumbent on a sunrise in
the port of Le Havre. As Nicholas Mirzoeff (2014) has shown, many
of the color effects we have learned to admire as the hallmarks of
painterly genius reflect the coal smoke that the factory chimneys
(almost obscured in the painting by these effects) blast into the atmo-
sphere. The cultural celebration of impressionism, a movement that
takes its name from this very painting, in a sense naturalizes as much
as it reveals anthropogenic climate change. Yet literature and art do
more than naturalize: if we look at the depiction of “fog and mud”
and “smoke and soot” in the opening pages of Dickens’s Bleak House,
for instance, we can see Dickens use the London smog, an emblem of
the interconnectedness of natural and social activity, to provide a
“climate model” that depicts London, in Jesse Oak Taylor’s (2016)
words, “in climatic time, within which glaciers rise and recede, species
evolve and go extinct, and civilizations decline and fall” (34).
This shows that literature is as much a repository of climate aware-
ness as a resource for thinking about the entanglements between human
and nonhuman actors. Dickens’s literary climate-modeling, for instance,
allows Bleak House to anticipate “more recent arguments for environ-
mental justice, pointing out that the impacts of toxicity and ecological
devastation are borne disproportionately by the poor” (J. Taylor 2016,
37). This is exemplified in the novel by the crossing-sweep Jo, who dies
from his exposure to London’s nasty climate. Rereading literary history
from an Anthropocene perspective is contiguous with Nixon’s interest in
the environmentalism of the poor as well as with Bonneuil and Fressoz’s
recovery of half-forgotten instances of historical environmental aware-
ness. In the rest of this section, I briefly discuss four features that qualify
literature, like the arts more generally, as a valuable resource for con-
fronting the Anthropocene: the centrality of narrative as a meaning-
making device; literature’s affective affordances as an aesthetic construct;
its license to imagine possible scenarios; and finally, and less intuitively,
literature’s constitutive engagement with questions of writing, inscrip-
tion, and action, which acquires a peculiar relevance in the
Anthropocene.

Anthropocene Narrative
The intimate relation between the Anthropocene and narrative is fairly
obvious: depending on the assumed starting point, theories of the
 Introduction 21
Anthropocene present so many different historical narratives with their
own protagonists and plots. Four such proposals have received quite some
airplay. If, like Paul Crutzen, we assume the Anthropocene to have started
with James Watt’s invention of the double action steam engine and the
unfolding of the Industrial Revolution, the narrative that emerges is that
of the human as an inventor and entrepreneur in a plot of capitalist
expansion. If, like the AWG, we date the start to the so-called “Great
Acceleration” after the Second World War (and this version is on its way
to general acceptance), we are telling the story of an expansive consumer
capitalism that spans the globe. Another suggestion is that by geographers
Lewis and Maslin (2015), who propose to locate the start of the epoch in
1610, with the European conquest of the Americas and the onset of colo-
nialism and global trade. This proposal entails a story in which the human
protagonist features as a colonizer in an imperialist plot. Or take, finally,
the Ruddiman hypothesis, which holds that pre-industrial agriculture
already some 8,000 years ago emitted enough greenhouse gases to stall a
new glacial episode and contributed to the moderation and stability of the
Holocene. On this account, the particular kind of human that impacts the
climate is a noble farmer, and the plot we are presented with is that of
human settlement, not that of colonization, capitalist exploitation, or
global conquest. In all of these versions, scientific insights into the geolo-
gical impact of human life are mobilized to give narrative shape to the
past and present. And as narratives inevitably encode particular forms of
agency and obscure other ones, it matters what kind of stories we tell
about the world.
Narrative also has an analytical function: it imposes patterns and
order on an unruly reality, such as the reality of a planet spinning out of
human control—a sense of control that was illusory to begin with.
Increasingly, respectable scientists have turned to literary narrative to
convey a coherent message about the disorderly present. In The Collapse
of Western Civilization: A View from the Future (2014), historians of
science Naomi Oreskes and Erik Conway adopt the voice of a Chinese
historian living in 2393 and looking back on the fall of Western civiliza-
tion three centuries earlier. The book is not interested in a science fic-
tional account of the future, as it spends most of its energy developing a
scientifically informed and dispassionately recounted story of the present
and a probable assessment of the near future. The future perspective
serves as a narrative-generating device, and the narrative in its turn
serves an analytical goal: understanding how we “failed to act on robust
information about climate change” because of science’s “excessively
22 Introduction
stringent standard for accepting claims of any kind” and “an ideological
fixation on ‘free’ markets” (Oreskes and Conway 2014, ix–x). The nar-
rative thrust brings the scientific facts and sociological analysis together
in a coherent and digestible account. The book contains a short “Lexicon
of Archaic Terms,” which features a fictional entry on “synthetic-failure
paleoanalysis.” This, we read, is a fictional scientific discipline that aims
to understand “past failure, specifically by understanding the interactions
(or synthesis) of social, physical, and biological systems” (62). The Col-
lapse’s uses of narrative allows it to combine specific detail and general
assessment, rigorous analysis and bold synthesis. Through its narrative
form, in other words, The Collapse itself counts as a work of “synthetic-
failure paleoanalysis.”

Anthropocene Affect
The Collapse’s shift to a post-civilization future not only produces ana-
lytical insights, it also aims to generate a particular emotional experience
in its readership. The device presents contemporary civilization as
something that can be lost, and thus instills a sense of vulnerability and
contingency. The affective power of literature is a notoriously speculative
issue, as particular formal choices are bound to affect different readers in
distinctive ways. And how readers will translate affect into action is an
even murkier issue: will an awareness of the fragility of civilization
inspire actions that fortify that civilization, possibly at the expense of
others? Will it inform the quest for previously unimagined forms of life?
Or will it instill a sense of despair over human powerlessness in the face
of overwhelming forces? As I explore in the second chapter (“Genres,
Media, Worlds”), cognitive approaches to literature have tried to make
our understanding of the emotional and social efficacy of literature more
robust by grounding it in empirical observations. Starting from
the insight that cognition is always embodied and affective, scholars have
begun to explore how narratives about planetary devastation like
Cormac McCarthy’s The Road “immerse us into their storyworlds and
engage us in the gruesome tale they tell about environmental disaster and
human suffering” (Weik von Mossner 2017, 3). Analyzing how our
bodies act as “sounding boards” for “characters’ perceptions, emotions,
and actions within … virtual worlds” (3), such research shows how lit-
erature’s (but also film’s and video games’) “emotionalizing strategies”
afford an immersive experience of ecological entanglements that more
rigorously scientific writing cannot elicit (190).
 Introduction 23
Immersion is not the only way literature does its affective work: it also
has the capacity to attune us to emergent realities that have not yet been
consolidated as concepts and categories. The Anthropocene, we have
seen, is less an accurate proper name than a necessarily provisional label
for the ongoing effort to find new names, images, and stories to make
sense of the bewildering changes to our sense of the relation between
human and nonhuman lives. Before they are properly understood, envir-
onmental disturbances and social crises first register as sensory dis-
comfort and affective unease. It is these disorienting feelings that
literature and the arts can begin to tap into and record well before future
historians will be able to codify our present with the benefit of hindsight.
It is especially in the field of affect theory that what we can call
literature’s seismographic function has been elaborated. For a theorist
like Lauren Berlant (2008a), literature can transmit affects that embed
our bodies in the historical present; it can play its role in helping us
experience “the present as an ongoing process and project of collective
sensory detection” (2). For Berlant, such affective disruption becomes
especially relevant when time-tested genres have ever less traction on
emergent new realities. Recall how VanderMeer’s Annihilation cultivates
an unsettled mood that takes its bearing somewhere between science
fiction, gothic, fantasy, horror, and the “old” weird, without conforming
to any of these labels. Annihilation’s affective work does not operate
within one particular generic template that programs the reader’s emo-
tive response, but decomposes and reconstitutes different generic ele-
ments to yield an intractable feeling that we can’t really name, only
experience. For Roger Luckhurst (2017) such “slid[ing] in and out of
generic conventions” is a key feature of the weird. Its “waywardness”
leaves readers confounded, and forces them to tap into moods and sen-
sations through which historical changes register before they can be
confidently categorized (1050). Literary experimentation, then, can
attune audiences to modalities of the present that human reason cannot
(yet) capture.

Anthropocene Imagination
If the weird or the stuplime, on which I touched in the first section, do not
sound like very positive affects, they are not purely dysphoric either.
Unlike the death-obsessed gothic mode of the uncanny, the weird, for
Luckhurst, has less to do with the fear of death than with a dread of
life—of the excessive, lush vibrancy of Area X, for instance. Dread is
24 Introduction
always “anticipatory, oriented toward the future,” and signifies an open-
ness to radically strange realities (Luckhurst 2017, 152). In the case of
VanderMeer’s trilogy, mesmerized fascination with a foreign territory
gradually morphs into a curious symbiotic fantasy of cross-species inti-
macy. Existing discussions of literature and the Anthropocene tend to
underline the inadequacy of existing literary forms for representing reali-
ties that are too gigantic, too slow, too dispersed, or too intangible to be
fit into customary literary formats (Bond et al. 2017). It is also useful to
stress literature’s “world-making” capacities, its power to shape fictional
realities that add unanticipated possibilities to the world in which these
fictions emerge (Cheah 2016). We can see this at work in Annihilation’s
many extensive descriptions of the environment. When the novel describes
an underground tower (which is paradoxical enough in itself!) as
“breathing,” carrying “the echo of a heartbeat,” and having walls “not
made of stone but of living tissue” off of which “silvery-white phos-
phorence” is rising (41), it invites readers to imagine the border between
living organism and dead matter differently and bring it in tune with a
dispensation in which that boundary is not all that clear any more.
As I explore in my sixth and last chapter (“Residues”), Anthropocene
literature’s imaginative and world-making resources have been mobilized
most intensively in stories set in the (near) future. William Gibson’s 2014
The Peripheral is a science fiction novel whose world-building is tech-
nological, economic, and social rather than environmental (as it is in the
Southern Reach trilogy). The Peripheral evokes a double future: one
situated in the 2030s, in which the USA has deteriorated to the status of
an impoverished trailer park populated by drug “builders,” gamers, and
cyborg veterans, and one situated in the twenty-second century, in which
a small kleptocratic elite live hi-tech lives in gated communities for
which they have the inhabitants of the “earlier” future provide cheap
labor. This double future is an imaginative way to render the rampant
inequality that besets contemporary society. The two futures are sepa-
rated by an event called “the Jackpot”: a massive civilizational collapse
and planetary extinction event that brings together key Anthropocene
anxieties. The Peripheral combines what Gibson calls “a more fully
corrupt, third worlded version of contemporary America” (Newitz 2014)
and a radically altered post-Anthropocene future. Margaret Atwood’s
wildly popular MaddAddam trilogy (consisting of Oryx and Crake
[2003], The Year of the Flood [2009], and MaddAddam [2013]) also
features two futures: one is marked by intensified consumerism and
genetic experimentation, the other, following a global pandemic, offers
 Introduction 25
new cross-species potentialities. This set-up also recalls the organizing
conceit of The Collapse of Western Civilization, but what sets Gibson’s
(like Atwood’s) work apart from Oreskes and Conway’s more austere
narrative exercise is his novel’s indulgence in imaginative details: we find
extensive descriptions of moving tattoos, of hi-tech suits and weapons,
of a particular kind of time-travel through so-called “peripherals”
(cyborg avatars users can connect to from a distance), and of bizarre
cyborg wheelchairs. The Peripheral is a richly textured novel, and this
shows its interest in an imaginative exploration of the lived reality of a
possible future. This is something that Oreskes and Conway are simply
not interested in: their focus is on a diagnosis of the present. In
Atwood’s trilogy, a lot of imaginative energy is invested in depicting the
life of the Crakers, a bioengineered species of pseudo-humans. For all
their strangeness and excess, these benign and naive creatures engaging
in carefree group sex with their bright blue buttocks and erections add a
weirdly (and ambivalently) utopian dimension to the books’ critical
engagement with present-day society.

Anthropocene Writing
One peculiar feature of the unruly entity that haunts Annihilation’s Area
X is that it writes: “An … organism … was writing living words along
the interior walls of the tower … Whole ecosystems had been born and
now flourished among the words” (VanderMeer 2014a, 90). The tower is
filled with “a moldering pile” of documents chronicling earlier explora-
tions of the terrain, which are gradually absorbed by the midden: “Torn
pages, crushed pages, journal covers warped and damp. Slowly the history
of exploring Area X could be said to be turning into Area X” (111–12).
The first question this raises is one of agency: what, the novel asks, “was
the interplay between the words and the tower-creature … Were the
words a form of symbiotic or parasitic communication between
the Crawler and the Tower” (91)? The theme of writing brings into relief
the agency of nonhuman actors; if we define agency as the capacity to
have an impact, to leave traces for others to read, then it makes sense to
figure agency as, precisely, a form of writing. And as literature is a kind of
textuality that is deeply concerned with the powers, the limits, and the
(im)possibilities of writing, this offers a fourth way—after narrative,
affect, and imagination—in which a consideration of literature can enrich
our understanding of the Anthropocene. Without going so far as to say
that the Anthropocene is essentially a literary problem, we can submit that
26 Introduction
literature helps us see to what extent the Anthropocene is a matter of
reading and writing, of decoding and inscription.
In the last decades of the twentieth century, Jacques Derrida’s (1974)
infamous assertion that “il n’y a pas de hors-texte”—best translated as
“there is no outside of the text” (158)—used to function as a slogan for a
form of cultural studies that believed that the whole of reality could be
studied as a text. It was easily ridiculed as an example of so-called High
Theory’s (or French Theory’s) stubborn blindness to material reality. In
a time defined by the human capacity to promiscuously leave traces in
the chemical and climatological make-up of the planet and by nonhuman
agents’ ability to also leave their mark, Derrida’s statement today seems
perversely appropriate. There is no part of the earth system that is not
affected by the traces our daily actions leave in the atmosphere; nor is
there any aspect of our surroundings that we, together with our techno-
logical devices, are not frantically scrutinizing to harvest data about the
world. Powered by our ever increasing technological capacity to read
geological, chemical, and climatological traces, the Anthropocene world
is a reality saturated by the almost boundless proliferation of data,
inscriptions, and signs (what has been referred to as “infowhelm” or,
more accurately, “semiowhelm” [Woods 2017, 205–206]); it is a world
that is manically read even as our actions provide ever more data points
for future readers.
Writing is not just a reflection on the Anthropocene, it is also
constitutive of it. The Anthropocene, Tobias Boes and Kate Marshall
(2014) remark, “is not simply something that is written about; it is also
something that is actively shaped and created through acts of human
inscription” (64). Human actions, in other words, do not function as
denotative speech acts but are “performative interventions in which
humankind functions as both subject and object” (64): the actions we under-
take as subjects, together with the actions of nonhuman agents, make up
the reality of a geological epoch that carries our name, and that thus
defines what we (as objects of these speech acts) are. This is a difficult
idea, to be sure. Self-reflexive experiments that test the paradoxes and
limits of writing are a hallmark of modern literature, and especially of the
high modernist projects of writers like Flaubert, Mallarmé, Joyce, Beck-
ett, and Blanchot. Literature’s capacity to interrogate its own conditions
of (im)possibility gains a surprising new relevance in an era in which
there is nothing that is not marked by both human and nonhuman traces.
In a digital age, the media through which we record reality are as
much a part of our lived environment as the natural world. In the
 Introduction 27
second volume of the Southern Reach trilogy, entitled Authority (2014),
the setting shifts from the weird wilderness to the office. Control, the
novel’s protagonist, is charged with investigating the Southern Reach’s
dismal track record. Rather than a riveting procedural, however,
Authority is a comedy of data management, in which Control is over-
whelmed by the proliferation of writing: “Even when he asked ques-
tions he was hemorrhaging data. He had a sudden image of
information floating out the side of his head in a pixelated blood-red
mist” (VanderMeer 2014b, 142). Data bleed into the world and further
erode the distinction between human and nonhuman realms. The
writings he has to put in order “looked in part as if he had tracked in
dirt on his shoes from outside,” turning him into “a new kind of urban
farmer, building compost piles with classified material” (152). Gradu-
ally, the difference between the settings of the first and second volumes
collapses as the sprawling mess of information becomes an environ-
ment in its own right: “His office began to close in on him. Listless
pushing around of files and pretend efforts to straighten bookshelves
had given way to further Internet searches” that provide images that
look like Area X (288). It seems that digital media and natural
environments are deeply entangled in our experience of the world.
Developments in media technology are a crucial dimension of the
Anthropocene. Registering changes to our lifeworld requires increased
capacities to read, for which we mostly depend on technological and
computational aides. Changes to the earth system such as rising tem-
peratures and carbon dioxide levels can only be observed through
“computational models supported by a knowledge infrastructure” such
as “weather observations, satellite data, radar readings, and so on”
(Mirzoeff 2015, 219). A more perverse link between digital technology
and environmental degradation is the fact that these technologies leave a
considerable environmental footprint through their vast expenditure of
(often unclean) energy as well as through the use of rare minerals and
the proliferation of e-waste (Parikka 2015, 111–13). Making planetary
change visible, in other words, depends on computational processes that
have a material impact which, in a vicious feedback loop, contributes to
that change.
The entanglement of digital and natural ecologies means that literary
works that are not explicitly interested in environmental issues can still
tell us something about the Anthropocene. In Tom McCarthy’s novel
Satin Island (2015), U., the novel’s narrator, works as a corporate
anthropologist charged with writing the “Great Report”: an all-
28 Introduction
encompassing, comprehensive account of contemporary life. Given this
daunting task, it is unsurprising he hits a wall: “I’d begun to suspect,” he
notes, “that this Great Report was un-plottable, un-frameable, un-rea-
lizable: in short, … un-writable” (McCarthy 2015b, 126). U. gains
insight into his impasse when he begins to understand that, in a data-
saturated world in which physical movements, consumer transactions,
keystrokes, and click-throughs are relentlessly recorded, tabulated, and
cross-indexed, the Great Report is not so much “un-writable” as being
written in real time:

The truly terrifying thought wasn’t that the Great Report might be
un-writable, but—quite the opposite—that it had already been
written … by a neutral and indifferent binary system that had given
rise to itself, moved by itself and would perpetuate itself … And
that we, far from being its authors … were no more than actions
and commands within its key-chains.
(133–34)

In a world pervaded by writing, human agency is no longer exceptional,

as it is overwhelmed by nonhuman and technological forms of writing.
In an essay, McCarthy (2015a) notes that the algorithms of Google and
Facebook have taken on many of the tasks traditionally allotted to lit-
erature: they transcribe human action into a “regime of signals” that is
“omnipresent and insistent … undeniably inserted or installed at every
stratum of existence.”
Even if Satin Island is not primarily interested in the natural environ-
ment, its sustained focus on processes of writing turns it into an
exploration of the entanglement of human and nonhuman forms of
agency. The novel reminds us that processes of notation and registration,
even if automated, are constitutive of contemporary life: in Mark Selt-
zer’s (2016) words, the contemporary world consists “both of itself and
its self-description, denotation, or registration” (6). This points to the
fact that, in a digital age, everything that happens is obsessively and
instantaneously archived. Following Derrida (1995), this compulsion is
often referred to as “archive fever”: a manic recording of the present in
the face of its imminent disappearance. The Anthropocene has, if any-
thing, exacerbated our sense of the fragility and impermanence of things.
But Seltzer’s words and McCarthy’s novel make the further point that
archiving is not just a neutral act of registration, but an intervention that
actively shapes reality. Google’s algorithms’ knowledge of behavioral
 Introduction 29
patterns allows it to predict and thus to influence and capitalize on our
consumer preferences. In the context of the Anthropocene, we can see
that this dynamic is not very different from the way in which the atmo-
sphere’s archiving of human carbon dioxide consumption aggravates the
heating of the planet. In the words of Mark Seltzer again: “It is not
merely that there is nothing in the world that is not in the files: the cor-
relate is that there is then nothing in the files that is not in the world”
(144). All the world’s a file, and all the men and women merely agents
composing that file: at the juncture of literary and environmental think-
ing, the complex dynamics of writing are as important as the powers of
storytelling, affect, and the imagination.

The Book: Anthropocene Agencies, Anthropocene Temporalities

The Anthropocene has already proven to be a fertile new context for the
study of literature. Not only is there an intense dialogue between literary
criticism and contemporary literature that engages with environmental
issues, but the Anthropocene has already made it possible to revisit the
literary historical archive and mine texts we thought we had exhausted
for intimations of nonhuman agency, geological timescales, and cosmic
disturbances. But the traffic between literature and the Anthropocene is
emphatically not a one-way street: literature’s affective, narrative,
imaginative, and self-reflexive powers make it a vital site for coming to
terms with the challenges of the current environmental crisis. As I
elaborate in my first chapter, this makes literature an important partici-
pant in the project of the environmental humanities, a capacious field in
which environmental thinking across disciplinary borders is currently
thriving. In critically mapping the interface of literature and the
Anthropocene, this book addresses two overlapping constituencies: stu-
dents and scholars of literature, who can profit from the coordinates and
trajectories this book provides to help them navigate the exciting new
intellectual terrain the Anthropocene makes available; and students and
scholars working in the environmental humanities, who may discover
that literature and literary studies offer unexpected resources to enrich
ongoing debates on the planetary crisis.
This introduction has already argued that the Anthropocene extends
the range of agents that compose the world; it has also pointed to its
drastic reorganization of our experience of time, as human life
encounters vast geological time scales and the open future we took for
granted threatens to be foreclosed in the face of climate disaster. The
30 Introduction
rest of this book is organized around these two changes: the first part
(“Anthropocene Agencies”) presents the new agents comprising the
Anthropocene world, while the second part (“Anthropocene Tempor-
alities”) focuses on the way that world reorders the relations between
past, present, and future. Cumulatively, the two parts survey key con-
cepts and ideas as well as literary examples in ways that extend our
vocabularies for confronting environmental degradation. It often seems
that Anthropocene discourses about the nonhuman and the posthuman,
about hyperobjects and vibrant matter, about apocalypse and cata-
strophe (to name but a handful of key terms) are disconcertingly
interchangeable and frustratingly self-referential. This book will draw
on literary examples to insist on the specificity of such terms and
demonstrate their analytical potential.
Chapter 1 (“Forms, Lives, Forms of Life”) situates discussions of lit-
erature and the Anthropocene in their institutional context. Drawing on
the example of a contemporary form of nature poetry called ecopoetics,
and especially the work of poet Evelyn Reilly, I trace how the literary
critical domain of ecocriticism has increasingly come to join forces with
other disciplines under the rubric of the environmental humanities. I
propose that the notion of form, which has a close affinity to literature,
can help us orient ourselves among the proliferating agencies that over-
whelm traditional ways of apprehending the world. I introduce a
distinction between (biological) life forms and (cultural) forms of life to
show how literature’s life of form can help make sense of the bewilder-
ing multiplicity of forces that afflict us, and maintain distinctions
between different differences: between cultures, but also between different
biological life forms.
Chapter 2 (“Genres, Media, Worlds”) homes in on the literary critical
notion of genre. Genres are not only templates for organizing our
experiences of the world, they are also affective scenarios through which
we orient ourselves in a world whose coordinates we haven’t yet fully
understood. Recent literary scholarship has mostly been critical of the
capacities of literary realism to capture the unruly realities of the
Anthropocene, and has tended to affirm the relevance of historically
disparaged genres such as science fiction and horror. I survey approaches
that aim to map particular formal features onto specific affective reader
responses, before I turn to a comparative case study on literature about
the Arctic, with a focus on Edgar Allan Poe’s Arthur Gordon Pym, to
argue that it might be the friction between generic templates that
provides the best intimation of a nonhuman reality. The rest of the
 Introduction 31
chapter links this intimation to the conceptual differences between
worlds, globes, and planets, and explores the affordances of different
media to cultivate such apprehensions of a nonhuman dimension to life.
All these media make us apprehend an alien reality, and they do so in
complementary and media-specific ways.
In Chapter 3 (“Objects, Matters, Things”), I critically introduce a
number of influential theoretical paradigms for thinking the nonhuman
world. Exploring the distinctions between object-oriented ontology and
the new materialism, I turn to the example of John Burnside’s novel
Glister to assess the relative affordances of these approaches, and to
show how they ultimately fall short of the task I elaborate in chapter 1:
that of differentiating different differences. After linking this challenge to
the all-important issue of scale, I conclude with a discussion of Serenella
Iovino and Serpil Oppermann’s material ecocriticism. Where these thin-
kers articulate language with the material world through the notion of
“storied matter,” I reiterate the point I adumbrated in the previous sec-
tion: even more than storytelling, it is writing that offers a literary model
for thinking about the Anthropocene world.
With these diverse agents in place, the book’s second part turns to
the different temporal vectors that make up our experience of the
unstable Anthropocene present. In order to find a new vocabulary to
account for the intimations of futurelessness, of radically expanded
timescales, and of a strange mixture of urgency and stasis, I take my
inspiration from the work of cultural critic Raymond Williams. In his
Marxism and Literature, Williams (1977) influentially argues that our
experience of the present is never exhausted by dominant elements
alone: the present always also contains what he calls “residual” ele-
ments that have not been fully incorporated in the dominant order as
well as “emergent” forces that have yet to receive a consolidated form
(121–27). The critical task, as Williams sees it, is to capture “the
dynamic interrelations, at every point in the process, of historically
varied and variable elements” (121).
Williams accords an important role to art and literature in confronting
“the undeniable experience of the present … the specificity of present
being” (128). This specificity manifests itself as a “structure of feeling”
rather than a full-fledged ideology or worldview. Literature and art
inhabit “[a]ll the known complexities, the experienced tensions, shifts,
and uncertainties, the intricate forms of unevenness and confusion”
(129), and can provide access to “social experiences in solution” (133).
Williams’s account of the complex and dynamic nature of the present
32 Introduction
and of the coincidence of nonsynchronous forces resonates with the
Anthropocene’s challenge to our customary modes of making sense of
life. At the same time, the linearity suggested by the triad residual/
dominant/emergent suggests a sense of orientation, even progress, that is
decidedly out-of-sync with the more radically disjointed present of our
planetary crisis.
The three terms I use to update Williams’ triad and that collectively
capture the Anthropocene’s disjointed temporality are dominations, emer-
gencies, and residues. Chapter 4 (“Dominations”) develops the notion of
Anthropocene memory to underline the persistence of a long and slow
history of environmental violence. Drawing on a revised version of Walter
Benjamin’s famous angel of history, I explore how the context of the
Anthropocene affects the objects, the subjects, as well as the archives of
memory. I read two contemporary novels, Thomas King’s The Back of the
Turtle (from Canada) and Alexis Wright’s The Swan Book (from Aus-
tralia) that draw on Indigenous archives to elaborate an environmental
memory. This memory is not only oriented to the past, but also to a
foreclosed future. I present notions such as solastalgia, ecological grief, and
pretrauma to show how the study of memory contributes to a vocabulary
for present and future disappointments and discontents.
Another temporal dimension of the Anthropocene present is the disabling
combination of a sense of urgency and inaction. Chapter 5 (“Emergencies”)
explores this paradox through a focus on infrastructure. Infrastructure
names the utilities—roads, electric grids, sewage systems—that allow human
life to thrive and that are simply supposed to do their job. Infrastructure only
calls for attention when it fails. Drawing on a number of literary examples—
Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place, Karen Tei Yamashita’s Tropic of Orange,
and Ben Lerner’s 10:04—I show how the temporality of infrastructure is
more complicated than the dyad of invisibility and emergency suggests. By
foregrounding the crucial importance of energy infrastructures, I draw on
insights from the interdisciplinary field of the energy humanities to show that
infrastructure can even become a catalyst of hope and provide a sense of
continuity and a shared experience that can help us confront climate emer-
gency without resorting to apocalyptical thinking.
Finally, in Chapter 6 (“Residues”), I focus on a final element in the
complex Anthropocene structure of feeling: a sense of futurelessness
powered by a fear of imminent species extinction. I show how literature
and literary theory have not only been concerned with this theme, but
also with the (slightly different) fear that the human will survive its own
demise as a mere residue, as a trace whose meaning it can no longer
 Introduction 33
control. Shifting the issue from a fear of extinction to an anxiety over
human insignificance, I survey four affective dispositions through which
contemporary literature and theory confront that anxiety: denial (which
I observe in the wildly popular genre of the post-catastrophe novel),
detachment, indifference, and outright misanthropy. I find scattered
traces of hope in literary works by Ben Lerner, Donna Haraway, and
Richard McGuire that manage to achieve a certain disengagement from
forms of life that are fast becoming unsustainable. If only because it
contains such traces, literature itself is a form that does not deserve to
become obsolete just yet.
Part 1
Anthropocene Agencies
1 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life

Ecopoetics and Form at the End of Nature

One important implication of the Anthropocene is that nature, as a rea-
lity that is divorced from human culture, no longer exists. Humans’ far-
reaching impact on the planet means that no part of the environment is
untouched by human action, and that the world is now a thoroughly
contaminated and compromised place. It would be wrong to see this is a
sudden change: one of the lessons of the Anthropocene is that human
and nonhuman realities have always been entangled. For many
premodern communities, the idea that nature and culture were not inti-
mately interlinked would not have made sense. The opposition between
natural and cultural realms was always a cultural construct, and part of
a process in which literature played a crucial role. Inherited ideas about
nature were partly shaped by literary forms: the genre of the pastoral
constructed the countryside as a repose from urban environments; in
elegies, the cyclical rhythms of nature compensated for human losses and
deaths; westerns, for their part, delivered the environment as a wild-
erness to be conquered and subdued. In the face of the Anthropocene,
literature is revising these traditional forms and even developing radi-
cally new ones. In this chapter, I explore how formal innovation aligns
contemporary literature with the aims of the interdisciplinary field of the
environmental humanities.
One of the most remarkable works of Anthropocene poetry, Evelyn
Reilly’s 2009 collection Styrofoam, opens with the lines “Answer:
Styrofoam deathlessness / Question: How long does it take?” (9). What
outlasts human impermanence here is not the soothing rhythms of natural
regeneration but the “deathlessness” of thermoplastics. Synthetic polymers
like polystyrene (of which Styrofoam is a brand name) are gradually repla-
cing animal and plant life in the world’s oceans, especially the Atlantic and
38 Anthropocene Agencies
the North Pacific, and they are there to stay: nonbiodegradable, they reach
beyond biological into geological time and will remain part of the landscape
that nature poets of the (far) future will have to reckon with. In Reilly’s
poem, “Styrofoam deathlessness” is a nonnegotiable fact—it is the answer
that precedes whatever questions we want to direct at it. The second page
of the poem restates this fact: “Answer: It is a misconception that materials
/ biodegrade in a meaningful timeframe // Answer: Thought to be compos-
ters landfills / are actually vast mummifiers // of waste // and waste’s com-
panions // lo stunning all-color // heap-like & manifold.of // foam” (10).
These two answers are neither preceded nor (as on the first page) followed
by a question. In a sense, adding a question to what is an unalterable fact
would be a way to pretend that such a reality somehow answers to human
concerns. The poem’s elision of the question underlines that such human
considerations are beside the point, and that Anthropocene poetry needs
new ways to reflect a denatured world. The distorted order and punctua-
tion of Reilly’s poem (“heap-like & manifold.of”) similarly points to the
need to find a new syntax and new forms for an altered reality.
Plastic in many ways condenses the paradoxes of the Anthropocene.
Unsurprisingly, the alternative label of the “Plasticene” has already been
coined (Reed 2015). Cheap to produce and available for many uses,
plastic became the key substrate for consumer capitalism as it developed
after the Second World War. Heather Davis (2015) explains that plastic
embodied “the promise of sealed, perfected, clean, smooth abundance”
(349). Plastic’s shiny surfaces fostered the fantasy that we could dis-
connect from the recalcitrant, amorphous, and inconvenient demands of
the natural environment and seal ourselves off in a self-contained bubble
(354). Yet plastic has refused to serve as a clean barrier that shields us
from contingency, as its own proliferating material reality has come to
destroy ocean and animal life and expose our human bodies as perme-
able and penetrable. In Reilly’s collection, plastic infiltrates human
bodies: “Enter: 8,9,13,14,17-ethynyl-13-methyl- / 7,8,9,11,12,14,15,16-
octahydro-cyclopenta-diol // (aka environmental sources of hormonal
activity / (side effects include tenderness, dizziness / and aberrations of
the vision” (9). The brackets never close, nor do the brackets within the
brackets, as if to underscore that the human body, the female sex hor-
mone estrogen (encoded in the chemical formula), and thermoplastics
(which infamously release estrogenic chemicals) are inseparably enme-
shed in an open circuit. If “tenderness” and “vision” are traditional
attributes of poetic language, in this new constellation they are merely
the side effects of plastic-induced hormonal disturbances. Anthropocene
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 39
environments are not just sublime spectacles to be contemplated (there is
a strange beauty to floating Styrofoam islands), they also course through
human bodies. Human corporeality is, in theorist Stacy Alaimo’s (2010)
words, always a “trans-corporeality,” in which “the human is always
intermeshed with the more-than-human world … ‘nature’ is always as
close as one’s own skin—perhaps even closer” (2).
Styrofoam draws inspiration from a long tradition of nature writing,
even if it sees traditional forms as deeply implicated in the destruction
of the environment. Reilly’s opening poem references Samuel Coler-
idge’s famous “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” a tortured reflection on
a sailor’s gratuitous killing of an albatross and a keystone of British
romantic poetry. Coleridge’s “For all averred, I had killed the bird”
becomes “(for all averred, we had killed the bird [enter albatross /
stand in of choice” (11). Responsibility, in Reilly’s poem, is shared by a
collective “we,” and the albatross is eerily interchangeable with other
targets of human overreach—not least the seabirds choking on plastics
that have become powerful emblems of the Anthropocene. Coleridge’s
“Rime” dissects how the fallout of that transgression comes to haunt
the sailor for the rest of his life; it shows how human life in over-
extending itself also ends up targeting itself. Reilly’s collection also
amply references Wordsworth, another central figure in the consolida-
tion of the romantic celebration of nature, and Herman Melville,
whose Moby-Dick precociously intimated the dangers of planetary
profiteering (exemplified by the whaling industry), while it also perpe-
tuated romantic associations between nature and transcendence. As
Lynn Keller (2015) has noted, Styrofoam shows how the romantic habit
of finding consolation in a sacralized nature, by denying the entangle-
ment of human and nonhuman entities, is complicit in the degradation
of nature to which the collection testifies (854–56).
“(for all averred, we had killed the bird [enter albatross”: Reilly
mobilizes italicization and (square) brackets to navigate a sea of
information, a surfeit of seemingly nonbiodegradable signs. The
environment in which contemporary poetry operates also contains
digital flotsam: “Monica T / Soft and satisfying for infant teething if
you first freeze. / posted 10/11/2007 at thriftyfun.com / … All this.
information / anddeformation // & barely able to see sea” (11). The
Internet is not only a platform that stimulates the consumption and
production of ever more thermoplastics that stubbornly refuse to dis-
appear, it also generates an “infowhelm” in which poetry threatens to
drown. The intrusion of so many discourses—from chemistry over
40 Anthropocene Agencies
cultural history to the everyday banality of customer reviews—in the
body of the poem is crucial for Styrofoam: it is not only a collection
about environments after the end of nature, but also about the viability of
poetry in saturated information ecologies.
In Styrofoam, the consolations of pastoral make way for formal
innovations that signal a crisis that is environmental as well as literary.
Reilly’s work is often considered as a work of ecopoetics, a kind of
writing that directly addresses environmental crisis and that emerged in
the 1990s and was later consolidated around poet and critic Jonathan
Skinner’s experimental journal ecopoetics. For Juliana Spahr (2011),
another poet affiliated with this development, ecopoetics differs from
traditional nature poetry that, as she writes, “even when it got the birds
and the plants and the animals right it tended to show the beautiful bird
but not so often the bulldozer off to the side that was destroying the
bird’s habitat” (69). In ecopoetics, environmental crisis is also a crisis of
representation, as the customary formats that organized the divisions
between the human and the nonhuman are unable to accommodate both
bird and bulldozer. Ecopoetical form, in contrast, reflects what Margaret
Ronda (2014) calls “incommensurabilities and violent estrangements”
(105). In the case of Styrofoam, the inevitable inadequacies and distor-
tions of representation are reflected in the unstable lay-out, the erratic
punctuation, the quasi-misprints, and the agglutination of words (“All
this.information / anddeformation”). The collection resembles nothing
so much as the effect of copy-and-pasting an image-based PDF as plain,
editable text. The collection’s most remarkable stylistic features are then
so many glitches afflicting this attempted conversion.
There are two ways to assess Styrofoam’s formal innovations: as
evidence of a breakdown of obsolete forms, or as an attempt to design
new forms for a new reality. Most existing literary criticism on the
Anthropocene tends to underline formal failure, and to promote works
whose “material and formal qualities … come to displace and over-
whelm” established forms of expression and representation (Clark
2015, 183). It emphasizes “disjunctiveness, a being-overwhelmed by
contexts in which the human perceiver is deeply implicated but cannot
hope to command or sometimes even to comprehend” (184). This
emphasis on formal inadequacy in the face of crushing realities recalls
the structure of the romantic sublime: as I already explored in the
introduction, this model stages a collapse of the human capacity to
represent an overpowering reality (mountains, waterfalls, canyons) but
still snatches some consolation from its higher-order insight in this
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 41
mismatch between mind and matter. It is certainly possible to describe
Reilly’s glitchy collage in those terms. At the same time, we also saw
her poetry dismiss such a recuperative sublime in its critical update of
Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Melville.
It may be more productive to consider Styrofoam as an ultimately
successful effort to devise new forms rather than as a campaign to break
obsolete ones. The collection’s capacious collage of human and nonhu-
man forces, of different commercial, scientific, and cultural discourses,
but also of images, charts, drawings, and diagrams is a formal achieve-
ment: it presents a formal equivalent of the sprawling, weirdly unexcit-
ing, but increasingly unavoidable presence of thermoplastics in the
planetary ecosystem. Old forms (such as the romantic sublime) are not
displaced or discarded: they are recycled as part of this new formal
construction. The text’s sparse and irregular lay-out of scratches and
dots on a white surface even resembles the typical texture of Styrofoam.
This is not the naïve evocation of a text-external reality typical of tra-
ditional poetry, but a form of mimesis that locates itself in the Anthro-
pocene infowhelm and mobilizes the affordances of poetry to convey, in
different ways, the contours and the feel of a previously unsung but
increasingly inescapable environmental reality. Styrofoam’s structural,
visual, typographic, and stylistic choices all point to an attempt to make
rather than break form.
The notion of form can help us understand how literature can con-
tribute to the interdisciplinary study of the Anthropocene under the
label of the environmental humanities (a field I map in the third section
of this chapter). The Anthropocene is marked by an intense reorgani-
zation of the relations between different (cultural, political, social)
forms of life and (biological) life forms—an unstable distinction to
which I return below. A medium like literature that is defined by its
restless grappling with form can help us gain traction on this mutating
reality. Of course, form is a notoriously slippery notion. Literary criti-
cism can be relied on to rediscover the importance of form every few
decades. Since the 1990s, the discipline has launched several “new
formalisms” (Levinson 2007), which has not resulted in a shared
understanding of the term (Kramnick and Nersessian 2017). Yet this
lack of a strict definition also makes form a versatile and flexible term
for articulating complex realities. In her book Forms: Whole, Rhythm,
Hierarchy, Network, Caroline Levine (2015) emphasizes that the notion
of form not only points to artistic and literary arrangements, but also
to social ones. For her, “form always indicates an arrangement of
42 Anthropocene Agencies
elements—an ordering; patterning, or shaping”; form, for Levine,
means “all shapes and configurations, all ordering principles, all pat-
terns of repetition and difference” (3). Forms “can organize both social
and literary objects” (13), and a sustained focus on form makes it pos-
sible to trace the ways literature engages social life through the colli-
sions, overlaps, and intersections of forms.
Anthropocene literature does not stop at social life. As it also engages
biological, geological, and cosmic dimensions, it traffics in things that are
precisely not configurations, that are not ordered, but rather intractable,
resistant, diffuse, or even intangible. Tracing encounters with such things
requires a more capacious account of the relations between form and
life. In a felicitous phrase, Styrofoam calls the Anthropocene “our infi-
nite plasticity prosperity plenitude” (Reilly 2009, 43), suggesting that in
the Plasticene, the notion of life itself has become plastic. Following the
work of Catherine Malabou, Arne De Boever (2016) explains that plas-
ticity does not mean that life is infinitely malleable and fungible, but that
it is able to “receive, give, and explode form” (24). But Anthropocene
form does not stop at life: following Elizabeth Povinelli’s (2016) work on
“geontopower,” we can see that it is not only life that is at stake, but,
“as the previously stable ordering divisions of Life and Nonlife shake,”
we also need to be mindful of the differences between bios and geos,
between living and nonliving things (5). Some things are precisely not
malleable, not plastic. One of these things is, surprisingly, plastic itself.
Heather Davis (2015) remarks that plastic may be “the hardest material
there is,” as “it refuses its environment, creating a sealant or barrier that
remains impermeable to what surrounds it” (351–52). Even when plastic
breaks apart, “[t]he molecules themselves remain intact, holding onto
their identity” (352). A sufficiently capacious account of form, in other
words, also needs to factor in a resistance to formal patterns and
arrangements.
In the next section, I situate the relation between life and form in the
development of the field of ecocriticism, the literary subfield in which
that relation has been discussed since the early 1990s. As I show, eco-
criticism traditionally celebrated literary writing for its capacity for lit-
erary mimesis, before it took inspiration from a strain of critical theory
it initially resisted to move on to a more sober appreciation of the con-
structedness of nature. Only more recently has ecocriticism shifted from
the extremes of mimesis and construction to a consideration of the
multifarious interactions, not only between literature and science, but
also between the natural and the social world. In the section after that, I
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 43
draw on the distinction between forms of life and life forms to show
how contemporary ecocriticism, this time increasingly operating under
the banner of the environmental humanities, negotiates literature’s
engagements with different differences: with different histories, values,
ethnicities, and classes, but also with natural and geological forces, and
with kinds of life and nonlife. Giving these different elements their due
involves remaining attentive to their specificity and not collapsing them
into all too vast categories such as “the other” or “the nonhuman.”
To illustrate the importance of differentiating differences, the last sec-
tion of the chapter turns to the field of critical ocean studies with a dis-
cussion of J.M. Ledgard’s novel Submergence and his curious Terra
Firma Triptych: When Robots Fly. These works exemplify the interac-
tions between biological and social forms and demonstrate the com-
plementary needs for scientific literacy and cultural knowledge. Both
works are thematically complex, draw on different forms of disciplinary
expertise, and deploy multiple genres and formats. They illustrate how
the Anthropocene challenges the limits of ecocriticism and brings the
ecological study of literature into the remit of what Ursula Heise (2014)
has called “the transdisciplinary matrix” of the environmental huma-
nities. Ecocriticism’s contiguity to disciplines such as environmental his-
tory, environmental anthropology, cultural geography, critical animal
studies, and political ecology (all of which increasingly operate under the
umbrella of the environmental humanities) becomes a vital asset when
confronting the Anthropocene.

What Was Ecocriticism?

One curious fact about the history of academic ecocriticism is that it
took so long to catch up with non-academic environmental writing.
Silent Spring, Rachel Carson’s 1962 condemnation of pesticide overuse,
is commonly considered the beginning of modern environmentalism
(Garrard 2004, 1), and the two-page “Fable for Tomorrow” that opens
Carson’s text already prefigures Anthropocene discourses in uncanny
detail. There is a (decidedly suburban) pastoral (the book begins:
“There once was a town in the heart of America where all life seemed
to live in harmony with its surroundings”), a sudden apocalyptic
interruption (“Then a strange blight crept over the area and everything
began to change”), echoes of radioactive fallout (as “a white granular
power” falls “like snow upon the roofs and the lawns, the fields and the
streams”), and finally the realization that responsibility cannot be
44 Anthropocene Agencies
outsourced to “witchcraft” or “enemy action”: “The people had done it
themselves” (Carson 2002, 1–3). Carson’s opening fable is marked by
an astute use of formats such as pastoral and biblical apocalypse and
by the multidirectional interactions between technology, nature, and
human life. This shows that the Anthropocene is only one chapter in a
longer history of ecological awareness, making it all the more remark-
able that such awareness initially found few echoes in the academic
study of literature.
In the years between Silent Spring and the emergence of ecocriticism in
the early 1990s, and definitely since the 1970s, literary criticism in the Anglo-
phone world was dominated by a philosophically informed consideration of
the ways texts construct realities and identities. Representation and narrative
were studied as processes that shape the world; because such processes were
indelibly warped by power, the capacity of literary texts to reliably refer to a
text-external reality met with skepticism at best. The use of biological meta-
phors (as when the state is imagined as a body politic, or feminine beauty as a
flower) was seen as a sinister form of “naturalization”: invoking the stability
of nature was seen as a ploy to pass off mutable social arrangements as self-
evident and common sense. Until the 1950s, the romantic notion of literary
works as organic and internally harmonious totalities had dominated literary
criticism. The living harmonies of literature were categorically separated
from what were seen as the reductive and soulless operations of science and
theory. The critical movements that followed (especially poststructuralism,
deconstruction, Marxist criticism, and the new historicism) reacted to this
overly pious approach to literary objects and drew on theoretical and non-
literary knowledge to dismantle rather than celebrate literary texts. In this
transition, the natural world stayed out of the picture. To the extent that lit-
erary criticism engaged political issues (and it did so increasingly in the 1980s
and 1990s), it attended to the recognition of ethnic, gender, and sexual
minorities rather than to questions of environmental justice.
Only more recently has literary criticism begun to see that the con-
structedness of nature and nature’s irreducible materiality are not
mutually exclusive ideas, and neither are the value of nature and the
importance of cultural difference. The development of ecocriticism is cus-
tomarily figured as a series of (as many as four) “waves,” an image that
does not imply “a tidy, distinct succession” so much as continuities and
reverberations that are hard to tell apart (Buell 2005, 17; Marland 2013;
Slovic 2010). The insistence on the physical reality of nature, for instance,
has persisted across all four waves. In the first-wave ecocriticism of the
1990s, the rescue of nature (from mistrustful new historicist and Marxist
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 45
readings) generally went hand in hand with a reappraisal of nonfiction
nature writing, which was credited with the power to vividly evoke the
natural world: the lyrical poetry of a romantic like Wordsworth (in the
UK) or the environmental imagination of native American traditions or
writers like Henry David Thoreau and Wendell Berry (in the USA). The
backlash against three decades of theorizing was reflected in a definite
hostility to literary theory’s alleged “pantextualism”: its belief that only
texts mattered, and that the real world only mattered to the extent that it
could be read as a text. Early ecocriticism countered this theoretical and
textual focus with what critic Lawrence Buell (1995) calls “a spirit of
commitment to environmentalist praxis” (430). Nor was theory the only
culprit: because of its tendency to objectify nature and its proximity to
technology, urbanization, and industrialism, science became a prime target
in ecocriticism’s wholesale critique of modernity (Heise 1997, 4–5).
Ecocriticism’s rediscovery of nature proved more enduring than what
Buell (2011) calls its initial “naively pre-theoretical valorization of
experiential contact with the natural world and its trust in the power of
artifacts either to render the natural world or motivate return to it” (94).
Second-wave ecocriticism overcomes the anti-theoretical and anti-scien-
tific bias that characterized the field in its early days: it graduates from
Thoreau and Wordsworth to a writer like Carson, from the untainted
wilderness to compromised sites of industrial and urban transformation,
and from a celebration of ecstatic immersion to a more sober recognition
of the differential vulnerability of various constituencies. Ecocriticism
even moves beyond Carson’s suburb to postcolonial and Indigenous (and
not only native American) territories, as it teams up with feminism and
postcolonialism to pose questions of environmental justice and to fore-
ground that women and other non-dominant groups are dis-
proportionally affected by environmental deprivation (Marland 2013,
852). Scientific evidence is no longer the enemy and becomes a crucial
ally in understanding the complexity of ecosystems and in claiming the
body as a vital part of the affected environment.
In the new century, this broader literary canon, more inclusive under-
standing of the environment, and renewed appreciation of inter-
disciplinary knowledge has informed two further developments. A third
wave of ecocriticism has amplified the resolutely transnational outlook
that was already part of the second way. It has increasingly com-
plemented the recognition of environmental commonalities with an
appreciation of ethnic and national diversity (Adamson and Slovic 2009,
6–7). Coupling an ecological appreciation of transnational
46 Anthropocene Agencies
interconnectedness to an attention to cultural difference that is key to
literary and cultural studies, ecocriticism has since the beginning of the
century increasingly begun to pay attention to the ways Northern-
hemispheric patterns of consumption impact the Global South (as the
site of an “environmentalism of the poor” [Martinez-Alier 2002; Nixon
2011]). It has increasingly welcomed ethnic perspectives on natural
deprivation—which is to say that it has again expanded the ecocritical
canon—and advanced the notion of “translocality” to study the entan-
glements that generate the sense of place that first-wave ecocriticism
simply took for granted. Third-wave ecocriticism has challenged earlier
ecocritics’ default reliance on bioregionalism, which insists on the reci-
procal attunement between human cultures and their local surroundings,
and the related idea that environmental commitments are fostered by an
attachment to place. Instead, it has explored the possibilities of truly
planetary imaginaries and an “eco-cosmopolitanism” that resituates
“imagined communities” from the level of the region or the nation to
larger scales more appropriate to the daunting challenges of the
Anthropocene. Such a planetary ecocriticism operates within the tension
between cultural difference and a shared species history without surren-
dering either of these commitments. What is needed, Ursula Heise (2008)
writes, is “effective aesthetic templates by means of which to convey … a
dual vision of the Earth as a whole and of the different earths that are
shaped by varying cultural contexts” (210).
Third-wave ecocriticism has reminded the field of its earlier ethnic and
cultural blinders and has allowed it to develop a more diversified landscape
in a resolutely global framework. A fourth wave has extended this appre-
ciation of difference beyond the limits of the human. A properly inclusive
account of the environment also features agents that are neither human nor
natural; if ecocriticism emerged as the field in which “[t]he nonhuman
environment is present not merely as a framing device but as a presence”
(Buell 1995, 7), then it must also attend to unglamorous things like Styr-
ofoam, dirt, stones, infrastructures, meat, microbes, and so on. Scott Slovic
(2012) refers to this as “the fourth-wave material trend in ecocriticism”
(619). The emphasis is no longer on humans’ transformative power only,
but on the distributed agency that brings together human, technological,
natural, and other nonhuman actors. If third-wave ecocriticism envisioned
forms of eco-cosmopolitan connectedness and what Lawrence Buell (2007)
calls “ecoglobalist affects” (227), this strain imagines community beyond
the boundaries of the species in multispecies assemblages.
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 47
In the early 1990s, ecocriticism emerged as an effort to attend to the
interests of the nonhuman world, and to mobilize (an initially all too
restricted canon of) literary writing to solicit such attention. A few dec-
ades on, it finds the human concerns it strategically bracketed and later
reintroduced in the name of cultural difference fatefully enmeshed with
nonhuman forces. The human has not so much been naturalized as
become posthuman, just as the body has become, in Stacy Alaimo’s
(2014) words, “trans-corporeal,” sustained in “the material interchanges
across human bodies, animal bodies, and the wider material world”
(187). As Pippa Marland (2013) remarks, this points to “a shared mate-
riality between the human and non-human world that renders obsolete
the distinctions between human and environment, moving beyond the
construct of ‘nature’ altogether” (856). This decentering of human
agency is often discussed under the rubric of the posthuman (a topic I
engage in more detail in the third chapter). Some versions of post-
humanism are decidedly cosier than others: on the one hand, there is the
promise of an unsuspected intimacy with nonhuman animals, with viru-
ses, bacteria, and microbes, and even with plants (studied in the field of
critical plant studies); on the other, there is the more sobering realization
that, in an age of biotechnological manipulation and digital connected-
ness, human life might be no more than a relay in media circuits and
cycles of production and consumption, and that whatever agency we
thought we had has been surrendered to machines or to thermoplastics
upsetting our hormonal balance.
If first- and second-wave ecocriticism are defined by attitudes of cele-
bration and critique respectively, the sheer complexity of the Anthro-
pocene has informed a less bipolar and more sober (if no less ethically
and politically committed) ethos of description in recent ecocriticism: of
designing words, stories, images, concepts, and affects through which
literature and its multiple environments can be captured. In this research
context, an emphasis on form can help us make a case for the enduring
relevance of literature in debates over the environment. Literary form
can enrich interdisciplinary discussions by providing patterns, connec-
tions, structures, and descriptions that other kinds of knowledge pro-
duction are less free to generate, if only because their protocols don’t
allow the blend of imaginative, speculative, and descriptive elements that
makes up literary form. In first-wave ecocriticism, form expresses nature;
in second-wave ecocriticism, form is something that also shapes and
deforms nature; today, form can be a heuristic device that helps us come
48 Anthropocene Agencies
to terms with a planetary derangement we have only begun to understand
and respond to.
The literary critical landscape today looks very different from the
one in which ecocriticism initially emerged in the early 1990s. At that
time, ecocriticism understandably set itself apart from approaches that
were excessively invested in theoretical reflection, the critique of power,
and the recognition of sexual, gender, or ethnic difference. It only later
realized that all these foci could enrich rather than obscure our under-
standing of the relation between literature and the environment. Such
an enriched and pluralized ecocriticism participates in two recent
developments in literary criticism that have shifted it toward a more
descriptive and a more interdisciplinary approach. Criticism has in
recent years seen a notable shift from demystifying practices of critique
to less suspicious critical postures that engage with texts in more nur-
turing and textured ways. For a critic like Rita Felski (2015), the
“mood and method” of critique, often inspired by psychoanalysis,
Marxism, and poststructuralism, is one of suspicion (1), which leaves
unaddressed the myriad other tonalities in which literary works address
us. Notions such as “postcritique,” “surface reading,” or “just reading”
(Best and Marcus 2009) point to less heady and more descriptive read-
ing practices that work hard to figure out what happens on (rather than
below) the surface of texts. Description is not as boring as it sounds:
when dealing with demanding and unruly objects such as literary texts
and Anthropocene worlds, description involves an exploratory, imagi-
native, and creative dimension. Description is hard to get right, and the
process of description is often an occasion to register the limits of
existing formats and to reach beyond them. As such, description is
“well suited to emergent evidence that exceeds but might ultimately be
essential to reformulating the frame of analysis” (Marcus et al. 2016,
4). This is precisely what, in the previous section, we saw Styrofoam’s
formal experiments accomplish in their attempt to give shape to the as-
yet-undescribed Anthropocene life of thermoplastics. An intervention
like Reilly’s makes knowledge about this sprawling reality available for
interdisciplinary dialogue; it is marked by an “essential generosity”
pertaining to “the collective, uncertain, and ongoing activity of trying
to get a handle on the world” (Marcus et al. 2016, 4). As an attempt to
describe a complex world, literary form can make a crucial contribu-
tion to our understanding of the environment.
The second recent development that makes form a crucial resource is
the rise of interdisciplinary research domains, which sees the study of
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 49
literature liaise with other fields in new constellations such as the medi-
cal humanities, the digital humanities, or, in the case of ecocriticism, the
environmental humanities. Environmental criticism’s enlarged under-
standing of the digital, technological, urban, toxic, microbial, and
transcorporeal environments we inhabit makes interdisciplinary dialogue
necessary, as a measure of scientific literacy and a knowledge of other
humanist disciplines (environmental history, political ecology, cultural
geography) is required to get a grip on the multiple objects that envir-
onmental literature engages. The need for a broad conceptual repertoire
for describing a weirded world has even informed a return of high
theory. The deconstruction of Jacques Derrida and Paul de Man, which
had its heyday in the 1970s and 1980s, is traditionally taken to exemplify
everything that ecocriticism opposed: a wall-to-wall textualism, a cynical
denial of literature’s capacity to reflect its real-world referents, and a
nihilist disbelief in social change and political action. I already pointed to
the surprising renewed relevance of Derrida’s “Il n’y a pas de hors-texte”
(“there is no outside of the text”) in my introduction, and in the work of
critics like Timothy Clark, Tom Cohen, Claire Colebrook, J. Hillis
Miller, and Timothy Morton, deconstruction’s emphasis on incalculable
complexity, uncertain authorship, the instability of humanist meaning,
and the threat of unreadability has made it a rich resource for appre-
hending a climate-changed world (Clark 2010). Paul de Man tended to
present deconstruction as a form of surface reading avant la lettre, or
what he called “mere reading”: a sustained focus on textual surfaces that
aims to register textual operations without imposing aesthetic, ethical, or
theological preconceptions (de Man 1986, 24). This explains how theory,
like science, like many humanities disciplines, and like literature, can
encounter other forms of knowledge in a shared project of inter-
disciplinary description. In the next section, I show how this ambition
provides an accurate characterization of the environmental humanities,
the field that has increasingly come to enfold ecocriticism.

Differentiating Difference: Form and Environmental Humanities

One remarkable feature of Reilly’s Styrofoam is that it relentlessly
focuses on an object—or, to use Timothy Morton’s term, a sprawling
“hyperobject”—that falls outside the customary purview of literary
studies; Styrofoam is different, but not in the way differences that aca-
demic discussions typically have come to valorize are different: difference
in gender, sexuality, ethnicity, and also (if often somewhat more reluctantly)
50 Anthropocene Agencies
in socioeconomic status. As Ursula Heise (2016) has noted, there is an
irreducible tension between science’s aspirations toward universal valid-
ity and “disciplines such as anthropology, history, or comparative lit-
erature, which have traditionally specialized in tracing differences
between moments in time, communities, cultures, and aesthetic forms”
(220). Even if the challenges of the Anthropocene require a concerted
global approach, and even if they make it necessary to think planetary
connectedness, Heise (2014) underlines that “[t]here is no freeway from
ecological crisis to human universalism that does not have to retrace the
byways and detours of difference.”
Think, for instance, of the hype surrounding geoengineering—delib-
erate large-scale modifications to the earth system to address the unwel-
come side-effects of human action. Plans to, for instance, add sunlight
reflecting aerosol to the stratosphere or seed the oceans with iron fillings
to increase their capacity to absorb carbon dioxide are marked by “a
heavy-handed interventionist bias” that accustoms audiences to the
desirability of techno-fixes (Emmett and Nye 2017, 86). In the face of
such ambitions, an environmental humanities perspective can insist on,
for instance, the challenges for global governance when one country’s
voluntarism clashes with the agenda of others; the blindness of such
designs to the increased likelihood of famines and droughts in the Global
South (Grove 2019, 38); or the insight that Maori, Samoans, Laplanders,
and other ethnic groups have no desire to live in a deliberately re-engi-
neered climate (Emmett and Nye 2017, 89). Environmental humanities
approaches here join hands with the arts: there are clear echoes between
a blockbuster film like Snowpiercer and a fictional work of popular sci-
ence like The Collapse of Western Civilization, which I already men-
tioned in the introductory chapter. Bong Joon-Ho’s 2014 film sees the
last remaining humans survive in a high-speed train circling an earth that
froze after a disastrous attempt to insert an artificial cooling substance
into the atmosphere (Streeby 2018, 1–4). Oreskes and Conway’s (2014)
book imagines a failed “International Aerosol Injection Climate Engi-
neering Project” that initially seems to succeed in cooling the planet,
until it sets off the shutdown of the Indian monsoon, which then gen-
erates crop failures and famines that compromise political support for
the project. This, in its turn, leads to an inadvertent cessation of the
project, which informs a “termination shock” through which the planetary
situation spins totally out of control (27–28).
Notice what Oreskes and Conway are not doing: they are not simply
opposing all scientific and technological ambition, nor are they setting
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 51
themselves up as the ethically attuned critical consciousness that tech
bros are supposedly missing. Only a few pages later, they imagine an
equally hubristic geoengineering project involving a pitch-black liche-
nized fungus that, later in the century, does manage to turn global
warming around (32–33). What they do is emphasize that one crucial
step in the deterioration of the planet is the withdrawal of Indian poli-
tical support: the process involves, in other words, an interplay of dif-
ferent differences—technological, atmospheric, as well as cultural and
political. Such a constructive, co-creative, and properly critical approach,
and not a merely anti-scientific and anti-technological attitude, char-
acterizes the environmental humanities at its best. A recent introduction
to the field make this emphasis abundantly clear, as it insists that “the
humanities must offer constructive knowledge as well as criticism”
informed by an “understanding of the urgent need to take knowledge-
driven action” emerging through “creative cooperation between the
humanities and the sciences” (Emmett and Nye 2017, 2, 7, 9). Oreskes
and Conway are not boasting that humanities perspectives are less delu-
ded than scientific ones; they are adding humanities insights to provide a
more salient, multifaceted, and ultimately more accurate description of
environmental crisis.
The label “environmental humanities” is a loose one, even if it has
become increasingly institutionalized since the beginning of the century
and can be expected to become more firmly entrenched in the next
decade (Emmett and Nye 2017, 6). For Ursula Heise (2014), it refers to
“an intellectual framework that prioritizes connections between the var-
ious humanities disciplines that have pursued environmentally oriented
research over the last few decades.” For such research, collaborations
with the sciences are indispensable, but attention to divergent cultures,
histories, and values is equally essential for grasping the very nature of
ecological crises. The contexts in which crises take shape are inevitably
as much historical and sociocultural as techno-scientific. This con-
structive engagement with scientific knowledge echoes Bruno Latour’s
much-cited 2004 essay “Why Has Critique Run out of Steam?” In this
essay, Latour worries that his earlier social critique of scientific practice
is uncomfortably close to the arguments of climate change deniers and
conspiracy theorists. Instead of his earlier uncompromising critical
stance, Latour (2004) calls for “a stubbornly realist attitude,” “another
powerful descriptive tool” that makes environmental threat emerge as a
“matter of concern” rather than a mere “matter of fact” (213–32). In line
with this intervention, the environmental humanities can be considered
52 Anthropocene Agencies
as a cluster of perspectives that liaise with science to articulate the
challenges of the Anthropocene as matters of concern.
Literary form—that is, the way literature shapes and organizes reality
in ways that go beyond the disciplinary constraints of academic
enquiry—is an important resource for such a project of interdisciplinary
description. Attending to form shows how literature can foster knowl-
edge that articulates cultural and historical difference with even more
radical differences—between the human and the nonhuman, or between
life and nonlife, for instance—without collapsing the difference between
these differences. Literature’s formal affordances offer ways to engage
with the ongoing reorganization of life and the relation between life and
nonlife. If the notion of life has always been a complex one—philoso-
pher Eugene Thacker (2010) has called it awkwardly “human-centered
and yet unhuman-oriented” (ix)—recent developments have further
destabilized it: think of the upscaling of human life to the status of a
geological force; projects in species revivalism that promise to extend
particular life forms beyond their expiry date; the intrusive re-engineering of
biotic material, as when deep-sea microbial genes are turned into corn to
make ethanol; forms of artificial life that decouple the logic of life from
its organic basis and simulate life as pure digital information; or the
discovery of lateral gene transfers—genes leaping among contemporaries
rather than being transmitted to the next generation—in marine envir-
onments that uproot the Darwinian tree of life by exploding the dis-
creteness of species (Helmreich 2011). All these developments require
new imaginaries, concepts, and narratives, and literature is one place
where these can emerge. They also provide an impetus for literary
innovation. As Stephanie LeMenager (2017b) remarks, artistic formats
are “fraying, recombining, or otherwise moving outside of our expecta-
tions of what they ought to be because life itself is moving outside of our
expectations of what it ought to be. It is worth considering how life
itself begins to encourage new representational regimes” (477). Tracing
such regime change, then, requires a commitment to form.
When nature is no longer a stable background for human culture, and
when life unpredictably shuttles between natural and cultural poles, life
and form enter into novel constellations. In order to capture the inter-
actions and overlaps between biological and cultural dimensions,
anthropologist Stefan Helmreich introduces a helpful distinction between
life forms and forms of life. Life forms, for Helmreich (2009), are bio-
logical entities; they are “embodied bits of vitality called organisms,” and
the ways in which organisms interact with their surrounding ecologies
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 53
and with one another (6). Forms of life, in contrast, refer to “those cul-
tural, social, symbolic, and pragmatic ways of thinking and acting that
organize human communities” (6). Forms of life always form a plurality
of forms of an “uneven, contested, and overlapping character” (6). In a
time of biotechnology, genomics, species revivalism, and geological
agency, the relation between life forms and forms of life, Helmreich
writes, has become “liquid, turbulent” (8). A phenomenon like species
revivalism, for instance, is as much a question of the genetic engineering
of a particular life form as of the meanings that human forms of life
ascribe to biodiversity, historical responsibility, and extinction—perhaps
even the fear of the human’s own extinction. Species revivalism also
impacts the fate of different life forms: if, for instance, de-extinction
biologists were to reanimate the passenger pigeon, a North American
species that went extinct when Martha, the last known living specimen,
died in 1914, these revived birds would encounter forests dominated by
red oaks, which over the last century grew at the expense of the white
oaks in which the passenger pigeon found abundant tree fruits (Emmett
and Nye 2017, 73–74). To compound the complexity of the entangle-
ments between life forms and forms of life, Thom van Dooren (2014) has
remarked that the notion of a form of life not only applies to humans:
there are also other-than-human forms of life, as he considers “birds
(and other organisms) as life forms with a form or way of life” (8–9). In
an age when life forms are loosened from biological substance and forms
of life are extended beyond the human, a better understanding of the
relations between life and form is an urgent matter of concern. It is at
this juncture that literature has its job cut out for it.

Environmental Humanities at Sea: The Ocean and the

Life of Form
Reilly’s Styrofoam renders the ocean as a nonhuman place, taken over by
what poet John Ashbery, in his blurb for the collection, calls “[a] vast
Sargasso sea of plastic fragments the size of a continent.” Traditionally,
the ocean has served as the backdrop for imperial conquest and colonial
adventure. The clearest emblem of that worldview is the frontispiece to
Francis Bacon’s 1620 Instauratio Magna, which contains the tract
Novum Organon, a text that theorizes the role of science in the Western
conquest of the globe. The frontispiece depicts a ship sailing between the
Pillars of Hercules (the old name of the promontories flanking the Strait
of Gibraltar), then considered the limit of the known world. In the
54 Anthropocene Agencies
distance, another ship has set sail for the undiscovered New World. In
the modern imagination, the ocean figures as a flat surface to be crossed,
as an “inert backdrop” rather than as “wet matter” (DeLoughrey 2019,
22). This erasure of the material reality of the ocean continued when the
humanities began to pay attention to the ocean near the end of the
twentieth century. Paul Gilroy’s influential 1993 book The Black Atlantic
showed how attention to the ocean could help the humanities destabilize
national or continent-bound imaginaries. Gilroy (1995) refashions the
Atlantic as a zone of hybridization and intercultural affiliation in which
the afterlives of the Atlantic slave trade have generated vibrant and
convivial cultural practices and forms. Since the turn of the century,
studies of the cultural and social histories of the ocean have gone under
the name of oceanic studies, blue cultural studies, the new thalassology,
or the maritime humanities. The ocean emerges in these studies as a site
for novel forms of relationality—of what Hester Blum (2014), a leading
critic in the field, has called “erosion, drift, dispersion, confluence, sol-
vency” (35). Elizabeth DeLoughrey, another important voice, notes that
the emphasis has been on “concepts of fluidity, flow, routes, and mobi-
lity” in what is essentially a “transoceanic … narrative of flat surfaces
rather than immersions” (2019, 22; 2017, 33).
Only more recently, forms of “critical ocean studies” and “hydro-criti-
cism” (DeLoughrey 2017; Winkiel 2019) have taken on board the realiza-
tion that the ocean is not just a surface that can be traveled, mapped, and
navigated, but also a vast volume that resists human control and alters the
parameters of planetary life. The differences the oceans deliver are not
only cultural but also ontological, as the deep sea houses life forms that
upset biological taxonomies or invites us to think of space as a dynamic
force rather than a place (Steinberg 2013). And even if the sea is the main
infrastructure of capitalist globalization (over 60 percent of the global oil
supply is transported over sea), the depths of the ocean remind us that
what we inhabit is less a globe we can map and control than a planet that
resists human designs (Wenzel 2014, 21; more on the distinction between
planet and globe in the next chapter). Stacy Alaimo (2016) thinks of the
ocean as such a planetary space: “The depths of the ocean,” she writes,
“resist flat terrestrial maps that position humans as disengaged spectators”
(161). Skimming the surface will no longer do, as “[t]o begin to glimpse
the seas, one must descend, rather than transcend”: marine scientists, in
other words, “must … become submerged” (161).
Submergence is the title of a 2011 novel by the Scottish writer J.M.
Ledgard. Deeply informed by scientific, technological, and humanistic
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 55
knowledge, the novel invites dialogue with the environmental humanities
and critical ocean studies. Importantly, it does so on unabashedly lit-
erary terms: its intervention in current thinking about the ocean relies on
literary form to articulate unexpected alliances of forms of life and life
forms. In an interview, Ledgard qualifies his novel, which sounds human
and nonhuman dimensions of the ocean, as a form of “planetary writ-
ing” rather than “nature writing.” What makes the ocean a promising
site for moving beyond human constraints is, Ledgard notes, that it is
“confounding”:

you have no breath in it, no light, and consequently no imaginable

human life, yet it is immutable, and when you stack it up you find it is
nearly all of the living space on the planet. What I wanted to do was to
alter the reader’s perspective of earth, to show that … to step out on a
field is rare while to float and scintillate with bioluminescence is
common.
(Gourevitch 2013)

Ledgard’s novel draws on the ocean as a site of defamiliarization: it

allows his novel to confound readers’ expectations and provide new
apprehensions of reality. Interestingly, Viktor Shklovsky’s 1917 essay
“Art as Technique,” the very text that codified the idea that literature is
a technology of defamiliarization, links the operation of literature
directly to form and to the confrontation between life forms and forms
of life. Shklovsky (1965) defines defamiliarization as the work of form:
to make things unfamiliar is “to make forms difficult,” to the extent that
defamiliarization “is found almost everywhere form is found” (12, 18).
One of Shklovsky’s main examples is Leo Tolstoy’s story “Kholm-
stomer,” which is narrated from the perspective of a horse. Ledgard’s
debut novel, Giraffe (2006), is partly told from the perspective of a gir-
affe and describes a freak historical incident in which the Czechoslova-
kian secret police in 1975 massacred a group of 49 giraffes for no
discernible reason. This defamiliarizing perspective destabilizes the rela-
tion between different life forms (human and giraffe) as well between
different forms of life, such as the animals’ captivity and the mental
confinements of the communist mindset.
Submergence stages the estrangement of customary forms of life by
different life forms in more daring ways. The novel presents a fairly
traditional (and very human) love story that brings together Danny, a
colored female biomathematician working on deep ocean life, and James,
56 Anthropocene Agencies
a British spy working in Africa and posing as a water engineer who, at
the outset of the novel, is captured by a group of Somalian Jihadis. The
templates of the romance and the spy thriller are familiar enough, but
these human stories constitute only two of the novel’s strands: these
story lines are juxtaposed with a collage of materials pertaining to
the science and cultural history of deep sea life. Danny devotes her life to
the study of microbial deep ocean life: life that persists in the darkness,
without photosynthesis, and that in the history of terrestrial life precedes
the animal and plant life that later “ascended from the eternal night …
heading towards the light” (Ledgard 2012, 95). The novel underlines that
bacterial life continues to exceed other forms of life both in terms of
biomass and genetic diversity. Knowledge of this life form, Danny notes,
is necessary “to comprehend the scale of life on earth … The fact that
life can exist in the darkness, on chemicals, changes our understanding
about life everywhere else in the universe” (137).
The novel’s recurring evocations of the facts and fantasies of deep
ocean life submerge human life in “the pullulating life in the dark parts
of the planet” (9), and this means that it radically estranges customary
ways of looking at human forms of life—as a spy plot, as a love affair:
“[t]he microbioal life of the deep,” the novel notes, contains “fleeces of
microbes … that are even more extraordinary than those that live on the
timbers of our eyelashes” (156). The maritime world, in Submergence, is
many things simultaneously: a site of human endeavor and strife (think
of the Somalian pirates); an archive of human violence (Danny is haun-
ted by the image of a sinking slave ship carrying one of her ancestors); a
site of encounter (the love affair is situated at a seaside hotel); but also a
radically “alien ocean” (to appropriate Stefan Helmreich’s phrase) that
the most advanced life sciences have only begun to sound and whose
impact on human life Ledgard’s novel is one of the first literary works to
explore. Submergence acknowledges the modern novel’s insistent fasci-
nation with the sea as an area of adventure, travel, and contemplation,
only to note that the novel’s concern has mainly been with beaches and
tides, while “the connection with the ocean has been lost” (95); the his-
tory of the novel has tended to forget that “there is so much darkness in
our world” (95). Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea,
for instance, refers in its title “to the journey taken across, not down”
(96). The downward journey to a planetary darkness is then
Submergence’s contribution to this literary tradition.
Ledgard’s novel is attentive to the cultural implications of scientific
insights as well as to the ways scientific enquiry is framed by geopolitical
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 57
and aesthetic concerns. But its contribution to the environmental huma-
nities is not only thematic. Crucially, Danny’s knowledge of the deep
disconnects her from James: “She could not simplify the maths for him”
(112). By juxtaposing, rather than seamlessly integrating, two all too
human plotlines with the myths, legends, anecdotes, factoids, and fanta-
sies pertaining to deep sea life, the novel presents the relation between
human forms of life and different life forms as a kind of entanglement
without intimacy, as a type of relatedness that remains marked by
unfamiliarity, alienation, power differentials, and missed connections.
Submergence uses literary form to describe the ocean in a way that
complements and corrects oceanic studies’ emphasis on drift and disper-
sion, on flows and fluidity; its focus on the dark side of the ocean not
only resonates with Reilly’s Styrofoam, but also with more recent inter-
disciplinary debates that have begun to factor in the irreducible materiality
of the ocean.
The novel’s collage aesthetic shows that different forms of life and life
forms do not necessarily become hybrids or get attached to one another
or the places they inhabit; instead of such an emphasis on local attach-
ment and on what Ursula Heise (2008) has called an “ethic of proximity”
(33), certain life forms remain withdrawn from cultural forms of life:
there is still a “division between life on the surface of the world and the
life … in the Hadal deep” (Ledgard 2012, 139), just as there is no
understanding between the Somalian Jihadis and the Westerners they
meet. The life below is presented as a limit to literature’s form-giving
capacities; it is referred to as the life of “teeming hordes of nameless
micro-organisms that mimic no forms, because they are the foundation
of all forms” (180). The novel recounts the story of the late-nineteenth-
century HMS Challenger, whose job it was “to plumb the remote seas
and trawl them for new life” (97). The crew managed to bring up tens of
thousands of new species, as well as seemingly insignificant heaps of
slime. What they did not know was that this slime was also a remainder
of life: “the slime which covered the inside of the dredge each time it was
brought up was not the unexceptional ooze the ship’s scientists believed
it to be. Not whale snot, either. It was all that remained of the most
exquisite forms of millions of sea squirts, salp, and jellies, whose
diaphanous musculature—more remarkable than any alien species yet
conceived—had lost its form in air” (97). This episode shows that the
relations between life, nonlife, and form are intricate, mutable, and
unpredictable—and therefore in need of the complex acts of description
that literature can provide.
58 Anthropocene Agencies
Submergence’s interest in geopolitical and biological themes resonates
with the increasing concern for cosmopolitan connectedness and material
agency in what I earlier identified as the third and fourth waves in eco-
criticism. Like Reilly’s Styrofoam, it participates in a project of inter-
disciplinary description that is increasingly institutionalized under the
rubric of the environmental humanities. The last point I want to make in
this chapter is that the environmental humanities are not only a project
of knowledge-oriented description; they are, in fact, often closely allied
to environmental activism and foster collaborations beyond the uni-
versity and the literary field. Ledgard’s career since the publication of
Submergence illustrates these multiple alliances very well, as it takes the
lessons learned from the ocean back to earth and ultimately to the sky.
Between 2012 and 2016, Ledgard, who earlier worked as a frontline for-
eign correspondent for the Economist, led Afrotech, a Lausanne-based
consortium of leading roboticists, architects, engineers, designers, and
logisticians that seeks to build the first droneport in the world in Africa.
The idea is to develop a network that allows cargo drones to deliver
healthcare and supplies (but also commodities) to off-grid communities
that, because of failing transportation infrastructure and environmental
challenges, are currently locked out of trade circuits. If the spread of cell
phones has made it crystal clear to (overwhelmingly young) African
populations that they are missing out on massive opportunities, drone
delivery systems can help meet their aspirations and contain global
unrest by transporting the commodities these populations crave.
However cynical this may sound, Ledgard’s (2015) latest publication,
entitled Terra Firma Triptych, illustrates the value of humanities per-
spectives for such efforts to manage a crowded and unequal Anthro-
pocene world. The triptych contains three texts: two idiosyncratic travel
stories and a kind of manifesto for the drone initiative. Ledgard’s
embrace of drone technology is informed by the realization that “the
extractive nature of colonial and postcolonial rule,” which only needed
roads to transport raw materials from mountain to coast, has made
Africa’s road system useless for medium-distance trade (loc 272–74). The
manifesto compares the “Red Liners” to an albatross (loc 282), and as in
Reilly’s Styrofoam, this reference serves as a recognition of the dangers
of human overreach. The drone initiative, Ledgard underlines, is not a
form of “techno-utopianism” (loc 351), and he notes that human appre-
hensions about unmanned flight and robotification need to be acknowl-
edged: “The biggest hurdle to the mass adoption of cargo drones and
droneports is human emotion,” so “it makes sense to think carefully
 Forms, Lives, Forms of Life 59
about how they should look and feel” (loc 358, loc 364)—imitating
birds, for instance, or mimicking the drift of an octopus underwater.
Again, cultural forms of life and biological life forms enter a complicated
choreography that enriches a technocentric approach.
Developing drone networks is a way of managing capitalism and
populations; it enhances the world that exists and does not imagine an
alternative to it. The manifesto is preceded by two strange short travel
narratives, set in Sudan and Rwanda respectively, that anticipate the
critique that Ledgard’s intervention is insufficiently radical. Both stories
ponder the desire for a part of nature that is not spoiled by human
interference, for “the absence of human settlement of any kind” (loc 39),
only to conclude that such repose is no longer available. What, in the
Sudan story, seems to be a perfectly flat terra firma (“solid land”) is
actually shot through by burrows, aardvark holes, and tunnels “perfor-
ating the earth” (loc 128). And what, in Rwanda, initially looks like a
valley that “had become unaccustomed to humans” (loc 196) after the
genocide in the 1990s, turns out to be a site vacated for a planned inter-
national airport. What appears to be a solid alternative to the liquid
depths Ledgard explored in Submergence turns out to be no such thing,
and what looks like a site of splendid isolation is so only in the quiet
before a manmade storm. In such an unstable and thoroughly compro-
mised world, Ledgard seems to suggest, alleviating frustration and
unhappiness in disadvantaged populations is a worthy goal.
The traveler in the Rwanda story imagines the future of the vacated
site as a connectome, a neuroscientific map “of all possible neural con-
nections in the brain and nervous system— pulsing, roaring, getting
denser” (loc 226). On the face of it, this reads like a clichéd metaphor for
a networked, hyperconnected world. But in the endnotes, Ledgard
underlines that a connectome is not a lazy commonplace, but a phe-
nomenon that the life sciences are only now beginning to get a grasp on.
The connectome, then, does not offer a glib vision of frictionless inter-
connectedness (something Submergence also resisted); instead, the image
foregrounds the hard work of articulation and collaboration, of imagi-
nation and description. As the story notes: “It was not good, neither was
it awful” (loc 235). It is, quite simply, the Anthropocene present, and
Ledgard’s attempt to bring his interdisciplinary intervention to bear on
the present aligns it with the larger project of the environmental huma-
nities. If this chapter has foregrounded literature’s ability to make us
describe and understand the present, the next chapter is interested in
how it makes us feel and inhabit it.
2 Genres, Media, Worlds

Deranged Realism: Genre and Affect

One reason for environmental thought to turn to literature is literature’s
capacity to capture the reality of the natural world. When, in the
Anthropocene, that reality turns out to be weirder and unrulier than we
had assumed, literature’s vaunted realism comes to seem strangely
unrealistic. Ecocriticism traditionally valorized literature’s mimetic
powers: its ability to represent the natural world in reliable and trans-
parent ways. In the early stages of the field, this emphasis on the refer-
ential and experiential dimensions of literature informed a preference for
poetry and nonfiction at the expense of, for instance, the genre of the
novel. And when second-wave ecocriticism later discovered the novel, it
tended to prefer traditional realist modes at the expense of more difficult,
experimental, modernist styles.
Yet realism is not just a neutral mode of notation that opens an
undistorted window onto the world out there: like all modes of repre-
sentation and storytelling, it inevitably encodes particular values and
preconceptions. Nineteenth-century realism’s pedantic attention to the
material minutiae of everyday life, for instance, is often taken to reflect
as well as reinforce a bourgeois mentality (Moretti 2007), while the rea-
list novel’s traditional focus on the ways individuals negotiate a tenuous
balance with the social world cements a particular idea of what it means
to be a well-adjusted subject (Armstrong 2005). Another way of putting
this is to say that realism is a genre: a set of historically specific formal
and thematic conventions that imply values and meanings. By keeping
these commitments implicit and claiming to present a faithful image of
the world, realism signals to reader that these values are self-evident, not
even in need of being made explicit; in this way, realism is a powerful
tool for naturalizing a particular worldview.
 Genres, Media, Worlds 61
The Anthropocene unsettles long-held convictions about the world and
disables realism’s capacity to pass off those convictions as common sense.
One of the most frequently voiced ideas about literature and the Anthro-
pocene is that the ebbing rhythms and moderate scales of realistic fiction
are fatally out of sync with the new realities of the Anthropocene. The
most famous instance of this critique is novelist Amitav Ghosh’s 2016
book The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable. For
Ghosh, the modern novel is unfit to render our deranged world, for at
least three reasons. First, novelistic realism constrains the imagination to
the realm of the probable and the credible; the mundane lives of novel
characters cannot be disturbed by freak weather events, alien invasions, or
sudden extinction events without works losing their standing as serious
literature. Realism remains blind to the frankly improbable ways in which
the Anthropocene derangement of Holocene conditions proliferates
uncertainty and risk, as these distortions are “not easily accommodated in
the deliberately prosaic world of serious prose fiction” (26). Besides, rea-
lism limits itself to the domain of the human, and fails to factor in the
agency of nonhuman forces (and this is a second constraint): “it was in
exactly the period in which human activity was changing the earth’s
atmosphere that the literary imagination became radically centered on the
human” and banished the nonhuman to the domains of science fiction and
fantasy (66). With the focus on probability and the human comes a third
limitation—one of scale: the novel, Ghosh notes, invests its realist energy
in localized settings, in the evocation of particular and necessarily limited
places and periods, and is thus incapable of tracking the larger continuities
that define the Anthropocene present:

the earth of the Anthropocene is precisely a world of insistent,

inescapable continuities, animated by forces that are nothing if not
inconceivably vast. The waters that are invading the Sundarbans are
also swamping Miami Beach; deserts are advancing in China as well
as Peru; wildfires are intensifying in Australia as well as Texas and
Canada.
(62)

Ghosh’s diagnosis of the limitations of realism is less controversial than

the note of defeat on which he ends his analysis. His confident prediction
that serious fiction “will double down on its current sense of itself” (71)
is strangely uninformed by recent developments in the literary field. At the
same time, he remains blind to the capacity of forms of genre fiction—
62 Anthropocene Agencies
fiction that, unlike serious literary realism, wears its reliance on generic
patterns on its sleeve—to accommodate the vaster and more dispersed
agencies that Ghosh finds banished from the realist novel. Mark McGurl
(2012) has shown that “the spatiotemporal vastness and numerousness of
the nonhuman world” (537) has found expression in the genres of science
fiction and horror. Unlike the literary novel, which must uphold its ser-
iousness, these genres are “willing to risk artistic ludicrousness in their
representation of the inhumanly large and long” (539). For Eugene
Thacker (2011), similarly, the genres of science fiction and supernatural
horror can unsettle the comforts of the world we think we know, and
evoke a sensation of horror that, he argues, counts as “a way of thinking
the world as unthinkable, and the limits of our place within that world”
(98–99). In a less mystical register (and Thacker explicitly links horror to
mystical traditions!), Ursula Heise (2018) has noted that “science fiction
is becoming the default genre for the narrative engagement with climate
change.” Because of the genre’s ability to reimagine the present as
the past of a future yet to come, science fiction is less constrained by the
demands of probability and the human scale, and can address urgent
present-day concerns such as the dangers of biotech and energy depletion
through the detour of, for instance, an imagined future Thailand (this is
the set-up of Paolo Bacigalupi’s 2009 novel The Windup Girl).
Rather than bickering over the alleged superiority of realist or genre
fiction, or of serious or (in McGurl’s term) “ludicrous” works, I want to
pick up two more productive points from this discussion. The first is
that genres are never stable and rigid sets of prescriptions (a sort of
recipe for baking literature), but rather function as flexible templates
that, moreover, intermix with one another within particular works (they
are also the ingredients of literary works). The Windup Girl, for
instance, combines science fiction world-building with a fast-paced
thriller plot; we already saw in the introduction that a novel like Anni-
hilation “weirds” genres such as gothic and horror (two genres that
themselves have overlapping features). Genres, that is, are flexible means
to a literary end, whether that end is a cognitive mapping of the present
(something to which science fiction and realism are particularly con-
ducive), the production of a certain sensation in the reader (for which
horror and the weird are particularly apt), or the expression of a parti-
cular world view. The imaginative challenge of the Anthropocene, then,
does not have to result in a doubling down or breakdown of generic
conventions, as Ghosh would have it; it has often resulted in a recom-
bination of existing genres and a transformation of existing templates. In
 Genres, Media, Worlds 63
the first book-length study of Anthropocene literature, Adam Trexler
(2015) observes that “climate change necessarily transforms generic con-
ventions” (14), as it makes science fiction’s customary techno-optimism
implausible, or makes well-intentioned realist depictions of everyday life
read like satires of consumerism. Already in 2005, Ursula Heise noted
that “[e]cological storytelling frequently relies on and transforms tradi-
tional literary genres” (Heise 2005, 129), especially as it sees itself con-
fronted with planetary connections and time-scales that exceed those of
individual lives. The phenomenon of “cli-fi,” a term that refers to lit-
erary works that explicitly deal with climate change, can be understood
as such an assemblage of different interlocking templates, rather than as
a new discrete genre in its own right. Indeed, a neat separation between
different genres is an increasingly marginal feature of the contemporary
literary field, as the migration of genre elements into the literary main-
stream (in the work of prominent novelists like Margaret Atwood, Junot
Díaz, Jennifer Egan, and Colson Whitehead, for instance) has by now
become entirely routine.
A second point concerns the central importance of affect in discussions
over Anthropocene genres. We encounter affect in notions such as “ludi-
crousness” (McGurl), horror (Thacker), and the weird (VanderMeer), but
they also surface in Ghosh’s (2016) assessment on the realist novel’s
redundancy, when he notes that “climate change events” are “too gro-
tesque, too dangerous, and too accusatory to be written about in a lyrical,
or elegiac, or romantic vein” (32). Anthropocene affects, it appears, are
too excessive and too disorienting to be captured by the emotive protocols
of traditional literature. This explains why Anthropocene literature warps,
bends, and recombines different generic templates. Genre and affect are
intimately connected, as recognizing generic templates cues readers into
expecting particular feelings. For Lauren Berlant (2008a), genre is “an
aesthetic structure of affective expectation” (4), it is “a loose affectual
contract that predicts the form that an aesthetic transaction will take”
(Berlant 2008b, 847). Anthropocene literature’s experiments with genre are
then efforts to rewrite the terms of that contract, or to deliberately frus-
trate the expectations that stale generic conventions generate. Think of
Annihilation again: VanderMeer’s novel sets up the expectation that it
will deliver science fiction (it is set in an undefined near future, populated
by scientists) and horror (we soon learn that many people have inexplic-
ably disappeared), yet it ends up warping these expectations and delivering
something altogether more … weird. For Roger Luckhurst (2017), the
weird “inheres in perversity and transgression. It twists or veers away
64 Anthropocene Agencies
from familiar frames and binary distributions” (1052), and therefore also
from predictable, pre-programmed emotions. Anthropocene fiction’s
genre-bending, then, often produces inscrutable, quaint, and awkward
affects, rather than the more grandiose emotions of traditional literature
(think of sympathy, exaltation, or catharsis).
Environmental literary studies has not unequivocally embraced such
hesitation and unpredictability. After all, such uncertainty about the
impact of literary form on the reader and about the translation of that
psychological impact into real-world action conflicts with what Alexa
Weik von Mossner (2016) has referred to as ecocriticism’s fundamental
trust in “the ability of environmental narratives to have lasting effects
on the attitudes and behavior of readers” (534). According to Weik von
Mossner, “there seems to be a certain consensus that affect and emotion
play an important role in such processes of change” (535). Weik van
Mossner herself is a leading voice in the interdisciplinary campaign to
provide the study of environmental narratives and their influence on their
audiences with some solid empirical grounding (a project she calls
“empirical ecocriticism”), and to investigate “how storytelling practices
themselves find their place in broader ecologies of action and interaction”
(Lehtimäki 2013, 121). Weik von Mossner draws on insights from cogni-
tive science, affective narrative theory, and the psychology of fiction to
explore the psychological impact of reading fictional actions and nature
descriptions. Weik von Mossner is a firm believer in the workings of
empathy: when we read about a character losing her footing, this leads us
to “a personal version of that experience” (539). The sensation that fiction
represents is affectively re-experienced by the reader. Weik von Mossner
calls this procedure “the mechanism of strategic authorial empathizing”
(2016, 546), a notion that betrays a strong commitment to the agency of
the author, arguably at the expense of other forces involved in the pro-
duction of textual effects. One such complicating influence she under-
estimates is that of different generic templates. For affect to travel reliably
from author to reader, narratives need to be immersive, and, Weik von
Mossner writes, “some narratives are … more immersive than others, and
the genre conventions of the realist novel are the ones that most deliber-
ately and most consistently seek to ensure an immersive reading experi-
ence for the reader” (543). It is not clear what Weik von Mossner would
make of readers who are horrified, overwhelmed, alienated, or baffled by
texts they fail to immerse themselves into.
The econarratological work of Erin James (2015) might seem to leave
more room for divergent experiences. As narrative comprehension requires
 Genres, Media, Worlds 65
“mental modeling” as well as “emotional inhabitation” (33), James
believes that readerly immersion opens the gate to a better understanding
of different perspectives on environmental issues. Environmental story-
telling, James writes, “help[s] us understand the environment from the
perspective of others, and thus experience the world according to alter-
native environmental imaginations,” which “can help bridge imaginative
gaps” and thus “can have important real-world consequences” (2–3).
While James invokes insights from cognitive narratology to investigate
how certain narrative affordances affect their readers, the wishful repeti-
tion of the word “can” in these quotations (and of repeated and unhelp-
fully vague formulations noting that mental simulation and genuine
experience are “linked intimately” [19]) underlines that such scientifically
grounded perspectives only minimize but don’t close the gap between the
literary text and its audience. When trying to describe genre’s affective
operation, a measure of indeterminacy inevitably remains.
This inexorable moment of tension between generic expectation and
affective effect is strangely appropriate for the deranged world of the
Anthropocene. As I explain in the third section of this chapter, the
Anthropocene alters the relations between earth and world, between
globe and planet. These relations are beset by frictions, gaps, and
fissures. A literature that wants to describe this new constellation will
inevitably be marked by inconsistencies and tensions. As I showed in the
previous chapter, the operations of literary form in the Anthropocene
include an acknowledgement of forces that resist form, and it is precisely
these resistant forces that emerge in and through the attempt to describe
an unruly reality. An econarratological approach like James’s glosses
over such frictions as it promotes the worldly powers of fiction. Her case
for fiction invokes the terms of a traditional liberal cosmopolitanism, as
it sees environmental fiction “foster respect for comparison, difference,
and subjectivity,” which in its turn can “foster more sensitive and
informed discussions” and “emotional connections” (208). Yet in the
Anthropocene, the efficacy of such “ecoglobalist affects” (Buell 2007, 227)
and such “eco-cosmopolitan” designs cannot be taken for granted, as
notions such as kosmos, world, and globalization have begun to change
their customary meanings.
In the next section, I illustrate the point that the Anthropocene desta-
bilization of the earth disturbs literature’s world-building capacities
through a discussion of one cluster of texts that are intertextually rela-
ted. I focus on Edgar Allan Poe’s only novel, The Narrative of Arthur
Gordon Pym of Nantucket, and its partial rewriting in two
66 Anthropocene Agencies
contemporary novels, Yann Martel’s Life of Pi and Mat Johnson’s Pym.
These three works explore different forms of Anthropocene world-
making: the island, the lifeboat, geoengineering, multispecies commu-
nities, and the biodome. All these forms aim to establish a self-contained
microcosm, but these constructions all fail to exclude uncontainable
planetary forces. In all three novels, the volatility of the world registers
as generic instability. This shuttling between different generic template,
in its turn, generates an uncertain affect. My point is not that we need to
indulge in this uncertainty, but that it is an unavoidable dimension that
emerges when we try to describe these texts’ operations as accurately as
possible. Patiently describing how genres, affects, life forms, and forms
of life interlock in these narratives makes predicting reader responses
and their translation into real-world action a very speculative affair. Still,
it may ultimately tell us more about how literature records the Anthro-
pocene world than empirical approaches, which downplay this spec-
ulative dimension, can. After my case study on Antarctic literature, the
rest of this chapter teases out the tensions and overlaps between notions
such as world, planet, earth, and globe (in the third section) and attends
to the ways different media—literature, but also photography, cinema,
and post-cinema—can access those tensions (in the fourth and final section).
All of these media can intimate the strangeness of the Anthropocene, but
they all do so in very specific ways.

Poe–Pi–Pym! Literature vs. Antarctica

Antarctica has always constituted a challenge to the literary imagination:
it lacks an Indigenous population (and thus a homegrown literature),
and the relentless blankness of the landscape’s ice and snow is dispiriting
at best. Antarctica’s featureless wasteland has inspired “a history of
negative discovery, a hermeneutics of despair” (Wilson 2004, 37). One
imaginative strategy for coping with such despondency has been the
projection of lurid images onto Antarctica’s blank screen: the literature
of Antarctica is marked by a proliferation of vortices and giant lodestars,
of polar holes leading to an interior earth, sometimes all the way to the
North Pole, and of “Lost race” fantasies (Leane 2016, 34, 46). Such sen-
sational figures convert the Antarctic into an affective space, a space that
conveys the darker aspects of the traditional sublime—obscurity, vast-
ness, isolation—without quite allowing the human mind to recover from
the traumatic impact of the encounter with the continent’s nonhuman
surfaces. Mariano Siskind has shown that the Antarctic continent has
 Genres, Media, Worlds 67
consistently rebuffed attempts at colonization and integration into a
globalizing world (Siskind 2005); in a comparable way, literature about
Antarctica has registered a radical limit to humans’ (and their litera-
tures’) world-building capacities. A brief look at one particular inter-
textual archive points to the way affect, genre, life, and form have
entertained this limit.
The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket (1838) is a novel
of the early Anthropocene: its narrator sets out on a maritime adven-
ture as a stowaway on a whaling ship, but after a mutiny and a ship-
wreck he enthusiastically joins the Jane Guy, the ship that rescues him,
on an obsessive mission to map and cultivate the land and subdue the
native population of Tsalal, an Antarctic isle. Unsurprisingly, the
combination of scientific interest and colonial ambition, of exploration
and exploitation, is reflected in the novel’s obsession with race, and its
almost hysterical insistence on clear contrasts between white and black.
The Indigenous population’s complexion is “jet black”; they are
clothed “in skins of an unknown black animal” (Poe 1999, 163–64); in a
startling detail, even their teeth turn out to be black (216). In one of the
novel’s many bewildering inconsistencies, the narrator’s companion,
Dirk Peters, is initially described as a monstrous creature “with an
indentation on the crown (like that on the head of most negroes)” (49),
before Poe decides to forget this portrayal and reinvent Peters as a
white character. The novel ends with the narrator fleeing the insurgent
natives—whose shrieks of “Tekeli-li!” fill the sky—on the “wide and
desolate Antarctic Ocean” (211) and being miraculously saved by “a
shrouded human figure” whose skin color, we read in the novel’s very
last words (before a long endnote that adds further confusion), “was of
the perfect whiteness of the snow” (217).
Poe’s baffling story activates several generic frames, none of them a
traditionally realist one. The book announces itself as a sensational
adventure story (the title page presents a breathless summary of the plot,
culminating in “incredible adventures and discoveries STILL FARTHER
SOUTH”); in the narrator’s time as a stowaway hiding below deck, it
exploits the claustrophobia of gothic fiction; after the shipwreck, it
becomes a shipwreck narrative, including the horrors of cannibalism;
setting sail farther south, it morphs into a diary-like combination of a
scientific report (which Poe cobbled together from existing stories) and
travelogue. In the end, none of these frames quite fit or last, and it is the
mismatch between the different frames, together with the maddeningly
unequal pacing of the narrative and the factual inaccuracies, that best
68 Anthropocene Agencies
conveys the sense of disorientation that disturbs the novel’s world-
building. Neither the familiar emotive scenarios of trauma or the sub-
lime quite come off: the perfectly white deus ex machina is surely sub-
lime, but it is also quite ludicrous. Arthur Pym, for his part, is a
remarkably untraumatized character (Wilson 2004, 40). He mentions his
cannibalism matter-of-factly (“Let it suffice to say that … we devoured
the rest of the body piecemeal” [117]) and insists that the horrors of
shipwreck have not left him emotionally scarred: “The incidents are
remembered, but not the feelings which the incidents elicited at the time
of their occurrence” (136).
The different generic frames the novel tries on fail to program parti-
cular emotive scenarios, but this does not mean that the sensation of the
mismatch between these templates conveys a robust sense of the geolo-
gical realities of Antarctica. Indeed, the novel spectacularly misses the
signs of geological agency it nevertheless intimates. Confronted with the
irregular cavities and protuberances of a chasm on the Antarctic island,
Arthur Pym makes a number of drawings of their structure (reproduced
in the book) that resemble alphabetical characters, bringing the novel to
speculate that “the hieroglyphical appearance was really the work of
art,” and to assign authorship to an ethnic group combining knowledge
of Ethiopian, Egyptian, and Arabian characters (220). Far from a con-
frontation with nonhuman agency, then, this points to a failure to even
imagine geological action.
This is even more apparent when geological events are captured in overtly
racist terms. When the protagonist escapes from the isle in the midst of a
volcanic eruption, the novel describes this geological phenomenon as a racial
battle between black and white: the water is “of a milky consistency and hue”
as “[t]he white ashy material fell now continually around [them], and in vast
quantities” (215–16), until the mysterious white figures liberates them from
“[a] sullen darkness” overtaking “the milky depths of the ocean” (217). Earlier
on, the novel presents what may very well be a geological event as an unex-
pected attack by the natives. It notes that “the channel or bed of [the] gorge
was entirely filled up with the chaotic ruins of more than a million tons of
earth and stone,” but rather than seeing this as a geological process, the novel
aggressively overlays this interpretation with its racist imaginary as it con-
cludes that the earth and stones “had been artificially tumbled within it” (187).
“[A] partial rupture of the soil,” the novel concludes, must be the work of the
savages using cords to acquire “a vast leverage” (188). The certainty of black
mendacity, for Poe, obscures the insight into geological agency, as such an
 Genres, Media, Worlds 69
insight would threaten the colonial posture of mastery Arthur Pym has come
to adopt and for which the novel never quite finds the right genre.
Yann Martel’s 2001 success novel Life of Pi remixes many of the ele-
ments of Poe’s novel in its engagement with the Anthropocene, even if it
abandons that novel’s fascination with the South Pole. Arthur Gordon
Pym prefigures the Anthropocene imagination by projecting an oblique
and deeply colonial terraforming fantasy onto the natives; Life of Pi
explores the possibilities and liabilities of a lifeboat scenario. The novel
tells the story of Pi, an Indian boy who loses his parents in a shipwreck
that leaves him stranded on a raft with the few remaining animals from
his parents’ zoo. After the death of a hyena, a zebra, and an orangutan,
most of the novel is devoted to the multispecies cohabitation of Pi and
the tiger Richard Parker. Richard Parker is the name of the cannibalism
victim in Poe’s novel (as well as of two [!] real-life cannibalism victims
that postdate Poe’s novel), while Tiger is the name of the dog accom-
panying Arthur Pym when hiding as a stowaway. Nor do the echoes of
Poe’s novel end there: apart from the two novels’ elaborate metatextual
frames, there is, for instance, the paradisiacal island on which Pi arrives
and that turns out to be a massive carnivorous organism—“a free-floating
organism, a ball of algae of leviathan proportions” (2001, 271–72)—
which borrows the horror and treacherousness of Poe’s Tsalal.
Life of Pi makes it very clear that the cohabitation of tiger and human
being is not a starry-eyed return to nature, but a matter of careful life
management. Indeed, Pi’s painstaking chronicling of his interactions with
the tiger recalls the novel’s earlier celebration of the zoo as an institution
that liberates animals from a life of “compulsion and necessity within an
unforgiving social hierarchy” in the wild (16). Such careful management,
the novel notes, is necessary to “Keep Him [the tiger] Alive” (166), and
to keep the multispecies lifeboat—including microbes, bacteria, and “a
multitude of sea life” (197)—afloat. As Eva Horn (2013) has shown,
lifeboat imaginaries induce a situation of scarcity in which decisions
about life and death assert themselves with tragic force (1000–1001). Life
of Pi invites such considerations of life and death, and its magic realist
mode allows it to entertain the possibility that a radical decision can be
indefinitely postponed. Genre here functions as a strategy for enchant-
ment, not as a conduit for sensation (as it does in Poe); but like in Poe, it
serves to evade rather than confront nonhuman agency.
The last part of the novel brutally undoes that evasion as it admits the
inevitability of violence and death, only to end up performing another ges-
ture of avoidance. This last part presents an interview between two
70 Anthropocene Agencies
insurance officials, working for the Japanese Maritime Department, and the
older Pi. These officials refuse to believe Pi’s fantastic story, and Pi responds
by replacing it with a horrific account without animal actors, in which a
shipwrecked Pi witnesses acts of cannibalism and the beheading of his
mother, after which he himself kills the French cook who murdered his
mother. The implication is clear: the story that has entertained us for
almost 400 pages is a displaced version of a deeply traumatic experience, a
coping strategy through which Pi survives traumatic loss. What seemed like
a fabulous encounter with the nonhuman world is part of a psychologically
realist scenario of coping with human violence. The end of the novel, in
other words, reinstates the generic conventions of realism, most notably
psychological and traumatic realism, to make sense of the strangeness of the
preceding novel. This strangeness, featuring weirdly subdued tigers and
meat-eating islands, is ultimately thoroughly rehumanized. As in Arthur
Gordon Pym, the novel ultimately fails to fit the nonhuman world into a
generic pattern, and it ends up paradoxically and indirectly pointing to the
unsettling reality of the Anthropocene.
Mat Johnson’s (2011) comic novel Pym spins another affective and
tonal variation on Poe’s novel. Mainly a satire of contemporary identity
politics, Pym’s unashamed ludicrousness qualifies it as what Mark
McGurl (2012) has called a work of “posthuman comedy”: a farcical
engagement with human life’s diminishing stature in the order of things.
Chris Haynes, an unsuccessful black professor of American literature,
discovers that Dirk Peters, Arthur Pym’s monstrous (and magically
whitened) companion in Poe’s novel, actually existed. He organizes an
expedition to recover the all-black island of Tsalal, which, in the context
of contemporary identity politics, is no longer a site of dread (as it was
for Poe) but a “great undiscovered African Diasporan homeland, uncor-
rupted by Whiteness” (39). Except it isn’t: Poe’s sublime figure of
whiteness has spawned a population of white monsters who enslave
Haynes’s all-black crew to do mining work underneath the permafrost of
Antarctica, until Haynes manages to escape to the “Dome of Light,” a
biodome designed by Thomas Karvel (a transparent satire of American
kitsch painter Thomas Kinkade, the self-declared “Painter of LightTM”)
and inhabited by humans rather than white monsters. The novel’s irre-
verent tone, even when dealing with such issues as genocide and extreme
violence, underlines its ambition to avoid the clichés of Antarctic litera-
ture and debunk the heroism of “yet another polar epic of man suc-
cumbing to nature” (94). Neither sublime nor traumatic, Pym is
appropriately preposterous.
 Genres, Media, Worlds 71
Pym not only remixes the elements of Poe’s novel (even Pym is still
alive after two hundred years!), including its color-coding, as it also uses
its satirical edge to target another Anthropocene fantasy: that of the self-
contained and self-sustaining biodome. Biodomes are closed ecological
systems that are supposedly independent from the outside world, even
though the most famous of such experiments, that involving the so-called
“Biosphere 2” in the 1990s, was notoriously unsuccessful. And so it is in
Johnson’s novel: life in the biodome is accompanied by the continuous
drone of the fossil-fuel-driven engines keeping the dome warm and liva-
ble. In this way, the novel shows the ecomodernist idea of a “good, or
even great” Anthropocene that “decouples” from the outside world to be
an illusion—an illusion, moreover, that relies on the continuation of
racialized exploitation. Karvel’s design of the dome, for which he even
painted the sky, also suggests that literature and art might be complicit
in rendering uncomfortable realities attractive or invisible. The novel
remarks that Karvel’s world “seemed a place where black people
couldn’t even exist, so thorough was its European romanticization”
(184). Indeed, the novel’s flippant recycling of familiar tropes of Antarc-
tic literature (lost tribes, underground civilizations, purported utopias)
demonstrates that Antarctica is less a nonhuman outside to culture than
a thoroughly mediated imaginative site. The notion of Antarctica as a
blank outside to culture, as a place untainted by human destruction, is
congruous with the obsession with white purity that is on display in
Karvel’s painting and in Poe’s novel. As the novel notes, white people
preserve their imagined whiteness by “refusing to accept blemish or his-
tory. Whiteness isn’t about being something, it is about being no thing,
nothing, an erasure” (225). The allure of the nonhuman world, the novel
suggests, is akin to the desire for historical impunity and innocence.
The novel’s own farcical mode is then a way of recognizing the
inevitable messiness and leakiness of all ecological constellations, and the
impossibility of insulating lifeboats, spaceships, and biodomes. Its
climax emblematizes the uneasy overlap between questions of race and
climate change. The exhaust of the biodome’s engines threatens the life-
world of the white monsters (a fear they refer to as “the Melt” [196]),
and the novel’s protagonist provokes an attack by the monsters (slave-
holders as well as climate-change victims!) on the dome to be able to
escape. Escape, that is, depends on an act of genocide. If Poe’s novel ends
on a vision of splendid whiteness, Pym ends (equally abruptly) when the
protagonist discerns what the last sentence refers to as “a collection of
brown people, and this, of course, is a planet on which such are a
72 Anthropocene Agencies
majority” (322). Brown evades the strict division between white or black,
and it points beyond the destructive fantasy of a self-contained, mono-
racial community (K. Davis 2017, 42). The novel, for Johnson, is not a
microcosm that allows us to imagine a micro-solution to the challenges
of the Anthropocene. Instead, it is part of a leaky ecology in which
genres refract the entanglements of forms of life and life forms. Com-
pared to Life of Pi and Arthur Gordon Pym, Pym seems more clear-eyed
about the unstable relation between genre and reality. And, we may well
ask in this Anthropocene context, what reality? What world?

Earth, World, Globe, Planet

The expedition in which Poe’s Arthur Pym participates not only wants
to map Antarctica, it also aims to establish the ontological status of the
continent: it sets out to “solv[e] the great problem in regard to the Ant-
arctic continent” (Poe 1999, 161), that is, the question whether Antarc-
tica is a substantial, stable continent at all, or just a drifting ice pack
(like the Arctic, which was much better known at the time Poe was
writing). When Pym has convinced himself that it really is a solid part of
the earth, he suddenly feels an earthquake—the calamity he will go on to
attribute to the natives—which unsettles this steady ground: it is, he
notes, as if “the whole foundations of the solid globe were suddenly rent
asunder, and that the day of universal dissolution was at hand” (183).
Another way in which Arthur Gordon Pym anticipates recent Anthro-
pocene discourses, then, is in its undermining of categories such as globe
(and globalization), world, earth, and planet. This is yet another place
where literature can contribute to Anthropocene discourses: not only is
literature traditionally seen as a form of imaginative world-building, the
previous section has also shown that literature can point to the limits of
imagined worlds (such as, for instance, the lifeboat, the biodome, or the
ship) and establish new constellations between globe, world, earth, and
planet—all key terms in discussions of the Anthropocene.
Literature’s affinity with world-building makes it a promising site to
question processes of globalization, a category that captures the erosion
of nation-states and the increasing economic, cultural, social, and (geo-)
political connectedness of all parts of the planet through technology and
capitalist markets over the last few decades (Szeman 2005). Globalization
imagines the world as a single space and pictures it as an extended grid
in which all areas are mapped and measured. The globalized world is a
world that can be controlled; it is, in the words of the French
 Genres, Media, Worlds 73
philosopher Jean-Luc Nancy (2007), a realm of “global equivalence” and
of “indistinct integrality” (54, 27). Like Jacques Derrida, Nancy invokes
the distinction (unavailable in English) between globalisation and mon-
dialisation to argue for a form of “worlding” that is not just reducible to
spatial extension and to capitalist calculation (Derrida 2005). Instead,
mondialisation has a distinct history, recognizes differences, and imagi-
nes values that are not reducible to prices. In his book What is a World?,
literary scholar Pheng Cheah (2016) develops a sophisticated argument
that literature’s capacity to create worlds empowers it to disturb the
smooth and frictionless circulation of capital and to remind audiences of
global unevenness and of horizons of meaning beyond capitalist
exchange. Literature, for Cheah, shows that the world is never exhaus-
tively mapped and controlled; it is fundamentally open, and “this open-
ness is an unerasable normative resource for disrupting and resisting the
calculations of globalization” (9). If capitalist globalization thinks it has
saturated and mastered the globe, literature becomes a placeholder for
“alternative cartographies” (17). The literary reimagining of Antarctic
isles as sites of horror (in Poe), of carnivorous threat (in Life of Pi), or of
posthuman comedy (in Pym), for instance, reminds us that the South
Pole is more than a site of resource exploitation and military territor-
ialization; it counters the continent’s reduction to the status of a mere
part of a globalized but ultimately worldless world.
There is one danger with the celebration of literature’s world-building
capacities: an insistence on “counterglobalist” worlding risks tipping
over into an illusion of transcendence, an illusion that we can abandon
the earth for an artificial reality of our own making. We can think here
of the biodome that Pym satirizes, or of Elon Musk’s widely-publicized
ambition to make humankind “a truly multi-planetary species” by colo-
nizing other planets (Musk 2017, 46). Hannah Arendt, one of the most
brilliant philosophers of human world-building, opens her 1958 master-
piece The Human Condition with a reflection on Sputnik, the first arti-
ficial earth satellite that had been launched by the USSR the year before. For
the first time, people, “when they looked up from the earth toward the
skies, could behold there a thing of their own making” (Arendt 1998, 1).
This is an achievement of momentous importance: it is, for Arendt, “the
first ‘step toward escape from men’s imprisonment to the earth’” (1).
Arendt does not see this as a movement of liberation, but as a massive
mistake: such a “fateful repudiation of an Earth who was the Mother of
all living creatures,” for Arendt, forgets that “[t]he earth is the very
quintessence of the human condition” (2). That we share our life on a
74 Anthropocene Agencies
finite planet with limited space and limited resources is constitutive of
the political dimension of human life, as it reminds us that shared
deliberation and collective decision-making is as necessary as it is chal-
lenging. Promoting the fantasy of a life elsewhere erodes our awareness
of the fragility of our collective forms of life.
Arendt’s unease about the Sputnik satellite underlines the need to
complement the affirmation of “counterglobalist” world-making with a
recognition of limitation and boundedness, even if recent reflections on
the category of the earth (the term under which these issues are often
debated) often push that recognition beyond Arendt’s resolute human-
ism. For Kelly Oliver (2015), for instance, the earth names a limit to
human worlding: an “earth ethics” accepts “that we are limited creatures
who are not just living on earth, but rather part of the biosphere that
constitutes its very being” (39). “At bottom,” Oliver writes, “the earth is
a limit against which totalizing tendencies of technology abut. The earth
always and necessarily juts through the globe to remind us of our own
limits” (40). Even if we do not all share the same world—as my values,
norms, and conceptions may well be very different from yours—we do
share an attachment to the earth. As I already mentioned in the intro-
duction, for Bruno Latour (2017), accepting the challenge of the
Anthropocene means accepting that we are inevitably “earthbound.” As
the firm distinction between the social and the natural world has explo-
ded, we find ourselves “on land shared with other often bizarre beings
whose requirements are multiform” (38). “The Earthbound” accept lim-
itation, entanglement, and discord, and they know the main threat comes
from “Humans” who still believe the planet is a gridded globe to be
subdued: “Whereas the Humans had ‘Plus ultra’ as their motto, the
Earthbound have no motto but ‘Plus intra’” (291).
Postures of earthly attachment and cosmic detachment have in
common that they relate to the earth as a whole—that is, to the earth as
a planet. Such a relation was decisively shaped by images of the earth
from outer space. In 1968, over a decade after the launch of the Sputnik,
the Apollo 8 mission produced an iconic image that sees the earth
emerge above the moon’s surface—a picture commonly known as
Earthrise. The 1972 Blue Marble, which portrayed the planet as a pre-
cious yet precariously isolated entity against a black background, was an
even more formidable catalyst of the environmental imagination. These
images made the planet visible as something different than an extended
gridded surface: it showed an internally varied, dynamic, colorful yet
fragile habitat, and showed that “Earth is the only body that looks even
 Genres, Media, Worlds 75
remotely alive from that vantage point” (Oliver 2015, 15). In a sense,
then, Earthrise and Blue Marble “‘reterrestrialized’ the globe. They
turned the globe back into Earth” (Lazier 2011, 623). They inspired an
image of the planet as an interconnected, self-regulating system that
sustains the conditions for life, as in James Lovelock and Lynn Margu-
lis’s popular Gaia theory, or as in Buckminster Fuller’s image of Space-
ship Earth (already launched in 1963), which figures “the Sun, the Earth
and the Moon [as] nothing else than a most fantastically well-designed
and space-programed team of vehicles” (Fuller 2001, 290–91) and sees
the earth as an integrated machine, “a technological wonder that unites
mankind” (Oliver 2015, 15).
The visual cue of a single planet does not automatically lead to an
awareness of earthly limitations: it can also sustain the ecomodernism
avant la lettre of someone like Fuller. Lovelock and Margulis’s concep-
tion of the earth as an interconnected organism is not that different from
Fuller’s notion of the earth as a smooth-sailing spaceship: for Lovelock,
too, Gaia is “the totality constituting a feedback or cybernetic system
which seeks an optimal physical and chemical environment for life on
this planet” (Lovelock 2000, 10). The notion of Gaia cannot be under-
stood apart from the ambitions of cybernetics, which aimed to mobilize
computational thinking to erase the distinction between communication
systems and living organisms. The cybernetic ambition to control and
program human behavior emerged in the militarized context of the Cold
War, and so, not coincidentally, did the space program that produced
the Earthrise and Blue Marble images. If these planetary images promise
cosmopolitan connectedness, they also rely on technology that cannot be
divorced from military contexts. One aspect of Blue Marble that makes
the earth look fragile and vulnerable is the visual mastery conveyed by
the scale and detail of the picture: such mastery, we know, is generally
an accomplice of military powers of destruction. In a classic essay,
anthropologist Tim Ingold (2000) distinguishes between the imaginaries
of a “sphere,” which designates an environment we live in, and that of a
“globe,” which evokes an external surface “waiting to be occupied, to be
colonized” (214). Globes, on this account, are always viewed from out-
side, and are abstracted from lived experience. Matthew Taylor has
shown how the very idea of planetarity emerged in the early twentieth
century in the context of imperialism and war. At this historical junc-
ture, Taylor (2016) writes, “the paired revelations of the cosmos’s enor-
mity and the earth’s shrinking frontiers coalesced to produce a humanly
circumscribed globe” (115). These contexts make it uncertain whether
76 Anthropocene Agencies
fashionable discourse about the planetary can surrender these violent
overtones and leave room for diverse kinds of lived experience.
The relation between, world, globe, earth, and planet has become very
intricate: world-building, we saw, can serve as a counter to globaliza-
tion; the earth can offer a limit to unrestrained world-making; and the
planet(ary) functions both as the condition of possibility of such terres-
trial imaginaries and as an occasion for subduing and controlling the
earth; and this desire for control brings us right back to the fateful
reductions of globalization. Concerns over the destabilization of the very
earth we inhabit threaten to turn into a vicious loop, in which repeated
interruptions, whether they occur in the name of the world, the earth, or
the planet, do not keep the world from spinning out of control. The
difficulty of interrupting this cycle has resulted in a tendency in critical
thought to insist that a particular part of the planet radically resists
reduction and colonization. This site of resistance is not a particular
location. Instead, critical thought points to an irreducibly alien dimen-
sion that pervades our everyday lives, and hides in the cracks and fissures
of the worlds we construct. Bill McKibben’s coinage Eaarth, as a new
name for an irrevocably altered planet, is probably the most clumsy such
effort, even though the other possible names McKibben (2010) sug-
gests—“Monnde, or Tierrre, Errde, ëккучивать”—suggests things could
have been worse (2–3). Frédéric Neyrat (2017) talks about an “eccentric”
or an “unconstructed” earth to name the dark side of the planet that the
Blue Marble image cannot capture. The eccentric earth is the planet’s
“nocturnal, unobjective, and asubjective part”; it is “the earth whose
being eternally eludes its spherical aspect” (8–9). Eugene Thacker’s work
shares this concern with the gloomy and the horrific: it calls this elusive
dimension “the world-without-us” or simply “the Planet” (as opposed to
“the World,” which is “the world-for-us,” and “the Earth,” which is “the
world-in-itself” [2011]). Thacker’s word choice joins other critical
voices, such as Jennifer Wenzel and Gayatri Spivak, who use the notion
of the planetary to name forces that destabilize “the hegemony of the
global” and to refer to an inevitable remainder that disturbs the compo-
sure of all too human ways of apprehending the world (Wenzel 2014,
21). This world-without-us, for Thacker (2011) and others, is not a
particular region: it is simply the world insofar as it is not given to us
that intrudes “in the very fissures, lapses, or lacunae in the World and
the Earth” (8).
As we have already seen, Thacker promotes science fiction and
supernatural horror as genres that can provide access to this shadowy
 Genres, Media, Worlds 77
side of the Anthropocene world. Complementing Thacker’s case for
genre fiction, I have suggested that the self-interrupting dynamic of lit-
erary world-making makes it possible to adumbrate the world-without-
us in the gaps and cracks between generic and formal templates. This
does not mean that literature is the only medium that affords such
experiences. What it does mean is that it is rewarding to consider the
world-without-us as more than a thematic concern and as essentially
connected to the ways specific genres, forms, and media engage reality.
In the next section, I show how different media mobilize their specific
medial features to explore the limits of their world-making. I focus on
photography, cinema, and post-cinema, before I conclude with two
examples of literary works that evoke nonhuman dimensions by drawing
on the very features that define them as works of genre fiction or serious
realism. Like the non-literary examples, they end up turning the world
we thought we knew inside out.

Media Affordances: Photography, (Post-)Cinema, Literature

The contemporary environmental imagination abounds with figures of
earths, worlds, and planets: think of post-apocalyptic imaginings of worlds
without humans (which I discuss in my last chapter): of fictions of global
hyperconnectedness making the planet vulnerable to instant pandemics,
which is routinely reflected in images of civilizational breakdown and
zombie apocalypse; or of works like N.K. Jemisin’s multiple Hugo Award-
winning Broken Earth trilogy, which reimagines humans’ weirdly intimate
relations to the earth through a group of people who have the power to
start earthquakes or lift mountains. Still, and as I have shown earlier in the
chapter, the relation between cultural artefacts and Anthropocene reality is
not only a matter of the imagination: literature and other media can also
indicate the unsettling realities of the Anthropocene by exploring the limits
of their world-building capacities. Importantly, these capacities are
medium-specific; literary world-building is different from, say, the world-
building in video games. Analyses of cultural works’ engagement with the
Anthropocene, then, must take the specificity of particular media, genre,
and forms into account.
Jennifer Fay’s 2018 book Inhospitable World argues for the deep affi-
nities between the medium of cinema and the Anthropocene. Fay situates
the privilege of cinema in the basic fact that, in order to make a film, sets
need to be built, weather-events need to be simulated, natural settings
need to be meddled with … Cinema affects and even constructs the
78 Anthropocene Agencies
environment in a far more literal way than literature, and this, for Fay,
makes it powerfully analogous to the Anthropocene’s transformation of
the world into an “unhomely” place. Fay gives the example of some of
Buster Keaton’s films from the 1920s, which achieve their comic effect
partly through calamitous weather that is clearly manufactured and does
not hide its artificiality, and in that way foreground “anthropogenic
environmental change and modern—at times tragic—modes of inhos-
pitable world-making” (2018, 28). Literature, in contrast, “has nothing
of the materiality of the film studio or the temporality of film produc-
tion; nor does it share with cinema the ambitions of environmental
design” (8). Literature, for Fay, lacks the concrete and fragmentary
dimension of cinema, and always constructs an achieved totality in the
reader’s imagination.
Fay’s case for the intimate connection between cinema and the
Anthropocene is convincing, but it underestimates literature’s self-
interrupting power: its capacity to dismantle an imagined world even
while it is constructing it. To be sure, the production of literature lacks
the recalcitrant material reality that cinema does encounter in the pro-
duction process; Fay is right that the observation that “the production of
books disappears trees” (8) makes a fairly weak case for the environ-
mental imprint of literature. Still, literature’s self-impeding operations do
unsettle the relations between world, earth, and planet in ways that
resonate with the Anthropocene’s reorganization of reality. If cinema
engages with the material world in a more literal way, interpreting that
engagement as a way of dealing with the Anthropocene, as Fay does, still
depends on an analogy, and thus on figurative thinking. Fay formulates
this underlying analogy as follows: “The Anthropocene is to natural
science what cinema … is to human culture. It makes the familiar world
strange to us by … transforming and temporally transporting humans
and the natural world into an unhomely image” (3). Cinema and the
Anthropocene encounter each other in a web of meanings that is not
merely literal.
Cinema “mak[ing] the familiar world strange” recalls Viktor
Shklovsky’s case for literature’s defamiliarizing force that I touched on
in the last section of the previous chapter. Cinema is then not dis-
tinctive because it, in Fay’s words, “helps us to see and experience the
Anthropocene as an aesthetic practice” (4), something other media can
also do, but because it has particular resources at its disposal that lit-
erature and other media lack. These medium-specific affordances are
especially clear in works that intimate the “unhomely,” “inhospitable”
 Genres, Media, Worlds 79
world of the Anthropocene without being thematically invested in
environmental issues. Fay gives the example of 1950s and 60s film noir,
a genre that is not thematically concerned with planetary destruction,
but which is situated in gritty “urban locales about to be demolished”
and features doomed characters addicted to the kind of “bad living and
unsustainable striving that underwrite the accumulating culture of the
Anthropocene at midcentury” (18). Film noir’s decaying infrastructures
and melodramatic narratives are, moreover, deeply connected to the
affordances of celluloid, a medium that lends itself particularly well to
a saturated black and white (rather than midtones), but also a form of
plastic that is imperfect, organic, and bound to decay. Factoring in this
medial dimension makes it possible to read film noir as “a kind of
extinction narrative” (18): film noir tells the story of how the human
species has rendered its habitat inhospitable, even while this habitat
will outlive our death-bound species.
Joanna Zylinska has argued for a particular affinity between photo-
graphy and the Anthropocene. That rapport may be evident in the work
of someone like the Canadian photographer Edward Burtynsky, for
instance, whose large format images of devastated natural sites and
manufactured (but mostly depopulated) landscapes has, like the equally
majestic urban and (post-)natural landscapes of Andreas Gursky, deeply
shaped the visual signature of the Anthropocene. For Zylinska, the con-
nection goes beyond such sublime powers of representation, and is
anchored in photography’s status as a geological process. Geological
processes are defined by their capacity to leave an imprint on the planet,
which then becomes legible as a fossil; photography, in its turn, is a
process in which reality imprints a photochemical surface that becomes
visible as a photograph. This photographic process thus offers a way to
redescribe the way reality leaves a trace: the past, Zylinska (2018) writes,
literally “photographs itself” (54). Zylinska insists that “the link between
fossilization and photography” is more than a metaphor, and that lin-
gering on this connection makes it possible to appreciate that the condi-
tions under which photography can exist are the same under which
human life can survive: light, energy, and the sun (54). If photography
and fossilization are similar processes, photography becomes a medium
dedicated to intimations of extinction, of a planet where human life will
have become a mere fossil. For Zylinska, this ominous suggestion is
even—or especially!—there in schmaltzy, romantic images of sunset pic-
tures. This power to reflect, or this inability not to reflect, on species
extinction is not a consequence of thematic choices, but a feature of the
80 Anthropocene Agencies
very medium of photography: because of its famous “indexicality,” its
unavoidable reliance on physical reality that sets it apart from painting,
drawing, or indeed literature, photographs cannot avoid being the
vulnerable imprint of a finite reality.
Of course, the relations between cinema, photography, and extinction
are altered once we recognize that visual culture is now overwhelmingly
digital. Altered, but not mitigated: the vast computational powers that
generate contemporary images that, in their turn, overload our human
information-processing capacities offer us a glimpse into a reality that
does not require a human viewer. The term post-cinema underlines that
the contemporary media landscape no longer relies on the twentieth-
century sensibilities reflected in and shaped by cinema and television
(Denson and Leyda 2016). For Shane Denson (2018), post-cinema is not
only thematically obsessed with extermination events (whether in the
slowed- and pared-down bleakness of a film like The Road or the
uncontrollable proliferation and acceleration of zombie bodies in World
War Z), its microtechnical basis makes possible “a general discorrelation
of moving images from the norms of human perception and embodiment
that governed classical cinema” (1). If classical film provided viewers with
cues about where to look and directed their perspectives and emotional
responses, post-cinema often offers “too much visual information, pre-
sented too fast for [viewers] to take in and process cognitively” (8). It has
the power to overload images in a way that only allows for fleeting, dis-
persed scanning. Denson gives the example of the “hyperinformatic”
action scenes in films like the Transformers franchise, which revel in
computer-generated images that provide an excess of visual information in
too short a time for the human eye and brain to process. Even if these are
hardly films with a considered environmental message, they engage
extinction on a fundamental level: such films leave viewers with a sense
that the products of post-cinema’s technological infrastructures are strictly
indifferent to their perceptual attention; they are not interested in figuring
a “world-for-us,” but offer a glimpse into a “world-without-us.”
If Eugene Thacker, as we saw in the previous section, found such
intimations in the “fissures, lapses, or lacunae in the World and the
Earth” (2011, 8), post-cinema generates them through the very seamless-
ness of its simulations: through its “discorrelation” from merely human
perceptual and cognitive capacities, this incredible seamlessness annuls
the terms of the “loose affectual contract” that, according to Lauren
Berlant, organizes the relation between a cultural object (in this case,
traditional cinema) and its audience (2008b, 847). Yet crucially, such a
 Genres, Media, Worlds 81
destabilization of emotive expectations is itself an affective event, even if
the affect that is generated is rarely cathartic and euphoric, and more
often disparate, awkward, and uncomfortable. Denson writes that post-
cinema “envisions and transmits affective clues about a world without
us” (2018, 1); in a comparable way, we have seen how the Antarctic
formations of Poe, Life of Pi, and Pym produce disorienting affects
through the gaps between the different genres they enlist, and not only
within the terms of the affectual contracts that sustain these different
genres’ world-building operations. What these examples have in
common is that they all capitalize on genres’ and media’s capacity to
disorganize the expectations that audiences bring to them. They have the
power to interrupt their customary operations and hint at realities that
remain foreign and render the world they depict inhospitable.
I began this chapter with the tenuous distinction between “ludicrous”
genre fiction and “serious” realism; I want to end with two examples
that demonstrate that both forms are connected by their capacity to
disturb their own operations and indirectly hint at a less homely reality.
My first example is a work of genre fiction. N.K. Jemisin’s wildly suc-
cessful Broken Earth trilogy (the winner of three consecutive Hugo
Awards for Best Novel) begins with an arresting sentence: “Let’s start
with the end of the world, why don’t we?” (Jemisin 2016, 1). The rest of
the trilogy refuses to set this question aside as a merely rhetorical one.
Its narrators entertain the possibility that it might be preferable to end
the world they inhabit. The story is situated in a future continent ironi-
cally called “the Stillness,” in which cataclysmic geological events con-
stantly threaten the different “comms,” and in which misogyny, violence,
exploitation, and precarity are rampant. Jemisin’s decision to people her
story-world with characters who are trans, queer, and people of color
shows how her books break with the template of the typical science fic-
tion story, in which, as Jemisin explains in an interview, a white male
hero uses “the opportunity of the apocalypse” to act out “white male
power fantasies” (Hurley 2018, 469). In the Broken Earth trilogy, apoc-
alypse is not an opportunity for escape from the status quo, as the status
quo is a prolonged apocalypse marked by intermittent acts of gendered
and racist violence against the books’ vulnerable protagonists and by the
imminent threat of climate destruction.
By frustrating the generic expectations of the SF genre, the trilogy
unsettles the reader’s affective attachments to the world that the genre
commonly reinforces. The novels’ emotive work generates a more trou-
bling affect: the sense that starting with the end of this world might not
82 Anthropocene Agencies
be the worst idea; that, just perhaps, a world like this doesn’t deserve
to be saved. The world whose undoing the trilogy contemplates is a
version of the Anthropocene present. This is underlined by the particular
nature of the vilified minority on which the books focus: orogones are
people with the ability to contain and provoke geological catastrophes
through telekinetic (but deeply embodied) powers. The orogones are
necessary for the survival of life in the Stillness, but they are also shun-
ned, threatened, and killed because they are dangerous and different. The
orogones are not only allegories for the reviled but necessary adjuncts of
the capitalist world system—women, people of color, exploited workers;
their intimate connection to the forces of “Evil Earth” also signals the
novels’ awareness that socioeconomic challenges (to do with forms of
life) are fundamentally entwined with questions of planetary belonging
(implicating the human life form). It is the combination of the Broken
Earth books’ generic experiments and their socioeconomic sophistica-
tion, then, that evokes a sense of unease with our current constellation of
world, earth, and planet.
Few recent novels display their high cultural credentials as ostenta-
tiously as Teju Cole’s 2011 debut Open City, which will be my last
example. Narrated from the perspective of the artistic and highly edu-
cated Nigerian-American Julius as he walks the streets and travels on the
public transport systems of New York and Brussels, the novel is osten-
sibly a celebration of the power of literature, high culture, and art to
foster intercultural curiosity and cosmopolitan connectedness. Open
City’s virtuoso entanglements of masterpieces from different geo-
graphical and historical locations seem to illustrate how the levelling
forces of globalization can be countered by the sublime world of art and
culture. The novel’s psychological realism seems perfectly suited for such
world-building: the first-person perspective grants the reader insight into
the texture of a refined and flexible mind processing impressions and
memories, and thus shows cosmopolitan world-building in action. Yet
this is not quite what the novel delivers: instead, it turns these expecta-
tions inside out by showing readers how Julius, for all his sophistication
and apparent curiosity, remains strangely isolated and unchanged by the
stories and encounters that are supposed to enrich him. The fragments of
cultural traditions never add up to a new world. And as in many of the
other works we surveyed in this chapter, this failure opens cracks and
clefts that hint at a less homely world, at a less hospitable planet.
Open City uses the affordances of psychological realism to show that
Julius’s stream of consciousness contains a more ominous dimension.
 Genres, Media, Worlds 83
The plot makes this explicit when, near the end of the novel, it reveals
that this paragon of cultivation and memory has apparently forgotten
that he raped a friend’s sister. Another episode near the novel’s end
connects this sinister undertone, which spoils the refined feelings that
cosmopolitan fictions are means to generate, to a sense of planetary
derangement. Julius finds himself locked out of a Mahler performance at
Carnegie Hall (Mahler is the composer, the novel duly notes, of Das
Lied von der Erde). Standing on “a flimsy fire escape,” Julius describes
his situation as one of “unimprovable comedy” (255). This comedy
doesn’t improve, but it does change into something close to McGurl’s
“posthuman comedy” when Julius beholds the stars, as he is high enough
not be surrounded by light pollution, and reflects that “their true nature
was the persisting visual echo of something that was already in the past”
(256). Julius understands that many of the lights he sees were emitted by
light sources that have by now been long extinguished, while in the
darkness, light might already be underway that has simply not yet
reached the earth, and might do so only “long after the human race itself
was extinguished” (256). Some stars are dead and shining, others are
alive and dark. The novel here makes explicit what was already implied
by its formal manipulation of the conventions of psychological realism:
that life on earth is, strictly speaking, already dead. Literary language, as
I have argued, is not the only medium that can make us feel that, but
like other media, it makes us feel it in medium-specific ways.
3 Objects, Matters, Things

Other-than-human(ism)
The Anthropocene launches an ambivalent challenge to the belief that
our species holds special powers that set it apart from other life forms. If
naming a geological epoch after our species elevates us to the status of a
veritable geological agent, it does so only to underline our impotence and
vulnerability in the face of the forces we have helped unleash. The
Anthropocene renames the recent past as an interval of momentous
human agency, but it also dramatically shortens the historical window in
which that agency can still undo the unintended consequences of its
actions. A 2018 report by the United Nation’s Intergovernmental Panel
on Climate Change, for instance, situates an all-out climate disaster as
early as 2040, with the deadline for intervention expiring much earlier
still. If in the Anthropocene, “the human along with every other being is
intimately caught within a maelstrom of erosion and disintegration”
(Oppermann 2018, 3), the traditional markers of human species pride—
self-consciousness, autonomy, reason—merely point to an exceptional
capacity to register impotence and doom, not to mention an intensified
species status anxiety.
The increasing entanglement of human and other agents and the
growing awareness of vulnerability inform one of the most important
developments in contemporary critical thought: a decentering of human
life and a growing concern for nonhuman lives and things. The so-called
“nonhuman turn” (Grusin 2015) downplays the differences between
humans and nonhumans, and often situates different human and nonhu-
man agents as participants in a “flat” ontology: a worldview without
hierarchies and layers, in which agency is distributed between interacting
human and nonhuman actors. As we will see, this does not simply mean
that humans become more thing-like. More often, it means that objects
 Objects, Matters, Things 85
are endowed with humanoid capacities: the power to withdraw into an
inscrutable interiority (in object-oriented ontology), to express them-
selves (in the new materialism), or even to tell stories (in material
ecocriticism). These paradigms officially claim to move beyond the
humanist belief in human singularity, yet they often turn out to be
“ultra-humanisms” (Colebrook 2014, 162), in that they extend human
attributes to nonhuman entities. Even if these capacities are mostly
metaphorical, this transfer testifies to the complex traffic between human
and nonhuman forces in contemporary theory.
In this chapter, I survey the contributions of object-oriented ontology,
new materialism, material ecocriticism, and (much more briefly) actor–
network theory and critical posthumanism to debates over the relations
between human and nonhuman agency. My discussion shows that these
theories take great pains to appreciate difference and not surrender the
human and nonhuman things they bring together to a vast, undiffer-
entiated sludge. Their attention to discrete things and separate objects,
however, does not always translate into an ability to differentiate
between different kinds of differences—an ability that, as we saw in the
first chapter, characterizes the environmental humanities at its best.
Take, as a famous example, political theorist Jane Bennett’s analysis of
the 2003 North American power blackout in her book Vibrant Matter.
The breakdown of the electric power grid, which affected 50 million
people, helps Bennett (2010) illustrate her notion of “distributive agency”
in which the cooperation and “interactive interference of many bodies
and forces” has a real-world impact surpassing that of any individual
agent (21). Each of these constituents is given their due in Bennett’s
catalogue: “the electrical grid is better understood,” she writes, “as a
volatile mix of coal, sweat, electromagnetic fields, computer programs,
electron streams, profit motives, heat, lifestyles, nuclear fuel, plastic,
fantasies of mastery, static, legislation, water, economic theory, wire,
and wood” (25). The blackout, in Bennett’s analysis, is then the “end-
point of a cascade” (25): it is triggered by the frictions and overlaps
between these constituent parts, which serve as different “agential loci”
(26) contributing to the agency of the assemblage they compose.
Bennett refuses to discriminate between the different components.
Even when we know that corporate greed and “the shabby condition of
the public-utilities infrastructure” (36) play a role, Bennett declines to
differentiate between, say, the power of corporations and, say, the role
of coal, sweat, or electronic transmitters: these things are different, but
they are all different in the same way. This emphasis on the agency of
86 Anthropocene Agencies
things (Bennett talks about “thing-power”) is a welcome corrective to the
almost exclusive focus on social forces and linguistic mediation in the
late-twentieth-century humanities. Against such a stale “constructivism,”
more recent theoretical tendencies affirm what Rosi Braidotti (2013) has
called the “vital, self-organizing and yet non-naturalistic structure of
living matter itself” (2)—and in the case of Bennett’s vibrant materi-
alism, even of abiotic matter. Recent critical projects aim to undo the so-
called “linguistic turn,” which in the last third of the twentieth century
shifted attention to the ways language shapes and polices access to rea-
lity. Instead, they present reality as a choreography of human and non-
human agents: “Humanity and nonhumanity have always performed an
intricate dance with each other,” Bennett writes (31). Such a considera-
tion of the material world was long overdue, not least because an
exclusive focus on language threatened to obscure the realities of climate
change and other processes of planetary deterioration. Still, Bennett’s
principled refusal to single out anthropogenic dynamics—to differentiate
between different differences—also has less salutary consequences: it
downplays the disproportionate responsibility of particular human
agents in environmental degradation, and it elides power differentials
between diverse human constituencies. In their ambition to correct the
constructivist bias of the late-twentieth-century humanities, projects like
Bennett’s at times derail the environmental humanities’ mission to
negotiate the entanglements and differences between symbolic and
material processes.
In the next section, I trace continuities and differences between the
most prominent contemporary paradigms that attend to other-than-
human forces, most notably the new materialism and object-oriented
ontology. The third section of the chapter develops a brief reading of
Scottish writer John Burnside’s 2008 novel Glister to test the limits and
affordances of these theories. Set in a toxic postindustrial landscape,
Glister maps the intricate connections between technological, natural,
and human agencies. The novel resonates with these critical paradigms’
attention to the “thing-power” of the environment, xenobiotic sub-
stances, and industry, and their insistence that human lives are co-
constituted by nonhuman substances. At the same time, it shows that
these theories have a hard time calibrating differentiated human
responsibilities and issues of class. The fourth section restates the fail-
ure of these critical approaches to factor in hierarchies and incompa-
tible differences as a matter of scale. Scale is at the heart of the notion
of the Anthropocene, if only because the very term suggests a smooth
 Objects, Matters, Things 87
scaling up of human agency to the level of the species. I draw on
Timothy Clark’s notion of “scale effects” and Derek Woods’s term
“scale variance” to underline that size matters: strategies that work on
a personal or local level (such as recycling and ethical consuming, for
instance) cannot simply be expanded to a planetary scale. In the fifth
and final section, I discuss the material ecocriticism of Serenella Iovino
and Serpil Oppermann. For these critics, all matter is “storied matter”:
it has the power to be “creatively expressive” and tell its own stories
(Oppermann 2018, 9). I end with the suggestion that material story-
telling might be a less productive literary model for thinking about the
imbrication of human and nonhuman forces than writing. Writing and
inscription may be more adequate models to convey how violent, con-
sequential, and inerasable human interactions with the planet have
been and continue to be.
The theoretical developments I discuss break with a humanist investment
in the exceptionality of human life, and they explicitly attend to other-than-
human agents. This brings them close to posthumanism, even if, as I noted,
these theoretical movements remain hooked to human capacities (story-
telling, intentionality, expression). But critical posthumanism is also better
understood as a move beyond humanism than as a relinquishing of every-
thing human. For Rosi Braidotti, posthumanism consists in a decentering of
the traditional autonomous modern subject, who represents only one ver-
sion of human life: what she calls “the human of Humanism,” who fore-
closes difference and “stands for normality, normalcy and normativity”
(2013, 26). For Cary Wolfe (2010), also, posthumanism is first of all post-
humanist: it “opposes … fantasies of disembodiment and autonomy” and
emphasizes human life’s “imbrication in technical, medical, informatics,
and economic networks” (xv). In the wake of Donna Haraway’s (1991)
influential “Cyborg Manifesto,” posthumanist thought has foregrounded
technical and robotic elements, and its emphasis on complex environmental
interactions and the basic openness of systems has made it a privileged
interlocutor for the environmental study of literature. As we saw in the first
chapter, ecocriticism has increasingly come to expand its scope from the
natural wilderness to environments marked by toxicity, invasive species,
intelligent machines, and pesticides. In this context, critical posthumanist
thought enriches the ecocritical toolbox for analyzing the complexly inter-
woven biospheres and technospheres of the Anthropocene. Like critical
posthumanism, the theories under scrutiny in this chapter help Anthro-
pocene thought move beyond anthropocentrism and map the complex
material and symbolic traffic between humans and nonhumans.
88 Anthropocene Agencies
Matter vs. Object
One way to describe the new materialism is as a project to make matter
matter. Matter, for the new materialism, is not a passive substance that
science can explain and technology can manipulate; nor is it merely
meaningless goo that only acquires meaning through linguistic media-
tion. New materialism is first of all a monism that undoes the dualisms
inherent in the ways we traditionally relate to matter: that between sci-
entific object and observer, for instance, or that between matter and
meaning. This does not mean that materialism is anti-scientific: new
materialists like sociologist Vicki Kirby and science studies scholar and
theoretical physicist Karen Barad, for instance, explicitly enlist quantum
physics to theorize material reality as a fluid and open-ended process
rather than a fungible resource. Quantum physics teaches that scientific
perception is an effect of particular scientific procedures (this means, for
example, that the position and the momentum of particles cannot possi-
bly be measured at the same time). New materialists extend this insight
and see the material world as a reality that emerges through the inter-
actions of different acts, events, and forces: matter and meaning, the
material order and symbolic processes, are fundamentally entangled, an
idea reflected in Donna Haraway’s (2003) notion of “natureculture” (1).
As humans, we are, as Barad (2007) writes, “a part of that nature we
seek to understand” (67), even as our meaning-making practices also co-
constitute the natural world. Nothing escapes this intercourse, as the new
materialist world leaves no room for transcendence and is fully immanent.
The new materialist worldview is also fundamentally relational: the con-
stituents of reality do not preexist their relations to one another, but only
emerge through their reciprocal and multidirectional exchanges. To
underline this process of co-emergence, in which there are no discrete
objects with inherent characteristics but only entangled agencies that
mutually constitute one another, Barad coins the notion of “intra-action”
(33). She contrasts this term to “interaction,” a word that seems to
presuppose preexisting entities, just as, for instance, the once fashionable
notion of hybridity does. For the new materialism, matter is neither stable
nor unchangeable; it is a net of agencies that human life is plugged into.
Monism, immanence, relationality: these notions also characterize
Jane Bennett’s vibrant materialism, whose concerns overlap with those of
the new materialism, even if it is somewhat less interested in science.
Like Barad and Kirby, Bennett (2010) holds that matter is not just “pas-
sive stuff,” “raw, brute, or inert” (vii), as there is “a liveliness intrinsic to
 Objects, Matters, Things 89
the materiality of the thing” (xvi). Bennett prefers the term “thing” to
that of “object,” which for her is too reminiscent of the subject-object
dyad that the new materialism proscribes: things, she quotes W.J.T.
Mitchell, signal “the moment when the object becomes the Other” (2).
Things and assemblages (irreducibly complex compounds of things) have
“an active, earthly, not-quite-human capaciousness” (3) with which
human life is co-emergent. Bennett gives the example of Omega-3, a fatty
acid prevalent in fish that has a salutary effect on people’s mental states.
Bennett proposes we factor in the agency of this fatty acid when we
describe phenomena (or “assemblages”) such as “American consump-
tion” and the “crisis of obesity” (39). We need to recognize, Bennett
writes, “a productive power intrinsic to foodstuff, which enables edible
matter to coarsen or refine the imagination or render a disposition more
or less liable to ressentiment, depression, hyperactivity, dull-wittedness,
or violence” (49). On this account, emotive states do not originate in the
ineffable interiority of the human mind, but emerge through the interac-
tion of human and nonhuman bodies (an insight we already encountered
in Evelyn Reilly’s Styrofoam, which I discussed in the first chapter).
Picturing the world as a mesh of promiscuously interrelated oozing
bodies no doubt has its attractions, but it also has its problems. New
and vibrant materialisms tend to celebrate interconnectedness as a
nourishing and enchanting state of affairs, but delight and pleasure are
only some of the possible moods besetting material encounters: if the
material bodies one encounters happen to be toxic or carcinogenic, for
instance, danger and harm might replace generosity and joy (Lemke
2018, 40). Another problem is that this world picture brackets episte-
mological questions (how can we get to know other entities?) only to
transform its ontological description of the world into an ethical
injunction: materialist accounts of the world call on us to “be attentive”
to matter, to “attune ourselves” to its energies, or to “register” materi-
ality. With epistemological complications out of the way, all that
remains is “the ethical binary of attunement to or resentment to materi-
ality” (Rekret 2016, 227). More often than not, this ethics is an indivi-
dualized and voluntarist one, in which purportedly free individuals are
called upon to cultivate a transformed relationship to matter (Lemke
2018, 42–46; Rekret 2016, 227–30).
At least two politically salient issues remain unexplored in this
reduction of human action to a matter of ethical sensibilities. First, and
as we will explore in the fourth section of this chapter, such a call for
ethical attunement remains blind to the question of scale: real-world
90 Anthropocene Agencies
change requires more than a cumulative series of individual conversion
experiences, and also depends on the hard work of organization and
mobilization. It requires a collective politics rather than a personal
ethics. Second, the cherishing of autonomy and free will, which the new
materialism also extends to nonhuman things, overlooks that human
actions are necessarily constrained, and that attitudinal change always
takes place in an already stratified social space. Valorizing the agency of
Omega-3 is one thing, but the transition to more sustainable food pat-
terns requires more than an altered ethical sensibility: it might, for
instance, require undoing material constraints such as the deregulation of
the food industry and the socioeconomic determinants of the obesity
crisis. Bennett’s (2010) proposal to “enter into the proximity of assem-
blages whose conglomerate effectivity tends toward the enactment of
nobler ends” (43) enjoins us to cultivate healthier affects, but “enter[ing]
into the proximity” of the good stuff is unlikely to constitute the kind of
decisive action that will effectively address Anthropocene challenges.
The new materialism shares its emphasis on relationality and on the
choreographies of “horizontally aligned agentic entities” (Oppermann
2018, 3) with actor–network theory (or ANT). In the 1980s, ANT
emerged in the sociology of science and technology (SST) in the work of
Michel Callon and Bruno Latour. It studies the horizontal interactions
between social and natural and between human and nonhuman actants.
The effect of ANT’s descriptions is one of defamiliarization, as infra-
structures and everyday objects of lab life—scraps of paper, instruments,
coffee cups—are assigned a role in the development of scientific and
technological breakthroughs. ANT reimagines the world as a networks
of relations and nothing else: “Literally there is nothing but networks”
(Latour 1996, 370). It is rigorously uninterested in substances: things
only feature in networks as actants, and their identity is exhaustively
defined by the mode of their participation in the network under investi-
gation. For Latour, an actant is simply “something that acts or to which
activity is granted by others” (373).
The new materialism adopts the relationality and flat ontology of
ANT, but it goes beyond it by putting flesh on the bare actantial nodes
in ANT networks and by transforming its abstract universe into a dense,
material, and embodied one. For both the new materialism and ANT,
then, everything that exists is in relation, and reality is the sum of all
relations. They share what Peter Gratton (2014) has called “an ‘actual-
ism’ that grants reality only to the shifting relations of the world and not
to hidden forces (even potentially) that don’t relate to the things of
 Objects, Matters, Things 91
existence” (91). For ANT and the new materialism alike, things cannot
disengage from the networks that sustain them. This marks their main
difference from object-oriented ontology (or OOO, or Triple O), another
wildly influential contemporary school of thought that campaigns for the
capacity of things, and not only humans, to withdraw from relation and
to preserve a residue of interiority in a hyperconnected world. If the new
materialism tends to a cheerful affirmation of the actuality of the world,
object-oriented ontology revels in gothic sensibilities and in the horror of
the abyss beneath things. The new materialism cherishes “lively things”
(Bennett 2010, viii); OOO cultivates the weird, the lurid, and the alien.
Mostly associated with the work of philosopher Graham Harman and
literary critic Timothy Morton, OOO emerged in the early 2000s as part
of a loose philosophical movement called speculative realism. OOO
extends the anti-constructivist thrust of a lot of twenty-first-century
thought to a wide-ranging critique of the thought of Immanuel Kant.
Kant’s critical philosophy famously restricts knowledge to the domain of
things that appear to us, and it dismisses all attempts to get beyond
experience as empty speculation. Speculative realists refer to this episte-
mological stricture as “correlationism” and reject it to gain access to the
reality of things beyond human experience. This deeper reality of things
cannot be reduced to their molecular constitution (an error Harman calls
“undermining”) nor to their relations and actions (a form of “over-
mining” of which ANT is guilty). According to OOO, the new materi-
alism commits both errors simultaneously: not only does it plunge things
into a material substrate, it also entangles them in webs of relation.
Against this double mistake, Harman (2016)—an indefatigable booster
of the OOO brand—positions object-oriented ontology as “a resolutely
anti-materialist theory” (95–96): a “deeply non-relational conception of
the reality of things,” he writes, “is the heart of object-oriented philoso-
phy” (Harman 2012, 187). Against materialist flux, object-oriented
ontology asserts the unshakable stability of things; against the reduction
of things to their relations, it affirms their “irreducible strangeness and
surprising weirdness” (Lemke 2017, 144). Things never fully surrender
themselves in their encounters with humans, nor in their encounters with
one another: “the inner aspect of the object … is forever withdrawn
from the sensuous domain” (Gratton 2014, 100).
The affirmation of an ineradicable darkness at the heart of nature
obviously resonates with Anthropocene sensibilities. The broad shift
from fantasies of natural harmony to a disconcertingly weird environ-
ment is reflected in Timothy Morton’s blockbuster concept of the
92 Anthropocene Agencies
“hyperobject.” If all objects, for OOO, are strange, wayward, and weird,
hyperobjects like plutonium, global warming, Styrofoam, or capitalism
radicalize that alienation: hyperobjects are “objects massively distributed
in time and space that make us redefine what an object is” (Morton
2011, 167). OOO here reveals its proximity to the figure of the sublime:
finding itself overwhelmed and disoriented, it turns away from empirical
observation and rational thought to the domain of the aesthetic to find
access to things. The writing of OOO-thinkers is then often a self-con-
scious performance of approximating the object world. The two most
remarkable stylistic features of OOO-writing are “ultra-vivid descrip-
tion” (Morton 2011, 170) and the litany: long lists of objects and things
that are juxtaposed at a remove from human mediation. One random
but entirely representative example is Graham Harman’s (2005) evoca-
tion of a place “amidst coral reefs, sorghum fields, paragliders, ant
colonies, binary stars, sea voyages, Asian swindlers, and desolate tem-
ples” (3). Indeed, if the writing of new materialists typically invests in
syntactical complexity to express the intricate relations between human
and nonhuman objects, OOO relies on a melancholic evocation of the
object-world from which human life has ostensibly withdrawn. As
Morton writes, “[m]elancholia is precisely a mode of intimacy with
strange objects that can’t be digested by the subject” (175).
Such seemingly impassive and deadpan evocations of the object-world
are not without their problems. For one thing, the stable splendor of
objects obfuscates the contexts and contingencies through which the
stability of the status quo emerges. The privileging of stability makes it
hard to account for change and difference, and some of the most scho-
lastic elaborations of the theory follow from the difficulty it has to con-
ceive of change (Gratton 2014, 85–107). This problem is compounded by
the simultaneous emphasis on the inaccessibility of things: if the only
mode of access to “the thing in its untamed, subterranean reality” is
aesthetic (Harman 2011, 80), it is hard to see how this improves on the
new materialism’s recourse to ethical attitudes. Reducing analysis to an
exercise in aesthetics, OOO remains blind to “the de facto privileged role
and the planetary power of humans to affect other objects” (Lemke 2017,
147). Indeed, one of the ironies of OOO might be that, in its desire to
move beyond the “correlationist” confines of human experience, it for-
gets to problematize the traditional human subject: objects’ alleged
potential to withdraw from relation and to preserve their privacy is
curiously anthropomorphic, and the display of a world in which objects
are liberated from their entanglement with humans can only be enjoyed
 Objects, Matters, Things 93
from a perspective that seems to be that of a disengaged and dis-
embodied human spectator. It is no surprise, then, that literary engage-
ments with the object-world diverge from object-oriented ontologies, as
well as from new materialist ones. John Burnside’s novel Glister is a case
in point.

Unsafe Spaces, or, The Matter of the Glister

A simultaneous focus on the ineffability and the actuality of nature
characterizes the work of the Scottish poet and novelist John Burnside
(D. James 2012, 602). It is especially Burnside’s 2008 eco-gothic Glister
that resonates with contemporary Anthropocene discourses, even if, as
we will see, it also points to the limits of the theoretical focus on modes
of entanglement and attunement. The novel is set in Innertown, a site of
social, industrial, and environmental decay situated in the shadow of a
disused chemical plant. Toxic spillage from the plant affects all life
forms in Innertown, as “the entire land … is irredeemably soured … by
years of run-off and soakaway” (Burnside 2009, 10): woods are poisoned,
animals are genetically mutated, human bodies develop “unexplained
clusters of rare cancers” (10), and human brains are afflicted with
depression and madness. The plant is described as simultaneously
“beautiful,” “frightening,” and (in a deliberate anthropomorphism)
“sad” (62), and its mysterious agency is central to both the overall gothic
affect and the thriller plot of the novel, as the plant is the site of the
mysterious disappearance and presumed murder of several teenage boys.
Sites of disappearance coincide with sites of toxicity, which prefigures
similar constellations in recent Netflix-series like Stranger Things and
the German Dark—works that, like Glister, articulate general questions
of human environmental (ir)responsibility with specific histories of
human violence.
Glister has been interpreted as exemplifying a new materialist aes-
thetic. For Seril Oppermann (2016), it is a novel “about how densely
bodies and ecosystems are interrelated in ominous toxic kinship” (31).
Foregrounding the agency of nonhuman elements like molecules and
waste, Glister showcases the “naturalcultural dynamics of human-non-
human existence” (30) and exposes “the hazy nature of boundaries
between the social and the scientific, technology and morality” (31). So
far so entangled, and it is true that the novel underlines the enmeshing of
human and nonhuman matter, as when Leonard, the main narrator of
the story, says that “[w]ith every breath [he] take[s] the world into [his]
94 Anthropocene Agencies
lungs … all the traces and smears and soot falls, all the threads of
copper and nickel and 2,4,5-T … the future is written in our blood”
(Burnside 2009, 70). Confronted with “sudden nosebleeds, numbness in
[his] fingers, swollen knuckles, bleeding gums, gut pains,” Leonard rea-
lizes that “there’s something in [him]. Lurking. Some chemical trace,
some cancer” (98). As these quotations show, Glister’s figurations of
entangled matter are somewhat more sinister than the fairly upbeat “hybrid
geographies” and “intermingling spillway” that the new materialism
likes to evoke (Oppermann 2016, 32).
Nor does the new materialist notion of an interrelated web of dis-
tributed agents really exhaust the novel’s evocation of the material
world. The novel at times finds itself in tune with object-oriented
ontologies as it underlines that some human and nonhuman objects
remain resolutely inaccessible: one character, rushing to condemn the
squalor of other people’s lives, suddenly realizes that “[h]e didn’t know
what their lives were like” (23); confronted with his girlfriend-of-sorts’
request to put a dying animal out of its misery “’[c]ause it’s suffering,”
Leonard pleads non-access: “‘How do you know?’ … I have no idea
what it’s thinking, but I have no intention of killing it just because [my
friend] is feeling squeamish” (140). Indeed, the emotive isolation of the
different narrators and the radical disconnect between the characters is a
crucial part of the novel’s uncomfortable, gloomy mood.
The clearest resonance with object-oriented ontology, however, is in the
novel’s ultimate hyperobject: the Glister. A fairly obscure term—the word
is more or less synonymous with “glitter” and “sparkle”—“the Glister” is
introduced on the very first page; and while it is immediately associated
with the plant site (which is vast in itself, and seems contiguous with the
poisoned woods), it remains unclear whether these spaces coincide. It con-
tinues to defy localization and definition for most of the novel: a policeman
finds one of the boy’s bodies when entering “what looked like a little den
among the trees,” which, it turns out, “was really the first in a series of
such closed spaces,” ending in “a strange little bower” (26); it then turns
out to be “some kind of machine, maybe a kiln, or a gas chamber” (216). It
still defies description at the end of the novel: “the Glister. Which is what,
exactly? A door? A portal?” (251). The Glister, it appears, serves as a site of
connection, of relatedness, but it is itself a murky hyperobject of sorts that
resists being mapped.
So what do we make of the novel’s double alliance to materialist and
object-oriented ontologies—ontologies that, as their proponents do not
cease to point out, are rigorously incompatible? I think the most
 Objects, Matters, Things 95
productive interpretation of Glister is as a work that tests these ontolo-
gies while subscribing to neither. Then we can see that it, for instance,
critiques the ubiquitous relationality that it also evokes. In the early
chapter entitled “Connections,” the novel presents the arch-villain Brian
Smith, whose distinctive skill is understanding that “everything was
connected” (35), even people “when you see them as objects in the fullest
sense of the world” (36). If this skill first asserts itself in a childhood
obsession with puzzles, it is later sustained by the insight that what
connects human and nonhuman objects is “the logic of money” (38).
Glister thus establishes a clear link between materialist flat ontologies, in
which nothing is hierarchically superior to anything else, and the role of
money as a general commodity that makes everything exchangeable,
including people’s labor power. Add to that the fact that the novel’s
clearest visions of interconnectedness—“I can see everything around me
in perfect, almost dizzying detail, but I can also feel how one thing is
connected to the next” (129)—are drug-induced, and that the only form
of collective action in the novel is an act of mob violence that kills an
innocent man, and it becomes hard to read it as promoting a new
materialist outlook.
That the characters refuse to blame anyone for the killing and describe
it as “just one of those things” (186) seems to affirms Jane Bennett’s
(2010) belief that “[i]n a world of distributed agency, a hesitant attitude
toward assigning singular blame becomes a presumptive virtue” (38). Yet
what a new materialist or object-oriented perspective does not make
visible is that the novel also sees this refusal to judge as a cop-out. The
novel makes it very clear that the characters’ ambivalent attachment to
the plant and its poisoned environment is the unwanted result of eco-
nomic decisions to abandon the plant and the community around it.
Toxicity might be the effect of the thing-power of chemical substances,
but it is also the result of the lack of caution exercised “by the Con-
sortium, by the safety people, by all the powers that be” (10). This
abandonment leaves the community no other option than to engage with
the material reality of the plant, however toxic it is: “The Innertown wasn’t
a healthy place to live; the trouble was that, for most people, there was
nowhere else to go” (30). What may seem like a wholesome sense of
connectedness to the place is in fact a consequence of being left behind
and of being stuck: “the people who live here are trapped, … they can’t
imagine any other life” (78). The numinous appeal of the plant is not a
stable ontological feature of its plant-ness, it is an effect of socio-
economic violence: “if you want to stay alive … you have to love
96 Anthropocene Agencies
something and the one thing [to] love is the chemical plant … All we
have is the plant” (60). For Glister, in short, not all differences are the
same: class difference and the violence it entails are more crucial than
either the relations between things or the abyss between objects. Coming
to terms with the environmental crisis Glister evokes, then, is not only a
matter of cultivating an appropriate mode of attunement, attentiveness,
or responsiveness. As the next section elaborates, it requires operating on
different scales.

Scale Shiftiness
In contemporary discourse, the notion of scale almost automatically
evokes the infinitely large and the incredibly long. This is as true in
environmental debates as it is in business lingo. When the business press
talks about “scalability,” it means the capacity of businesses to grow and
to manage rising demand. Issues of scale pertain to the challenge of
“scaling up” and of dealing with increased sizes. In the Anthropocene
context, size matters too: the term names a moment when the sum of
individual actions has come to affect the planet as a whole, and when the
fallout of our actions resonates in faraway futures, rather than on the
more manageable timelines on which we normally track human actions
(days, weeks, lifetimes). Yet this “upscaling” does not mean that cus-
tomary frameworks lose their hold on us: notions like “deep time” (a
geological time that counts in billions of years) and “slow violence”
(pointing to the gradual attrition of life worlds rather than to punctual
disasters) are not absolute substances, but derive both their rhetorical
force and their analytical significance from their contrast to the conven-
tional extensions and rhythms of human life. Scale, in other words, is a
relational notion: it names the ratio between different size domains. The
Anthropocene is then not simply an outright “upscaling” of human life,
but is better understood as a critical moment when size difference becomes
a matter of concern. If we tend to take the rhythms, speeds, distances, and
sizes of the human world for granted, the Anthropocene reminds us that
the human scale is only one (set of) domain(s) among many.
Literature has always explored the tensions between the human
mesoscale and different micro- and macroscales. One of the most famous
examples is Jonathan Swift’s 1726 Gulliver’s Travels, which sends its
protagonist to Lilliput, where he lives among tiny people, as well as to
Brobdingnag, where he resides among giants over 60 feet tall. Such scalar
mismatches would gradually disappear from the literary mainstream
 Objects, Matters, Things 97
with the eighteenth-century rise and later consolidation of the novel, a
form dedicated to the serious depiction of everyday life, and thus con-
fined to the ebbing rhythms of human time (McGurl 2017). The imagin-
ing of macroscales was increasingly assigned to the genre of science
fiction, as in Olaf Stapledon’s 1930 work Last and First Men, which
covers a sequence of 18 different human species in a span of 2 billion
years. As scale has become a concern that also affects everyday life, it has
increasingly come to invade the province of realist fiction. Think, for
instance, of Karl-Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle project (2009–2011),
which offers a 3,500-page exploration of even the minutest experiences,
memories, reflections, and perceptions of the narrator. The scalar mis-
match between the vast scope of the project and the infinitesimally small
focus of the novels’ mode of notation shows how Knausgaard’s project
unravels the customary rhythms and patterns of realism, and it helps
explain both the fascination and the irritation the books have generated.
Don DeLillo’s Point Omega (2010) offers a different approach to scalar
variation. Point Omega is a decidedly slim work of some 120 pages, not
only in comparison to Knausgaard’s gigantic undertaking, but also to
DeLillo’s 1997 masterpiece Underworld, which connected different
human-scaled narratives to provide an authoritative account of American
postwar life. After its opening section, Point Omega abandons New
York, the center of Underworld’s sprawling universe, and turns to the
slow, eventless temporality of the desert, a space so indistinct it is either
“the Sonoran desert or maybe it was the Mojave desert or another desert
altogether” (DeLillo 2011, 25). Human geography does not matter, as
this is the province of geological time—of “the protoworld … the seas
and reefs of ten million years ago” (25). This is “deep time, epochal
time” (91), in which human concerns, such as the disappearance of one
of the characters, which is hardly investigated, “are overwhelmed by
landscape” (82). The novel connects human life to geological and cosmic
processes, and in this way also opens up the infinitesimal gaps that
underlie our everyday functioning. At its beginning and its end, the novel
evokes Douglas Gordon’s 24 Psycho, an art installation that slows down
Hitchcock’s film Psycho so it takes up 24 hours, the time it takes the
earth to complete one rotation. This shift from the time of human
entertainment to that of cosmic repetition robs the film of all suspense,
and instead trains the viewer “to feel time passing, to be alive to what is
happening in the smallest registers” (7). Projecting only two frames a
second, the installation foregrounds the interstices of time—what Point
Omega calls “submicroscopic moments” (21)—that are neutralized in
98 Anthropocene Agencies
ordinary perception. These infinitesimal interstices have as much of a
disruptive impact on the human scale as the invocations of cosmic vast-
ness that we find in the novel’s central narrative. By destabilizing the
human mesoscale, literature’s scalar experiments participate in the same
revisionary project that motivates the different materialisms, post-
humanisms, and ontologies I discuss elsewhere in this chapter.
Complex engagements with different scales simultaneously offer a pro-
mising way to find a form for the Anthropocene. If Dipesh Chakrabarty in
2009 still noted that “[t]o call human beings geological agents is to scale up
our imagination of the human” (2009, 206), he later appreciated that such
scaling up is not enough, and that the real challenge is “think[ing] of human
agency over multiple and incommensurable scales at once” (2012, 1, italics
mine). Zach Horton (2017) usefully notes that the Anthropocene is less
about the discovery of new scales than about the human’s “confrontation
with itself as a trans-scalar entity” (35). The illusion that we are mono-
scalar entities has made it possible to obfuscate the reality of scalar differ-
ence and to conjoin different scales within a single medium in a process of
“scalar collapse” that, for Horton, characterizes both colonization and sci-
entific rationality (36). Seeing human life as trans-scalar is then also a way
of avoiding the imposition of one particular perspective on the complex
environments that human action must negotiate. It makes it possible to
appreciate that the new materialist injunction to be attentive to matter, for
instance, cannot simply be scaled up to a planetary program to address the
energy crisis, as such a solution demands tactics, campaigns, and decisions
that may need to strategically bracket such attentiveness. Different size
domains demand different approaches. In a curious 1926 essay entitled “On
Being the Right Size,” biologist J.B.S. Haldane notes that even Swift’s
Brobdingnag’s giants are physically impossible: being “not only ten times as
high” but also “ten times as wide and ten times as thick” as ordinary
humans, the cross section of their bones (which determines the body’s car-
rying power) could never support them, so they “would have broken their
thighs every time they took a step” (1956, 952). It is no coincidence the
human body is the size it is, and for Haldane, this also goes for human
institutions: just as the Greek model of democracy can’t simply be scaled up
to a country the size of the UK, so socialism, Haldane surmises, might be
extended to “Belgium Ltd or Denmark Inc.,” but probably not to larger
scales (956–57). Examples like these show that, when we talk about the
human subject of the Anthropocene, scale shifts are marked by jumps,
glitches, and discontinuities, not by smooth processes of zooming in and
out.
 Objects, Matters, Things 99
As users of Google Earth and Google Maps, we all are familiar with
the experience of frictionless scalability: these apps allow users to scan
the globe and zoom in on any location of their choice. These apps’
effortless performances of magnification and resolution afford their
human users an experience of visual mastery and sovereign mobility.
Charles and Ray Eames’s 1977 short film Powers of Ten offers an early
example of such zooming power. The film opens with a neatly composed
picnic scene in a park, before the camera begins its vertical ascent at an
ever increasing speed until it is 100 million light years away from the
picnic scene. At this point, it begins its descent that returns to the park,
only to collapse into a cell in one of the picnickers’ hands and to further
descend to the level of molecules, atoms, and beyond. The dispassionate
seriousness of the film’s voice-over reinforces the unperturbed perfor-
mance of the camera zoom. It concludes the film by saying that “our
journey has taken us through 40 powers of ten,” instilling a sense of
control over the different dimensions of reality (Dorrian 2011). Such a
fantasy of scalar sovereignty is also at work in geoengineering and
nanotechnological imaginaries. Yet there is also a more sinister dimen-
sion to the film, which hints at a more disturbing discontinuity under-
lying its visual virtuosity and impassive voice-over. These achievements
cannot wholly neutralize the unease of seeing an emphatically human-
scaled scene of leisure and happiness shrink in the face of a nonhuman
power of vision that, on its way down, barely stops to register human
bodies as it infiltrates them. The film displays an eerie power of
abstraction and penetration. Even as it fosters illusions of technological
mastery, it simultaneously qualifies the human scale as a powerless target
of technological violence. In that sense, we can compare the film to the
Blue Marble photograph I discussed in the previous chapter, in which
human life is similarly rescaled by a technology that also intimates the
power to annihilate it.
Fantasies of infinite scalability don’t account for the scalar complexity of
the Anthropocene world. Scale, Derek Woods (2018) notes, “is not a linear
or zoom-like shift from big to small” (502), but is inevitably beset by what
Woods calls scale variance (Timothy Clark uses the term scale effects). It is
misleading, for instance, to see Timothy Morton’s hyperobjects, which are
massively distributed in time and space, as models to think of the object
world at other scales. While it makes sense to say that things like Styrofoam
or climate change (to name two exemplary hyperobjects) are so vast and
unlocalized that they withdraw from human access, that is not necessarily
the case for our relation to everyday objects. Similarly, the monism of the
100 Anthropocene Agencies
new materialism and the flat ontology it shares with Triple O fail to ima-
gine a truly pluralist ontology that distinguishes different scale domains
(Woods 2017, 217). These theories’ blindness to scale makes sense in light
of the customary association of scale jumping with power and control
(Clarke and Wittenberg 2017, 11–12), but it leads to an impoverished
account of how the climate-changed world works. There are “ontological
rifts among size worlds” (Woods 2017, 210), and a failure to address those
rifts overlays a world marked by discontinuities and thresholds with a
smooth vision of openness, connectedness, and continuity.
When we abandon the notion that the subject of the Anthropocene is
a scaled-up human, we can see that human action, at the planetary level,
is thoroughly entangled with nonhuman forms of agency. The subject of
the Anthropocene is not an inflated human, but, in Derek Woods’s
(2014) terms, “the sum of terraforming assemblages composed of
humans, nonhuman species, and technics” (134). Factoring in scale var-
iance is necessary to capture the distributed agencies that co-constitute
the Anthropocene world. For Timothy Clark (2015), the Anthropocene is
essentially “an emergent ‘scale effect,’” as it interacts with nonhuman
processes when it crosses a particular point of no return: “at a certain,
indeterminate threshold, numerous human actions, insignificant in
themselves (heating a house, clearing trees, flying between the continents,
forest management) come together to form a new, imponderable physical
event, altering the basic ecological cycles of the planet” (72). The differ-
ent theories I survey in this chapter attune us to these different agencies,
but it requires what Woods calls “scale critique” to emphasize disjunc-
tions, incommensurable differences, jumps, and discontinuities and to
develop a properly complex picture of “what forms agency takes and
which mediators entangle it” (2014, 140). Such a picture will invariably
combine cozy entanglements with more troubling disruptions and rifts.

Storied Matter in the Anthropocene Scriptorium

This chapter has shown that object-oriented ontology and new materi-
alism return critical attention to the nonhuman world and underline that
the Anthropocene is composed by the multifarious interactions between
human and nonhuman agents. Still, our discussions of scale and of John
Burnside’s Glister have suggested that critical theory’s nonhuman turn
needs to be complemented with a consideration of discontinuities and
tensions that cannot be neutralized in flat ontologies or in fantasies of
benign interconnectedness. A full account of the Anthropocene world
 Objects, Matters, Things 101
needs to encompass vertical difference and disconnection. In this final
section, I want to suggest that imagining the interactions between
Anthropocene agencies in terms of reciprocal storytelling and dialogue,
as ecocritics Serenella Iovino and Serpil Oppermann propose, misses out
on the power differentials, the violence, and the long-lasting and irre-
vocable consequences that also charactize these interactions. Writing, I
think, offers a more promising model.
In Iovino and Oppermann’s (2014) material ecocriticism, the last cri-
tical development I discuss in this chapter, storytelling provides the key
metaphor for describing the way objects interact. For them, all matter is
“storied matter” (1). All things are “undeniably expressive” and “have
their own stories to tell” (Oppermann 2018, 9), and this turns the world
into “a site of narrativity, a storied matter, a corporeal palimpsest in
which stories are inscribed” (Iovino 2012, 451). For Iovino and Opper-
mann, material processes of interaction are deeply entwined with
semiotic processes of meaning-making, to the point where the distinction
between the two collapses—what they call “the porosity of biosphere
and semiosphere” (Iovino and Oppermann 2014, 5). They write that
“human and nonhuman players are interlocked in networks that produce
undeniable signifying forces” (2). And when material interactions can be
imagined as producing meaning, it is only a small step to imagine eco-
logical interactions as cosmic conversations: Iovino and Oppermann
write that “the world’s phenomena are segments of a conversation
between human and manifold nonhuman beings” (4).
This image of the world as a polite dinner conversation may not be
fully adequate for rendering the upheavals of the Anthropocene world.
Interestingly, Jane Bennett describes her own vibrant materialism as an
attempt “to raise the volume on the vitality of matter” (2010, 10), an
image that presents our engagement with the nonhuman world as a
matter of amplification and noise management, rather than as a polite
dialogue free from distortion or interference. In contrast, Iovino and
Oppermann’s ecological storytelling imaginary is conspicuously liberal,
as it projects a fantasy of an infinitely patient dialogue between tolerant
and generous conversation partners onto the nonhuman world. We can
find comparable liberal imaginaries at work in both object-oriented
ontology and the new materialism. In object-oriented ontology, as we
saw, objects have the (all too human) capacity to withdraw from their
relations to other objects and to introvert themselves. What is this if not
a liberal vision of privacy, a belief that the core of our personal lives will
be immune from interference? In Jane Bennett’s vibrant materialism, all
102 Anthropocene Agencies
agents, whether they are humans, electric transmitters, or the fatty acid
Omega-3, have the capacity to freely choose to engage, or not engage,
with other things, as if they were happy liberals exercising their freedom
of choice. As Thomas Lemke has noted, Bennett’s extension of the cate-
gory of the actor to the nonhuman world “still buys into the liberal
concept of agency that sees it as a property of individual entities, focusing
on will, freedom and choice” (2018, 41).
Such projections of liberal fantasies of privacy, of freedom of choice,
and of polite conversation may not capture the realities of the Anthro-
pocene world. This is a world where actions leave irrevocable traces,
where some consequences cannot be undone, and where understanding
requires less attentive listening than canny deciphering. These dimen-
sions are perhaps less adequately represented by scenarios of interactive
storytelling than by a model of writing and inscription. The activity of
writing can easily be extended to nonhuman agents: in the Anthro-
pocene, they leave traces that our technological instruments are increas-
ingly capable of reading. And the Anthropocene is not only a topic of
human writing, it is also defined by the fact that humans leave their
traces in the geological record. These traces cannot be apologized for or
quietly forgotten the way we can get over a bad story: they can only be
read and reckoned with. Unlike storytelling, which can count on the
continuous feedback that face-to-face interaction provides, writing takes
place in the absence of its addressee and in ignorance of its own impact.
This is also the case for the actions that cumulatively have led to climate
upheaval. Writing is probably a more revealing model for Anthropocene
agency than storytelling is: it captures dimensions of human responsi-
bility, violence (as there is no inscription that is not the displacement of
other matter), permanence (however unwanted), and discontinuity.
Indeed, the juncture of literature and the Anthropocene is perhaps less a
matter of uninterrupted storytelling than of a world imagined as an
encompassing scriptorium: a world made up of the traces left by humans
and nonhumans alike, and a world that our increased powers of reading
do not allow us to leave unread.
Let’s return to Glister one last time. In this novel, the way toxic waste
affects the bodies and brains of people is less easily figured as a story-
telling exchange than as a process of violent material inscription; the
chemical waste participates less in the composition of what Oppermann
(2014) calls an “epic of being” (30) than in the proliferation of death; it is
less a matter of free expression than a lethal mode of writing. A story
about the disappearance of young children, Glister is also a novel about
 Objects, Matters, Things 103
the illusion that things can vanish without a trace: “No mark, no clue,
no sign of a struggle, no note, no stain on the air at the point where he
turned and walked away—if, as the adults tell us, he chose to go” (2009,
67). The novel here cannily links the illusion of tracelessness to the idea
of freedom of choice, only to declare both notions obsolete. The novel
criticizes the pretense of innocence and deniability by linking humans’
constitutive role in planetary cataclysm to, precisely, writing: it is less a
whodunit than an exercise in acknowledging a responsibility that we
already know about, as “it’s part of the plan of the story that you know
already because these things are already written” (247). The existential
situation the novel elaborates is that of the human in the Anthropocene.
We are always already guilty, even if we never intended any wrong: “It’s
unforgivable not to know where they are, even if it’s impossible to
know” (250). Human responsibility is “already written,” and attempts to
address that responsibility only add more writing; they can never erase
earlier inscriptions. The Anthropocene scriptorium does not offer the
release or relief of a good story: it is marked by the impossibility of
erasure, of forgetting, and of forgiveness, and by the compulsion to keep
writing. In the Anthropocene scriptorium, it is always already too late
for denial. The next chapter focuses on the notion of Anthropocene
memory to explore in more detail what this injunction to remember
looks like.
Part 2
Anthropocene Temporalities
4 Dominations

Anthropocene Angels
The Anthropocene warps our apprehension of time. It opens vast tem-
poral expanses as it situates even the minutest human choices, such as that
between driving a car or walking, in geological deep time. It turns the
future into a site of dread and diminishment rather than rapt anticipation.
The past is no longer a stable historical ground and morphs into a restive
archive of stored actions that may one day prove our undoing as a species.
The Anthropocene present, then, is a palimpsest of (often only partly
legible) crisscrossing forces that do not provide a clear point of orientation
to navigate the complexities of planetary life. This temporal disorientation
is the organizing concern of the second half of this book, and it comple-
ments the emphasis on the mostly spatial relations between texts, dis-
ciplines, subjects, and things in the first half. It would be a mistake to see
this temporal turmoil as radically unprecedented: industrial progress was
always shadowed by an awareness of environmental devastation (Bonneuil
and Fressoz 2016), and modern life, as it was typically lived in the buzzing
metropolis, has often elicited a giddy sensation of clashing temporalities.
Indeed, the idea that time is streamlined in an orderly progression from
past over present to future has always been an ideological imposition. The
cultural theorist Walter Benjamin (2006), in his classic “On the Concept of
History,” analyzes this quintessential modern myth of progress as “a
homogeneous, empty time” (395) in which new experiences are neatly
added in a linear and continuous fashion to the already accumulated data
of the past.
Benjamin saw it as the task of the historian to insist on dis-
continuities, repetitions, and shocks that upset such a neat accretion and
that instead point to “secret agreement[s]” between past and present
(390). For Benjamin, this was essentially a task of developing an ethics of
108 Anthropocene Temporalities
memory: such an ethics designs a relation to history that is “capable of
fanning the spark of hope in the past” by remembering the violence and
suffering on which reigning hegemonies are built, but which they work
hard to forget (396). Benjamin’s emblem for such an ethics of remem-
brance is the figure of the angel of history: keeping its face turned to the
past even while the modern myth of progress propels it into the future,
the angel contemplates the dismal record of the past as “one single cat-
astrophe” and repels strategies to erase that record (392). It is no over-
statement to say that Benjamin’s angel has, in the last few decades,
become an icon for a prominent tendency in critical thought that has
mined the past for injustices and disasters in the hope of achieving a
more equitable future. In the interdisciplinary field of memory studies,
which has in recent years increasingly liaised with the environmental
humanities, such a commitment to uncovering and undoing past wrongs
has become programmatic. Memory studies wants to repair the erasures
of “homogeneous, empty time” and to restore the temporal complexity
of the present. In that sense, it has an elective affinity with the Anthro-
pocene. This chapter traces that rapport in more detail by showing how
the current environmental crisis affects memory and how the study of
memory, in its turn, can enrich our understanding of the textured
temporality of the present.
A complex and layered apprehension of time is not unique to the
Anthropocene, but the turbulence of the Anthropocene present is yet
different from previous iterations of temporal turmoil. As Jennifer
Wenzel has argued, the temporal shifts associated with imminent climate
dereliction and planetary exhaustion “destabilize the straightforward,
secular assumption that pasts and presents have futures, that things just
keep on going, that time and history keep unfolding” (Craps et al. 2018,
502). We now know that they will not. If Benjamin already knew that
modernity’s narrative of progress all too conveniently forgot the violence
on which it was built, this narrative is now, Wenzel writes, “confounded
once and for all by a future utterly different from that which fossil fuels
once promised” (Craps et al. 503). The anticipation of a disastrous
future also cancels the value of our memories of the past, as our past
experiences were premised on a future that will not materialize: “Our
memories of the future will have turned out to have been all wrong”
(503). Interestingly, Benjamin’s “On the Concept of History” already
announces such a radical temporal upheaval. Near its end, the text
quotes “a modern biologist” observing that “[i]n relation to the history
of organic life on earth … the paltry fifty millennia of homo sapiens
 Dominations 109
constitute something like two seconds at the close of a twenty-four hour
day” (2006, 396; Baucom 2012, 10–12). If the angel of history famously
condenses a whole human history of violence into one pregnant moment
when it sees “a chain of events” as “one single catastrophe which keeps
piling wreckage upon wreckage” (392), this passage underlines that the
history of human life is merely a moment in a much vaster history that is
not merely human (263). It introduces organic and geological scales that
complicate the mandate of memory studies and enjoins it to consider
nonhuman forces in its memory work.
The second half of this book is organized around three rubrics that
highlight the temporal disturbances that characterize the Anthropocene.
This chapter treats the question of Anthropocene memory under the
rubric of “dominations” to foreground the persistence of past injustices
in the way the Anthropocene afflicts different communities. The next
chapter is entitled “emergencies” and underlines the curious temporality
of inhabiting a present when it is perhaps already too late to salvage the
future. The last chapter, finally, uses the notion of “residues” to survey a
number of engagements with the insight that human life will be reduced
to a mere fossil in the planetary future. The series dominations/emer-
gencies/residues remixes another triad of terms: Raymond Williams’s
famous distinction between “dominant,” “residual,” and “emergent”
dimensions of the present. My variation on Williams’s influential cate-
gories aims to emphasize that the present frenzy is continuous with, even
if it intensifies, the disturbances Williams saw as endemic to social life.
Williams (1977)—like Benjamin, writing in a Marxist tradition—
aimed to “recognize the complex interrelations between movements and
tendencies both within and beyond a specific and effective dominance”
(121). Williams defines the residual as those elements from the past that
are still “an effective element of the present,” and not simply archaic
(122); “the actively residual,” for Williams, is “alternative or opposi-
tional,” and not “wholly or largely incorporated” (122–23). The emer-
gent, for its part, names those elements that point beyond the dominant:
it indicates that “new meanings and values, new practices, new rela-
tionships and kinds of relationship are continually being created” (124).
Just as the residual can be neutered when it is categorized as inoffen-
sively archaic, the emergent risks being rendered harmless when it
becomes fully incorporated as part of a self-updating dominant culture.
It is crucial, then, to resist such neutralization by the dominant and
maintain the residual and the emergent as irreducible dimensions of
experience. In that way, Williams notes, local sites of the residual can
110 Anthropocene Temporalities
even morph into emergent forces—a possibility that calls for a particular
ethics of memory.
The residual and the emergent name two kinds of experiences that
resist the false homogeneity of the dominant culture, and that turn the
historical ground on which we stand into a treacherous and explosive
terrain. Such experiences are still in search of a form, as they are “active
and pressing but not yet fully articulated”: emergent culture, Williams
writes, “is never only a matter of immediate practice; indeed it depends
crucially on finding new forms or adaptations of form” (126). It is a
measure of the insistence of non-dominant elements that they fit uneasily
in existing categories and forms, and that they often generate “an unease,
a stress, a displacement, a latency” when we confront them with domi-
nant (but, perhaps, soon to be defunct) forms (130). In the rest of this
book, I take my cue from Williams’s dynamic triad to describe the
peculiar temporality of the Anthropocene in new forms and categories.
The rubrics of dominations, emergencies, and residues remix Williams’s
terms for capturing the unsettled present and update them for a situation
in which social life is entangled with biological and geological entities.

Anthropocene Memories
Approaching Anthropocene memory through the lens of dominations
highlights that the present is marked by the persistence of histories of
domination, of engrained inequalities, and of legacies of environmental
injustice. If we extend the remit of memory to nonhuman actors and
environmental disasters, an awareness of lingering domination stresses
that we should not overlook the crucial role of human perpetrators,
victims, and bystanders, and forget the disproportionate role of man-
made structures such as capitalism, technology, and colonialism in nat-
ural violence. Benjamin’s reference to the “paltry fifty millennia” of
human life risks diminishing the role of human actors, while what is
needed is, in Rick Crownshaw’s words, “reading simultaneously within
multiple and contradictory frameworks” (Craps et al. 2018, 502) and
“address[ing] the humanist and posthumanist enclosures of memory”
(Crownshaw 2017b, 246). In the context of memory, also, a careful
calibration of the role of different actors is called for, and this means
that human responsibility needs to be preserved even as agency is dis-
tributed across human and nonhuman participants alike. Since the
beginning of the millennium, the study of memory has broadened its
focus from national contexts to the transnational, multidirectional,
 Dominations 111
cosmopolitan, and global drift of memory. But as I explained in the
second chapter, the Anthropocene inaugurates a further shift beyond
global to earthly and planetary dimensions. Let me briefly explain how
this change affects four essential constituents of memory.
First, it extends the objects of memory by also including nonhuman
agents. Anthropocene memory does not limit its concerns to human vic-
tims, but also factors in damage to lifeworlds, destroyed landscapes, and
suffering animals. In the two literary works that I touch on in this chapter,
nonhumans are objects of mourning: an Indian reserve in Thomas King’s
The Back of the Turtle, and Aboriginal habitats in Alexis Wright’s The
Swan Book. Nor is Anthropocene memory blind to the role of natural
forces in bringing about, rather than undergoing, calamities. Violence can
also be environmental, even if natural disasters are always partly man-
made: think of how Hurricane Katrina, which devastated New Orleans in
2005, disproportionally affected African American communities because of
decades of poor planning, inadequate provisions, and institutional failures.
This differentiated geography of vulnerability was a consequence of
human actions, and it amounted to a case of environmental racism. The
broader scope of memory also entails an awareness of different scales, as,
in Rick Crownshaw’s (2017b) words, “cultural memory studies must track
emergent causalities, ad hoc assemblages of agentive matter, and mutating
patterns of change in predictable and unpredictable, calculable and incal-
culable ways” (245). Rosanne Kennedy has referred to the imperative to
remember nonhuman actors without overlooking the human dimension as
a form of “multidirectional eco-memory”—a mode of memory as attentive
to difference as to entanglement (Craps et al. 2018, 506). Rob Nixon’s
(2011) notion of “socioenvironmental memory” captures a comparably
broad range of scales and agents (24).
The object of Anthropocene memory, in short, is not simply a static
object, but part of a complex process that also includes the subject doing
the remembering. A second change is that the range of subjects and media
of memory are radically extended, as the Anthropocene affects the condi-
tions under which cultural knowledge is archived and remembered. If we
typically think of the subject of memory as human, and of the media of
memory as material carriers, the Anthropocene reimagines the whole planet
as an archive of human actions (what I referred to at the end of the previous
chapter as a vast planetary scriptorium): think of carbon dioxide levels in
the atmosphere or the chemical make-up of sea and soil, which can be read
as a durable record of human activity. As Claire Colebrook notes, “the
inscriptive event of the Anthropocene is an extension of the archive, where
112 Anthropocene Temporalities
one adds to the readability of books and other texts, the stratifications of
the Earth” (Craps et al. 2018, 507). Nor is it the case that the planet only
carries the imprint of human actions: it is also a witness to a geological
history that long precedes “the paltry fifty millennia of homo sapiens.”
Bronislaw Szerszynski (2019) has proposed “thinking of the earth as some-
thing that remembers and forgets” (221). The combination of lateral tec-
tonics, a buoyant continental crust, and the water cycle makes the earth a
medium conducive to inscription and erasure, and contemporary technol-
ogy has increasingly made it possible to open that terrestrial archive. Of
course, technology is also making possible the wholesale destruction of the
archive, and in that respect, the Anthropocene can also be seen as triggering
a massive process of forgetting (233). Anthropocene memory resists this
threat to the planetary archive. Ursula Heise (2016) has studied the ency-
clopedic thrust of global digital biodiversity databases that aim to preserve
traces of species threatened with extinction and that function as a kind of
“ecological epic” (15); Ben De Bruyn (2020) has shown that contemporary
fiction functions as a repository for vanishing animal sounds in an age of
sonic depletion. In these examples, digital archives and literary forms
become visible as media of more-than-human memory.
The Anthropocene not only affects the objects, subjects, and media of
memory, it also, and more counterintuitively, alters the very temporality of
remembrance (and this is a third crucial change). Because the consequences
of planetary destabilization are unevenly distributed, some constituencies
are already living—or indeed, already mourning—a reality that more
privileged communities fear will become part of their future. Jennifer
Wenzel has pointed to “a strange inversion of colonial-era developmentalist
progress narratives,” as today the Global South is no longer supposed to
catch up with the metropolitan North, but rather prefigures the horrors and
devastations that will come to afflict even sites that have so far successfully
outsourced the consequences of their actions (Craps et al. 2018, 504). The
result, Wenzel writes, is “an inverse colonial fear: that an ominous Third
World present offers an image of the First World’s future” (504). One con-
sequence of such temporal jolts is that imagining the future and remem-
bering the past are no longer strictly separate activities: the future is no
longer a site of infinite possibility but a replay of disasters already happen-
ing elsewhere, so remembering past cataclysms is not very different from
anticipating the coming storm. This means that future-oriented genres, such
as science fiction and other forms of speculative fiction, are also doing
memory work: imagining a climate changed future gives us the present as
the past of an imagined future, as a reality that will one day be nothing
 Dominations 113
more than a memory, even as the speculative future resembles the kind of
impoverished and brutalized world we used to think of as our own past.
The temporal mode of such post-catastrophe imaginaries is that of the
future anterior—“the dramatization of that which will have been”
(Crownshaw 2017a, 128). Speculative fiction, as Rick Crownshaw notes,
“gives narrative presence to that which is subject to cognitive dissonance if
not disavowal in the present” (129). The resources of memory, and of the
anticipated replay of the past that makes up the Anthropocene future, can
complicate customary ways of inhabiting the present and remind us
that the present is not a stable ground so much as a treacherous and uneven
terrain.
If the future is already someone else’s past, this means that non-
traditional archives can also serve as resources for dealing with the
future. The renewed relevance of non-traditional archives is a fourth
feature of Anthropocene memory. Not only have Indigenous commu-
nities already shown resilience in the face of environmental devasta-
tion, they have also devised future-oriented imaginaries that, even if
they belong to the past, can be updated for the future. Shelley Streeby
(2018) has shown how Indigenous people and people of color have
historically led the way in climate activism, and she has demonstrated
that speculative fiction has been a key resource in these archives of
hope (112). N.K. Jemesin, whose Broken Earth trilogy is situated in a
world marked by periodic geological upheavals (as I already discussed
at the end of the second chapter), underscores that her post-apocalyptic
world-building is rooted in the experiences of non-dominant
constituencies: Jemesin notes how she draws

a lot of material from a number of different experiences of oppres-

sion, like being closeted from queerness, or drawing from the
Holocaust … when you look at human history, it’s full of Fifth
Seasons [the series’ name for intermittent cosmic disasters], full of
apocalypses … I wanted to draw a world that felt realistic.
(Hurley 2018, 472)

Remembering past and ongoing destitution, then, is vital for developing

a more adequate sense of the present. And here we are back at Benja-
min’s conviction that memory can retrieve “a spark of hope” from the
past: in order to disturb the “prevalence of ideas of security, prosperity,
liberty, and the instrumentalization of nature and freedom” in official
Anthropocene discourses (Crownshaw 2017a, 128), a critical
114 Anthropocene Temporalities
Anthropocene memory can attune itself to the past as not only a source
of mourning, but also a resource of hope. By opening archives of sub-
altern or Indigenous knowledge, memory may yet find “a secret agreement
between past generations and the present one” (Benjamin 2006, 390).
The rest of this chapter homes in on different aspects of the altered
memorial landscape. The next section (“Anthropocene Turtles”) reads
Thomas King’s The Back of the Turtle to show how contemporary lit-
erature can engage Indigenous archives to broaden the scope of memory
by including nonhuman agents and by encompassing different modes of
memorization. The section on “Anthropocene Swans” pays attention to
the warped temporality of Anthropocene memory: bringing together
several perspectives on processes of anticipatory (or proleptic) mourning,
I turn to the Indigenous Australian writer Alexis Wright’s The Swan
Book to show how the speculative imagining of Aboriginal futures serves
as a strategy to preserve Indigenous traditions as well as an intervention
in the settler-colonial present. “Anthropocene Wilderness” closes off this
chapter on Anthropocene memory by teasing out resonances between the
curious temporality I explore and altered conceptualization of nature
conservations. In the field of conservation, “New Conservationists” have
taken on the lesson that human and nonhuman histories are so thor-
oughly interpenetrated that the wilderness can no longer be preserved, or
even remembered, as a radically nonhuman site. The two novels I discuss
demonstrate how this modified understanding of the environment affects
how nature writing remembers the wild.

Anthropocene Turtles: Mining the Indigenous Archive

Written by Thomas King, an author of Cherokee and Greek descent,
The Back of the Turtle is an award-winning Canadian novel from 2014
that explores the aftermath of an environmental disaster known as the
Ruin (it is also referred to as “That One Bad Day” [King 2014, 181]). An
attempt to clear foliage by administering a herbicide named “Green-
Sweep” goes wrong and leads to 137 deaths in a small Indigenous com-
munity in British Columbia, which has turned into a ghost town by the
time the novels takes off. The novel focuses both on the biotech com-
pany responsible for the disaster and on the event’s impact on a number
of Indigenous characters returning to the abandoned site and restoring a
tentative sense of community. In this way, it deviates from the cus-
tomary cli-fi template, which tends to adopt the perspective of a white
male scientist-hero to accentuate its commitment to technological
 Dominations 115
solutions (Irr 2017; Kaplan 2015). In this novel, the scientist responsible
for the cataclysm spends the novel trying to reconnect to his Indigenous
past, an attempt that the novel supports by exploring the viability of
Indigenous storytelling. The novel not only highlights how Indigenous
populations and nonhuman landscapes are affected by manmade envir-
onmental disasters; it also explores Indigenous resources for imagining a
resilient response to destruction.
The Back of the Turtle has no illusions that disasters won’t happen
again: in the novel’s present, Domidion (the biotech company) is involved
in an incident with an earthen dam that has dumped toxic sludge into a
river and threatens other Indigenous communities. The novel positions the
remnants of Indigenous life in a quietly resilient community as a counter
to biotech’s work of obliteration: there is the story of Mara, a native artist
who returns to the old house of her deceased best friend after trying and
failing to settle in Toronto; there is the old and wise Crisp, who serves as
a living repository of the local folklore; there is a boy named Sonny, who
runs a dilapidated hotel and converses with his absent father, who seems
to be an almost godlike figure; and there is, especially, Gabriel, the rene-
gade scientist working for Domidion who holds himself responsible for
the Ruin that, he finds out, also killed his estranged mother, sister, and
nephew. At the beginning of the story, Gabriel comes to the Smoke River
Reserve to commit suicide, berating himself for being “the author of all
that destruction,” a destroyer of worlds (King 2014, 337, 168). At the end
of the novel, he is part of the improvised community of survivors, even if
some of these survivors are, it seems, merely imaginary (which is entirely
unproblematic for the novel’s casual magic realism). The novel mostly
resists what Caren Irr (2017) diagnoses as an all too frequent “romantici-
zation of an underdeveloped periphery” in cli-fi novels that imagine Indi-
genous communities as “saturated with a spiritual depth that compensates
for material deprivation and powerlessness”: both Gabriel and Mara feel
deeply alienated when returning to the village, Sonny has lost his father,
and all characters are marked by trauma and loss. Rather than “a
romantic conception of pristine, alien wilderness,” The Back of the Turtle
envisions “the natural world as integrated with sometimes damaging
human activity” (Irr 2017), even if, as we will see, the ending of the novel
comes close to celebrating Indigenous authenticity. As the last section of
this chapter elaborates, remembering nature, in the Anthropocene, means
remembering the entanglement of human and nonhuman forces.
The Back of the Turtle’s relevance for Anthropocene memory is not
restricted to its depiction of the loss and devastation environmental
116 Anthropocene Temporalities
destruction spreads among Indigenous populations. It stages the compli-
cated and contentious dynamics of Anthropocene memory in different
ways. The novel shows how corporate environmental devastation oper-
ates through a campaign of obfuscation and obliteration of the past. The
firm’s PR team aggressively promotes self-made footage to replace doc-
umentary evidence of its past crimes. Its CEO, whose existential unra-
veling the novel tracks relentlessly, ends up in an existential crisis
obsessing over the question whether he “[w]ill … be remembered?”
(480), as if acknowledging that the regime he exemplifies thrives on
enforced forgetting and carefully maintained deniability.
Against this campaign of forgetting, the novel mobilizes several modes
of memory. Gabriel has disappeared from his lab and his apartment is
found full of inscriptions that refer to sites of manmade environmental
disasters: nuclear and biological waste dumps, anthrax facilities, and
Indian reserves used as a bombing range (23). These notations exemplify
a compulsive mode of inscription that points to the traumatic persistence
of a violent past. It is this trauma that informs Gabriel’s desire, at the
novel’s opening, to end his life. His debilitating guilt, the novel shows, is
the destructive flipside of the corporate campaign of forgetting. As we
will see, the novel will marshal alternative modes of memory that help
the characters in the novel overcome self-hate and despair. The land-
scape also serves as an archive, as it testifies to a history of violence that
it refuses to metabolize. The devastated reserve, we read, is full of bones:
“Almost everywhere he looked, everywhere he walked, there were
bones … [t]hey lay out on the ground where the creatures had died, one
minute alive, the next minute dead” (403). The reserve is, quite literally,
“a graveyard” (74, 454), or “an authentic Aboriginal Ghost Town” (99).
The novel shows how the environment refuses to participate in the
aggressive corporate campaign of forgetting: while Domidion thinks it
has adequately disposed of a barge sent out “to dump a mountain of
toxic waste and incinerated biohazards into the ocean” (18) when the
boat gets lost at sea, the lost barge returns together with Chinese victims
of the accident that sank it, as witnesses to a violence that resists being
erased. The landscape makes it impossible to forget that environmental
history is, in Benjamin’s words, “one single catastrophe which keeps
piling wreckage upon wreckage” (392).
Gabriel’s traumatic guilt and the landscape’s scars testify to the iner-
adicable traces left by environmental violence. However, The Back of the
Turtle also stages a more resilient mode of memory that, in Benjamin’s
terms, qualifies it as an effort to fan “the spark of hope” that memory
 Dominations 117
work can retrieve from the past. Throughout, the novel foregrounds the
power of storytelling as a regenerative device. At the heart of the novel is
a collective act of storytelling that rehearses an Indigenous creation story
(“The Woman Who Fell from the Sky”) that affirms the connection
between humans and animals, especially the titular turtles. Importantly,
the storytelling not only implicates the Indigenous characters: it forges a
community that also includes the Chinese boat people. Nor is the Indi-
genous tradition the only archive the novel draws on, as it also, for
instance, uses many biblical elements in its own fairly exuberant, often
funny, and decidedly magic realist storytelling, and as it incorporates
many colloquial elements and instances of onomatopoeia that reveal its
ambition to approximate oral modes of interaction. Ultimately, then, the
novel positions itself as a medium of memory that can contribute to
what we have called (following Rosanne Kennedy) a multidirectional
eco-memory: a memory that includes animals and the land as subjects,
objects, as well as media of memory.
Pheng Cheah (2016) has eloquently argued for the capacity of literary
storytelling to interrupt the “calculative management and appropriation
of time” that characterizes capitalist globalization (and that Benjamin
would call “homogeneous, empty time”) (17). Storytelling, Cheah
believes, opens a new world, a temporal horizon that cannot be subdued
by capitalist forces. And just as Raymond Williams underscores that
emergent and residual forces cannot simply be enlisted as entertaining
elements of dominant culture, this “normative horizon that transcends
present reality” cannot be neutralized as an innocuous “alternative”
temporality (13, 31): it is a radically open-ended affirmation of life. As
we have seen, in the Anthropocene, such a shift from the abstractions of
the globe to the lived reality of a world must find a way to recognize the
earthly entanglements of Anthropocene life. When The Back of the
Turtle opposes the destructive modes of remembrance embodied by
capitalist obfuscation and traumatic inscription with a form of ecological
storytelling, this constitutes an effort to restore the world by remembering
endangered modes of life and violent fits of destruction.

Anthropocene Swans: Mourning the Future

The Back of the Turtle’s affirmation of creativity and connectedness
offers a particularly hopeful inflection of Anthropocene memory. Yet
hope is not the only option, as time for decisive climate action runs out
and legacies of domination linger on. When the daily spectacle of
118 Anthropocene Temporalities
environmental destruction tells us that the future we anticipated may
never arrive, this can give rise to psychological distress. To describe this
psychic pain, the Australian philosopher Glenn Albrecht (2005) has
coined the term solastalgia, a neologism that evokes desolation, isola-
tion, and an impotent longing for a lost state of solace. Solastalgia
describes the psychological pain experienced when one’s sense of
belonging is undone by environmental change: it is “the ‘lived experi-
ence’ of the loss of the present as manifest in a feeling of dislocation; of
being undermined by forces that destroy the potential for solace to be
derived from the present” (45). If nostalgia (or homesickness) occurs
when one leaves home, solastalgia is a situation where staying home
makes you sick because the place that once was home is being destroyed
before your very eyes, leaving you powerless and depleted. Ecological
grief is a related term that captures feelings of anger, powerlessness, and
depression in the face of an ongoing or anticipated destruction of the
lifeworlds that sustain us (Cunsolo and Ellis 2018). It is no coincidence
that both terms were developed in relation to the experiences of Indi-
genous populations, as these are often the first to experience the impact
of climate change: their past and present is our future. A third term that
reflects environmental distress is closer to the experiences of privileged
constituencies who are not yet living the disastrous consequences of
planetary deterioration on a daily basis. E. Ann Kaplan (2015) talks
about “Pretraumatic Stress Syndrome,” in which “people unconsciously
suffer from an immobilizing anticipatory anxiety about the future” (xix).
Pretrauma is exacerbated by the media’s continuous bombardment of
painful images, demoralizing stories, and depressing data, which induces
a state of vulnerability and uncertainty. It is different from PTSD, in
which the present is overshadowed by the reality of past events rather
than by the prospect of future ones.
Solastalgia, ecological grief, and pretrauma: these are three dysphoric
terms that capture the foreclosure of the future and the erosion of the
present. While all three terms are beset by negative affect, they do not
necessarily lead to immobilizing despair. In his book The Uninhabitable
Earth, a terrifying vision of a warmed near-future earth, David Wallace-
Wells (2019) argues that alarmism is the appropriate response to the
deterioration of the planet, and the only one likely to break people’s
complacency. Kaplan too hopes that pretrauma might not leave audi-
ences “passively terrified” but will instead help them “understand dysto-
pian scenarios as warning humans of what they must, at all cost, avoid”
(2015, xix). It has always been the mandate of dystopian fiction to warn
 Dominations 119
contemporary audiences of dangers that, if we fail to address them, will
result in the living hell (or the uninhabitable earth) that the dystopia
depicts. Dystopia, like the post-catastrophe and post-apocalyptic fiction I
discuss in the last chapter, typically serves as a “prophetic vehicle” that
aims to preempt the horrors it depicts (Baccolini and Moylan 2003, 1).
Dystopia’s characteristic future anterior, Rick Crownshaw (2017b)
notes, “dramatizes an etiology of the conditions that are imagined in the
future but that are unfolding in the present of this literature’s production
and consumption” (244). When this etiology reveals destructive processes
that are no longer reversible or shows that future calamities merely
replay past and present forms of domination, as it often does in the
context of the Anthropocene, dystopia’s prophetic and preemptive
potential is challenged. Engagement with the foreclosure of the future
then easily shades into psychological distress and into debilitating modes
of anticipatory or preliminary mourning.
Alexis Wright’s The Swan Book (2013) showcases the temporal and
affective complexities of dystopian fiction in the Anthropocene. Wright is
an Indigenous writer and activist belonging to the Waanyi people, who
live in the Gulf of Carpentaria in the North of Australia. The story is set
three centuries after the 1788 colonial invasion of Australia, in the
aftermath of environmental disasters, global resource wars, and dis-
ruptive migratory movements. The lake where the Indigenous group lives
is reduced to a swamp, which serves as a dumping ground for “decaying
plastic, unwanted clothes, rotting vegetable matter or slime that bobbed,
wanami diesel slick” (Wright 2016, 36). It is also an “oasis of abandon-
ment” for humans: the “Boat people” coming from overseas and the
“truck people” hailing from elsewhere in Australia (56, 52; Sefton-Rowston
2017, 652). Environmental change has brought black swans, which used to
reside in the South of the country, to the swamp. The setting of the novel,
then, conveys a strong sense of solastalgia: its sense of place manifests as an
affect of dispossession and diminishment. Indigenous life is typically char-
acterized by a reciprocal relation of care between the land and its inhabi-
tants, a relation captured in the notion of Country (Gleeson-White 2017 29).
In the novel’s climate changed future, that relation is beset by distress and
harm.
The Swan Book not only accentuates the continuities between the
diminished future and three centuries of colonial violence, it even more
emphatically ties the future to recent and ongoing developments. The
harassment of Indigenous populations clearly echoes the 2007 Northern
Territory National Emergency Response, commonly referred to as the
120 Anthropocene Temporalities
Invasion, which upset Indigenous ways of life in response to unsub-
stantiated reports of child abuse (Johns-Putra 2018, 34). The main
character, the mute girl Oblivia, becomes the victim of a gang-rape by a
group of derelict youngsters, which indicates the incompetent handling
of Indigenous populations the novel condemns. Oblivia’s name, which
evokes the temptation of forgetting and disconnecting from the past
(Takolander 2016, 114), stresses that the aggression against Indigenous
life is also an assault on memory. This threat first comes in the form of
Bella Donna, a white European climate refugee who adopts the young
girl, gives her her name, and fills her head with stories of white swans,
as if to crowd out her native knowledge. Bella Donna is a clear allegory
for the missionary zeal and cultural arrogance of the colonizer, who
aimed to replace Indigenous cultural memory with an imposed British
framework.
While contemporary cultural politics is officially committed to diver-
sity and multiculturalism, the novel shows that it perpetuates this assault
on Indigenous culture. The novel’s main plot involves Oblivia’s marriage
to, later abandonment by, and subsequent flight from Warren Finch,
Australia’s first Aboriginal president. Warren is “post-racial. Possibly
even post-Indigenous” (Wright 2016, 122): he does not believe in antag-
onism, but in assimilation into a global order premised on tolerance and
human rights. Aboriginals are compelled to participate in this order, as a
failure “to change things by themselves for the future” means that they
have forfeited their “right of sovereignty over their lives” (232). Warren’s
voice becomes the only Aboriginal voice that is tolerated, and it displaces
alternative and more confrontational instances of Indigenous advocacy
(291). In the name of tolerance, the dominant culture perpetuates a his-
tory of domination that wages war on residual cultures so as to prevent
their transformation into emergent collectivities. After forcing Oblivia to
marry him, Warren orders the destruction of the swamp from which she
hails and imprisons her in a tower in the city, where her life seems “to
have coalesced into a stream of forgetting” (318). As Benjamin observed,
the imposition of a homogeneous time of fungibility operates through
the destruction of non-dominant memory.
The Swan Book does not share The Back of the Turtle’s cheerful
confidence in human resilience and storytelling. Its insistence on relent-
less and intensifying environmental and societal deterioration is more
likely to induce pretrauma than climate action. The novel depicts late-
twenty-first-century Australia as “a dilapidated country in a dilapidated
world” (266), and it refuses a vision of reconciliation; it breaks with a
 Dominations 121
tendency in 1990s Indigenous Australian writing that aimed at a “recon-
ciliatory literature” (Sefton-Rowston 2017). Chronicling the destruction
of the Indigenous relation to Country, the novel is committed to salva-
ging a minimal remainder of that relation. This relation radically privi-
leges nonhuman actors, such as the titular swans, but also other birds.
The novel ends with a strange flash forward to a scorched planet marked
by massive species extinction, when all the swans have deserted the
swamp and only myna birds remain. These birds, it seems, have adopted
Oblivia’s role of speaking and writing the Country: they speak “the tra-
ditional language for the country that was no longer spoken by any
living human being on the Earth” (329). The myna birds create “glimpses
of a new internationally dimensional language about global warming
and changing climates for this land” (329). The most horrifying aspect of
this nonhuman speech is that it is not certain that there are human
listeners left to hear it.
And still, The Swan Book’s posthumous imagination provides a mea-
sure of hope beyond hope. The story is framed in a way that leaves open
the option that the whole narrative is generated in Oblivia’s brain. Her
brain is affected by a virus “manufactur[ing] really dangerous ideas as
arsenal” (1). This destructive virus is the result of ideas that “had origi-
nated somewhere else on the planet and got bogged in [her] brain” (3)
and undercut the possibility of developing a more viable relation to the
land. The story we read is then the record of her “quest to regain
sovereignty over [her] own brain” (4). The novel presents this quest as a
form of geological inscription, as a way of writing the land: the girl is
“writing stanzas in ancient symbols wherever she [can] touch,” and she
keeps on “writing the swirl language over the dust that fell on what the
tree had witnessed in its lifetime” (7, 10). The novel’s emphatically lyri-
cal quality—its mixture of “music, poetry, lyrics, whispering spirits,
myths, symbols, and interior monologue” (Sefton-Rowston 2017, 651)—
then testifies to its ambition to write its way toward a new rapport
between nonhuman environment and human action, and toward a reci-
procal relation in which different actors write one another into existence.
I ended my previous chapter by proposing writing and inscription as more
adequate literary models for the Anthropocene condition than storytelling.
The Swan Book seems to agree. The text of the novel is not voiced, as
Oblivia is mute. And in the multicultural politics that the novel depicts, her
voice could only ever be neutralized and could never really make a difference.
As Adelle Sefton-Rowston notes, the novel is “speaking in various echoes
rather than one distinct voice” (651). The Swan Book declines the
122 Anthropocene Temporalities
commitment to the powers of voice, world-making, and creativity that is on
display in The Back of the Turtle. The emphasis is on the realities of dom-
ination and on intimations of a future that is no longer human. When the
novel ends by looking back on the present from a disenchanted posthumous
perspective, it constitutes the present as a future memory and it diagnoses
solastalgia—or ecological grief, or pretrauma—as entirely appropriate
postures.

Anthropocene Wilderness: After Conservation

Both The Swan Book and The Back of the Turtle mine Indigenous archives
to explore how industrial and capitalist development has spoiled more sym-
biotic relations between the human and the nonhuman: through spectacular
toxic spills and habitat destruction, but also through racialized forms of
biopolitical governance and slow violence that are endemic to settler coloni-
alism, and thus to the histories of Canada and Australia. The lifeworlds
evoked in these novels are indelibly contaminated and compromised by
human impact, but that does not mean that the novels automatically sustain
the compensatory fantasy of a supposedly pristine environment that is free
from human influence. Environmental thought has long been organized
around the opposition between wilderness and civilization, and nature writ-
ing has played a crucial role in cementing that distinction. In the United
States, for instance, the nature writing of Henry David Thoreau, John Muir,
and Edward Abbey has helped naturalize a vision of the wilderness and
civilization as two separate realms. This position has in its turn informed a
conservationist ethos that aims to keep the wilderness intact and to restore
decaying ecosystems. This mindset was phrased most memorably by Amer-
ican president Theodore Roosevelt, when he instructed, in relation to the
Grand Canyon: “leave it as it is. You cannot improve on it. The ages have
been at work on it, and man can only mar it” (qt. Marris 2015).
Such a commitment to the preservation, or even restoration, of the
fading reality of an unspoiled wilderness is also a matter of memory. At
the same time, the very idea of a domain divorced from human corrup-
tion is incompatible with the insistence on the entanglement of human
and natural histories that is central to Anthropocene thought. Because
the notion of the wilderness relies on an impoverished account of the
relation between nature and culture, the “Old Conservationism” is
increasingly being replaced by a so-called “New Conservationism” that
sees nature as a territory to be managed rather than preserved intact.
Nature is a site of responsibility, not of authenticity. Works like The
 Dominations 123
Back of the Turtle and The Swan Book maintain an ambivalent relation
with this shift. By drawing on Indigenous archives, they make the point
that what dominant settler experience constructs as an unpopulated
wilderness has, in fact, always been the site of intense interactions
between human and nonhuman actors. At the same time, The Back of
the Turtle comes close to celebrating such primordial interactions as
more authentic than the forms of life that civilization imposes. The novel
ends when the reserve’s ecosystem, which had earlier been destroyed by
toxic waste, is about to be restored: fish, urchins, and anemones move in
again, followed by birds and turtles. The role of humans in this scene is
limited to “banging the drum, singing [a] turtle-bone song,” “danc[ing]
in the air and walking on water” (King 2014, 516–17). This celebration
restores the unity between human and nonhuman life, but it arguably
perpetuates, rather than challenges, the wilderness imagery that has
often served as an alibi for colonial conquest.
In early environmental writing, wilderness was conceived as society’s
other: it was “nature in a state uncontaminated by civilization” (Garrard
2004, 59), an easily idealized realm divorced from technological and
industrial pollution and corruption. Environmental historian William
Cronon’s classic essay “The Trouble with Wilderness” not only unsettles
this distinction on conceptual grounds, it also points to the considerable
social and political costs incurred by maintaining it. Cronon observes
that the very opposition between wilderness and civilization is a con-
struction from within civilization, and thus starts from a position of
alienation from nature. The celebration of wilderness, Cronon (1996)
notes, “has been an activity mainly for well-to-do city folks” (17). Glor-
ification of the wilderness, Cronon continues, “embodies a dualistic
vision in which the human is entirely outside the natural” (17). This
allows societies to sidestep the difficult issue of how to design viable
ways to live with and to develop sustainable relations to nature. Such a
more responsible interaction with nature is of crucial importance: “To
the extent that biological diversity … is likely to survive in the future
only by the most vigilant and self-conscious management of the ecosys-
tems that sustain it, the ideology of wilderness,” Cronon notes, “is
potentially in direct conflict with the very thing it encourages us to
protect” (18).
This call for a more responsible management of nature informs con-
temporary conservation practices, which increasingly recognize the
inevitability of human intervention because, as environmental writer
Emma Marris (2015) writes, “[t]oday we can’t withdraw without blood
124 Anthropocene Temporalities
on our hands.” Human action has fundamentally shaped the lifeworld of
plants and animals, and preventing species from going extinct often
requires further active monitoring and intervention. Conservation is a
key context in which Anthropocene discussions over human responsi-
bility, impact, and capacity need to be translated in concrete actions and
practical decisions. Marris’s (2011) insights in her book Rambunctious
Garden: Saving Nature in a Post-Wild World resonate with those of so-
called New Conservationists like Peter Kareiva and Joseph Mascaro and
move beyond the “Old Conservationist” emphasis on preserving the wild
intact. As Jamie Lorimer (2015) notes, such traditional conservation is
“reactive” as “[i]t seeks to preserve a fixed Nature from modern, urban,
and industrial Society by enclosing it in National Parks” (5). It also
misrecognizes how thoroughly human cultivation has shaped the land for
thousands of years, also in Pre-Columbian America.
For New Conservationists, the preservation and restoration of prehu-
man worlds have become obsolete projects in a post-wild world thor-
oughly shaped by human action. Saving the environment now requires
removing or resettling species, deploying nonnative species, or supporting
new ecosystems in humanized environments. A preservationist ethic
insisting on purity and non-intervention merely puts a brake on adequate
action. For New Conservationists, non-intervention is neither a goal nor a
virtue, as the relevant choice is between good interventions and bad
interventions, between effective and destructive wildlife management.
Anthropocene nature cannot be left to its own devices at a remove from
civilization; instead, as Jamie Lorimer (2015) notes, we need ways to find
a place for “wildness at the heart of contemporary life” as part of a set-
tlement that sustains rather than alienates life (11). Such a new conserva-
tionist trust in the capacity of humans to serve as responsible and
competent gardeners maintains an ambiguous relation to the ecomodernist
belief that we can “decouple” human well-being from environmental
destruction. On the one hand, recent conservation practices, like ecomo-
dernists, are committed to the human ability to manage environments that
need intervention precisely because human mismanagement has made their
survival precarious. On the other, when the “Ecomodernist Manifesto”
notes that “decoupling” raises the possibility “that societies might achieve
peak human impact without intruding much further on relatively untou-
ched areas” (Asafu-Asjaye 2015, 19), the belief in eco-management shades
back into the ideological construction of the wilderness that Cronon cri-
ticized and that contemporary conservationism has left behind. Instead of
a sanitized decoupling between the wilderness and civilization, The Swan
 Dominations 125
Book ends with a rambunctious wasteland created by human mismanage-
ment. Its final vision is of a posthumous world where the lake has become
a “dry swamp,” full of “waste” and “rusted junk” (Wright 2016, 297). The
swans have been replaced by “ghost swans” and by myna birds singing
“songs about salvaging and saving things” (297). The decision what to
salvage from a history of domination and save for a climate changed
future is an urgent one. The next chapter shows how literature can help
bring that urgency into relief.
5 Emergencies

Emergency vs. Infrastructure

We can think of the warped temporal experience of the Anthropocene
like this: even if a minimal scientific literacy suffices to know we need to
act, it all too rarely feels like we are in a hurry. The temporal and spatial
grammar of planetary crisis rarely takes a form that moves us from
inertia to urgency: rather than an identifiable event in a particular loca-
tion, planetary dereliction is a spatially and temporally distributed phe-
nomenon. Rob Nixon’s phrase “slow violence” has rightly become
famous, as it captures the quietly devastating impact of processes that
never really register as emergencies. Nixon (2011) defines slow violence
as “a violence that occurs gradually and out of sight, a violence of
delayed destruction that is dispersed across time and space, an attritional
violence that is typically not viewed as violence at all” (2). Nixon’s focus
on (in)visibility is apt: whether we think of expanding pools of plastic,
rising temperatures, or steadily diminishing biodiversity, these processes
only gain visibility when they cross a particular tipping point and con-
geal into particular images: of desertification, of forest fires, or of the
corpses of sea animals with stomachs full of plastics. But even if we
know that the consequences of the deforestation in the Amazon or the
heating of the Arctic will eventually come to upset our lifeworlds, and
even if we feel the affective appeal of the powerful images, the long,
murky, and intricate causal chains connecting dispersed moments and
locations still complicate the translation of such awareness into a sense
of urgency.
If the previous chapter zoomed in on the way the Anthropocene affects
our remembrance of the past and the next chapter turns to Anthro-
pocene anticipations of an uncertain future, this chapter homes in on the
difficulty of inhabiting the present and apprehending the urgency of
 Emergencies 127
instantaneous action. Until about a decade ago, it was fashionable to
hold that the modern interplay between past, present, and future had
made way for an “eternal” postmodern present. In this extended present,
we were condemned to enjoy a situation of perpetual sameness in which
we found ourselves disconnected from the past and radical change
seemed as undesirable as it was inconceivable. Such complacency is now
a thing of the past: in the climate changed present, we know that the
accretion of past actions is gradually emerging to become a threat to our
established forms of life. And yet, such emergence does not register as an
emergency. In the face of such invisible forces, affective blockages, and
attention deficits, literature has its job cut out for it: it can mobilize its
formal and thematic resources to help move the sluggish and obscure
processes of the Anthropocene over thresholds where invisibility and
indifference make way for urgent concern. Often, literature does this by
imagining a near future when processes that have not fully emerged in
the present will have surfaced and impacted everyday life. I turn to such
dystopian and post-catastrophe futures in the final chapter.
In this chapter, I explore literature’s capacity to amplify the barely
audible background noise of contemporary life by focusing on the notion
of infrastructure. Infrastructure—railroads, the electric grid, bridges,
fiber optic cables—is a measure of the extent of human impact on the
planet: for Jedediah Purdy (2019), we are “an infrastructure species,” as
“the material habitat that humans have created” currently amounts to
“approximately four thousand tons of transformed world per human
being, or twenty-seven tons of technosphere for each pound of a hundred-
fifty-pound person” (88, 22). Yet infrastructure is also the boring,
unglamorous, and ambient background of human life: it is supposed to
do its invisible work while we are busy doing more exciting things, and
we only really notice it when it breaks down. This is the conceit of a lot
of near-future dystopias: they activate our desire for unglamorous things
like transport and communication networks by presenting a world where
these conveniences have disappeared. The tendency to take infrastructure
for granted is intensified in the digital present, when “the material net-
works that make our seemingly immaterial systems work” are carefully
erased in fantasies of weightless clouds and speedy wirelessness (Mattern
2013a). Infrastructure, in other words, brings into relief the tension
between emergencies and everyday life; it highlights that only the sudden
interruption of the everyday can generate a sense of urgency.
Yet infrastructure is not only something we take for granted: especially
in the Global South, infrastructure works can be deeply aspirational—as
128 Anthropocene Temporalities
when a road or bridge holds the promise of a more convenient or more
affluent life (Boyer 2019). In the next section, I show how this tension
between smug entitlement (on the part of Western elites) and eager ambi-
tion (for disenfranchised communities) makes infrastructure a key site for
exploring the fault lines that, in Steve Mentz’s (2019) words, “break up”
and “pluralize” the Anthropocene. A passage from Jamaica Kincaid’s A
Small Place shows how literature engages differentiated experiences of
infrastructure. The third section of this chapter shows how the brittleness
of infrastructure has become increasingly inescapable after decades of neo-
liberal neglect. In the last few decades, relentless exploitation of the planet
has gone hand in hand with a hollowing out of what philosopher Bonnie
Honig calls “public things.” For Honig (2017), shared spaces and provisions
are constitutive of political life: public things like “sewage treatment plants
and railroads” are vital because they “constitute us, complement us, limit
us, thwart us, and interpellate us into democratic citizenship” (5). I turn to
Karen Tei Yamashita’s Tropic of Orange to explore how literature can
mobilize the vulnerability and resilience of infrastructure—in this case, the
L.A. freeway system—for the imagining of political hope. In the final sec-
tion, I turn to the topic of energy, a key infrastructure that fossil fuel
modernity has long taken for granted but that has now entered a sustain-
ability crisis that calls for a swerve to less destructive ways of fueling life.
My literary example comes from Ben Lerner’s 10:04, a work that leverages
the vulnerability of the electric grid (revealed in the Manhattan blackout at
the time of Superstorm Sandy in 2012) to intimate a changed future.
My literary examples focus on energy and transport infrastructures to
unsettle the customary distribution between the spectacular and the invi-
sible. Disturbing that distinction is a key literary strategy for highlighting
the slow and subterranean processes that undermine contemporary life. At
the same time, they articulate such an engagement with a half-hidden
common world as a vital political concern. Belonging to different genres—
postcolonial nonfiction (Kincaid), multicultural postmodernism (Yama-
shita), and post-postmodern autofiction (Lerner)—these works cumula-
tively testify to the literary project of inhabiting a present that, composed
by the crisscrossing trajectories of different emergent forces, resists a sense
of emergency. By redrawing the relation between everyday life and climate
emergency, these literary works contribute to the imagining of what Ste-
phanie LeMenager (2017a) has called “the everyday Anthropocene.” This
everyday Anthropocene eschews the gravitas of bold epochal statements,
and instead lingers on “the present tense, lived time of the Anthropocene,”
on “what it means to live, day by day, through climate shift and the
 Emergencies 129
economic and sociological injuries that underwrite it” (225). LeMenager
sees literatures of the everyday Anthropocene connect “individual, fragile
bodies” to a collective “project of staying home and … making home of a
broken world” (225–26). The works I discuss in this chapter uphold
infrastructure as a crucial dimension of such everyday world-building.

Infrastructural (In)visibilities
The etymology of the term “infrastructure” gives us a clue to its appeal
in discussions of the Anthropocene. Infra-structure means “below-struc-
ture,” and the term refers to “the innards of a structure that are hidden
by the structure’s surface or facade” (Rubenstein et al. 2015, 575).
Infrastructure, that is, is the invisible but decidedly material (“innards”)
dark side of manmade constructs (“structures”). It is what supports the
phenomenal side of human enterprises: the steel and concrete under-
pinnings of cities, or (increasingly) the invisible communication networks
that instantaneously transport data between users. Such “below-struc-
tures” are not supposed to force themselves into the foreground: they are
“the invisible, forgettable ambiance in which the daily drama of modern
life takes place” (585). As “the undergirding of modern societies, … they
generate the ambient environment of everyday life” (Larkin 2013, 328).
These formulations underline the atmospheric quality of the way infra-
structure enters everyday experience: never as the focus of attention, only
ever as a sustaining environment.
The current academic interest in infrastructure indicates that infra-
structure has increasingly refused to remain merely ambient. For Dominic
Boyer, “today’s focus on infrastructure often appears as commentary upon
infrastructural collapse, infrastructural decline and decay.” After decades
of neglect of public services and provisions, we are presently living the
“incipient failure of neoliberalism to really deliver on its own promises”
(Boyer 2014). A process of disinvestment and “slow erosion” has crossed a
critical threshold as we see roads, energy plants, and libraries fall into
disrepair (Rubenstein et al. 2015, 578). The “innards” of societal structures
have stopped reliably radiating a pleasant ambiance, and insistently
remind us of their metabolic function: the fact that human culture consists
in the processing of nonhuman matter, and that infrastructure is a zone
where human designs encounter nonhuman forces they can only partly
control. Infrastructure is a site where human and nonhuman actors inter-
act with one another, as Adam Rothsthein (2015) underlines when he
defines infrastructure as “the underground, the conduited, the
130 Anthropocene Temporalities
containerized, the concreted, the shielded, the buried, the built up, the
broadcast, the palletized, the addressed, the routed”. If this sequence
resembles the object-oriented litanies I discussed in the third chapter, it
differs from those evocative lists in insisting on (rather than bracketing)
human mediation. The current interest in infrastructure, then, goes to the
very heart of the Anthropocene: it points to the interface of the human
and the nonhuman and reminds us that the interactions between them,
like all encounters with objects, matters, and things, are an essentially
political concern. Dominic Boyer (2019) has noted a “basic but also invi-
sible codependence” between infrastructure and political power, as large-
scale infrastructure projects help concentrate political authority in the
hands of powerful elites (16). Infrastructures only seem apolitical, because,
as Bruce Robbins (2007) notes, “they seem to constitute a minimum
threshold, an earth-bound zone in which the large irresolutions of politics
can for once be ignored and decisions safely left to the technocrats” (31).
The idea that infrastructure is invisible and only ever merely ambient
is a fairly provincial one. It betrays a privilege that, as bridges come
crumbling down and urban traffic becomes deadlocked, is increasingly
untenable. In the introduction to an issue of Modern Fiction Studies on
“infrastructuralism,” the editors attribute the “inherent boringness” of
infrastructure to two features. One is scale: infrastructure is so vast and
sublime that it threatens to dwarf our everyday concerns, and this makes
it expedient to just ignore it (Rubenstein et al. 2015, 575). The other is a
matter of desire: because infrastructure is mostly public, it does not
qualify as a commodity we want to own or consume. Infrastructure, in
the words of Bruce Robbins, “is the object of no one’s desire” (2007, 26).
Uncontained and undesirable, infrastructure is just supposed to work
without imposing any affective demands. While this position is prevalent
in literary studies, anthropological studies of infrastructure have made
more allowances for the aspirational dimension of works of infra-
structure. In this context, the vast size of public projects is crucial to
their desirability. Anthropologist Brian Larkin (2013) has remarked that
“many studies that begin by stating how infrastructures are invisible
until they break down are fundamentally inaccurate”: if invisibility is
one aspect of infrastructure, it is “only one and at the extreme edge of a
range of visibilities that move from unseen to grand spectacles and
everything in between” (336). Patricia Yaeger (2007) argues that infra-
structure can become the object of dreams, and can even become
“hypervisible” (16). Anthropologist Hannah Appel (2018) gives the
example of Equatorial Guinea, a country with one of the highest
 Emergencies 131
investment percentages in the world, where the “infrastructure frenzy”
saturates daily life and appeals to the population in visceral, sensory
ways through “the endless thrum of jackhammers, bulldozers, and trucks
too big for old colonial roads; the air full of cement dust that settles on
skin and in mouths” (42–43). Indifference and undesirability are not the
last words when we want to understand the complexities of
infrastructure.
The literary critical insistence on infrastructural invisibility is in a
sense unsurprising: the field of literary studies has traditionally been
beholden to practices of unmasking and revelation that disassemble sur-
faces and facades to reveal the hidden depths of textual meaning. Yet as
I showed in the first chapter, such practices of demystification have
increasingly made way for readerly attitudes that aim to capture the
specific textures of aesthetic and textual constructs and the whole range
of our engagements with them. Brian Larkin (2018) remarks that “infra-
structural inversion,” “bringing what is background into the fore-
ground,” does not consist in an absolute shift from invisibility to
visibility, simply because visibility and invisibility are not ontological
features of objects but emerge “as part of technical, political, and repre-
sentational processes” (186). The distinction between spectacular infra-
structures and mundane ones, then, represents “different styles of
visibility” (186) that can be described in all their variety rather than
posited as a scaffold for heroic critical interventions.
To get a sense of how literature can contribute to such a critical
description of the workings and the politics of infrastructure, I turn to a
short passage in Antiguan-American writer Jamaica Kincaid’s work of
creative nonfiction A Small Place (1988). An angry indictment of the way
Antigua, a small island in the West Indies, is being mistreated by
incompetent leaders, the international tourist industry, and the legacies
of the British Empire, the book’s first section addresses an imagined
tourist in the second person. Looking at the beautiful shore (“Oh, what
beauty! Oh, what beauty!”) through her hotel window, the imagined
tourist pictures herself on the beach:

You see yourself taking a walk on the beach … You see yourself
eating some delicious, locally grown food … You must not wonder
what exactly happened to the contents of your lavatory when you
flushed it. You must not wonder where your bathwater went when
you pulled out the stopper … Oh, it might end up in the water you
are thinking of taking a swim in; the contents of your lavatory
132 Anthropocene Temporalities
might, just might, graze gently against your ankle as you wade
carefree in the water, for you see, in Antigua, there is no proper
sewage-disposal system.
(Kincaid 2000, 13–14)

The passage exposes the gap between rich western tourists, who travel
to Antigua with the help of dependable transportation systems (the book
opens with an airplane landing on the island’s international airport), and
the local population, who even lack the infrastructure to dispose of their
own shit. For the former, mobility and clean water are taken for gran-
ted; for the latter, they are the promise of a more hygienic and more
dignified life. Yet crucially, the passage also destabilizes that opposition:
if the local population has most likely found ways to cope with the lack
of indoor plumbing, it is the ignorant tourists who actually make contact
with their own excrement. The assault targets the intimacy of the body,
as the feces attacks the ankle of tourists that were, just a page earlier,
described in all their fleshy exuberance as “unattractive, fat, pastrylike-
fleshed” (13). Brian Larkin defines infrastructures as “matter that enables
the movement of other matter,” including excrement and the biomass of
tourists. But infrastructures, Larkin notes, are not only things, but also
“the relation between things” (2013, 329). And because they are essen-
tially relational, infrastructures not only enable divisions between the
haves and the have-nots, they also promiscuously and unpredictably
connect different human, nonhuman, and (in the case of excrement)
liminal entities. What appears in the passage as “locally grown food”
turns out to be the output of a global delivery system: “it’s better that
you don’t know that most of what you are eating came off a plane from
Miami,” where it “came from a place like Antigua first, where it was
grown dirt-cheap, went to Miami, and came back” (Kincaid 2000, 14).
Infrastructure, Kincaid shows, puts everything in relation, even if those
relations, or consciousness of those relations, are deeply unwanted.
What, then, is the politics of this passage? In his reading of it, Bruce
Robbins (2017) refers to the “you” as “an aggressive ‘you’” (38), because it
punishes the addressee for the global inequality the passage so bitingly
exposes. Robbins (2007) feels the addressee—the tourist, but also privi-
leged audiences like us, and also a professionally successful émigrée like
Kincaid herself—does not deserve such punishment: “It cannot be our goal
to have all those who benefit from indoor plumbing, wherever mobile or
stationary, spend their time thinking about where the contents of their
lavatories go after they flush” (33). Robbins is right that this cannot be
 Emergencies 133
our goal (and I am not sure anyone ever claimed obsessing over feces was
a political goal), but he also misreads Kincaid. For Kincaid, such aware-
ness, such compelled visibility, is not a goal so much as a strategy. The
passage’s repetition of “you must not wonder” amounts to telling the
reader not to think about an elephant: it makes the lack of a proper
sewage-disposal system impossible to unsee, and makes sure that the
excrement cannot possibly become merely ambient again. What the pas-
sage denies its audience is ignorance and blindness. In that way, I think, it
drives home the message that the (in)visibility of infrastructure is con-
structed and not merely given, and therefore open to change. Mundane,
unremarkable infrastructures can be a deep aspiration, and, the passage
insists, until access to clean water, adequate supply systems, and other key
infrastructures is shared more widely, privileged audiences cannot feel
entitled to it. If we want to simply rely on our utilities without having to
obsess over them, these utilities need to be shared more broadly. As long
as they are not, there is always the uncomfortable threat that we may
connect with the excess matter we thought we had disposed of.
Kincaid’s passage encapsulates the contemporary reality that privileged
constituencies transport their waste to the Global South, where it renders
toxic the lifeworlds of the dispossessed. This turns the lifeworlds of these
people into sacrifice zones condemned to irreparable environmental decay
in the service of economic growth. Economist Giovanni Arrighi (1995) has
referred to this process as “the unplugging of … ‘redundant’ communities
and locales from the world supply system” (330). Yet in an Anthropocene
world, such opportunistic outsourcing cannot fail to rebound, as, apart
from obvious ethical problems, such environmental racism also affects the
habitats of the food we eat and the places we travel to, and creates geopo-
litical tensions that render all life vulnerable. Brian Thill (2015) diagnoses
contemporary life with an “Away-fantasy”: the fanciful notion that we can
conclusively abandon the stuff we produce and consume (109). Quoting
Timothy Morton, he remarks that “we may have thought that the U-bend
in the toilet was a convenient curvature of ontological space that took
whatever we flush down it into a totally different dimension called Away,”
but we now know that everything remains on the surface—on “viscous
surfaces from which nothing can be forcibly peeled” (50). For Thill, hoar-
ders living among seemingly infinite piles of stuff may seem socially deviant,
but they are not more aberrant than “those of us who do the seemingly
normal and healthy thing of dumping our mountains of trash into unseen
dumpsites” (110). When we talk about waste, not seeing is a matter of
privilege that requires hard, and occasionally violent, effort.
134 Anthropocene Temporalities
The digital age exacerbates this toxic juncture of infrastructure and
waste. The very rhetoric through which digital culture promotes itself uses
notions such as “wireless,” “the cloud,” and “instant connectivity” to sug-
gest that communication and value creation take place in a frictionless
vacuum, as if they were not enabled by thoroughly material infrastructures
of fiber optic cables, massive data servers, and energy provision. Digital
culture thrives on what Sean Cubitt (2017) has called an illusory “separa-
tion of the dirty business of generation from the clean image of energy
consumption” (27). The business of producing electronic devices is “dirty”
in two senses: first, it is thoroughly material, and dependent on vast
amounts of often unclean energy and hard-to-mine rare-earth metals, and
second, it requires the hard (and often compelled) labor of a vast army of
workers exposed to toxic materials. Indeed, digital culture is itself a massive
source of dangerous waste: as Jussi Parikka (2015) notes, “media technolo-
gies from monitors to game cartridges are abandoned, forgotten, stashed
away, but retain their toxic materiality that surpasses the usual time scales
we are used to” (113). If traditional industries “at least indicated danger
with their smoke stacks,” in reality “the purified industries of computing
[are] secretly just as dirty as the industrial ancestors” (111).
Infrastructure’s own role in obscuring material reality further compli-
cates the challenge of reading infrastructure. Not only are the invisibility or
(hyper)visibility of infrastructure not ontological features but the result of
material and socioeconomic processes; infrastructures can also be the
means by which reality is rendered invisible. Because, unlike smoke stacks,
fiber optic cables can be hidden under the sea and data servers located at
remote locations, contemporary life may seem to have become as smooth as
the slick surfaces of the smart phones that connect us to each other. This is
nothing new: think of how the infrastructure of the slave ship, for instance,
made drinking coffee and smoking tobacco strangely guilt-free pleasures in
early modernity. Still, infrastructure’s implication in its own concealment
compounds the difficulty of reading the infrastructure assemblages in which
we live. Caroline Levine (2010) has coined the notion “infrastructuralism”
to name “the practice of attending closely to the jostling, colliding, and
overlapping of social, cultural, technological, and natural forms” (65). For
Levine, “[i]f we want to describe the basic infrastructure of a particular,
local site, what we find is a vast variety of chaotically overlapping, repeti-
tive social forms that extend from multiple pasts and replicate themselves,
indefinitely, into unpredictable and distant futures” (96). Levine’s emphasis
on repetition, multiplicity, and large temporal scales (from multiple pasts to
distant futures) points to a critical practice that is not so much focused on
 Emergencies 135
revelation and inversion, but is rather attentive to the complexity and vari-
ety of the constellations in which we encounter infrastructure. Shannon
Mattern (2013b) has written about “infrastructural literacy”: the capacity
to visualize and comprehend the way infrastructure takes shape and
impacts our lives. Even if making visible the invisible and raising awareness
about imperceptible infrastructures do not, as Mattern underlines, amount
to significant political action, such literacy has an undeniably political
dimension. Infrastructures, as I argued, are fundamentally enmeshed with
desires and with collective aspirations; they encode, in Brian Larkin’s
words, “the dreams of individuals and societies and are the vehicles
whereby those fantasies are transmitted and made emotionally real”
(Larkin 2013, 333). In this overdetermined context, literature can intervene
and leverage infrastructure for imagining an Anthropocene politics.

Off the Road/On the Grid: Literature Dreaming of Infrastructure

Los Angeles holds a special place in the Anthropocene imagination. With
Hollywood, it is home to the world’s dream factory that has, especially
since the start of the millennium, steadily been producing images of
environmental doom. Situated on the San Andreas Fault, it is a site of
extreme geological vulnerability. This vulnerability is exacerbated by
climate change-induced threats of coastal flooding and desertification. As
Karen Tei Yamashita’s 1997 novel Tropic of Orange notes, “climatic
change in L.A. was different from other places. It had less perhaps to do
with weather and more to do with disaster” (2017, 34). Tropic of
Orange carefully resists the lure of disaster, and instead explores the
multiple vulnerabilities besetting a globalized and overheating world by
zooming in on, precisely, infrastructure. At the heart of the novel is the
L.A. freeway system, a vast and iconic road network constructed in the
middle of the twentieth century by the massive displacement of earth
matter and local communities. Since then, it has continued to foster
fantasies of fossil-fueled automobility (one critic calls it “the ultimate
anti-‘nature’ locale” [Sze 2000, 34]). In Tropic of Orange, traffic literally
comes to a standstill and makes room for different forms of mobility and
different uses for infrastructure. If traditional disaster movies make
infrastructure visible by blowing it up on screen (Rubenstein et al. 2015,
575), Tropic of Orange does something less ostentatious: it suspends
infrastructure’s customary operations to envision different forms of
connectedness.
136 Anthropocene Temporalities
Tropic of Orange consists of 49 chapters and follows the intersecting tra-
jectories of seven characters over seven consecutive days. The title of
the table that precedes the novel, “HyperContexts,” situates the novel in the
context of the rise of the internet as the key aspirational infrastructure of the
1990s. Tropic of Orange’s exuberant postmodern style—mixing pastiches of
popular culture, television formats, migrant fiction, and L.A. noir—reflects
its alliance to the 1990s obsession with global connectedness. Yet the novel is
savvy enough to underline the violence and inequality besetting global inte-
gration. Written shortly after the NAFTA (figured in the novel as a fairly
ridiculous wrestler called SUPERNAFTA), which turned Mexico into a vast
sweatshop catering to a rapidly deindustrializing USA, the novel is attentive
to the relations of exploitation that organize L.A.’s relation to the South
of the US–Mexican border and to its own undocumented workforce. Two of
the main characters are first-generation immigrants who, “[e]ver since
[they’ve] been here, never stopped working. Always working” (71). By
opening the novel with the story of Rafaela, who is housekeeping in Mexico
and lives away from her partner, the novel signals its commitment to making
visible this invisible workforce. And if most of the other characters are of
mixed descent—like Yamashita herself, who is Japanese American and lived
in Brazil for a long time—the novel is no celebration of multiculturalism.
NAFTA opens borders for capital, but it also closes them for the global
poor. As one of the novel’s subplots intimates, it also generates the condi-
tions for illegal organ trade across the border. Tropic of Orange is more
interested in the realities and complexities of connectedness than in providing
empathetic connections to the different characters. As Rachel Greenwald
Smith (2015) notes, the novel “establishes the primacy of relation over iden-
tification without sentimentalizing the commodified forms of connectivity
that were beginning to solidify in the late 1990s: the commercialized Web,
shallow senses of ‘globalization,’ and cable news-generated information”
(22).
The importance of relation is reflected in the novel’s thematic focus on
infrastructure. The different stories coalesce around a vast traffic jam
that blocks the L.A. freeway system: it is “the greatest traffic jam the
world had ever seen” (178). This blockage converts the freeway into an
improvised living space for the homeless who take up residence in the
abandoned cars, making it “the greatest jam session the world had ever
known” (177). The stability of infrastructure, it seems, enables it to
outlast its original use (automobility) and become a site for spontaneous
modes of sociality and mobility: “Amazing thing was everybody in L.A.
was walking” (187). The sudden immobility of what the novel calls “the
 Emergencies 137
truck beast, whose purpose was to transport the great products of civi-
lization” creates a vacuum that is immediately filled with life “reorga-
nizing itself in predictable and unpredictable ways” (104–105). The
emphasis is on the improvisational aspect of this innovation: the com-
munity, we read, is “quite a mess” (106), not a utopia. What is key is
that infrastructure that used to sustain a particularly toxic way of life
and mobility is repurposed for different modes of imaginative and social
transport. If a different world is possible beyond the deadlock of fossil fuel
modernity, the novel seems to suggest, it will still rely on infrastructural
support.
The novel’s repurposing of infrastructure goes together with its cri-
tical revision of globalization. This revision tends toward what we ear-
lier, in the second chapter, identified as a properly planetary outlook.
The main magical element in the novel is a peculiar orange that grows at
the latitude of the Tropic of Cancer, the most northern line where the
sun can be directly overhead, and an imagined border between the
Global North and South. The emergence of this unseasonal “orange that
should not have been” is immediately linked to global warming (14). The
orange is a node in the transnational network the novel presents, as the
production of oranges connects different parts of the American hemi-
sphere, participates in global trade relations, and in a strange way also
triggers the traffic jam at the heart of the novel, which is caused by an
orange spiked with drugs. The special orange has the particular capacity
to make visible the division between north and south: it is accompanied
by “a very thin but distinct shadow stretched in a perfectly straight line
along the dirt and sand” (15). By making visible an imagined border, the
orange also makes it possible to manipulate that border, and alter the
make-up of the globalized world. This happens through the quasi-
mythical character of Arcangel, who, embodying the violent legacies of
empire, colonialism, and slavery, “functions as the testimony of the
indigenous, the displaced, the exterminated, the poor, and the workers”
(Lee 2007, 510). Accompanied by a caravan of Mexican immigrants,
Arcangel brings the orange across the border and drags the Tropic of
Cancer with it. This “slow northward creep” (Rody 2009, 33) dis-
organizes the maps through which globalization tries to master the earth,
as “distances [are] skewed and the streets [aren’t] parallel” (Yamashita
2017, 194). It destabilizes the temporal and spatial coordinates on which
globalization depends and restores a properly planetary dimension: tem-
poral experience is marked by “an eerie liquid elasticity” (103), by “an
uncanny sense of the elasticity of the moment, of time and space” (107)
138 Anthropocene Temporalities
in which “[t]he world teeter-tottered” (119). The novel strongly suggests
that the infrastructures of trade and transport can outlast their partici-
pation in capitalist globalization, and can sustain a properly planetary
mode of organization.
Tropic of Orange’s infrastructural literacy pedagogy is mainly con-
ducted by Manzanar Murakami, a Japanese American character named
after the Manzanar Concentration Camp for Japanese minorities where he
was born during the Second World War. Formerly a surgeon, Murakami
now performs as a conductor for L.A. traffic: he is “a sooty homeless man
on an overpass” conducting “the greatest orchestra on Earth” (33, 35).
Manzanar’s body registers the sensory reverberations of the city—he
senses “the time of day through his feet, through the vibration rumbling
through the cement and steel”—and manages to convert them into a dif-
ferent affective complex: “a controlled reverie of rhythmic cadence and
repeated melody” (32). Manzanar’s sensitivity to the city and its commu-
nity is emphatically linked to his attunement to the infrastructural layers
that constitute this location. He sees layers of maps which “began within
the very geology of the land, the artesian rivers running beneath the sur-
face,” which are later complemented by “the man-made grid of civil uti-
lities: Southern California pipelines of natural gas; the unnatural
waterways of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power, and the
great dank tunnels of sewage” (52). Manzanar’s composite vision brings
together “the prehistoric grid of plant and fauna and human behavior”
with “the historic grid of land usage and property” and “the great overlays
of transport—sidewalks, bicycle paths, roads, freeways, systems of transit
both ground and air” (52). Manzanar’s choreographic intervention, which
clearly serves as a model for the novel’s own imaginative operation of
bringing intersecting lives in concert with one another, shows how infra-
structure can provide the basis on which a more sustainable relation
between human and nonhuman agents can be entertained. The novel notes
that “the initial grid” of the city, “the railroads and the harbors and the
aquaduct,” was “built by migrant and immigrant labor” (203). Tropic of
Orange shows how literature can play a vital role in anticipating “a new
kind of grid” (203): a form of community built on something as banal and
basic as shared infrastructure.

Energizing Infrastructure
One consequence of the massive traffic jam in Tropic of Orange is a
radical decrease in the demand for energy. If initially, “[s]peculations
 Emergencies 139
arose as to how much fuel was required to keep an idling engine idling.
How much rev to keep a battery alive,” energy soon proves to be “a
minor concern” (Yamashita 2017, 145). Changing our forms of life, the
novel suggests, can trigger an overhaul of reigning energy regimes. Ety-
mologically, the term “energy” derives from the Greek term energeia,
which, in contrast to the notion of dynamis that names a mere potenti-
ality, indicates a specific goal-oriented action, a form of actualization, an
effective setting-to-work (Pinkus 2016, 25). During the traffic jam, pro-
gress has literally come to a halt, and this kind of energeia is disabled.
Yet when the passage underlines that energy is still needed “to keep an
idling engine idling,” it links energy to the preservation of a mere
potentiality for action. This points to a modern transformation in our
understanding of energy: as Vivasvan Soni (2017) explains, modern
energy has severed its link to specific goals and purposes, and has come
to be conceived as a reserve, as an “infinite potentiality” that can be
mobilized for different ends (134). Not directly linked to an immanent
goal, energy, in the modern sense, names the self-evident assumption
that there is an infinite quantity of resources to fuel human culture.
Modern life, in other words, relies on the idea, which we now know to
be false, that there is an endless supply of fossil fuel to keep us going.
One reason for the privileged relation between energy and infra-
structure is the sheer vastness of the infrastructures that fuel modern life.
“Global oil infrastructures” make up a “massive infrastructural net-
work” including “5 million producing wells,” “more than 2 million
kilometers of surface pipeline,” “6,000 fixed oil platforms and 635 off-
shore drilling rigs; and more than 4,000 oil tankers moving 2.42 billion
tons of oil and oil products every year” (Appel et al. 2018, 19–20). The
sheer size of oil infrastructure is a key factor in its perpetuation, and
explains the “grave inertia in the face of the needed retrofit or conversion
to other fuel sources” (20). This combination of ubiquity and immobility
not only asserts itself in material terms, but also in the domain of cul-
ture: because the fantasies of mobility and comfort that oil sustains are
“emblematic of all that is dynamic and disastrous in advanced capital-
ism” (Hitchcock 2010, 81), oil’s very pervasiveness blocks access to
alternative imaginaries; as Peter Hitchcock notes: “It is oil’s saturation of
the infrastructure of modernity that paradoxically has placed a significant
bar on its cultural representation,” and therefore also on the capacity to
mount a cultural challenge to its power (81). Energy, and oil more spe-
cifically, are “everywhere and nowhere, indispensable yet largely unap-
prehended, not so much invisible as unseen” (Wenzel 2017, 11). And
140 Anthropocene Temporalities
because energy and oil are so rarely seen and problematized, this state of
affairs maintains what Imre Szeman (2011) has called a “fiction of sur-
plus”: “the belief that there will always be plenty of energy to go
around,” and that lack of energy or the destructive effects of energy
consumption will never dramatically affect our ways of life (324). Energy
and oil, that is to say, sustain dominant but destructive forms of life, and
they resist becoming the occasion for an emergency.
The emergent field of the energy humanities situates itself in this
imaginative and material impasse to develop a pedagogy for “[l]earning
to read for energy” (Wenzel 2017, 13). This field takes it as given that
our dependence on oil is unsustainable and that an energy transition is
unavoidable. If we want to manage, rather than undergo, this transition,
we need a sense of emergency. For the transition to be intentional rather
than compelled, we need to take into account “where we sit historically,
where we find ourselves in terms of our infrastructural dependencies and
our affective and erotic attachments to the fossil economy” (Petro-
cultures 2016, 19). Patricia Yaeger (2011) has called for the need to bring
our “energy unconscious” to cultural awareness in order to make our
emotive attachments available for debate (306). Yaeger gives the example
of Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road, a classic paean to American free-
dom and mobility. What happens, Yaeger wonders, when we ask “how
often … Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise stop for gas?” Reading for the
text’s (and the culture’s) “energy unconscious” reveals that Kerouac’s
protagonists are “gasoholics”: “Oil dependency created their world”
(306). By making these unseen affective investments visible, the energy
humanities help dismantle the “fiction of surplus” and allow energy
infrastructures to emerge as an emergency in “the petromodern present”
(Wenzel 2017, 4).
Imre Szeman, one of the leading thinkers in the energy humanities,
recognizes three dominant discourses that discourage us from confront-
ing this emergency. “Strategic realism” reduces the unsustainability of
our dependence on oil to a question of strategic manipulation and geo-
political maneuvering that allows particular nations “to keep [their]
economies floating in oil” (2019, 98). “Techno-utopianism” recognizes
the harmfulness and untenability of our oil dependency, but trusts that
science and technology will mitigate, or even postpone, the end of oil.
Both strategic realism and techno-utopianism believe geopolitical or
technological fixes will make altering our socioeconomic forms of life
unnecessary; they obviate the need to consider energy as an emergency.
As Szeman writes, they “remain committed to capitalism and treat the
 Emergencies 141
future as one in which change has to occur (new geopolitical realign-
ments, innovations in energy use) if change at other levels is to be
deferred (fundamental social and political changes)” (104). As the Petro-
cultures Research Group (2016) remarks, “the optimism usually attached
to renewables is that they make the world made by oil possible after oil”
(68). A third and decidedly less pro-capitalist discourse does recognize
the need for social change, but fails to think of a realistic way to bring it
about: “apocalyptic environmentalism” paints the post-oil future in dis-
astrous terms as “a hell on Earth, obscured by a choking carbon dioxide
smog” (Szeman 2019, 104). The only option this alarmist perspective sees
is a transition through catastrophe. Cumulatively, the different forms of
denial, mania, and disavowal that these three perspectives exemplify
point to affective and imaginative blockages that Stephanie LeMenager
(2014) has influentially defined as “petromelancholia”: an “unresolved
grieving” of the fiction of energy surplus and of the ways of life it made
possible (16). Petromelancholia consists in an inability to let go of the
“happier affects” of a life made convenient by the availability of cheap
energy (102). It inhibits concerted efforts to imagine and construct more
sustainable forms of life, although LeMenager, like other prominent
thinkers in the energy humanities, believes that this melancholia can
potentially be channeled into activism.
This brief discussion of the energy humanities brings together this
chapter’s focus on the difficulty of experiencing the petromodern present
as an emergency with the topic of the final chapter: our altered relation
to the future and the worry that there might be no human future left.
One novel that is as obsessed with infrastructure as with the future is
Ben Lerner’s 2014 New York novel 10:04. The novel is narrated by a
writer who closely resembles the novel’s author, and who is also called
Ben, as he negotiates the challenges of reproduction, creative inspiration,
and climate change. The novel is shot through with liberal guilt over the
narrator’s involvement in the destruction of the planet. As Ben De Bruyn
has shown, the novel’s reflections on more sustainable ways of life are
often conspicuously linked to infrastructure: the novel features uplifting
encounters on the subway, on train platforms, and on the bus, to the
point that “public utilities,” writes De Bruyn (2017), “seem to function
like the positive counterpart to capitalism’s destructive network of com-
modities” (966). These moments of community are triggered by what the
novel refers to as “the vulnerable grid” (Lerner 2014, 4): the availability
of infrastructures that are both necessary and precarious. An epiphany
occurring fairly early in the novel connects an awareness of
142 Anthropocene Temporalities
infrastructural dependency to vulnerability and a proleptic imagining of
a more collective future:

I was aware of the delicacy of the bridges and tunnels spanning it,
and of the traffic through those arteries, as though some cortical
organization now allowed me to take the infrastructure personally, a
proprioceptive flicker in advance of the communal body.
(28)

The metaphorical slippage between traffic and organic imagery resem-

bles nothing so much as ex-surgeon Manzanar’s choreographies in Tropic
of Orange, which also serve to connect the personal to the collective. In
10:04, also, this association is most intense when infrastructure has stop-
ped doing its regular work, as if the “proprioceptive flicker” of future
community is only visible during a blackout. The novel ends during the
2012 blackout that hit Manhattan at the time of Hurricane Sandy, which
leaves room for infrastructure to be energized by something else than
fossil fuels: “A steady current of people attired in the usual costumes was
entering the walkway onto the bridge and there was a strange energy
crackling among us … What I mean is that our faceless presences were
flickering” (238). It is remarkable how quiet and non-apocalyptic this
anticipation of the future is, as if radical aspirations are kept in check by
an awareness of our continued reliance on some sort of infrastructure,
some sort of energy. The novel’s (almost) final intimation of a kinder
future is a case in point: “we will catch the B63 and take it up Atlantic.
After a few stops, I will stand and offer my seat to an elderly woman with
two large houseplants in black plastic bags … Everything will be as it had
been” (239). The novel’s motto, lifted from Walter Benjamin, underlines
the quiet messianism that characterizes the novel’s reflections on infra-
structure and politics: when the messiah comes, it will not be to radically
alter or abolish the world, but to change everything by leaving most things
the same—“Everything will be as it is now, just a little different.”
It would be a mistake to read this is a self-defeating form of petro-
melancholic quietism: rather, the novel’s hyper-self-conscious and inces-
santly worrying narrator does paint the present as a site of emergency,
but he refuses to waste his energies on a facile apocalypticism—an atti-
tude that, as we have seen, threatens to hinder the possibility of an
intentional transition and to force us into a chaotic and spasmodic
transformation. By recovering the future as an open-ended site of hope
for the “infrastructure species,” 10:04’s textual operations come in line
 Emergencies 143
with what the Petrocultures Research Group sees as the key role of
the humanities in managing the energy transition: the humanities cannot
foretell the future, but they can “open us to a thoughtful and responsible
composure towards [the future’s] uncertainties and possibilities” (2016,
24). The humanities can “teach us not to fear difference when we can no
longer retreat into the same” (24). 10:04’s commitment to connecting the
present emergency to a residual hope in the future exemplifies this man-
date. At the same time, the fact that that commitment takes shape as a
bare “flicker” testifies to the difficulty of this challenge. As the last
chapter will show, this difficulty often converts the future into a site of
anxiety rather than hope.
6 Residues

The Poetics of Extinction, or, Beach Reading

Human life in the Anthropocene is lived in the shadow of extinction.
Over the vast span of geological time, life morphs into nonlife, and bio-
logical life forms transform into geoforms. The basic entanglement of
human and nonhuman lives means that human life is not exempt from
this process. It is not just that “starfish and sea urchin skeletons recom-
pose into limestone” and that “stegosaurus recomposes into Brent crude”
(Scranton 2018, 52): the more radical point is that human life partici-
pates in this geological cycle. When we confront patterns of seasonal
change and individual life cycles, we can draw on a vast cultural reper-
toire of soothing images of regeneration and continuity; in the case of
geological change, the truth of the contingency and fragility of our forms
of life allows for no consolation or relief. One day, the earth will move
on without us, or, to be more precise, with only a rocky residue of us (it
will be one of the key points of this chapter that the difference between
these two prospects is an important one). For Roy Scranton, the “moti-
vating enigma” of the Anthropocene is the mismatch between our lived
experience and our afterlife as stony remains: “the human as echinoderm,
mortal flesh as immortal rock” (2018, 52).
One could argue that in the middle of the nineteenth century, Dar-
win’s theory of evolution already made the threat of species extinction
inescapable. Still, Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859) and its
dominant reception downplayed this sense of impending doom in at least
two ways. First, Darwin’s intervention emphasized the shared beginnings
of human and nonhuman species: the fact that, as the very last words of
the book have it, “from so simple a beginning endless forms most beau-
tiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved” (2001, 490).
The book’s last paragraph conveys another central tenet of
 Residues 145
Anthropocene thought, the entanglement of different life forms, as it
invites the reader to “contemplate an entangled bank, clothed with many
plants of many kinds, with birds singing on the bushes, with various
insects flitting about, and with worms crawling through the damp earth”
(489). Darwin’s second book, The Descent of Man (1871), would make
unmistakable the implication that such multispecies entanglements also
extend to human life. Overall, the emphasis on the actuality and the
continuity of the interweaving of different life forms shifted attention
away from the inevitable finitude of biotic community. This shift was
compounded by a second feature: the prevalence of notions such as
“adaptation” and “fitness” in dominant interpretations of Darwinian
evolution, which tend to flatter human life as a species that is somehow
particularly adept at fighting the struggle for life and surviving what
Darwin’s last paragraph calls “the Extinction of less-improved forms”
(490). Extinction, it seems, is a problem for other species. Uniquely
among the species, human life has improved itself in a way that allows it
to contemplate nature’s “entangled bank” from a safe and scientific dis-
tance, and this somehow reconfirms its exceptional status within the
multispecies assemblage Darwin envisions. As Claire Colebrook (2012)
has remarked, this means that evolution was “thoroughly humanized,
allowing ‘man’ to see all his technical extensions … as adaptive extensions
of his organic and self-serving life.”
The emphasis on entanglement and human distinction obscures that
life forms not only change through struggle and competition, but also
through random external events. One example is the so-called Cretac-
eous-Paleogene extinction event, situated some 66 million years ago,
when the impact of a comet or asteroid devastated the earth system and
led some three-quarters of the plant and animal species on earth to
extinction. Yet extinction doesn’t have to be that spectacular: as Joanna
Zylinska (2018) notes, species are going extinct all the time in a pro-
longed process geologists call “background extinction,” and “extinction
is first and foremost a process rather than an event: it is an inextricable
part of the natural selection that drives evolution” (52). “Extinction,”
Claire Colebrook (2018a) notes, “is as natural and inevitable as emer-
gence” (150). Even if a focus on fitness and entanglement obscures the
crucial role of extinction, major extinction events, such as that killing all
dinosaurs 66 million years ago, are merely intermittent intensifications of
ongoing processes that are constitutive of life.
There are at least three reasons for the current fascination with extinc-
tion. First, the extinction rate of species has recently intensified
146 Anthropocene Temporalities
spectacularly in what Elizabeth Kolbert (2014) has analyzed as “the sixth
extinction.” This time, it is human actions rather than anonymous
comets that are decimating global biodiversity. This means, second, that
current concerns over biodiversity conservation and the protection of
endangered species are framed by far-reaching uncertainties about the
viability of the human forms of life that are devastating the planet.
Institutions like capitalism, globalization, and democracy that have to a
large extent defined Western modernity run up against their limitations
in the face of rampant species extinction. As Ursula Heise (2016) has
shown, environmental concerns over endangered species only “gain
sociocultural traction to the extent that they become part of the stories
that human communities tell about themselves” (5); more particularly,
they resonate with doubts over the tenability and resilience of the forms
of life that sustain us.
In a provocative short book entitled Learning to Die in the Anthro-
pocene, Roy Scranton (2015) argues that preserving human life in an of
age mass extinction compels us to take leave of our petrocapitalist
forms of life: the challenge for “humanity to survive in the Anthro-
pocene,” he writes, is “to live with and through the end of our current
civilization” (22). What is needed, Scranton (2018) notes, is “to let our
current civilization die, to accept our mortality, and to practice humi-
lity” (8). Scranton’s rhetoric of extinction and survival points to a third
reason for the current craze with extinction: if Darwin’s lesson of the
entanglement of human and nonhuman lives left room for a redemptive
belief in the exceptionality of human life, the Anthropocene closes off
this intellectual and affective escape route, as we see that human life
intensifies planetary processes of extinction and waste to the point that
they also threaten our own species’ survival. Human life, in other
words, is not only an engine of extinction, but is also one of the “less
improved forms” subject to extinction. A world without mammoths,
passenger pigeons, and dodos, to name only three of the most charis-
matic extinct species that inhabit the Anthropocene imagination, is no
longer a world displaying the triumph of human prowess, but a planet
that will one day persist without humans.
Imagining an earth without humans is a popular feature of Anthro-
pocene culture. We can think of Alan Weisman’s popular science best-
seller The World without Us, which pictures a world from which human
life has suddenly vanished. Weisman’s (2008) book describes in great
detail how nature reclaims the planet in “revenge for our smug,
mechanic superiority” (16). Weisman’s posthumous story is told from
 Residues 147
the perspective of a confident “we,” and is fortified by insights from a
broad range of scientific and technological disciplines. Other instances of
the “disanthropic” imagination are less self-assured, and obsess over the
question of how human residues will be read and interpreted, if at all. If
there are no more humans, or manmade disciplines like geology or his-
tory, to guide the interpretation of the imprints of human action, how (if
at all) will nonhuman readers make sense of them? In his 1991 book War
in the Age of Intelligent Machines, Manuel DeLanda envisions a future
“robot historian” looking back on the history of technology. Such a
robot historian would highlight different things than his human coun-
terpart: it would, for instance, “hardly be bothered by the fact that it
was a human who put the first motor together”; nor would it focus on
the role of heroic individuals, “for these might be seen as mere catalysts
for the self-assembly of war machines” (1991, 3). From this defamiliar-
izing perspective, human intentions don’t count for much, as they are not
even legible from the robot’s optic. In his book of popular science The
Earth after Us (2008), Jan Zalasiewicz (2009) imagines “extraterrestrial
visitors from the galactic empire” who, millions of years in the future,
attempt to reconstruct the legacy of our “major, intelligent yet transient
civilization” (4, xiv). The result is an account of human life’s geological
agency that leaves many aspects of civilization we find self-evidently
significant rigorously illegible. Often, projecting nonhuman readers of
our human track record forces us to imagine a future in which human
action will have been meaningless.
This anxiety over cosmic powerlessness and insignificance allows for a
slightly different take on our obsession with extinction: it may have less
to do with a fear to disappear without a trace than with the disconcert-
ing realization that our traces won’t disappear, but that they will no
longer be ours to interpret. This lack of interpretive control resonates
with the insight that the Anthropocene, in Bronislaw Szerszynski’s (2012)
words, witnesses human life’s “becoming-mineral,” its “incipient miner-
ality,” which transforms it from a meaning-making animal into a rock
“to be contemplated by the geologist-to-come” (179–81). This alienating
future perspective changes the way we inhabit the present, as, in Claire
Colebrook’s (2017) words, “we look at the earth—now—as if, in our
future absence, we will be readable as having been” (6). When human
life will have been recomposed into rock, this rock “will offer a ‘reading’
of a species’ history,” but that species will not have a say in its history’s
interpretation (Colebrook 2014, 24). Our record will be legible, but not
by us, which is to say that it will be exposed to (mis)interpretation by
148 Anthropocene Temporalities
others. The anticipation of our species’ future as a mere residue puts
paid to the illusion of human sovereignty and control.
The link between extinction and unruly meaning underlines the pecu-
liar relevance of literature. Literature has long been troubled by the
unpredictability of meaning and the inability to control the proliferation
of signs. Think of P.B. Shelley’s famous sonnet “Ozymandias,” in which
the boastful stature of an ancient “King of Kings” is reduced to a mere
“colossal Wreck” consisting of “[t]wo vast and trunkless legs of stone”
and “a shattered visage” abandoned in the desert. On the face of it, the
poem expresses the impermanence of historical achievements. It recalls
the famous ending of Michel Foucault’s (2002) The Order of Things,
which holds that “man is an invention of recent date” that will quietly
disappear “like a face drawn in the sand at the edge of the sea” (422).
Still, there is a world of difference between Ozymandias’s “boundless
and bare / … lone and level sands” and “the sand at the edge of the sea”
where Foucault sees human life vanish. Ozymandias’s visage is precisely
not erased, but mercilessly survives into a context it had not anticipated,
and in which its proud command to “[l]ook on my Works, ye Mighty,
and despair” inspires less fear and respect than ridicule and pity. The
point of the poem, in other words, is not that literary inscriptions are
bound to disappear, but that they persist in contexts where their meanings
and affects spin out of control.
The uncanny persistence of signs and the uncontrollable drift of lan-
guage are key insights in literary criticism. However hard we try, meaning
can never be fully guaranteed by the speaker’s or the author’s intention.
Steven Knapp and Walter Benn Michaels’s 1982 essay “Against Theory” is
one of the most famous reflections on the relation between literary mean-
ing and intention. The essay invites the reader to another stretch of sand,
but one that is significantly different from both Foucault’s site of erasure
and Shelley’s site of stubborn survival. Knapp and Michaels’s shore is a
thoroughly weird shore, where a nonhuman agent like the sea has the
power to write (and here we find ourselves back on the coastline of Area
X where we began this book). The essay evokes a beach where “a curious
sequence of squiggles” spell out the first stanza of William Wordsworth’s
“A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal.” While it would be possible to see this as
a case of intentionless meaning, as meaningful writing generated by pure
accident, this becomes substantially harder when a wave washes up and
recedes, leaving in its wake the second stanza of Wordsworth’s poem. For
Knapp and Michaels (1982), the reader is now left with two options:
either she accepts that these are “nonintentional effects of mechanical
 Residues 149
processes (erosion, percolation, etc.),” in which case this is not poetry, not
language, but merely squiggles resembling words, or she posits an author
(the living sea? The ghost of the poet haunting nature? a playful geoengi-
neer?), in which case it does make sense to see the signs as an intentional
act of expression (728–29).
Knapp and Michaels’s official point is that the very idea of intentionless
meaning does not hold water: as soon as we try to interpret the squiggles
as meaningful marks, they submit, we cannot avoid positing the intention
of an author. Yet in an Anthropocene context, their thought experiment
acquires different resonances (although the point of their intervention is
that such unintended resonances are strictly irrelevant!). When things
acquire a form of agency, when matter is endowed with a sense of
vibrancy, and when subjectivity, in Bruno Latour’s (2017) words, “means
sharing agency with other subjects that have also lost their autonomy”
(62), erosion, percolation, and expression are no longer neatly distinct
occurrences, and it becomes untenable to see the former as meaningless
and the latter as intrinsically significant. In the context of climate change,
for instance, the difference between intentionally harmful human actions
and the unintended fallout of particular decisions becomes strictly irrele-
vant, as it is the effects, not the causes, that make up the reality of a cli-
mate changed world. In this context, sociologist Ulrich Beck (2015) has
characterized the Anthropocene as “the age of side effects,” in which
unintended consequences are as significant as intended goals (78).
Anthropologist Joseph Masco (2015) calls the Anthropocene “the age of
fallout,” in which the delayed destructive impact programmed into
industrial and military processes manifests itself.
If we return from Knapp and Michaels’s beach to P.B. Shelley’s desert
sand, we can see that Ozymandias’s impotent boast is emblematic of
literature’s intimate concern with the impossibility of controlling the
drift of meaning. Ozymandias’s words are, in Shelley’s poem, still
recognized as meaningful language by the “traveller from an antique
land” whom the poem’s speaker encounters, even if their meaning has
acquired unanticipated ironies and overtones, and even if we have to
trust the traveler’s powers of translation. It is less likely that alien geol-
ogists and robot historians in a future without humans will be able to
appreciate the difference between stone carvings and accidental scratches.
It is even less likely that they will care. The crisis that surfaces in the
Anthropocene occupation with species extinction, then, has as much to
do with a fear of powerlessness as with a realization of our mortality.
150 Anthropocene Temporalities
The rest of this chapter explores different affective and imaginative
dimensions of that crisis. In the next section, I focus on what is no doubt
the most popular literary form that engages the fragility of our current
forms of life: post-apocalyptic (or post-catastrophe) fiction. Works like
Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam Trilogy, Cormac McCarthy’s The
Road, and David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas are among the most studied
contemporary texts dealing with environmental crisis. Through a dis-
cussion of Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven, another critical
favorite, I argue that the genre is often marked by a conspicuous denial
of extinction, as these texts’ reluctance to imagine an alternative to cur-
rent forms of life tends to turn them into exercises in continuity rather
than into confrontations with rupture. As Theodore Martin (2017) has
noted, post-apocalyptic novels are often “desperate for the mere con-
tinuation of the present” and tend to be “experiment[s] in monotony”
(161–62). More enabling engagements with extinction, I argue in the
chapter’s third section, require a minimal detachment from current
forms of life: an acceptance of the inevitability of extinction, and a
readiness to, in Roy Scranton’s words, “learn to die in the Anthro-
pocene,” or, in the terms of queer theorist Lee Edelman, interrupt self-
perpetuating cycles of “reproductive futurism.” Facing extinction para-
doxically relies on a willingness to entertain the possibility that the
future will be significantly different from the present.
Detachment from or disappointment with existing forms of life at
times flip over into a studied indifference to human extinction. The
fourth section of this chapter surveys a number of thought experiments
by philosophers Nick Bostrom, Ray Brassier, Jean-François Lyotard, and
Quentin Meillassoux that resituate human life in more capacious spa-
tiotemporal orders, even while refusing to become sentimental about the
cosmic downgrading of human existence. Such thought experiments have
distinct literary qualities, and they helpfully destabilize the idea that the
future can only be imagined as ever more of the same. At the same time,
the “sado-dispassionate” character of this kind of “disanthropic” imagi-
nation, as Greg Garrard (2012, 44–45) has called it, threatens to shade
into a more aggressively misanthropic program that thrives on the
superfluity of the majority of human lives—or, in the case of philosopher
David Benatar’s anti-natalism, of the whole species. The upshot of such
extinction fantasies is very often what Claire Colebrook (2018a) has
called “species-bifurcation, with some humans commandeering and
squandering the few remaining resources while enslaving the majority of
barely-living humans” (151). I turn to Peter Frase’s analysis of
 Residues 151
“exterminism,” or the large-scale elimination of people without eco-
nomic value, and William Gibson’s novel The Peripheral, which I
already discussed in the introduction and which imagines a future bifur-
cated species, to show how literary and critical thought can expose the
sinister politics of toxic forms of extinction discourse. Denial, detach-
ment, indifference, misanthropy: these four postures present so many
ways of engaging the motivating enigma of the Anthropocene: the para-
doxical relation between “mortal flesh” and “immortal rock,” between
human significance and nonhuman residue (Scranton 2018, 52).

Denial: Apocalypse against Extinction

The apocalyptic intimation that the world as we know it is about to come
to an end is nothing new. The notion is customarily traced back to the
ancient Iranian prophet Zarathustra (or Zoroaster), who bequeathed “a
sense of urgency about the demise of the world” to Jewish and Christian
traditions (Garrard 2004, 85). This intimation of destruction did not dis-
appear when secular modernity displaced a theological framework, and
intimations of the destruction of the world have become a staple of lit-
erary fiction, rather than only theological speculation. For Christian
thought, apocalyptic anticipation brings home the vanity of earthly exis-
tence, which can be compensated by heavenly rewards; in modern life, the
figure of apocalypse signals the perceived fragility of secular institutions:
democracy, individualism, capitalism, technology. As Heather Hicks
(2016) writes, “with the emergence of modernity in the eighteenth century,
apocalypse shifted from its origins as the story of the annihilation of a
sinful human world to become, in novel form, the story of the collapse of
modernity itself” (2). That the institutions of modernity itself are at stake
explains the affinity between apocalyptic musings and the Anthropocene:
the Anthropocene is, among other things, a name for the exhaustion of
modern forms of life. It also explains that recent apocalyptic fiction often
takes recourse to a decidedly pre-modern world of extreme brutality and
precarity, in which resources are depleted, technology has become defunct,
and infrastructures are demolished. If science fiction typically offers a
technologically enhanced version of the present, apocalyptic fiction routi-
nely adopts the opposite mode of operation: it “doesn’t intensify the pre-
sent moment, it contradicts it” (Harbach 2008). Anthropocene apocalypse,
then, is as much post-apocalyptic (as it imagines the aftermath rather than
the destructive event itself) as it is pre-modern (as it obsesses over the
demise of modern achievements).
152 Anthropocene Temporalities
Given such dreariness, how can we explain the long-lasting appeal of
the apocalyptic imagination? One reason is that apocalypse is not only a
matter of destruction, it is also a moment of revelation. The Greek apo-
kaluptein means “to uncover, to reveal,” and James Berger (1999) notes
that an apocalyptic event must “in its destructive moment clarify and
illuminate the true nature of what has been brought to an end” (5).
Apocalyptic fiction, in other words, rewards us with an analytical insight
into the world as it exists. It does so, moreover, without really threatening
its audiences: consuming post-apocalyptic fiction is a way of courting
near-extinction rather than confronting the fact of a coming collapse. In
this respect, the appeal of imagined apocalypse is very similar to that of
the romantic sublime: as in the encounter with cataracts, mountains, and
other overwhelming natural forces, the terror threatening human survival
becomes pleasurable because it is faced from a safe distance or, in the case
of post-apocalyptic stories, through the frame of fiction.
This relative innocuousness of the post-apocalyptic mode accounts for
the broad range of affects it adopts in contemporary fiction: the hectic
weirdness of Margaret Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy, the relentless
horror of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, the subdued suburban melo-
drama of Tom Perrotta’s The Leftovers, the hardboiled cool of Paolo
Bacigalupi’s The Windup Girl and The Water Knife, or the ecstatic
abandon of the central section in David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas. Such
affective variation is a feature of the longer tradition of apocalyptic fiction:
if Mary Shelley’s 1826 classic The Last Man evokes the demise of modern
civilization in anguished terms, later instances of the genre like John
Wyndham’s The Day of the Triffids from 1951 belong to what has been
called “the ‘cosy catastrophe’ subgenre of apocalyptic fiction,” in which
“global disaster is survived by a typically prosperous remnant that adapts,
with reasonable aptitude and plenty of common sense, to the new condi-
tions of a post-collapse world” (Tate 2017, 8). Apocalyptic fiction affords
an affective response that does not preclude coziness or consolation.
There is by now a long catalogue of names for varieties of apocalyptic
narrative: not only post-apocalypse, but also neo-apocalypse, crypto-
apocalypse, ana-apocalypse, and others (Hicks 2016, 6). This terminolo-
gical instability reflects the paradoxical temporality of apocalypse: the
fact, that is, that the end can only be narrated if it is survived. The very
existence of apocalyptic stories proves that the supposed moment of
ultimate disintegration is not as fatal as feared. In apocalypse, then, the
ending “both does and does not take place” (Berger 1999, xii). By its very
nature, a post-apocalyptic world “consoles the reader with the
 Residues 153
impossibility of remainderless destruction, with the apocalyptic triumph”
(Dillon 2007, 377). The genre, in other words, is as much a fantasy of
survival as a reckoning with extinction.
Emily St. John Mandel’s 2014 novel Station Eleven exemplifies this
mixture of anxiety and fantasy. The novel is organized around an epi-
demic that wipes out 99.6 percent of the world population, and it focuses
on the surprising resilience of small sets of survivors. One such group
settles in a Canadian airport terminal and manages to organize a tolerant
multicultural community in what used to be a supermodern “non-place”
(Augé 1995). The survivors even start a “Museum of Civilization,”
which collects defunct objects from the pre-catastrophe world: iPhones,
Nintendo consoles, stiletto heels, a snow globe (Mandel 2014, 255, 258).
Significantly, these objects’ uselessness, in the post-pandemic world,
makes them more beautiful: the characters “had always been fond of
beautiful objects, and in [their] present state of mind, all objects were
beautiful” (255). Beauty, it seems, depends on scarcity and obsolescence:
the realization that things can go defunct makes the survivors appreciate
things like electronic gadgets, airplanes, and simple commodities. This is
a key operation of post-apocalyptic fiction: it removes objects from their
habitual functions and invites us to appreciate and desire their fresh
splendor, as if they were not part of the boredom and waste of everyday
life. In this way, these fictions suggest that it is the overabundance and
excess of contemporary life that robs the world of its beauty. As we will
see, this at times comes precariously close to a disavowed desire to get
rid of this surplus and to inhabit a less populous planet.
That Station Eleven’s post-pandemic setting serves to strengthen our
attachment to the achievements of the modern world is also clear in the
second privileged group of survivors. “The Travelling Symphony” is a
group of actors traveling around the devastated world and performing
music and Shakespeare plays. Shakespeare stands in for the best that
Western culture has produced, a highlight that the Symphony take it
upon themselves to keep alive after the catastrophe. Shakespeare, that is,
is the question to which the novel’s refrain gives the answer: “Because
survival is not sufficient” (58, 119). Mere survival would be a situation in
which human life persists as a bare biological entity, as a residue bereft
of meaning. Post-apocalyptic novels do not surrender to such mean-
inglessness. In McCarthy’s The Road, for instance, the father and the
son are surrounded by cannibalism, violence, and destruction, and they
tell themselves they “carry the fire”: they adhere to a minimal code of
conduct that somehow keeps them connected to an obsolete civilization.
154 Anthropocene Temporalities
The meaning of this code is never spelled out; it is as numinous and elusive
as Station Eleven’s invocation of Shakespeare. Atwood’s MaddAddam
trilogy, for its part, is obsessed with the power of storytelling to transmit
culture, in however warped a form. “Sloosha’s Crossin’,” the post-
apocalyptic middle section of David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, is situated in
a future “Ha-Why” (Hawaii) where even the English language has dete-
riorated, and civilization has disappeared after what the novel refers to
as “the Fall.” Yet even here, hope in regeneration is kept alive by an
“orison,” an egg-shaped device that preserves sounds and images it pro-
jects as holograms. This orison transmits the testimony of a character
from an earlier section, set in a dystopian, totalitarian future Korea
where workers are cloned and fed the flesh of their kin. The fact that the
survivors don’t understand the testimony’s words—as the novel has it, it
“speaks in an’ Old’un tongue what no’un alive und’stands nor never
will, nay” (Mitchell 2004, 324)—is beside the point: it is the very fact of
connectedness and continuity that safeguards the possibility of meaning.
The threat that the residues of human culture will be abandoned to
indifferent aliens is contained by imagining a diminished but decidedly
human tribe of survivors.
The emphasis on small numbers and on continuity is a key feature of
contemporary post-apocalyptic fiction. This sidesteps the real challenge of
species extinction: the prospect that, just perhaps, Shakespeare’s plays will
survive but there will be no one left who knows or cares how to read or
perform them. It also falls short of capturing the import of the Anthropocene
in at least three further ways. First, the genre’s reliance on a cataclysmic
event—probably a nuclear incident in The Road and Cloud Atlas, an air-
borne disease in MaddAddam and Station Eleven—misrepresents the gra-
dual processes of attrition and degradation that mark the Anthropocene’s
“violence of delayed destruction” (Nixon 2011, 2). Stephanie LeMenager
(2017a) has argued that attending to this “slow violence” requires a mode of
writing that lingers on such everyday realities, on an “everyday Anthro-
pocene,” rather than offer an “epochal discourse that capitalizes on the
charisma of crisis” (225). For Joseph Masco (2015), the apocalyptic frame is
a leftover from the Cold War effort to mobilize the public around nuclear
threats, and it fits uneasily with the long, slow, and incremental rhythms of
the Anthropocene. Post-apocalyptic fiction misrecognizes the differences
between nuclear war (short and fast) and Anthropocene attrition (long and
slow) and perpetuates a logic of militarization.
Many post-apocalyptic fictions do dwell on the realities of eroding
lifeworlds and biodegradation: the meticulous description of the
 Residues 155
minutiae of everyday survival is one of the defining features of the genre
(a feature that, as Heather Hicks has noted, makes Daniel Defoe’s
Robinson Crusoe a vital precursor for the genre [2016]). Yet this myopic
focus on isolated objects and small groups also means that crucial
aspects of contemporary life are not factored in (and this is a second
limitation of the genre): Anthropocene life is not a life of auratic objects
and neatly circumscribed groups, but a life of excess, waste, entangle-
ment, and multiplicity. In her critical assessment of the genre, Ursula
Heise (2015) notes that “[w]hat really counts is that the characters, in
their break from the corruptions of the past, no longer have to deal with
things like crowded cities, cumbersome democracies, and complex tech-
nologies.” Station Eleven’s linkage of beauty with scarcity drives this
point home: after the collapse, the world is rendered more lovely by the
prospect that “[p]herhaps soon humanity would simply flicker out,”
which leaves room to enjoy “[t]he beauty of this world where almost
everyone was gone” (148). A comparable strategy is at work in The
Road. The novel’s poetics of subtraction presents a biodegraded,
exhausted, and barren planet in a clipped and hardboiled style, but it
still promotes a small-scale continuation of modern life. The book’s
minimalism is not only a stylistic feature: the world it envisions is a
pared-down one. As Chad Harbach (2008) notes, The Road “defends the
world we know by giving us none of it.” Meaning and pleasure depend
on small numbers and are not available in an overcrowded world. Safe-
guarding meaning and pleasure then comes to depend on getting rid of
surplus populations, a task these novels conveniently outsource to
pandemics and disasters.
Dissatisfaction with excess and complexity points to the conservatism
of many post-apocalyptic texts. By conveying a vision of human flour-
ishing that is not just non-scalable, but that actively depends on exclu-
siveness, it offers what Heise (2015) calls a “weak cocktail of critique
and complacency”: critiquing social and environmental ills, these fictions
often end up recommending a more rarified version of the status quo.
The resistance to multiplicity situates contemporary post-apocalypse in
the tradition of what Greg Garrard (2004, 93) has called “[t]he most
influential forerunner to the modern environmental apocalypse,”
Thomas Malthus’s 1798 Essay on the Principle of Population. Malthus
argues that the limitations of the planet make continued societal progress
impossible, as demographic growth will inevitably outpace agricultural
production. For Malthus, perpetual conflict over scarce resources is
unavoidable; as in contemporary post-apocalyptic texts, unchecked
156 Anthropocene Temporalities
demographic expansion is the reason we can’t have nice things. If Mal-
thus’s prognostics marked the industrial onset of the Anthropocene,
Anne and Paul Ehrlich’s The Population Bomb (1968) updated his inter-
vention for the age of the Great Acceleration, prophesying that “hun-
dreds of millions of people will starve to death” due to the exponential
multiplication of human lives (Ehrlich 1971, xi). Malthus’s intimation of
an ever proliferating human biomass famously informed Darwin’s
notion of natural selection; just as Darwin’s theory, as we saw, leaves
room for the illusion that the human species will escape extinction, the
Malthusianism of fictions of the post-apocalypse ends up sustaining a
specious fantasy of survival.
The emphasis on punctual disasters and the resistance to multiplicity
are not the only two elements of the genre that clash with Anthropocene
realities; its unacknowledged provincialism is another one. The way of
life that is at stake in these fictions is almost consistently a Western one:
a comfortable, technologically advanced, and economically privileged
form of life. It is not so much the species that is threatened, but the more
rarified convenience of liberal affluent urbanity (Colebrook 2018b, 161).
The wastelands in which the survivors in Station Eleven, The Road, and
Cloud Atlas find themselves are only a diminishment for independent
and self-sufficient modern subjects; for many people living in the Global
South, they are often already a reality. And have been for a long time: as
I explained in Chapter 4, current metropolitan anxieties merely show
that the erosion of the lifeworld has finally caught up with privileged
audiences, while “for the native people of the Americas, the end of the
world already happened—five centuries ago” (Danowski and Viveiros
De Castro 2017, 104). Post-apocalyptic fiction tends to project anxieties
over a very particular form of life, and it blows up that concern to
cosmic proportions, as if no other form of life were even imaginable. In
the process, it obscures the possibility of what Claire Colebrook (2019)
calls “a radical end that would not be an end for us, and that might
generate another world” (264).

Detachment: The Afterlives of Extinction

My fairly critical discussion of post-apocalyptic fiction showed that its
confrontation with species extinction is limited by its strong affective
attachment to existing forms of life. The beach excursion that opened
this chapter showed why detachment from these forms is hard: once the
communities and institutions that give meaning to our actions and
 Residues 157
decisions disappear, we risk ending up as mere traces preserved in rock,
exposed to the indifference of alien gazes. Detachment, in other words,
requires a conviction that significance is also possible (if never guaran-
teed!) beyond the horizon of our customary forms of life. Philosopher
Samuel Scheffler’s 2012 Berkeley Tanner Lectures, published as Death
and the Afterlife, make a philosophical case for the impossibility of
detachment. For Scheffler (2016), the prospect of extinction robs our lives
of all significance. Unlike the knowledge of our personal death, the cer-
tainty that there will be no humans after us would mean that many of
the things that matter to us will stop doing so (15). Scheffler’s argument
has a crucial literary component, as he derives his conclusion from two
thought experiments that convey “the prospect of the disappearance of
the human race” (74): there is the doomsday scenario, which invites
readers to imagine that the “earth would be completely destroyed thirty
days after [their] death in a collision with a giant asteroid” (8), and there
is a second scenario in which we envision sudden collective infertility (a
scenario dramatized in, among others, the novel and film Children of
Men). In the latter hypothetical situation, nobody gets hurt: we and our
loved ones (who could potentially be directly affected by the asteroid in
the first scenario) are very likely to die a peaceful death (39). What
makes this scenario disturbing, then, is not my concern for myself or my
loved ones, but a looming sense of the insignificance of all human projects
in the face of the species’ imminent demise.
For Scheffler, this proves that meaningfulness depends on the survival
of the species. Scheffler draws uplifting conclusions from this insight: it
points to a limit to individualism, as “the existence of the afterlife”—
that is, other, often distant, people’s lives—ostensibly “matters more to
us than our own continued existence” (26). This sounds like good news:
it makes it likely that people faced with the prospect of human extinc-
tion will do what they can to minimize the chances of planetary cata-
clysms, as everything they hold dear depends on the persistence of
human life. Still, the earlier critique of post-apocalyptic fiction also
applies here: what if such invocations of collapse are more concerned
with the survival of a particular way of life than with that of the species?
What will guarantee that a desire to continue a life of privilege will not
bring people to fight constituencies that seem to threaten that entitle-
ment? Scheffler writes that “[h]umanity itself as an ongoing, historical
project provides the implicit frame of reference for most of our judg-
ments about what matters” (60). He seems oblivious that “humanity” is,
more often than not, a misnomer for a projection of Western ways of
158 Anthropocene Temporalities
life—not least in official discourses of the Anthropocene. As in post-
apocalyptic fiction, the specter of future destruction and infertility in
Scheffler’s argument serves to entrench a commitment to the status quo
and forecloses the imagining of a different world.
Roy Scranton’s Learning to Die in the Anthropocene draws different
lessons from the imminence of extinction. For Scranton, the fact that our
current forms of life have set us on an irreversible course to planetary
desolation proves that these forms do not even deserve to be perpetuated.
Our civilization has already stopped making sense: “Carbon-fueled capit-
alism is a zombie system,” Scranton (2015) writes, and “this civilization is
already dead” (23). His approach adopts the Buddhist insight that, just
like the human individual, civilization is “impermanent, transient, and
insubstantial” (Scranton 2018, 68), and translates it into a posture of
humility rather than militancy. Scranton’s detachment from the certainties
of Western civilization makes room for the diversity so clearly lacking in
Scheffler’s book and in most post-apocalyptic fiction. He calls for diversity
between cultures, but also between species: “We need to learn to see not
just with Western eyes but with Islamic eyes and Inuit eyes, not just with
human eyes but with golden-cheeked warbler eyes, coho salmon eyes, and
polar bear eyes,” or even with “the wild, barely articulate being of cloud
and seas and rocks and trees and stars” (2018, 8). Scranton advocates a
form of interdisciplinary imagining and description that, as we saw in
Chapter 1, fits the mandate of the environmental humanities much more
than the template of post-catastrophe fiction.
If Scheffler asks us to double down on the forms of life we inhabit,
Scranton insist we should disengage from what he calls “the perpetual
circuits of fear, aggression, crisis, and reaction that continually prod us
to ever more intense levels of manic despair” (2015, 86). These cycles of
excitement must, in a term Scranton borrows from the philosopher Peter
Sloterdijk, be “interrupted” (rather than perpetuated) through thought,
contemplation, and questioning (86, 108). This imperative to disrupt the
reproduction of the same and recover an open-ended future resonates
with work in the field of queer theory. Dedicated to the exploration of
non-normative sexualities and identities, queer theory, in the words of
José Esteban Muñoz, aims to “see and feel beyond the quagmire of the
present”; “Queerness,” Muñoz (2009) writes, “is essentially about
the rejection of a here and now and an insistence on potentiality or
concrete possibility for another world” (1). Queerness resists a future
that simply reproduces the norms of the present. In his virulent polemic
No Future, Lee Edelman relentlessly targets the figure of the child as the
 Residues 159
organizing principle of political life: the unconditional focus on the child,
Edelman (2004) argues, constrains the political imagination as it cements
“the consensus by which all politics confirms the absolute values of
reproductive futurism” (3). Renouncing reproductive futurism and the
heteronormativity it naturalizes requires a refusal to fight for the chil-
dren. For Edelman, queerness consists in a stubbornly critical attitude
that refuses to maintain any connection to a different future: “the queer
comes to figure the bar to every realization of futurity, the resistance,
internal to the social, to every social structure of form” (4).
Edelman’s antisocial and antirelational version of queer theory has been
criticized from perspectives that see more value in imagining novel com-
munities and shared futures. Still, his emphasis on the unworking of
reproductive patterns of the kind Scheffler takes for granted may be a vital
step for intimating a sustainable future. Consider Ben Lerner’s 10:04
again, a novel whose investment in infrastructure I discussed at the end of
Chapter 5. One source of anxiety for the novel’s narrator, apart from his
concern over rising sea levels, is that his best friend Alex has engaged his
services as a sperm donor, without really resolving the issue of his pater-
nal involvement. As the novel writes its way toward a less inhibiting and
more receptive relation to a future that is not constrained by financial,
professional, social, and climatological doom, the narrator also comes to
accept his paternity, even if the terms of the arrangement remain opaque.
The novel ends with him accepting the child, but this prospect is not
scripted by the dictates of reproductive futurism. The narrator and his
friend walk to the doctor for a sonogram during the blackout caused by
Hurricane Sandy. In the waiting room, they watch footage of the storm,
“images of the swirling tentacular mass [spliced] with footage of it reach-
ing landfall, of houses being swept away” (Lerner 2014, 232). In the doc-
tor’s cabinet, the images of the unborn child are not very different: “we
see the image of the coming storm, its limbs moving in real time, the brain
visible in its translucent skull” (233). The affinities between a climate
changed world and the anxieties of reproduction signal a receptivity to a
future that is more than a repetition of the present, even while it refuses
the radical negativity called for by Edelman. 10:04 does not double down
on the forms of life it evokes, but is, in Scranton’s terms, a literary
attempt to “interrupt” their compulsive reproduction and anticipate a
different future in a climate changed world.
Such interruptions make imaginative room for other cultural forms of
life and biological life forms. Extinction scholar Thom van Dooren (2014)
emphasizes that the obligation “to hold open space in the world for other
160 Anthropocene Temporalities
living beings” is a crucial ethical imperative in the age of the sixth
extinction event (5). Richard McGuire’s 2014 graphic novel (of sorts) Here
is a good example of how literature detaches itself from present ways of
life and makes imaginative space for different realities. Here consists of
some 150 two-page drawings of one particular location at different
moments through time. The first drawing situates us in a middle-class
living room in 2014 before the book gives us the same room in 1957, 1942,
and 2007. It then moves to 1623 to disrupt the domestic vibe and remind
us of the longer history of the location. The historical transport between
different drawings is further compounded by smaller panels opening up
within the drawings that provide glimpses of different times, as when the
1986 living room is overlaid with two panels, one featuring a family dis-
cussion from 1972 and one offering a seemingly idyllic nature scene with
an Indigenous American in the same place in 1352. McGuire’s formal
choices evoke a kind of porous temporality in which different scales and
rhythms intersect—the layered temporality that, as I explained in Chapter
4, is so typical of our temporal apprehension of the Anthropocene.
McGuire strictly adheres to the unity of place rather than, say, to the
continuity of character, and this underlines Here’s resolute intent to move
beyond anthropocentrism.
This ambition becomes even clearer when McGuire uses the affor-
dances of the format to envision a world without humans. One panel is
situated in the year 10,175 and features an empty field around a strange
creature that one critic has described as “a marsupial of some sort,
maybe the lovechild of a large possum and a small kangaroo” (Kon-
stantinou 2015); another critic likens it to a “vaguely humanoid animal—
almost something like the next evolution of H.G. Wells’s Morlocks”
(Canavan 2017). These divergent interpretations make clear that this is a
creature that, even if it does not exist, still evokes enough cultural and
biological reference points to offer some orientation, some familiarity; it
is not radically other, only weirdly different. The relatively mild distinc-
tiveness of the animal may be the point: it shares the pages of the book
with children playing, people arguing or watching television, and other
scenes of minor domestic drama. This future creature is not a sublime
monster to be feared, but just part of the life of the planet. Some of the
most exuberantly colorful plates in the book take us to the year 22,175,
and feature dinosaur-like giants, nearly fluorescent birds, and lush,
jungle-like plants. Again, this world without us is not presented as an
occasion for anxiety or loss, but as a variant reality that can be wel-
comed once we detach ourselves from the grasp of current commitments.
 Residues 161
My last literary example in this section is the “speculative fabulation”
entitled “The Camille Stories” that ends theorist Donna Haraway’s book
Staying with the Trouble (2016, 134). This multispecies fantasy tells the
story of five generations of human beings living between 2025 and 2425
who are born in symbiosis with “animal symbionts”; the first Camille,
for instance, is born in symbiosis with a monarch butterfly. This is not
so much reproductive futurism as what Haraway calls “exercis[ing]
reproductive freedom with wild hope” (142). Haraway’s fiction reso-
lutely decenters human exceptionalism, without misanthrophically wish-
ing for human extinction. It makes imaginative room for a future shared
with other species. Camille, Haraway writes, is “one of the children of
the compost who ripen in the earth to say no to the posthuman every
time” (134). The Camilles operate in the ruins of a damaged planet and
“work with human and nonhuman partners to heal these places, building
networks, pathways, nodes, and webs of and for a newly habitable
world” (137).
Haraway’s project of “imagin[ing] flourishing with and for a
renewed multispecies world” (134) not only makes imaginative room
for nonhuman species, it also directly confronts the Malthusian issue of
physical space (without outsourcing that solution to planetary cata-
strophe in the way post-apocalyptic fiction does). In Haraway’s fabled
future, human numbers modulate from a peak in 2100 (with ten billion)
to “a stable level of 3 billion by 2400” (144). Because the “Communities
of Compost” manage to convince the rest of the earth to adopt their
life-sustaining and self-limiting mode of living, they provide necessary
“breathing room” that, Haraway writes, opens up “possibilities for
ongoingness for many threatened ways of living and dying for both
human and nonhuman beings” (144). This concern with sustainable
numbers addresses a crucial challenge for designing a livable future.
The issue of population growth is mixed up in complex ways with
many aspects of the Anthropocene: think of deforestation, soil degra-
dation, excessive resource use, and geopolitical instability. Still, it has
hardly become visible in its own right in environmental thinking:
Timothy Clark (2016) talks about “population denialism” and the
“insidious elusiveness” of overpopulation in most environmental dis-
course (10, 13). Voluntary self-limitation would have a vast beneficial
impact, in the form, for instance, of a voluntary global One Child
Policy. Such a policy, Alan Weisman has calculated, would mean a
population of less than 6 billion by 2050 instead of the projected 9 bil-
lion, and a correspondingly smaller ecological footprint for our species
162 Anthropocene Temporalities
(Garrard 2012, 58). It would also, to recall Thom van Dooren’s words,
“hold open space” for other species to flourish.

Indifference: Cosmic Insignificance

Lerner’s, McGuire’s, and Haraway’s fictions of regeneration face the
threat of species extinction to envision a future beyond established ways
of living, spending, and reproducing. The forms of conviviality they
imagine ignore Scheffler’s call to double down on these existing ways of
life, while they also avoid the death-obsessed negativity of Edelman’s
flirtation with species suicide. They differ from post-apocalyptic fictions
that situate significance in the continuation of the project of human
civilization, and find meaning in different forms of life, even in forms of
life shared with nonhumans (in the case of Haraway) or from which
humans have been evacuated (in McGuire’s posthumous bestiary). They
emphatically remain committed to the possibility of significance, and
mobilize their aesthetic strategies to avoid the threat of radical mean-
inglessness. This section surveys a number of thought experiments that
take the detachment from extant forms of life one step further, and
radically uncouple human life and significance. As we will see, once the
shock value of such undisturbed declarations of senselessness wears off,
their official indifference to human purpose all too easily shades into a
misanthropic belief in the superfluity of some humans. All too often, the
univocal declaration of species insignificance masks a sinister decision
between valued lives and lives not worth living.
Jean-François Lyotard, one of the leading thinkers of the postmodern
condition (the title of his famous 1979 book), begins the first chapter in
his 1992 book The Inhuman with a thought experiment that positions
human life in the shadow of planetary extinction. Lyotard reminds us
that we know that the earth won’t last forever, and that the sun will
explode in 4.5 billion years. What changes when we contemplate life in
the face of “the inevitable explosion to come” (Lyotard 1992, 9)? Lyotard
is clear-eyed about the threat this preordained destruction of matter
poses to human significance: “In comparison everything else seems
insignificant” (9). There will be no future significance, because there will
be no future readers to look for human meaning: “there’ll be no one
there to toll the death knell or hear it” (9), as there won’t be “intelligent,
sensitive, sentient earthlings to bear witness to it” (10). If post-apoc-
alyptic fiction hinges on the consoling paradox that telling the story of
the collapse proves that it has not been fatal, Lyotard’s extinction event,
 Residues 163
in contrast, is radically unwitnessed. Lyotard wonders how human
thought will continue to rage against the dying of the solar light, and
how “the combined forces of nuclear physics, electronics, photonics and
information science” are designing hardware that allows thought to
continue without human bodies (14). This raises the specter of the
“‘separability’ of intelligence” (16): the fantasy that reason can survive,
even when human bodies cannot.
Lyotard denies that the binary thinking and data-processing of com-
puters amount to genuinely meaningful thought. Thought does not take
place in silicon micropressors, but requires desiring and suffering bodies:
words and phrases only acquire meaning because “even inscribed on a
page … they ‘say’ something other than what we ‘meant’ because they’re
older than the present intent, overloaded with possibilities of meaning—
that is, connected with other words, phrases, shades of meaning, tim-
bres” (18). This returns us to Shelley’s desert, Wordsworth’s beach, and
Darwin’s entangled bank: true meaning depends on the kind of semiotic
drift and historical instability that literary thought has always cultivated.
Not everyone shares Lyotard’s conviction that significance requires
human hesitations and uncertainties. For a philosopher like Nick Bos-
trom, the “‘separability’ of intelligence” is an opportunity, not a curse,
as the triumph of reason trumps the survival of the species. Bostrom
runs the Future of Humanity Institute at the University of Oxford, and
while it is obvious that this Institute is singularly unconcerned about the
future of the humanities, it is more surprising that it is also weirdly
complacent about the future of humans. What is at stake is humanity,
understood as “intellectual life as such” (Colebrook 2018b, 162), and this
humanity is not confined to human bodies. Bostrom aims to harness the
affordances of technology and artificial intelligence to enhance human
life beyond its natural limits to the point where humanity is “no longer
unambiguously human by our current standards” (Bostrom 2014a, 3).
This position often goes under the name of transhumanism, rather than
that of (an often more technology-critical) posthumanism. For Bostrom
(2014b), the explosion that is bound to blow up our established forms of
life is not solar catastrophe, but rather “an intelligence explosion”: the
emergence of a superintelligence that dwarfs humans’ limited cognitive
capacities, and that forces us to enhance human capacities, even if this
involves surrendering our mortal bodies (4). This view is echoed by
futurists like Hans Moravec and Ray Kurzweil, who strongly believe
that marrying human consciousness to computer software will emanci-
pate human intelligence from bodily constraints. Kurzweil (2005) has
164 Anthropocene Temporalities
influentially dubbed the coming intelligence explosion “the Singularity,”
which he designates as a time when “there will be no distinction between
human and machine nor between physical and virtual reality” (9). For
these thinkers, human intelligence will leave the sands and banks of
human culture and ascend to loftier reaches beyond extinction.
Bostrom’s and Kurzweil’s rescue mission for human intelligence valori-
zes particular traits such as intelligence, reason, and autonomy, and
simply sidesteps the entanglement of minds and bodies, of natural and
human history. This narrow conception of human flourishing is customa-
rily traced back to the Enlightenment. Ray Brassier’s Nihil Unbound
radicalizes the relation between Enlightenment and extinction on philoso-
phical grounds. Brassier holds that, if we are serious about wanting to
pursue the truth, we should be happy to surrender the all too human
inclination to find meaning in earthly things. Relinquishing such earthly
attachments, for Brassier, releases new speculative possibilities. He
invokes Lyotard’s though experiment, but dismisses Lyotard’s ultimate
return to the body: solar catastrophe is an event that is by definition not
witnessed, and in that way it shows that there are things that have
meaning apart from what they mean for a human observer. Brassier fol-
lows philosopher Quentin Meillassoux in his opposition to “correlation-
ism,” the idea, already touched on in Chapter 3, that there is “a necessary
reciprocity between mind and nature” (Brassier 2007, 40). For Meillas-
soux, Brassier, and other so-called speculative realists, correlationism has
been central to Western philosophy since Kant declared the “thing in
itself” inaccessible for thought, and has curtailed the scope of philosophy
by closing off “the great outdoors,” a reality where neither humans nor
life are present (Meillassoux 2006, 26). For Brassier, human extinction can
provide a paradoxical gateway to this uncharted cosmic terrain.
In contrast to Brassier, Meillassoux’s critique of correlationism does not
hinge on a fantasy of extinction, but on a seemingly more benign thought
experiment that takes us to a period before the dawn of human life. To prove
that there is a reality that is unconstrained by its relation to humans, Meil-
lassoux reminds us that science has yielded knowledge about things like the
age of the universe, the date of the accretion of the earth, or the emergence of
pre-human species. This means that it is possible to gauge the meaning of
worlds that are strictly anterior to human consciousness. Meillassoux’s so-
called “argument from ancestrality” focuses on what he calls “arche-fossils”:
materials in our world that testify to the existence of such an ancestral world,
such as radioactive isotopes allowing us to date fossils or the light emitted by a
star informing us of its age (2006, 10). If we accept that such arche-fossils
 Residues 165
allow us to infer real knowledge about a world before us, and that such real
knowledge constitutes the ultimate meaning about that world, then we must
also accept that reality is not exhausted by the world as it appears to us. There
is a world of wonder out there, just not for us (although Meillassoux is
convinced that mathematical intuition can help us access it).
In Brassier (2007), Meillassoux’s reenchantment of “the great outdoors”
makes way for a dispassionate confrontation with futurelessness. Brassier
prefers “the posteriority of extinction” to the wonders of ancestrality,
because it more accurately conveys that all earthly concerns are always
already pointless. In cosmic terms, human life has always already been over:
“Extinction,” he writes, “is not to be understood here as the termination of a
biological species, but rather as that which levels the transcendence ascribed
to the human” (224). The idea of extinction reminds us that the cosmos is
“indifferent to our existence and oblivious to the ‘values’ and ‘meanings’
which we would drape over it in order to make it more hospitable” (xi). The
rigor of Brassier’s speculation, like the giddy excitement of Bostrom and
Kurzweil, displays a studied refusal to get too excited about the waste of
human lives. As Claire Colebrook (2018b) has noted, for these thinkers “the
loss of intellectual life as such would be of a catastrophic order that far
outweighs the tragedy of losing some or many humans” (162). This calcu-
lated indifference to suffering is a key aspects of these thinkers’ intervention.
We can call their refusal to recognize concerns over human survival as any-
thing but banal and immature a “sado-dispassionate” stance (Plumwood
2002, 41–45): a posture that invokes emotive neutrality to blind itself to
ethical concerns over forms of life that do not incarnate reason, autonomy,
and intelligence. Such “calculated callousness” is a recurring feature of the
imagining of “disanthropic” worlds, or worlds without humans (Garrard
2012, 45). It is not politically neutral: while some may argue that affective
neutrality is the price we need to pay for philosophical rigor, philosophical
arguments don’t take place in a post-extinction wasteland, but in contexts
that are marked by moral considerations, power differences, and emotive
dispositions. Unleashing ideas of human superfluousness in volatile contexts
can have consequences that are anything but speculative.

Misanthropy: Anti-Natalism, Exterminism, and Peripheral Life

Lofty declarations of thought’s transcendence over earthly matters forget
that human thought is currently actualizing itself as planetary destruc-
tion. Indifference to merely human catastrophes actively contributes to
the destruction of lifeworlds. Greg Garrard has shown that visions of
166 Anthropocene Temporalities
worlds without humans often collapse “into ordinary apocalypticism and
ethical misanthropy” (2012, 49). We already encountered traces of mis-
anthropy in post-apocalyptic fiction’s aversion to great numbers, a hos-
tility that precludes a necessary confrontation with the crucial but
“morally obnoxious” theme of overpopulation (Clark 2016, 9). The most
radical philosophical version of misanthropy is anti-natalism, which sees
human birth as an intrinsically negative event, and believes there is a
moral obligation to stop procreating. David Benatar (2006), the most
notable philosophical voice defending this position, holds that “[b]ring-
ing people into existence always inflicts serious harm on those people”
(184). This allows for a conveniently unequivocal answer to “[t]he cen-
tral question of population,” which is the question of how many people
there should be: “zero” (163–64). Because humans are a deeply flawed
and destructive species, the amount of suffering in the cosmos would be
dramatically diminished by getting rid of them. Benatar’s calculus
assumes a fundamental asymmetry between pleasure and pain, which
assures that the latter always outweighs the former: “a life filled with
good and containing only the most minute quantity of bad—a life of
utter bliss adulterated only by the pain of a single pin-prick—is worse
than no life at all” (48). And sure, “looming extinction would be bad for
the final people,” but they should be ready to take one for the team: after
all, “we must take account not only of the final people’s interests, but
also of the harm that is avoided by not producing new generations”
(198). Ideally, then, human life should go extinct as quickly as possible,
if only to minimize the suffering that will inevitably accumulate until the
last human dies.
Benatar’s intervention is marked by a kind of deadpan philosophical
rigor: a studiously sustained tone-deafness to human considerations. His
misanthropic disdain for human life is absolute. Still, his insistence that
his approach is philanthropic rather than misanthropic, as his argument
is informed by the strictly utilitarian ambition to minimize human suf-
fering, betrays a certain moral hesitation (223). Nor does Benatar pro-
pose that we actively exterminate the species: to that effect, he dismisses
the notion of “lives worth living” (for him, not a single life meets that
standard) and distinguishes between “lives worth continuing” and “lives
worth starting” to argue that, while life is never worth starting, some
lives that have already started are still worth continuing (22–28). So
while there is apparently no moral imperative to go out and actively
exterminate all human life (“dying-extinction” is better than “killing-
extinction” [195]), Benatar allows for only two options: either more of
 Residues 167
the same or death. This myopic focus on (dis)continuation betrays a
certain lack of imagination in Benatar’s condemnation of human life.
Like the transhumanism and speculative philosophy we explored in the
previous section, and like a lot of post-apocalyptic fiction, Benatar only
looks for meaning and value in modern life—it is just that he doesn’t
find it there. Like these other approaches, he fails to consider the possi-
bility that other forms of life might be meaningful, as the likes of Har-
away, Lerner, and McGuire do, and concludes that therefore human life
should go extinct. The semi-serious Voluntary Human Extinction
Movement (VHEMT), whose slogan “may we live long and die out”
offers a more cheerful version of the diagnosis of human destructiveness,
and it explicitly promotes human extinction as a way to, in Thom van
Dooren’s (2014) words again, “hold open space in the world for other
living beings” (5). Other living beings, or other ways of living life, do not
register on Benatar’s radar.
For all its principled commitment to the all-encompassing worthless-
ness of human life, Benatar’s anti-natalism implicitly valorizes a rational,
autonomous, and intelligent form of existence over other forms. It is
because the negative aspects of existence overshadow these values that
human life deserves to go extinct; other dimensions of life cannot even
claim to also be meaningful. Claire Colebrook (2018b) has remarked that
Benatar’s work also performatively affirms the values of autonomy and
personhood: as a philosophical exercise in utilitarian calculation and
rational decision-making, it ends up privileging the form of life that “is
not so much calculated as calculating” (161). There is, for Colebrook, “a
prima facie value placed on human capacity defined as rationality of a
certain mode” (162). When this calculus is applied to a valuation of
human life, it is unsurprising to see a distinction emerge between lives
worth living and lives not worth living, and to find that the lives deemed
worth living (or, in Benatar’s bleaker worldview, most worth continuing
life) are those with the power of calculation. In the contemporary world,
this also means those with technology on their side.
Such hierarchies between human lives are mostly implicit in post-
apocalyptic fiction, transhumanism, speculative realism, and anti-natalism,
but they become all the more consequential in the disordered world of
scarcity that is the Anthropocene. This is a world in which the very rich
can afford a way out of climate calamities: a world in which residential
real estate in cities like London is being bought up by global elites, not
only for laundering money but also as a place of refuge in case of unrest
in their home countries; in which the richest man alive, Jeff Bezos, is
168 Anthropocene Temporalities
competing with other superstar CEO’s like Elon Musk to colonize space,
giving the lie to the slogan that there is no planet B; in which other
Silicon Valley billionaires like Peter Thiel are buying up property in New
Zealand to survive the collapse of civilization in their doomsday bun-
kers. In the scenarios that these power players anticipate, the lives of the
rest of us become strictly superfluous.
In his reflections on the mutually enhancing effects of technological
automation and climate crisis, Peter Frase (2016) has coined the term
exterminism to name such doom scenarios. In a technologically advanced
world, scarcity can be overcome for a tiny elite, and the result is a
“communism for the few”: a life of plenty that can, because of the fini-
tude of our planetary resources, not be extended to the many (121).
Thanks to technological developments, the lives of the happy few is rig-
orously independent from that of the rest of the population, who are
needed neither as consumers (the riches of the few is consolidated, so
normal cycles of production and consumption can be abandoned) nor
producers (robots take care of that). As Frase argues, rampant global
inequality has already put the necessary hierarchies in place, and the only
thing missing today for this scheme to take effect is further technological
development. If inequality was traditionally kept in check by the mutual
dependence between capitalists and workers, in this scenario “an impo-
verished, economically superfluous rabble poses a great danger to the
ruling class” without being of any potential use (123). Frase fears that
this will lead Malthusian fears to flip over into a program of extermi-
nation. The increasing spatial differentiation between the gated commu-
nities of the rich and the housing of the rest of the population, the
proliferation of zones where refugees and prisoners effectively live in
concentration camps, and the increasing militarization of police forces
make such derailments practically possible. This would be the outcome
of a toxic cocktail of a misanthropic devaluation of human life, extreme
inequality, and technological development.
In this book, literature has done many things: it has described
Anthropocene realities, imagined possible futures, remixed different
kinds of disciplinary knowledge, and rescaled overwhelming realities.
It has also provided imaginative devices, such as the figure of a post-
humous reader, animal symbionts, or seas magically scribbling
Wordsworth poems, that enrich debates over the human impact on the
environment. Frase also sees his own project in his book Four Futures,
in which he envision four possible futures for a climate changed
planet, as deeply informed by literature: he sees it as a form of “social
 Residues 169
science fiction” that combines the techniques of speculative fiction
with the insights of the social sciences in the ecological future of the
planet (24). Frase’s mix of literary and scientific affordances to address
the ecological crisis exemplifies the mandate of the environmental
humanities: a project of interdisciplinary description that keeps dif-
ferent differences—be they cultural, social, ontological, or other-
wise—in focus. Frase finds the traditional distinction between “soft”
and “hard” science fiction less relevant than that between “stories that
take their world-building seriously, and those that don’t” (25). I have
argued that it is through world-building, and by exploring the limita-
tions and dangers of world-building, that literature can upgrade the
project of the environmental humanities.
In the introduction, I singled out William Gibson’s 2014 novel The
Peripheral as a work whose technological, economic, and social world-
building intervenes in Anthropocene debates. As it directly engages
with the horrors and fantasies of human extinction, it will here serve as
my last literary example. The novel imagines a bifurcated future: a near
future situated in an impoverished USA, and a twenty-second-century
future inhabited by a small elite living technologically enhanced lives.
While information can travel back in time, physical matter cannot. The
“hard” science fiction explanation for this phenomenon (an obscure
process of “quantum tunneling” through a Chinese computer server) is
less relevant than the way this set-up shapes the power differences
between the two worlds: the hi-tech future can freely intervene in the
near future, and the games the people in the near future are paid to
play provide actual labor in the later future. This is enabled by superior
data-processing technology: “Information from there affects things
here … Their stuff’s all seventy years faster than ours” (Gibson 2015,
192). This exploitation of the earlier future operates without fear of
retribution or upheaval: once the future world connects with and
interferes in the past, that past stops being their past and becomes an
alternative timeline, “a stub” (38). This is why Gibson has referred to
the novel’s near future as a “third worlded version of contemporary
America” (Newitz 2014): the same impudence with which colonial
powers extracted, and continue to extract, labor and natural resources
from the Global South is now unleashed against the American population
through data processing.
Gibson famously wrote the first classic cyberpunk novel with Neuro-
mancer in 1984. And if the notion of the Anthropocene was not yet
coined then, the first sentence of that novel already betrays an interest in
170 Anthropocene Temporalities
the thorough interpenetration of the human, the natural, and the tech-
nological: “The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a
dead channel” (Gibson 2004, 3). In The Periperal, the Anthropocene is
imagined as “the Jackpot,” a multicausal, slow, drawn-out collapse of
civilization initiated by climate change, which also results in political
destabilization, mass extinction, and the end of democracy. The Jackpot
separates the novel’s two futures, and it kills about 80 percent of the
world population over about 40 years (320). But unlike what the term
may suggest, the outcome of the Jackpot is not entirely arbitrary, as the
rich manage to turn “constant crisis” into “constant opportunity.” The
80 percent are merely collateral damage for a shiny new world “lit
increasingly by the new” (321). For the “[o]ligarchs, corporations, neo-
monarchists” surviving the Jackpot, the Anthropocene is “[a] progress
accompanied by constant violence” (321, 322). It inaugurates what Frase
calls “a communism for the few,” who have not bothered to save excess
populations, as they can count on infinite labor reserves in alternative
“stubs” that will never dry up. Only because, in the world of the novel,
past lives are cheaper than technology and do not constitute a physical
threat are they allowed to remain alive. The novel’s title not only refers
to one of the novel’s hi-tech gimmicks, a kind of drone body that people
can inhabit from a distant location, but it also indicates the status of
most lives in this new dispensation: the majority of lives are marginal, of
secondary or only superficial importance.
The Peripheral traces the overlaps between transhumanist fantasy
and misanthropic indifference in a way that enriches debates over
Anthropocene extinction in different ways. It paints a fine-grained pic-
ture (Gibson calls it “really high resolution SF” [Kross 2014]) of two
faces of the near future: the derelict trailer-park reality of impover-
ished, abandoned, and uneducated excess populations, and the con-
trasting glamor and splendor of the post-Jackpot “klept.” The
asymmetrical relation between the two futures not only drives the
novel’s thriller plot, it also allows the novel to narrate a relation that
clearly reflects the rampant inequality in our present. The decision to
position the Jackpot in between these two moments places it at the
heart of contemporary power relations, and allows the novel’s narra-
tive to circumscribe the terms of what Gibson calls the “unspeakable
present” (Kross 2014).
This asymmetrical relation between the two futures also resonates
with the affinities between the Anthropocene and writing that I discussed
in Chapter 3. A number of characters in the far future feel deeply
 Residues 171
nostalgic about the “[g]loriously pre-posthuman” times before the Jack-
pot (75). Paradoxically, they learn the hard lesson that inscriptions
cannot be erased, and past deeds cannot be undone, through their power
to interfere with the past. In the world of the novel, the past can be
altered, but the cruel point is that, if the past is successfully interfered
with, it stops being part of the future “continuum,” and is relegated to
the status of a mere “stub” that is strictly irrelevant to the fate of the
world. Erasure, in The Peripheral, is only possible at the price of irrele-
vance. This might be the novel’s (and this book’s) final word on the
Anthropocene: if human life wants to continue to matter, it needs to
resist fantasies of erasure and innocence and face up to its painful and
violent legacies. To return to the sandy imagery with which I began this
chapter, this amounts to the choice between assuming Ozymandias’s
“shattered visage” or escaping into the evasive comforts of Foucault’s
“face drawn in the sands.” Offering such relief, this book has argued,
is not what literature is for.
Glossary

Affect A term that refers to sensations, experiences, and dispositions

that cannot be fully captured by an individual’s consciousness and
cognition, but that emerge in the encounter between bodies, minds,
and the outer world. In affect theory, affects differ from emotions,
which are typically considered to be owned by human individuals:
people have emotions, while affects circulate between people, texts,
and things. Tracing how literary texts register affect can point us to
emergent or submerged dimensions of life that have not yet been
consolidated in stable stories and concepts.
Affordance In design theory, an object’s affordances name the different uses
and actions that a design or material make possible. An affordance does
not constrain or compel, it merely enables and facilitates. Caroline Levine
has adopted the term for literary studies, where it provides a flexible way
for describing how literary forms act on their readers.
Agency Traditionally refers to the capacity of individuals to make free
choices, act independently, and have a real-world impact. Agency
was often contrasted to structure, which is assumed to constrain
individuals’ agency, but the term has increasingly come to refer to
the power of human and nonhuman actors alike to affect the world
they compose. In this sense, agency no longer implies autonomy and
free will, but is always distributed between different actors.
Apocalypse Refers to the end of the world, and conceives of that moment as
a revelation of an ultimate truth. In a religious framework, apocalypse
signals the demise of earthly existence and the advent of an otherworldly
reality. In secular contexts, apocalyptic ideas often channel anxieties
about the fragility and impermanence of the institutions and ideals that
sustain our lives. Apocalyptic literature has a paradoxical temporal
 Glossary 173
structure, as telling about the apocalypse implies that the cataclysmic
event has not been fatal—has, in a sense, not been truly apocalyptical.
Assemblage Names the process of organizing, arranging, and fitting
together that results in what Jane Bennett calls “ad hoc groupings of
diverse elements.” Typically, the assemblage as a whole has a power
and an agency that differ from that of the different entities, bodies,
qualities, and expressions it brings together, and that are not
controlled by any one of the composite parts.
Cli-fi An increasingly ubiquitous literary genre that deals with climate
change and global warming. Cli-fi, like sci-fi (science fiction), is
customarily set in the future, but as the effects of climate change are
becoming ever more apparent, cli-fi often no longer needs to imagine
a non-contemporary world.
Cosmopolitanism The belief in and cultivation of a sense of solidarity and
community that extends beyond national borders and may encompass all
inhabitants of the world. Cosmopolitanism often goes hand in hand with
the conviction that literature and art can foster a sense of intercultural
connection. In the context of the global ecological crisis, promoting a
sense of environmental world citizenship or “eco-cosmopolitanism,” as
Ursula Heise calls it, may be indispensable for developing a concerted
response to the threat of a warming planet.
Critter Officially a general (if often disparaging) term to refer to animals,
the notion is used by Donna Haraway to indicate the whole range of life
forms with which human life, according to her, has to “make kin” in the
Anthropocene. Referring promiscuously to plants, animals, microbes,
humans, nonhumans, and even machines, the term emphasizes the
multiplicity of the affiliations through which human life is constituted.
Cybernetics A research project that aims to provide an encompassing
account of how humans, animals, and machines interact with one
another. Cybernetics studies the interactions between different enti-
ties as a closed system in which information circulates, with the aim
of controlling that circulation. It flourished in a Cold War context
where computers were mobilized for the wholesale militarization
and control of the planet.
Deconstruction A way of doing philosophy and of reading (mostly lit-
erary) texts that aims to destabilize and complicate the relation
between text and meaning. Deconstruction emphasizes that texts
often generate an uncontrollable excess of meanings that analysis
can never conclusively determine. Deconstruction was very popular
in literature departments in the 1970s and 1980s, before it made way
174 Glossary
for approaches that recovered a more robust relation between
language and the world.
Defamiliarization Viktor Shklovsky’s term for literature’s capacity to
provide surprising new perspectives on the world. A translation of
the Russian “ostranenie,” defamiliarization (or estrangement or even
enstrangement) accentuates the uses of literature in interrupting
customary ways of viewing and inhabiting the world.
Disanthropy Different from misanthropy, which refers to a dislike or
hatred of other humans, this notion was deployed by Greg Garrard
to name a desire for a world without humans. Disanthropy con-
stitutes a formal challenge, as most literary and artistic forms and
genres imply a human voice, character, or perspective, which com-
plicates the representation of (often far future) worlds without us.
Discorrelation A term used by Shane Denson to refer to technological pro-
cesses that liberate cultural products, such as cinema, from the limits of
human perception and cognition. An example is the continuous bom-
bardment of hyperinformatic images in recent action cinema, which out-
strips human perceptual faculties. The term resonates with Quentin
Meillassoux’s notion of “correlationism,” which conveys that philoso-
phical thought since Kant has restricted its remit to the relation between
mind and matter. Processes of discorrelation can arguably step outside
this circle and offer a glimpse of “the great outdoors.”
Dystopia A genre of speculative fiction depicting an undesirable and
frightening future. Twentieth-century dystopias typically represent a
totalitarian world where technology is used to curtail individual
autonomy. In the twenty-first century, dystopias more often evoke a
diminished, impoverished, and brutalized world on a climate chan-
ged planet. Often, dystopias exaggerate tendencies that are already
latent in contemporary society to warn their audiences about
emergent threats to our ways of life.
Earthbound Bruno Latour’s name for an alliance of political actors
who are willing to confront climate change. The Earthbound realize
that nature is not simply a resource that humans can use up and
abandon (bound to the Earth) and that political action is essentially
concerned with imagining a more sustainable relation to the planet
(bound for a different relation to the Earth, or what Latour calls the
“New Climate Regime”). The Earthbound find themselves at war
with defenders of the status quo whom Latour calls Humans.
Ecomodernism The conviction that a civilization that has destroyed ethnic
minorities on an industrial scale and plundered the planet to enrich a
 Glossary 175
small elite can be trusted to solve the ecological crisis through technolo-
gical progress and the miraculous operations of the free market.
Entanglement Term that refers to the deep interconnections between
human and nonhuman actors, as well as between material and
meaning-making processes, to the point that these can no longer be
separated and distinguished. For Karen Barad, whose use of the
term is inspired by quantum physics, entanglement means that it no
longer makes sense to even speak of independent, self-contained
entities: reality is entangled all the way down. The term has become
unavoidable in contemporary materialist thought.
E-waste Names discarded electric and electronic devices. This waste often
remains out of view when contemporary information technology is cele-
brated as clean, fast, and immaterial. Electronic scrap components are
often extremely toxic, and they retain their toxicity for a very long time.
And e-waste is dirty in a second sense: it exposes the workers in devel-
oping countries responsible for dismantling and disposing of electronic
waste to extreme health and safety risks.
Future anterior A grammatical tense that expresses a future event that
precedes another future event (“the human species will have left a
trace on the surface of the Earth”). Mark Currie has emphasized
that the future anterior also lets us apprehend our present as a
future memory, as something that will have been. The future ante-
rior is central to the Anthropocene: it conveys the idea that the
human impact on the planet will be readable in the future, and it
imbues our sense of the future with a memorial, past-oriented, and
even mournful dimension.
Gaia Names a thesis, developed by James Lovelock and Lynn Margu-
lis, that the Earth is a complex self-regulating system in which living
organisms work to maintain the environmental conditions for life.
The idea combines ecological and cybernetic insights, and it has had
a huge influence on environmental thought. In his revision of the
notion, Bruno Latour emphasizes that Gaia is not a closed totality,
and is in reality an unruly anti-system.
Hermeneutics The theory and methodology of interpreting texts and,
more generally, finding meaning in particular texts, actions, psy-
chological phenomena, and social situations. Traditionally applied
in the study of sacred texts, hermeneutics has in modern times been
developed in different philosophical and disciplinary contexts. In an
Anthropocene context, hermeneutics points to the challenge of
reading signals and indications of the human impact on the planet.
176 Glossary
Humanism The philosophical position that emphasizes the value of human
life in general, as opposed to the nonhuman world, and that underlines
individual ideals such as autonomy, rationality, and independence. The
emphasis on human flourishing makes humanism an essentially non-
religious, secular development, but the normative insistence on particular
values and the disregard for nonhuman entities has led to criticism from
posthumanist and materialist perspectives.
Hyperobject Timothy Morton’s term for entities such as plutonium,
global warming, and thermoplastics that are distributed in time and
space to the point that we cannot apprehend them as particular
objects anymore. Some contemporary philosophies see the over-
whelming and disorienting character of hyperobjects as key
characteristics of the object world as such.
Inscription In the most straightforward sense, the material process and
the product of writing something on a particular surface. The term
foregrounds the hope for durability and the physical displacement
inherent in such actions, and this leads to a more technical sense, in
which inscription becomes a model for human interactions with the
planet: impossible to fully erase, at risk of turning violent, and
displaying a tension between meaning-making and physical force.
Lifeworld philosophical notion that refers to the self-evident reality that
individuals and groups inhabit, and that imperceptibly forms the horizon
within which they create meaning. In an environmental context, life-
world (Lebenswelt) often merges with the notion of Umwelt to name the
environment, the habitat in which human and nonhuman entities live.
Litany Originally a form of prayer in which the clergy leads and the
congregation responds in a repetitive pattern. The term is used more
generally to refer to a repetitive and lengthy enumeration, and then
its meaning comes close to that of a catalogue. The form of the
litany or the catalogue is a key component of some kinds of critical
engagement with the Anthropocene world, which evoke the multiplicity
and excess of that world through long enumerations.
Materiality In the most straightforward way, this notion refers to the
physical properties of things, often to oppose tendencies that privi-
lege the ideational or linguistic dimensions of reality. In recent
materialist thought, however, the distinction between these different
realms is often superseded by the insistence that meanings and signs
are also thoroughly material. In deconstructionist thought, the
notion of materiality even refers to those aspects of reality that resist
appearing as part of the phenomenal world.
 Glossary 177
Mesh Timothy Morton’s term for the infinitely complex interrelations
between humans and a whole series of nonhuman entities, ranging
from tiny bacteria to vast realities such as climate change. The mesh
is a radically open form without center or edge, and it foregrounds
the interdependence of different living and nonliving things.
Monism The philosophical notion that reality consists of a single reality or
substance, and that at the deepest level of reality, there is no distinction
between different kinds of entities, not even between tangible objects and
mental states, between things and consciousness. Monism is a key char-
acteristic of materialist philosophy, and it is generally opposed to dual-
ism, which, most famously in the thought of René Descartes, holds that
mind and body are distinct and separable.
Multidirectional memory A term coined by Michael Rothberg to capture
the fact that the shared cultural memories of particular groups do not
exist in isolation from one another in a kind of silo, but are constituted,
updated, and revised through intense interactions between different
memory traditions. Rosanne Kennedy has coined the notion of “multi-
directional eco-memory” to highlight that this interactive dynamics can
also engage with environmental contexts, and not only with the
manmade violence in relation to which Rothberg coined the notion.
Naturalization Refers to a rhetorical process in which nature imagery
is used to present social and cultural structures as if they were part
of nature. Generally, naturalization tends to present contingent and
constructed realities as if they were self-evident and changeless, and
thus discourages contestation of those realities.
Natureculture Donna Haraway’s notion expressing that biological
(both human and nonhuman) and technological forces constitute one
another through their constant complex interactions. This funda-
mental relatedness makes it impossible to separate history and
biology, culture and nature.
Ontology The branch of philosophy that studies the basic nature or essence
of everything that exists. The term is also often used to describe a parti-
cular account of the kind of properties and relations that pertain in rea-
lity, or in a sector of reality (as when we speak of, for instance, the social
ontology of capitalism). Since the beginning of the century, critical
thought has increasingly focused on the description of reality at a basic
level, rather than on the limits of language. In several fields, this shift has
been called an “ontological turn.”
Petromelancholia A term coined by Stephanie LeMenager to name an
affective and imaginative inability to let go of the pleasures of
178 Glossary
lifestyles that are only possible through the easy availability of cheap
energy. Now that we know our dependence on these resources is not
sustainable, petromelancholia often obstructs the design of different
forms of life. The notion is related to Lauren Berlant’s account of
“cruel optimism,” which names our desperate desire for something
that is actually an obstacle to our flourishing.
Reproductive futurism The belief that what is ultimately at stake in
politics is creating a better future for our children. According to Lee
Edelman, this conviction puts forward heterosexuality as the only
acceptable way of life and leaves no room for queer sexualities. A
queer politics then consists in a refusal of the future and of the deified
figure of the child.
Scriptorium A room in a medieval monastery dedicated to writing, and
especially for copying and illuminating manuscripts. Such a space com-
mitted to the practice of writing offers an apt image for the way the
Anthropocene world consists of the accumulated traces and inscriptions
of human and nonhuman actions, which are compulsively read,
pondered, and interpreted, often with the help of technology.
Semiosphere Just as the biosphere names the zone in which life operates
and sustains itself, this notion, coined by Yuri Lotman, names the envir-
onment in which signs are produced and read and in which meaning is
generated. The notion emphasizes the power of human and nonhuman
actors to co-create the environments in which they live. In some new
materialist thinking, the semiosphere and the biosphere become virtually
synonymous, as all living entities are endowed with the capacity to create
meaning, and as all activities can be seen as forms of signification,
inscription, and meaning-making.
Speculative In philosophy, a mode of thinking that moves beyond
empirical evidence and tries to find access to a transcendent reality—
traditionally, to the divine or the absolute, but in contemporary
speculative realism, to the deep reality of things, which is not cap-
tured by human perception or customary modes of cognition. In
literature, speculative fiction tells stories that are not restricting
themselves to the depiction of a realistic world, but that import
futuristic, supernatural, and virtual elements. Science fiction,
fantasy, and horror are prominent forms of speculative fiction.
Sublime In contrast to the beautiful, which is conceived as orderly and
harmonious and provides a mild pleasure, this aesthetic category names
an experience in which the human is overwhelmed by the power, the size,
or the multiplicity of sounds and visions. This experience inspires awe
 Glossary 179
and reverence, and ultimately aggrandizes rather than diminishes the
human individual, who proves him- or herself capable of transcending
merely rational thinking. It is this recuperative dimension of the sublime
that has occasioned most criticism.
Symbiont An organism that participates in a process of symbiosis, that is, in
a cooperative or very intimate relationship between at least two different
organisms. The term is used by multispecies thinker Donna Haraway to
stress the mutually beneficial nature of the relations and collaborations
between humans and different nonhuman species.
Trans-corporeality Is the idea that all creatures are affected by the
dynamics of the material world. Stacy Alaimo, who coined the term,
situates it in a tradition of feminist thinking that opposes the idea that
the human is disembodied, discrete, and detached, and that instead
underscores that human life is always embodied, exposed, and
permeable to outside forces.
Transhumanism The belief that the bodily and cognitive limitations of
human life can be overcome through the thorough integration of
human life with technology. This techno-optimist perspective looks
forward to a future when the merger of artificial intelligence, pros-
theses, and human lives will generate life forms that are not con-
strained by the biological limitations that currently still define
human existence.
Weird Literary genre that evokes dread and horror by confronting
cosmic forces that reduce human life to insignificance. The sheer
strangeness and tolerance for ludicrousness that marks this literary
tradition has made it a productive mode for contemporary environ-
mental writing that seeks to confront the bewildering changes that
the Anthropocene brings about. Often, “new weird” fiction has a
more welcoming and accommodating attitude to a mysterious and
monstrous reality.
Wilderness A natural domain that is not contaminated by culture. As
William Cronon has shown, the notion of a wilderness emerges
from within a culture that finds itself alienated from the natural
world, and not with people who maintain a more nourishing rela-
tion to the natural world. Historically, the notion of the wilderness
has fueled a desire to conquer and subdue nature; more recently,
cultivating a sense of unspoiled nature often prevents the designing
of livable interactions between human and nonhuman life.
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Index

Abbey, Edward 122 Amazon deforestation, consequences

Ackerman, Diane 7 of 126
actor-network theory (ANT) 90–91 ana-apocalypse 152–3
Adamson, J. and Slovic, S. 45 angel 107–10; of history 21, 108–9
affect 22–3, 25–6, 29, 67, 81, 172; Annihilation (VanderMeer, J.) 1–3, 4,
affect theory 172; genre and 60–66; 8, 23, 24, 25, 62, 63
gothic affect 93; negative affect Antarctic literature 66–72
118–19 Anthropocene: affect 22–3; agencies
affordances 31, 41, 52, 86, 160, 163, 30, 37–103; angels 107–10;
172; affective affordances 20; Antarctica, literature and 66–72;
literary affordances 19–20; media Anthropocene present, definition of
affordances 77–83; narrative 61; Anthropocene Working Group
affordances 65 (AWG) 6, 21; anti-natalism 165–71;
“Against Theory" (Knapp, S. and capitalism, misrepresentation of
Michael, W.B.) 148–9 role of 11–13; cinema, post-cinema
agency 2, 15–6, 25–6, 28; authorial and 77–83; climate change and
agency 64; autonomy and 15; denial 9–10; conservation of wilderness
of shared agency 16; distributed (or 122–5; contested name, reasons for
distributive) agency 46, 62, 84–5, 6–7; cosmic insignificance 162–5;
95, 100, 110–11; entangled agencies criticisms of 11–19; denial 151–6;;
88; geological agency 53, 68, 147; earth and 72–7; ecocriticism and
human agency 14, 15, 16, 28, 84, 86, 43–9; energy infrastructure 138–43;
98, 100; human agency, decentering environmental humanities and
of 47; human agency, scaling up of 53–9; exterminism 165–71; forms
87; liberal concept of agency 102; 30, 37–59; future, 117–22; genre,
material agency 58; narrative and affect and 60–66; genres 30–31,
agency 21; natural agency 86; 60–83; globe, globalisation and
nonhuman agency 25, 28, 29, 61, 72–7; historical and cultural myopia
68, 69, 85, 93; shared agency 2, 15, of 17–19; humanity, insufficiently
16, 149; storytelling, agency of 102; differentiated in 13–15; imagination
technological agency 86; things, 23–5; inadequacy of name of 8–9;
agency of 85–6 indifference 162–5; indigenous
Alaimo, Stacy 39, 47, 54, 179 archives 114–17; infrastructure
Albrecht, Glenn 118 126–43; literature, media
Almanac of the Dead (Silko, L.M.) 19 affordances and 77–83; literature
 Index 195
and, four affordances 19–29; matter assemblages 11, 17, 46, 145;
vs. object 88–93; media affordances terraforming assemblages 15, 100;
77–83; memories 110–14; things and assemblages 89
misanthropy 165–71; as misnomer Ashbery, John 53
and disclaimer 7–9; mourning the Assis, Claudia 14
future 117–22; narrative 20–22; Atwood, Margaret 24–5, 63, 150, 152,
“new epoch of humans" 3–4; 154
nonhuman world 31–2, 84–103; Augé, Marc 153
popularity of 1; Other-than-human authorial agency 64
(ism) 84–7; photography and 79–80; Authority (VanderMeer, J.) 27
planet earth and 72–7; realism autonomy 84, 164, 165, 167; agency
60–66; scale 96–100; scriptorium and 15; disembodiment and 87; free
100–103; temporalities 30, 32–3, will and 90; human autonomy 15–6;
107–71; threshold concept for loss of 149; value of 167
making sense of world 10–11;
unsafe spaces 93–6; wilderness Baccolini, R. and Moylan, T. 119
122–5; world, mondialisation and Bacigalupi, Paolo 62, 152
72–7; writing 25–9, 100–103. The Back of the Turtle (King, T.) 32,
Anthropocene Working Group (AWG) 111, 114–17, 120, 122–3
6, 21 Bacon, Francis 53–4
anthropos 13–14, 15, 17 Barad, Karen 88, 176
anti-natalism 165–71 Baucom, Ian 109
Antigua, infrastructural deficiencies in Beck, Ulrich 18, 149
131–2 Beckett, Samuel 26
apocalypse 30, 81, 113, 172–3; “On Being the Right Size” (Haldane,
ana-apocalypse 152–3; apocalyptic J.B.S.) 98
environmentalism 141; apocalyptic Benatar, David 150, 166–7
imagination 152–3; biblical Benjamin, Walter 32, 107–9, 110, 114,
apocalypse 44; environmental 116–7, 120; angel of history 32,
apocalypse 155; against extinction 107–8
151–6; imagined apocalypse, appeal Bennett, Jane 85–6, 88–9, 90, 91, 95,
of 152; neo-apocalypse 152–3; 101–2, 173
post-apocalypse 152–3, 155, 156; Berger, James 152
zombie apocalypse 77 Berlant, Lauren 23, 63, 80
Appel, H., Anand, N. and Gupta, A. Berry, Wendell 45
139 Best, S. and Marcus, S. 48
Appel, Hannah 130–31 Bezos, Jeff 167–8
Arendt, Hannah 73–4 bioluminescence 55
Armstrong, Nancy 60 biomathematics 55–6
Arrighi, Giovanni 133 bioregionalism 46
“Art as Technique” (Shklovsky, V.) 55 bios and geos, differences between 42
The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym The Black Atlantic (Gilroy, P.) 54
of Nantucket (Poe, E.A.) 30, 65–6, Blanchot, Maurice 26
67–9, 70, 72 Bleak House (Dickens, C.) 20
Asafu-Asjaye, J. et al. 16, 124 Blue Marble (iconic image, 1972)
asemblages 9, 85, 90, 173; agency and 74–5, 76, 99
173; agentive matter, ad hoc Boes, T. and Marshall, K. 26
assemblages of 111; anti-systemic Bond, L., De Bruyn, B. and Rapson, J.
assemblages 16; infrastructure 24
assemblages 134; multispecies Bong Joon-Ho 50
196 Index
Bonneuil, C. and Fressoz, F. 9, 12, 14, cosmic insignificance 162–5
18, 20, 107 cosmopolitanism 65, 173;
Bostrom, Nick 150, 163, 164, 165 cosmopolitan connectedness 58, 75,
Boyer, Dominic 128, 129, 130 82; cosmopolitan fictions 83;
Braidotti, Rosi 86, 87 cosmopolitan memory 111;
Brassier, Ray 150, 164–5 eco-cosmopolitanism 11, 46, 65
Broken Earth trilogy (Jemisin, N.K.) Craps, S., Crownshaw, R., Wenzel, J.,
77, 81–2, 113 Kennedy, R., Colebrook, C. and
Buell, Lawrence 44, 45, 46, 65 Nardizzi, V. 108, 110, 111, 112
Burnside, John 31 86, 93–6, 100, 102–3 critical ocean studies, 54–5
Burtynsky, Edward 79 criticisms of Anthropocene 11–19
critters 173; mortal critters 9
Callon, Michel 90 Cronon, William 123, 124, 179
Canavan, Gerry 160 Crownshaw, Rick 110, 111, 113, 119
capitalism: management of 59; Crutzen, P. and Schwägerl, C. 16
misrepresentation of role of 11–13 Crutzen, Paul 3–5, 6–7, 8, 11, 12,
Capitalocene 7, 11, 12, 13 15–16, 21
Carson, Rachel 43–4 Cubitt, Sean 134
catastrophe 14–15 cultural myopia 17–19
Chakrabarty, Dipesh 14, 16, 98 Cunsolo, A. and Ellis, N. 118
Cheah, Pheng 24, 73, 117 Currie, Mark 175
Children of Men (James, P.D.) 157 cybernetics 173; cybernetic system 75
Chthulucene 7, 11, 15, 17 cyberpunk 169–70
cinema: media affordances and 77–9; “Cyborg Manifesto” (Haraway, D.) 87
post-cinema and 77–83
Clark, Timothy 10, 40, 49, 87, 99, 100, Danowski, D. and Viveiros De
161, 166 Castro, E. 156
Clarke, M.T. and Wittenberg, D. 100 Dark (Netflix) 93
cli-fi 63, 114–15, 173 Darwin, Charles 52, 144–5, 146, 156,
climate change 9–10; narrative 163
engagement with 62 Davis, Heather 38, 42, 72
Cloud Atlas (Mitchell, D.) 150, 152, The Day of the Triffids (Wyndham,
154, 156 J.) 152
Cohen, Tom 49 De Boever, Arne 42
Cole, Teju 82–3 De Bruyn, Ben 112, 141–2
Colebrook, Claire 10–11, 49, 85, De Man, Paul 49
111–12, 145, 147, 150, 156, 163, Death and the Afterlife (Scheffler, S.)
165, 167 157–8
Coleridge, Samuel T. 39, 41 deathlessness 37–8
collage aesthetic 57 deconstruction 44, 49, 173–4
The Collapse of Western Civilization deep ocean life 56
(Oreskes, N. and Conway, E.) deep time 97
21–2, 25, 50 defamiliarization (ostranenie) 55, 78,
colonial violence 119–20 90, 147, 174
conservation of wilderness 122–5 Defoe, Daniel 155
conservationisms 122–3, 124 DeLanda, Manuel 147
continent-bound imaginaries, DeLillo, Don 97
destabilization of 54 DeLoughrey, Elizabeth 54
Conway, Erik 21–2, 25 Demos, Thomas J. 7, 16
correlationism, critique of 164–5 denial 151–6
 Index 197
Denson, S. and Leyda, J. 80 critical landscape,
Denson, Shane 80–81, 174 interdisciplinarity of 48; literary
Derrida, Jacques 26, 28, 49, 73 criticism and 44–5; material
Descartes, René 177 ecocriticism 31, 85, 86, 101;
Descent of Man (Darwin, C.) 145 material trends in 46; nature, eco-
Diaz, Junot 63 criticism and 47–8; nature,
Dickens, Charles 20 ecocriticism’s rediscovery of 45;
differences: bios and geos, differences nonhuman world, interests of 47;
between 42; different differences, planetary ecocriticism 46;
differentiation between 49–53, 86–7; second-wave ecocriticism 45, 47–8;
different differences, engagement of third-wave ecocriticism 45–6
literature with 43; scales, ecological grief 118–19
engagement with difference in 98; ecomodernism 16, 71, 75, 174–5, “An
valorization of 49–50 Ecomodernist Manifesto”
digital age 26–7, 28, 134; media (Asafu-Asjaye, J. et al.) 16, 124
technology, developments in 27; econarratology 64–5
media technology, toxic materiality Economist 58
of 134 ecopoetics 30, 37–43
Dillon, Sarah 153 Edelman, Lee 150, 158–9, 178
disanthropy 147, 150, 165, 174 Edwards, Paul 5
disavowal 18, 113, 141 Egan, Jennifer 63
discorrelation 80, 174 Ehrlich, Paul 156
Dorrian, Mark 99 emergency: infrastructure vs. 126–9
drone 58–9 Emmett, T. and Nye, D. 50, 51, 53
dystopia 174; dystopian fiction 118–9; energy humanities 140–43;
dystopian futures 19, 127, 154; entanglements 2–3, 6, 16, 19, 20, 46,
dystopian scenarios 118–19 53, 74, 84–5, 86, 100, 155, 175;
attunement and entanglement 93;
Eaarth (McKibben, B.) 76 digital and natural ecologies,
Eames, Charles and Ray 99 entanglement of 27–8; earthly
The Earth after Us (Zalasiewicz, J.) entanglements 117; ecological
147 entanglements 22; forms of life and
earth system 5, 6, 11–12, 16, 26, 27, life forms, entanglement of 72;
50, 145; earth and the human and natural histories,
Anthropocene 72–7; earth as entanglement of 122–3, 164; human
interconnected organism 75; earth and nonhuman forms, entanglement
ethics 74; imprisonment to earth of 28–9, 39, 115, 144–5, 146;
73–4; instability of 10; see also intimacy, entanglement without 57;
planet earth, world masterpieces, entanglements of 82;
Earthbound 16–17, 74, 174 minds and bodies, entanglement of
Earthrise (iconic image, 1968) 74–5 164; multispecies entanglements 145
eco-cosmopolitanism 11, 46, 65, 173 environmental activism 58
ecocriticism 43–9; bioregionalism, environmental humanities 8, 29, 37,
reliance on 46; descriptive approach 41, 43 ,49–59, 85–6, 108, 158, 169
to 48; emergence of 44, 47; environmental threat 51–2
environmentalism of the poor 46; Essay on the Principle of Population
first-wave ecocriticism 44–5, 47–8; (Malthus, T.) 155–6
form, emphasis on 47; fourth-wave ethical attunement 89–90
ecocriticism 46; interdisciplinary e-waste 25, 175
research domains 48–9; literary exterminism 165–71
198 Index
extinction: afterlives of 156–62; globe: globalization and 72–7; spheres
apocalypse against 151–6 and 75–6; world and earthly
imminence of 158, 159–60; poetics entanglements 117
of 144–51 Google Earth 99
Gordon, Douglas 97
Fay, Jennifer 77–9 Gourevitch, Philip 55
Felski, Rita 48 Gratton, Peter 90–91, 92
figurative thinking 78 Great Acceleration 21, 156
first-wave ecocriticism 44–5, 47–8 The Great Derangement: Climate
Flaubert, Gustave 26 Change and the Unthinkable
form 30, 37–59; ecocriticism and (Ghosh, A.) 61–2
emphasis on 47; ecopoetics and Grove, Jairus Victor 50
37–43; elements of 41–2; Grusin, Richard 84
environmental humanities and guilt, trauma of 116–17
49–53; formal inadequacy 40–41; Gulliver’s Travels (Swift, J.) 96–7
life and form, relationship between Gursky, Andreas 79
42–3; ; life forms, forms of life and
41–2; literature and notion of 41; Haldane, J.B.S. 98
ocean and the life of 53–9; plastic Haraway, D. et al. 13
38–9 Haraway, Donna 9, 13, 17, 33, 87, 88,
Forms: Whole, Rhythm, Hierarchy, 161, 162, 173, 177, 179
Network (Levine, C.) 41–2 Harbach, Chad 151, 155
Foucault, Michel 148 Harman, Graham 91, 92
Four Futures (Frase, P.) 168–9 Hartley, Daniel 7
fourth-wave ecocriticism 46 Heise, Ursula 11, 43, 45, 46, 50, 51, 57,
Frankenstein (Shelley, M.) 18–19 62, 63, 112, 146, 155, 173
Frase, Peter 150–51, 168–9 Helmreich, Stefan 52–3
Fuller, Buckminster 75 Here (McGuire, R.) 160
future 117–22, 144–71 hermeneutics 66, 175
future anterior 113, 119, 175 Hicks, Heather 151, 152, 155
Higgins, David 19
Gaia 16, 175; Gaia theory 75 history: ethics and 107–8; historical
Garrard, Greg 43, 123, 150, 151, 155, and cultural myopia 17–19
161–2, 165–6, 174 “On the Concept of History”
gene transfers 52 (Benjamin, W.) 108–9
generic templates 23, 30; differences in Hitchcock, Peter 139
63–4, 66 Holocene 3, 5, 6, 16, 21, 61
genre, affect and 60–66 Homogenocene 11, 13
genre fiction 61–2, 81–2 Honig, Bonnie 128
geoengineering 50–51,66, 99 Horn, Eva 69
Ghosh, Amitav 61–2, 63 horror 2, 5, 23, 62–3, 73, 76–7, 152,
Gibson, William 24, 25, 151, 169–70 178
Gilroy, Paul 54 Horton, Zach 98
Giraffe (Ledgard, J.M.) 55 The Human Age (Ackerman, D.) 7
Gleeson-White, Jane 119 The Human Condition (Arendt, H.)
Glister (Burnside, J.) 86, 93–6, 100, 73–4
102–3 human lives, hierarchies between
global inequalities 131–3 167–8
globalization: infrastructure and humanism 49, 74, 87, 110; critical
137–8; planet earth 72–3 posthumanism 85; human
 Index 199
singularity, belief in 85; humanistic Kant, Immanuel 91, 174
knowledge 54–5; humanistic Kaplan, E. Ann 115, 118
reflection 7; posthumanism 47, 85, Kareiva, Peter 124
87, 98, 110, 163, 176; Keaton, Buster 78
transhumanism 163, 167, 170; Keller, Lynn 39
ultra-humanisms 85 Kennedy, Rosanne 111, 117, 177
Hurley, Jessica 81 Kerouac, Jack 19, 140
Hurricane Katrina 14, 111 “Kholmstomer” (Tolstoy, L.) 55
Hurricane Sandy 128, 142, 159 Kincaid, Jamaica 32, 128, 131–3
hyperobjects 30, 49, 92, 94, 99, 176 King, Thomas 32, 111, 114–17, 123
Kinkade, Thomas 70
immanence 88 Kirby, Vicki 88
immersion 23, 54, 65; ecstatic Knapp, Steven 148–9
immersion 45 Knausgaard, Karl-Ove 97
Impression: Sunrise (Claude Monet) Kolbert, Elizabeth 146
20 Konstantinou, Lee 160
indexicality 80 Kramnick, J. and Nersessian, A. 41
indifference 162–5 Kross, Karin 170
Indigenous archive 114–17 Kurzweil, Ray 163–4, 165
infowhelm 26
infrastructure: collapse of 129–30; Larkin, Brian 129, 130, 131, 132, 135
emergency vs. 126–9; energization Last and First Men (Stapledon, O.) 97
of 138–43; etymology of term 129; The Last Man (Shelley, M.) 152
invisibility of 130–31; literacy Latour, Bruno 7, 9, 15, 16–17, 51–2,
134–5, 138; literature and 135–8; 74, 90, 149, 174, 175
notion of 127–8; oil infrastructure Lazier, Benjamin 75
139–40; scale of 130 Leane, Elizabeth 66
infrastructuralism 130, 134–5 Learning to Die in the Anthropocene
Ingold, Tim 75 (Scranton, R.) 146, 158
Inhospitable World (Fay, J.) 77–9 Ledgard, J.M. 43, 54–5, 55–7, 58–9
The Inhuman (Lyotard, J.-F.) 162–3 Lee, Sue-Im 137
inscription 20, 26, 87, 102, 103, 112, The Leftovers (Perrotta, T.) 152
116, 148, 171, 176; geological Lehtimäki, Markku 64
inscription 121; material inscription LeMenager, Stephanie 52, 128–9, 141,
102; traumatic inscription 117 154, 177–8
Instauratio Magna (Bacon, F.) 53–4 Lemke, Thomas 89, 91, 92, 102
interdisciplinarity 64; interdisciplinary Lerner, Ben 32, 33, 128, 141, 142–3,
research domains 48–9; literary 159, 162
critical landscape, Levine, Caroline 41–2, 134–5, 172
interdisciplinarity of 48 Levinson, Marjorie 41
intra-action, 88 Lewis, S. and Maslin, M. 21
Iovino, Serenella 31, 101 liberalism 102
Irr, Caren 115 life and form, relationship between
42–3
James, David 93 Life of Pi (Martel, Y.) 66, 69–70, 72,
James, Erin 64–5 73, 81
Jemesin, N.K. 77, 81–2, 113 lifeworlds 14, 17, 27, 71, 122, 124, 126,
Johns-Putra, Adeline 120 133, 176; destruction of 19, 111,
Johnson, Mat 66, 70–72 118, 165–6; erosion of 154–5, 156
Joyce, James 26 litany 4, 92, 176
200 Index
literary criticism: ecocriticism and 57; literal materiality 78; material
44–5; literary critical landscape, agency 58; material collages 56;
interdisciplinarity of 48 material ecocriticism 31, 85, 86,
literature: Anthropocene and, four 101; material encounters 89;
affordances 19–29; Anthropocene as material habitat 9, 42, 127; material
context for study of 29–33; creation interchanges 47, 101; material
of worlds in 73–4; formal affor- processes 86, 101, 134; material
dances of 52; inadequacy of existing qualities 40; material reality 26, 38,
literary forms 24; media affordances 54, 78, 95, 134; material storytelling
and 77–83; mimetic powers of 60; 87; material substrates 91;
seismographic function of 23 materialist ontologies 95; new
Lorimer, Jamie 124 materialism. 98 31, 85, 86, 88, 89,
Lotman, Yuri 178 90–91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 98, 100, 101;
Lovecraft, H.P. 2, 17 planetary change, material impact
Lovelock, James 16, 75, 175 of 27; raw materials, transportation
Luckhurst, Roger 23–4, 63–4 of 58; shared materiality 47; of the
Lyotard, Jean-François 150, 162–3, thing 89; toxic materials, exposure
164 to 134; vibrant materialism 86, 88,
89, 101; violent material inscription
macroscale 96–7 102
MaddAddam trilogy (Atwood, M.) matter vs. object 88–93; actor-network
24–5, 150, 152, 154 theory (ANT) 90–91; assemblages,
magic realism 115 things and 89; autonomy, free will
Malabou, Catherine 42 and 90; ethical attunement 89–90;
Mallarmé, Stéphane 26 hyperobjects 92; immanence 88;
Malm, A. and Hornborg, R. 12, 14 intra-action, 88; materiality of the
Malm, Andreas 12 thing 89; monism 88; nature,
Malthus, Thomas 155–6, 161, 168 ineradicable darkness at heart of
Mandel, Emily St. John 150, 153 91–2; natureculture 88; new
Mann, Charles 13 materialism 88, 90–91;
Marcus, S., Love, H. and Best, S. 48 object-oriented ontology 91–2;
Margulis, Lynn 16, 75, 175 object-world, evocations of 92–3;
Marland, Pippa 44, 45, 47 promiscuous interrelationships,
Marris, Emma 122, 123–4 mesh of 89; quantum physics 88;
Marshall, Kate 17–18 relationality 88; speculative realism
Martel, Yann 66, 69–70 91; things, inaccessibility of 92–3;
Martin, Theodore 150 things, non-relational conception of
Martinez-Alier, Joan 46 reality of 91; vibrant materialism
Marxism and Literature (Williams, 88–9
R.) 31–2 Mattern, Shannon 127, 135
Mascaro, Joseph 124 McCarthy, Cormac 22, 150, 152, 153
Masco, Joseph 154 McCarthy, Tom 27–8
material ecocriticism 31, 85, 86, 101 McGuire, Richard 33, 160, 162
materiality 78, 88, 89, 134, 176; McGurl, Mark 62, 63, 70, 83, 97
anti-materialist theory 91; McKibben, Bill 76
biodegradation of materials 38; media affordances 77–83; cinema 77–9;
biotic material, re-engineering of cosmopolitan fictions 83; dis-
52; ecocriticism, material trends in correlation 80; genre fiction 81–2;
46; infrastructure, materiality of indexicality 80; photography 79–80;
129, 134; irreducible materiality 44, posthuman comedy 83;
 Index 201
psychological realism 82–3; science multidirectional memory 111, 117, 177
fiction 81–2; world-building 77–8 multispecies entanglements 145
Meillassoux, Quentin 150, 164–5, 174 Muñoz, José Esteban 158
Melville, Herman 39, 41 Musk, Elon 14, 73, 168
memory 32, 83, 103, 122; Anthro- My Struggle (Knausgaard, K.-O.) 97
pocene memories 110–14, 115–16;
cosmopolitan memory 111; cultural Nancy, Jean-Luc 73
memory studies 111; eco-memory nanotechnology 99
111, 117, 177; environmental narrative 20–2; analytical function of
memory 32; ethics of 107–8, 110; 21–2
extensions of 111–12; future naturalization 20, 44, 47, 60, 122, 159,
memory 122, 175; indigenous 177
cultural memory 120; material nature: ecocriticism and 47–8;
carriers, media of memory as 111; ecocriticism’s rediscovery of 45;
media of memory 111; memory ecopoetics and form 37–43;
studies 108–9; modes of memory ineradicable darkness at heart of
116–17; more-than-human memory 91–2; inherited ideas about 37;
112; multidirectional memory 111, writing about, tradition of 39
117, 177; objects of 111; post- natureculture 88, 177
humanist enclosures of memory neo-apocalypse 152–3
110; retrieval of memory 113–14; Neuromancer (Gibson, W.) 169–70
scope of memory 114; socio- neuroscience 59
environmental memory 111; studies new materialism 85, 86, 88–95,
of 110–11 100–101
Mentz, Steve 7, 128 Newitz, Annalee 24, 169
mesh 89, 177 Neyrat, Frédéric 76
mesoscale 96–7 Ngai, Sianne 5
Michaels, Walter Benn 148–9 Nihil Unbound (Brassier, R.) 164–5
micro-organisms 57 Nixon, Rob 14–15, 20, 46, 111, 126,
Miller, J. Hillis 49 154
Mirzoeff, Nicholas 20, 27 No Future (Edelman, L.) 158–9
misanthropy 165–71 nonhuman: agents, failure to factor in
Mitchell, David 150, 152, 154 15–17; forces, agency of 61; species
Mitchell, W.J.T. 89 161; world 31–2, 84–103;
Moby Dick (Melville, H.) 19, 39 Novum Organon (Bacon, F.) 53–4
modernity 12, 17–18, 45, 108, 128,
137, 146, 151 object-oriented ontology 31, 85, 86,
mondialisation 73 91–2, 93, 94–5, 100, 101
Monet, Claude 20 ocean 53–9
monism 88, 99–100, 177 oil infrastructure 139–40
Moore, Jason 12 Oliganthropocene 11, 13, 14
Moravec, Hans 163 Oliver, Kelly 74–5
Moretti, Franco 60 On the Road (Kerouac, J.) 19, 140
Morton, Timothy 49, 91–2, 99, 133, ontology 54, 72, 84, 90, 134, 169, 177;
176, 177 materialist ontologies 95, 100;
mourning: anticipatory (or proleptic) object-oriented ontology 31, 85, 86,
114; the future 117–22; memory and 91–2, 93, 94–5, 100, 101;
112–13 ontological description 89;
Muir, John 122 ontological space 133; pluralist
multicultural postmodernism 128–9 ontology 100
202 Index
Open City (Cole, T.) 82–3 Plumwood, Val 165
Oppermann, Serpil 31, 84, 87, 90, 93, Poe, Edgar Allan 30, 65–6, 67–9, 70,
94, 101 71, 72, 73, 81
The Order of Things (Foucault, M.) Point Omega (DeLillo, D.) 97
148 The Population Bomb (Ehrlich, P.) 156
Oreskes, N. and Conway, E.M. 18, post-apocalypse 77, 152–3, 155, 156;
50–51 post-apocalyptic fiction 154–5,
Oreskes, Naomi 21–2, 25 157–8
On the Origin of Species (Darwin, C.) post-cinema 80
144–5 post-pandemic survival 153–4
Oryx and Crake (Atwood, M.) 24–5 post-postmodern autofiction 128–9
other-than-human(ism) 84–7; different postcolonial nonfiction 128–9
differences, differentiation between posthuman comedy 83
86–7; distributive agency 85; posthumanism 47, 85, 87, 98, 110, 163,
entanglements of human and other 176
agents 84–5; human agency 84; postmodern condition 162–3
matter, structure of 86; Povinelli, Elizabeth 42
object-oriented ontology 85; Powers of Ten (Charles and Ray
posthumanism 87; thing-power, Eames film) 99
agency of things and 85–7; pretrauma 118–19, 120–21;
ultra-humanisms 85 Pretraumatic Stress Syndrome 118
overpopulation 161, 166–7 psychological realism 82–3
“Ozymandias” (Percy Bysshe Shelley) public things128
148, 149 Purdy, Jedediah 9, 127
Pym (Johnson, M.) 66, 70–72, 73, 81
Parikka, Jussi 27, 134
The Peripheral (Gibson, W.) 24, 25, quantum physics 88
151, 169, 170–71 queerness, queer theory and 158–9
Perrotta, Tom 152
personhood 167 Rambunctious Garden: Saving Nature
Petrocultures Research Group 141, 143 in a Post-Wild World (Marris, E.)
petromelancholia 141–2, 177–8 124
photography 79–80; photosynthesis 56 realism 60–66, 70, 77, 81, 82, 83, 97;
Pinkus, Karen 139 affect, genres and 63–4; climate
planet earth 72–7; Antarctic literature change, narrative engagement with
72–3; cosmic detachment 74–5; 62; generic expectation and affective
counterglobalist world-making 74; effect, tension between 65; generic
cybernetic system 75; templates, differences in 63–4, 66;
destabilization 76; earth and genre fiction 61–2; genres 62–3;
Anthropocene 72–7; earth as literature, mimetic powers of 60;
interconnected organism 75; earth realism, limitations of 61–2; scale,
ethics 74; Earthbound 74; globe, limitation of 61; supernatural
globalisation and 72–7; globes, horror 62; weirdness 63–4
spheres and 75–6; world, globe, Reed, Christina 38
earth and planet, relation between Reilly, Evelyn 30, 37–41, 42, 48,
76; world, mondialisation and 72–7 49–50, 53, 57, 58, 89
Plantationocene 7, 11, 13 Rekret, Paul 89
plastic 38–9 relationality: matter vs. object 88;
plasticity 42 relation, importance of 136–7; scale
Plasticene 38 shiftiness 96
 Index 203
reproductive futurism 150, 159, 161, A Small Place (Kincaid, J.) 32, 128,
178 131–3
“Rime of the Ancient Mariner” Smith, Rachel Greenwald 136
(Coleridge, Samuel T.) 39 Snowpiercer (Bong Joon-Ho film) 50
The Road (John Hillcoat film) 80 social science fiction 168–9
The Road (McCarthy, C.) 22, 150, socioenvironmental memory 111
152, 153, 154, 155, 156 solastalgia 118–19
Robbins, Bruce 130, 132–3 Soni, Vivasvan 139
Robinson Crusoe (Defoe, D.) Southern Reach trilogy (VanderMeer,
155 J.) 1–3, 24, 27
Rody, Caroline 137 Spahr, Juliana 40
Ronda, Margaret 40 species revivalism 53
Roosevelt, Theodore 122 speculativeness 1, 10, 14, 47, 66, 114,
Rothberg, Michael 177 164, 165, 178; speculative fabulation
Rothsthein, Adam 129–30 161; speculative fiction 112–13, 169,
Rubenstein, M., Robbins, B. and Beal, 174; speculative issues 22;
S. 129, 130, 135 speculative philosophy 167;
Ruddiman, William 12–13, 21 speculative realism 91, 164, 167;
speculative thinking 178
Satin Island (McCarthy, T.) 27–8 speculative realism 91, 164, 167
Scale 61, 62, 75, 86–7, 96–100; deep Spivak, Gayatri 76
time 97; Google Earth 99; Sputnik 73–4
nanotechnological imaginaries 99; Stapledon, Olaf 97
scalar collapse 98; scale effects, Station Eleven (Mandel, E.St.J.) 150,
scale variance and 99–100; 153, 154, 155, 156
trans-scalarity 98; zooming 98, 99; Staying with the Trouble (Haraway,
Scheffler, Samuel 157–8, 159, 162 D.) 17, 161
science fiction 21, 23, 24, 30, 61–3, Steinberg, Philip 54
76–7, 81, 97, 112, 151, 168–9 81–2 Stoermer, Eugene 3
Scranton, Roy 144, 146, 150, 151, storied matter 31, 87, 100–101
158 Stranger Things (Netflix series) 93
second-wave ecocriticism 45, 47–8 strategic realism 140–41
Sefton-Rowston, Adelle 119, 121 Streeby, Shelley 19, 50, 113
Seltzer, Mark 28–9 stuplimity 5
semiosphere 101, 178 Styrofoam (Reilly, E.) 37–41, 42, 48,
Shakespeare, William 153–4 49–50, 53, 57, 58, 89
Shelley, Mary 18–19, 152, 163 sublime 5, 39, 40–41, 66, 68, 70, 92,
Shelley, Percy Bysshe 148, 149 130, 160, 178–9; romantic sublime
Shklovsky, Viktor 55, 78, 174 40, 41, 152
The Shock of the Anthropocene Submergence (Ledgard, J.M.) 43,
(Bonneuil, C. and Fressoz, F.) 54–5, 55–7, 58, 59
18 subtraction, poetics of 155
Silent Spring (Carson, R.) 43–4 supernatural horror 62, 76–7
Silko, Leslie Marmon 19 The Swan Book (Wright, A.) 32, 111,
Siskind, Mariano 66–7 114, 119–22, 123, 124–5
Skinner, Jonathan 40 Swift, Jonathan 96–7
Sloterdijk, Peter 158 symbionts 161, 168, 179
Slovic, Scott 44, 46 Sze, Julie 135
“A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal” Szeman, Imre 72, 140–41
(William Wordsworth) 148 Szerszynski, Bronislaw 112, 147
204 Index
Takolander, Maria 120 Vibrant Matter (Bennett, J.) 85–6,
Tate, Andrew 152 88–9
Taylor, Jesse Oak 20 Voluntary Human Extinction
Taylor, Matthew 75–6 Movement (VHEMT) 167
techno-utopianism 140–41
10:04 (Lerner, B.) 32, 128, 141, 142–3, Wallace-Wells, David 118
159 War in the Age of Intelligent
Terra Firma Triptych: When Robots Machines (DeLanda, M.) 147
Fly (Ledgard, J.M.) 43, 58–9 waste 27, 38, 93, 102, 116, 123, 125,
Texler, Adam 63 132–4
Thacker, Eugene 52, 62, 63, 76–7, 80 The Water Knife (Bacigalupi, P.) 152
Thill, Brian 133 Watt, James 12, 21
things: inaccessibility of 92–3; Weik von Mossner, Alexa 64
non-relational conception of reality weird 1–2, 8, 9, 23–4, 25, 27, 62–4,
of 91; thing-power, agency of things 148, 179; weird environment 91–2;
and 85–7 weirded temporality 109–10;
third-wave ecocriticism 45–6 realism and 63–4
Thoreau, Henry David 45, 122 Weisman, Alan 146–7, 161
threshold concept, Anthropocene as Wells, H.G. 160
10–11 Wenzel, Jennifer 54, 76, 108, 112, 139,
Tolstoy, Leo 55 140
Toxicity 86, 87, 89, 93, 95, 115, 116, Whitehead, Colson 63
122, 123, 133–4, 175 “Why Has Critique Run out of
trans-corporeality 39, 47, 179 Steam?” (Latour, B.) 51–2
trans-scalarity 98 Whyte, Kyle Powys 19
Transformers (Dreamworks film wilderness 27, 37, 45, 114, 179; alien
series) 80 wilderness 115; conservation and
transhumanism 163, 167, 170–71, 179 122–5; natural wilderness 87;
trauma: pretrauma 118–19, 120–21; restoration of unspoiled wilderness
Pretraumatic Stress Syndrome 118 122–3
Tropic of Orange (Yamashita, K.T.) Williams, Raymond 31–2, 109–10, 117
32, 128, 135–8, 138–9, 142 Wilson, Eric 66, 68
“The Trouble with Wilderness” The Windup Girl (Bacigalupi, P.) 62,
(Cronon, W.) 123 152
24 Psycho (Gordon, D.) 97 Winkiel, Laura 54
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Wolfe, Cary 87
Sea (Verne, J.) 56 Wood, Gillen D’Arcy 19
Woods, Derek 15, 26, 87, 99–100
ultra-humanisms 85 Wordsworth, William 41, 45, 148, 163
Underworld (DeLillo, D.) 97 world: counterglobalist world-making
The Uninhabitable Earth (Wallace- 74; globe, earth and planet, relation
Wells, D.) 118 between 76; mondialisation and
unsustainability 9, 140 72–7; world-building 77–8
World War Z (Marc Forster film) 80
Van Dooren, Thom 11, 53, 159–60, The World without Us (Weisman, A.)
162, 167 146–7
VanderMeer, Jeff 1–3, 8, 23, 24, 25, 63 Wright, Alexis 32, 111, 114, 119–22,
Verne, Jules 56 124–5
vibrant materialism: matter vs. object writing 25–9
88–9; scriptorium 101–2 Wyndham, John 152
 Index 205
Yaeger, Patricia 130, 140 Zalasiewicz, J. et al. 6
Yamashita, Karen Tei 32, 128, 135–8, Zalasiewicz, Jan 147
138–9 Zarathustra (Zoroaster) 151
The Year of the Flood (Atwood, M.) zooming 98, 99
24–5 Zylinska, Joanna 79–80, 145