I
withdraw’: A talk with climate defeatist Paul Kingsnorth
Wen
Stephenson
11
April, 2012
Not
everyone is quite ready to hear, or accept, what Paul Kingsnorth has
to say.
An
English writer and erstwhile green activist, he spent two decades
(he’ll turn 40 this year) in the environmental movement, and he’s
done with all that. And not only environmentalism — he’s done
with “hope.” He’s moved beyond it. He’s not out to “save
the planet.” He’s had it with the dream of “sustainability.”
He’s looked into the abyss of planetary collapse, and he’s more
or less fine with it: Collapse? Sure. Bring it on.
In
2009, he founded, together with collaborator Dougald Hine, something
called the Dark
Mountain Project.
A kind of loose literary collective — with a website, annual Dark
Mountain anthology, an arts festival and other gatherings — it’s
a cultural response to our global environmental, economic, and
political crises. “Uncivilisation:
The Dark Mountain Manifesto”
appeared that summer and got some attention, mostly in the U.K.
Kingsnorth and Hine have summed up their message this way:
These are precarious and unprecedented times … Little that we have taken for granted is likely to come through this century intact.
We don’t believe that anyone — not politicians, not economists, not environmentalists, not writers — is really facing up to the scale of this … Somehow, technology or political agreements or ethical shopping or mass protest are meant to save our civilization from self-destruction.
Well, we don’t buy it. This project starts with our sense that civilization as we have known it is coming to an end; brought down by a rapidly changing climate, a cancerous economic system and the ongoing mass destruction of the non-human world. But it is driven by our belief that this age of collapse — which is already beginning — could also offer a new start, if we are careful in our choices.
The end of the world as we know it is not the end of the world full stop.
Some
have called Kingsnorth a catastrophist, or fatalist, with something
like a death wish for civilization (see John Gray in The
New Statesman and
George Monbiot in The
Guardian).
Others might call him a realist, a truthteller. If nothing else, I’d
call him a pretty good provocateur.
Kingsnorth
tossed a grenade in the January/February issue of Orion
Magazine with
his controversial essay “Confessions
of a Recovering Environmentalist.”
There, Kingsnorth gets to the heart of his case. “We are
environmentalists now,” he writes, “in order to promote something
called ‘sustainability.’ What does this curious, plastic word
mean? … It means sustaining human civilization at the comfort level
that the world’s rich people — us — feel is their right,
without destroying the ‘natural capital’ or the ‘resource base’
that is needed to do so.”
Ouch.
But he isn’t finished.
If “sustainability” is about anything, it is about carbon. Carbon and climate change. To listen to most environmentalists today, you would think that these were the only things in the world worth talking about. … Carbon emissions threaten a potentially massive downgrading of our prospects for material advancement as a species. … If we cannot sort this out quickly, we are going to end up darning our socks again and growing our own carrots and other such unthinkable things.
Well,
then. I see. Let it burn.
Of
course, the obvious answer to this (as most Grist readers would
probably agree) is that if we don’t keep talking about carbon and
climate, and start acting in a serious way to address them, the
consequences will be a whole lot more “unthinkable” than darning
socks and growing carrots, and for a whole lot more people
(especially those non-rich, non-Western folks Kingsnorth cares about)
than he’s acknowledging here.
Nevermind.
Kingsnorth’s answer to the whole situation comes down to one word:
withdrawal. “It’s all fine,” he writes at the end the essay. “I
withdraw, you see. I withdraw from the campaigning and the marching …
I am leaving. I am going to go out walking.”
Look,
I’m all
for walking.
And there are things about that essay I genuinely admire —
especially the way it nails the state of anxiety in which
environmentalism seems to find itself today. But withdraw? Really?
The fact that the essay appeared in the same issue as Terry Tempest
Williams’ long, morally bracing interview with Tim DeChristopher,
“What
Love Looks Like,”
only made it harder to take. This, I felt, is what giving up looks
like.
Kingsnorth
and I recently engaged in a long
and spirited email exchange on
the blog I edit at Thoreau
Farm in
Concord, Mass. Surprisingly enough, however, it didn’t end in
bitterness and gnashing of teeth. We somehow stepped down off our
“platforms,” and found a way, not to agree, but at least to
peacefully coexist. We’re both, I think, just trying to define —
like many, many others — what hope looks like, even now.
Here
are excerpts from the exchange. I’ve tried to do justice to
Kingsnorth’s responses, but they can be read in full here and here.
Stephenson:
[You
write] “We are entering an age of massive disruption, and our task
is to live through it as best we can.” Indeed. But you seem to
reject the possibility that any combination of mass political
engagement and human technological (and yes, industrial-economic)
ingenuity might help us do just that: live through it as best we can.
For a literary project, that seems like an odd failure of
imagination.
To
dismiss the search for “solutions” — which I assume must
include efforts to stabilize the climate in the coming century —
seems a bit too cynical, or fatalistic.
As if to say that nothing can
be done. At the very least, we can still work urgently to minimize
the human (and non-human) suffering that is coming.
Unless
we find ways to stop pumping carbon into the atmosphere, itwill be
the end of the world (or of humanity), full stop.
Kingsnorth:
“Unless
we find ways to stop pumping carbon into the atmosphere, itwill be
the end of the world (or of humanity), full stop.”
This
is an interesting statement for this reason: that it elides modern
human civilisation and the living planet. They are not the same
thing. They are very far from being the same thing; in fact, one of
them is allergic to the other. If we don’t start to realise this —
really get it, at a deep level — there will be no change worth
having for anyone.
I
have spent 20 years and more as an environmental campaigner. My
worldview has always been, for want of a less clunky word,
ecocentric. What I care passionately about is nature in the round:
all living things, life as a phenomenon. That’s not an anti-human
position — it would be impossible for it to be so, because humans
are as natural as anything else. But my view is that humans are no
more or less important than anything else that lives. Whether or not
our current (temporary and hugely destructive) way of life is
‘sustainable’ is not of great concern to me, except insofar as it
impacts on life as a whole.
I
do think that climate change campaigners like yourself should be more
upfront about what you’re trying to ‘save.’ It’s not the
world. It’s not humanity either, which I’d bet will survive
whatever comes in some form or another, though perhaps with
drastically reduced numbers and no broadband connection. No, what
you’re trying to save, it seems to me, is the world you have grown
used to.
“Sustainability”
is, as far as I can see, a project designed to keep this culture —
this lifestyle — afloat. The modern human economy is an engine of
mass destruction. Of course, I am conflicted about this. I live at
the heart of this machine; like you, I am a beneficiary of it. If it
falls apart, I will probably suffer, and I don’t want to.
But
I do feel the need to be honest with myself, which is where
the‘walking
away’ comes
in. I am trying to walk away from dishonesty, my own included. Much
environmental campaigning, and thinking, is dishonest. It has to be,
to keep going.
I
don’t think any “climate movement” is going to reverse the tide
of history, for one reason: We are all climate change. It is not the
evil “1%” destroying the planet. We are all of us part of that
destruction. This is the great, conflicted, complex situation we find
ourselves in. I am climate change. You are climate change. Our
culture is climate change. And climate change itself is just the tip
of a much bigger iceberg, if you’ll pardon the terrible but
appropriate pun. If we were to wake up tomorrow to the news that
climate change were a hoax or a huge mistake, we would still be
living in a world in which extinction rates were between 100 and 1000
times natural levels and in which we have managed to destroy 25
percent of the world’s wildlife in the last four decades alone.
How
do we live with this reality? Politics is not going to do anything
about it, Wen, because politics is the process of keeping this
Machine moving. Living with this reality — living in it, facing it,
being honest about it and not having to pretend we can ‘solve’ it
as if it were a giant jigsaw puzzle — seems to me to be a necessary
prerequisite for living through it. I realize that to some people it
looks like giving up. But to me it looks like just getting started
with a view of the world based on reality rather than wishful
thinking.
I
don’t want to sound like a nihilist. There are a lot of useful
things that we can do at this stage in history. Protecting
biodiversity seems the crucial one. Protecting non-human nature from
more destruction by the Machine. I’m all for fighting winnable
battles.
You
asked me about hope for the future: The thought that the disaster we
have created may help us see ourselves for what we are — animals —
and not what we believe we are — gods — gives me a kind of hope.
Stephenson:
We
agree that human beings are, as Thoreau
once wrote,
“part and parcel of Nature.” You (and others) call this
perspective ecocentric, but I dislike that term — it’s weighted
toward the “eco-,” as something distinct from the human, the
“anthro-,” and so still clings to a dualistic man-vs.-nature
mindset. Personally, I value the human every bit as much as the
non-human.
Where
I think we differ — and please correct me if I’m wrong — is
that you are driven primarily by a desire to restore what you’d say
is a proper relationship between humanity and non-human nature. And
it’s as though you welcome an inevitable collapse insofar as it
aids or hastens this correction.
While
I believe correcting our relationship to the non-human is a noble
ideal, I’m primarily driven — and I know plenty of others who are
as well — by a desire to prevent as much suffering as possible in
the decades to come. I guess I’m with Tim DeChristopher on this.
As he
tells Terry
Tempest Williams, “I would never go to jail to protect animals or
plants or wilderness. For me, it’s about the people.” It’s a
humanitarian imperative. It transcends environmentalism and
environmental politics.
So
it’s simply wrong to suggest that someone like Tim DeChristopher
went to prison to save our consumer civilization — to save shopping
malls. He went to prison to save lives….
We’re
not going to stop global warming at this point. But we may still be
able to preserve a livable planet. There’s every reason to think
that a last-ditch effort to cut carbon emissions — together with
serious adaptation efforts at all levels, and local grassroots
movements to create resilient local communities — will help prevent
or alleviate the suffering of countless numbers of people in the
latter half of this century. People who will have done nothing to
cause the situation they inherit. It’s not about sustaining our
current lifestyles, or getting ourselves off the hook. It’s about
giving future generations a fighting chance. It’s about giving my
own children — and everyone else’s — a fighting chance.
Kingsnorth:
I
wonder what it is that makes me so “ecocentric,” and you such a
humanist? I wonder what fuels my sense of resignation, and my
occasional sneaking desire for it all to come crashing down, and what
fuels your powerful need for this thing called hope. Whenever I hear
the word “hope” these days, I reach for my whisky bottle. It
seems to me to be such a futile thing. What does it mean? What are we
hoping for? And why are we reduced to something so desperate? Surely
we only hope when we are powerless?
This
may sound a strange thing to say, but one of the great achievements
for me of the Dark Mountain Project has been to give people
permission to give up hope. What I mean by that is that we help
people get beyond the desperate desire to do something as impossible
as ‘save the Earth’, or themselves, and start talking about where
we actually are, what is actually possible and where we are actually
coming from.
I
don’t think we need hope. I think we need imagination. We need to
imagine a future which can’t be planned for and can’t be
controlled. I find that people who talk about hope are often really
talking about control. They hope desperately that they can keep
control of the way things are panning out. Keep the lights on, keep
the emails flowing, keep the nice bits of civilisation and lose the
nasty ones; keep control of their narrative, the world they
understand. Giving up hope, to me, means giving up the illusion of
control and accepting that the future is going to be improvised,
messy, difficult.
The
Tim DeChristopher quote which you use approvingly is something which
divides us. I admire anyone who can go to prison for their beliefs
(well, not anyone, it rather depends what those beliefs are) but I’m
of the opinion that the last thing the world needs right now is more
“humanitarians.” What the world needs right now is human beings
who are able to see outside the human bubble, and understand that all
this talk about collapse, decline, and crisis is not just a human
concern. When I look to the future, the thing that frightens me most
is not climate change, or the possibility of the lights going out in
the lit-up parts of the world, it’s that we may keep this ecocidal
civilization going long enough to take everything down with it.
I
feel I have to respond to all of this by giving up hope, so that I
can instead find some measure of reality. So I’ve let hope fall
away from me, and wishful thinking too, and I feel much lighter. I
feel now as if I am able to look more honestly at the way the world
is, and what I can do with what I have to give, in the time I have
left. I don’t think you can plan for the future until you have
really let go of the past.
Stephenson:
I
can understand the need to let go of “hope,” conventionally
defined. But I think what you’re doing here is redefining it —
for yourself, at least, and maybe for others gathering with you for
your dark mountain trek. If you want to jettison the word altogether,
as a piece of that past we must let go of, very well. But you’ve
clearly found something — or at least started the search for
something! — which keeps you going. And who am I to take that away
from you or anyone?
Confessions
of a Recovering Environmentalist
by
Paul Kingsnorth
26
April, 2012
Scenes
from a younger life # 1:
I
am twelve years old. I am alone, I am scared, I am cold, and I am
crying my eyes out. I can’t see more than six feet in either
direction. I am on some godforsaken moor high up on the dark,
ancient, poisonous spine of England. The black bog juice I have been
trudging through for hours has long since crept over the tops of my
boots and down into my socks. My rucksack is too heavy, I am unloved
and lost and I will never find my way home. It is raining and the
cloud is punishing me; clinging to me, laughing at me. Twenty-five
years later, I still have a felt memory of that experience and its
emotions: a real despair and a terrible loneliness.
I
do find my way home; I manage to keep to the path and eventually
catch up with my father, who has the map and the compass and the mini
Mars bars. He was always there, somewhere up ahead, but he had
decided it would be good for me to “learn to keep up” with him.
All of this, he tells me, will make me into a man. Needless to say,
it didn’t work.
Only
later do I realize the complexity of the emotions summoned by a
childhood laced with experiences like this. My father was a
compulsive long-distance walker. Every year, throughout my most
formative decade, he would take me away to Cumbria or Northumberland
or Yorkshire or Cornwall or Pembrokeshire, and we would walk, for
weeks. We would follow ancient tracks or new trails, across mountains
and moors and ebony-black cliffs. Much of the time, we would be alone
with each other and with our thoughts and our conversations, and we
would be alone with the oystercatchers, the gannets, the curlews, the
skylarks, and the owls. With the gale and the breeze, with our maps
and compasses and emergency rations and bivy bags and plastic bottles
of water. We would camp in the heather, by cairns and old mine
shafts, hundreds of feet above the orange lights of civilization, and
I would dream. And in the morning, with dew on the tent and cold air
in my face as I opened the zip, the wild elements of life, all of the
real things, would all seem to be there, waiting for me with the
sunrise.
Scenes
from a younger life # 2:
I
am nineteen years old. It is around midnight and I am on the summit
of a low, chalk down, the last of the long chain that winds its way
through the crowded, peopled, fractious south country. There are
maybe fifty or sixty people there with me. There is a fire going,
there are guitars, there is singing and weird and unnerving whooping
noises from some of the ragged travelers who have made this place
their home.
This
is Twyford Down, a hilltop east of Winchester. There is something
powerful about this place; something ancient and unanswering. Soon it
is to be destroyed: a six-lane motorway will be driven through it in
a deep chalk cutting. It is vital that this should happen in order to
reduce the journey time between London and Southampton by a full
thirteen minutes. The people up here have made it their home in a
doomed attempt to stop this from happening.
From
outside it is impossible to see, and most do not want to. The name
calling has been going on for months, in the papers and the pubs and
in the House of Commons. The people here are Luddites, NIMBYs
(“not-in-my-backyard” grumblers), reactionaries, romantics. They
are standing in the way of progress. They will not be tolerated.
Inside, there is a sense of shared threat and solidarity, there are
blocks of hash and packets of Rizlas and liters of bad cider. We know
what we are here for. We know what we are doing. We can feel the
reason in the soil and in the night air. Down there, under the lights
and behind the curtains, there is no chance that they will ever
understand.
Someone
I don’t know suggests we dance the maze. Out beyond the firelight,
there is a maze carved into the down’s soft, chalk turf. I don’t
know if it’s some ancient monument or a new creation. Either way,
it’s the same spiral pattern that can be found carved into rocks
from millennia ago. With cans and cigarettes and spliffs in our
hands, a small group of us start to walk the maze, laughing,
staggering, then breaking into a run, singing, spluttering, stumbling
together toward the center.
Scenes
from a younger life # 3:
I
am twenty-one years old and I’ve just spent the most exciting two
months of my life so far in an Indonesian rainforest. I’ve just
been on one of those organized expeditions that people of my age buy
into to give them the chance to do something useful and exciting in
what used to be called the “Third World.” I’ve prepared for
months for this. I’ve sold double glazing door-to-door to scrape
together the cash. I have been reading Bruce Chatwin and Redmond
O’Hanlon and Benedict Allen and my head is full of magic and idiocy
and wonder.
During
my trip, there were plenty of all of these things. I still vividly
remember klotok journeys up Borneo rivers by moonlight, watching the
swarms of giant fruit bats overhead. I remember the hooting of
gibbons and the search for hornbills high up in the rainforest
canopy. I remember a four-day trek through a so-called “rain”
forest that was so dry we ended up drinking filtered mud. I remember
turtle eggs on the beaches of Java and young orangutans at the
rehabilitation center where we worked in Kalimantan, sitting in the
high branches of trees with people’s stolen underpants on their
heads, laughing at us. I remember the gold miners and the loggers,
and the freshwater crocodiles in the same river we swam in every
morning. I remember my first sight of flying fish in the Java Sea.
And
I remember the small islands north of Lombok, where some of us spent
a few days before we came home. At night we would go down to the
moonlit beach, where the sea and the air was still warm, and in the
sea were millions of tiny lights: phosphorescence. I had never seen
this before; never even heard of it. We would walk into the water and
immerse ourselves and rise up again and the lights would cling to our
bodies, fading away as we laughed.
Now,
back home, the world seems changed. A two-month break from my
country, my upbringing, my cultural assumptions, a two-month
immersion in something far more raw and unmediated, has left me open
to seeing this place as it really is. I see the atomization and the
inward focus and the faces of the people in a hurry inside their
cars. I see the streetlights and the asphalt as I had not quite seen
them before. What I see most of all are the adverts.
For
the first time, I realize the extent and the scope and the impacts of
the billboards, the posters, the TV and radio ads. Everywhere an
image, a phrase, a demand, or a recommendation is screaming for my
attention, trying to sell me something, tell me who to be, what to
desire and to need. And this is before the internet; before Apples
and BlackBerries became indispensable to people who wouldn’t know
where to pick the real thing; before the deep, accelerating immersion
of people in their technologies, even outdoors, even in the sunshine.
Compared to where I have been, this world is so tamed, so mediated
and commoditized, that something within it seems to have broken off
and been lost beneath the slabs. No one has noticed this, or says so
if they have. Something is missing: I can almost see the gap where it
used to be. But it is not remarked upon. Nobody says a thing.
What
took hold
It
is nine-thirty at night in mid-December at the end of the first
decade of the twenty-first century. I step outside my front door into
the farmyard and walk over to the track, letting my eyes adjust to
the dark. I am lucky enough to be living among the Cumbrian fells
now, and as my pupils widen I can see, under a clear, starlit sky,
the outline of the Old Man of Coniston, Dow Crag, Wetherlam,
Helvellyn, the Fairfield Horseshoe. I stand there for ten minutes,
growing colder. I see two shooting stars and a satellite. I suddenly
wish my dad were still alive, and I wonder where the magic has gone.
These
experiences, and others like them, were what formed me. They were
what made me what I would later learn to call an “environmentalist”:
something that seemed rebellious and excitingly outsiderish when I
first took it up (and that successfully horrified my social-climbing
father—especially as it was partly his fault) but that these days
is almost de rigueur among the British bourgeoisie. Early in my adult
life, just after I came back from Twyford Down, I vowed,
self-importantly, that this would be my life’s work: saving nature
from people. Preventing the destruction of beauty and brilliance,
speaking up for the small and the overlooked and the things that
could not speak for themselves. When I look back on this now, I’m
quite touched by my younger self. I would like to be him again,
perhaps just for a day; someone to whom all sensations are fiery and
all answers are simple.
All
of this—the downs, the woods, the rainforest, the great oceans,
and, perhaps most of all, the silent isolation of the moors and
mountains, which at the time seemed so hateful and unremitting—took
hold of me somewhere unexamined. The relief I used to feel on those
long trudges with my dad when I saw the lights of a village or a
remote pub, even a minor road or a pylon, any sign of humanity—as I
grow older this is replaced by the relief of escaping from the towns
and the villages, away from the pylons and the pubs and the people,
up onto the moors again, where only the ghosts and the saucer-eyed
dogs and the old legends and the wind can possess me.
But
they are harder to find now, those spirits. I look out across the
moonlit Lake District ranges, and it’s as clear as the night air
that what used to come in regular waves, pounding like the sea, comes
now only in flashes, out of the corner of my eyes, like a lighthouse
in a storm. Perhaps it’s the way the world has changed. There are
more cars on the roads now, more satellites in the sky. The footpaths
up the fells are like stone motorways, there are turbines on the
moors, and the farmers are being edged out by south-country refugees
like me, trying to escape but bringing with us the things we flee
from. The new world is online and loving it, the virtual happily
edging out the actual. The darkness is shut out and the night grows
lighter and nobody is there to see it.
It
could be all that, but it probably isn’t. It’s probably me. I am
thirty-seven now. The world is smaller, more tired, more fragile,
more horribly complex and full of troubles. Or, rather: the world is
the same as it ever was, but I am more aware of it and of the reality
of my place within it. I have grown up, and there is nothing to be
done about it. The worst part of it is that I can’t seem to look
without thinking anymore. And now I know far more about what we are
doing. We: the people. I know what we are doing, all over the world,
to everything, all of the time. I know why the magic is dying. It’s
me. It’s us.
How
it ended
I
became an “environmentalist” because of a strong emotional
reaction to wild places and the other-than-human world: to beech
trees and hedgerows and pounding waterfalls, to songbirds and
sunsets, to the flying fish in the Java Sea and the canopy of the
rainforest at dusk when the gibbons come to the waterside to feed.
From that reaction came a feeling, which became a series of thoughts:
that such things are precious for their own sake, that they are food
for the human soul, and that they need people to speak for them to,
and defend them from, other people, because they cannot speak our
language and we have forgotten how to speak theirs. And because we
are killing them to feed ourselves and we know it and we care about
it, sometimes, but we do it anyway because we are hungry, or we have
persuaded ourselves that we are.
But
these are not, I think, very common views today. Today’s
environmentalism is as much a victim of the contemporary cult of
utility as every other aspect of our lives, from science to
education. We are not environmentalists now because we have an
emotional reaction to the wild world. Most of us wouldn’t even know
where to find it. We are environmentalists now in order to promote
something called “sustainability.” What does this curious,
plastic word mean? It does not mean defending the nonhuman world from
the ever-expanding empire of Homo sapiens sapiens, though some of its
adherents like to pretend it does, even to themselves. It means
sustaining human civilization at the comfort level that the world’s
rich people—us—feel is their right, without destroying the
“natural capital” or the “resource base” that is needed to do
so.
It
is, in other words, an entirely human-centered piece of politicking,
disguised as concern for “the planet.” In a very short time—just
over a decade—this worldview has become all-pervasive. It is voiced
by the president of the USA and the president of Anglo-Dutch Shell
and many people in between. The success of environmentalism has been
total—at the price of its soul.
Let
me offer up just one example of how this pact has worked. If
“sustainability” is about anything, it is about carbon. Carbon
and climate change. To listen to most environmentalists today, you
would think that these were the only things in the world worth
talking about. The business of “sustainability” is the business
of preventing carbon emissions. Carbon emissions threaten a
potentially massive downgrading of our prospects for material
advancement as a species. They threaten to unacceptably erode our
resource base and put at risk our vital hoards of natural capital. If
we cannot sort this out quickly, we are going to end up darning our
socks again and growing our own carrots and other such unthinkable
things. All of the horrors our grandparents left behind will return
like deathless legends. Carbon emissions must be “tackled” like a
drunk with a broken bottle—quickly, and with maximum force.
Don’t
get me wrong: I don’t doubt the potency of climate change to
undermine the human machine. It looks to me as if it is already
beginning to do so, and that it is too late to do anything but
attempt to mitigate the worst effects. But what I am also convinced
of is that the fear of losing both the comfort and the meaning that
our civilization gifts us has gone to the heads of environmentalists
to such a degree that they have forgotten everything else. The carbon
must be stopped, like the Umayyad at Tours, or all will be lost.
This
reductive approach to the human-environmental challenge leads to an
obvious conclusion: if carbon is the problem, then “zero-carbon”
is the solution. Society needs to go about its business without
spewing the stuff out. It needs to do this quickly, and by any means
necessary. Build enough of the right kind of energy technologies,
quickly enough, to generate the power we “need” without producing
greenhouse gases, and there will be no need to ever turn the lights
off; no need to ever slow down.
To
do this will require the large-scale harvesting of the planet’s
ambient energy: sunlight, wind, water power. This means that vast new
conglomerations of human industry are going to appear in places where
this energy is most abundant. Unfortunately, these places coincide
with some of the world’s wildest, most beautiful, and most
untouched landscapes. The sort of places that environmentalism came
into being to protect.
And
so the deserts, perhaps the landscape always most resistant to
permanent human conquest, are to be colonized by vast “solar
arrays,” glass and steel and aluminum, the size of small countries.
The mountains and moors, the wild uplands, are to be staked out like
vampires in the sun, their chests pierced with rows of
five-hundred-foot wind turbines and associated access roads, masts,
pylons, and wires. The open oceans, already swimming in our plastic
refuse and emptying of marine life, will be home to enormous offshore
turbine ranges and hundreds of wave machines strung around the
coastlines like Victorian necklaces. The rivers are to see their
estuaries severed and silted by industrial barrages. The croplands
and even the rainforests, the richest habitats on this terrestrial
Earth, are already highly profitable sites for biofuel plantations
designed to provide guilt-free car fuel to the motion-hungry masses
of Europe and America.
What
this adds up to should be clear enough, yet many people who should
know better choose not to see it. This is business-as-usual: the
expansive, colonizing, progressive human narrative, shorn only of the
carbon. It is the latest phase of our careless, self-absorbed,
ambition-addled destruction of the wild, the unpolluted, and the
nonhuman. It is the mass destruction of the world’s remaining wild
places in order to feed the human economy. And without any sense of
irony, people are calling this “environmentalism.”
A
while back I wrote an article in a newspaper highlighting the impact
of industrial wind power stations (which are usually referred to, in
a nice Orwellian touch, as wind “farms”) on the uplands of
Britain. I was e-mailed the next day by an environmentalist friend
who told me he hoped I was feeling ashamed of myself. I was wrong;
worse, I was dangerous. What was I doing giving succor to the fossil
fuel industry? Didn’t I know that climate change would do far more
damage to upland landscapes than turbines? Didn’t I know that this
was the only way to meet our urgent carbon targets? Didn’t I see
how beautiful turbines were? So much more beautiful than nuclear
power stations. I might think that a “view” was more important
than the future of the entire world, but this was because I was a
middle-class escapist who needed to get real.
It
became apparent at that point that what I saw as the next phase of
the human attack on the nonhuman world a lot of my environmentalist
friends saw as “progressive,” “sustainable,” and “green.”
What I called destruction they called “large-scale solutions.”
This stuff was realistic, necessarily urgent. It went with the grain
of human nature and the market, which as we now know are the same
thing. We didn’t have time to “romanticize” the woods and the
hills. There were emissions to reduce, and the end justified the
means.
It
took me a while to realize where this kind of talk took me back to:
the maze and the moonlit hilltop. This desperate scrabble for
“sustainable development” was in reality the same old same old.
People I had thought were on my side were arguing aggressively for
the industrializing of wild places in the name of human desire. This
was the same rootless, distant destruction that had led me to the top
of Twyford Down. Only now there seemed to be some kind of crude
equation at work that allowed them to believe this was something
entirely different. Motorway through downland: bad. Wind power
station on downland: good. Container port wiping out estuary
mudflats: bad. Renewable hydropower barrage wiping out estuary
mudflats: good. Destruction minus carbon equals sustainability.
So
here I was again: a Luddite, a NIMBY, a reactionary, a romantic;
standing in the way of progress. I realized that I was dealing with
environmentalists with no attachment to any actual environment. Their
talk was of parts-per-million of carbon, peer-reviewed papers,
sustainable technologies, renewable supergrids, green growth, and the
fifteenth conference of the parties. There were campaigns about “the
planet” and “the Earth,” but there was no specificity: no sign
of any real, felt attachment to any small part of that Earth.
The
place of nature
Back
at university, in love with my newfound radicalism, as students tend
to be, I started to read things. Not the stuff I was supposed to be
reading about social movements and pre-Reformation Europe, but green
political thought: wild ideas I had never come across before. I could
literally feel my mind levering itself open. Most exciting to me were
the implications of a new word I stumbled across: ecocentrism. This
word crystallized everything I had been feeling for years. I had no
idea there were words for it or that other people felt it too, or had
written intimidating books about it. The nearest I had come to such a
realization thus far was reading Wordsworth as a teenager and feeling
an excited tingling sensation as I began to understand what he was
getting at among all those poems about shepherds and girls called
Lucy. Here was a kindred spirit! Here was a man moved to love and
fear by mountains, who believed rocks had souls, that “Nature never
did betray the heart that loved her” (though even then that sounded
a little optimistic to me). Pantheism was my new word that year.
Now
I declared, to myself if no one else, that I was “ecocentric”
too. This was not the same as being egocentric, though some
disagreed, and while it sounded a bit too much like “eccentric,”
this was also a distraction. I was ecocentric because I did not
believe—had never believed, I didn’t think—that humans were the
center of the world, that the Earth was their playground, that they
had the right to do what they liked, or even that what they did was
that important. I thought we were part of something bigger, which had
as much right to the world as we did, and which we were stomping on
for our own benefit. I had always been haunted by shameful thoughts
like this. It had always seemed to me that the beauty to be found on
the trunk of a birch tree was worth any number of Mona Lisas, and
that a Saturday night sunset was better than Saturday night telly. It
had always seemed that most of what mattered to me could not be
counted or corralled by the kind of people who thought, and still
think, that I just needed to grow up.
It
had been made clear to me for a long time that these feelings were at
best charmingly naïve and at worst backward and dangerous. Later,
the dismissals became encrusted with familiar words, designed to keep
the ship of human destiny afloat: romantic, Luddite, NIMBY, and the
like. For now, though, I had found my place. I was a young, fiery,
radical, ecocentric environmentalist, and I was going to save the
world.
When
I look back on the road protests of the mid-1990s, which I often do,
it is with nostalgia and fondness and a sense of gratitude that I was
able to be there, to see what I saw and do what I did. But I realize
now that it is more than this that makes me think and talk and write
about Twyford Down to an extent that bores even my patient friends.
This, I think, was the last time I was part of an environmental
movement that was genuinely environmental. The people involved were,
like me, ecocentric: they didn’t see “the environment” as
something “out there”; separate from people, to be utilized or
destroyed or protected according to human whim. They saw themselves
as part of it, within it, of it.
There
was a Wordsworthian feel to the whole thing: the defense of the trees
simply because they were trees. Living under the stars and in the
rain, in the oaks and in the chaotic, miraculous tunnels beneath
them, in the soil itself like the rabbits and the badgers. We were
connected to a place; a real place that we loved and had made a
choice to belong to, if only for a short time. There was little
theory, much action, but even more simple being. Being in a place,
knowing it, standing up for it. It was environmentalism at its
rawest, and the people who came to be part of it were those who loved
the land, in their hearts as well as their heads.
In
years to come, this was worn away. It took a while before I started
to notice what was happening, but when I did it was all around me.
The ecocentrism—in simple language, the love of place, the
humility, the sense of belonging, the feelings—was absent from most
of the “environmentalist” talk I heard around me. Replacing it
were two other kinds of talk. One was the
save-the-world-with-wind-farms narrative; the same old face in new
makeup. The other was a distant, somber sound: the marching boots and
rattling swords of an approaching fifth column.
Environmentalism,
which in its raw, early form had no time for the encrusted, seized-up
politics of left and right, offering instead a worldview that saw the
growth economy and the industrialist mentality beloved by both as the
problem in itself, was now being sucked into the yawning, bottomless
chasm of the “progressive” left. Suddenly, people like me,
talking about birch trees and hilltops and sunsets, were politely, or
less politely, elbowed to one side by people who were bringing a
“class analysis” to green politics.
All
this talk of nature, it turned out, was bourgeois, Western, and
unproductive. It was a middle-class conceit, and there was nothing
worse than a middle-class conceit. The workers had no time for
thoughts like this (though no one bothered to notify the workers
themselves that they were simply clodhopping, nature-loathing cannon
fodder in a political flame war). It was terribly, objectively right
wing. Hitler liked nature after all. He was a vegetarian too. It was
all deeply “problematic.”
More
problematic for me was what this kind of talk represented. With the
near global failure of the left-wing project over the past few
decades, green politics was fast becoming a refuge for disillusioned
socialists, Trots, Marxists, and a ragbag of fellow travelers who
could no longer believe in communism or the Labour Party or even
George Galloway, and who saw in green politics a promising bolthole.
In they all trooped, with their Stop-the-War banners and their
Palestinian solidarity scarves, and with them they brought a new
sensibility.
Now
it seemed that environmentalism was not about wildness or ecocentrism
or the other-than-human world and our relationship to it. Instead it
was about (human) social justice and (human) equality and (human)
progress and ensuring that all these things could be realized without
degrading the (human) resource base that we used to call nature back
when we were being naïve and problematic. Suddenly, never-ending
economic growth was a good thing after all: the poor needed it to get
rich, which was their right. To square the circle, for those who
still realized there was a circle, we were told that “social
justice and environmental justice go hand in hand”—a suggestion
of such bizarre inaccuracy that it could surely only be wishful
thinking.
Suddenly,
sustaining a global human population of 10 billion people was not a
problem at all, and anyone who suggested otherwise was not
highlighting any obvious ecological crunch points but was giving
succor to fascism or racism or gender discrimination or orientalism
or essentialism or some other such hip and largely unexamined
concept. The “real issue,” it seemed, was not the human
relationship with the nonhuman world; it was fat cats and bankers and
cap’lism. These things must be destroyed, by way of marches,
protests, and votes for fringe political parties, to make way for
something known as “eco-socialism”: a conflation of concepts that
pretty much guarantees the instant hostility of 95 percent of the
population.
I
didn’t object to this because I thought that environmentalism
should occupy the right rather than the left wing, or because I was
right-wing myself, which I wasn’t (these days I tend to consider
the entire bird with a kind of frustrated detachment). And I
understood that there was at least a partial reason for the success
of this colonization of the greens by the reds. Modern
environmentalism sprang partly from the early-twentieth-century
conservation movement, and that movement had often been about
preserving supposedly pristine landscapes at the expense of people.
Forcing tribal people from their ancestral lands, which had been
newly designated as national parks, for example, in order to create a
fictional “untouched nature” had once been fairly common, from
Africa to the USA. And, actually, Hitler had been something of an
environmentalist, and the wellsprings that nourished some green
thought nourished the thought of some other unsavory characters too
(a fact that some ideologues love to point to when witch-hunting the
greens, as if it wouldn’t be just as easy to point out that ideas
of equality and justice fueled Stalin and Pol Pot).
In
this context it was fair enough to assert that environmentalism
allied itself with ideas of justice and decency, and that it was
about people as well as everything else on the planet. Of course it
was, for “nature” as something separate from people has never
existed. We are nature, and the environmentalist project was always
supposed to be about how we are to be part of it, to live well as
part of it, to understand and respect it, to understand our place
within it, and to feel it as part of ourselves.
So
there was a reason for environmentalism’s shift to the left, just
as there was a reason for its blinding obsession with carbon.
Meanwhile, the fact of what humans are doing to the world became so
obvious, even to those who were doing very well from it, that it
became hard not to listen to the greens. Success duly arrived. You
can’t open a newspaper now or visit a corporate website or listen
to a politician or read the label on a packet of biscuits without
being bombarded with propaganda about the importance of “saving the
planet.” But there is a terrible hollowness to it all, a sense that
society is going through the motions without understanding why. The
shift, the pact, has come at a probably fatal price.
Now
that price is being paid. The weird and unintentional pincer movement
of the failed left, with its class analysis of waterfalls and fresh
air, and the managerial, carbon-über-alles brigade has infiltrated,
ironed out, and reworked environmentalism for its own ends. Now it is
not about the ridiculous beauty of coral, the mist over the fields at
dawn. It is not about ecocentrism. It is not about reforging a
connection between overcivilized people and the world outside their
windows. It is not about living close to the land or valuing the
world for the sake of the world. It is not about attacking the
self-absorbed conceits of the bubble that our civilization has
become.
Today’s
environmentalism is about people. It is a consolation prize for a
gaggle of washed-up Trots and, at the same time, with an amusing
irony, it is an adjunct to hypercapitalism: the catalytic converter
on the silver SUV of the global economy. It is an engineering
challenge: a problem-solving device for people to whom the sight of a
wild Pennine hilltop on a clear winter day brings not feelings of
transcendence but thoughts about the wasted potential for renewable
energy. It is about saving civilization from the results of its own
actions: a desperate attempt to prevent Gaia from hiccupping and
wiping out our coffee shops and broadband connections. It is our last
hope.
The
open land
I
generalize, of course. Environmentalism’s chancel is as
accommodating as that of socialism, anarchism, or conservatism, and
just as capable of generating poisonous internal bickering that will
last until the death of the sun. Many who call themselves green have
little time for the mainstream line I am attacking here. But it is
the mainstream line. It is how most people see environmentalism
today, even if it is not how all environmentalists intend it to be
seen. These are the arguments and the positions that popular
environmentalism—now a global force—offers up in its quest for
redemption. There are reasons; there are always reasons. But whatever
they are, they have led the greens down a dark, litter-strewn,
dead-end street where the rubbish bins overflow, the light bulbs have
blown, and the stray dogs are very hungry indeed.
What
is to be done about this? Probably nothing. It was, perhaps,
inevitable that a utilitarian society would generate a utilitarian
environmentalism, and inevitable too that the greens would not be
able to last for long outside the established political bunkers. But
for me—well, this is no longer mine, that’s all. I can’t make
my peace with people who cannibalize the land in the name of saving
it. I can’t speak the language of science without a corresponding
poetry. I can’t speak with a straight face about saving the planet
when what I really mean is saving myself from what is coming.
Like
all of us, I am a foot soldier of empire. It is the empire of Homo
sapiens sapiens and it stretches from Tasmania to Baffin Island. Like
all empires, it is built on expropriation and exploitation, and like
all empires it dresses these things up in the language of morality
and duty. When we turn wilderness over to agriculture, we speak of
our duty to feed the poor. When we industrialize the wild places, we
speak of our duty to stop the climate from changing. When we spear
whales, we speak of our duty to science. When we raze forests, we
speak of our duty to develop. We alter the atmospheric makeup of the
entire world: half of us pretend it’s not happening, the other half
immediately start looking for new machines that will reverse it. This
is how empires work, particularly when they have started to decay.
Denial, displacement, anger, fear.
The
environment is the victim of this empire. But the “environment”—that
distancing word, that empty concept—does not exist. It is the air,
the waters, the creatures we make homeless or lifeless in flocks and
legions, and it is us too. We are it; we are in it and of it, we make
it and live it, we are fruit and soil and tree, and the things done
to the roots and the leaves come back to us. We make ourselves slaves
to make ourselves free, and when the shackles start to rub we
confidently predict the emergence of new, more comfortable designs.
I
don’t have any answers, if by answers we mean political systems,
better machines, means of engineering some grand shift in
consciousness. All I have is a personal conviction built on those
feelings, those responses, that goes back to the moors of northern
England and the rivers of southern Borneo—that something big is
being missed. That we are both hollow men and stuffed men, and that
we will keep stuffing ourselves until the food runs out, and if
outside the dining room door we have made a wasteland and called it
necessity, then at least we will know we were not to blame, because
we are never to blame, because we are the humans.
What
am I to do with feelings like these? Useless feelings in a world in
which everything must be made useful. Sensibilities in a world of
utility. Feelings like this provide no “solutions.” They build no
new eco-homes, remove no carbon from the atmosphere. This is
head-in-the-clouds stuff, as relevant to our busy, modern lives as
the new moon or the date of the harvest. Easy to ignore, easy to
dismiss, like the places that inspire the feelings, like the world
outside the bubble, like the people who have seen it, if only in
brief flashes beyond the ridge of some dark line of hills.
But
this is fine—the dismissal, the platitudes, the brusque moving-on
of the grown-ups. It’s all fine. I withdraw, you see. I withdraw
from the campaigning and the marching, I withdraw from the arguing
and the talked-up necessity and all of the false assumptions. I
withdraw from the words. I am leaving. I am going to go out walking.
I
am leaving on a pilgrimage to find what I left behind in the jungles
and by the cold campfires and in the parts of my head and my heart
that I have been skirting around because I have been busy fragmenting
the world in order to save it; busy believing it is mine to save. I
am going to listen to the wind and see what it tells me, or whether
it tells me anything at all. You see, it turns out that I have more
time than I thought. I will follow the songlines and see what they
sing to me and maybe, one day, I might even come back. And if I am
very lucky I might bring with me a harvest of fresh tales, which I
can scatter like apple seeds across this tired and angry land
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