With another COP starting today, and the question of climate change having played no role at all in the Dutch elections recently, and, well, for a zillion different reasons – it seems like a good time to ask the question: what books can help to make people move on this topic? (or if you think books are the wrong medium, and we should only look at TikToks or cinema movies or Netflix series, I’d love to hear arguments for that view too).

To me, the most magnificent fiction book on climate change is Kim Stanley Robinson’s The Ministry for the Future. It is phenomenal. I hadn’t read it yet when Henry organised a seminar on the book here at Crooked Timber, but I can only say: do read it. Admittedly, the book is very long – and this might be asking too much of many people, given the very many other demands on our lives. But there’s an easy solution: listen to it. This book is perfect as an audiobook. You listen while walking, and you’ll gradually get through the entire book while enjoying your daily walk. Given the many different voices in the book, it might even be better as an audio-book than to read it from paper/screen.

But since The Ministry for the Future already was discussed at length here, let me focus on two other books that might help to centre our awareness and political debates on climate change: Eleanor Catton’s Birnam Wood and Kimberly Nicholas’s Under the Sky We Make. The first is fiction, the second is non-fiction for citizens. Attention: one spoiler about Birnam Wood under the fold. [click to continue…]

If you’ve ever been at a Dutch PhD ceremony, you’ve come across the toga – which is, unfortunately not a Greek or Roman toga as pictured here. Instead, it’s a kind of black gown, made from heavy cloth, with velvet facings, accompanied by a white collar and a velvet hat that resembles the mortarboards that students around the world wear (and throw) at graduation. This outfit is worn not only at doctoral defenses, but also at inaugural lectures or the official opening of the academic year (here you get an impression of what this looks like in Groningen). Other countries and universities have their own versions of academic regalia, probably with Oxford and Cambridge leading the crowd.

As a foreigner (“international”, as they say in the Netherlands), I got introduced to this custom for the first time when being on a doctoral committee while still working outside the country. When asked whether I wanted to borrow a toga, I was baffled, and found some kind of excuse (probably that I wasn’t a full professor yet). I had an instinctive defensive reaction, which, at the time, I couldn’t quite make sense of. What had spontaneously come to my mind was a slogan of the German 1968 student movement that is hard to forget if you’ve heard it once: “Unter den Talaren, Muff von 1000 Jahren”, “Under the gowns, fug of 1000 years” (see e.g. here for a nice picture and historical account, in German). Although this has often been read as directed against a generation of professors many of whom had a Nazi past (the “1000 year Reich”), it was in fact directed mostly against academic hierarchies and the exclusion of students from university governance. And these latter points – especially the rejection of German university hierarchies, with permanent jobs only for professors – I wholeheartedly share.

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Death comes for us all. We are outlived, as Barkandji man Woddy Harris would have it, by Mother Nature, who holds us in something that I think he would liken to ‘eternity’.

By what logic, then, must Mother Nature also die?

The Barkandji in Wilcannia and nearby Menindee had been protesting and putting their effort into protecting what they feared might be a dying river – the Barka, their mother – for years when in 2018 the first horrors of mass fish kills hit the news.

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I’ve been visiting family in Germany, with only a phone, so I couldn’t post on Sunday. But here are some crows from Hamburg.

In the Wilcannia cemetery a lot of plastic is on display. This cemetery is an important local monument not because it celebrates the working class, because it doesn’t. Unlike in Broken Hill, there are no tourist guides to the cemetery, no famous people that I know of. I camped on the river in Wilcannia, often for weeks at a time. Local people often invited me to go there, to see where their family was buried. For all that is literally houses the dead, I understood from this that the cemetery is very alive in the town’s shared consciousness. I felt I shared in their love and loss there and in this next section of my essay, I invite you to respectfully share it too.

This cemetery was established at the height of Wilcannia’s once-considerable economic power as the third-largest port in Australia, on the Barka, the Darling River, shipping ore and wool to Victoria and thence to the world. Now, like the rest of Wilcannia, the cemetery has been adapted by local Barkandji people who have built meaning and life from the debris of colonialism. There are some large traditional tombstones, but most are lovingly cobbled together by family and friends.

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Today’s post focuses on the ‘design flaw(s)’ in the US Constitution. It turns out, again, that the system of checks and balances is no such thing. And the reason it is no such thing is because an energetic presidency may overpower the other branches and slide the whole ship of state into a species of despotism (in the technical sense of arbitrary government).

Some libertarians may feel vindicated by the previous paragraph, but it is quite notable that public libertarianism has imploded during the last decade. (About that some other time more.) My own view, which is not original with me, is that the underlying problem is not the size or extent of the government (these may be problems, too), but that the American presidency combines too many functions in one office/person: (i) head of state; (ii) leader of the government; (iii) head of the executive branch/administration; (iv) leader of the party, including fund-raiser in chief. This understates the problem because some American presidents can shape prosecutorial power and parts of the judiciary through a spoils system; and have law-enforcement or trade-policy be directed at partial ends. (And so on.) Since America is still the global imperial power, I don’t mean to deny some of the attractions of this way of proceeding.

When 19th-century liberals (French and English Victorians) contemplated this evolving edifice, which was, of course, not yet reshaped by WWI and the New Deal, they understood the risk of elected despotism and advocated for the separation of the first three of these functions by advocating for a (A) constitutional monarch, who could be a source of (theatrical) unity and be the ‘dignified institution’ of the polity; in particular, the monarch could fill the affective space that a demagogue or cult of personality might otherwise fill. A prime minister who would (B) be politically accountable to fellow politicians and the voters for securing the common good and who could be removed by a majority in parliament (including his/her own party) or by the voters in a general election. (C) A minister of the interior or a high-ranking civil servant who would run the civil service with considerable independence from (A and/or B). (D) A leader of the ruling party who could serve in government or parliament or stay outside of elected office altogether. A very good book on the underlying nineteenth-century analysis is Parliamentarism: From Burke to Weber by William Selinger (Cambridge University Press, 2019; see also Vincent Ostrom (1991) The Intellectual Crisis in Public Administration, 2nd ed, pp. 123-124).

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Bit of a joke there. What the paper is about is, we found a new planet, about 18.2 light years away. That means that we’re seeing the planet as it appeared 18.2 years ago, in the summer of 2007.

Summer 2007: the first iPhone had just hit the market, the last Harry Potter book was fresh on the bookshops, Rihanna’s “Umbrella” was all over the radio, and “The Big Bang Theory” was about to premiere on TV. Britain’s Tony Blair had just handed off to Gordon Brown, while in the US a freshman Senator named Barack Obama was quietly preparing his Presidential bid. And the world economy was sliding inexorably towards the Great Recession.

Anyway, the planet. The planet is a “Super-Earth“. That means it’s basically the same sort of planet as Earth: a ball of rock, probably with an iron core, possibly with an atmosphere. But it’s bigger than Earth, hence the “Super”.  Like, if the Earth was a golf ball, this planet would be more like a cricket ball or a baseball. Definitely bigger, but not so much bigger that it’s a different sort of thing.

Okay, so we’ve found lots of planets around other stars. Like, literally thousands of them.  And we’re finding more new planets every day. So what’s interesting about this one?


[this shows something like one quarter of the currently known planets. and yes, that lower right one is not a proper sphere.]

Well… maybe a couple of things. But first, a brief digression!

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On the longer time scale that we feel in nature, the violence of colonial capitalism seems almost fleeting. ‘Mother Nature will outlast all of this’, Barkandji man Woddy Harris told me, gesturing across his hometown of Wilcannia, two hours’ drive from Broken Hill, and which has a majority Barkandji population.

I wondered about this when, on a later visit, I attended a funeral at the Broken Hill cemetery. There, the Aboriginal wife of the white working-class man we mourned handed me a plastic rose. As instructed, I threw the rose into the grave, materially connecting me and the other mourners who did likewise, to his body.

That connection might almost last forever. The plastic rose will certainly take many hundreds of years longer than his body to decompose. It will probably outlast Creedon Street and all the gravestones in the cemetery. It will likely still be there under the ground when BHP is a lost memory. It may outlast even the stock exchanges that BHP and other mining enterprise have helped to succeed. Success seems an understatement, in fact: finance’s influence has sometimes exceeded the power wielded by governments and politicians, including American Presidents and UK Prime Ministers.

Some things are eternal, or near-enough, but that doesn’t necessarily make them nourish. In the moment, at the funeral, the plastic rose nourished something. Global petrochemicals, turned into plastic, were articulated in a moment of everyday life that Michel de Certeau would certainly have called ‘agency’. In this way of thinking, we would take heart from the ways the product of capitalist environmental contamination was translated into new meaning at the graveside, a logic that mirrored the world-class restaurant that produced touristic beauty on the old slag heap. The problem with this perspective is that it does nothing to end the production of plastic, nor the infection of soils, oceans and food with microplastics that poison us all. We might have to admit that the plastic rose, so simple and beautiful a gesture, also performs something akin to pollution.

These intersections of agency and structure, of meaning and matter are particularly noticeable at funerals, and in cemeteries, where small things accrue abundant significance and where each life, mourned, celebrated and remembered, also somehow represents us all. In the cemetery, the structures of big capital articulate not only with the everyday life that was the focus of de Certeau’s politics, but in everyday death. In everyday death, individual agency might pollute in the same moment that it nourishes. And the sheer inclusivity of death, universal as it is, embraces and celebrates working class activism on the same street as the Aboriginal families that the very same town pushed to the margins if not to die, at least to live materially close to the dead.

Within ten minutes I regretted my decision to walk to Creedon Street in the outback town of Broken Hill. At first, I thought it was the shoes. Stupid things I’d bought on the internet, they were little more than plastic-coated cardboard soles strapped to my ankles with nylon laces. The desert sand scratched between my feet and the sole, painfully reminding me I also had no arch support. There were spiky bindis the size of small tarantulas that I knew from experience to step around. They would pierce those stupid shoes – and my feet.

My destination, Creedon Street, was a site for public housing. There, families were crowded into an environment that one woman told me had been ‘set up to fail’ in the 1990s when authorities sought to move Aboriginal people out of the Sydney suburb of Redfern in time for the 2000 Olympics. As well as uncomfortable on my feet, the walk there was also boring. Broken Hill has fascinating architecture, extraordinary cultural heritage, a buzzing art scene and plentiful pubs (though fewer than the 70 it once boasted). Whether it was the day or the route I am not sure, but none of this seemed evident as I trudged. My allegorical ambitions dissipated with every boring block. I’d imagined myself like philosopher Michel de Certeau, for whom ‘walking in the city’ helped understand the relationship between our agency in everyday life, set against big structures like capitalism, which I was in Broken Hill to think about.[i]  But as the dry, hot sun seemed to suck the life from me, walking in the desert seemed more like a parody of de Certeau’s agency. I soon feared it might also be making a mockery of my own intellectual pretensions.

Like others in this age of polycrisis, I wanted to think about the historical entanglements of race, labour and environment. Historically these have often seemed at odds. We see it where workers oppose the end of coal or logging, and when environmentalists fail to acknowledge that such people have a legitimate need for a job – and when the ‘true’ working class is imagined to be white and male. By walking I hoped to think about, perhaps even to feel with my body, how race, class and environment might be brought together in everyday life, via a shared history and politics.

Broken Hill seemed a good place to do it. The town, like many outback cliches, is like one big allegory for Australia, especially for our history with capitalism. I started my walk at the Trades Hall, the pride of Broken Hill and a historical touchstone for Australia’s union movement. Like sentries guarding against the labour rabble, however, directly across the road stand seven carved white busts depicting the ‘syndicate of seven’ who founded Broken Hill Proprietary, BHP. They were visible from the front door of the Trades Hall. On this street, the main symbol of labour literally opposes seven key founders of Australian capital.

Other representations of working-class politics in Broken Hill are nearly as ubiquitous as the dust, which is perhaps not quite as red as the town’s political history. Capital too looms, as present as the massive heap of slag (the by-product of mining and smelting) towering over town. These great black piles of the debris of industrial mining are known as the ‘line of lode’. It is spectacular in a Tolkienesque kind of way, though where we might expect the Eye of Sauron there is instead a memorial to miners killed extracting lead, zinc and silver from the hill. Next to the miners’ memorial there is the empty shell of what was once a world class restaurant.

Not everyone survives capitalism.

When I finally arrived at Creedon Street, hot and irritable, there was nothing to see. It was just another street, not noticeably different to the thousands that I felt I had stumbled through.

I chided my subconsciously racist self. What did I expect, non-stop corroboree? Perhaps I was guilty of ‘poverty porn’, taking my excessively educated arse where it did not belong, seeking to exploit First Nations suffering for intellectual gain.

Face-palming, I took stock. I noticed that the street was right on the edge of town. Behind that row of public houses was nothing. Stony desert littered (charmingly, in fact) with rusting junk.

This seemed important. I’d been talking to teachers’ aids, employment centres and the local high school careers advisor, himself an Aboriginal man, who all told me that young Aboriginal people often experienced racism, particularly when they seek employment. The geography of town seemed to bear this out: the town centre celebrates labour on every corner, but when a place was built purposely for Aboriginal people to live, it was far from the town’s working-class centre.

I took this to be a symptom of what settler-colonial studies historian Patrick Wolfe called the ‘logic of elimination’.[ii] Of course, some Aboriginal people did and do work for big capital and small capital, and some were and are members of Broken Hill’s famous union movement. But any sense of the centrality of First Nations claims to land and sovereignty posed – at least in recent decades – a threat to the Broken Hill establishment, and by extension to the rest of us.

First Nations sovereignty is by definition hard for a settler colonial society to acknowledge. But it is the truth. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples were here first. Sovereignty was never ceded. This is First Nations land. Acknowledging this beyond the words we use at meetings, extending it to our hearts and practice demands something like turning the still-colonial world upside down. And from the centre of the battle between labour and capital, it seems easier to push the question, and the people connected to it, to the margins.

Creedon Street, by this logic, was certainly not aligned with those founders of BHP, whose profit relied on supplanting First Nations economies and claims to land. But why was Aboriginal sovereignty not, on the whole, protected by the Trades Hall?

Feeling stupid, I turned right and walked along the street, soon arriving somewhere familiar. The closest famous landmark to Creedon Street was the cemetery.

Broken Hill cemetery might be one of the most important in Australia. The burial site of revered members of the Australian union movement, the cemetery is an important monument to colonial and working-class history. Black crosses of the religious orders who sent teenagers from Ireland to serve in the outback offer a poignant memorial to what must have been an utterly dislocating experience. Artist Pro Hart’s grave is there, a massive, crazy expensive, marble thing engraved with his signature golden dragonfly – recently defaced by vandals. But the cemetery is mainly a memorial to labour. A pamphlet guides visitors to graves of historical significance to Australian unionism. Headstones list labour leaders’ CVs, while others honour the Red Flag Forever.

It is an outback cemetery, so small cages cover many graves, protecting burials from animals. Protecting the dead this way seems some sort of perversion of what sociologist Max Weber described as the ‘iron cage’ of capitalism.[iii] Capitalism failed to protect workers from the lead dust or the work that maimed, killed and riddled many with diseases, often deadly. But now, iron cages protect the dead.

The cemetery reminds us that capitalism kills.

Up on the line of lode, the miner’s memorial documents the tragedy. In 1887, capitalism killed 21-year-old Samuel Spears, who tumbled down a ladderway in the pursuit of ore that would profit BHP shareholders. Spears was already not the youngest to die since the discovery of ore on the broken hill in 1883. Just a year earlier, John Vaugh, aged 14, fell down BHP’s ore heap, to his death. The following year, 25-year-old Charles Apple died in a rock fall, 36-year-old Alfred Neiring died in an explosion of shot and Alfred Polgreen, 21, was killed by a rock drill.

Mine safety improved, largely by union agitation, supported by local medical practitioners who helped alert the public beyond Broken Hill, to the dangers of industrial mining. The resulting public pressure drove engineering innovation and safety procedures. Many safety measures were hard won by strike action, like the number of minutes workers were to wait between blasting and heading back into mine shafts newly polluted with lead-laden dust.

Such improvements were far too slow for 16-year-old Charles Shannon, who was electrocuted in the BHP mine in 1910. It did not help Ronald James who at 18 years old was also electrocuted in 1979, as was 22-year-old John Collison in 1988. Mining in the 2000s slowed to such an extent that homes in Broken Hill could be purchased on a fairly modest credit card – and meant there were no deaths to record. When mining resumed, so did death. Capitalism killed again in 2007, when 30-year-old James Symonds was crushed by machinery. So was Andrew Bray, aged 47, as recently as 2019.

Capitalism kills, and the working class unites against it.

The graves of union leaders at the cemetery not only remind us of this, but they also act as a kind of mirror image to the mock graves that union members made of ‘scabs’, who refused to join strike action, in 1909. A photograph of one of those graves reads “Here Lies Peter Corney 1909 Scab”. Imagine Peter Corney’s trepidation, seeing his own name on the tomb. His death, however, was fictional. It was a tough strategy, but one that highlighted the value of solidarity as the only path to improved working conditions, and perhaps more broadly to liberation itself. For those listed in the miners’ memorial, death was not a ploy, but a central logic of the operation. Human lives – their lungs, their broken bones, their hopes, even just their time, so precious and short as it is for us all – was exchanged for profit.

This profit was not only the foundation of big mining in Australia, but it also underpinned the fledgling stock exchanges, and large finance enterprises like Collins House in Melbourne. Added up, exploitation pays – but only for a few.

Since colonisation, a significant portion of the middle class has considered education to be the answer. In the 1990s it became economic doctrine, systematically shifting the population to ‘better’ jobs. And yet for those of us in white collar work it is little different. Capitalism colonises every moment of our lives in the name of a rewarding, and often well-meaning, career. While industrial accidents are less common for professionals, ever-increasing productivity demands and decreasing autonomy under a managerial class is also killing us slowly – if perhaps mainly spiritually – as it converts our very selfhood into profit-making stuff. Even when the surface seems cleaner, the logic on display at Broken Hill applies to us all.

[i] De Certeau, Michel (1984) The Practice of Everyday Life Berkely: University of California Press.

[ii] Wolfe, Patrick (2006) ‘Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native’ Journal of Genocide Research Volume 8, No.4, pp.387-409.

[iii] Weber, Max (1904) The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism Vintage Edition, 2002. The ‘iron cage’ was not what Talcott Parsons’ famous translation of weber’s ‘shell as hard as steel’. Like others I have used it here as it more evocative of what I mean, and possibly what Weber meant too.

One of the big puzzles in the last months, for those observing the politics in the US and elsewhere, is this: why is there apparently so little protest against the attacks on democracy and the rule of law, and why does it happen in some but not other cases?

I want to share a hypothesis, which has to do with perceptions of temporality and the ensuing emotional states. I started thinking about this a while ago, during the wave of climate protests in Europe. At the time, many comparisons were drawn with earlier forms of protest, e.g. in the civil rights movement, and the discussion quickly turned to what forms of disobedience (e.g. blocking roads, damaging works of art, etc.) are justified in what kinds of cases. But whereas many historical movements wanted to achieve something new, something for which there were no political majorities or that governments even refused to take seriously at the time, the climate protests concerned things that had already been agreed upon by politicians, and for which there is, according to surveys, a lot of public support. So what the protestors require is not so much a fundamental change in mentality or legislation – but rather that societies do what they had committed themselves to doing, e.g. in the Paris agreement.

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A European justice minister who does have principles!

The EU “chat control” proposal I wrote about the other day has been scuppered by Germany’s justice ministry saying forcefully that it will never support this particular form of mass surveillance. Here’s what their minister, Dr. Stefanie Hubig, had to say:

“Chat control without cause must be taboo in a state governed by the rule of law. Private communication must never be under general suspicion. The state must also not force messengers to scan messages en masse for suspicious content before sending them. Germany will not agree to such proposals at EU level. We must also make progress at EU level in the fight against child pornography. That’s what I’m committed to. But even the worst crimes do not justify the surrender of basic civil rights. This has been insisted on for months in the votes of the federal government. And that’s how it will stay.”

Brief context; at the beginning of this week it was rumoured that Germany was wavering on its opposition to pre-emptive and permanent scanning of everyone’s phones. Purportedly, the European Commission DG HOME proposal was ‘just’ to identify child sexual abuse materials, but as anyone (ok yours truly) who’s been fighting surveillance for close to three decades can tell you, blanket surveillance starts with a justification of ‘serious crime’, and quickly becomes used for trivial issues and against all perceived enemies of those in power. So, when organisations including Signal raised the alarm, lots of people swung into action, again, to let the German justice ministry know that this would not go quietly for them. The statement above is Dr Hubig saying they never wobbled at all. I’m pretty certain they did, but who knows, maybe someone in her office sent up the bat signal so people in the movement I’m part of to go to the barricades on this issue one last time. It’s certainly a play I’ve seen before.

I’ve been doing this for close to 30 years (thought tbf had v. little involvement in this particular campaign). The stakes have never been higher. Even many ‘normies’ now get how these powers will be abused and that this time it might not just be against others. It could happen to them. It hits different, as they say, when you’re staring down the barrel of a government run by AfD or the Front National.

But creating coalitions again and again to fight off stupid, dangerous nonsense is hard. Civil society and real movement politics, as so many of CT’s enduring readers know, is hard fucking work. I’m glad that we do it and that we have deep knowledge and experience of it, but I’m also exhausted. Again and again I find myself wondering, if we didn’t have to expend most our energies saying ‘No’ to this stupid, ghastly shit, and saying ‘No’ to the stupid, ghastly shit of the tech oligarchs, what might we have built instead? How productively and joyfully could we be spending our lives? Actually growing good things? Showing what can and must be done for us to live decent lives for our own purposes and in service of others, and not repeatedly campaigning so that a few less lives will be wrecked?

Don’t get me wrong. Plenty of us – indeed, growing numbers – are working on the alternatives. But if feels like we lost twenty years just trying to get tech policy and tech firms to kill fewer people, to be just a bit less egregious, and that is time we’ll never get back. Time we needed to be building and growing the technology infrastructure and human networks, capabilities and structures of feeling we so desperately need for what comes next.