Desert Notebooks

Desert Notebooks
Автор книги: id книги: 1596019     Оценка: 0.0     Голосов: 0     Отзывы, комментарии: 0 1933,2 руб.     (21,43$) Читать книгу Купить и скачать книгу Купить бумажную книгу Электронная книга Жанр: Биографии и Мемуары Правообладатель и/или издательство: Ingram Дата добавления в каталог КнигаЛит: ISBN: 9781640093546 Скачать фрагмент в формате   fb2   fb2.zip Возрастное ограничение: 0+ Оглавление Отрывок из книги

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Desert Notebooks is Robert Macfarlane meets Elizabeth Kolbert, Elizabeth Rush meets David Wallace-Wells. The book is a very personal, intimately reported kind of nature writing exploring humanity's relationship to and narratives around time, and the ways deep time (or geologic time) can transform our relationship to current notions (and realities) of apocalypseBen Ehrenreich is a proactive, prolific journalist who is very active on social media; last summer, he boarded a boat in the Mediterranean trying to rescue migrants fleeing Syria and North Africa, and live-tweeted the entire experience, including tense confrontations with European coast guards. His previous book was about Palestine, and he cares deeply about the very human costs of rapid climate changeIn Ehrenreich's intimate style, readers will encounter a wide-range of topics, including geological and ecological records of desert catastrophe, Native American end-times mythologies, social and cultural anthropology, personal confessions of the existential struggle to create art in the face of Anthropocene-driven climate change, and some truly lyrical passages about owls Desert Notebooks reads like a quintessential Counterpoint book, environmental humanism at its best, decentering humans from the plot even as it takes human culture as its lens. This book will also resonate with writers and creators Acquired and edited by Counterpoint Editor in Chief Dan Smetanka Bookseller Praise for Desert Notebooks " Desert Notebooks is rich, haunting, and profoundly unique in its exploration of the end times. Ehrenreich takes readers from the wilds of the Mojave to the neon glow of Las Vegas—among coyotes and Joshua trees, to labyrinthine canyons, to a phosphorescent city surrounded by it all. Each landscape is described with stunning beauty. Ehrenreich draws from stories of the Serrano, Mohave, and other desert peoples to inform our understanding of our rapidly changing world, reckoning with the environmental apocalypse that haunts all our futures." —Laura Graveline, Brazos Bookstore (Houston, TX) "When you hear Desert Notebooks described as lyrical by everyone who reads it, please know that they are simply choosing the best word possible to describe it! A critique of progress for the sake of progress, a meditation on life in the desert, an exploration of time, Ben Ehrenreich's book is for poets, writers, environmentalists, nature lovers, and language lovers." —Buffy Cummins, Tattered Cover (Denver, CO)

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Ben Ehrenreich. Desert Notebooks

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Praise for Desert Notebooks

“These are the kind of conversations we need to be having—with ourselves and with others. And the desert seems like the right austere setting to be having them. These fine essays take a deep tradition in American writing and extend it into our uncertain and collapsing present.”

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I grew up in the seventies and eighties in a family that lived and breathed politics. Dinner conversation leaped from Falwell to the Sandinistas to the nuclear meltdown at Three Mile Island. Pass the salt and the gravy—you need a napkin there, kid? The height of the Cold War had passed, but I had heard enough adults express alarm that Reagan’s cowboy bullshit was going to get us all killed that I did not expect to live to adulthood. I don’t remember feeling sad about this, just accepting it, that life had a horizon, and it was close. I read a lot. I asked a lot of questions. I knew about the dread mechanics of nuclear winter and the various stages of radiation poisoning. I knew to squeeze my eyes shut when the blast came because the flash could burn out your retinas. (But wouldn’t it burn through your eyelids too?) Manhattan, just thirty miles away, would without question be a target. So would the Grumman plant a few towns over. I spent long afternoons thinking hard about what I would do if I survived the initial impact, whether I should find a way to kill myself or take my chances and live on as a mutant, my skin peeling off in sheets. If I had to, would I be able to eat the dog?

Then it ended. The Soviet Union fell. The Cold War was over. I read J. G. Ballard and every work of apocalyptic fiction I could find. I could rhapsodize if you let me about Octavia Butler and the Strugatsky brothers and Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker. I thought Denis Johnson had been going downhill ever since Fiskadoro. I wrote stories and novels of my own. Cataclysm loomed in nearly all of them, and a vague sense of guilt. But time had not ended. On it ticked, and if I’m honest I felt lost, agoraphobic. Would it really stretch on forever? Occasional panics ensued, warheads gone missing from the old Soviet stocks, Ebola, dirty bombs planted out there somewhere by CNN’s latest villains, a nagging sense that the twentieth century was not finished with us. I kept busy. There was plenty to get upset about and plenty left to fight for, but the fear of full-on planetary catastrophe wandered off for a decade. Maybe two.

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