Desert Notebooks
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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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