The Final Chant

This week I was most struck by Joshua Clover and Juliana Spahr’s piece #Misanthropocene 24 Theses, which stuck out in its utter weirdness. Though as Greer pointed out, the piece doesn’t provide concrete answers to the problem of climate change, it does send the powerful message that we have misunderstood something. Or somethings, rather. We have misunderstood how to approach climate change; we have misunderstood the relationship between man and nature and between subject and object; we have misunderstood how to conceptualize mass extinction. The bluntness of this, though depressing, will hopefully prompt productive and engaging discussion during our final class tomorrow.

Though I wouldn’t say that I necessarily understand the content of #Misanthropocene 24 Theses, I do think Clover and Spahr intentionally make the pronouns of the piece ambiguous in order to blur the distinction between subject and object, something that has repeatedly come up throughout the semester. The piece begins with “fuck y’all”, with the “you” referring to the audience, implying that the authors are left out of this grouping. However, in the second thesis Clover and Spahr write, “We would all like to be violet-headed pure honey-smiling Sappho […]” (3), but who is included in this “we”? Then in the third thesis they repeatedly refer to “it”: “It keeps busy. It makes deserts bloom. It makes luxury towers just like it makes architects.” Yet this “it” is completely ambiguous and undefined, which left me confused and frustrated. The ambiguous anonymity to these pronouns stands in contrast to the intense specificity of objects that Spahr lists (similarly to her poems we read in a previous class), in sentences such as “It makes universities roads conceptual poets it makes oil-drum pyramids it makes ships of a size called Malaccamax” (4). This kind of excessive detail seems to imply that the readers have a shared understanding of this esoteric knowledge, when ultimately, the detail becomes so tedious that it renders itself meaningless. I mean seriously, I had no idea what a Malaccamax was before googling it. I think that Spahr is attempting to get rid of any concept of the individual, which she does when she groups herself into one of her targets in an  angry rant: “And fuck this list with its mixture of environmental destruction and popular smugness and fuck every one of you that laughed at that rock banjo joke and fuck us all for writing it” (5).

Because Sprahr seems to be so intent on blurring the boundaries of the individual, I don’t think she would be a fan of Kolbert’s The Sixth Extinction, which is highly personable and clearly relies on her own experience. This relates to the authors’ constant allusion to Sappho, an ancient Greek lyrical poet. This made me think back to when we read Culler’s Theory of the Lyric, in which he describes lyric as the poetry of experience. However Spahr’s useless specificity suggests that experience is meaningless, perhaps because there is no universal experience (which relates to Pope Francis’ discussion of differentiated responsibility in regards to climate change). The final words of the piece, “Sappho Sappho Sappho not by chanting”, are thus ironic, as they are a mimetic, lyrical and ritualistic chant. Why does Spahr want to force us out of the lyric? Does it make us uncomfortable to step out of this form? Perhaps this discomfort is what we need — something that is difficult to read, with excessively crude language and a lack of punctuation to wake us up to reality.

Sappho, The ancient Greek poetess

#Misanthropocene: 24 Theses Reflection

Joshua Clover and Juliana Spahr’s “#Misanthropocene: 24 Theses” can easily come across as an aggressive and direct piece. The rare use of pauses and punctuation often leave the reader exhausted and confused. Reading through the twenty-four theses, it is clear where both Clover and Spahr stand on particular issues. However, the way that they go about illustrating their frustration with humanity and pop-culture relates to much of what we read in class. I felt that I could relate to their arguments at most points, but some came across as more of a rant which immediately turned me off.

Beginning every thesis with “first of all, second of all, etc.” makes Clover and Spahr sound as if they are not looking for dialogue but just strictly describing what they are feeling and how they believe humans are disruptive to the environment. Talking about those who are privilege who can “hang out at all hours of the day and night in the air-conditioned $83200 a night Royal Penthouse Suite at the Hotel President Wilson…,” forces the reader to believe that they are targeting the rich. However, Clover and Spahr go on to mention how we are all equally to blame when they state “fuck every one of you that laughed at the rock banjo joke and fuck us all for writing it.” Through this, they both are referring to the human race when discussing how we are to blame to so much despair that is occurring on our planet. It seems as though they are blaming those who contribute to everyday human activity and communication. For those who support misanthropy, would find this very act of expression or communication aggravating.

This idea that we are all in some way responsible for the destruction of ecological systems, and our very own planet through climate change, due to our fascination and strong societal following of cultural interests such as Whole Foods, Harvard University Press, and Fight Club. This made me think about our conversation on whether we consider ourselves to be a species or not. Cultural interests like these mentioned by Clover and Spahr, are what makes our species. They are what allow us to come together and understand one another. However, when making the argument that it leads people to care about unnecessary cultural phenomena over nature and the safety of our earth and lives, does make me want to hate humanity.

Overall, I really enjoyed this piece. I feel that Clover and Spahr provide something that is very different from the readings that we have done in class. This is because it takes another approach to understanding what the Anthropocene is through the use of a new term, misanthropy, which strengthens the idea of how problematic humans have been to the sustainability of the earth.

The Macabre Appeal of Extinction

There’s a twisted way in how casually human beings take extinction. We see the concept depicted in countless different fictional stories, typically as a thrust to add arbitrary stakes to a story. Moreover, when the word “extinction” is even uttered, the first idea that comes to mind is the asteroid that wiped the dinosaurs out, a concept that conjures up an undoubtedly cinematic image. Indeed, our culture has trained us to consider extinction as a grand event, one that cannot be missed and one that can be stopped by a preordained protagonist. In reality, as our readings suggest, this is not the case. Extinction is all around us, and it certainly lacks the appeal of, say, a superhero film’s depiction of some species-ending threat.

In “Lost Dogs, Lost Birds, and Listed Species: Cultures of Extinction,” Ursula K. Heise writes that our culture creates stories that “construct narratives in which the endangerment or demise of a particular species functions not only as a synecdoche for the broader environmentalist idea of the decline of nature, but also comes to form part of stories that individual cultures tell about their own modernization.” Later, she discusses the methods with which fictional stories handle extinction events, writing that portrayals of species loss are used to reflect critiques of modernity’s changing of mankind’s relationship with nature. Both of these observations serve to contextualize how we, as a society, consider extinction. It becomes more about humanity’s relationship to nature, an essentially anthropomorphic concept, as opposed to taking nature on its own terms and appreciating the potential destruction of a species completely unrelated to humanity. Extinction also tends to bring about an epistemic arrogance in the majority of people: we privilege data sets and scientific concepts that are from a strictly human perspective. This perspective may be necessary for contextualizing extinction events from contemporary society. But limiting ourselves to this mankind-centric view is troubling. 

In Elizabeth Kolbert’s “The Sixth Extinction,” she writes about how “acoustical engineers speak of ‘background noise’ biologists talk about ‘background extinction.'” Humans tend to look at extinction in terms of a binary: it’s either a cataclysmic world-changing event, or it’s simply nothing. As these readings demonstrate, this simply isn’t efficient. The Earth may be in the middle of a sixth extinction event, and yet we never pause to appreciate this fact because it doesn’t take the form of some drastically cinematic image. Similar to how we discuss and debate how best to write about climate change, we also have to reexamine how write about extinctions. In this class, we’ve read and watched media about climate change that move all over the spectrum, from overly apocalyptic to borderline patronizing. Extinction creates a similar problem: do we only write about it in terms of hyperbole or comparisons to world-ending events? Or can we strike a balance where we can appreciate that extinction doesn’t have to take the form of a massive fireball? This discussion won’t be ended soon or easily, but it is one worth having if we are to remove the false ideas around extinction events and begin to engage the concept on its own terms.

Fuck It

We have spent much of this semester discussing the intersectional nature of the Age of the Anthropocene. From these discussions I have come to understand that the seemingly apparent divide between “man” and “nature” is in fact nonexistent. Juliana Spahr’s “#Misanthropocene 24 Theses” exemplifies this intersectionality in its beautifully and brutally honest prose as it forces us to reconcile our misunderstanding of the divide between man and nature. The title itself, “#Misanthropocene” shows us the interconnectedness between technology (the hashtag) the environment (anthropocene) and our misconceptions of it (“mis”.) She writes, “And fuck this list with its mixture of environmental destruction and popular culture smugness and fuck every one of you that laughed at the banjo joke and fuck us all for writing it.” (5) Spahr addresses the intersection between humanity and the environment, calling it a mixture of “environmental destruction” and “pop culture smugness” and criticizing the way we talk about climate change in our day to day conversations. She seems to suggest that we discuss environmental catastrophe with the same flippant attitude that we adopt to discuss mindless celebrity gossip and other similar topics that carry no significance in the face of climate disaster. Spahr further comments on our relationship with climate change discussion as she attacks the banjo joke, its audience, and its author. I interpret this to be a critique of our eagerness to laugh at unimportant and irrelevant subjects, as well as our eagerness to write about unimportant and irrelevant subjects while there is environmental chaos erupting all around us; there are much more immediate things to talk about, and yet we choose to actively ignore them and focus on things that ultimately do not matter.

The closing stanzas of her poem, stretching from Twentieth to Twentyfourth of all, offer that there may in fact be no solution to the #Misanthropocene. She proposes nonsensical yet extreme instructions on how to “set an oil well on fire… take out the electrical grid… kill a policeman… abolish culture… knock down a Boeing AH-64D…” (8-9) Her hyperbolic ranting implies an impossibility to the problem of the #Misanthropocene. It seems to closely reflect the sentiments of Apocalyptic Environmentalism; the problem is so grand in scale and seriousness that we must embark on radical change in order to make any type of impact. An important caveat of this discourse is, however, that  we are never given explicit, realistic ways to solve our problem, and that is exactly what Spahr achieves in this piece. Her calls to action, though passionate and aggressive, are unrealistic and unattainable.

Ending the semester with this poem leaves me feeling unsatisfied. We have talked extensively about the crash and burn of our environment, about the unfathomable scale with which we are destroying our home, about how even our greatest efforts may be happening all too late. For so many years I have been used to the end of the semester resulting in resolution, tied up neatly with a ribbon and tucked away. This class has not given me that. Instead, I will depart with frustration, confusion, and an irreconcilable mind caught between saying “fuck it,” and yearning desperately to do something, anything, to save our planet. But what is “anything”? Can I do “anything”? Can we ever really do “anything”? I don’t know, and I’m not sure I ever will.

A belated post for a not-belated topic – late night musings, questions

So I’ve been spending the last few days thinking about what to write about. I confess: it’s harder writing post-class. I just mull over — often semi-productively — what we’ve already discussed together: pretention vs. dripping — I believe “unnatural” was Eduardo’s word — sentimentality; humanism A vs. humanism B (Wenzel and Fanon might say B is a kind of new or revamped one, however); broader historical trends (Mitchell) culminating in small, hyper-particularized places (Watts)…

As the semester is ending, we also remember — rediscover — ideas we’ve discussed in previous classes. Carrie talked of “knowledge until we’re proven wrong” — people like Darwin, Lyell, and Nixon debunking those “myths” of knowing in their present day — stressing the almost-comprehensible incomprehensibility of time, of slow violence. Kaela talked about “subjugation” and an “inability” to even recognize its presence — Cathy’s madness, the hysterical woman in civilizing patriarchy, is, in a way, unable to pinpoint her oppressor. Culture, expectation, systems drain her, yet she blames Heathcliff in a fit of insanity, the single man. And Caroline talked of the “blurred lines between humanity and nature,” something we heard from in McKibben on the first day of class: where to draw the “line,” if at all; who to include; a man in a top hat; a coral polyp… And Caroline’s discussion on tone — the Dark Mountain Manifesto sits against Ghosh.

It’s actually this last bit, this bit on tone, that I have turned and turned in my head since looking at our first photograph on the Anthropocene. When we talked about tone and feeling last class, how we felt while watching the movie, I was at such a loss. I remember one speaker at the Water symposium talking of utility and beauty, how they seem to inevitably coexist. Then, in Pandian’s piece, Lang and Selby said that beauty could make people more receptive emotionally. But how could I be so eerily drawn to the match of Into Eternity at one moment then hysterically laughing at another…? Why did the “victory” scene of This Changes Everything feel less-cheesy the second time around..? Was it because we watched it in isolation, without the rest of the movie…? Was it “beautiful”?

…It’s early in the morning, and I’m working on my final project for this class. It’s an art piece — a long mural drawn over with black pen — of ocean creatures, mostly endangered or threatened coral specifically under NMFS jurisdiction. And I confess again: it’s really stressful. (I’m really afraid of being critiqued by a De’Ath. I mean, imagine being Burtynsky in her poem. Yikes.) And I’ve been juggling these very questions as I work: Do I appeal to humanity by humanizing coral? Is that anthropocentric, or is that — as Wenzel seemed to be implying — a necessary first step for empathy — for more inclusivity in a better humanism? Do I appeal to science, or does that remove some of the “artistry” out of the “art,” as one art-history major told me when I showed her Lang and Selby’s plastic art pieces (which is kinda bs but still a legitimate concern)? It is too “biology-textbook” like Jordan’s Midway photos? Is it dry like Davies’s The Birth of the Anthropocene? And aspects that are science-fiction-y like that seen in Into Eternity or tear-inducing like some seen in This Changes Everything… How will they be received? And what will they induce?

Perhaps this is where people like Bennett and Starosielski come in. Forgive me if it being 2am has got me thinking strangely — but what if that’s the problem: the tyrannical subject-object relation. I’m fixated on my agency over my piece as an artist in totality — over how people must or should feel… Locke-like property and ownership. In a way, understanding art in a Foucauldian vein — as not fully “mine” — is a way of understanding Bennett’s “efficacy, trajectory, and causality…” And — with those dispersed agencies in mind, my partial agency recognized — I continue working.

The Tale of the Sixth Extinction

Elizabeth Kolbert’s language in the first chapter of her book The Sixth Extinction implemented a refreshingly colloquial and digestible vernacular that made the topic of mass extinction of amphibians accessible and somehow relatable. What I love about Kolbert’s account is her specific acknowledgement and transparency of her intentions and style. She specifically acknowledges that “the story of the sixth extinction, at least as I’ve chosen to tell it” is her specific viewpoint on a great human matter. In this reflexive moment she is acknowledging her own voice and her own viewpoint as a means of being honest with her readers. In bringing awareness of her own storytelling, Kolbert draws specific attention to her style and her motive. Her intention, “that readers of this book will come away with an appreciation of the truly extraordinary moment in which we live,” is significantly facilitated by her conversational and entertaining tone.

From the onset of the prologue her non-fiction took the form of a sort of mystical or fable like storytelling. This is amplified by her mention of how she first learned about the matter: in a nature magazine she picked up from her kids (5). The tone with which she recounts the migration and expansion of the human species in the prologue was reminiscent of Rachel Carson’s in Silent Spring, where she uses the framework of a childlike fable or pastoral to related humans’ insidious impact on the earth. Here too, Kolbert uses almost Genesis like language to trace the process of how “humans begin to change the composition of the atmosphere… climate and the chemistry of the oceans”. She describes each species of toad with specific attention to a unique aspect about it, horned marsupial frogs which carry their eggs in a pouch sit next to tanks of casque-headed frogs which carry their eggs on their backs” (8). In these details she brings life to the seemingly scientific categorization of frogs. She makes every frog, and person a character in their own right. She even goes so far as to say, “if EVACC is a sort of ark, Griffith becomes its Noah” (10). She manages to tell the story of this mass extinction in a digestible way that is geared towards education! I personally find her tone to be the most honest and effective means of gearing humans towards the Anthropocene.


A New Call to Action

In “Turning Over a New Leaf,” Jennifer Wenzel exposes the problematic universalism in the  discourse of the Anthropocene.  She claims that it “disregards the highly uneven roles different groups of humans have played in the transformation of the planet, and the uneven distribution of risk and resilience win confronting this human made world” (165). Wenzel spends a great deal of time defining the word “human” as a rubric for understanding environmental humanities. In her discussion of the “human,” I was reminded of our conversations about the role of Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. In a book about what constitutes the man, the question of Heathcliff’s humanity  remained open. He could not be confined into a neat category of human or animal because he was able to cross the threshold between inside and outside, domesticity and wild. After reading Wenzel’s essay, I now understand Heathcliff as a representation of “the native” that Jean-Paul Sartre’s defines so brilliantly: a “colonial creation, neither human nor nonhuman animal…a species that is not hybrid nor chimera, but instead half-degraded: not longer human but not quite reduced to beast…” (166).

Wenzel’s point about the poor’s lack of power in the face of climate change was also a pertinent point in her essay. “The poor sell (their health of natural resources) cheap, not out of choice but out of lack of power” (Martinez-Alier, 30). This recognition that the socially marginalized are experiencing drastically worse consequences and more incidences of environmental harm than the rest of society is incredibly troublesome and unjust. A similar sentiment is expressed in This Changes Everything through the sacrifice zones. From Canada to India to Montana, marginalized groups are sacrificed at the hand of the government and capitalism. While I wholeheartedly care about the destruction we are causing to the environment and nature, it seems that showing the gravity of the environmental crisis through its effects on human life might be the most accessible and convincing argument.  As ironic as it may sound, perhaps the most effective call to action during this environmental crisis is through the form of a humanitarian crisis. 

The Myth of Knowledge

Knowledge seems to be a major theme in this week’s readings. Into Eternity forces us to look directly at what we do not, and cannot, know: the state of Earth’s surface and its (potential) life forms 100,000 years from now. Meanwhile, the film investigates the construction of a nuclear waste repository that clearly requires enormous amounts of skill, expertise, and knowledge. Klein and Lewis’ documentary foregrounds individuals, like the people of the Beaver Lake Cree Nation or Andhra Pradesh, who clearly know the land better than the corporations bent on milking it for profit. Meanwhile, Klein as narrator urges us to consider how we structure our view of climate change and nature as a whole. Our knowledge of nature, she notes, has undergone major shifts, from something that we once feared, to something we thought was so easily dominated, to, more recently, something merely to do with polar bears losing their homes.

Mitchell, of course, addresses the issue of knowledge most directly, noting how oil-driven contemporary politics emerged alongside a new organization of the economy, one that depended on Keynesian economics (168). This is where knowledge is tied most directly to timescales and progress, two themes that have recurred throughout our class. Mitchell explains that “the economy,” as a “thing” rather than a “process,” emerged after WWII (168). With it, and with an enthusiastic embrace of oil, growth was unlimited in unprecedented ways; we no longer needed a blossoming population, more colonies, or bigger cities (169). The GNP, oil’s low price, and its relative ease of production enabled a completely new “knowledge” of the future: we were limitless (169). Though this view was somewhat corrected—albeit with less than honorable motives—during the 1967-74 dollar-oil crisis, it is clear that the modern Western world is still keen on envisioning a future of unending growth and progress. Klein notes how the Western model of development is “[choking]” China, and she denounces the view that our “throwaway culture” is the only way of addressing poverty in India.

The Keynesian theory that undergirds these modes of thinking was seemingly fixated on predicting the future. I just read an essay by Keynes entitled “Economic Possibilities for our Grandchildren” in another class, and in two distinct instances, it predicts a future that clearly has not come to fruition. Written in 1932, the piece suggests that people are too focused on contemporary economic issues, i.e. the Depression, and should instead look to the big picture: “I draw the conclusion that, assuming no important wars and no important increase in population, the economic problem may be solved, or be at least within sight of solution, within a hundred years. This means that the economic problem is not—if we look into the futurethe permanent problem of the human race.” Just a few paragraphs later, he writes, “I feel sure that with a little more experience we shall use the new-found bounty of nature quite differently from the way in which the rich use it today, and will map out for ourselves a plan of life quite otherwise than theirs.” He speaks with seeming certainty about issues that are, at least in our current world,  impossible. 2032 surely will not bring a solution to the national or worldwide “economic problem” of poverty and unemployment.

Time and again, humans assume we have knowledge of the future until we’re proven wrong. Even though much of Into Eternity focuses on that which we do not know, its architects also seem quick to jump to conclusions as to the site’s safety. At 22:05, for instance, a man says that if he were an outsider evaluating the project, he would have no concerns or fears whatsoever. Just as we witnessed Scranton’s slippage into “self,” human-centered thinking in his essay, this official cannot resist the veil of certainty. I realize there are probably political reasons for keeping quiet about potential safety issues, but this moment nonetheless affirms humanity’s ongoing view that we can indeed know the future. For one, as someone who’s lived on the West Coast, I couldn’t stop thinking about what kind of effect a major earthquake could have on such an underground repository. Caroline K. points out that Klein/Lewis and the Dark Mountain Manifesto are invested in breaking down the twin myths of civilization and human progress. It also seems that any sort of action to address climate change must start with a collective dismissal of the myth of knowledge.

Fate of Darkness – Subalternity in the Modern World

In Jennifer Wezel’s essay, “Turning Over a New Leaf,” the author aims to address and uncover the true meaning behind the concept of environmental humanities while simultaneously “teasing out” what environmentalism-and-humanism of the poor means in relation to environmental humanities. I was particularly intrigued by her focus on the room word “human” and the focus she placed on establish who and what is human. Though never explicitly stated, Wexzel’s discussion of decolonization and the exploitation, objectification, slaughter, and enslavement that comes with human oppression immediately reminded me of the concept of subalternity. First introduced to the term after reading Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, I soon recognized that such deep oppression – an oppression that is so embedded, systematic, and institutionalized that those who fall victim to it are unable to see their subjugation – is still present in today’s society. While I have considered minority groups as apparent examples, such as racialized and marginalized groups, I would also like to argue that many of the Earth’s inhabitants are apart of a subaltern group, one that relates to environmentalism.
While this may seem like an abstract argument, it is important to recognize the difference between those who are apart of the subaltern and those who are oppressed and marginalized. Both groups suffer discrimination and prejudice, but those who are apart of the former do not have the intellectual capacity to recognize how they are being subjugated. For example, many people do not know the current ecological state is one of despair and desolation, and do not fully recognize how we (being the entire human race) have damaged the Earth beyond return. Though many of us are oblivious, those who are conscious could be considered to have their “subalternity in crisis” – meaning they have realized their position in society, but for this argument, I would suggest that these individuals have realized their position in the world. What I do not know, however, is if it is too late for us to make a difference, even if we are able to assist all of earth’s inhabitants in putting their subalternity in crisis. Many of the reading assignments of this semester have fallen one side of two extremes: either calling us to action in a positive, reinforcing, and hopeful manner or recognizing the pessimism and fatalism that will follow us, as well as our decedents, for the rest of our existence on this Earth. While the point of putting one’s subalternity in crisis to make progress, both individually and collectives, I personally believe it is too late. Is there still reason to care or bother if we are all doomed from one natural disaster or another? Though being hopeful is certainly desirable and even admirable, I cannot help but to feel useless in attempting to make a difference when fate has already been predetermined before I gained life.

Formulating a Call to Action

When initially glancing through this week’s readings, the title of Wednesday’s class, “Action without Nature,” particularly caught my eye. At this point in the semester, we have unpacked the features of the Anthropocene and gained a new perspective on our environmental crisis through blurring the lines between humanity and the natural world. Now that we can locate the human as part of nature, rather than outside of it, it is important to consider what constitutes a successful call to action for the rest of our species. Old tropes such as “Save the planet” or “save the whales” assume human dominion over the natural world, and are no longer effective.

In her film “This Changes Everything,” Naomi Klein notes the futility of talking about dying polar bears or reprimanding humans for our present crisis. Instead, she advocates dissolving the “story” of nature. In her gentle tone, she works to unravel the idea that humans have dominion over nature.

This calls to mind the “Dark Mountain Manifesto,” which denounces the myth of civilization and myth of human progress. In contrast with this dystopian, and somewhat anarchic piece, Klein does not use the approach of Apocalyptic Environmentalism. Instead, she believes in the power of the establishment to drive change. She advocates for pressuring leaders to create better environmental policy through collective action, while advocating for eroding the myth of human dominion over the natural world. Thus, Klein gracefully concludes the film with the instructions to go out and create change through grassroots efforts. She defines this action taken by members of the 99% as a “new story,” whose “keepers have been cast off for generations.” Thus, at its core, Klein uses the approach of Strategic Realism.

Jeannette Catsoulis disagrees with Klein’s gentle call-to-action, calling the film “moving, humane, and unfailingly polite” in her New York Times Review. She continues, “[the film] seeks to empower rather than to scare. But we should be scared. If, as many seem to believe, we are presiding over the possible annihilation of our species, then maybe we need a kick in the pants more than a reassuring hug.”

Catsoulis’ idea is closer to the tone of the “Uninhabitable Earth.” Yet, as Mann points out, this tone is problematic in implicating governments to take action.  The immediate need to balance the budget and deter nuclear war will undoubtedly take precedence over climate change, when the tone of Apocalyptic Environmentalism is used. The threat of total annihilation is just too great and unimaginable to be imagined. Thus, it gets pushed to the backburner.

In Ghosh’s piece he discusses what form is best to write about climate change. What is the best form and tone to convince givernments to take action? Why would Klein consider the former graphic more effective than the latter?