WHERE GHOSH GOES WRONG:
"When the subject of climatic change appears in these publications, it is almost always in relation to non-fiction; novels and short stories are very rarely to be glimpsed within this horizon," he argues. "Indeed, it could even be said that fiction that deals with climate change is almost by definition not of the kind
that is taken seriously by serious literary journals; the mere mention of the subject is often enough to relegate a novel or a short story to the genre of science fiction.''
***NO, THEY ARE NOW PUBLISHED IN THE USA AND UK, DEAR DR GHOSH, AS CLI-FI, a new genre term you know about.!***
NOTE: The covers of the Indian edition and the USA edition are completely different.
See INDIAN COVER:
SEE USA COVER:
NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH ANOTHER BOOK TITLED ''THE GREAT DERANGEMENT''
[Turns out that book titled cannot be copyright, so there can be multiple books titled the same way.]
HOW THE BOOK BEGAN AS A LECTURE SERIES IN 2015:
Amitav Ghosh: 2015 ''The Berlin Family Lectures''
https://arts.uchicago.edu/event/amitav-ghosh-2015-berlin-family-lectures
Amitav Ghosh -- LECTURES
"The Great Derangement: Fiction, History, and Politics in the Age of Global Warming"
In four lectures over two weeksin October 2015, Ghosh highlight4r the literature, history, and politics of climate change. All four lectures were held at the Reva and David Logan Center for the Arts at the University of Chicago.
The Berlin Family Lectures bring to campus individuals who are making fundamental contributions to the arts, humanities and humanistic social sciences. Each visitor gives an extended series of lectures with the aim of interacting with the UChicago community, and developing a book for publication with the University of Chicago Press.
Ghosh’s four-part lecture, “The Great Derangement: Fiction, History and Politics in the Age of Global Warming,” will begin on Sept. 29, and continues on Sept. 30, Oct. 6, and Oct. 7.
“Global warming is not just a crisis of economy or environment. It calls into question many of our accustomed modes of thought,” Ghosh said in 2015 before the lectures began. “These lectures are an attempt to think through some of the issues that arise when we approach literature, history and politics from the perspective of climate change.”
In a slim volume, which started out as the four-part Berlin Lectures at the University of Chicago a few years ago and then expanded and amplified and rewritten to become this book, the celebrated Indian author asks fundamental questions about the role of literature in confronting the greatest challenge of our times: climate change. [When this blogger asked Dr Ghosh two years about calling novels about climate change as "cli-fi" novels, he replied by email that ''Cli-fi' does seem like a good term for a certain kind of Western fiction.'']
http://northwardho.blogspot.tw/2015/12/amitov-ghoshs-new-university-of-chicago.html
Four videos of his lectures are here:
http://berlinfamilylectures.uchicago.edu/2015-amitav-ghosh
This mysterious absence of climate disaster from contemporary arts and fiction is the central issue in Amitav Ghosh’s The Great Derangement, a book of genuine importance. The book is about much else as well: It tours around the horizon of cultural life in the present era, the early ‘Anthrocene’. But it stops at every point to ask why our pressing concern, that we are wrecking our climate and habitat, is so ignored.
In 200 pages, based on his lectures on video now here, but expanded and rewritten to become this book, Ghosh examines the habits and handicaps of modern thought and fiction, then breaks fresh historical ground concerning imperialism, capital and energy. He reveals a provocative new lineage for where we are today, torn between carbon-based growth and climate-linked survival, and for our Great Derangement – our inability to look at what we know is coming straight at us.
But there are many exceptions now: Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behaviour, Ian McEwan’s Solar, plus a fleet of other cli-fi novels, all part of the rising new genre of ''cli-fi'' ...[short for ''cli''-mate ''fi''-ction, see cli-fi.net]
Art in the Anthrocene
Despite these frustrations, Ghosh is always gentle, attempting explanations instead of polemic. The Great Derangement -- based on a lecture series he gave in 2015 all now accessible on Youtube as well -- is a book of both passion and finesse. The range of his inquiry is hard to convey – as is the originality of his findings. There are big questions here, such as What is Art for? and Who is History by? and Ghosh leads us up to certain answers. But you choose for yourself how long to dwell on them, whether to rise to their challenge.
VIDEO OF 4 LECTURES THAT MAKE UP THIS BOOK:
http://berlinfamilylectures.uchicago.edu/2015-amitav-ghosh
Amitav Ghosh’s new book, The Great Derangement, is released now worldwide.
MORE
==============================
First read: Amitav Ghosh asks why novelists don’t write about climate change
In 1978, Ghosh was caught in a freak tornado in New Delhi. He has never managed to include the event in his fiction.
As is often the case with people who are waylaid by unpredictable events, for years afterwards my mind kept returning to my encounter with the tornado. Why had I walked down a road that I almost never took, just before it was struck by a phenomenon that was without historical precedent? To think of it in terms of chance and coincidence seemed only to impoverish the experience: it was like trying to understand a poem by counting the words. I found myself reaching instead for the opposite end of the spectrum of meaning – for the extraordinary, the inexplicable, the confounding. Yet these too did not do justice to my memory of the event.
Novelists inevitably mine their own experience when they write. Unusual events being necessarily limited in number, it is but natural that these should be excavated over and again in the hope of discovering a yet undiscovered vein.
No less than any other writer have I dug into my own past while writing fiction. By rights then, my encounter with the tornado should have been a mother lode, a gift to be mined to the last little nugget.
It is certainly true that storms, floods and unusual weather events do recur in my books, and this may well be a legacy of the tornado. Yet, oddly enough, no tornado has ever figured in my novels. Nor is this due to any lack of effort on my part. Indeed, the reason I still possess those cuttings from the Times of India is that I have returned to them often over the years, hoping to put them to use in a novel, but only to meet with failure at every attempt.
On the face of it there is no reason why such an event should be difficult to translate into fiction; after all, many novels are filled with strange happenings. Why then did I fail, despite my best efforts, to send a character down a road that is imminently to be struck by a tornado?
In reflecting on this, I find myself asking, what would I make of such a scene were I to come across it in a novel written by someone else? I suspect that my response would be one of incredulity; I would be inclined to think that the scene was a contrivance of last resort. Surely, only a writer whose imaginative resources were utterly depleted would fall back on a situation of such extreme improbability?
Unlikely though it may seem today, the nineteenth century was indeed a time when it was assumed, in both fiction and geology, that Nature was moderate and orderly: this was a distinctive mark of a new and “modern” worldview. Bankim goes out of his way to berate his contemporary, the poet Michael Madhusudan Datta, for his immoderate portrayals of Nature: “Mr Datta…wants repose. The winds rage their loudest when there is no necessity for the lightest puff. Clouds gather and pour down a deluge, when they need do nothing of the kind; and the sea grows terrible in its wrath, when everybody feels inclined to resent its interference.”
The victory of gradualist views in science was similarly won by characterising catastrophism as un-modern. In geology, the triumph of gradualist thinking was so complete that Alfred Wegener’s theory of continental drift, which posited upheavals of sudden and unimaginable violence, was for decades discounted and derided.
It is worth recalling that these habits of mind held sway until late in the twentieth century, especially among the general public. “As of the mid-1960s,” writes the historian John L Brooke, “a gradualist model of earth history and evolution…reigned supreme.” Even as late as 1985, the editorial page of the New York Times was inveighing against the asteroidal theory of dinosaur extinction: “Astronomers should leave to astrologers the task of seeking the causes of events in the stars.” As for professional palaeontologists, Elizabeth Kolbert notes, they reviled both the theory and its originators, Luis and Walter Alvarez: “‘The Cretaceous extinctions were gradual and the catastrophe theory is wrong,’…[a] paleontologist stated. But ‘simplistic theories will continue to come along to seduce a few scientists and enliven the covers of popular magazines’.”
In other words, gradualism became “a set of blinders” that eventually had to be put aside in favour of a view that recognises the “twin requirements of uniqueness to mark moments of time as distinctive, and lawfulness to establish a basis of intelligibility”.
Distinctive moments are no less important to modern novels than they are to any other forms of narrative, whether geological or historical. Ironically, this is nowhere more apparent than in Rajmohan’s Wife and Madame Bovary, in both of which chance and happenstance are crucial to the narrative. In Flaubert’s novel, for instance, the narrative pivots at a moment when Monsieur Bovary has an accidental encounter with his wife’s soon-to-be lover at the opera, just after an impassioned scene during which she has imagined that the lead singer “was looking at her…She longed to run to his arms, to take refuge in his strength, as in the incarnation of love itself, and to say to him, to cry out, ‘Take me away! carry me with you!’”
It could not, of course, be otherwise: if novels were not built upon a scaffolding of exceptional moments, writers would be faced with the Borgesian task of reproducing the world in its entirety. But the modern novel, unlike geology, has never been forced to confront the centrality of the improbable: the concealment of its scaffolding of events continues to be essential to its functioning. It is this that makes a certain kind of narrative a recognisably modern novel.
Here, then, is the irony of the “realist” novel: the very gestures with which it conjures up reality are actually a concealment of the real.
What this means in practice is that the calculus of probability that is deployed within the imaginary world of a novel is not the same as that which obtains outside it; this is why it is commonly said, “If this were in a novel, no one would believe it.” Within the pages of a novel an event that is only slightly improbable in real life – say, an unexpected encounter with a long-lost childhood friend – may seem wildly unlikely: the writer will have to work hard to make it appear persuasive.
If that is true of a small fluke of chance, consider how much harder a writer would have to work to set up a scene that is wildly improbable even in real life? For example, a scene in which a character is walking down a road at the precise moment when it is hit by an unheard-of weather phenomenon?
To introduce such happenings into a novel is in fact to court eviction from the mansion in which serious fiction has long been in residence; it is to risk banishment to the humbler dwellings that surround the manor house – those generic outhouses that were once known by names such as “the Gothic”, “the romance”, or “the melodrama”, and have now come to be called “fantasy”, “horror”, and “science fiction”.
Excerpted with permission from The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable, Amitav Ghosh, Allen Lane.
=============
by Padmaparna Ghosh
“Where were you when the Larsen B ice shelf broke up?” I don’t remember. Chances are very few of us do. And where were you when 9/11 happened? Chances are all of us remember. And yet, these two incidents, barely a few months apart, signify similar unimaginable violence that has been created by us, by our histories. Then why is it that climate change, one of the most potent, confounding problems that we as a species have ever faced, casts no shadow on our imaginations?
With surgical accuracy, Amitav Ghosh disentangles the knots of the “wicked problem” that is climate change in The Great Derangement: Climate Change And The Unthinkable. A problem that, escalating terrifyingly, threatens our whole existence and yet has not entered our everyday lexicon, our stories and our politics. Ghosh puts the finger on an ache I have personally felt: “Will our future generations, standing in a rising pool of swirling waters, not beseech us with this question—‘Why didn’t you do something?’” And what will that say of us?
Ghosh, in his stupendous return to non-fiction, answers it eloquently: “In a substantially altered world, when sea-level rise has swallowed the Sundarbans and made cities uninhabitable, when readers and museum-goers turn to the art and literature of our time, will they not look, first and more urgently, for traces and portents of the altered world of their inheritance? And when they fail to find them, what would they conclude? That ours was a time when most forms of art and literature were drawn into the modes of concealment that prevented people from recognizing the realities of their plight? Quite possibly then, this era, which so congratulates itself on its self-awareness, will come to be known as the time of the Great Derangement.”
The portents of this disaster of our own making have, however, been there for a long time. Messengers of science have been breathlessly rushing back from the edges of our planet to report to the rulers of a looming catastrophe. From the top of Mauna Loa, a volcano on the island of Hawaii, an atmospheric research lab has been faithfully pinging out Earth’s carbon-dioxide (CO2) concentration levels from the 1950s. Mauna Loa’s measurements built the Keeling Curve, a rising graph of CO2 concentration that rears like a snake’s head. In 2013, we passed the 400 parts per million marker. Where were you then? (You will find the current CO2 level at www.co2.earth ).
Such a prediction should have terrified us, but there is no evidence of this in our stories. One of Ghosh’s theories deals deftly with why that might be. Why does the literary craft of our times ignore climate change? Ghosh ties the nature of the 18th century science to the manner in which fiction evolved, from “narrative turns” on events of “unrepeatable uniqueness”, to the “gradualist approach that privileges slow processes that unfold over time at even predictable rates” or, to put it simply—“nature does not make leaps”. The modern novel imitated this change. Earthquakes, floods, typhoons, disasters, prodigious events as elements of literature, came to be looked upon as supernatural, out of this world and, therefore, “un-modern”. An increasing emphasis, in the literary movements of the 20th century, “was laid on style and ‘observation’, whether it be of everyday details, traits of character, or nuances of emotion”—of mundane life. You don’t have to look far to find this dominant feature in popular writing today, in the detailed portrayals of personal life, in chronicles of the self.
For centuries, mankind has played with nature, bounced it like a ball, oblivious to the fact that one day playtime would end and the ball could morph into a beast mid-air. Ghosh cannot shake off the uncanny feeling that global warming has been toying with us because after the three post-war decades (1950s onwards), when CO2 emissions grew sharply, global temperatures stabilized.
In climate change’s manifestations, we are not, and will never be, alone. And yet, just at a time when mankind needs to act as an indivisible force, we find ourselves in thrall “of a dominant culture in which the idea of the collective has been exiled from politics, economics and literature alike”. At a time when “men in the aggregate” should be representing our cultural and fictional imaginations, our stories and cultures have come to “become ever more radically centered” on what American novelist John Updike called the “individual moral adventure”.
Probably the biggest impediment to our acting as a collective is our gradual isolation. For ease and efficiency of planning, we have zoomed in more and more on our planet and divided it into discrete packages—of nation states, of cities, of clusters of forests, designated protected areas. We have divided our rivers into sections of dams, our towns into gated communities. Not only have we transformed elements from under the ground into electronics in our hands, such is our confidence in “managing” Earth’s resources that we think nothing of moving the course of rivers.
Capitalism is mainly to blame for this age of the Anthropocene. But this is where Ghosh adds that it is also about colonization and its politics, and explains why Asia is and will continue to be at the centre of this debate—and not just because of its vulnerabilities. His hypothesis explains how imperial forces thwarted emerging fossil-fuel economies because the coal economy depended on not being imitated. The process of decolonization, therefore, meant that the erstwhile colonies followed in exactly the same steps of “development”. “The period of the Great Acceleration (Keeling Curve) is precisely the period of great decolonization in countries that had been dominated by European Imperial powers,” says historian Dipesh Chakrabarty.
If this is the case, Ghosh asks, then did imperialism actually delay the climate change crisis? The uncomfortable answer is, probably yes. Every December, at the annual climate change conference, heads of state come bearing the same arguments and stand at a position they have marked out for themselves the year before—a clear line between the global North and South. “Common but differentiated responsibilities (CBDR)”, conference jargon that means developed countries need to carry a larger burden than those still blossoming into fully fossil-fuel economies, is then tied to colonial history, posing, therefore, an unshakeable ethical dilemma.
And this is how we are trapped deeper into our Age of Derangement, where every family in the world is racing towards an equal level of consumption.
It is Asia, then, “that has torn the mask from the phantom that lured it onto the stage of the Great Derangement, but only to recoil in horror at its own handiwork; its shock is such that it dare not even name what it has beheld—for having entered this stage, it is trapped, like everyone else. All it can say to the chorus that is waiting to receive it is ‘But you promised…and we believed you!’”
And when you step back, slowly, inch by inch, a grander story is revealed—our story. We get to see a picture so grotesque and distorted that it is impossible to look away. And we look on, transfixed by a singular conclusion—climate change is on us.
The question is, where will you be then? Where will you be when the Larsen C ice shelf collapses? And will you remember?
.Novelists inevitably mine their own experience when they write. Unusual events being necessarily limited in number, it is but natural that these should be excavated over and again in the hope of discovering a yet undiscovered vein.
No less than any other writer have I dug into my own past while writing fiction. By rights then, my encounter with the tornado should have been a mother lode, a gift to be mined to the last little nugget.
It is certainly true that storms, floods and unusual weather events do recur in my books, and this may well be a legacy of the tornado. Yet, oddly enough, no tornado has ever figured in my novels. Nor is this due to any lack of effort on my part. Indeed, the reason I still possess those cuttings from the Times of India is that I have returned to them often over the years, hoping to put them to use in a novel, but only to meet with failure at every attempt.
On the face of it there is no reason why such an event should be difficult to translate into fiction; after all, many novels are filled with strange happenings. Why then did I fail, despite my best efforts, to send a character down a road that is imminently to be struck by a tornado?
In reflecting on this, I find myself asking, what would I make of such a scene were I to come across it in a novel written by someone else? I suspect that my response would be one of incredulity; I would be inclined to think that the scene was a contrivance of last resort. Surely, only a writer whose imaginative resources were utterly depleted would fall back on a situation of such extreme improbability?
Unlikely though it may seem today, the nineteenth century was indeed a time when it was assumed, in both fiction and geology, that Nature was moderate and orderly: this was a distinctive mark of a new and “modern” worldview. Bankim goes out of his way to berate his contemporary, the poet Michael Madhusudan Datta, for his immoderate portrayals of Nature: “Mr Datta…wants repose. The winds rage their loudest when there is no necessity for the lightest puff. Clouds gather and pour down a deluge, when they need do nothing of the kind; and the sea grows terrible in its wrath, when everybody feels inclined to resent its interference.”
The victory of gradualist views in science was similarly won by characterising catastrophism as un-modern. In geology, the triumph of gradualist thinking was so complete that Alfred Wegener’s theory of continental drift, which posited upheavals of sudden and unimaginable violence, was for decades discounted and derided.
It is worth recalling that these habits of mind held sway until late in the twentieth century, especially among the general public. “As of the mid-1960s,” writes the historian John L Brooke, “a gradualist model of earth history and evolution…reigned supreme.” Even as late as 1985, the editorial page of the New York Times was inveighing against the asteroidal theory of dinosaur extinction: “Astronomers should leave to astrologers the task of seeking the causes of events in the stars.” As for professional palaeontologists, Elizabeth Kolbert notes, they reviled both the theory and its originators, Luis and Walter Alvarez: “‘The Cretaceous extinctions were gradual and the catastrophe theory is wrong,’…[a] paleontologist stated. But ‘simplistic theories will continue to come along to seduce a few scientists and enliven the covers of popular magazines’.”
In other words, gradualism became “a set of blinders” that eventually had to be put aside in favour of a view that recognises the “twin requirements of uniqueness to mark moments of time as distinctive, and lawfulness to establish a basis of intelligibility”.
Distinctive moments are no less important to modern novels than they are to any other forms of narrative, whether geological or historical. Ironically, this is nowhere more apparent than in Rajmohan’s Wife and Madame Bovary, in both of which chance and happenstance are crucial to the narrative. In Flaubert’s novel, for instance, the narrative pivots at a moment when Monsieur Bovary has an accidental encounter with his wife’s soon-to-be lover at the opera, just after an impassioned scene during which she has imagined that the lead singer “was looking at her…She longed to run to his arms, to take refuge in his strength, as in the incarnation of love itself, and to say to him, to cry out, ‘Take me away! carry me with you!’”
It could not, of course, be otherwise: if novels were not built upon a scaffolding of exceptional moments, writers would be faced with the Borgesian task of reproducing the world in its entirety. But the modern novel, unlike geology, has never been forced to confront the centrality of the improbable: the concealment of its scaffolding of events continues to be essential to its functioning. It is this that makes a certain kind of narrative a recognisably modern novel.
Here, then, is the irony of the “realist” novel: the very gestures with which it conjures up reality are actually a concealment of the real.
What this means in practice is that the calculus of probability that is deployed within the imaginary world of a novel is not the same as that which obtains outside it; this is why it is commonly said, “If this were in a novel, no one would believe it.” Within the pages of a novel an event that is only slightly improbable in real life – say, an unexpected encounter with a long-lost childhood friend – may seem wildly unlikely: the writer will have to work hard to make it appear persuasive.
If that is true of a small fluke of chance, consider how much harder a writer would have to work to set up a scene that is wildly improbable even in real life? For example, a scene in which a character is walking down a road at the precise moment when it is hit by an unheard-of weather phenomenon?
To introduce such happenings into a novel is in fact to court eviction from the mansion in which serious fiction has long been in residence; it is to risk banishment to the humbler dwellings that surround the manor house – those generic outhouses that were once known by names such as “the Gothic”, “the romance”, or “the melodrama”, and have now come to be called “fantasy”, “horror”, and “science fiction”.
Excerpted with permission from The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable, Amitav Ghosh, Allen Lane.
=============
by Padmaparna Ghosh
“Where were you when the Larsen B ice shelf broke up?” I don’t remember. Chances are very few of us do. And where were you when 9/11 happened? Chances are all of us remember. And yet, these two incidents, barely a few months apart, signify similar unimaginable violence that has been created by us, by our histories. Then why is it that climate change, one of the most potent, confounding problems that we as a species have ever faced, casts no shadow on our imaginations?
With surgical accuracy, Amitav Ghosh disentangles the knots of the “wicked problem” that is climate change in The Great Derangement: Climate Change And The Unthinkable. A problem that, escalating terrifyingly, threatens our whole existence and yet has not entered our everyday lexicon, our stories and our politics. Ghosh puts the finger on an ache I have personally felt: “Will our future generations, standing in a rising pool of swirling waters, not beseech us with this question—‘Why didn’t you do something?’” And what will that say of us?
Ghosh, in his stupendous return to non-fiction, answers it eloquently: “In a substantially altered world, when sea-level rise has swallowed the Sundarbans and made cities uninhabitable, when readers and museum-goers turn to the art and literature of our time, will they not look, first and more urgently, for traces and portents of the altered world of their inheritance? And when they fail to find them, what would they conclude? That ours was a time when most forms of art and literature were drawn into the modes of concealment that prevented people from recognizing the realities of their plight? Quite possibly then, this era, which so congratulates itself on its self-awareness, will come to be known as the time of the Great Derangement.”
The portents of this disaster of our own making have, however, been there for a long time. Messengers of science have been breathlessly rushing back from the edges of our planet to report to the rulers of a looming catastrophe. From the top of Mauna Loa, a volcano on the island of Hawaii, an atmospheric research lab has been faithfully pinging out Earth’s carbon-dioxide (CO2) concentration levels from the 1950s. Mauna Loa’s measurements built the Keeling Curve, a rising graph of CO2 concentration that rears like a snake’s head. In 2013, we passed the 400 parts per million marker. Where were you then? (You will find the current CO2 level at www.co2.earth ).
Such a prediction should have terrified us, but there is no evidence of this in our stories. One of Ghosh’s theories deals deftly with why that might be. Why does the literary craft of our times ignore climate change? Ghosh ties the nature of the 18th century science to the manner in which fiction evolved, from “narrative turns” on events of “unrepeatable uniqueness”, to the “gradualist approach that privileges slow processes that unfold over time at even predictable rates” or, to put it simply—“nature does not make leaps”. The modern novel imitated this change. Earthquakes, floods, typhoons, disasters, prodigious events as elements of literature, came to be looked upon as supernatural, out of this world and, therefore, “un-modern”. An increasing emphasis, in the literary movements of the 20th century, “was laid on style and ‘observation’, whether it be of everyday details, traits of character, or nuances of emotion”—of mundane life. You don’t have to look far to find this dominant feature in popular writing today, in the detailed portrayals of personal life, in chronicles of the self.
For centuries, mankind has played with nature, bounced it like a ball, oblivious to the fact that one day playtime would end and the ball could morph into a beast mid-air. Ghosh cannot shake off the uncanny feeling that global warming has been toying with us because after the three post-war decades (1950s onwards), when CO2 emissions grew sharply, global temperatures stabilized.
In climate change’s manifestations, we are not, and will never be, alone. And yet, just at a time when mankind needs to act as an indivisible force, we find ourselves in thrall “of a dominant culture in which the idea of the collective has been exiled from politics, economics and literature alike”. At a time when “men in the aggregate” should be representing our cultural and fictional imaginations, our stories and cultures have come to “become ever more radically centered” on what American novelist John Updike called the “individual moral adventure”.
Probably the biggest impediment to our acting as a collective is our gradual isolation. For ease and efficiency of planning, we have zoomed in more and more on our planet and divided it into discrete packages—of nation states, of cities, of clusters of forests, designated protected areas. We have divided our rivers into sections of dams, our towns into gated communities. Not only have we transformed elements from under the ground into electronics in our hands, such is our confidence in “managing” Earth’s resources that we think nothing of moving the course of rivers.
*****
Capitalism is mainly to blame for this age of the Anthropocene. But this is where Ghosh adds that it is also about colonization and its politics, and explains why Asia is and will continue to be at the centre of this debate—and not just because of its vulnerabilities. His hypothesis explains how imperial forces thwarted emerging fossil-fuel economies because the coal economy depended on not being imitated. The process of decolonization, therefore, meant that the erstwhile colonies followed in exactly the same steps of “development”. “The period of the Great Acceleration (Keeling Curve) is precisely the period of great decolonization in countries that had been dominated by European Imperial powers,” says historian Dipesh Chakrabarty.
If this is the case, Ghosh asks, then did imperialism actually delay the climate change crisis? The uncomfortable answer is, probably yes. Every December, at the annual climate change conference, heads of state come bearing the same arguments and stand at a position they have marked out for themselves the year before—a clear line between the global North and South. “Common but differentiated responsibilities (CBDR)”, conference jargon that means developed countries need to carry a larger burden than those still blossoming into fully fossil-fuel economies, is then tied to colonial history, posing, therefore, an unshakeable ethical dilemma.
And this is how we are trapped deeper into our Age of Derangement, where every family in the world is racing towards an equal level of consumption.
It is Asia, then, “that has torn the mask from the phantom that lured it onto the stage of the Great Derangement, but only to recoil in horror at its own handiwork; its shock is such that it dare not even name what it has beheld—for having entered this stage, it is trapped, like everyone else. All it can say to the chorus that is waiting to receive it is ‘But you promised…and we believed you!’”
*****
Ghosh charts our progress, our cultures, history, politics, and its environmental fallout, as delicately and firmly as a Buddhist monk resolutely scattering coloured sand to create a mandala. Pixel by pixel, in distant corners of a canvas, he builds his arguments. Through the three sections of The Great Derangement, he carves a picture out of seemingly disparate global and local events and trends.And when you step back, slowly, inch by inch, a grander story is revealed—our story. We get to see a picture so grotesque and distorted that it is impossible to look away. And we look on, transfixed by a singular conclusion—climate change is on us.
*****
Early on in the book, Ghosh imagines Mumbai under an exceptional natural disaster, the kind the city hasn’t seen because of the tame nature of the Arabian Sea. Though the chances are slim, we are living on a planet that is increasingly unfamiliar to us. He builds a scenario in which a freakish cyclone runs into Mumbai from the south, in which the “hills and promontories of South Mumbai would once again become islands, rising out of a wildly agitated expanse of water”. The question is, where will you be then? Where will you be when the Larsen C ice shelf collapses? And will you remember?
WHERE GHOSH GOES WRONG:
"When the subject of climatic change appears in these publications, it is almost always in relation to non-fiction; novels and short stories are very rarely to be glimpsed within this horizon," he argues. "Indeed, it could even be said that fiction that deals with climate change is almost by definition not of the kind
that is taken seriously by serious literary journals; the mere mention of the subject is often enough to relegate a novel or a short story to the genre of science fiction.'' ***NO, THEY ARE NOW PUBLISHED IN THE USA AND UK, DEAR DR GHOSH, AS CLI-FI, a new genre term you know about.!***
It is as though in the literary imagination climate change were somehow akin to extraterrestrials or interplanetary travel." ***NO, THEY ARE PUBLISHED DEAR DR GHOSH AS CLI-FI, a new genre term you know about.!***
Ghosh says he too had been preoccupied with climate change for a long time, but it is true of his own work as well, that this subject figures only obliquely in his fiction. "In thinking about the mismatch between my personal concerns and the content of my published work, I have come to be convinced that the discrepancy is not the result of personal predilections: it arises out of the peculiar forms of
resistance that climate change presents to what is now regarded as serious fiction." ***NO, THEY ARE PUBLISHED DEAR DR GHOSH AS CLI-FI, a new genre term you know about.!***
The extreme nature of today's climate events, Ghosh asserts, make them peculiarly resistant to contemporary modes of thinking and imagining. This is particularly true of serious literary fiction: hundred-year storms and freakish
tornadoes simply feel too improbable for the novel; they are automatically consigned to other genres.***NO, THEY ARE PUBLISHED DEAR DR GHOSH AS CLI-FI, a new genre term you know about.!***
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How to design a cover for Amitav Ghosh
‘I developed close to thirty designs, from photographs to illustrations’
Ahlawat Gunjan, who designed the cover, explains the process.
"The Great Derangement was the big book of the year with high expectations. I was designing for Amitav Ghosh for the first time. Ever since we acquired this book, I was hungry to get my hands dirty on this.
Because firstly, it was for Amitav (I’m an ardent lover of his work), and secondly, it’s wonderful to be associated with a socially responsible book that’s coming at the right time and for the right cause. My own worry about the degradation of nature and the general ignorance towards it made me walk that extra mile for this project.
My designs were continually being rejected, which brought me very close to the deadline. I’m not a writer but, for this cover, I wrote a small design brief (on the image selection, font choices, textures etc.) for myself to push and pull from. It was also to keep me on track whenever I would deviate in the gamut of visuals available online.
Normally you tend to get carried away with your designs and ego, and develop that kind of attachment with your work, but for this one, I have been extremely objective and strict with myself from the beginning.
As always, I wanted the cover to remain in the reader’s mind for long. To bring that strength and clarity to the cover, I was looking for that perfect marriage of an aesthetically satisfying image with appropriateness to the content between the covers. I don’t even want to recall the number of images I researched and discarded for different reasons. Getting the right image for this book was paramount.
I developed close to thirty designs, from photographs to illustrations, with different typographic arrangements, and had almost reached saturation point, when I arrived at this image for the cover. If you are a creative person, you immediately sense when it is right; when that moment arrives!
I feel this cover allowed me to represent the message of the book at many levels, and yet offer that room for interpretation, of which I’m a firm believer.
For me, a good cover does not give too much away, and offers readers something they did not think of before. That sense of mystery or discovery has to be there, or else it is dead for me. This is Amitav’s first work of non-fiction after a very long time, so his constant involvement was very helpful at every stage.
I hope the design is able to convey the message Amitav has so beautifully and meaningfully packed into these few hundred pages."
Gunjan Ahlawat is Senior Design Manager at Penguin Random House India.
"The Great Derangement was the big book of the year with high expectations. I was designing for Amitav Ghosh for the first time. Ever since we acquired this book, I was hungry to get my hands dirty on this.
Because firstly, it was for Amitav (I’m an ardent lover of his work), and secondly, it’s wonderful to be associated with a socially responsible book that’s coming at the right time and for the right cause. My own worry about the degradation of nature and the general ignorance towards it made me walk that extra mile for this project.
My designs were continually being rejected, which brought me very close to the deadline. I’m not a writer but, for this cover, I wrote a small design brief (on the image selection, font choices, textures etc.) for myself to push and pull from. It was also to keep me on track whenever I would deviate in the gamut of visuals available online.
Normally you tend to get carried away with your designs and ego, and develop that kind of attachment with your work, but for this one, I have been extremely objective and strict with myself from the beginning.
As always, I wanted the cover to remain in the reader’s mind for long. To bring that strength and clarity to the cover, I was looking for that perfect marriage of an aesthetically satisfying image with appropriateness to the content between the covers. I don’t even want to recall the number of images I researched and discarded for different reasons. Getting the right image for this book was paramount.
I developed close to thirty designs, from photographs to illustrations, with different typographic arrangements, and had almost reached saturation point, when I arrived at this image for the cover. If you are a creative person, you immediately sense when it is right; when that moment arrives!
I feel this cover allowed me to represent the message of the book at many levels, and yet offer that room for interpretation, of which I’m a firm believer.
For me, a good cover does not give too much away, and offers readers something they did not think of before. That sense of mystery or discovery has to be there, or else it is dead for me. This is Amitav’s first work of non-fiction after a very long time, so his constant involvement was very helpful at every stage.
I hope the design is able to convey the message Amitav has so beautifully and meaningfully packed into these few hundred pages."
Gunjan Ahlawat is Senior Design Manager at Penguin Random House India.
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