As a scholar with an interest in apocalyptic narrative, I’ve had the opportunity over time to read depictions of the end of human civilization in many forms and genres. I’ve read ancient apocalyptic musings, like those in Hesiod’s Works and Days; I’ve studied and taught the Book of Revelation; and I’ve considered apocalyptic visions ranging from the 1600s to the present that have taken the form of religious verse, romantic poetry, ballads, short stories, novellas, novels, graphic novels, plays, radio programs, songs, television shows and films. I’ve been fascinated by the prominence of this narrative form throughout human history: storytellers in the very earliest civilizations were already predicting humanity’s end. I’ve also been intrigued by its power. As scholars like Warren Wagar and Katherine Keller have demonstrated, over the centuries, apocalyptic stories and beliefs have upended political regimes, propelled colonialism, driven scientific discovery, and—perhaps surprisingly—given oppressed populations hope.
In my most recent scholarly project, and in a class that I just finished teaching, I’ve turned my attention more specifically to narratives that draw on the apocalyptic tradition to envision the effects of human-made climate change. I’m currently working on an article about English writer Carys Bray’s novel When the Lights Go Out, which mingles apocalyptic elements with the conventions of domestic fiction to consider how individuals can best respond to climate fears. In the novel, Emma, a mother in a working-class family in Northern England, conscientiously avoids driving, grows her own food, and resists the pull of consumerism, while her husband Chris doom-preps, hoards food, and, on weekends, holds a sign of protest in the town square. In its portrait of the psychological and emotional strains between two adults who are both deeply aware of climate change but reacting in very different ways, the novel asks timely questions about what individuals can and should do to mitigate this environmental threat. Bray self-consciously compares Emma’s determined and hopeful focus on sustainably raising her children with the despair triggered by the apocalyptic narratives in which Chris immerses himself. Midway through the novel, at a family dinner, Emma gets her children to think of stories that might give them insight about the climate crisis, remarking, “We need new stories, don’t we? Stories that say something about the world now.”
In this and other moments throughout the novel, Bray highlights the way children are crucial to climate conversations. The widely recognized definition of sustainable development, created back in 1987 by A UN Commission, is “development that meets the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs.” Literary critic Adeline Johns-Putra has noted that children serve as the central symbol of the future in climate change narratives. In my work on Bray’s novel, I’m considering the ways she shows how the power of domestic narratives, with their emphasis on feeling and the care of children, can be leveraged to inspire commitment to sustainability.
Meanwhile, my students and I have spent this spring reading a series of novels that themselves approach the existential questions, fears, and possible solutions to the climate threats we face through a range of literary forms and techniques. We read the Menippean Satire Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood, which paints a near future of capitalism run amok that is both jarringly extreme, and yet troublingly familiar. We read Cormac McCarthy’s quest narrative set in a destroyed biosphere, The Road, and the raw, lyrical novel Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward, with its portrait of an African-American family unhoused by Hurricane Katrina. In the second half of the semester, we considered another domestic narrative, Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behavior, about a failed migration of monarch butterflies. We then turned to Lydia Millet’s fable entitled A Children’s Bible, with its surreal melding of pointed contemporary dialogue and distorted Christian symbolism. Finally, we took on Kim Stanley Robinson’s 563-page opus entitled The Ministry for the Future, which mixes speculative realism with short treatises on topics from geo-engineering, to Keynsian economics, to the details of the Paris Climate Agreement.
Throughout the course we considered, what is the right way to tell the climate story to motivate people to help to arrest climate damage, both through personal conservation and as political actors? Near the beginning of the semester, I mentioned that a friend works in the communication office of a very large university, serving as editor of its daily newsletter. Among the many stories she runs about university life, she regularly features stories concerning the efforts of the faculty there to mitigate climate change through their various disciplines. The newsletter is digital, and she can track the number of clicks for every story she runs. Discouragingly, what she has discovered through these analytics, is that no matter how interesting or uplifting the story, the newsletter’s many readers do not click on the articles about climate change. This tracks with a significant body of research that suggests that most people avoid thinking about climate change, because they think there is nothing they can do about it.
With these facts in mind, as a class, we considered and discussed the myriad approaches these novels took to make their readers care and believe they can make a difference. Some of the novels we read mocked those who waste resources and consume mindlessly—does that seem effective? Others offered frightening visions of violent storms and crushing heatwaves. Is fear the best way to make people focus on protecting future generations? A number of texts offered sublime descriptions of the natural world. Does conveying the beauty of nature work? We were heartened by the fact that Kingsolver’s novel, with its exquisite descriptions of monarch butterflies, motivated the Obama administration to dedicate more than three million dollars to help save them. Several books presented children as Christ figures. We discussed the author’s motivations for such a choice: We as readers care deeply about these Christ-like characters because of their goodness, and this, in turn, can make us care deeply about the climate change that threatens these characters whom we have come to love. Some students wondered who, except for them, would possibly read Robinson’s 563-page, information-packed novel? But I pointed out that it had made Robinson a celebrity of sorts in climate policy circles and won him an invitation to the most recent Conference of Parties of the Paris Climate Agreement in Belfast, Ireland. Scientists and economists alike have taken inspiration from the solutions he imagines.
These conversations underscored for us that there is no single story that will galvanize people to personally commit to fighting climate change—Different stories will reach different audiences. But there is no doubt that words, stories, narrative, will be absolutely central to protecting the planet from the worst threats of climate change. I encouraged my students, as I encourage you all today, to keep caring about the issue, to keep telling stories of why it matters, and using the power of words to protect this generation and future generations. Near the end of the semester we worked together in class on ideas for how to expand the sustainability literacy of Villanova students. The class had many great ideas, which I shared earlier this week in a faculty workshop for Villanova’s new Strategic Initiative for Climate Justice and Sustainability. During that meeting, shored up by the ideas of my students, I felt like we weren’t caught in that old story of apocalypse, but were working together on a new story.
