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Summary
Summary
"Harrowing, tender-hearted, and funny as hell" --Jenny Offill
"Fascinating...Oddly uplifting" --The Economist
"Smart, funny, irreverent, and philosophically rich" -- Wall Street Journal
By the author of the award-winning To Be a Machine , an absorbing, deeply felt book about our anxious present tense--and coming to grips with the future
We're alive in a time of worst-case scenarios: The weather has gone uncanny. Old postwar alliances are crumbling. A pandemic draws our global community to a halt. Everywhere you look there's an omen, a joke whose punchline is the end of the world. How is a person supposed to live in the shadow of such a grim future? What does it mean to have children--nothing if not an act of hope--in such unsettled times? What might it be like to live through the worst? And what on Earth is anybody doing about it?
Dublin-based writer Mark O'Connell is consumed by these questions--and, as the father of two young children himself, he finds them increasingly urgent. In Notes from an Apocalypse , he crosses the globe in pursuit of answers. He tours survival bunkers in South Dakota. He ventures to New Zealand, a favored retreat of billionaires banking on civilization's collapse. He engages with would-be Mars colonists, preppers, right-wing conspiracists. And he bears witness to those places, like Chernobyl, that the future has already visited--real-life portraits of the end of the world as we know it. In doing so, he comes to a resolution, while offering readers a unique window into our contemporary imagination.
Both investigative and deeply personal, Notes from an Apocalypse is an affecting, humorous, and surprisingly hopeful meditation on our present moment. With insight, humanity, and wit, O'Connell leaves you to wonder: What if the end of the world isn't the end of the world?
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
The end of the world portends right-wing vigilantism and left-wing nihilism, according to this bleakly comic tour of doomsday ideologies. Consumed by fears of climate change and beset by self-criticism--"my footprint is as broad and deep and indelible as my guilt"--journalist O'Connell (To Be a Machine) surveys several strands of apocalyptic foreboding. He treats the reactionary, survivalist varieties--including American doomsday preppers stockpiling food and ammo in anticipation of urban rioters, a real-estate developer peddling bunkers on a former South Dakota military base, and Mars-colonization enthusiasts who fondly invoke white settlers' colonization of the U.S.--as pathological expressions of social paranoia, toxic patriarchy, and outright "fascism," and makes clear that his sympathies lie more with progressive doomsayers. On a camping trip with deep ecology pessimists who refute the "myth" that humans are "fundamentally distinct" from nature and welcome the climate change--induced collapse of civilization, O'Connell communes with grass and sky and finds talk of human extinction "strangely cheerful." Readers who agree that the U.S. is "a rapidly metastasizing tumor of inequality, hyper-militarism, racism, surveillance, and... terminal-stage capitalism" will be equally terrified and bemused by O'Connell's musings, while those who are less credulous about narratives of ecological apocalypse will find much to dispute. The result is a wryly humorous if somewhat overwrought rumination that's more a symptom than a diagnosis of Western civilization's apocalyptic discontents. (Apr.)
Booklist Review
Possessed by "apocalyptic anxieties," O'Connell (To Be a Machine, 2017) undertook "a series of perverse pilgrimages, to those places where the shadows of the future fall most darkly across the present." From his home in Dublin, he journeys to the far reaches of the online disaster-prepper community. In the U.S., he meets a developer selling off former South Dakota military bunkers to the apocalypse-conscious, and attends a conference on Mars colonization in LA. He visits the New Zealand refuge purchased by an American tech billionaire, takes a daylong "nature solo" in a Scottish industrial wasteland turned wildlife refuge, and embarks on an undeniably strange and gripping adventure-tour of the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. This combines far-reaching analyses of the predicaments we're in now, from sociopolitical and philosophical angles, with relatable, often funny, and ultimately hopeful personal moments (including affecting passages on raising young children). A more-than-companionable guide, O'Connell sets out to understand how we live under constant threat of climate change and political terror, and finds that the answer is, more or less, we do.
Guardian Review
While the publication dates of many books may have been pushed back in the light of the current crisis, this one is right on the money. Mark O'Connell's quest to locate the various manifestations of our collective apocalypse-anxiety might have been written with the long hours of global lockdown in mind. "It was the end of the world, and I was sitting on the couch watching cartoons with my son," he begins. He proceeds like Noah sensing rain in the air. O'Connell's previous book, To Be a Machine, was an inspired journalistic exploration of "transhumanism", the subculture that wants to fast-forward to a technological future in which man becomes part-machine. This one is haunted by the idea that, unless we change our ways, or even if we change our ways, our species does not have much of a future at all. For O'Connell, those fears had been sharpened by recent fatherhood. There are competing voices in his head. One insists, "we are alive in a time of worst-case scenarios¿ Attune your ear to the general discord and you will hear the cracking of the ice caps, the rising of the waters¿ Is it not a terrible time to be having children, and therefore in the end, to be alive?" Another voice counters, "[but] when in the scheme of things was it ever a good one?" A third - generally prompted by his wife - argues for a bit of perspective: "I was not John of Patmos¿ this was a house and people were trying to live in it." O'Connell has a gift for channelling the "sense of looming crisis" that characterises our times, but is able to step outside it, to bring it into focus. This project began for him toward the end of 2016, that disabling year, when his therapist suggested to him that "it might be helpful not to spend quite so much time following the news". His response to that suggestion was a kind of personal aversion therapy: he would not shut himself off from the portents of end times that buzz-alerted his phone, but follow them to the ends of the Earth. To this end, he tracked down "preppers" for apocalypse purchasing bunkers in South Dakota; he listened in to those disciples of Elon Musk who believe our best hope is colonising Mars; he self-isolated in Alladale, the re-wilded retreat in the Highlands of Scotland; and he journeyed to New Zealand, the promised land of doom-harbingers everywhere. If there is a thread running through these travels, it is that knotted relationship between Silicon Valley plutocrats and our collective unconscious. As O'Connell shows, the billionaires of digital media seem particularly in thrall to a coming apocalypse, and to lavishly self-indulgent strategies to survive it. Perhaps it is because outrageous fortunes give them control-freak dreams of immortality. Perhaps it is because they understand the darker implications of the monsters they have created. O'Connell exposes their schemes with a likable zeal. His journey to the post-apocalypse hideaway of PayPal founder Peter Thiel is in itself a wonderful piece of journalism, in which he traces Thiel's obsessions - with disaster capitalism, cryogenics, surveillance technology, The Lord of the Rings - to a piece of real estate on New Zealand's south island. Like Louis Theroux cast in Heart of Darkness, he swims in the pure survivalist waters of Thiel's private lake. "I was drinking apocalypse water, symbolically reclaiming it for the 99%," he writes. "If in that moment I could have drained Lake Wanaka just to fuck up Thiel's end of the world contingency plan, I might well have done so." The disaster scenarios the quest is concerned with are mostly the terrors of climate change. Pestilence hardly gets a look-in, although you are occasionally given pause by prophetic allusions to our current circumstance. One surprising voice co-opted into Musk's belief that we need to colonise Mars as a "backup planet" is Stephen Hawking, who argued that "to stay [on Earth] risks annihilation. It could be an asteroid hitting Earth. It could be a new virus¿ For humans to survive, I believe we must have the preparations in place within 100 years." As a premonition of that post-human planet, O'Connell visits the Chernobyl exclusion zone. He joins an annual 36,000 tourists on a guided tour of unimaginable catastrophe. What he sees there is less "a barely conceivable tragedy of the very recent past, than a vast diorama of an imagined future, a world in which humans had ceased entirely to exist". They wander the abandoned town of Pripyat as if it were Pompeii, unearthing children's drawings in crumbling schoolrooms. Inside a vast unfinished cooling tower next to the Chernobyl plant, he watches a pair of kestrels looping high above and reaches for biblical reference, the "blood-fevered edict of Isaiah", of the land lying desolate for eternity, "a haunt for jackals, a home for owls". In some ways, experiencing this abyss, this holy of holies for catastrophists, acts as something of a catharsis for O'Connell. Having looked on these human ruins, he finds himself, counterintuitively, resisting Ozymandias-like despair. What brings him back to life is the birth of his second child, a daughter, who arrives with their home in Dublin in the midst of a "status red weather warning". Her presence, that "tiny engine of joy" she represents, is beautifully evoked by O'Connell, in passages that capture exactly that mixture of impossible vulnerability and responsibility, the enforced mindfulness of new parenthood. The prophet that has provided the most comfort to him in his journey has been Dr Seuss, his son's hero, and in particular those words from The Lorax, that indelible primer in apocalypse and its unlikely flipside, hope: "Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It's not." He picks those words up again here, not in any mawkish way, but as a clear-eyed rejoinder to the implications of what he has witnessed in his three-year odyssey. Among other things, O'Connell is good at dramatising the way we turn things over in our minds. Tentatively, sporadically, he finds he is losing his taste for nihilism, that insistent thrum of doom that shadows social media habits. "Lately, I have been glad to be alive in this time, if only because there is no other time in which it is possible to be alive," he says. O'Connell's journey to this realisation - though hugely engaging - does not always make comfortable reading with the world grinding to a halt outside, but he leaves the reader with that word, which offers the gift of making any future possible: "unless".
Kirkus Review
An around-the-end-of-the-world tour in the company of a smart, funny, and thoughtful guide.Near the beginning, O'Connell (To Be a Machine: Adventures Among Cyborgs, Utopians, Hackers, and the Futurists Solving the Modest Problem of Death, 2016) describes watching a video of an "emaciated polar bear" struggling to find food. "It occurred to me then that the disgust I felt was a symptom of a kind of moral vertigo," he writes, "resulting from the fact that the very technology that allowed me to witness the final pathetic tribulations of this emaciated beast was in fact a cause of the animal's suffering in the first place." To live in the modern world is to be complicit in its decline; nothing new there. But what can/should/will we do about it? The author makes no attempt to persuade us to drive electric cars and sequester carbon. Whether visiting underground shelters in South Dakota, billionaire refuges in New Zealand, or the exclusion zone around Chernobyl, he studies the end of the world from a decidedly detached perspective. About a retreat he attended in Scotland, he writes, "this was not the sort of explicitly romantic endeavor I would ordinarily involve myself in, what with the unwieldy carapace of cynicism I had allowed to grow around me over the course of my adult life." This kind of self-awareness around his project enables the humor O'Connell uses to cope with horror. His wry tone is effective in exposing the ridiculousness of many of the survivalists and technolibertarians he encountered. "If my portrayal of him [the owner of a luxury underground shelter] seems to be verging on the mode of caricature, even of outright grotesquerie, it is only because this was how he presented himself to me in fact." It might be a bit much if O'Connell weren't able to offer a sincere and life-affirming response to all the grimness: Things have always been bad and about to get worse. Nihilism can follow from that, but it doesn't have to.A contribution to the doom-and-gloom genre that might actually cheer you up. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
Irish writer O'Connell (To Be a Machine)here explores his obsessive fears about the future. Though overwhelmed by the many signs of looming catastrophe and collapse, O'Connell felt pressured, as a parent, to be less despairing about the future, and so undertook an investigation into what other doomsday believers were doing to prepare for impending disaster. His adventures took him deep into the guidebooks and videos of prepper, or survivalist, subculture; to the Black Hills of South Dakota to tour a massive underground bunker system for the wealthy; to New Zealand, where tech billionaires were buying property to escape the anticipated collapse; and to the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, a postapocalyptic wasteland. From his self-directed immersion in these doomsday scenarios, O'Connell emerged if not more optimistic about the future, at least able to live more easily in the present. VERDICT O'Connell is not only a sharp observer but a master at parsing the various subtexts underneath the surface rhetoric of these apocalyptic movements. This witty, profound, and beautifully told story will appeal to doomsday worriers and nonworriers alike.--Cynthia Lee Knight, Hunterdon Cty. Historical Soc., Flemington, NJ
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 Tribulations It was the end of the world, and I was sitting on the couch watching cartoons with my son. It was late afternoon, and he was sprawled across my lap, looking at a show about a small Russian peasant girl and the comic scrapes she gets embroiled in with her long-suffering bear companion. I was holding my phone over his head, scrolling downward through my Twitter feed. The bear and the girl were involved in some kind of fishing-based slapstick escapade, in which the bear was doing a lot of stumbling about and falling over. My son was giggling happily at this, turning his face periodically upward to ensure that I was aware of the amusing pratfalls unfolding on our television screen. On the smaller screen of my phone, I came across an embedded YouTube video on which, precisely because its accompanying text advertised it as "soul-crushing" and "heart-wrenching," I clicked without hesitation. As my son watched his cartoon, I held my phone above his line of vision and watched an emaciated polar bear dragging itself across a rocky terrain, falling to its knees and struggling to lift itself again, hauling its tufted carcass onward toward a cluster of rusting metal barrels half filled with trash, from which it eventually managed to paw out what looked like a knuckle of raw bone, more or less totally devoid of meat. The animal was a pathetic sight; because of the wasting effects of malnutrition, it looked more like a gargantuan stoat or weasel than a polar bear. As it slowly chewed whatever it was that it had managed to scavenge from the trash, its eyes half closed in deep and terminal fatigue, a white tide of saliva frothed slowly from its mouth, while over this footage a cello played a slow and mournful glissando. I turned down the sound on my phone so as not to attract my son's attention, his inexorable questions. He was three then, and our relationship in those days took the form of an endless interrogation. A text at the bottom of the screen explained that the footage was shot near an abandoned Inuit village in the northern Canadian tundra, where the bear had strayed in search of food, the population of seals, its usual food source, having been drastically diminished by the effects of climate change. My soul remained uncrushed, my heart more or less unwrenched. I felt instead a creeping disgust at the footage itself, at the manner of its presentation--the lachrymose music, the stately pace of the editing--which seemed designed to elicit in me a recognition of my own contribution to this terrible situation, together with a virtuous and perhaps even redemptive swelling of sorrow, of noble sadness at the ecological destruction in which I myself was playing a role. It occurred to me then that the disgust I felt was the symptom of a kind of moral vertigo, resulting from the fact that the very technology that allowed me to witness the final pathetic tribulations of this emaciated beast was in fact a cause of the animal's suffering in the first place. The various rare-earth minerals that were mined for the phone's components in places whose names I would never be required to learn; the fuels consumed in the course of its construction, its shipping halfway across the world, its charging with electrical current on a daily basis: it was for the sake of all this, and in my name, that the bear was starving and dragging itself across the rocky ground. The slapstick capering of the cartoon bear my son was watching on the television screen and, above his head, the awful distress of the real bear on the smaller screen: the absurd juxtaposition of these images, simultaneously summoned from the ether and vying for attention, generated a strange emotional charge, a surge of shame and sadness at the world my son would be forced to live in, a shame and sadness that I in turn was passing on to him. It seemed to me that I was being confronted with an impossible problem: the problem of reconciling the images on these two screens, or at least of living with the fact of their irreconcilability. The bears in his world were always hanging out with kids and having adventures, living in cabins, enduring comic mishaps, coming good in the end. The bears in mine were all rummaging in bins and starving to death. I wanted him to live in that first world, that good world, as long as possible, but I knew that soon enough he would have to leave it and live in the future. And it was not obvious to me how a person was supposed to raise children, to live and work with a sense of meaning and purpose, in the quickening shadow of that future. It didn't take much, in those days, to set me off on a path toward the end of the world. There were frequent opportunities to indulge my tendency toward the eschatological. Cartoons, viral videos, radio news bulletins, uneasy exchanges with neighbors about how it never used to be this warm in February. So many things felt like a flashback sequence in the first act of a postapocalyptic movie, like we were living right before the events of the main timeline kicked in. I knew that this kind of thinking was as old as human civilization itself, that imagining the apocalypse was immemorially a response to times of rapid change and uncertainty. This recognition made it no less oppressive, no less real. What did I feel when I thought about my son and his future? I felt a kind of abstract but all-consuming melancholy. My love for him felt like an insoluble moral problem. The smart money seemed to be on apocalypse, but as a parent I felt I had some kind of moral duty to be deluded about the future, to avert my gaze from the horizon. I was by no means living up to this duty. We are alive in a time of worst-case scenarios. The world we have inherited seems exhausted, destined for an absolute and final unraveling. Look: there are fascists in the streets, and in the palaces. Look: the weather has gone uncanny, volatile, malevolent. The wealth and power of nominal democracies is increasingly concentrated in the hands of smaller and more heedless minorities, while life becomes more precarious for ever larger numbers of people. The old alliances, the postwar dispensations, are lately subject to a dire subsidence. The elaborate stage settings of global politics, the drawing rooms and chandeliers, are being dismantled, disappearing off into the wings, laying bare the crude machinery of capital. The last remaining truth is the supreme fiction of money, and we are up to our necks in a rising sludge of decomposing facts. For those who wish to read them, and for those who do not, the cryptic but insistent signs of apocalypse are all around. Another browser window, another omen of the end. A UN report detailing how one million species are at risk of imminent extinction. An image of a waterfall cascading into the Arctic from the sheer cliff face of a melting glacier. The proliferation of antibiotic-resistant diseases. And all of it subject to the great flattening effect of the online discourse. Listen. Attune your ear to the general discord, and you will hear the cracking of the ice caps, the rising of the waters, the sinister whisper of the near future. Is it not a terrible time to be having children, and therefore, in the end, to be alive? This question is not a rhetorical one. I myself go back and forth on it, obsessively, helplessly, talking myself in and out of different kinds of answers. And if it is now a terrible time to be alive and having children, you have to ask when, in the scheme of things, it was ever a good one. Having children is the most natural thing in the world, and at the same time among the most morally fraught. During the time I am talking about here, I was consumed--pointlessly, morbidly consumed--by the question of whether having brought a human being into the world was a terrible ethical blunder, given what seemed to lie ahead. The last thing the world needed, after all, was more people in it, and the last thing any hitherto nonexistent person needed was to be in the world. It was of course a little late in the day now, the deed being well and truly done, to be giving serious attention to these fundamental questions, but then again it was precisely the day's lateness that brought the questions themselves into absolute focus. Because the first thing to be said about becoming a parent, whether it happens by choice or by chance, is that it is one of only very few events in life that are entirely irreversible. Once you're in, existentially speaking, you're in. And so the real question, the only question--given what the world is, how dark and uncertain its future--is that of how to proceed. How are we supposed to live, given the distinct possibility that our species, our civilization, might already be doomed? Should we just ignore the end of the world? Again, the question is not wholly ironic: on a personal level, I'm open to the suggestion that such a response--by which I mean no response at all--might well be the sanest one, given the situation. It's certainly the easiest response, and therefore by some distance the most tempting. The problem, our problem as a culture--which, I may as well admit, neatly dovetails with my problem as a writer, and to some hopefully limited extent yours as a reader--is one of boredom. Excerpted from Notes from an Apocalypse: A Personal Journey to the End of the World and Back by Mark O'Connell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.Table of Contents
1 Tribulations | p. 1 |
2 Preparations | p. 19 |
3 Luxury Survival | p. 43 |
4 Bolt-hole | p. 71 |
5 Off-World Colony | p. 102 |
6 Under the Hide | p. 132 |
7 The Final Resting Place of the Future | p. 183 |
8 The Redness of the Map | p. 221 |
Acknowledgments | p. 255 |