Interesting and accidental juxtaposition in these two bits from very different scenes and sources, which nonetheless rhyme strongly:

In my most cynical moments, I wonder if the return to literary moralism isn’t an evolutionary tactic of publishing’s extant power structures, substituting real-world issues of employment and portfolio identity representation—which do matter—with equitable representation within individual works of art—which does not. This might explain the recent litany of mediocre novels by palpably anxious authors that read like they’re trying to win oppressed-identity bingo, while real-world diversity in publishing continues to flounder.

Fundamentalists already have incomprehensible revelations and Jeremiads. They don’t need page one with its global warming data dump trauma porn, and the editorial where Eeyore with a pounding hangover tells you that you’re an evil hypocrite because oil and animal products, or that the world is so much darker than your feeble mind could possibly comprehend. They’ve got all that already, a much better version actually, where Jesus loves them anyway. Why would they give that up? We’ve been doing this all wrong, how we talk to each other about the climate emergency.