Le Guin’s work is distinctive not only because it is imaginative, or because it is political, but because she thought so deeply about the work of building a future worth living. She did not just believe that a society free of consumerism and incarceration, like Shevek’s homeworld, could exist; she explored how that society could be built and understood the process would be hard work, and probably on some level disappointing. The future is not a static thing; to its architects, it is always in motion, always mid-creation, never realized.
You can’t talk about every possible future in one work of science fiction—that would be crazy. But what you could do is tell a bunch of stories that are relatively plausible, that are set in the near future, and that describe a course of action that readers can imagine in a kind of “thick” texture. Where you really feel like you’re there. There’ll be some contingent events and some characters that are representative, but they are also individual characters with their own quirks. There’ll be a story, and yet the reader will also say: “Well, yeah—this could be one way forward.” This way, you have the utopian strand of describing things going right. Do we have a sense that things could go right? Even if it’s physically possible, the question is: Is it politically possible, and is it humanly possible?
I would invite everybody to think of the Green New Deal as it currently exists (a document which is quite impressive in its amount of detail and substance) as a science-fiction story. It’s a utopian science-fiction story written in the form of a proclamation or a blueprint for action. In my short-story collection, The Martians, I experimented with all kinds of formats, including a short story in the form of the Martian Constitution and a short story in the form of an abstract in a scientific journal. In the case of the Green New Deal, and in the best possible way, I want to suggest that seeing it as a kind of science-fiction story is what we need. We need that kind of vision.Kim Stanley Robinson
Re: the upper paragraph of this quote, cf. my piece for The Sociological Review (originally posted back in 2016) in which I argued for sf as a tool for speculative ethnography, providing a “thick description” of reconfigured sociotechnicalities; that argument was extended in my (open-access) paper for Energy Research & Social Science from 2017.
Regular readers will know I’m not a fan of the blueprint utopia per se, but note that KSR is here advocating specifically for multiple such blueprints, rather than simply advancing a single vision; that plurality is one way of avoiding the pitfalls of the solutionist technotopia. But it’s interesting to hear a fiction writer arguing for the treatment of policy documents as fictional forms, even if only in part; that understanding of the transposability of narratological approaches into political imaginaries is something my colleagues and I are working to develop further, and it’s good to have someone with the profile (and, let’s be honest, the charm and candour) of KSR arguing the same case.
- Dobraszczyk, P. (2019). Future Cities: Architecture and the Imagination. Reaktion Books.
Good, passionate arguments here from my friend Dobraszczyk, making a case for future urban imaginaries as a necessary component of our collective coping with an uncertain future. Note his explicit disavowal of the predictive mode, and the arguments in favour of the imagination as not only (ultimately, eventually) productive of more realistically liveable cities, but also as a kind of ideological prophylactic against totalitarian ideologies. (Thus we might see Paul’s proposals here as a defence mechanism to be deployed against the totalising and black-boxing corporate narratives of “smartness” described in Sadowski & Bendor, 2019.)
Cities are always a meld of matter and mind, places that we are rooted in both physically and mentally […] rather than cleave the imagination from reason, should we not explore how the two are entangled – how together they can open up rich possibilities in terms of how we think the future?(p. 8)
Here Dobraszczyk realises what has become a familiar truism of science fiction criticism: “Images of the future [as in science-fictional cities], no matter how fantastical they may be, are really about the present” (p. 8); I’d go further, and argue that the more fantastical the vision, the closer to the zeitgeist are the deep truths contained within.
… we now experience London as a product of Dickens’s texts [thanks to many years of Dickensian tourism opportunities… a] similar transference of imagined to real is now happening in the Blade Runner tours currently being offered to tourists in Shanghai.(p. 10)
Against the hoarding render and the maquette: “Architectural visualization – especially in the digital age – relies upon images as tools of persuasion that effectively present something that is essentially a speculation, a fiction” (p. 10); Dobraszczyk notes that there’s often an absence of affect or feeling in these images, as they attempt to paper over “the gap between fantasy and reality”, but that absence “alerts us to the difference between fiction and fact, between the world as we find it and the world as we wish it to be.” (p. 11)
Noting the way in which the Burj Khalifa echoes an old Frank Lloyd Wright proposal for Chicago from the grand era of USian skyscrapers: “Past precedents will always be important because they almost always form the basis for more recent urban plans, no matter how unprecedented they may seem” (p. 11); see also, IMO, the way in which the “smart city” with driverless cars recapitulates the classic Futurama exhibit, in function if not in aesthetic.
“We must recognise that the imagination is key in how we ‘pre-experience’ alternative futures – how we can prepare ourselves for what might be coming. [These efforts] will not be primarily predictive – believable outcomes based on what we know already – but rather a range of stories that allow us to feel what it might be like to live in the future.”(pp. 13-14)
“… humans need narrative to make sense of a whole range of possible outcomes that can never be predicted with any degree of certainty”; here, Dobraszczyk is advocating a “story-based approach to imagining the future [which] encompasses the metaphorical, the ethical, the aesthetic and the speculative.”(p. 14)
Linking out to Latour, A-NT and flat-ontology positions more broadly, in the context of ecological crisis: “In thinking of buildings and cities as primarily about connections, we can open our minds to an almost infinite array of possibile futures for them – futures that will be defined by how we connect up all manner of things […] such futures can never be predictive, but they can empower us because they will release us out into worlds beyond ourselves.” (p. 15) That last phrase being perhaps the most concisely poetic argument in favour of object-oriented thinking I’ve encountered in quite some time.
Finally, an argument for the imagination amid the shared contexts of fictions and imaginaries as capable of fostering a radical resilience beyond the banal socioeconomic and/or post-disaster “bounce-backability” that the term tends to devolve to in planning discourses: a shared narrative of futurity, even when contested, “forges a link between how we imagine the future city and how we relate to it as a real place”; promoting and defending an “ecology of the human mind”, which is “vital in resisting the tendency of contemporary capitalism – or any dominating worldview – to constrain the human imagination […] imagination is already politicised because, as a faculty that only flourishes when set free, it inherently resists such subjugation”; the result is a radical conception of urban resilience that extends to a sort of plural political collectivity, akin to an ideological immunisation against totalitarian/authoritarian visions. The shared notion of the very possibility of possibility acts against its pre-emptive foreclosure by fascism, sort of thing… though I should probably note that Dobraszczyk doesn’t actually drop the f-bomb himself, here.
I thought I’d read this before, many years ago, and perhaps I did – the handful of dog-eared pages in my paperback copy suggest someone read it, though perhaps I acquired it second-hand. Or perhaps I buried my memories of reading it, whether deliberately or unintentionally? That would certainly be a Ballardian response to a Ballardian text. But usually when I reread a book I first read long before, chunks of it will produce a sense of deja vu-esque familiarity, and I got none of that from The Drowned World – which is surprising given how often I’ve read critical or theoretical work which references it. Selah.
The story is less about Kerans and his self-thwarted urges to head south than it is about the attempts by Riggs (representing Continuity Civilisation’s last attempt to shore up its militaristic and hierarchical order in its Arctic redoubt and somehow BAU itself into a future which has now been foreclosed upon) to keep control of any viable space and/or knowledge left free of the encroaching waters, and the attempts by Strangman to roll back the clock just far enough to reclaim the ruins as a playground in which to re-enact the barbarisms that Continuity Civilisation had long suppressed. I’m by no means a scholar of Freud, but I wonder if one might see Riggs as the superego and Strangman as the id, leaving Kerans to stand for the ego retreating into a state of redundancy and collapse… eh, probably not. Indeed, trying to map any particular theory onto this book is probably a mistake, as it’s as much a map of Ballard’s own theory (and his own unconscious) as anything else, by the author’s own admission.
But then again, that may be too easy an escape route – for how unconscious was it really? Ballard’s obsession with the themes of the reversion to barbarism, solitude, and solipsism amid the collapse of a previously rigid hierarchy is perhaps too consistent and well-established (not to mention clearly signposted time and time again outwith the texts in question by the author himself) to be as unconscious as he claimed them to be. That’s not to negate the power of their insight, to be clear; rather, it serves to highlight the fascination and loathing that the spectacle and experience of social collapse held for Ballard, manifest as a longing to escape into a solitary and self-sufficient annihilation while the world wound itself down around him… a longing perhaps less held in abeyance by the act of writing than it was manifested through it.
It’s a feeling I recognise quite clearly – not just the supposed (and, realistically, false) liberation of running away into the lawless and abandoned ruins, but the longing for the contextual excuses for doing so, for the moment at which one can give up on the perpetual struggle between order and chaos that is human affairs and eke out your last days in the punctuated quietude of the interstices, knowing yourself to have been fooled or seduced by neither side in the struggle, dependent on no one but yourself. Of course, I may very well just be projecting myself into an equally fictional authorial-intention-space, here, over-identifying with the author because I’m too cynical and trained at over-reading to identify with the text itself… but then again, maybe not? Ballard’s endless and relentless return to those formative images and experiences may preclude his own claims of their unconscious origins, but it in now way precludes their being the engine of his art. And while my own experiences were never so drastic or violent as his, I have in common with Ballard the experience of an “expatriate” childhood, the gradual dethroning of parental authority, competence and power, and an exposure to the arbitrary and contradictory whims of hierarchical authority. We both saw just how thin the veneer of civilisation really is, and the hypocrisies which prop it up; perhaps then it’s no surprise that we share the urge to leave it all behind, to enact a refusal of both stasis and entropy, despite the knowledge that our knowing is a function of the privileges afforded us by the very system that so revolts and fascinates us.
(And perhaps that urge to walk away is more widespread than we would like to admit, too, even if the moderating awareness of privilege is not. As has been remarked many times before now, there’s something deeply Ballardian about Brexit in general, and in particular the almost rabid fixation on the no-deal exit option that currently reigns among its most fervent disciples… perhaps to them the EU is Riggs and the Arctic settlements struggling to manage their own decline, and Strangman the depredations of a more nimble and rapacious form of capitalism that doesn’t square with the old (“noble”, imperial/paternal) form? Perhaps then walking southward into the floodlands beneath the blazing sun, cognizant and fully accepting of one’s inevitable doom, is the only dignified way to refuse either option… there’s something very Captain Oates about it, and indeed about this whole sorry shit-show of imperial nostalgia. As such it worries me that I identify with that solipsist-annihilation urge in Ballard’s characters, because they are more often than not distillations of anxieties that, while not particular to the British middle classes, are nonetheless endemic to them; I was raised in Brexitland, and despite all my conscious efforts, that deep architecture may never be fully expunged.)
The Drowned World doesn’t so much reach a climax as it finally permits the possibility of the ending that’s signposted clearly from the very start, and then repeatedly deferred. (Another Brexit parallel, amirite?) The obstacles that prevent Kerans from following through on the urge to head south into the sun are not external so much as they’re his internalisations of the external: he’s clinging to a vestigial sense of the appropriate, and perhaps to the last shreds of fear that prevent him from embracing a fate that is finally made concrete when he discovers the necrotic Hardman on his journey southward. The implication is that he will continue southward, in the hope (if not the expectation) that other may follow, as indicated by his scratching out a message with his pistol-butt. This is traditionally read as being a pessimistic and dystopian conclusion, but does it have to be? Perhaps we can imagine the inevitable Hollywood coda wherein Kerans limps into some enclave of sun-baked refuseniks eking out an existence on berries and iguana meat, reproducing just fast enough to beat the mortality rates and allow the inevitable mutations to ensure that some of the next generation make it through to repopulate the new, hot, wet world… but that’s not just scientifically unfeasible, it’s also a betrayal of Ballard’s entire literary project, I think. His refusenik characters are proxies for himself, to some extent, but they’re also necessities of narrative mechanics: the irrationalities of both “civilisation” and “barbarism” can only be exposed as such from the alienated perspective of the outsider, the character given the privilege of choosing either side who nonetheless chooses neither.
It bears noting at this point that Ballard’s portrayals of Strangman’s piratical crew are seriously racist, using hackneyed stereotypes of blackness and mixedness as a shorthand for a form of barbarism characterised by the ease with which it might be directed by a more “civilised” captain. (While it provides no excuse whatsoever, it’s interesting to note that Strangman is portrayed as an avatar of extreme whiteness not merely in contrast to his crew, but also to Riggs, Kerans and the others, albeit to a lesser degree.) This aside, the consistent othering of blackness all through the book makes it very hard to like or praise, even as I can recognise its historical importance and influence… indeed, its largely unquestioned position as a foundational element in the proto-canon of “cli-fi” probably needs a sustained and critical examination on that basis alone. Many have made comparisons between The Drowned World and Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, but that comparison cuts two ways: much like Conrad’s novel, this one is badly tainted by the institutionalised viewpoints of its author.
The feature interview in this month’s issue of Now Then Magazine is the result of yours truly having a chat with the bard of Salford himself, Dr John Cooper Clarke.
Residents of Rust City can pick up a pulped-wood copy from all the usual places, while those elsewhere can peruse it in electronic form via the website. Many thanks to Dr Clarke and his publicity people for setting up the interview, and for the two Sams at Now Then for letting me talk to a legend.