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Books, Essays, History, Profiles, Reviews

The Enduring Power of Place: Step Into Historian David McCullough’s Work

By Michael Cummins, Editor, August 12, 2025

A vast stone arch, a suspension of steel, a ribbon of concrete stretching across a chasm—these are not merely feats of engineering or infrastructure. They are, in the words of the great historian David McCullough, monuments to the human spirit, physical places that embody the stories of ingenuity, perseverance, and sacrifice that created them. While the written word provides the essential narrative framework for understanding the past, McCullough’s work, from his celebrated biographies to his upcoming collection of essays, History Matters (2025), consistently champions the idea that visiting and comprehending these physical settings offers a uniquely powerful and visceral connection to history.

These places are not just backdrops; they are tangible testaments, silent witnesses to the struggles and triumphs that have shaped our world, offering a depth of understanding that written accounts alone cannot fully provide. In History Matters, McCullough writes, “History is a guide to navigation in perilous times. History is who we are and why we are the way we are.” This philosophy is the essay’s core, as we explore how the places he chronicled are integral to this understanding.

In his extensive body of work, McCullough frequently returned to this theme, demonstrating how the physical presence of a historical site grounds the abstract facts of the past in the authentic, palpable reality of the present. He believed that the stories of our past are a “user’s manual for life,” and that the places where these stories unfolded are the most direct way to access that manual. By examining four of his most iconic subjects—the Brooklyn Bridge, the “White City” of the 1893 World’s Fair, the Panama Canal, and Kitty Hawk—we can see this philosophy in action.

Each of these monumental endeavors was an audacious, against-all-odds project that faced incredible technical and personal challenges, including political opposition, financial struggles, and tragic loss of life. Yet, McCullough uses them as a lens to explore the character of the people who built them, the society of the time, and the very idea of American progress and ingenuity. These structures, built against overwhelming odds, stand as powerful reminders that history is an active, ongoing force, waiting to be discovered not just in books, but in the very soil and stone of the world around us.

The Brooklyn Bridge

The Brooklyn Bridge stands as a primary example of a physical place as tangible testimony to human ingenuity. In his landmark book The Great Bridge (1972), McCullough details the seemingly insurmountable challenges faced by the Roebling family in their quest to connect Manhattan and Brooklyn. In the mid-19th century, the idea of spanning the East River, with its powerful currents and constant ship traffic, was seen as an engineering impossibility. The technology for building such a massive structure simply did not exist. The bridge, therefore, was not merely constructed; it was invented. The vision of John Roebling, who conceived the revolutionary design of a steel-wire suspension bridge, was cut short by a tragic accident. His son, Washington, took over the project, only to be struck down by the debilitating effects of “the bends,” a crippling decompression sickness contracted while working in the underwater caissons. These massive timber and iron chambers, filled with compressed air, allowed workers to lay the foundations for the bridge’s monumental stone towers deep below the riverbed. The work was brutal, dangerous, and physically taxing. Washington himself spent countless hours in the caissons, developing the condition that would leave him partially paralyzed. As McCullough writes, “The bridge was a monument to faith and to the force of a single will.” This quote captures the essence of the Roeblings’ spirit, and the enduring structure itself embodies this unwavering faith.

Paralyzed and often bedridden, Washington continued to direct the project from his window, observing the progress through a telescope while his wife, Emily Warren Roebling, acted as his liaison and de facto chief engineer, mastering advanced mathematics and engineering to communicate her husband’s instructions to the men on site. The Roeblings’ story is a personal drama of vision and perseverance, and the physical bridge is a direct reflection of it. The monumental stone towers, with their Gothic arches, are a direct result of the design choices made to withstand immense pressure. The intricate web of steel cables, which Roebling so meticulously calculated, hangs as a monument to his genius. The wooden promenade, a feature initially ridiculed by critics, stands as a testament to the Roeblings’ foresight, offering a space for the public to walk and experience the grandeur of the structure.

A person can read McCullough’s narrative of the Roeblings’ saga and feel inspired by their resilience. However, standing on the promenade today, feeling the subtle vibrations of the traffic below, seeing the cables stretch into the distance, and touching the cold, ancient stone of the towers provides a profound, non-verbal understanding of the sheer audacity of the project. The physical object makes the story of vision, sacrifice, and perseverance feel not like a distant myth, but like a concrete reality, etched into the very materials that compose it. The bridge becomes a silent orator, telling its story without a single word, through its breathtaking scale and enduring presence. It connects us not only to a piece of engineering but to the very human story of a family that poured its life’s work into a single, magnificent idea.

The White City

The “White City” of the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition, as chronicled in The Devil in the White City (2003), serves as a different but equally powerful example of a place as a testament to human will and ambition. Unlike the permanent structures of the Brooklyn Bridge and Panama Canal, the White City was a temporary, almost mythical creation. Built from scratch on swampy land in Chicago, it was a colossal feat of city planning and architectural design that captured the imagination of the world and showcased America’s coming of age. The place itself—with its majestic, neoclassical buildings, grand boulevards, and sprawling lagoons—was a physical manifestation of a nation’s collective vision. The narrative is driven by figures like architect Daniel Burnham, who, much like Washington Roebling, faced immense pressure, logistical nightmares, and constant political infighting. The physical challenges were immense: transforming a marsh into a breathtaking cityscape in just a few short years, all while coordinating the work of an entire generation of architectural titans like Frederick Law Olmsted and Louis Sullivan.

McCullough uses the White City to show how an ambitious idea can be willed into existence through relentless determination. The physical city, for its brief, glorious existence, was the living embodiment of American progress, ingenuity, and the Gilded Age’s opulent grandeur. It was a place where millions came to witness the future, to marvel at electric lights, and to see new technologies like the Ferris wheel. As McCullough writes, “The fair, a world of its own, had a power to transform those who visited it.” This quote highlights the profound, almost magical impact of this temporary place. However, McCullough masterfully contrasts the gleaming promise of the White City with the dark underbelly of the era, epitomized by the psychopathic serial killer H.H. Holmes and his “Murder Castle,” located just a few miles away. The physical contrast between these two places—the temporary, luminous dream and the permanent, sinister reality—is central to the book’s power. Even though the structures of the White City no longer stand, the historical record of this magnificent place—its photographs, its architectural plans, and McCullough’s vivid descriptions—serves as a tangible window into that moment in time, reminding us of the powerful, transformative potential of a shared human vision and the complex, often contradictory, nature of the society that produced it.

The Panama Canal

Finally, the Panama Canal serves as a powerful testament to the theme of human sacrifice and endurance. The canal was not just a feat of engineering; it was a grueling, decades-long battle against nature, disease, and bureaucratic inertia. As chronicled in McCullough’s Pulitzer Prize-winning book, The Path Between the Seas (1977), the French attempt to build a sea-level canal failed catastrophically under the direction of Ferdinand de Lesseps, the engineer of the Suez Canal. They grossly underestimated the challenges of the tropical climate, the unstable geology, and the devastating diseases, costing thousands of lives and ultimately leading to financial ruin. The subsequent American effort, led by figures like Dr. William Gorgas, who tirelessly fought the mosquito-borne diseases, and engineer John Frank Stevens, who abandoned the sea-level plan for a lock-and-lake system, was equally defined by a titanic human cost. The physical canal itself—the vast, deep Culebra Cut that slices through the continental divide, the enormous locks that lift ships over a mountain range, the sprawling Gatun Lake—serves as a permanent memorial to this immense struggle.

The sheer physical scale of the canal is an emotional and intellectual experience that far surpasses any numerical data. One can read that “25,000 workers died” during the French and American construction periods, a statistic that, while tragic, can be difficult to fully comprehend. But to stand at the edge of the Culebra Cut, staring down at the colossal gorge carved out of rock and earth, is to feel the weight of those lives. The physical presence of the cut makes the abstract struggle of “moving a mountain” feel real. The immense size of the locks and the power of the water filling them evokes a sense of awe not just for the engineering, but for the human will that made it happen. The canal is not just a shortcut for global trade; it is a monument to the thousands of unnamed laborers who toiled in oppressive conditions and to the few visionaries who refused to give up. As McCullough wrote, the canal was a testament to the fact that “nothing is more common than the wish to move mountains, but a mountain-moving event requires uncommon determination.” The physical place makes the concept of perseverance tangible, demonstrating in steel, concrete, and water that impossible tasks can be conquered through sheer, relentless human effort. The canal also represents a pivot point in American history, marking the nation’s emergence as a global power and its willingness to take on monumental challenges on the world stage.

Kitty Hawk

In The Wright Brothers, McCullough presents a different kind of historical place: one that is not a monumental structure, but a desolate, windswept beach. The story of Wilbur and Orville Wright’s quest to achieve controlled, powered flight is inextricably linked to this specific location on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Kitty Hawk was not a place of grandeur, but one of raw, challenging nature. Its consistent, stiff winds and soft, sandy dunes made it an ideal testing ground for their gliders. This place was a crucial collaborator in their scientific process, a physical laboratory where they could test, fail, and re-evaluate their ideas in relative isolation. As McCullough writes of their success, “It was a glorious, almost unbelievable feat of human will, ingenuity and determination.” This triumph was born not on a grand stage, but on a patch of ground that was, at the time, little more than a remote stretch of sand.

McCullough’s narrative emphasizes how the physical conditions of Kitty Hawk—the powerful gales, the endless expanse of sand, and the isolation from the public eye—were essential to the Wrights’ success. They didn’t build a monument to their achievement in a city; they built it in the middle of nowhere. It was a place of quiet, methodical work, of relentless trial and error. The physical space itself was a character in their story, a partner in their success. The first flight did not happen on a grand stage, but on a patch of ground that was, at the time, little more than a remote stretch of sand. Today, when one visits the Wright Brothers National Memorial, the monument is not just the stone pylon marking the first flight, but the entire landscape—the dunes, the wind, and the expansive sky—that made their achievement possible. This place reminds us that some of history’s greatest triumphs begin not with a bang, but in the quiet, isolated spaces where innovation is allowed to thrive.

Conclusion

Beyond these specific examples, McCullough’s philosophy, as expected to be reiterated in History Matters, argues that this direct, experiential connection to place is vital for a vibrant and engaged citizenry. It is the authenticity of standing on the same ground as our forebears that makes history feel relevant to our own lives. A book can tell us about courage, but a place—the Brooklyn Bridge, the Panama Canal, the White City, or a humble battlefield—can make us feel it. These places are the physical embodiment of the narratives that have defined us, and by seeking them out, we are not simply looking at the past; we are a part of a continuous story. They remind us that the qualities of human ingenuity, sacrifice, and perseverance are not merely historical attributes, but enduring elements of the human condition, available to us still today.

Ultimately, McCullough’s legacy is not only in the stories he told but also in his fervent plea for us to recognize the importance of the places where those stories occurred. His work stands as a powerful argument that history is not abstract but is profoundly and permanently embedded in the physical world around us. By preserving and engaging with these historical places, we are not just honoring the past; we are keeping its most powerful lessons alive for our present and for our future. They are the tangible proof that great things are possible, and that the struggles and triumphs of those who came before us are forever etched into the landscape we inhabit today. His writings on these three monumental locations—one that stands forever as a testament to the Roeblings’ vision, another that vanished but whose story remains vivid, and a third that forever altered global commerce—each demonstrate the unique and irreplaceable power of place in history. As he so often reminded us, “We have to know who we are, and where we have come from, to be able to know where we are going.”

THIS ESSAY WAS WRITTEN AND EDITED UTILIZING AI

Arts & Literature, Book Reviews, Essays, Literature, Reviews

Moby-Dick, Perpetual Inquiry, and the Sublime

“Call me Ishmael.”

This iconic first line anchors one of the most enduring openings in American literature. Yet before it is spoken, before Ishmael’s voice emerges on the page, we encounter something more unusual: a kind of literary invocation. The opening pages of Moby-Dick—those dense, eclectic “Extracts” quoting scripture, classical literature, scientific treatises, and forgotten travelogues—do not serve as a traditional preface. Instead, they operate like a ritual threshold. They ask us to enter the novel not as a narrative, but as a vast textual cosmos.

Melville’s fictional “sub-sub-librarian” gathers fragments from Job to Shakespeare to obscure whaling reports, assembling a chorus of voices that have, across centuries, spoken of the whale. This pre-narrative collage is more than ornamentation. It proposes a foundational idea: that the whale lives not only in the ocean, but in language. Not only in myth, but in memory. Not only in flesh, but in thought.

Before the Pequod ever sets sail, Melville has already charted his central course—into the ocean of human imagination, where the whale swims through texts, dreams, and questions that refuse easy resolution.

Proof of Two Lives

“There’s something I find strangely moving about the ‘Extracts’ section,” remarks literary critic Wyatt Mason on The World in Time, a podcast hosted by Lewis Lapham. “It’s proof of two kinds of life. The life of the creature itself, and the life of the mind—the attention we pay over time to this creature.”

Mason’s comment offers a keel for the voyage ahead. In Moby-Dick, the whale is not simply an animal or antagonist. It becomes a metaphysical magnet, a mirror for human understanding, a challenge to the limits of knowing. The “Extracts” and “Etymologies,” often dismissed as digressions, are in fact sacred rites—texts that beg to be read with reverence.

In teaching the novel to incarcerated students through the Bard Prison Initiative, Mason and fellow writer Donovan Hohn describe how these obscure, labyrinthine sections are received not as trivia but as scripture. The students descend into the archive as divers into a shipwreck—recovering fragments of forgotten wisdom, learning to breathe in the pressure of incomprehensibility. “The whale,” Mason repeats, “resides or lives in texts.” And what a library it is.

The Whale as Philosophy

“All my means are sane, my motive and my object mad.”

Harold Bloom, the late sage of literary criticism, would have nodded at Mason’s insight. For Bloom, Moby-Dick was not merely a novel, but “a giant Shakespearean prose poem.” Melville, he believed, was a tragedian of the American soul. Captain Ahab, mad with self-reliance, became for Bloom a Promethean figure—bound not by divine punishment, but by his own obsessive will.

In Bloom’s classroom at Yale in 2011, there were no lecture notes. He taught Moby-Dick like a jazz solo—improvised, living, drawn from a lifetime of memory and myth. “It’s very unfair,” he said, reflecting on the whale hunts—great mammals hunted with harpoons and lances. Yet the Pequod’s most moral man, Starbuck, is also its most proficient killer. A Quaker devoted to peace, he is also the ship’s deadliest lance. This contradiction—gentleness and violence braided together—is the essence of Melville’s philosophy.

The whale, in Bloom’s reading, is sublime not because it symbolizes any one thing—God, evil, justice, nature—but because it cannot be pinned down. It is an open question. An unending inquiry. A canvas for paradox. “Heaven help them all,” Bloom said of the Pequod’s doomed crew. “And us.”

Melville the Environmentalist

“There she blows! There she blows! A hump like a snow-hill! It is Moby Dick!”

Where Bloom heard Melville’s music in metaphor and myth, Richard J. King hears it in science. In Ahab’s Rolling Sea: A Natural History of Moby-Dick (2019), King charts a different map—overlaying Melville’s imagined ocean onto real tides, real whales, real voyages. He sails replica whalers, interviews marine biologists, pores over Melville’s notebooks.

His inquiry begins with a straightforward question: could a sperm whale really destroy a ship? Historical records suggest yes. But King doesn’t stop at anatomy. His portrait of Melville reveals a proto-environmentalist, someone who revered the sea not just as symbol but as system. Melville’s whale, King argues, is a creature of wonder and terror, not just prey but presence.

In an age of ecological crisis, King reframes Moby-Dick as a book not just of metaphor but of environmental ethics. Ishmael’s meandering digressions become meditations on the ocean as moral agent—an entity capable of sustaining and destroying. The sea is no backdrop; it is a character, a god, an intelligence. Melville’s ocean, King suggests, humbles the hubris of Ahab and calls readers to ecological humility.

Rediscovery in Dark Times

“Strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall?”

Aaron Sachs, in Up From the Depths: Herman Melville, Lewis Mumford, and Rediscovery in Dark Times (2022), picks up the whale’s trail in the 20th century. In 1929, as the world plunged into the Great Depression, the writer and historian Lewis Mumford resurrected Melville from literary oblivion. His biography of the long-forgotten author recast Melville not as a failure, but as a visionary.

For Mumford, Melville was a kindred spirit—a man who, long before the term “modernity” took hold, had already seen its psychic cost. As Mumford watched the rise of industry, mass production, and spiritual exhaustion, he found in Melville a dark prophet. Ahab’s fury was not personal—it was civilizational.

Critics have praised Sachs’s biography as timely and thoughtful. Its thesis is clear: in times of disorientation, literature does more than reflect the world—it refracts it. It preserves vital truths, repurposing them when our present crises demand older insights.

In Sachs’s telling, Moby-Dick is not just a classic; it’s a living text. A lighthouse in the storm. A warning bell. A whale-shaped mirror reflecting our fears, failures, and persistent hope.

The Whale in the Classroom

“Ignorance is the parent of fear.”

The classroom, as Sachs and Mason both suggest, becomes a site of literary resurrection. In prison education programs, students discover themselves in the “Extracts”—not despite their difficulty, but because of it. The very act of grappling with Melville’s arcane references, strange structures, and encyclopedic digressions becomes an act of reclamation.

To teach Moby-Dick in a prison is to raise a sunken ship. Its sentences, like salvaged artifacts, reveal new meaning. Forgotten knowledge becomes fuel for rediscovery. Students, many of whom have been dismissed by society, see in Melville’s endless inquiry a validation of their own intelligence and complexity.

Harold Bloom taught Moby-Dick the same way. Every reading was new. No fixed script, only the swell of thought. He modeled Melville’s method: trust the reader, trust the text, trust the mystery.

The whale resists capture—literal and interpretive. It is not a symbol with a key, but a question without an answer. That resistance is what makes Moby-Dick enduring. It insists on being re-read. Re-thought. Re-discovered.

The Archive That Breathes

“It is not down in any map; true places never are.”

Taken together, the voices of Wyatt Mason, Harold Bloom, Richard J. King, and Aaron Sachs reveal Moby-Dick as something more than literature. It is a breathing archive—a repository of imagination, inquiry, and paradox.

Within its pages dwell theologies and taxonomies, drama and digression, sermons and sea shanties. It houses the ethical weight of ecology, the fury of Ahab, the wonder of Ishmael, and the ghosts of Melville’s century. It defies genre, resists reduction, and insists on complexity.

Melville did not write to close arguments but to open them. He did not believe in neat endings. His whale is the quintessential “true place”: uncapturable, immeasurable, endlessly sublime.

And yet we return. We keep hunting—not with harpoons, but with attention. With interpretation. With awe.

A Final Breach

What, then, do we do with Moby-Dick in the twenty-first century? How do we reconcile Ahab’s consuming fury with Ishmael’s contemplative awe? How do we carry Bloom’s Prometheus, King’s Leviathan, Sachs’s resurrected Melville, and Mason’s classroom in a single imagination?

We read. We reread. We become “sub-sub-librarians”—archivists of ambiguity, curators of complexity. We do not read Moby-Dick for closure. We read it to learn how to remain open—to contradiction, to paradox, to mystery.

But what if we, like Captain Ahab, set off to find Moby Dick and never found the whale?

What if all our intellectual harpoons missed their mark? What if the whale was never there to begin with—not as symbol, not as certainty, not as prize?

Would we call that failure?

Or might we discover, like Ishmael adrift on the coffin-raft, that survival is not about conquest, but endurance? That truth lives not in the kill, but in the quest?

Perhaps Melville’s greatest lesson is that the whale must never be caught. Its sublimity lies in its elusiveness—in its capacity to remain just beyond the reach of definition, control, and meaning. It breaches in metaphor. It disappears in digression. It waits—not to be captured, but to be considered.

We will never catch it. But we must keep following.

For in the following, we become something more than readers.
We become seekers.

THIS ESSAY WAS WRITTEN BY INTELLICUREAN UTILIZING AI

Books, Essays, Green Energy, Reviews

Review: “Solar’s Swift Ascent – Why The Energy Future Is Already Here”

The following essay review was written by AI and edited by Intellicurean from a New Yorker article titled “4.6 Billion Years On, The Sun Is Having A Moment”, by Bill McKibben from his forthcoming book “Here Comes The Sun”.

Much like a seasoned playgoer at a modern drama, we find ourselves watching the improbable and the inevitable perform a dizzying pas de deux. For decades, renewable energy existed on the fringe—a topic for earnest environmentalists, academic dreamers, and early adopters armed with more zeal than capital. One recalls the almost quaint marvel of the first all-solar house at the University of Delaware in 1973, drawing curious crowds like pilgrims to a modern oracle. It was a novelty, an “alternative” to the fossil-fueled behemoth that powered Western economies for two centuries. And “alternative” was the key word—suggesting not a contender, but a polite afterthought.

Yet as we move through the mid-2020s, a stunning twist has unfolded, largely unnoticed amid louder headlines. With little fanfare, renewable energy has shifted from a peripheral ideal to a mainstream economic reality. In a world often held hostage to political drama and climate paralysis, this shift—documented in a recent New Yorker piece drawn from Bill McKibben’s forthcoming book, Here Comes the Sun: A Last Chance for the Climate and a Fresh Chance for Civilization (August 2025)—feels both miraculous and overdue. What was once “too good to be true” is now simply true. Solar, wind, and battery storage have become the most cost-efficient, fastest-growing power sources on Earth. The implications are nothing short of a new Industrial Revolution—only this time, it’s clean, decentralized, and increasingly democratic.

The Solar Surge

The statistics McKibben explores in the excerpted material are not dry metrics—they’re signals of an epochal shift. It took nearly seventy years from the invention of the photovoltaic cell in 1954 to reach the first terawatt of installed solar power by 2022. The second terawatt arrived by 2024. The third? Expected by 2026. Solar is now being added at a rate of one gigawatt—equivalent to a coal plant—every fifteen hours. Wind power, a cousin to solar in its dependence on planetary physics, isn’t far behind.

Globally, renewables met 96% of new electricity demand in the past year. In the U.S., the figure was 93%. Fossil fuels, once the uncontested monarchs of modernity, are losing their crown. In March, for the first time, fossil fuels generated less than half of all U.S. electricity.

California provides a dramatic case study. In May, the state—now the fourth-largest economy in the world—hit a record: renewable sources produced 158% of its power demand. Over the entire day, they delivered 82% of electricity consumed. This wasn’t theoretical progress—it was operational proof.

Batteries and the Grid Reimagined

Equally revolutionary is the rise of energy storage. Battery deployment has surged 76% this year alone. These systems often act as California’s overnight power source, stabilizing the grid when sunlight fades or wind slows. One official from the North American Electric Reliability Corporation noted, “batteries can smooth out some of that variability from those times when the wind isn’t blowing or the sun isn’t shining.” The result? California now uses 40% less natural gas than it did just last year—a number McKibben hails as “the single most hopeful statistic I’ve seen in four decades of writing about the climate crisis.”

Even Texas, synonymous with oil and gas, is rapidly rebranding its energy identity. In March, it set records for solar, wind, and battery output. During a brutal May heatwave, over a quarter of its power came from renewables. By adding 10,000 megawatts of clean capacity, Texas slashed emergency blackout risk from 16% last year to less than 1% now. This isn’t green idealism—it’s grid-level, boots-on-the-ground practicality.

China and the Global Cascade

But the scale of change in the U.S. pales in comparison to what’s happening in China. More than half the world’s renewables and batteries are now installed within Chinese borders. In May alone, China added 93 gigawatts of solar—equivalent to one gigawatt every eight hours. The environmental payoff is immediate: carbon emissions dropped in the first quarter of 2025, with electricity-linked emissions falling nearly 6% as solar and wind displaced coal. Nearly half of all vehicles sold in China this year were electric or hybrid.

This trend isn’t isolated—it’s contagious. South America, once planning 15 new coal plants, now plans none. India’s solar output surged so rapidly in early 2025 that coal consumption plateaued while natural gas use fell by a quarter. Even Poland, long a coal bastion, saw solar outstrip coal in May. These aren’t anomalies—they’re geopolitical rewrites.

And why? Because solar is now the cheapest, fastest path to power. China’s relentless innovation has driven battery costs down by 95% in 15 years. In just the first half of 2024, the U.S. alone added 4 gigawatts of storage. A Chinese utility’s latest bidding round cut prices by another 30%. Grid-scale batteries now power entire cities for hours. Nations that ignore this transformation aren’t just polluting—they’re rendering themselves globally uncompetitive.

Even petro-states have noticed. Saudi Arabia, Qatar, and the UAE are all building massive solar fields. Their goal? 50% of electricity from solar by 2050. When oil empires go solar, the narrative has changed.

Forecasts vs. Reality

As with all revolutions, hindsight exposes how blind the experts were. In 2009, the International Energy Agency predicted 244 gigawatts of solar by 2030. That benchmark was reached by 2015. Their forecasts over the last decade missed by an average of 235%. The only group that got it close? Greenpeace.

Jenny Chase of Bloomberg, quoted in the book, admitted: “If you’d told me nearly 20 years ago what would be the case now… I would have laughed in your face.” The contrast between establishment analysts and environmentalists makes for a satisfying, if sobering, moment of vindication.

Leapfrogging the Fossil Age

Perhaps the most radical reordering is happening in places least expected. In Pakistan, widespread solar adoption is quietly displacing national grid demand—not from recession, but from progress. Diesel sales are down 30%. Corn farmers now gift solar inverters as wedding dowries. Panels are laid flat on the earth without costly mounts. DIY TikTok tutorials fill the role of training programs. This is grassroots ingenuity—climate transition as community-driven liberation.

A similar story is emerging across Africa. In Namibia and Eswatini, rooftop solar accounts for 11–15% of peak electricity. In South Africa, small-scale solar now contributes nearly 20% of national grid capacity. Many of these systems go unreported, installed informally by citizens weary of blackouts. As energy analyst Joel Nana puts it: “This is happening anyway, whether you like it or not.”

The Limits—And Why They’re Not So Limiting

What of minerals? What of land? These limits, once feared fatal, now seem manageable.

Lithium, long considered a bottleneck, has seen prices drop even as demand rises. New sources have been discovered. More importantly, recycling systems are maturing. A 2023 Energy Transitions Commission report found that all materials needed to reach net zero by 2050 amount to less than the coal burned in a single year. Battery tech is also becoming more efficient—using less lithium, less silver, and recovering more materials post-use. One roof of solar panels can now power ten replacements over 25 years. That’s not just sustainability—it’s a virtuous cycle.

Land, too, is more abundant than assumed. Rooftops and parking lots help, but a more powerful solution lies in reclaiming farmland used for ethanol. A single acre of solar produces as much energy as 100 acres of corn-based ethanol. Cornell researchers found that converting under half of U.S. ethanol fields could decarbonize the entire grid by 2050. That’s not fantasy. That’s arithmetic.

Policy vs. Physics

The obstacles now aren’t technical—they’re political. Thousands of renewable projects are stuck in “interconnection queues,” awaiting utility approval. The Biden Administration has taken steps to clear these logjams. But the Trump Administration is actively trying to reverse course, propping up coal and gas, and demonizing renewables. One appointee—formerly a fracking executive—labeled solar “a parasite on the grid.” That’s not science. That’s theater.

Ironically, such obstruction may accelerate the global transition. Nations are increasingly wary of U.S. energy instability and looking elsewhere. Wall Street sees the trend clearly: renewables are not just climate solutions, but hedges against geopolitical volatility. A 2023 global poll found that 68% of people support solar energy—five times more than fossil fuels. Even among likely Trump voters, 87% support clean energy tax credits. The political class may dither, but the public is marching forward.

The Future Is Diffuse, Not Centralized

The most profound feature of this transition may be its structure. Fossil fuels are scarce, located in select pockets, and easy to monopolize. But solar and wind are everywhere. You can’t own the sun. You can’t weaponize the wind. What this means geopolitically is staggering. Wars have been fought over oil. No one’s going to invade for sunshine.

And that’s the quiet promise of this revolution. Decentralized power doesn’t just decarbonize economies—it redistributes agency. It empowers individuals, communities, and nations to unshackle themselves from legacy dependencies.

Conclusion: The Sun Conquers

Paradigm shifts of this magnitude—the Industrial Revolution, the rise of computing—rarely announce themselves with fireworks. But when they arrive, they redefine everything.

The insights drawn from McKibben’s forthcoming book deliver that quiet shock. What emerges is not speculation, but evidence. A meticulously documented, unapologetically optimistic vision of a world poised on the edge of salvation—not by hope alone, but by hard math, falling prices, and widespread will.

The sun, it seems, is not merely rising. It is conquering.

Book Reviews, Books, Essays, Politics

“Why Socialism”: Albert Einstein’s Resplendent Impertinence of Genius

Oscar Wilde’s barbed wit and George Bernard Shaw’s moral seriousness, of a review of John Bellamy Foster’s “Albert Einstein’s ‘Why Socialism?’: The Enduring Legacy of His Classic Essay” as it would appear in an esteemed magazine or journal.

In an era where celebrity chatter often drowns out meaningful discourse—ephemeral as the pixels that transmit it—it is both refreshing and necessary to recall that Albert Einstein was not merely a demigod of science, floating above the affairs of humankind. He was a thinker with moral conviction and intellectual courage. John Bellamy Foster’s timely volume, Albert Einstein’s “Why Socialism?”: The Enduring Legacy of His Classic Essay (Monthly Review, July 2025), excavates an overlooked manifesto whose radical clarity remains provocatively undiminished by time.

Unpacking Einstein’s Socialist Vision

More than seventy-five years have passed since Einstein contributed his essay Why Socialism? to the inaugural issue of Monthly Review in May 1949—right in the throes of America’s Red Scare. In that climate of ideological hysteria, even reason itself was suspect. Yet Einstein, with characteristic directness, named capitalism as the source of modern spiritual and economic malaise. “The economic anarchy of capitalist society,” he wrote, “is, in my opinion, the real source of the evil.”

This was no armchair abstraction. It was an act of moral and intellectual defiance in an era of conformity. Rather than tempering his critique to placate the political climate, Einstein diagnosed capitalism as a system that cripples the individual, erodes social cohesion, and mistakes profit for purpose. His socialism, then, was not bureaucratic dogma, but a humane vision: a call for solidarity, responsibility, and human dignity.

Foster’s introduction accomplishes three critical feats. First, it confirms Einstein’s consistent—if unfashionable—commitment to socialist ideals. Second, it situates Why Socialism? within a contemporary moment of deepening ecological and geopolitical crisis, not unlike the postwar anxieties Einstein addressed. Third, and most compellingly, Foster refuses to treat Einstein’s words as nostalgic artifacts. Instead, he reads them as instruments of moral interrogation for the present.

Einstein’s Moral Urgency in a Cynical Age

A powerful moment recounted in Foster’s commentary draws from a recently unearthed interview transcript titled, YES, ALBERT EINSTEIN WAS A SOCIALIST. In it, Einstein recounts a chilling conversation: a friend, contemplating nuclear annihilation, casually asks why Einstein is so concerned about humanity’s extinction. The question is as nihilistic as it is sincere—eerily prefiguring today’s fatalism disguised as realism.

Einstein’s response was telling. He saw this resignation not as philosophical sophistication, but as a symptom of capitalism’s emotional deadening. A world driven by profit, he argued, had alienated people not only from one another but from their very capacity to find joy. “The naive, simple and unsophisticated enjoyment of life,” he mourned, had become a casualty. The resulting solitude, he observed, was not noble introspection but a prison built of egotism and insecurity.

In Why Socialism?, Einstein extends this observation: “Man is, at one and the same time, a solitary being and a social being… As a social being, he seeks to gain the recognition and affection of his fellow human beings… and to improve their conditions of life.” The essay thus offers not just an economic critique, but a portrait of the spiritual crisis induced by capitalism.

A Socialism of Decency, Not Dogma

Einstein did not envision socialism as the rigid apparatus of state control feared by his critics. Instead, he imagined a cultural and moral transformation—one that would replace competition with cooperation, and empty success with meaningful contribution. “In addition to promoting his own innate abilities,” he wrote, “education would attempt to develop in [the individual] a sense of responsibility for his fellow man in place of the glorification of power and success in our present society.”

This human-centered socialism bears more resemblance to George Bernard Shaw’s ethical idealism than to any centralized Leninist command structure. It’s a socialism that asks not only how society is organized, but what kind of people it produces.

Economic Insecurity and the Specter of Waste

Foster’s commentary reaches its most powerful moments when it highlights the relevance of Einstein’s critique in light of today’s contradictions. Technological progress has not delivered leisure or security—it has exacerbated anxiety. “The worker is constantly in fear of losing his job,” Einstein observed. “Technological progress frequently results in more unemployment rather than an easing of the burden of work for all.”

The implications are strikingly modern. The rise of AI, automation, and gig economies has done little to stabilize human life. Meanwhile, the grotesque spectacle of billionaires launching vanity rockets while basic needs go unmet seems to fulfill Einstein’s warning: “Private capital tends to become concentrated in few hands… at the expense of smaller ones.”

Einstein’s insights cut deeper than economics. He warned that unbridled competition produces “a huge waste of labor and… crippling of the social consciousness of individuals.” Foster echoes this, showing how the very mechanisms that promise efficiency often produce alienation and redundancy. In a world where millions remain hungry while supply chains overflow, the diagnosis of “planned chaos” is tragically apt.

The Courage to Imagine a Better World

To Foster’s credit, the book does not shy away from the difficulties of implementing socialism. It acknowledges Einstein’s own candor: that centralized systems can create new forms of domination. “How can the rights of the individual be protected,” he asked, “and therewith a democratic counterweight to the power of bureaucracy be assured?”

Foster does not offer easy answers, nor does he romanticize Einstein’s views. But what he recovers is the philosopher’s refusal to retreat into cynicism. Einstein, like Shaw, understood that history does not advance through comfort or caution. It advances through the courage to propose—and live by—dangerous ideals.

This moral clarity is what makes Why Socialism? enduring. In an era when capitalism insists that no alternatives exist, Einstein reminds us that alternatives are always possible—so long as we preserve the moral imagination to conceive them.

No Middle Ground—And That’s the Point

If one criticism can be leveled at Foster’s approach, it is that he leaves little room for ambiguity. This is no quiet meditation on gradual reform. It is a call to judgment. In a time when readers often seek the past as comfort, Foster compels us to read it as confrontation. The result is not a nostalgic ode to Einstein’s politics but a provocation: What kind of civilization do we want?

Einstein wrote, “I am convinced there is only one way to eliminate these grave evils, namely through the establishment of a socialist economy, accompanied by an educational system which would be oriented towards social goals.” The boldness of that sentence still stings in a society that treats cooperation as utopian and hoarding as genius.

Foster’s restraint is notable throughout—he avoids both hagiography and polemic. He invites the reader to wrestle with Einstein’s ideas, not worship them. The book’s greatest achievement is that it makes us take Einstein seriously—not just as a physicist, but as a moral thinker who challenged the logic of his time and, perhaps, still ours.

Conclusion: A Dangerous Hope

To read Why Socialism? in 2025 is to hear a still-resonant signal from a thinker who refused to let go of the future. Einstein’s socialism was never about bureaucracies—it was about the possibility of decency, of cooperation, of lives lived without fear. And if that vision sounds naive today, then perhaps the problem lies not in the vision, but in the world that has taught us to dismiss it.

As Foster’s book makes clear, the choice remains what it was in 1949: between solidarity and atomization, between a society built on care or one cannibalized by competition. It is, at bottom, a choice between life and extinction.

One imagines Einstein, ever the pragmatist with a poet’s soul, would have approved.

Arts & Literature, Books, Essays, Literature, Reviews

Literary Essay: “Infinite Interiors – On the Twenty Best Novels of All Time”

The following essay was written by ChatGPT and edited by Intellicurean from an article titled “The 20 best novels of all time” written by Claire Allfree and published in The Telegraph book section on July 6, 2025.

When a culture attempts to consecrate a definitive list of its greatest novels, it risks both an admirable arrogance and a kind of elegiac futility. The recent selection of The 20 Best Novels of All Time, published by The Telegraph, seems at once a celebration of the novel’s inexhaustible possibility and an implicit acknowledgment of our own waning capacity for reading with genuine urgency. It is as though we assemble these canons less to instruct our descendants than to reassure ourselves that we have not entirely forgotten how literature once moved the soul.

One cannot help but admire the breadth and seriousness of this catalogue. It stretches from the dreamlike elegance of The Tale of Genji—a work whose thousand-year distance intensifies its immediacy—to the compulsive self-dissection of Knausgaard’s My Struggle, a testament to our age’s faith that self-disclosure can substitute for narrative shape. What holds these disparate texts together is not merely their historical significance but their shared aspiration to render life in all its unmastered perplexity.

If Harold Bloom were to begin here, he might call attention to The Tale of Genji as an early demonstration of what he once termed the “internalization of romance.” It is a book that transcends its courtly gossip to become an inexhaustible study in desire’s transformations, a mirror to the reader’s own fluctuations of attachment and estrangement. We encounter Genji’s erotic restlessness as both scandalous and poignantly familiar, for the novel’s true subject is the incommensurability between longing and fulfillment—an incommensurability that modern fiction has inherited as its principal obsession.

James Wood, by contrast, might focus on Middlemarch as the novelistic apogee of moral realism. Eliot’s genius lay in her refusal to reduce her characters to mere emblems of ideology or historical process. Instead, she endowed them with what Wood has called “free indirect style’s psychic oscillation,” a prose capable of inhabiting and exposing consciousness in the same instant. It is a book that dares to be both panoramic and exquisitely local, to weigh the ambitions of a nation against the disappointments of a single marriage bed. If there is a single argument to be made for the continued relevance of the realist novel, it is that Middlemarch remains more acute about our interiority than any contemporary memoir.

And yet one cannot ignore how this list gestures toward the novel’s capacity for formal subversion. Ulysses, with its irreverent transformations of the Homeric epic into the trivial routines of Dublin, still feels scandalous in its abundance. Joyce’s genius is not only in his linguistic pyrotechnics but in his suspicion that consciousness itself can never be adequately represented. His prose, that shifting mosaic of styles and registers, offers no comfort to the reader who seeks transparency. Instead, it confronts us with the knowledge that the novel’s greatest power may reside in its refusal to cohere.

This refusal—to simplify, to console, to moralize—animates many of the twenty selections. Invisible Man is less a conventional narrative than a hallucinatory initiation into the American underworld of racial invisibility. Ellison’s rhetorical bravado, his blending of surrealism and jeremiad, still outpaces the efforts of more contemporary chroniclers of identity. To read Invisible Man today is to recognize how easily literary radicalism becomes cultural commonplace, but also to remember how singular its achievement remains.

Nor does the list shy from novels that embrace the uncanny. Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita may be the most exuberant refutation of realist pieties ever composed. Its supernatural comedy is both a rebuke to Stalinist orthodoxy and a reminder that the imagination is an inherently seditious faculty. If much of the 20th-century novel sought to dismantle the illusions of bourgeois life, Bulgakov’s masterpiece demonstrates that irony and enchantment can be revolutionary forces.

Yet if Bloom were to caution us, he would do so against the temptation to read these novels exclusively as instruments of social critique. Literature endures precisely because it exceeds its momentary political applications. War and Peace is indeed an anatomy of the Napoleonic Wars, but it is more crucially a demonstration of how historical consciousness itself can become an object of artistic inquiry. Tolstoy’s genius was to discover that the novelist’s truest fidelity is not to facts but to the felt perplexity of lived experience.

It is striking how Robinson Crusoe stands at the inception of the English novel, bearing within it the seeds of many later contradictions. Defoe’s narrative is, on the surface, a hymn to industry and resourcefulness. But the same story—of a man claiming dominion over an island—also encodes the imperial impulse, the confidence that the world exists to be measured, catalogued, and possessed. What once seemed the purest adventure has become, to modern readers, an uneasy parable of conquest.

One also encounters here the severe naturalism of Thérèse Raquin, a work whose lurid determinism feels almost an affront to Victorian piety. Zola’s lovers are not tragic in any redemptive sense; they are specimens trapped in an experiment of their own appetites. And yet there is a perverse grandeur in the novel’s refusal to pretend that desire leads anywhere but into the pit.

New Grub Street too is a novel about entrapment—this time not by passion but by commerce. Gissing’s weary chronicling of literary London feels uncannily prophetic, as if he anticipated the rise of every ghostwritten bestseller and every writer forced to commodify a persona. What is most unsettling is that he offers no counterexample: no heroic idealist who transcends the marketplace, no unspoiled domain of “pure” art. In this sense, the book remains an indispensable autopsy of cultural production.

If Zola and Gissing reveal the suffocating material conditions of life, Moby-Dick reveals the existential abyss. No novel is more saturated with the terror of cosmic indifference. Melville’s prose—sometimes biblical, sometimes madcap—collapses the distance between metaphysics and anatomy, making the whale not merely an animal but an emblem of the universe’s mute resistance to comprehension. In Bloom’s phrase, it is the American epic that devours all interpretations, a text that renders the critic humble before its incommensurate ambition.

One finds a different kind of ambition in Party Going, where Henry Green distills modernist unease into something almost glacial. Its stranded revellers, imprisoned in their own frivolity while fog swallows the city below, seem to embody an entire civilization’s failure to apprehend its own decline. The novel is both slight in incident and inexhaustible in implication—a reminder that the modernist fascination with stasis can be as provocative as any narrative pyrotechnics.

Proust’s In Search of Lost Time remains the most exhaustive testimony to literature’s faith in consciousness as a world unto itself. No novel before or since has so patiently mapped the minute inflections of memory, the subtle humiliations and triumphs of social life. It is a book that tests the limits of our attention but also rewards it with an intimacy that becomes, paradoxically, universal.

The Great Gatsby, meanwhile, retains its status as a parable of aspiration’s inevitable corrosion. Fitzgerald’s sentences are so lapidary that their loveliness can almost distract from the novel’s acrid judgment. Gatsby’s dream—at once romantic and predatory—has become the template for American self-mythology. That the dream collapses under the weight of its illusions is precisely what grants it the force of prophecy.

It is striking, too, how many of these novels seek to articulate the experience of cultures in collision. Things Fall Apart is the most lucid demonstration of Achebe’s conviction that narrative authority must be reclaimed by those whom empire has consigned to silence. Okonkwo’s tragedy is not only that he fails to adapt but that his story has been written over by the conqueror’s language. Achebe’s triumph is to create a form that both inhabits and transforms that language.

Closer to our own era, The Country Girls quietly ignited a literary insurrection. O’Brien’s candid portrayal of female desire and disillusionment, so scandalous in 1960s Ireland, now seems almost decorous in its gentleness. Yet its influence remains incalculable. It taught a generation of writers that the domestic could be radical, that the most private confessions might unsettle entire cultures.

No less ambitious, though in a different register, is The Golden Notebook. Lessing’s formal fragmentation enacts the very psychic disintegration it describes. Anna Wulf’s notebooks—political, personal, artistic—refuse to reconcile into any coherent identity. In this refusal, Lessing anticipates the confessional experiments of Knausgaard and the autofiction that now dominates so much literary discourse.

The Rings of Saturn, by W.G. Sebald, is a late testament to literature’s capacity to hover between genres—memoir, travelogue, essay—and to become, in that ambiguity, something more resonant than any of them alone. Sebald’s melancholy is not performative but almost geological: the sorrow of civilizations grinding into dust, of memory dissolving into rumor.

If Sebald writes out of mourning, Knausgaard writes out of a hunger so relentless it often seems pathological. My Struggle is both monument and provocation: an assertion that the granular details of ordinary life deserve the same attention Proust once gave to aristocratic salons. Whether this is a triumph of honesty or a capitulation to narcissism is a question the reader must answer alone.

And then there is Conversations with Friends, whose subdued prose and emotional diffidence reflect an era uneasy with grandeur. Rooney’s novel is not so much plotted as observed: a record of glancing attachments, tentative betrayals, and the provisional negotiations of millennial intimacy. Some will dismiss it as slight, but its cool detachment has a disquieting relevance. It suggests that the novel no longer needs epic ambition to be significant; it need only be exact.

A Closing Reflection

Surveying these twenty novels, we see not a single tradition but a plurality of experiments—each one extending the novel’s reach. To read them is to join a conversation that has never ended, in which each new book answers its predecessors with admiration, dissent, or surpassing ambition. Perhaps that is the most heartening lesson: that literature, in all its contradictions, remains the most durable form we possess for contemplating the inexhaustible strangeness of being alive.

A LIST OF THE BOOKS FROM THE ESSAY AND REVIEW IS BELOW:

  1. The Tale of Genji (1021) – Murasaki Shikibu
    Often called the first novel ever written, this thousand-year-old Japanese masterpiece recounts the romantic adventures of Prince Genji and the inner lives of the women he pursues, offering an exquisite portrayal of courtly love and social intrigue.
  2. The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678) – John Bunyan
    A religious allegory composed in prison, telling the story of Christian’s perilous journey to the Celestial City. Simultaneously quest narrative, moral parable, and spiritual confession, it became one of English literature’s most influential texts.
  3. Robinson Crusoe (1719) – Daniel Defoe
    A castaway narrative presented as a true account, blending adventure and colonial ideology. Crusoe’s survival on an island and mastery over his domain has sparked both admiration and fierce debates over its imperialist assumptions.
  4. Moby-Dick (1851) – Herman Melville
    Captain Ahab’s vengeful pursuit of the white whale becomes an existential epic exploring obsession, fate, and humanity’s place in the cosmos. Famous for its lyrical prose and encyclopedic digressions on whales and whaling.
  5. Thérèse Raquin (1867) – Émile Zola
    A grim study of adultery and guilt, depicting the murderous passion between Thérèse and her lover, Laurent. Their crime leads to psychological disintegration and ghostly hauntings in this early work of French naturalism.
  6. War and Peace (1867) – Leo Tolstoy
    Tolstoy’s sprawling saga of Russian aristocrats during the Napoleonic Wars interweaves personal transformation with sweeping history, offering a masterful portrait of love, fate, and the forces that shape nations.
  7. Middlemarch (1871) – George Eliot
    Set in a provincial English town, this realist masterpiece follows the intellectual and emotional struggles of Dorothea Brooke and other characters as they confront marriage, ambition, and disappointment.
  8. New Grub Street (1891) – George Gissing
    An unflinching look at the late-Victorian literary marketplace, chronicling the rivalry between idealistic writers and pragmatic hacks, and exploring the compromises required to survive as a professional author.
  9. Ulysses (1922) – James Joyce
    A modernist reimagining of Homer’s Odyssey, set over a single day in Dublin. Famous for its stream-of-consciousness style, linguistic experimentation, and celebration of ordinary life’s hidden richness.
  10. In Search of Lost Time (1913–1927) – Marcel Proust
    A monumental seven-volume exploration of memory, time, and desire, chronicling the narrator’s life and the decline of French aristocracy with lush psychological and social detail.
  11. The Great Gatsby (1925) – F. Scott Fitzgerald
    A glittering tragedy of the Jazz Age, centering on the mysterious Jay Gatsby’s doomed pursuit of wealth and love, and exposing the hollowness of the American Dream.
  12. Party Going (1939) – Henry Green
    A surreal, modernist novel about a group of privileged young people stranded in a railway hotel, whose trivial gossip masks a pervasive sense of dread as Europe hovers on the brink of war.
  13. Invisible Man (1952) – Ralph Ellison
    An unnamed Black narrator journeys through racism and disillusionment in America, blending surreal episodes, biting satire, and profound reflections on identity and invisibility.
  14. Things Fall Apart (1958) – Chinua Achebe
    Set in a 19th-century Igbo village, this landmark postcolonial novel traces the cultural collision between indigenous African traditions and British missionaries, through the tragic story of Okonkwo.
  15. The Country Girls (1960) – Edna O’Brien
    The coming-of-age story of two Irish girls escaping their repressive Catholic upbringing, whose quest for independence transformed Irish literature and scandalized conservative audiences.
  16. The Golden Notebook (1962) – Doris Lessing
    An ambitious, formally fragmented narrative about a woman writer dividing her life into separate notebooks—political, personal, creative—and attempting to reconcile them during a breakdown.
  17. The Master and Margarita (1966) – Mikhail Bulgakov
    A satirical fantasy in which the Devil arrives in Stalinist Moscow with a retinue that includes a giant talking cat, exposing the absurdity and cruelty of totalitarian society.
  18. The Rings of Saturn (1995) – W.G. Sebald
    A genre-defying meditation combining travelogue, memoir, history, and philosophy, as a narrator’s walk along the English coast sparks digressions on decay, memory, and loss.
  19. My Struggle (2009–2011) – Karl Ove Knausgaard
    A six-volume autofiction epic chronicling the author’s life in exhaustive detail, from childhood to fatherhood, redefining confessional writing and stirring controversy over privacy and truth.
  20. Conversations with Friends (2017) – Sally Rooney
    A millennial love story about a young Dublin student entangled in an affair with an older married man, written in Rooney’s lucid, understated style that captures the textures of contemporary intimacy.
Book Reviews, Economics, History, Reviews

‘Recalculating The Economic Gains Of Slavery’ (Review)

TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT (April 2, 2025):

In 2011, builders in the Rio de Janeiro docklands uncovered the ruins of the Cais do Valongo, a wharf where, between 1780 and 1831, 800,000 enslaved people disembarked. Of the roughly 10.7 million people who survived the passage across the Atlantic in the nearly four centuries of the transatlantic slave trade, nearly 5 million were sent to Brazil – almost five times as many as to Jamaica and more than fourteen times as many as to North America. More slave ships left for the West African coast from the Americas than from Europe; the majority of those vessels sailed from Brazil, where slavery was abolished only in 1888. The foundations of modern Brazil are poured over the infrastructure of the transatlantic slave trade.

Yet, though the history of Brazilian slavery is not “untold”, the histories of Caribbean and North American slavery are generally better known among anglophone readers. Two new books by distinguished historians of slavery, Humans in Shackles: An Atlantic history of slavery by Ana Lucia Araujo and Atlantic Cataclysm: Rethinking the Atlantic slave trades by David Eltis, offer a correction, emphasizing the longevity and scale of slavery in Brazil and the South Atlantic. In Enslavement: Past and present, another distinguished academic, the sociologist Orlando Patterson, shows the relevance and utility of his theory of slavery as “social death”, a powerlessness whose malignance structures slave societies and persists long after emancipation. What follows, however, from recognizing that Brazil was first, last and largest in Atlantic slavery? Slavery existed long before the beginning of the transatlantic slave trade; are the ruins of the slave-ship dock under Rio relics of the longue durée of enslavement or evidence of the violent birth of the modern world?

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Politics, Reviews

‘W.G. Sebald And The Politics Of Melancholy’

THE NEW REPUBLIC (March 31, 2025) by Colin Dickey:

W.G. Sebald’s premature death from a heart attack, in December 2001, at 57—months after the publication of his novel Austerlitz propelled him to the height of his literary fame—has left his readers wanting more, and ever since, his publishers have increasingly delved deeper into his oeuvre for posthumous releases. Six full-length books have already appeared in English since his death, and now, 23 years after his death, we have the seventh—and perhaps last: Silent Catastrophes: Essays.

Kafka, Sebald notes, recognized fundamentally that power is “parasitic rather than powerful.”

At first blush, the book risks feeling off-putting to the casual reader: Academic in tone, it focuses on a literary tradition often overlooked in America, featuring many writers who are largely unknown in English-speaking countries. But its focus on Austria—a crumbling empire that slowly but willingly descended into fascism as a means of trying to capture its former glory—means that Silent Catastrophes, unfortunately, is arriving at an apposite time. And the reader willing to wade through the academic style will soon find not only Sebald’s trademark concerns emerging but unexpected reflections on how we might navigate the end of empire and the rise of authoritarianism.

So much of Sebald’s work is rooted in the awareness that though memory and history are mercurial, often contradictory, and impossible to fix permanently, it is nonetheless vital to document and preserve it all, even the contradictions and confusions. For it is the job of the artist—melancholic though they may be—to sift among these contradictory pasts in search of possible futures that may yet be open to us.

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Book Reviews, Business, Economics, Reviews, Technology

‘It’s Time To Question The Relationship Between Technology & Capitalism’

The Mechanic and the Luddite book cover

LSE REVIEW OF BOOKS (March 24, 2025):

With the ongoing dismantling of the US administrative state by a handful of ill-informed programmers, I would like to declare the current moment a failure of tech criticism. For decades, academics in the social sciences and humanities have built a critical edifice that challenged the cultural hegemony propping up the US tech industry, an industry grounded in science fiction parables, speculative fiction, “rationalist” dreaming, and an endless stream of technological solutionism. We can now count “AI safety” as a new field of knowledge production about technology captured by industry interests. I do not attribute blame to tech critics for this state, but now is a good moment to stop and reflect: what are we doing? In being so caught up in cataloguing new horrors of the digital age, we have been unable to stop its worst excesses. We need a new way of thinking about that project, of how we catalogue the problems of technology and hope that corporate appeals or policymaking will address them.  

While there is plenty of tech criticism around, much of it is not comfortable explicitly labelling itself as anti-capitalist tout court.

In his new book, The Mechanic and the Luddite, Jathan Sadowski provides a model of “ruthless criticism” that might meet that requirement. As he explains, many academics have created criticism isolated from the source of its complaints: “Too much of the tech criticism that exists today is happy to ignore, if not remain ignorant of, the links between technology and capitalism. We can see this anodyne style in the sudden burst of work on “AI ethics,” which is content with offering superficial tweaks to, say, the training data for an algorithm without ever challenging how that algorithm will be used or why it should exist at all” (24). In contrast, he calls for more materialist analysis of technology and the internet – that is, Marxism.  

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The Mechanic and the Luddite: A Ruthless Criticism of Technology and Capitalism. Jathan Sadowski. University of California Press. 2025.

Jathan Sadowski’s The Mechanic and the Luddite critiques technology’s entanglement with capitalism, advocating for “ruthless criticism” of this dual system in order to dismantle it. Sadowski’s forthright materialist approach and argument for actionable, anti-capitalist tech critique make the book an original and vital read for our times, writes Sam DiBella.

Book Reviews, Journalism, Profiles

Review: Graydon Carter’s Wild Ride Through A Golden Age Of Magazines

THE NEW YORKER MAGAZINE (March 15, 2025):

Style is said to be singular, which makes it difficult to define. It is personal, though its appreciation can be broad, and it is not the same as fashion—many people hold the terms to be opposed. Generally speaking, it rises from confidence in being one thing and not another, and in knowing when to join and when to pull back from the pack. The great promulgator of style, through much of the previous century, was the editor of magazines.

Across the twentieth century, New York magazines were powerful convening spaces—not just for readers but for journalists, artists, photographers, and literary writers. 

Graydon Carter, a former editor of Spy, the New York Observer, and Vanity Fair, has been held up over the years as a force of style, both in his personal life (he dresses well) and in his expansive vision of creative work. At Vanity Fair, Carter gave the movie industry a layer of polish and championed a particular idea of the good life—affluent and lush, yet seriously engaged in the world. As a New York restaurateur, he helped to promote a certain kind of refined dining: intimate, convivial, and bound to specific neighborhoods. And, as a power player, he remains a background impresario, helping to launch movies, shape events, and assemble people. All these activities are exercises in style, and all, in his telling, grew from his editorial work during an especially prosperous and thrilling era in American magazines. That era is the subject of the memoir “When the Going Was Good: An Editor’s Adventures During the Last Golden Age of Magazines” (Penguin Press), which Carter has written with the ghostwriter James Fox.

_____________________________

Commercial culture and electoral politics share a basic truth: people want to feel a little rich, a little powerful. They want to brush against magic and mystery—rooms within rooms—and to move through a surprising, expansive world. Over the years, so many creative enterprises have been stripped of these qualities, leaving them lustreless and diminished. The paths of people like Carter are a measure of the golden age lost. But their memories are proof of the promise that remains. ♦

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Nathan Heller began contributing to The New Yorker in 2011 and joined the magazine as a staff writer in 2013.

Book Reviews, Philosophy, Reviews

Review: ‘Hope, Despair And Retreat In An Unquiet Age’

TIMES LITERARY SUPPLEMENT (March 13, 2025):

Three years before he vowed, in “Carrion Comfort”, not to feast on despair, the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins grieved the physical decay of growing old: “And wisdom is early to despair: / Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done / … So be beginning, be beginning to despair”. We age, decline and die, like everyone we love.

Yet despair is not, to put it mildly, a popular stance. In his “Sonnets of Desolation”, Hopkins fought against it; and the poem that bids us despair was paired with verse consoled by “beauty’s self and beauty’s giver”, God. Forced to choose between optimism and pessimism, hope and despair, the well-adjusted opt for optimistic hope.

PESSIMISM, QUIETISM AND NATURE AS REFUGE by David E. Cooper

HOPEFUL PESSIMISM by Mara van der Lugt

Two recent books take issue with this upbeat orientation. Both defend pessimism, though to very different ends. Their arguments are timely. The past ten years have made it hard to be optimistic about humanity. We’ve squandered our best chance to confront the coming climate chaos – storms, droughts and famines that will mean suffering on a massive scale – and the looming crises of forced migration and resource scarcity have spawned reactionary nationalism, not solidarity. In the US, democracy is under threat. The damage will be difficult to repair: it’s easier to wreck trust and infrastructure than to build them up.

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