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Non-fictionSome versions of environmentalism understandably encourage an almost Swiftian misanthropy, with the ecological collapse framed as the inevitable response of nature to a pestiferous humanity, the only species that, by its very existence, destroys all that it touches. But maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t have to be that way.
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PoetryWe’re tired of the caged horizon, the canned emotion. But the spectacle of the crimson world is a real slobber-knocker of a struggle.
Non-fictionOur image-centred world has elevated what writer Jia Tolentino calls ‘Instagram face’, a racially ambiguous assemblage of ethnic ‘greatest hits’ – wide cat-like eyes, big lips, smallish nose, high cheekbones. Few people will have a face that fits this template... But, whatever, you can pay for it.
FictionI touch the wax of their pickaxes, then run my hand along the wax rock of the walls. One man squats a few metres away from the others, holding a pan. As I move towards him, I notice a label with descriptive text about Victoria’s gold rush, a reminder of the foundational gruesomeness of the enterprise – the colonial history of world’s fairs, or zoos, here insisting on itself in a minor carnival of the macabre.