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“It’s very common,” she says, “mistaking weather for climate. Weather simply reflects climate in a certain time and place.”
—The current criminal administration is riffling the pockets of this dying patient, thieves stealing all they can while gutting environmental regulations and, for good measure, opting out of the Paris Accord, giving the finger to a world just beginning to understand the danger.
—There is no historical precedent, and therefore no response to such a disaster (this turns out to be the theme of a short story that Dr. Anders is writing) because literature, even dystopian literature, is by nature humanist, the markers of human civilization (love, kindness, intelligence) serving as baselines for basic good, for equilibrium, when in fact, human civilization may be “nothing more than a clever infection.”
God, she realizes, we haven’t done anything. We bitch at conferences or we write papers, or we make antigun placards or we march on a specified day, or we put on a pussy hat or we protest for an hour, but then we go back to work, back to watching TV, back to lives of petty gossip and distraction.
