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Warmth: Coming of Age at the End of Our World

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From a millennial climate activist, an exploration of how young people live in the shadow of catastrophe "Strikingly perceptive." --Jenny Offill, author of Weather "Beautifully rendered and bracingly honest." --Jenny Odell, author of How to Do Nothing Warmth is a new kind of book about climate change: not what it is or how we solve it, but how it feels to imagine a futur From a millennial climate activist, an exploration of how young people live in the shadow of catastrophe "Strikingly perceptive." --Jenny Offill, author of Weather "Beautifully rendered and bracingly honest." --Jenny Odell, author of How to Do Nothing Warmth is a new kind of book about climate change: not what it is or how we solve it, but how it feels to imagine a future--and a family--under its weight. In a fiercely personal account written from inside the climate movement, Sherrell lays bare how the crisis is transforming our relationships to time, to hope, and to each other. At once a memoir, a love letter, and an electric work of criticism, Warmth goes to the heart of the defining question of our time: how do we go on in a world that may not?


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From a millennial climate activist, an exploration of how young people live in the shadow of catastrophe "Strikingly perceptive." --Jenny Offill, author of Weather "Beautifully rendered and bracingly honest." --Jenny Odell, author of How to Do Nothing Warmth is a new kind of book about climate change: not what it is or how we solve it, but how it feels to imagine a futur From a millennial climate activist, an exploration of how young people live in the shadow of catastrophe "Strikingly perceptive." --Jenny Offill, author of Weather "Beautifully rendered and bracingly honest." --Jenny Odell, author of How to Do Nothing Warmth is a new kind of book about climate change: not what it is or how we solve it, but how it feels to imagine a future--and a family--under its weight. In a fiercely personal account written from inside the climate movement, Sherrell lays bare how the crisis is transforming our relationships to time, to hope, and to each other. At once a memoir, a love letter, and an electric work of criticism, Warmth goes to the heart of the defining question of our time: how do we go on in a world that may not?

30 review for Warmth: Coming of Age at the End of Our World

  1. 5 out of 5

    Kurt

    WARMTH is one of the best books I've ever read, able to articulate all of what I've felt "coming of age at the end of our world" — and infinitely more, given that Sherrell's a brilliant climate organizer who's thought deeply about the collapsible tensions between feeling and strategy, then and now, knowledge and realization. In WARMTH, Sherrell is unselfconsciously earnest and vulnerable in his grappling with what he calls the Problem, a many-sided "hyperobject" he's trying to move from his "bra WARMTH is one of the best books I've ever read, able to articulate all of what I've felt "coming of age at the end of our world" — and infinitely more, given that Sherrell's a brilliant climate organizer who's thought deeply about the collapsible tensions between feeling and strategy, then and now, knowledge and realization. In WARMTH, Sherrell is unselfconsciously earnest and vulnerable in his grappling with what he calls the Problem, a many-sided "hyperobject" he's trying to move from his "brain down into [his] bones" (253). For him, "the chief ethical and political challenge presented by life in the Anthropocence" is to "finally match our obvious and increasing interdependence with an appropriate breadth of care" (80). WARMTH is a clarion call of care, a letter from a father to his unborn child, an absolute "pouring forth" of love and insight (249). Miraculously, Sherrell's also a musician on the page. Here's a more or less random paragraph, plucked from the middle of an early chapter: "This questioning is far from new. Millions of people before me have had to consider the prospect of a child in a context made hostile by the Dream. They've done this from plantations and refugee camps, reservations and war zones—places far more devastating and dangerous than anywhere I've ever been; places where a world was ending or had ended. And though it may have felt hopeless and reckless and futile, sometimes from out of this grappling there came a child. I still cannot fully understand the depth of love it took to do this, to loft a tiny salvo of life into a death as wide as the sky. It amazes me. So too the other choice, the one we hear less about. Those families who chose to truncate their trees rather than see its branches hacked at and burned" (77-78). WARMTH helped me to fit the hyperobject of the Problem "into your heart without it breaking" (246). Read it, mark up its pages, then pass it hand to millennial hand until it buckles under the weight of your attention.

  2. 5 out of 5

    Alan

    Evocative, beautiful language in a well-crafted book that often articulated how I feel but have been unable to express. Hope to use this to provoke conversations with the boomers in my life.

  3. 5 out of 5

    Sharon

    How, if you are a person aware that we are living in an age of climate emergency, do you choose to bring a child into a world that is all but guaranteed to experience catastrophe after catastrophe during the lifespan of the next generation? This is a question I’ve never found a satisfactory answer to, a question that is hard to even approach without appearing to cast judgment on the choices of others, a question that feels impossible to raise without being accused of tipping into climate despair. How, if you are a person aware that we are living in an age of climate emergency, do you choose to bring a child into a world that is all but guaranteed to experience catastrophe after catastrophe during the lifespan of the next generation? This is a question I’ve never found a satisfactory answer to, a question that is hard to even approach without appearing to cast judgment on the choices of others, a question that feels impossible to raise without being accused of tipping into climate despair. It’s this question that Daniel Sherrell, a climate activist, tackles in this incredibly beautiful memoir/love letter to his own possible child that he hopes/fears to one day choose to have. By turns philosophical and deeply personal, Sherrell’s prose gorgeously lays out the question and refuses any easy answers (which I appreciated), maintaining both a clear-eyed understanding of the enormity of The Problem, as he calls climate change throughout, and the massive, nearly incomprehensible scale of its impact, as well as an ability to describe in intimate detail what that impact could and does mean at the level of an individual and particular life. It’s a difficult, momentous, important book. Reading it during my 39th week of pregnancy, in a season of unprecedented pandemic and wildfires and hurricanes, felt like both a haunting and a benediction.

  4. 5 out of 5

    Peter Kentros

    It is difficult to find the right language to discuss climate change, or "the Problem," as Sherrell labels it in Warmth. I don't know of a vocabulary for an inescapable, omnipresent externality that also inspires a personal, internal sense of loss. For me, this usually leads to some sort of resignation, assumption that there is no hope, avoidance. For a problem facing all living things, the Problem paradoxically makes me feel alone. Warmth makes me feel less alone. It is a book that challenges m It is difficult to find the right language to discuss climate change, or "the Problem," as Sherrell labels it in Warmth. I don't know of a vocabulary for an inescapable, omnipresent externality that also inspires a personal, internal sense of loss. For me, this usually leads to some sort of resignation, assumption that there is no hope, avoidance. For a problem facing all living things, the Problem paradoxically makes me feel alone. Warmth makes me feel less alone. It is a book that challenges my gut reaction to give up or to feel pure despair. It proposes a way of thinking about the Problem that is compassionate and realistic, beautifully capturing feelings I've felt but have never described, even to myself. I am thankful Sherrell took on this project, and in awe of the result.

  5. 5 out of 5

    Jacob Wren

    Two short passages from Warmth: * The nature of fossil fuel is essentially ambivalent: an invisible pervasion that powers all things and will also, inevitably, destroy them. It is produced by drilling, extracting, and refining those delicate ferns and planktons that millions of years ago were ground to sludge by the planet’s crust. The sludge gets processed into coal, gas, or petroleum, then shipped off to power plants where it is converted into energy. In this way we power the present almost excl Two short passages from Warmth: * The nature of fossil fuel is essentially ambivalent: an invisible pervasion that powers all things and will also, inevitably, destroy them. It is produced by drilling, extracting, and refining those delicate ferns and planktons that millions of years ago were ground to sludge by the planet’s crust. The sludge gets processed into coal, gas, or petroleum, then shipped off to power plants where it is converted into energy. In this way we power the present almost exclusively by burning the remains of the past. Unearthed, our history surrounds us, dissolving through the air, until its ubiquity comes to look very much like the future itself. Another way to put this is that we are involved in a kind of transgeologic grave robbing, in light of which, the Problem can rightly be seen as a haunting. * This is maybe the chief ethical and political challenge presented by life in the Anthropocene. To finally match our obvious and increasing interdependence with an appropriate breadth of care.

  6. 4 out of 5

    Taylor

    my favorite book of the year! one of the best books i've ever read! an instant, all-time favorite! maybe my favorite piece of nonfiction that i've ever read! fuck! my favorite book of the year! one of the best books i've ever read! an instant, all-time favorite! maybe my favorite piece of nonfiction that i've ever read! fuck!

  7. 4 out of 5

    Mason

    An insightful reckoning of one climate activist with the idea of having a child, to whom the book is addressed.

  8. 4 out of 5

    Cheryl

    “Imagine a man who was given the opportunity to become extremely wealthy and powerful by pursuing a course of action that had a 1/1,000 chance of decimating society and killing millions of people. A reasonable person would consider this course of action to be profoundly immoral. Even if the action could be done in secret, without anyone else finding out what he’d done, this calculus likely wouldn’t change. Now, imagine the same man taking the same course of action, but this time the odds were 1/ “Imagine a man who was given the opportunity to become extremely wealthy and powerful by pursuing a course of action that had a 1/1,000 chance of decimating society and killing millions of people. A reasonable person would consider this course of action to be profoundly immoral. Even if the action could be done in secret, without anyone else finding out what he’d done, this calculus likely wouldn’t change. Now, imagine the same man taking the same course of action, but this time the odds were 1/100. This would surely be deemed unconscionable. 1/10? Pathological. Now imagine that the vast majority of the expert community, people who’d studied their whole lives to be able to understand the potential consequences of this sort of action, concluded that choosing this course would, in fact, have an extremely high likelihood of destabilizing human civilization and killing millions of people.“ Tell them what it’s like to see the ocean level with the land Tell them we are afraid Tell them we don’t know all of the politics and the science but we see what is in our backyard Tell them that some of us are old fishermen who believe that God made us a promise Tell them some of us are a little bit more skeptical of God But most importantly tell them we don’t want to leave We’ve never wanted to leave. Marshallese poet Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner No one would ever accuse the author/activist of being toxically positive, and this book is not light and not easy and not able to be ignored. It was a little too dense in metaphors and philosophical conundrums to make it accessible to the average person on the street, so I was disappointed, I wish for a young adult version that simplifies the message to give it the widest readership possible similar to Jason Reynolds’s Stamped version of Ibram X. Kendi’s masterpiece. As the intended audience (very educated, literary, well off) it strikes all the nerves and resonates all the channels. Heartbreaking. Powerful. So grateful for what he and all the activists are doing on the front lines of this war for the sanity of a planet. We are insane and doing insane things and letting them be done in our name. Trump may be reelected in a few years and the insanity will grow exponentially, but our current leaders give lip service to the environment and then pass a milquetoast pacifier in the meantime. I hear this pain and this striving from someone a decade and half younger than me, not quite young enough to be my son, so I lived through much of what he did, and differently and similarly. I have experienced the worst air quality in the world several times here in Colorado and it is devastating. This may be our new normal. I can tend towards toxic positivity, so have to check myself but the only way I can endure is having a small, intense belief that these catastrophes, this obvious danger we are in is louder than conservative tv and radio; you can listen all you want but if you can’t breathe, the noise gets drowned out. Not for everyone, there will always be sheep and people who can’t think for themselves, but just for enough people who thought they would be dead before all this happened so didn’t care. Grateful for the beautiful prose to light up the struggle and shine light on it. In this way we power the present almost exclusively by burning the remains of the past. Unearthed, our history surrounds us, dissolving through the air, until its ubiquity comes to look very much like the future itself. Another way to put this is that we are involved in a kind of transgeologic grave robbing, in light of which, the Problem can rightly be seen as a haunting. I realized that if I was ever going to actually start a family—if I was going to move you from the flourishing world in my palm into the collapsing world at hand—then I’d owe you an honest account of why. Not just the decision, but its context, the whole story: what I thought about and what I read, how I felt and how I was numb, where I found faith and where I harbored doubt. To me this was all a cruel irony: how you had to already feel like the world was ending to be able to assimilate the truth when it actually did. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t feel it, not consistently. The selective blindness, the congenital optimism—it all felt too hardwired. The Problem had insinuated itself into our friendship, lending it the succor and structure of a shared concern. We still mostly talked about other things—our classes, our classmates—but the Problem was like a premise we’d both watched each other internalize. We understood—and understood each other to understand—that it was deadly serious. And despite our gallows humor, we were people who took serious things seriously. It would have ruined our self-concept, I think, to have ignored an apocalypse in the making. A campus debate was organized on the question of divestment. We thought this was a good idea, believing, as we still did then, that reasoned debate mattered, and that the Problem might be solved if our side could simply prove its point with enough persuasion. What we keep on hearing from the top researchers at the best universities all around the world, universities including this one—is that we have at most a handful of decades to eliminate fossil fuels and replace them with renewables. If we fail to accomplish this, we risk triggering runaway warming so drastic that its consequences will rock the very foundation of our society. Our technological innovations had outpaced our moral innovations in both ingenuity and popular uptake, and so we were stuck wielding localized ethics in the face of globalized problems. Loosed from the bounds of intuitive causality, then, sociopathy was easier to mask, harder to question. Here is a hope: that in your time, they’ve developed an ethics lucid enough to condemn Pruitt without him having to personally drown ten million people (his security detail dragging them screaming into the ocean, in Tuvalu, in Bangladesh, in Far Rockaway). How can you talk across that kind of gap, the merely corporeal to the vastly incorporated? What language would you speak? I know that these lines of reasoning elide the vast difference in our relative power, how the Pruitts shape the energy landscape the rest of us are forced to occupy; how our choices are nested inside of theirs. I would keep mental tabs on all the moments in the past when the world had seemed to end. The year 70,000 BCE, when the eruption of a Sumatran super volcano threw the whole planet into ashy darkness for years, decimating the already small population of Homo sapiens that had lately sprung up in East Africa. Or the thirteenth century, when the Black Death killed as many as two out of every three people in Europe, leaving the survivors spiraling into a state of religious panic…Or the sixteenth, when the Aztecs saw their centuries-old civilization—an empire that built vast pyramids, that was the first in the world to institute mandatory universal education—crumble in a few decades at the hands of Spanish imperialism. The list went on: the slave trade, the AIDS epidemic, indigenous genocide—with the right historical comparison, I could convince myself that the Problem was nothing new, and this tempered the feeling of disorientation, replacing it with a low-level weariness that made everything feel predictable, and therefore, somehow, a little more tolerable. Human history, it seemed, was a history of cataclysm. The Problem was different in scale but not in kind, a continuity rather than a disruption (or rather, a continuity in disruption). But this is precisely why the Problem feels so unbearable. It’s the utter familiarity, the numbing repetition. The sense of bearing witness to the same worn-out travesty. Wherein profit is centralized and risk is distributed. Wherein the powerful sacrifice the vulnerable to the god of growth, then feign deafness when they cry out in protest. They are too poor ... It was really bad luck, she liked to point out, that the Problem was causing temperatures to rise instead of fall. Imagine the counterfactual. Chicago, Moscow, and Beijing snowed in for months, frostbite warnings sent out as emergency alerts, ice on the highways and clogging the ports. Meanwhile, from Laos to Gabon, the equatorial latitudes would be getting their first taste of sweater weather. We probably would’ve tackled this thing forty years ago, she’d say, joking, but also not at all. — I read a seminal essay on the Problem by Zadie Smith. “There is the scientific and ideological language for what is happening to the weather,” she wrote, “but there are hardly any intimate words. Is that surprising? People in mourning tend to use euphemism; likewise the guilty and ashamed.” Our professor used to describe the Anthropocene as a “slow-motion emergency,” though he somehow avoided this ever sounding dramatic, inserting it instead like a minor footnote, a fact too obvious to be belabored. This was a very difficult concept to fit into a story. “Slow-motion emergency” evoked no ultimate triumph or tragic catharsis or even so much as a discernible ending, just a long slide into loss and uncertainty, a literal and littoral deterioration. The baseline was shifting too quickly for policy and too slowly for narrative (perhaps unsurprising, since the latter often impelled the former). What scared me was not the content of the myths, but the fact that there could be stories so compelling and gratifying and widespread and long running that in order to maintain their integrity, millions of people would be willing to sacrifice the world they purported to describe. Ta-Nehisi Coates: “Once the Dream’s parameters were caged by technology and by the limits of horsepower and wind. But the Dreamers have improved themselves, and the damming of seas for voltage, the extraction of coal, the transmuting of oil into food, have enabled an expansion in plunder with no known precedent. And this revolution has freed the Dreamers to plunder not just the bodies of humans but the body of the Earth itself. And to be honest I enjoyed picturing you three times my current age, like a grandfather, as if ancestry were not linear but cyclical and you would one day have a chance to pass your own meandering letter back to me. That way you could have the last laugh (“Despite your carefully conceived plans to the contrary, I am not dead yet, nor do I intend . . .”). This was a scary thought, that the Problem could produce one tragedy while erasing the memory of another, and that as it got worse the storms might clog against themselves, leaving progressively less time for mourning, eventually becoming so frequent that the memorials themselves would have to be built and fortified with the next disaster in mind. This became another way I justified my constant work: that I was protecting grief itself, preserving the time and space necessary for its ongoing expression, though between conference calls and email, I could rarely slow down enough to indulge in it myself. And yet the sheer weight of human frailty wound through the knot seemed to point at some compounded inevitability, something fundamental about our nature that not only predicted but necessitated the Problem. As if the Problem was just a part of who we were, an individual property emergent only at the scale of civilization. You can find despair in this pattern—the randomness, the cacophony—though beneath it, I think, there is also a form of faith. That anything can still happen. That no matter how many times you hear it, truth is always unpredictable. The only certainty being that if we stop playing, the song will end. It was June and the sun was shining hot on my shoulders. I pictured the tiny photons like dust motes, trillions of them glancing off of me, sifting through the weave of my shirt and falling into the forest of my hair. They were almost nothing, I knew, nearly massless, plinking into everything always. And yet this was the crux, this was what we were all litigating—the sunlight itself, and how much of it would be trapped here with us. I shouldn’t have, but I felt then for a moment like it was all very simple. Beneath the text of the treaties and the crack of the gavel and the ever-bobbing derricks there was just a density of sunlight, a single question. It was all so clear: the Problem could be seen, was in fact the means by which we saw. In my pitch I developed a new language for it. I set aside concepts of past and future, tabled tense entirely. What I’m really after, I told them, is a bridge between timescales, this feeling of being alive in both biographical and geological time, of living with and through their disjuncture. A sense that I could see the twig of my lifeline balanced tangentially on the far longer but still briefly coincident vector of the planet itself, and how it was scary but I wasn’t scared. How I somehow couldn’t be. How I was still sending emails, and getting haircuts, and pouring milk over my cornflakes like everything was normal, which it often deceptively felt like it still was. “How do you keep doing all that work fighting the Problem, given the predictions?” asked the novelist. She said this in a tone that I think was meant to sound laudatory, but just served to make me feel tired. I issued my standard reply about how the Problem isn’t binary like nuclear war: it’s not like we either press the button or we don’t. Even if it’s ongoing and inevitable, there’s still a world of difference between two degrees Celsius and six degrees Celsius in terms of human suffering and general chaos, and so every marginal bit of good we do in the present allays some of that pain in the future. In this new age of inside, he argues, images like this are no longer useful: a blue-green planet seen from the outside, shot backward through the shuttle window. This is the globe envisioned by globalization, an ample orb revolving in space, big enough for capitalism to bestow its hypertrophied strain of prosperity on all nine billion human occupants. But this place does not exist. It would take many Earths to accommodate the grand telos of global capital, and we’ve already almost used up our one, distributing too many of its fruits to the Global North, denying the Global South even its most basic needs. For Latour, then, the image of the globe is just an abstraction. It is not where we live, nor where we should imagine ourselves as living. The place where we actually live is in what scientists call “the critical zone,” the thin pellicle of crust and sky where everything we’ve ever cared about has happened—all of history, of evolution itself, contained in a few vertical miles. This is our real home. Within the system that created the Problem. They are accretive, not extractive; they prefer specificity over generalization; they require ample, unscheduled time. Reclaiming these arts is thus a means of rerouting the status quo, which might otherwise kill us all, humans and nonhumans alike. Archaeologists and anthropologists generally consider Aboriginal culture to be the longest-running continuous culture on the planet. According to most estimates it is sixty thousand years old, give or take. To get a sense of just how old this is, consider that only fifteen thousand years ago, the land that is now New York—that triumph of towers and tunnels, the city that never sleeps—was buried in darkness under a mile of ice. So when Daniel and his relatives invoke the holy sentience of the land to ward off the corporations that would demolish it, they are drawing on a cosmology whose sheer longevity makes the birth of Christ look recent. Given all this talk of prehistory, it is often wrongly assumed that the Dreaming is located somewhere in the deep past, a period so distant it can now be safely populated with myth. But if you ask the Goolarabooloo clan, they will tell you that the Dreaming is ongoing, that it never ended. What is often referred to as the indigenous worldview does have much to offer us on this front: concepts of interdependence and nonlinear time and nonhuman sanctity, a “long vision” that can learn from generations past and account for generations to come; all concepts once dismissed as idealistic, revealing themselves now—in a time of worsening floods and droughts—to be the most clear-eyed kind of pragmatism. In case it’s of use, then, here is one piece of advice: Do not accept the vision of our future as a single road leading to a burning city. Compromised as it is, it still seems to me more like a fan, stretching out in front of us in a swath of possible outcomes—most of them scary, maybe, but none of them entirely predictable. In this indeterminacy, there is potential, which means there is still room for movement. Until then, there are lifetimes to live—maybe many, maybe yours. Until then there are families, still, and first birthdays, and great banks of cloud. Beneath them the birds will take shelter, and the signal will cut out, and the planes will be too hot to fly. And it’s true that I cannot conceive what I cannot conceive, but even through the Problem I think I can still see you, hazy as a mirage, afloat in the world to come. So if I began this letter to show you where you’ve come from, perhaps now I can venture at where you’ll go.

  9. 4 out of 5

    Terry

    Only 260 (small) pages so a quick read. Sherrell gives us a frank, intimate, and sometimes dark (understandably) look at his mind as he grapples with the existential threat of climate change AND (importantly!) why all of us are not firmly committed to preserve a future for our grandkids and nature. If you don't understand his angst and the threat of climate change, then you need another book and an acceptance of basic science before you tackle this one. Minor distractions or nits: - too many ontolo Only 260 (small) pages so a quick read. Sherrell gives us a frank, intimate, and sometimes dark (understandably) look at his mind as he grapples with the existential threat of climate change AND (importantly!) why all of us are not firmly committed to preserve a future for our grandkids and nature. If you don't understand his angst and the threat of climate change, then you need another book and an acceptance of basic science before you tackle this one. Minor distractions or nits: - too many ontological and epistemological references - picks on Thoreau but to my ear sounds like him himself - he acknowledges that flight to/from Australia to gather material for his book is a bit of a carbon burner and hypocrisy but never really addresses the issue of whether climate change activists get a pass on their carbon footprint if used for noble means.

  10. 4 out of 5

    Siddharth Solanki

    Wittgenstein began Tractatus by writing "This book will perhaps only be understood by those who have themselves thought the thoughts that are expressed in it". The same goes for Warmth. This book is for people who are aware of the seriousness of "The Problem" and can relate to the grief of the losses already suffered and the anxiety of what is coming in the near future. Reading this book felt like a week-long therapy session because Sherell does a great job of articulating what many of us have g Wittgenstein began Tractatus by writing "This book will perhaps only be understood by those who have themselves thought the thoughts that are expressed in it". The same goes for Warmth. This book is for people who are aware of the seriousness of "The Problem" and can relate to the grief of the losses already suffered and the anxiety of what is coming in the near future. Reading this book felt like a week-long therapy session because Sherell does a great job of articulating what many of us have gone through or are going through. I would recommend this book to everyone involved in the climate change movement

  11. 4 out of 5

    Michael Smith

    A letter to a future child, a mourning and an apology for the world they’ll inherit. This is a beautiful meditation on climate change, and the almost-futile effort to reverse it. It’s a bit longer than necessary, and it’s a lot of variation on theme. That said, it’s engaging and a nice reminder to fight harder.

  12. 5 out of 5

    Ellie Syverud

    some really good insights in the first half but then got quite boring. Some keepers:fossil fuels powers all things and will eventually destroy them all; the powerful sacrifice the vulnerable to the god of growth (a form of cannibalism); care is the antidote to violence; the irony of the anti-abortionists who ignore the problem that will kill all those babies they are trying to save.

  13. 4 out of 5

    Alec

    A really affecting and thoughtful book. Thinking about climate change in it's enormity is scary, and isolating, and this book did a lot to make me feel less alone in my fear, and in the process of continuing to live my life in the face of what's happening. Highly recommend, beautifully written! A really affecting and thoughtful book. Thinking about climate change in it's enormity is scary, and isolating, and this book did a lot to make me feel less alone in my fear, and in the process of continuing to live my life in the face of what's happening. Highly recommend, beautifully written!

  14. 4 out of 5

    Traci Johnson

  15. 5 out of 5

    Colin

  16. 5 out of 5

    Becky Diamond

  17. 4 out of 5

    Joe

  18. 5 out of 5

    Kim Slack

  19. 4 out of 5

    Jesse

  20. 4 out of 5

    Hannah Gold

  21. 5 out of 5

    Iseult

  22. 4 out of 5

    Tim Harrison

  23. 5 out of 5

    Christine

  24. 5 out of 5

    Barbara Buck

  25. 5 out of 5

    Deb

  26. 4 out of 5

    Tony

  27. 4 out of 5

    Zalima Barazani

  28. 4 out of 5

    Gimena Sanchez

  29. 5 out of 5

    Claire Cioni

  30. 4 out of 5

    Epadafunk

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