Book Review: Posthuman Glossary edited by Rosi Braidotti and Maria Hlavajova

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Thu, 21/06/2018 - 11:35pm in



With Posthuman Glossary, editors Rosi Braidotti and Maria Hlavajova bring together a comprehensive and diverse range of entries that make an emphatic intervention in posthuman scholarship, offering neat summaries, exploring new applications and challenges and suggesting intriguing conceptual networks. The product of significant, collective intellectual and adminstrative labour, this ensemble piece will be a catalyst for research, activism and the formation of new ethical communities, writes Jodie Matthews

Posthuman Glossary. Rosi Braidotti and Maria Hlavajova (eds). Bloomsbury. 2018.  

Find this book: amazon-logo

‘Theory is back!’ Rosi Braidotti exclaims, with typical clarity, in the preface to Bloomsbury’s Theory series, of which this volume forms part. From Affective Turn to Zombie, the entries in Braidotti and Maria Hlavajova’s comprehensive and diverse Posthuman Glossary gracefully enact theory’s return. The collection marks a significant moment in critical theory and makes an emphatic intervention in posthuman scholarship.

Braidotti and Hlavajova’s introduction to the Glossary is an erudite summary of the field. They signal the importance of the glossary form by suggesting that as part of ‘Generation Anthropocene’, scholars and artists working today require ‘new notions and terms’ to ‘address the constituencies and configurations of the present and to map future directions’. Difficult ideas on the pages that follow should not be shied away from, because it is now time to think differently about our ‘current predicament’. The anthropocentric, gendered, heteronormative and white supremacist assumptions on which a scholarly or readerly ‘we’ and ‘our’ are traditionally grounded are repeatedly challenged throughout the Glossary in order to find new activist and ethical communities. Each entry serves not to close down the meaning of a term through rigid definition, but to open it up, map it and find powerful ways of using it.

Those already familiar with the terms outlined in the Glossary will find neat summaries, new applications and challenges as well as intriguing conceptual networks via the helpful ‘see also’ section at the bottom of each entry. For instance, Serpil Oppermann’s entry on Ecomaterialism also functions as an index for Anthropocene, In/human, Non-human Agency, Neo/New Materialism, (Material) Ecocriticism and Naturecultures. The intellectual and administrative labour required for this level of attention to detail, and to organise the work of over 100 contributors, should not be underestimated (a team of editors and assistants are acknowledged), and it has paid off.

Image Credit: (Alan Levine CCO)

There are big names for key concepts and emerging ideas in which those same figures have played a defining role. Jack Halberstam outlines Gaga Feminism as a form of queer anarchism. Donna Haraway uses ‘ugly words’ like Capitalocene – a boundary event in the killing of the conditions of ongoingness – and Chthulucene (from Greek etymological roots meaning now or ongoing and beings of the earth) to figure living-with and dying-with. Carey Wolfe moves away from a normative concept of the human in the important section on Posthumanism in order to assert that the nature as well as the object of thought must change for it to be posthumanist. Stills from John Akomfrah’s installation Vertigo Sea (2015) point to the collection’s commitment to including the arts in this field of study, as well as introducing ideas about whales and the whaling industry to the volume. However, to name just four contributions, or single out any at all, is really to do a disservice to this ensemble piece.

The collection is international in scope and authorship, though most (but not all) of the contributors cite institutional affiliations in North America, Europe and Australia. The cumulative bibliography, an indispensable reference work in its own right, runs to nearly 70 pages. The genealogy of this field of study is clearly detectable in the names particularly well-represented therein: Karen Barad, Gilles Deleuze and Jennifer Gabrys, to name a few.

The range of entries, from the technical to the philosophical, means that certain specific terms and familiar authors will no doubt be read more keenly than others when readers encounter such a large text – either because one expects to find particular ideas covered here or because they appear as a welcome surprise. The Glossary manages to include both the expected and unexpected. My own research interests meant that I jumped immediately to Ethel Brooks’s piece on the notion of the camp – the Romani camp, the refugee camp, the concentration camp. She outlines the ethical imperative of asking ‘who are the residents of camps, who constructs the camp and how are its residents, and the camp itself, imagined?’ It is an exhilarating piece, bursting with suggestions about the possibilities of the camp in rethinking ‘history and archive, space and nature, protest, resistance and critique’. With media images of refugee and migrant camps, be they of Cox’s Bazar, Dadaab or Lampedusa, fast becoming a horrifying icon of the twenty-first century, tracing ‘trajectories of eviction and expulsion, collateral damage and flight’ in order to rethink and reorganise state, sovereignty and citizenship is an urgent project. That such a project of opening up space for ‘other subjects’ should find a place in this collection speaks to the Glossary’s currency and engaged politics.

The Camp directs the reader, intuitively and explicitly, to Daniel Baker’s entry on Nomadic Sensibility. This focuses on the experience of Roma people with the possibility of privileging ‘social connection over geographic belonging’. A history of ‘life at the edge of the state’ has, Baker suggests, led to a Roma cultural understanding of the value of the makeshift, of movement and simultaneity, transition and adaptability. This understanding may be perceived in a Roma aesthetic and in what he terms Roma visuality: ‘the collective qualities embedded in objects and artefacts that originate from, or circulate within Roma communities’. Two entries by Romani scholars that embed a rigorously-theorised approach to Romani/Roma experience in a work mapping the contours of the ‘Anthropocenic social imaginary’ advance Romani Studies and the Humanities more broadly as much as they do posthuman scholarship.

The Glossary, in its discussion of ideas as varied yet connected as Necropolitics, Geopolitics and Placenta Politics, Food, Static Glow and Literature of Liberation, seems certain to become a standard guide to the field, but also a catalyst for new research and, in the spirit of the ideas discussed, activism invested in the ethics of our ongoingness.

Jodie Matthews is Senior Lecturer in English Literature at the University of Huddersfield. Her work explores the place of waterways in British culture, and the historical representation of British Romanies and Travellers. Read more by Jodie Matthews.

Note: This review gives the views of the author, and not the position of the LSE Review of Books blog, or of the London School of Economic

Climate Justice as Economic Mobilization – 21st June

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Tue, 05/06/2018 - 12:33am in

Climate Justice as economic mobilization
From ‘de-developing’ the Global North to WW2-style transitions

Stefan Jacobsen, Roskilde University
4pm, 21st June
Goldsmiths (RHB 143)

Drawing on a newly published book, this talk will give a brief outline of the economic ideas that have been central in the buildup of a global movement for Climate Justice (CJ) since the 1990s. Jacobsen argues that although campaigns against the dominance of carbon markets and for divestment strengthened the CJ movement in raw numbers, these approaches also marked a move away from earlier demands for radical equality as part of transitioning away from fossil fuels. Finally, Jacobsen discusses recent calls for a WW2-style mobilization as a response to the failure of reaching globalized economic principles of CJ mobilization.

Stefan Gaarsmand Jacobsen is assistant professor at Roskilde University, currently working on the project ‘Sustainable Rationalities’. Funded by the Danish Research Foundation, the project investigates the economic imaginaries of contemporary critical environmental organizations. He is currently a Visiting Fellow at the Political Economy Research Centre, Goldsmiths.

All are welcome and no registration is necessary

The post Climate Justice as Economic Mobilization – 21st June appeared first on Political Economy Research Centre.

*It may already be too late.

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Thu, 17/05/2018 - 4:45am in



*It may already be too late.

Anthropocene dreams: a review of Danowski and Viveiros de Castro’s The Ends of the World

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Tue, 27/03/2018 - 10:49pm in

Wim Wenders’ 1991 Until the end of the world shares quite a few themes with Deborah Danowski’s and Eduardo Viveiros de Castro’s The Ends of the World. The film opens with a shot of the planet taken from the orbit. The year is 1999, when, we are told, the world was expected to end, due to a predicted explosion caused by an out-of-control Indian satellite. The main protagonist, Claire, is troubled by an altogether different matter: a dream in which she is gliding in an airplane above the Australian desert – pleasantly at first, but then the plane begins to lose altitude, eventually colliding with the red, dusty ground – into which the eye of the camera folds at the end of the opening sequence.

Wenders’ mixture of millenarism, cyberpunk, and 1980s aesthetic does not, unfortunately, make an appearance in Danowski’s and Viveiros de Castro’s book. Other narratives of violent collision with the world do: from Von Trier’s Melancholia to Ferrara’s 4:44 and Weisman’s The World Without Us, from Stengers’ ‘intrusion’ of Gaia to the post-humanist speculative realism of Brassier and Meillasoux. If the Anthropocene had an intellectual mixtape, The Ends of the World would be a worthy candidate. Nor does it remain limited to tropes from the Global North. The authors contrast the ‘Western’ imaginaries of the end of the world with those of other, in particular indigenous, people, bringing in the Yanomami and Aikewara in order to challenge the assumption that the world is something humans have; and, furthermore, that it is possible to easily separate ‘the human’ from ‘the world’.

The three central chapters – ‘The outside without thought, or the death of the Other’, ‘Alone at last’, and ‘A World of people’ – present perspectives on the end of the world beyond the Western-centric, modernist view, to include those for whom the world has already ended, for instance, by the virtue of colonial exploitation. Their sense of finality – and, by extension, their sense of the world – is quite different. In this sense, the book pits Latour’s ‘moderns’ (Humans) against non-moderns/Others (Terrans) in a (not-quite-hypothetical) conflict. This conflict is no longer (or primarily) over resources, nor even about the reality of global warming: the Gaia war, authors argue, has virtually become a war of the worlds, the one that would decide the fate of the planet and its future.

As masterful as this argument and its exposition is, it is difficult to avoid the impression that Others – or Terrans – appear as last-minute saviours of the world, rather than actors in their own right. Commendably, Danowski and Viveiros de Castro want to give Others a voice, without speaking for them. Yet, the book’s references remain curiously Euro-centric, reading more like a guest list for a Latourian house party. This, of course, is not a unique feature of The Ends of the World. Social sciences, anthropology in particular, have always been very good at using Others as (literal or metaphorical) gateways to other worlds: from the reliance on natives as informants and field guides, to the ‘ontological turn’ – one of whose foremost proponents is Viveiros de Castro – that argues that cultural variation should be seen as a plurality of existence, rather than a plurality of interpretation.

From this perspective, it is not difficult to see why Others’ ends of the world – or the ends of other worlds – acquire such relevance in the Anthropocene. The existence of multiple ends of the world, after all, hints at the possibility of multiple worlds. This, in turn, holds the promise of exit from this world: in other words, even if the planet cannot be saved, perhaps we can.

The dialogue from Von Trier’s Melancholia Danowski and Viveiros de Castro relate reflects this idea. As the encounter with the planet Melancholia draws nearer, Justine (the main protagonist) expresses no desire to mourn, saying: “The Earth is evil. We do not need to grieve for it. Nobody will miss it”. To this, her dismayed sister Claire responds with “But where would Leo [her son, Justine’s nephew] grow?” In this exchange, the drive to escape Earth/death through transposition into the Other is rendered literal through the figure of children as virtual extension of self (on)to another being. The fact that Justine, at the very end of the film, relents by building a ‘magical cave’ in which to hide with Leo – as the inevitable collision approaches – underscores mortality as the final fact of inseparability from (the) earth, from which there is no escape.

The real predicament of the Anthropocene, in this sense, may lie in the fact that even if Others could create worlds – if, like Latour, we can hope for a generation of Terrans to inherit the Earth – there is nothing to suggest they would consider ‘us’, the Moderns, worthy of saving. In Wenders’ film, Claire will come to learn the same thing. Having survived the plane crash – which happens exactly in the way she previously dreamt of – she arrives to a research facility at the heart of the Australian desert, where she participates in the development of a camera that helps blind people see. After the experiment fails, even the local Aborigines abandon the research facility, leaving Claire lost in the desert, addicted to the only successful function of the camera: the capacity to record the viewer’s dreams. This recalls another quote in Danowski and Viveiros de Castors’ book, by Davi Kopenawa, the Yanonami shaman:

“Whites only treats us as ignorant because we are different from them. But their thought is short and obscure; it cannot go far and elevate itself, because they want to ignore death. Whites do not dream far like we do. They sleep a lot, but they only dream about themselves”.

The challenge of the Anthropocene, then, is how to learn to dream about something other than ourselves. The Ends of the World only begins to address it: but, in the process, it offers good material for thinking about who we are, and, by extension, who are the others.


Jana Bacevic is a postdoctoral research associate at the Faculty of Education, University of Cambridge. Her work is in social theory and the politics of knowledge production. She has a PhD in social anthropology and is completing one in sociology.

The post Anthropocene dreams: a review of Danowski and Viveiros de Castro’s The Ends of the World appeared first on Political Economy Research Centre.

An Eco-Marxist Blockbuster – on Blade Runner 2049

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Tue, 27/03/2018 - 2:17am in

Each night, sometime between six and seven, a cold, blue-white glow fills my flat. It unfolds across the room, like a book opening and closing. Some days I encounter this sterile glow as I walk to or from the shop. It casts me in half – searing one retina and not the other – leaving a dark humanoid form to stalk me for a few seconds. Looking up at the source, pupils constricting, more often than not ‘I ♥ LDN’ emblazons itself upon my face. On other instances, the giant LED screen of the bin lorry is advertising a foreign currency exchange business and the company’s own waste collection services. Seemingly, the medium isn’t taking off. For the time being, at least, even this is too far for the lunacy and brutality of the late capitalism we find ourselves in.

But amidst this chilly glow, my mind is drawn away from that moment and pulled to another, one of the cinema screen, one of dreary Los Angeles, electric animals, AR girlfriends and replicants, all of which are caught in the ceaseless emissions of neon and diode. Well “drawn” is perhaps a negation of my will; I want my mind to be drawn back. I hold tightly onto any sensory rope that pulls me to the world sculpted by Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? and later remodelled, first by Ridley Scott in 1982 and last year by Denis Villeneuve. It is the final world, the reimagining of the reimagining, where my mind especially wishes to dwell.

Rich, grand and beautiful, Blade Runner 2049 is far more intriguing than its predecessor. Its gaze weaves through the definitions and dives into the boundaries of the human with a deftness that surpasses the original. Villeneuve slows the pace and extends the scenes, providing the viewer with time to get lost in wondrous tableaus that flawlessly enmesh the conventionally real and the computerised real. This slowness, which certainly bored some viewers, Ridley Scott included, also allows for a level of introspection often amiss in blockbuster sci-fi. The viewer can truly immerse themselves in the world crafted for us and begin to grasp at its dynamics . But what world do we encounter? Of course, it is one where technological advancement begs us to consider what it is to be human. But it is also one, I believe, that is especially pertinent to our ecological, political and economic moment.


A crisis of capitalism

Blade Runner 2049 opens with a title card, the first of many nods to its predecessor, which introduces the viewers to the world they are about to enter. It tells us that the Tyrell Corporation, the capitalist locus of the original film, went bankrupt after the production of replicants was prohibited following a series of rebellions.  Shortly thereafter, sometime in the mid-2020s, the Earth’s ecosystem collapsed. Whole scale crisis was averted by the evolution of agro-industrialist Niander Wallace’s synthetic farming. Wallace’s new power ensured he was able to acquire the remnants of Tyrell’s operations and restart the production of replicants, who were then further bioengineered to ensure obedience. This supposed subservience means that replicant labour is found across Earth as well as the outer space colonies.

K, played by Ryan Gosling, is one such obeying replicant. He works for the LA police force as a blade runner, “decommissioning” stray replicants from the Tyrell-era of production. The opening shots of the film place us with him as he travels to a protein farm to execute an operation. The camera moves with K’s hovercar over Gurskyian landscapes – tessellating polygons of plastic sheeted agriculture and radials of concentrated solar power fill the horizons of this California. Its towers take the mind back to the flaring platforms that punctuated the sky of the original Blade Runner’s opening scene, and seemingly mark the transition from fossil fuels to renewable energies.

But for a viewer today, this combination of title card and opening scene produces an unnerving incongruity: renewable energy yet ecological collapse. Presently, reducing carbon dioxide emissions through renewable energy is discussed as if it is a panacea to all the environmental and consumptive ills of capitalism. This logic, dubious yet reassuring, bypasses serious consideration of a multitude of environmental problems, such as resource depletion, the ruinous disruption of the nitrogen and phosphorus cycles, or the sixth mass extinction, to pick three.

Blade Runner 2049 is full of such discoordination – the Voight-Kampff is now an instrument of control for workers as well as prisoners; the splendours of the space colonies do not end up in the hands of the impoverished city dwellers; the bioengineered labour force does not alleviate the enslavement of children. Even disregarding the immorality of replicant biopolitics, there appears little or no evidence of emancipation for the humans in the technological advancements of Blade Runner 2049. The future received does not align with any conventional formulation of hope for human or replicant, alike. Instead, humans appear, like replicants, as objects to this future. So, in what future does Blade Runner 2049 find itself?

Using two scales – planetary abundance-scarcity and social equality-hierarchy – and taking each combination of extremes along with a constant of wide-spread automation, Peter Frase formulates and maps out four futures in his book of the same name. These oscillations and interferences of ecological crisis and class power produce four possible systems which Frase names Communism, Rentism, Socialism and Exterminism. If we align the bioengineered workforce of Blade Runner 2049 with the automation of Frase’s thought experiments, in which future do we find ourselves for those 163 minutes? Clearly it is not Communism or Socialism, both of which are predicated on the destruction of class division. So that leaves Rentism and Exterminism, abundance and scarcity, respectively.

In Rentism, the means or techniques to produce abundance are monopolized by an elite. Frase envisages networks of intellectual property ensuring the extraction of rents from the masses despite the promise of abundance. Exterminism, however, envisages a world in which ‘scarcity cannot be totally overcome for all but can be overcome for a small elite’, leaving the majority of the ‘residents of Earth [to appear] less like a proletariat than like inmates of a concentration camp’, left to be ‘warehoused rather than exploited for their [labour].’ As with today, the elite of this future would enjoy a life of intractable consumption and comfort, leaving the vast majority of people with the rotting corpse of capitalism. These two futures require the further expansion and empowerment of state power to ensure the sustainability of such inequity. Notably, in both Scott and Villeneuve’s films, we see a police force of such power, nearing omnipotence.


The shadow of the past

But then there is much of Blade Runner 2049 that does not fit such dystopias. For one, we see capitalist power far surpassing that of the state and its police force. But more generally, there is something disconcertingly familiar, even mundane, to this world. It’s as if the world has partly stalled in time, allowing the future, the present and the past to concertina together. Pan Am, Coca Cola and countless future brands vie for space and attention, creating mesmerising overlaps of neon glow. Futuristic assemblages of vacuum packed foodstuffs are overlaid and hidden by projections of steak and chips as Sinatra croons in the background. Most illustratively, in one incredible scene we see holograms of Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe and Elton John crackle, jump, rewind and fast-forward, appearing and disappearing without intention or thought. The ghosts of the past are glitching into the future of Blade Runner 2049. Such an impression is further emphasised by the social relations the film presents us with. K and his AR girlfriend present the viewer with the new potentials of love. But this relationship, while seemingly radical, is at its core conservative, existing within the structures and confines of patriarchal power. This latter point is unavoidable throughout the film – as blatant as the sexualised, stripped and sky-scraping holograms.

It is not just time that is disintegrating in Blade Runner 2049, but time and space. The disintegration of space can be understood in two ways. First, the environments of the film are devastated by ecological collapse. Outside Los Angeles, dark, charcoal-like dust lands dominate while, later in the film, we find Las Vegas engulfed in deep orange of desert sand. These two environments appear like extrapolations of our present – the wildfires that increasingly encroach on the cities of California and the unavoidable desiccation of Sin City. Secondly, this collapse of space is experienced in the contradictions of Blade Runner 2049’s geography. The forces of expansion and contraction coexist – humans and their bioengineered labour force have colonised space; the waste and rubbish of life, once shipped away to impoverished lands, now consumes San Diego. Indeed, amidst these rusting topographies, we find the exploitation of children that in our world is held (emphasis on held) at arm’s length. The landfills of Agbogbloshie now brush up against the sprawl of Los Angeles.

The worlds that Philip K. Dick created in his novels were full of such juxtapositions, ones where ontologies dissolved across the pages. In Ubik, for example, the dead and the living coexist and become increasingly indistinguishable, much like the human and the replicant in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? In the former, the dead can override and alter the thoughts of others who have died and even the living, who are themselves able to morph and reconfigure thoughts, feelings and even histories through telepathy. Dick’s futures are contradictory futures; they thread together places remote in time and space into a whole, a whole which disintegrates and reforms and disintegrates as the world is increasingly detailed to the reader. They make my mind think not of Frase’s social science fictions, which seem clean and streamlined by comparison, and instead drag it backwards to Jason W. Moore’s historically exhausting Capitalism in the Web of Life. As Dick puts it in Ubik, the ‘past is latent, is submerged, but still there, capable of rising to the surface’.

Moore’s study takes in early Dutch capitalism, the sugar plantations of Brazil and the Caribbean, Bohemian silver mines, Norwegian forests, the riches of Potosi, the Atlantic slave trade, agriculture and industry in England, Indonesia spice, and American cotton, and contextualises each within the boom and bust cycles of capitalism. To understand such a deep history and its dynamics, Moore draws on Marxist, feminist and environmentalist thought to develop a theory of “Cheap Nature”, which is split into “Four Cheaps” – food, energy, labour-power and raw materials. Building on social reproduction theory, Moore understands capitalism to be reliant on free or cheap labour of slaves, women, animals, land and resources. If capitalism were to pay for these, it would, as a world system, collapse. Indeed, Moore sees the cycles of capitalism as being indelibly tied to these Four Cheaps – when one or more can no longer be extracted for free or cheaply, then capital accumulation enters crisis.

But despite the many crises that have punctuated its 400-year history, capitalism persists, organising human and nature alike. How is this so? Moore acknowledges the conventional wisdom of technological advancement in dealing with these crises but devotes greater attention to the expansion of the exploitation of cheap/free human and non-human natures. To illustrate this, consider the sugar plantations of the Caribbean. The lands cultivated and exhausted were captured in colonialist expansion, they were laboured by West African slaves, and the energy for production came from deforestation. The sugar – once a luxury product – was exported across the Atlantic to feed workers cheaply in Western Europe. This sugar-slave complex provided profits for the colonialist slave traders and plantation owners as well as buffering the wages of the working classes in Great Britain, Spain and France.

The political economy of Blade Runner 2049 fits neatly within Moore’s understanding of capitalism and its reliance on Cheap Nature. Food remains plentiful due to the agro-industrial developments of Niander Wallace and the expanses of now worthless land. Cheap energy is provided through the capture of free solar energy. Resources are extracted from the space colonies. The bioengineered replicants are enslaved and put to work across Earth and these new colonies. As now and then, the Cheaps of this future world intersect and reinforce one another, with all dependent upon each and each dependent upon all.


The limits to capitalism

Capitalism in the Web of Life concludes with a chapter that asks if our moment denotes the end of Cheap Nature. Centrally, when capitalism enters crisis mode again (if it is not there already), where will it turn for profitable exploitation? Where are the new frontiers to ensure a supply of cheap food, labour, resources and energy? Renewable energy, perhaps. Resources provided by seafloor and space mining with ever deeper extraction. Automation and AI could ensure cheap labour in the coming years through minimal costs and increased competition. But what of agriculture? Genetic modification looks unlikely. Moore draws attention to the inability of agro-biotechnology, the new frontier in agriculture, to stem the long downturn in productivity. Indeed, perhaps this future crisis for capitalism is even more profound than those of the past. This one also denotes the emergence of negative value, the most prominent and profound example of which is climate change. How will capital accumulation persist when the externalities become insuperably internal?

In Blade Runner 2049 we find a coordination that has allowed capitalism to persist, just as perversely and destructively as ever, despite the ecological ruin of Earth. Fitting with Moore’s theory, the wealthiest and most powerful person on Earth is the one who overcame the problems of agriculture. However, counter to Moore’s hypothesis, the coming crisis of Villeneuve’s film is not the lack of cheap food but of cheap labour. Niander Wallace’s main concern is his ability to reproduce the replicants upon which the capitalists’ wealth relies. The systems of technological reproduction are too slow, too cumbersome, resulting in a limitation on their access to workers/slaves. Simple supply and demand tells us that this is a problem – what happens when replicants begin to understand their irreplaceability? What happened last time, as the opening title card told us, we can guess.

In response, Wallace works on the development of replicants that are able to reproduce themselves, organically, like human and non-human life. Yet his Promethean ambitions are stumbling, appearing to rub, instead, against the limitations of science and technology. When K happens across the skeleton of a replicant who has given birth to an unknown but presumably alive child, Wallace expends all the force and power he wields to capture the evidence and material necessary to ensure his reproductive ambitions.

This information, the reproductive potentiality, is also of extreme interest for the state in Blade Runner 2049. K is tasked by his senior at the police force to destroy all evidence pertaining to the replicant who gave birth and whatever they gave birth to. The world must not know that they could produce like us, for what would then differentiate us, or so the logic goes. As K’s police chief notes, the ‘world is built on a wall.’ But this is not a new wall – it is an old wall reconfigured and repurposed for 2049. Aristotle spoke of humans who were, by their nature, bound to be slaves, to be the property of someone else. This concept was the basis for the enslavement of Amerindians during the European colonization of the New World. Enlightenment thinkers such as Linnaeus reified such brutality with reason and empiricism. They sought to differentiate the European from the African, consigning the latter to a lower rung, an inferior species, to Nature with all its violent abstraction.

It is this wall, between Human and Nature, that Moore’s history casts its gaze upon, understands as essential to capitalism and, most importantly, wishes to dismantle. Viewing Villeneuve’s Blade Runner 2049 through the prism of Cheap Nature, we find a future in which this division has been built up, reinforced, not crumbled as Moore would hope. The film presents us with the devastation of both environment and society, illuminating and outlining the threads which connect them. It is a clear and devastating articulation of what Isabelle Stengers has called the ‘coming barbarianism.’ But this is not a unidirectional flow of influence, it’s cyclical: the book feeding the film, the film feeding the book. Villeneuve’s film enriches the history and theory of Capitalism in the Web of Life. Blade Runner 2049 is an appendage to the history, articulating a future in which the forces and dynamics identified by Moore have been able, as they have for so long, to sustain themselves, ensuring accumulation and ruin.

But what of the present? We are used to history being a tool to understand and to shape the present. When that present, however, folds up against a future that appears unprecedented, as it is with this moment that lies on the edge of a climate, resource and ecological crisis, history begins to feel lost. The ideas it has helped produce for today increasingly feel redundant, ineffective or even counterproductive. But what we are experiencing today is history itself crashing through the present and into the future. This is not a glitching past, but one of devastating actuality. We require new histories and theory to make sense and struggle with this present and looming future. Capitalism in the Web of Life is one an example, Andreas Malm’s study of the industrial revolution and coal, Fossil Capital, is another.

The multiplicity of realities offered by science fiction, however, provides us with another means to grapple with our reality and craft a new one. They provide us with the distance and perspective necessary to gaze upon our moment and see both its deficiencies and possibilities, understanding how and where the world can be changed, whether that is for better or worse. To articulate this, Peter Frase draws on the documentary Los Angeles Plays Itself in his Four Futures: ‘If we can appreciate documentaries for their dramatic qualities, perhaps we can appreciate fiction films for their documentary revelations.’ And so it is with a blockbuster sci-fi film and a piece of eco-Marxist world history.


David Lee Astley works for an environmental NGO and writes occasionally on art and politics


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Promethean Planetary Care – review of Oliver Morton’s The Planet Remade

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Wed, 07/02/2018 - 4:34am in

Oliver Morton, The Planet Remade: How Geoengineering Could Change the World, Granta Books (2015). 

What if geoengineering were envisaged as a utopian project of care? Oliver Morton’s The Planet Remade is a call for enlightened readership and expanded debate on “imagining geoengineered worlds that might be good to live in.” It provides a tour through technological interventions in the Earth system, some of which lead to possibilities for altering the climate deliberately in the future. With the knowledge of how such interventions could work, but not shying from discussion of the accompanying risks, Morton is aiming to extend engaged consideration of geoengineering beyond the ‘geoclique’ – to which he admits belonging – that has been the limits of debate.

There is much to learn from this book if, like me, your engagement with the idea of geoengineering has been built on instinctive political opposition. Some will be familiar with Philip Mirowski’s take on neoliberal approaches to global warming, which simplified is: step one, denial; step two, carbon markets; step three, geoengineering. All the while market solutions (often calling for the state to socialise upfront costs) maintain primacy, and democracy, as well as substantial action on emissions, are held at bay. It makes a lot of sense in light of the Trump presidency – which is putting us back at step one – or the slow build-up of geoengineering start-ups seeking investment. Morton, though, guides us through the scientific basis, taking the reader from the discovery of the stratosphere and ozone layer to the dynamics of solar radiation in the Earth system and the finding, or confirmation, with the eruption of Mount Pinatubo in 1991 that large enough volcanoes can have a cooling effect through belching sulphur dioxide into the sky. The body of evidence that geoengineering possibilities exist builds upon an argument that claims they will be necessary; the overwhelming focus on mitigation rather than adaptation has yielded poor results, the attempt to shift to renewable energy will supposedly not in itself deliver the desired decarbonisation.

This skepticism about the prospects for tackling global warming within the existing international system without planetary techno-fixes has become more pervasive among climate scientists.[1] It has also had significant influence on policy understandings. If you haven’t yet read much about geoengineering, it may also come as a surprise that governments across the world already presume it will be happening at great scale in the future. Almost all of the scenarios which inform existing international agreements on climate change assume that not(really)-yet-existing negative-emissions technologies will work to suck carbon out of the atmosphere, so that the 2°C target might be met. The urgency and size of the problem, the target of negative emissions by 2050 and our lackluster responses to the challenge all point toward a reliance on geoengineering.

Andreas Malm has talked about global warming as the revenge of time – carbon taken out of the earth two centuries ago comes to haunt us today as the cumulative sum of CO2 emissions. Morton sees in geoengineering the possibility “to unshackle, even if only to a very limited extent, the future from the past.” This feat, he argues, might best be understood as a ‘breathing space’ for humanity, within which decarbonisation can continue to proceed. Gradual but prompt introduction of and experimentation with technologies that alter the Earth system is also the best way of evading the critical issue of moral hazard. If goengineering is forever understood merely as an option-of-last-resort, he says, it retains the promise of distant salvation and encourages inaction in the present. If it is taken up immediately and actively developed, it avoids this charge.

Critics of geoengineering point to its delusions of mastery over the Earth and the questionable motives of some of those who advocate for it. The Planet Remade, by contrast, unabashedly lauds the scientists who dream big and involve themselves in “Promethean science”, which combines “vaulting ambition” with the “troubling hazards” potentially inherent to such scientific enterprises.[2] There are echoes of the conquering spirit that characterises the ‘eco-modernist’ vision of a ‘Good Anthropocene’. Against the lure of total control that geoengineering seems to offer, though, Morton advocates for limited experimentation. Volcanoes make for enticing subjects, of course, because they cannot be held accountable for their actions. Yet modelling is showing that interventions such as cloud brightening, or a stratospheric veil composed of reflective aerosols, could be effective both in cost terms and in their impact on global temperatures.

At every turn the book seems candid about the risks of intervention. For example, cloud brightening in one region may affect precipitation and lead to drought in another. Iron fertilization of the ocean and carbon capture and storage (CCS) are treated with more caution. Efforts at engineering the Earth system in the past also serve as warnings; the ‘dead zones’ that have resulted from overproduction of reactive nitrogen are striking cases of ecological collapse. The imperial violence of the New World’s ‘discovery’ that marks the origins of the Anthropocene – or Capitalocene as some argue it should be called – highlights the dark history of genocidal exploitation in the name of enlightened civilization. But less evident is how geoengineering as an enterprise might be marked by inequality and violence – are we to believe that it won’t? Utopias should not be seen as simply tending to violence, but as Ruth Levitas and Fredric Jameson argue, the best kind of utopian thinking will return us to a critical reflection of present circumstances.

The idea of deliberate intervention is key to the definition of geoengineering Morton espouses. Throughout the book he points to science that intentionally drove humanity out of doomsday predictions, as the development of artificial fertilizer did for Malthusian forecasts of food supply straining under growing population. Ingenuity and ambition in science are essential ingredients for a utopian, geoengineered world. But the other meaning of deliberate (as a verb) – to engage in thorough consideration – is on the periphery of this vision. It is often suggested that authentically democratic institutions must incorporate citizens’ deliberation and assent. The Planet Remade tries to give readers the tools for considering geoengineering and its risks – to expand the debate – but does not focus in much depth on questions of power in regard to these risks and is not fully clear on what vision of ‘care’ it subscribes to beyond a less warm planet for all.

The problem, undoubtedly, is that in light of its required scale and the need to consider formidable complexities, geoengineering appears as an inherently elite, expert-led project.[3] It also demands that trust be placed to some extent in still developing climate models. Models that suggest, Morton tentatively points out, that an ‘Engineered Planet’ would experience less climate damage in aggregate than a ‘Greenhouse Planet’ based on business-as-usual scenarios of global warming and that “the winners might greatly outnumber the losers.” There is an inescapably utilitarian feel to the argumentation, and geopolitical concerns are immediately evident. It is essential to face the fact that a Geoengineered Planet in the not-so-distant future would be riven by existing international inequalities. Should we not consider how these might manifest themselves in efforts to veil the planet? We might turn around geoengineering advocates’ existing cynicism about climate mitigation and ask as Clive Hamilton does, “If a just global warming solution cannot be found, who can believe in a just geoengineering regime?” [4]

The Planet Remade is an informative and carefully argued text on the science and history of geoengineering, which makes compelling arguments about how we might embrace such technologies for a future that allegedly needs them. It is a demanding challenge to fears and anxieties concerning humans ‘playing God’, but does not advocate for, or believe possible, anything like gung-ho control of the climate. It will likely sharpen the arguments of those opposed to engineering the planet, which must also be considered as extending the debate. Formidable questions remain around the social and political consequences of Promethean Science and how they are imbricated in complex ecological systems. This book will remain important for asking those questions within an informed public debate.

[1] Morton and others credit an article in 2006 by Paul Crutzen – the atmospheric scientist credited with popularizing the term ‘Anthropocene’ – as a defining intervention for expanded discussion of geoengineering.

[2] Promethean science is a concept Morton borrows from Simon Schaffer, see

[3] For a skeptical take on the relationship between geoengineering and democracy see the open access piece by Szerszynski et al. (2013), ‘Why Solar Radiation Management Geoengineering and Democracy Won’t Mix’, Environment & Planning A: Economy & Space, 45(12): 2809-2816.

[4] Hamilton, Clive (2013) Earthmasters: The Dawn of the Age of Climate Engineering, London: Yale University Press, p.182.

The post Promethean Planetary Care – review of Oliver Morton’s The Planet Remade appeared first on Political Economy Research Centre.

World accumulation & Planetary life, or, why capitalism will not survive until the ‘last tree is cut’

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Wed, 20/12/2017 - 10:28pm in
Why does it seem easier to imagine the end of the world than to see the end of capitalism? Part of the answer turns on a rift between radical economic and ecological thought.
How does capitalism work through the web of life? How can we begin to understand capitalism not simply as an economic system of markets and production and a social system of class and culture, but as a way of organising nature?

I’ve argued that this is a co-produced relation, that capitalism makes nature and the web of life makes capitalism. But how do we come to terms with planetary ‘state shifts’ like climate change – dramatic, abrupt, and irreversible moments of planetary change?[1] That is, how do we understand the tendency towards both planetary crisis and accumulation crisis as two moments of a self-forming whole. We have an immediate problem because the way of thinking about these questions in the modern world, after five centuries of colonialism and scientific revolution and everything else, puts society in one box and nature in another. They interact – sort of – but they are very much in different spheres. The answer to these fundamental questions has to begin by acknowledging that the planetary state shift recognised by earth system scientists requires an intellectual and political state shift: a radical shift in how we think about the relations between humans and the rest of nature.

Capitalism and the ‘four cheaps’

Crucial to my thinking has been a family of ideas that seek to show how capitalism, from its early modern origins, has been not only a mighty producer of changes in the web of life, but also a product of that web of life, and of the totality of transformations between what is usually called society and nature. This means that modernity never masters or possesses nature. Capital not only never subsumes nature, but it has few effective mechanisms for managing its own nature in any given era. The web of life is unruly, rebellious, and has a way of continually upsetting the best laid plans of states, of capitalists, of scientists and engineers.

This is important because the new liberal craze for turning over global natures, including human natures, to market-oriented management represents an important break in the history of capitalism. Longstanding patterns of state and imperial governance of nature have produced a set of conditions of production which I call Cheap Nature. The Four Cheaps – labour power, food, energy and raw materials – are necessary to launch and sustain great bursts of capital accumulation. Today, capital is seeking profitable investment opportunities in a world in which there are really no more significant frontiers of Cheap Nature. These are not significant enough, in my view, to relaunch another golden age of capitalism.

“the new liberal craze for turning over global natures, including human natures, to market-oriented management represents an important historical break in the history of capitalism”

The exhaustion of the Cheap Nature model is happening at a time when, thanks to climate change, the very mechanisms of cheapening labour, food, energy and raw materials are not only breaking down – they are reversing themselves. The reversal will be, like planetary state shifts, dramatic, irreversible – and non-linear. This is most evident in the relationship between climate change and the agricultural model of historical capitalism – the Cheap Food model – based on producing more and more calories with less and less labour time. It’s a model that’s breaking down because we have reached the moment where the enclosure of the atmospheric commons is now supressing yield growth in the world’s four big cereal crops – and because terrestrial enclosures of every kind are now being challenged by agrarian and food justice movements of every kind.

How do we reconcile the dynamics of planetary crisis and world accumulation? The essence of capital in the modern world is that it produces more capital than it can reinvest profitably. This is the surplus capital problem. What’s been missed in Marxist political economy is the centrality of Cheap Nature. The truly epoch-making expansions of the modern world have turned on much more than new machines, new markets, and new economic organisations; they been able to soak up surplus capital because new domains of Cheap Nature have been opened up by states and empires.[2] The resolution of the surplus capital problem, always a temporary resolution, has been fundamentally rooted in the restoration of these Four Cheaps. That’s why great industrialisations and “new” imperialisms have always been joined at the hip – there’s no mechanisation of textiles without the massive expansion of cotton cultivation in the antebellum American South, for example.

How can we understand the systemic interrelation between socioeconomic and ecological trends, between something like faltering accumulation and sharply rising greenhouse gas concentrations in the atmosphere? Effective answers are going to have to evolve, but to do that we cannot work in the old paradigm of adding up ecology and economy. The relation is much more intimate than such Green Arithmetic allows. We are also going to have to take history much more seriously. Clearly, we are at a moment of fundamental shift in the history of capitalism and in the history of the climate system. We are living through the closing moments of the Holocene, a period of unusual climate stability, which began about 12,000 years ago. Over that time, mild climate perturbations, compared to what we are going to experience, were very important in the histories of civilisations. Roman power in the West crumbled quickly after the end of the Roman Climate Optimum around 300 C.E.; feudal power withered in the face of a perfect storm of climate change, disease, and popular revolt after 1300.

This leads to us to ask two big – two really big – questions. Is capitalism capable of surviving through the present climate crisis, which dwarfs the climate shifts experienced by Roman and feudal oligarchs? And what are the ways that capitalism has re-established its conditions for growth and accumulation?

A compelling answer begins by recognising just how dependent capitalism has been on frontiers of Cheap Nature: those places where food, energy, raw materials and workers can be drawn for free or low cost. Most radicals – never mind the would-be technocratic managers of a geoengineered climate system – still ignore this history. Somehow it’s easier to denounce the environmental degradation, the mass produced violence and genocide, the dynamics of domination, than it is to see how each of these moments is linked to the system of Cheap Nature and the endless accumulation of capital. But that won’t do. An understanding of how capital accumulation works, how it unfolds through the web of life, is fundamental to understanding not just why capitalism drives planetary crisis, but how its contradictions compel it to continue down this deadly and self-defeating path. Such an analysis may also reveal capitalism’s weaknesses – it may serve an antidote to the pervasive belief, even among radicals, that capitalism is all-powerful. It also won’t do to keep the ‘social’ and ‘environmental’ separate because the questions of how capital works, how capitalism destroys life, and how modernity requires racialised, gendered, and colonial violence are interpenetrated. That interpenetration is key to how capitalism has thrived in the past, and to how capitalism’s resilience is now in question.

Our usual understanding of this planetary crisis comes from a philosophy of history that says “Humans did it!” It’s a philosophy that says the drivers of planetary crisis are anthropogenic. “Humans are overwhelming the great forces of nature” – in the words of the Popular Anthropocene.[3]

“Anthropogenic implicates an actor that doesn’t exist. There is no Anthropos, no humanity as a unified actor”

There’s a big problem with such explanations. Anthropogenic implicates an actor that doesn’t exist. There is no Anthropos, no humanity as a unified actor. So, if not anthropogenic, what? In a word: capitalogenic. Let me be clear about this term, and about the idea of the ‘Capitalocene’. Liberals complain that there’s plenty of responsibility to go around, and that capitalists aren’t the only ones to blame. The Capitalocene doesn’t say that the One Percent are completely to blame for the crisis. (But, just to be clear, the One Percent are completely to blame for the crisis.) The Capitalocene argument isn’t about blame; it’s about identifying the system that has devastated life on this planet.[4] It’s about making clear the history of capitalism. The Capitalocene is a way to begin to ask how the accumulation of capital, the pursuit of power and the co-production of nature form an organic and evolving whole. That whole is a ‘world-ecology’. To say capitalogenic is therefore to invoke not just economics – whatever that might mean – but the power and violence that has made endless accumulation possible. Where many radicals see only capitalism’s entropy, destruction, and devastation, world-ecology embraces the life-making alternatives forged in resistance to such domination. To say that capitalism creates an ecology of power, capital, and nature in its own image is also to underscore the fragility of capitalism’s ecologies, and the power of a web of life that is continually upsetting the plans of the rich and powerful. This is what world-ecology celebrates: the intimate connections between the life-making resistances, and emancipatory possibilities, of a web of life that incudes humans.

Cheap natures and the great frontier

Much environmental thinking and social theory says that all the troubles started in England with the advent of coal and steam. Such periodisation matters greatly to our politics. For one, this narrative – a very old narrative that stretches back more than a century – reveals a long-held love affair with big machines. The old Anglo-centric reading of capitalism has the disabling effect of rendering slavery, colonialism, and gender secondary: we are back to the old “forces of production” argument and its tragic history of rendering Nature a productive asset. It is not even clear that the steam engine was the key machine of industrialisation in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Was not the cotton gin arguably more pivotal? Marx thought so, when he observed that it was only the enormous fall in the price of cotton that made large-scale industry possible.[5] This is no mere historical quibble. For the productivist view of Nature lends itself quite readily to the view of race and gender as dependent variables, forgetting, as Federici reminds us, that the violent binaries of race and gender were themselves strategic pivots of accumulating surplus work/energy. Racial and gendered formations were themselves, if one can forgive the old-fashioned language, “forces of production”. Of course, these binaries were not invented in the Industrial Revolution; they were its fundamental preconditions.

“The old Anglo-centric reading of capitalism has the disabling effect of rendering slavery, colonialism, and gender secondary: we are back to the old ‘forces of production’ argument and its tragic history of rendering Nature a productive asset”

If not the Industrial Revolution of the long nineteenth century, when should we say that capitalism began? In my view, the origins of capitalism are found in what the great French historian Fernand Braudel called the “long” sixteenth century, more or less the two centuries after 1450.[6] But to keep it simple, let’s say 1492, Year Zero of modern power, genocide, and capital accumulation. And let’s call October 12, 1492 the birthday of Cheap Nature. For Columbus was not merely a navigator and conqueror: he was an assessor of Cheap Nature. His diary of the First Voyage expresses a strong desire not merely for gold – mentioned some 70 times – but also to identify what kinds of life could fetch a good price in Europe. Columbus carried forth not merely guns, germs and steel, but the keen eye of an assessor who sensed the New World’s potential riches. Columbus channelled the logic of Cheap Nature from the very beginning.

Cheap Nature has never been a bargain. Cheapness is violence; it grows from the barrel of a gun. It’s an utterly irrational system of rationality, one premised on mobilising the work of all natures – humans included – for free, or for as close to free as possible. That’s crucial because capitalism is everything that an efficient system is not. Capitalism’s prodigious waste of life and limb is fundamental to its logic. When Marx called capitalism  a system of turning children’s blood into capital, he was making a very important point. Such inefficiency requires and necessitates violence, at once cultural and material. And so Cheap Nature is also necessary because capitalism is not even price-rational. Capitalism pursues Cheap Natures so relentlessly because the ecology of capitalism is its precise opposite: capitalism’s ecology is expensive. And worse still, it becomes more expensive over time, because the fantasy of endless accumulation feeds on the bodies of finite lives and labours.

This means that capitalism is not only a system of Cheap Nature but expresses the ethos of the cheapskate: the capitalist system is one where the rich and powerful never pay their bills. They are always too big to fail, too powerful to go broke. That there have been plenty of exceptions should not obscure the world-historical pattern. Capitalism is a system of expensive nature and capitalists are always inventing new ways to avoid paying their debts. Capitalists don’t want to take on the cost of raising families, of reproducing society, and of reproducing fields or forests. So, what do you do? You go to the frontier.

“modernity’s commodity frontiers are not simply about commodities; they’re about the cultural and territorial projects that make possible the appropriation of unpaid work/energy – the work of ‘women, nature, and colonies’”

Frontiers are just not spaces “out there.” Frontiers are made. Nature doesn’t exist as a set of pre-fabricated use-values; nature’s utilities and work potential have to be identified, mapped, secured, and legitimated at every step from “raw material” to finished product. We think of this as an economic and technological dynamic, which it is. But it’s also profoundly cultural. So for me, modernity’s commodity frontiers are not simply – or even primarily – about commodities; they’re about the cultural and territorial projects that make possible the appropriation of unpaid work/energy – the work of “women, nature, and colonies”.[7] Here we come face to face with what Max Weber called the “the European rationality of world domination”. That rationality has been, like racism and sexism, a powerful force of production, an indispensable lever of what I’ve called accumulation by appropriation.

This opens our eyes to the ways that the history of the modern world is not just about the bloody violence of colonialism or the deployment of big machines. It is also about “soft” technologies, like bookkeeping  and cartography. If historians today talk about ‘globalisation’ stretching back millennia, there’s no question that modern globalisation began with the invention of the “global” through modern cartography. We think of imperialism as movements of armed commerce and militarised production and plunder, and they were. But the great innovation of early capitalism – the trans-oceanic empire – was possibly only through maps, like the famous and still hegemonic Mercator projection, that allowed one not only to navigate planetary space, but to imagine its subordination to the pursuit of profit and power. It still strikes me as curious that we deify the steam engine while relegating the modern map to a footnote. But was not modern cartography – and its sibling, modern surveying – the very basis of the modern control of space, of global nature, of the creation of capitalism’s most basic real abstraction, property?

Here was capitalism’s God trick (to borrow from Haraway): to re-present the world in “objective” form.[8] This trick accomplished two big things: it concealed capital’s desire for domination under the guise of objectivity and, in the same breath, it enabled the practical tasks of world domination.

That raises a vexing question for radical thought: How do the practical matters of domination facilitate the practical matters of exploitation, and vice versa? One recent move is to make clear that epoch-making technologies under capitalism are fundamentally rooted in the exploitation of the worker by the capitalist. The history of technology and resources is a history of class struggles between bourgeois and proletarian. That seems to me a valuable insight, but also one easily suffocated by the kinds of formalisms that have so often plagued Marxists, and not only Marxists. Too often, the “working class” has been defined in ways that bear more than a passing family resemblance to the real abstraction, Society. Marxists have too often embraced unduly narrow conceptions of work and “the worker”. For this reason, I’ve emphasised work/energy, because we are dealing with work in a broadly biophysical sense, comprising the activity and potential energy of rivers and soils, of oil and coal deposits, of human-centred production and reproduction.[9]

At this point, the critics have objected: “Aha! You are flattening all work. Do you not recall how Marx insists that the worst of architects is better than the best of bees?” Which of course misses the point. For starters, there are no architects without bees – a reality that bears repeating as we learn more about colony collapse disorder. But to insist on the essential unity of work/energy – as I think Marx does in the early pages of Capital – is to establish the basis for a more dialectical conception of work. For Marx, and this is the method I tried to follow in Web of Life, such general abstractions offer a provisional structure through which to investigate the irreducibly combined and uneven character of work under capitalism. General abstractions yield to progressively more determinate abstractions across the time and space of historical capitalism. Far from reducing all work/energy, identifying the essential connection of life and work in the web of life allows us to see more clearly how the formalised structures of wage-work fundamentally rely on other – distinctive and no less real – forms of work, by humans and the rest of nature.

Those other forms of work are the terrain of surplus profit realised through extra-economic means: accumulation by appropriation. This has far-reaching political as well as analytical implications. I think Marx glimpsed the danger when he warned the German socialists of the dangers that lay in attributing “supernatural” powers to labour.[10] (And where he reminded his comrades that labour, too, was a force of nature in its own right.) Masculinism, racism, colonialism, and economism have too often infected such thinking with formal definitions of what, when, and who is a worker. To account for “the” Industrial Revolution in terms that elide the enclosure of female bodies within a Lockean “private sphere”, premised on the redefinition of women’s concrete labours as non-work, is of course to ignore the gendered oppression that is directly constitutive of modern class relations. This is more than an assertion that gender matters – which it always does. Even if one maintains an Anglo-centric narrative, there’s no question that the relations of work that defined the Industrial Revolution could not exist without birthing and sustaining the modern proletariat – an “event” that necessarily predates the nineteenth century. Care work is not a footnote to the “real” history of capitalism’s ecologies; it is the precondition of those ecologies. In other words, attention to the class struggles around who is a worker and what constitutes work – struggles unfolding in overlapping colonial, racial, and gendered domains – changes the dominant masculinist, technology-centred narrative.[11]

“To account for ‘the’ Industrial Revolution in terms that elide the enclosure of female bodies within a Lockean ‘private sphere’, premised on the redefinition of women’s concrete labours as non-work, is of course to ignore the gendered oppression that is directly constitutive of modern class relations”

To raise the question of work also unsettles the environmentalist narrative. That’s a narrative that, even at its most radical, asks, “What does capitalism do to nature?”

That’s not a bad question to ask, but I want to turn this question inside out. I want to ask, “How does capitalism put natures to work?”.

Let me be clear that asking how capitalism mobilises different forms of work – the unpaid human work of social reproduction, the work of soils and streams, the work of slaves, the work of industrial workers – implies synthesis. To ask how capitalism puts natures of all kinds to work is also to recognise capitalism’s pathology – and its exterminism. Here’s the rub. On the one hand, capitalism works, not because it does terrible things to natures (it does), but because it has been successful at mobilising and appropriating manifold natures for free or low cost. On the other hand, those movements of appropriating Nature have been fantastically violent. So violence is fundamental to Cheap Nature – revealing capitalism’s greatest “inefficiency”: its destruction and waste of life.

“Capitalism works, not because it does terrible things to natures (it does), but because it has been successful at mobilising and appropriating manifold natures for free or low cost”

Now, this argument seems to have agitated some Marxists. In a kind of sectarianism reminiscent of Spartacist League denunciations, some critics think they’ve got me: I care only about accumulation crisis and not about the extraordinary violence and devastation wrought by capital at the end of the Holocene.[12] I think that’s a tough sell for anyone who’s paid attention to the argument I’m making. The whole point of world-ecology is to show how human organisation – including capitalism – is not only a producer of changes in the web of life, but a product of it. That means, among other things, that capitalism not only emerged out of powerful socio-ecological changes – the Little Ice Age and two epoch-making waves of disease (the Black Death and New World pandemics) – but also that the longue durée of capital accumulation itself tends to activate forms of nature, including social movements, that cannot be fixed through a productivist ontology of Nature. This is what I’ve called negative-value: an idea that seeks to capture the ways in which tipping points across the planetary system are wrapped up with the historical drive to accumulate capital and squeeze more work/energy from humans and the rest of nature. Negative-value is a way to connect the “inside” – capitalism’s ecology – and the outside, the web of life a whole. It is, above all, an argument that says capitalism faces real limits because of its relations, historically and in the present, with and within planetary life. Those limits are reached because of the dialectical exhaustion of how capitalism puts natures to work on the Cheap.

I am therefore sceptical of the environmentalist claim that capitalism will continue, barring social revolution, until the “last tree is cut”.[13] Capitalism is much less resilient than the slogan suggests. The tight connection between recessions in the advanced capitalist core and energy prices over the past four decades is enough to tell us that capitalists start to have big problems when basic commodity prices rise. Now imagine that dynamic magnified radically in an era of climate change – an era in which two thirds of the costs of climate change by 2050 will be borne by world agriculture. Many of the same radicals celebrating the analyses of planetary state shifts also deny the same logic at work within capitalism. Capitalism, too often in the radical imagination, assumes supernatural powers, able to withstand planetary crises at will. But have we not already witnessed the outlines of the essential stagnation of capitalism’s labour productivity model?[14] Labour productivity growth has slowed and stagnated dramatically over the past four decades – in industry, but also in agriculture, and here the connection with climate change is inescapable.

“Capitalism, too often in the radical imaginary, becomes a steamroller of entropy, able to withstand planetary forces at will. But have we not already witnessed the outlines of the essential stagnation of capitalism’s labour productivity model?”

To grasp capitalism as a system of putting Nature to work, we need to take work seriously. That involves re-centring how we think capitalism in the web of life – away from consumption and population, and towards work. When I say Nature, I mean Nature in the uppercase, as a real, lived abstraction through which the structures of capital and power fuse with the structures of feeling. Here is Nature as a way of organising something far more important than fields and mountains and streams and forests: the real abstraction Nature has been a vital tool in the cultures of racialised, gendered, and colonial domination. Not just the idea, but the institutionalisation of Nature as real abstraction has been central to a longue durée process of expelling dominated groups of humans from membership in Society. This was true in the English conquest of Ireland – out of which emerged the contemporary meaning of words like Nature, Society, and European – and it remains true today, as we see in the mass incarcerations of peoples of colour in the United States. These were, and are, colonial populations expelled from Society – but geographically enclosed within the capitalist division of coerced labour.

One is always rightly wary of functionalist explanations. But it seems clear that the mobilisation of Cheap Nature has always been at the core of such expulsions – so different from the xenophobia of pre-modern civilizations. For these were expulsions to keep populations inside and dominated, to expel them from Society while incorporating their labors for bourgeois enrichment.  This allows us to move from consumption as the meta-concept of environmental thought towards work, and to begin to think through the history of capitalism within the web of life – and the web of life within capitalism – in different ways.

I’ve picked on environmentalist thought, but we can’t let Marxist thought off the hook either. Marxism has always had a tough time with the dialectics of capital accumulation and capitalist systems of power. Allow me to highlight what I see as a core mis-reading of Marx’s political economy. Marxists have long taken for granted the identity of the commodity form and the relations that made that commodity. “Value relations” have long been read as class relations that derive from, or are located in relation to, the immediate process of production. But there’s a wider sphere of power that works to take in the Four Cheaps – labour, energy, raw materials and food – that sustain the production and expanded reproduction of commodities. That wider arena is crucial.

In the usual Marxist economic model, here’s what we think when we imagine the growth of capitalism: more and more commodification. Everything gets generalised into the cash nexus, into the purchase and sale of commodities. That’s hugely important. I want to suggest a different point of view, however. This understands that capitalism organises through a tripartite division of work. Paid work remains central in this alternative. What we have to explain is how the world proletariat expands through qualitative transformations of the unpaid work/energy of human and extra-human natures. We need to explain the expanded reproduction of the world proletariat in relation to its wider conditions of reproduction.

This leads us to a different geography of accumulation and class struggle. It asks us to understand how the production of surplus value is rooted in the appropriation of the largely unpaid work of “women, nature and colonies”. If world accumulation is to be sustained, these dimensions of unpaid work must grow disproportionately to the amount of paid work. Why is that? Well, for a very simple reason. Capitalism, as everyone learns the first week when you study Marx, is dynamic because it produces more material throughput for every unit of labour time. Workers become more physically productive.

They also become more expensive. Marx put his finger on a crucial dimension of the process in his general law of underproduction.[15] For expanded accumulation to remain profitable, capital has to find ways to cheapen what Marx calls ‘circulating capital’ – raw materials, energy, and other inputs used up in a given production cycle. Circulating capital is part of constant capital – which Marxists usually characterise as machinery. Machines are fixed capital, and just one element of constant capital. That fixed capital is worthless without circulating capital, and the more innovation there is in fixed capital, the more circulating capital is demanded. That’s why, for Marx, the fixed capital of the steam engine  became central to large-scale industry only after the volume of cotton, the circulating capital, increased sharply and its value decreased sharply.

“For expanded accumulation to remain profitable, you have to find ways to cheapen what Marx calls ‘circulating capital’ – raw materials, energy, and other inputs used up in a given production cycle”

You also have to keep the costs of labour power cheap, which is not easy. In highly proletarianised societies, labour is expensive and becomes more expensive over time, as opportunities for non-market income contract and the cost of living rises. This is of course a process of class struggle in many ways – not just in the form of strikes and rebellions, but also in the class struggle from above. The great transition from coal to oil over the course of the twentieth century was one such moment, a protracted effort to rid capitalism of contentious workers who not only threatened social peace but also Cheap Energy.[16]

In contrast to the generalisation of the capital model, this alternative asks us to consider capitalism as a system in which islands of commodification are surrounded by oceans of Cheap – or potentially Cheap – Natures. Great booms occur when these islands draw upon oceans of Cheap Natures: of African slaves, of Persian Gulf oil, of English coal, Baltic timber, American grain, Mississippi cotton, and on and on.

Capitalism thrives when the cash nexus is modest in relation to accumulation by appropriation. In contrast to the direct exploitation of surplus value in commodity production, accumulation by appropriation names those extra-economic forms of acquiring surplus work/energy in service to capital accumulation – but not yet, or not largely, monetised. Crucially, this is a zone of tremendous violence and cultural domination.

If then we return to our thinking about 1492 and its role in the origins of planetary crisis, we have to be willing to open our imagination about how capitalism works, about how the surplus is extracted, about how value production works. In 1492, for the first time in the 175 million years since the breakup of Pangea, species bridges were created across the Atlantic issue, transforming life to this day.

These were also bridges of guns, commerce, and commodity production. In forging this modern Pangea, early capitalism was able to set two continents  of potential work/energy at the service of capital accumulation. It wasn’t just plunder. Our modern Pangea was thoroughly productivist, marked by establishment of massive productive systems, especially in silver mining in places like the Andes and in sugar planting in northeastern Brazil and the Caribbean. And just as capital is always in search of a new profit-making opportunity, so too did each production complex go through a long boom and then bust, followed by the rise of new production complexes, new commodity frontiers.

Why? Because capitalism always needs to find not just new frontiers that can be just as productive, but new and expanded frontiers that can be even more productive.

The emergent binaries of capitalism

Here is an alternative to what I like to call the ‘vampire model of green thought’: capitalism comes to Planet Earth and sucks it dry. There’s some truth to that depletion model, but I don’t think it tells us a lot about how capitalism works in the web of life, or about the specific entanglements of planetary and capitalist crisis today. For one thing, capitalism’s biggest problem today is arguably not about resource “taps” at all, but in the pollution “sink” – above all the enclosure of the global atmosphere as a dumping ground for greenhouse gases.

“Creating new binaries of gender, of race, and of Nature/Society… emerged as real abstractions out of the bloody processes of conquest and domination”

Capitalism’s decisive task is to transform the biosphere’s work/energy into value, premised on labour productivity. But there’s a catch: rising labour productivity is realised by excluding most humanly productive work, especially so-called women’s work. Creating new binaries of gender, of race, and of Nature/Society was never something limited to philosophers. These emerged as real abstractions out of the bloody processes of conquest and domination, and they were central to the consolidation of capitalism. The pedestal of socially necessary labour time is socially necessary unpaid work/energy. This was fundamental to the emergence of capitalism in treating uncommodified natures of every kind as a lever of wealth production that was quickly transmuting into capital.

This capitalism emerged out of the historic defeat of the feudal ruling classes in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries in the aftermath of the Black Death. It’s important to remember that the collapse of medieval Europe was a historic class defeat of Europe’s ruling classes – a defeat of such proportions that Europe’s One Percent was forced to invent a new mode of production.

One way in which this happened was through the marriage of military power in Iberia with a kind of slaving and banking regime that came out of Genoa. With it came a series of ethnic cleansing campaigns in Iberia with the Reconquista, in the Atlantic islands of the Canaries and then, of course, with Columbus’ journey.[17]

This era witnessed a revolution in the scale, scope and speed of environmental change. What took feudal Europe centuries to accomplish happened in decades, or even years, in early capitalism. To get a sense of just how profound these landscape transformations were, take Picardy, in northeastern France, in the 12th and 13th Century. It took 200 years to clear 12,000 hectares of forest. Four centuries later, in northeastern Brazil, at the height of the sugar boom in Bahia in the 1650s, 12,000 hectares of forest would be cleared in a single year. That’s two orders of magnitude, and it was not exceptional. Early capitalism marked as great an environment-making revolution in the history of humankind as anything seen since the dawn of settled agriculture.

This environment-making revolution was of course material – but “material” in ways that include cultural change with and within machines, power, geology and biology. It was an ecological revolution in Merchant’s fertile conception, an interpenetrated web of transformations in production and reproduction and culture.[18] To be sure, this early capitalist ecological revolution was an epochal movement of primitive accumulation. And if that process is often reckoned in terms of enclosure, these enclosures extended well beyond property lines and hedges. Primitive accumulation was also about the forcible expulsion of many humans from Society; it was about the production of Nature, Society, European, and other pernicious real abstractions, all fundamental to capitalist development and colonial rule.

It’s no accident that these words – Nature and Society – assumed their familiar meanings in the century after 1550.

The dawn of England’s coal revolution really began in earnest in the 1530s, reaching critical mass by 1560, at which point most of England’s major coalfields were being worked. England’s non-agricultural population rapidly expanded, growing twice as fast as the agricultural population. By 1549, Kett’s Rebellion was defeated, the high tide of a growing resistance to capitalist transformation in the countryside. And let’s not forget the Irish. By 1541, England intensified colonial rule in Ireland and, in a telling letter, one of Henry VIII’s advisors, the Earl of Northampton, urged colonial administrators to “draw all the wild Irish that dwell now dispersed in the woods” and resettle them into English-style towns.[19]

This was part of a discourse that shaped policy around the wild and the civil, Nature and Society. It was not an isolated moment in the rise of capitalism. It was a move that prefigured Spanish colonial policy in Peru during the 1570s. The Spanish reorganised 1.5 million people – the population of Portugal at the time – in order to supply Cheap Labour to the mines of Potosí. Potosí’s silver veins had bled dry by the 1560s, intensifying Spain’s fiscal woes and threatening capital accumulation across western Europe. No American silver coming out of Potosí meant no Amsterdam, meant no Baltic, and no European shipping ruling the waves of the Atlantic world. This was as fundamental a moment in the history of the modern world as the rotary steam engine.[20]

This pattern was replayed many times in the history of the modern world from the Dutch in South East Asia in the 1620s, all the way to the American Empire’s Strategic Hamlet Programme in southern Vietnam in the 1960s. Just as the English viewed the Irish as savage, the Castilians called indigenous Peruvians naturales, a term that went from meaning the inhabitant of a town to, in a colonial context, being part of Nature.

“Just as the English viewed the Irish as savage, the Castilians called indigenous Peruvians naturales, a term that went from meaning the inhabitant of a town to, in a colonial context, being part of Nature”

It’s important to remember that in primitive accumulation, it’s not only people who were expelled from the land. Most human beings in this era, women, peoples of colour, indigenous peoples, were expelled from membership in humanity. They were relocated: into the zone of Nature.

This was not only a history of colonialism. It is also a story of the gendered counterrevolution of early modern Europe. One thing that is now clear from a growing body of social and cultural history, and I think articulated well by Silvia Federici, is that early modern Europe saw a refashioning of the gendered life of early capitalist Europe into Man, Woman, Public and Private. (This was expressed dramatically by the witch hunts.) That counter-revolution would be codified in Locke’s political theory, which was not only about Improvement and who was capable of that (white men), but also announced a deeply hierarchical gender dualism of public and private spheres. By 1700, the definition of women as non-workers was nearly completed.[21]

So, here we have Nature and Society, Man and Woman, Black and White, the West and the Rest, as pivotal binaries – real abstractions and fundamental levers of the production of surplus value and of labour productivity. These served not just as new systems of cultural domination, but were wrapped up in a wider cosmology of who was – and who was not – part of Society, and part of Nature.

This had quite tangible economic effects. From the 1480s, prices in Europe for a wide range of commodities began to move upwards, and, no surprise here, prices increased faster than wages. Furthermore, the powerful and institutionally grounded system of gendered domination – through witch hunts, new laws, surveillance techniques and the rest – meant that women’s wages were suppressed even faster than men’s. Here’s the gender surplus at work. It was a crucial moment of primitive accumulation – and remained so in the cyclical restructuring of gender relations across the ensuing centuries.

Racialised surpluses were no less important. Drawing on a rich tradition of banking, war, and slaving in the Mediterranean, the Genoese and Iberians stumbled upon the epochal equivalent of killing two birds with one stone. From its origins on Madeira, to which we’ll return in a moment, the twin inventions of cash-crop monoculture and modern slavery have continued to shape our lives five centuries later. Enslaved Africans on islands like Madeira and São Tomé were some of the first workers subjected to what Orlando Patterson calls “social death”.[22] These workers were banished from Society. While slaves in pre-modern civilisations had always been outsiders, they still had rights. They were still enmeshed within reciprocal linkages.

Not so with the emergence of modern slavery, premised on the ideal proletarian: rightless and without a place in Civilisation. It was for sure a movement of social death, and also a savagely modern form of human sacrifice: of a quarter-million Africans shipped to northeastern Brazil after 1600, just 60,000 could be found in 1650. Of 2.2 million slave departures from Africa in the two centuries after 1492, just 300,000 Africans were living in the Americas by 1700. The carnage of the slave/sugar nexus would be unfathomable if subsequent holocausts were not there to remind us that mass extermination is the normal state of the Capitalocene.[23]

Early capitalism emerged through its frontiers near and far, in homes and families no less than across the oceans and continents. It would be dangerous to think that capitalism in the twentieth century freed itself from frontiers of Cheap Nature. What is the coalmine or the oilfield, but a subterranean frontier?

“Imagined as a globe, the earth could ‘become an object of appropriation for a collective humanity’: for Society.  Is it mere coincidence that our earliest surviving globe dates from 1492?”

Every frontier movement, as we are seeing, is a movement not only to secure extra-human natures but also Cheap Labour. That means we do better to speak not of labour and nature, but of labour in nature and nature in labour. This is crucial to the kind of political ontology of work that is necessary if we are to reimagine the political challenges of the present around climate justice, around precarity, around all manner of economic justice.

Early capitalism’s environment-making revolution

Early capitalism invented the global environment. This is true in at least three major ways. One is the transformation of a spherical conception of the earth into a global conception. That was no small thing, either practically or in the imagination. Imagined as a globe, the earth could “become an object of appropriation for a collective humanity”: for Society.[24] Is it mere coincidence that our earliest surviving globe dates from 1492? If one could conquer the globe only once one imagined it, it’s still the case that one needs practical tools for doing so: the modern map. So valuable were specific maps that they were in the sixteenth century “metaphorically and financially compared to the purchasing of the spices, pepper, silk and precious metals.”[25] That process was complemented by the colonial networks of naturalists, who collected information about climate, flora, fauna, and anything else that was potentially valuable. By the middle of the eighteenth century – the timing is significant – there emerged a “global environmental sensibility” that included an awareness of the rapidity of environmental transformation in the tropical colonies.[26]

It was the scale, scope, and speed of environmental transformation, enabled by the cartographic and botanical revolutions, that demonstrates early capitalism’s use of Nature as a productive force. As I’ve mentioned, it was in Madeira, São Tomé, and then Brazil that we see the origins of the relationship between agriculture and slavery that would shape the world all the way to the twenty-first century. Madeira’s accessible forests were mowed down so fast that it went from being the Atlantic’s top sugar producer in 1510 to being virtually shut down just fifteen years later. When the sugar plantations reached São Tomé, deforestation proceeded at a furious pace. But this time the very scale of new sugar plantations – giant mill-plantation complexes, each with hundreds of slaves – worked against the masters. African slaves escaped to the interior of the island, and organised fierce resistance, laying siege to the island’s capital for two weeks in 1596. Besieged on an island so close to Africa, the Portuguese quickly offshored their production to northeastern Brazil by the 1570s, where King Sugar would rule for centuries. But here again, deforestation, war, and the brutality of the labour regime would undermine profitability, and the sugar frontier once again moved. This time, sugar laid seige to the Caribbean, producing one biological wasteland after another in the century after 1650. The profits from this wave of the sugar frontier would be pivotal in the capital formation of late eighteenth century Britain. This was another reminder that industrialisation was propelled not only by class struggles at home, but also by the wretched fruits of a slave system that was as industrial as anything seen in nineteenth century Manchester. The surplus profits of “social death” continue to shape life and power and climate today.

This was far from a narrowly colonial story. Before Potosí’s silver veins were opened, Central Europe’s bled freely. In mountainous regions like the Erzgebirge, on the border between present-day Germany and the Czech Republic, there was a mining and metallurgical revolution without precedent in medieval Europe. The basic raw materials – copper and iron – and the indispensable metallic basis of sound money, silver, were produced here. Here are the extractivist origins of industrial capitalism – as industrial a process as any we would see until the late nineteenth century. Sprawling infrastructures – canals, roads, towns, and of course mines – were constructed virtually overnight. This extractivist revolution in the century after 1450 would culminate in the German Peasant War of 1525 – a revolt against the widespread destruction and enclosure of the forests and a proletarian insurrection all at once. Mining, as with sugar, would be forced outwards, to northern European and New World frontiers.

This was also a story of agricultural revolution in the emergent cores – here as so often, the story begins not in England but elsewhere. In the Low Countries, medieval peasants had dug out so much peat that by the fourteenth century the region was literally sinking into the North Sea. The result, as Brenner reminds, was a process analogous to the “classic” instance of primitive accumulation in the English countryside: in both instances, cultivators were forced to sell to survive, to pursue labour productivity advance under competitive rents.[27] The result was a spectacular acceleration of proletarianisation and urbanisation. If one looks closely at the Dutch in the seventeenth century we can see virtually every major feature of large-scale industry credited to the English two centuries later. Production was increasingly mechanised, as in sawmilling; standardised parts were deployed in manufacturing, especially in shipbuilding; modern financial markets were developed, underscored by the formation of the Amsterdam Bourse in 1602. And it was all underwritten by an agricultural system that did what all capitalist agricultures must do: produce more and more food with less and less labour-time.

The Dutch fed themselves through an informal colonial relationship with the Baltic, whose modest grain surpluses underwrote the era’s rapid proletarianisation and urbanisation. That agro-food metabolism exhausted the soils and bodies of serf cultivation in Poland, such that by 1700 England became the granary of northern Europe. But the English agricultural revolution, consolidated rapidly after Kett’s defeat in 1549, was not immune to the metabolism of capitalist agriculture: after 1750 England’s grain exports halted, and per capita food consumption actually declined in England over the next half-century.

Both Dutch and English capitalism had, moreover, depended on the extended Baltic for vital raw materials. A common expression in the seventeenth-century Dutch Republic was ‘Amsterdam is Standing on Norway’: at once a metaphor of semi-colonial dominance and a very literal description of Amsterdam, supported by timbers drawn from southern Norway. The global fleets of the Dutch and English were built with timber, tar, and pitch from a rolling forest-products frontier, beginning in the sixteenth century and not closing until well into the nineteenth century. The Baltic supplied not merely timber and shipbuilding supplies, but also potash from wood for bleaching – a demand that induced devastating deforestation from the Vistula to the western, then northern, Dvina as far north as Archangel. And if the old Nef thesis of English deforestation leading to coal has come under attack in recent years,[28] it’s nevertheless firmly established that England produced no more iron in 1750 than it had in 1620 – Cheap Energy from England’s forests had reached a historical limit. The growing margin of rising iron consumption in England – recall that about 15 per cent of English iron consumption was devoted exclusively to making horseshoes – came from Sweden. And even in Sweden, the forests were pushed back, with a new iron-producing region rising to preeminence every 25 years or so in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

And if we are concerned with fossil fuels, let’s remember that these too were an invention of the sixteenth century. People surely knew about coal, in England as in China, for a very long time. The Romans called coal Britain’s “best stone.”[29] It took specific relations of power, capital, and nature to turn these glorious stones – or in the case of peat, matted vegetation – into fossil fuels. We should not begin with coal, but rather with peat, the youngest of the fossil fuels, with about half the energy density of coal by weight. Indeed, Dutch capitalism was propelled by cheap peat and, after that, imported coal. Here was Cheap Energy for sure: extraordinary amounts of energy delivered with very low outlays of money and power. And like our other frontiers, peat extraction was subjected to the same dynamic of boom and bust that we’ve seen in mining, and sugar cultivation, and in the Baltic.

“The great problem of early capitalism was what Marx called underproduction, not as Malthus had it, but in the sense that the industrial dynamism of capitalism tended to outrun the raw materials sectors that could supply them cheaply”

All this provides a sense of the rapidity, and the scale and the scope of early capitalist transformation, which resembled the fundamental dynamics of later capitalism in nearly every respect. Early capitalism was, however, distinctive in its major form of economic crisis. The great problem of early capitalism was what Marx called underproduction, not as Malthus had it, but in the sense that the industrial dynamism of capitalism tended to outrun the raw materials sectors that could supply them cheaply.

Coal and then oil banished underproduction as a major problem. This was the epochal achievement of the long fossil boom. The active contradiction became one of selling the commodities that were produced, rather than securing the cheap raw materials that were necessary to produce them. And yet, Marx’s “general law” of underproduction was not banished; the agencies of fossil capitalism merely counteracted the tendency. Today, skyrocketing extraction costs signal a likely return to early capitalism’s central economic contradiction: underproduction.[30]

After 1750, this largely Dutch-led capitalism, enmeshed in all these different moments of environmental transformation, began to exhaust itself. Early capitalism’s socio-ecological contradictions deepened and resistance to agrarian capitalism, from Russia to Peru, intensified. While this moment of 1750 is often celebrated as the dawn of capitalism, I’m not sure that’s as useful as we want to think. The ability to move from using coal and peat as thermal energy to mechanical energy was huge. But this seems to have amplified – in a largely quantitative way – the dynamics and strategies of Cheap Nature established in the early modern centuries. One of the temptations has been to narrow the geography and the history of “the” Industrial Revolution to England and coal and the steam engine. No one of course denies that these are important dimensions of an important transition. But we should be cautious about giving too much analytical power to machines and resources, and about conceptualising these within a fairly narrow geographical or sociological compass.

For one thing, it’s far from certain that the rotary steam engine after 1784 is even the most important technology of its era. One could readily argue that it was the cotton gin that enabled the steam engine’s geohistorical impact. Invented in the 1780s and ‘90s, the new gin made possible a dramatic leap forward in labour productivity – removing seeds from cotton was an arduous task – and enabled the rapid spread of a fuzzy-seeded short staple cotton across the American South. It was a pivotal moment as well in the formation of a “second” and highly industrialized slavery across the Western Hemisphere.[31] With Marx, it was the fall in the price of cotton that made large-scale industry possible, and this cotton was cultivated by African slaves on lands that had been conquered from indigenous peoples, who were  pushed out or exterminated. To put it in these terms completely re-frames our usual narrative of industrialisation… and of capitalism.

Neoliberalism and the exhuastion of cheap nature: Towards an ecology of hope

The crises of early capitalism were resolved through the combination of new technologies, new imperial and political forms, and new frontiers. Capitalism’s secret sauce is that last moment. For the new frontiers opened, conquered, secured, and disciplined over the long nineteenth century set the stage both for the great boom of the post-World War II and the troubled history of capitalism in the neoliberal era.

There were two big problems for neoliberalism as it began to take shape out of the crises of the 1970s. One was that the sources of potentially Cheap Nature were fewer than ever before and the piles of money looking for profitable investment were bigger than ever before. This surplus capital problem was resolved through forms of frontier expansion that paled in comparison with the conquests of South Asia or the Americas or Africa in previous centuries, and also through varied movements of accumulation by dispossession.[32] Strikingly, the labour productivity revolution much anticipated in the 1970s – promising full automation and all the rest – never materialised. I’ve written elsewhere about this, so I just want to underscore how the relatively modest frontiers of the 1970s seemed to compel a return to the most savage forms of primitive accumulation and politically-enforced accumulation. I’m struck by the parallels between early capitalism’s bloody expropriations and the stark realities illuminated by radical critiques of neoliberalism’s doctrines, mass incarceration, and the “disposable third world woman worker”.[33] But where early capitalism’s violence established the conditions of vigorous accumulation, neoliberal violence has been more adept at accumulating misery than capital.

It’s true that neoliberal capitalism did, in a way, restore Cheap Nature. Food prices fell, oil prices stabilised after 1983, labour costs were rolled back through capitalist class offensives across the world. What we saw in the neoliberal moment around agriculture, however, was something that we had never seen before – the attempt to re-establish capital accumulation on the basis of stagnant productivity. Agro-biotechnology and its toxic regime, after 1990 or so, has failed to restore agricultural productivity growth in the established cores of industrial agriculture in Western Europe, in North American, in the Punjab. There is no more expressive contradiction of late capitalism’s crisis: a steady deceleration of agricultural productivity growth is the law of value’s most basic condition. It’s not only that the capitalist agricultural model is broken and resisted. It’s also that climate change renders both geographical and technical fixes to the agro-ecological crisis a dead letter.[34]

The second great problem faced by neoliberal capitalism is closely related, and has materialised strongly over the past decade. This is negative-value: the emergence of forms of nature, including social movements, that could no longer be resolved through the old productivist fixes. Negative-value comprises forms of life and politics that cannot be resolved through the old redistributionist strategies of capitalism, through the old strategy of thinking nature as a productivist resource.[35]

“There will be no effective politics of climate justice without putting agriculture at the centre”

Climate change – understood as a geohistorical event – is surely the greatest source of negative-value, and this mean we have to address the basic capitalist agricultural model at its core. There will be no effective politics of climate justice without putting agriculture at the centre. The OECD – hardly a bastion of radical thought – says that by 2035, agriculture will bear one third of the global economic damages arising from climate change. By 2060, this figure will have risen to two thirds.[36] Climate change is already suppressing the big four cereal crops of soya beans, rice, maize and wheat – between 1980 and 2005, David Lobell and his colleagues found that maize and wheat production were supressed by 3.8 per cent and 5.5 per cent.[37] Worse still, rising CO2 concentrations are reducing the protein, zinc and iron content of cereal crops at a moment when nutrient deficiencies already affect about three billion people.

The non-linear activation of negative value today not only represents a limit to capital in Marx’s sense – a dialectical antagonism between capital’s fantasy of a perfectly interchangeable machine-like world and the web of life as an unruly and resistant mosaic of relationships – but also a clear threat to planetary life of every kind. The danger today is that global capital and the forces of empire will continue to behave as if negative value does not exist. Part of this response is to bury one’s head in the sand. The bourgeoisie has its share of flat-earthers. Another part, and this may be even more deadly, is to behave as if the old strategies of genocide, privatisation, and enclosure will yield the same results. But they won’t – climate as a geohistorical force is now not only drawing the curtains on any meaningfully new frontier of Cheap Nature; it is inverting the cost reducing mechanism of accumulation by appropriation. For climate change is, above all, costly – for capital, and for those of us who live under its rule.

Movements of interrelated ecologies

In response, a family of movements has emerged that strive to connect particular moments of injustice with larger webs of power, capital, and nature. There movements represent a new ontological politics. A good example of this politics is food sovereignty, which says that the right of peoples to healthy and culturally appropriate food produced through ecologically sustainable methods necessitates new social relations free of oppression and exploitation. This is a concept of food that links it to power, justice and nature, all at the same time. I think this is a decisive political moment of a new ontological politics presenting demands that say: “we are not simply asking for more calories; we are saying that the right of food is about justice, the right to a liveable planet.”[38]

This gives a sense of how the political economy and the political ecology of capitalism are wrapped up with each other and how they are wrapped up with and within the web of life. This is a part of what I and others are calling the world-ecology conversation.[39] This is important because it’s fundamental to asking what is the common ground of a radical politics today? Does consumption give us what we need? Does sustainability give us what we need? I think there are probably many possibilities, but work is central. And work gives us a way to bring together radical politics that takes the dynamics of exploitation and oppression in paid work, the unpaid work of social reproduction and in the unpaid work of nature as a whole to find common ground.

“emancipatory politics has to stop drawing lines around who’s work and whose lives matter and whose do not”

I want to conclude on a few simple, but provocative, and hopefully generative, points.

First, emancipatory politics has to stop drawing lines around who’s work and whose lives matter and whose do not. The worker is not only waged, but unwaged, not only human but extra-human.

Second, world-ecological thinking – that is to see that we are all embedded in the web of life and vice versa – can help us see whose lives and whose work are strategically located within capitalism’s world-ecological contradictions. Simply being the most exploited or most oppressed doesn’t make you strategically positioned to destabilise business as usual. What’s crucial to our politics are analyses that show not just the severity of the problems – in the biosphere and in capitalism – but also how these shifting entanglements may provide opportunities for emancipatory politics.

And finally, we can and should make our slogan this: “No politics of nature without work and no politics of work without nature.” The question of life and work can no longer be enclosed within Society. To quote Thomas Münzer, a central figure in the German Peasant War of 1525, “The creatures too must become free”.


Jason W. Moore is an environmental historian and historical geographer at Binghamton University, where he is associate professor of sociology. He is author or editor, most recently, of Capitalism in the Web of Life (Verso, 2015), Anthropocene or Capitalocene? Nature, History, and the Crisis of Capitalism (PM Press, 2016), and, with Raj Patel, A History of the World in Seven Cheap Things (University of California Press, 2017). He coordinates the World-Ecology Research Network. Many of his essays are available at


This is an edited transcript of a lecture called ‘World Accumulation and Planetary Life or Why Capitalism Will Not Survive Until the “Last Tree is Cut”’, delivered on 10 October 2017 at an event jointly hosted by the Political Economy Research Centre at Goldsmiths, University of London and the Centre for the Understanding of Sustainable Prosperity at the University of Surrey. This is a longer version of an article published in the Winter 2017 edition of Progressive Review.



[1]    Barnosky AD et al (2004) ‘Approaching a State Shift in Earth’s Biosphere,’ Nature, 486, 52–58


[2]    Moore JW (2017) ‘The Capitalocene, Part II’, The Journal of Peasant Studies, online in advance of print


[3]    Steffen W, Crutzen PJ and McNeill JR (2007) ‘The Anthropocene: Are humans now overwhelming the great forces of nature’, AMBIO: A Journal of the Human Environment 36, no. 8: 614–21


[4]    Moore JW (2017) ‘The Capitalocene, Part I: On the Nature and Origins of Our Ecological Crisis’, The Journal of Peasant Studies, 44, no. 3, 594-630


[5]    Marx K (1971) Theories of surplus value, Vol. III, Moscow, Progress Publishers


[6]    Braudel F (1953) ‘Qu’est-ce que le XVIe Siècle?’ Annales E.S.C., 8, no. 1, 69-73


[7]    Mies M (1986) Patriarchy and accumulation on a world scale, London: Zed


[8]    Haraway D (1988) ‘Situated knowledges: The science question in feminism and the privilege of partial perspective’, Feminist Studies, 14, no. 3, 575-599


[9]    Moore JW (2015), Capitalism in the Web of Life, Verso


[10]   Marx K (1978/1875 original) ‘Critique of the Gotha Programme’, in Tucker R, ed, The Marx-Engels Reader,                       New York: WW Norton, 526


[11]   Patel R and Moore JW (2017) A History of the World in Seven Cheap Things, Berkeley, CA: University of California Press


[12]   See, for example, Foster JB (2016) ‘Marxism in the anthropocene: Dialectical rifts on the left’, International Critical Thought, 6(3), 393-421


[13]   Foster JB (2009) The Ecological Revolution, New York: Monthly Review Press, 206


[14]   Gordon RJ (2017) The Rise and Fall of American Growth, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press


[15]   Marx K (1981) Capital, vol. III, New York: Penguin


[16]   Mitchell T (2011) Carbon Democracy, London: Verso


[17]   Patel R and Moore JW (2017), A History of the World in Seven Cheap Things, University of California Press


[18]   Merchant C (1989) Ecological revolutions, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press


[19]   Moore JW (2017) ‘The Capitalocene, Part I: On the Nature and Origins of Our Ecological Crisis’, The Journal of Peasant Studies, 44, no. 3, 594-630


[20]   Moore JW (2010) ‘Amsterdam is standing on Norway,  part I: The alchemy of capital, empire, and nature in the diaspora of silver, 1545–1648’, Journal of Agrarian Change 10, no. 1, 35–71; Moore JW (2010) ‘Amsterdam is standing on Norway, part II: The global North Atlantic in the ecological revolution of the long seventeenth century’, Journal of Agrarian Change 10, no. 2, 188–227


[21]   Federici S (2004) Caliban and the Witch, New York: Autonomedia; Patel R and Moore JW, A History of the World in Seven Cheap Things


[22]   Patterson O (1982) Slavery and social death, Cambridge: Harvard University Press


[23]   Moore JW (2017) ‘The Capitalocene, Part I’; and McBrien J (2016) ‘Accumulating extinction’, in Anthropocene or Capitalocene?, ed. Moore JW, 116–37, Oakland: PM Press


[24]   Ingold T (1993) ‘Globes and spheres’, in Environmentalism, ed. K Milton, 31–42. New York: Routledge


[25]   Brotton J (1997) Trading territories, Ithaca: Cornell University Press


[26]   Grove RH (1995) Green imperialism, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press


[27]   Brenner R (2001) ‘The Low Countries in the transition to capitalism’, Journal of Agrarian Change 1,
no. 2, 169–241


[28]   Nef JU (1932) The Rise of the British Coal Industry, London: Routledge


[29]   Freese B (2003) Coal: A Human History, New York: Basic Books


[30]   Moore JW (2015) Capitalism in the Web of Life, Verso


[31]   Tomich D (2004) ‘Atlantic History and World Economy: concepts and constructions’, ProtoSociology, 20, 102-121


[32]   Harvey D (2003) The New Imperialism, Oxford: Oxford University Press


[33]   See, for example, Klein N (2007) The Shock Doctrine, New York: Metropolitan Books and Wright MW (2006) Disposable Women and Other Myths of Global Capitalism, New York: Routledge; and Gilmore RW (2007) Golden Gulag, Berkeley: University of California Press.


[34]   Moore JW (2010) ‘The End of the road? Agricultural revolutions in the capitalist world-ecology’, 1450–2010, Journal of Agrarian Change, 10, no. 3, 389–413


[35]   Moore JW (2015) ‘Cheap food and bad climate’, Critical Historical Studies 2, no. 1: 1–43


[36]   Braconier H et al (2014) ‘Policy Challenges for the Next 50 Years’, OECD Economic Policy Paper No. 9, Paris: Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development


[37]   Lobell DB, Schlenker W, Costa-Roberts J (2011) ‘Climate trends and global crop production since 1980’, Science, 333(6042), 616-620


[38] Wittman HK et al, eds (2010) Food Sovereignty, Halifax, NS: Fernwood


[39]   See especially the articles and books collected on ( and on the World-Ecology Research Network’s website (


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Wildlife in the Anthropocene: Conservation after Nature

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Wed, 06/05/2015 - 6:43pm in

An interdisciplinary discussion of Jamie Lorimer's book Jamie Lorimer (Associate Professor in Human Geography, University of Oxford) discusses his book with William Beinart (Rhodes Professor of Race Relations, University of Oxford), Daniel Grimley (Professor of Music, University of Oxford) and Nikolaj Lübecker (Associate Professor of French, University of Oxford).

In Wildlife in the Anthropocene, Jamie Lorimer argues that the idea of nature as a pure and timeless place characterized by the absence of humans has come to an end. Offering a thorough appraisal of the Anthropocene—an era in which human actions affect and influence all life and all systems on our planet—Lorimer unpacks its implications for changing definitions of nature and the politics of wildlife conservation.