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Modern literary criticism, even when—as is now customary—it is not concerned with questions of authentication, still defines the author in much the same way: the author provides the basis for explaining not only the presence of certain events in a work, but also their transformations, distortions, and diverse modifications (through his biography, the determination of his individual perspective, the analysis of his social position, and the revelation of his basic design). The author is also the principle of a certain unity of writing—all differences having to be resolved, at least in part, by the principles of evolution, maturation, or influence. The author also serves to neutralize the contradictions that may emerge in a series of texts: there must be—at a certain level of his thought or desire, of his consciousness or unconscious —a point where contradictions are resolved, where incompatible elements are at last tied together or organized around a fundamental or originating contradiction. [...]
Second, there are reasons dealing with the "ideological" status of the author. The question then becomes: How can one reduce the great peril, the great danger with which fiction threatens our world? The answer is: One can reduce it with the author. The author allows a limitation of the cancerous and dangerous proliferation of signification within a world where one is thrifty not only with one's resources and riches but also with one's discourses and their signification. The author is the principle of thrift in the proliferation of meaning. As a result, we must entirely reverse the traditional idea of the author. We are accustomed, as we have seen earlier, to saying that the author is the genial creator of a work in which he deposits, with infinite wealth and generosity, an inexhaustible world of signification. We are used to thinking that the author is so different from all other men, and so transcendent with regard to all languages that, as soon as he speaks, meaning begins to proliferate, to proliferate indefinitely.
The truth is quite the contrary: the author is not an indefinite source of signification that fill a work; the author does not precede the works; he is a certain functional principle by which, in our culture, one limits, excludes, and chooses; in short, by which one impedes the free circulation, the free manipulation, the free composition, decomposition, and recomposition of fiction. In fact, if we are accustomed to presenting the author as a genius, as a perpetual surging of invention, it is because, in reality, we make him function in exactly the opposite fashion. One can say that the author is an ideological product, since we represent him as the opposite of his historically real function. When a historically given function is represented in a figure that inverts it, one has an ideological production. The author is therefore the ideological figure by which one marks the manner in which we fear the proliferation of meaning.
“We don’t plan to lose money,” the Shell analyst told me. When I met him, he was a young man, still completing his transition from geoscientist to bean counter. We talked over drinks as he explained how he ended up working at the multinational oil conglomerate—Shell acquired the small firm where he’d been a researcher—and how he hoped that switching to the energy industry’s finance side would provide job security as the oil and gas sector contracted. His role involved analyzing what kind of return Shell could expect from new wells if and when the company is compelled to relinquish them by climate restrictions. Of course, the wells would not then shut down. Rather, the analyst explained, they’d be sold to shadier operators who would continue to pump the wells at lower costs by evading safety and environmental regulations. The firm is incapable of aspiring to abandon its assets; as the analyst said, “We don’t plan to lose money.”
It’s easy to see how individuals are recruited—volunteer themselves, even—into projects that are hostile to their own existence.vii After all, every worker already does the same thing by definition, to a certain degree. Think back to the Shell example. No one wants to work at an underregulated oil field that’s flaring ten million cubic feet of gas every week. Nor would people choose to live in the world that kind of activity is rapidly creating, not if they got to pick. But if that’s workers’ only or even best way to fit into the social metabolism, to access the mediations between themselves and the world that make life possible, we know they’ll take it. They don’t have much of a choice. All the players are then compelled to cooperate: Shell needs to sell the field; the new operator needs to start flaring; and the workers need to operate it the way they’re told to. This doesn’t require us to think of humans as utility-maximizing automatons; the individuals involved could find themselves overcome with moral qualms and quit—people do it all the time. But that protest presents itself to the system as a personnel problem, not a structural challenge, and such personnel problems mostly solve themselves.
If Shell isn’t willing to plan to lose money, should we expect the Société des Hydrocarbures du Tchad to behave differently? The largest economies hope not, because they’ve continued investing tens of billions of dollars a year to finance oil and gas projects in poor nations.25 It’s nonsensical to blame the workers of Chad for the climate crisis—they rank among the least culpable people in the world, consuming fewer fossil fuels per person than the citizens of almost any other country on earth—yet their vulnerability puts the whole world at risk. That is the consequence of operating our social metabolism according to value production. It’s no one’s fault, not in particular. We all have to make a living, and these impersonal forces dictate which lives are worth it. Good luck trying to live one that’s not.
And yet the number of global private flights was at an all-time high in 2022—5.4 million.26 Of these, an 85 percent supermajority are private flights within the United States, jaunts of climate-destroying, carbon-intensive convenience taken by the American 1 percent, making up around one-sixth of total domestic air travel.27 But even if the numbers weren’t dramatic, and even if air travel weren’t a stubbornly unelectrifiable source of fossil fuel consumption, I think there’d be something worthwhile about challenging private jet usage just on principle. A marketcrafting strategy has to maintain credibility with the public, and that means the state has to show itself willing and able to protect public interests from its partners in the capitalist class. Private jet owners are a perfect target.
In the English language, few critics have tackled this issue as well as Max Ajl, whose 2021 book, A People’s Green New Deal, refuses to shy away from the global nature of the questions at hand. “Much of left-liberal climate talk is based on administering rather than eliminating capitalism,” he writes, accurately, “and as a result is built on a seldom acknowledged foundation of assumptions regarding the global distribution of wealth and consumption, and the institutions with which it is tied, in terms of why emissions are produced and their consequences, which are intimately related to which lives matter and which lives do not.”51 What good is a dense electric vehicle charging network in Poughkeepsie to Grigris, the Chadian dancer turned petrol smuggler? Freezing the consumption of everyone in the world at current levels preserves global inequality, leaving some people cruising in EVs and some people burning wood as cooking fuel.
If there is a commodity into which the marketcrafting transition strategy crystallizes—and there is—it’s the electric vehicle. While the IRA’s tax credits for energy generation are agnostic, the extensive support for EVs is specific. Despite creating all sorts of international problems, cars are the crux of the American climate strategy. On the surface it makes sense: Internal combustion engines are the cause of the lion’s share of direct American household fossil fuel consumption, especially as the grid decarbonizes. But as I’ve said, it’s indirect consumption of fossil fuels—through agricultural products, plastics, and basically everything we consume, period—that drives emissions. It’s easier to change the cars than it is to change where people are going. If the marketcraft strategy is a compromise between a reasonable democratic approach to the climate crisis and the demands of capital, how much reason do we have to sacrifice to the status quo? And how can we be sure it’s not too much? Here’s one indicator I think we can use: The number of cars should go down, not up.
A reasonable society would not have nearly a car for every person. That America does is a sign that we live in an unreasonable society. We as a public subsidize cars in innumerable ways, including by ceding much of public space to their coming, going, and parking.ii Much as they did with cigarettes, researchers are continually discovering new ways that cars are bad for society: As I write, there is new attention on toxic pollution from tires, pollution that has turned rainwater runoff deadly for spawning coho salmon on the West Coast.68 And then there’s the climate crisis: In 2023, a team of physicists from Imperial College London concluded, in admirably plain language: “[A]s well as implementation of emission-reducing changes in vehicle design, a rapid and large-scale reduction in car use is necessary to meet stringent carbon budgets and avoid high energy demand.”69 Building a lot more cars, it suffices to say, will not help with that.
truth
The larger financial markets aren’t as yet any better focused than the VCs are. A meta-analysis from the Climate Policy Initiative found that, while estimates for needed annual climate-related investment in global agrifood systems range from $212 billion to $1.267 trillion, they tracked the actual investment at only $28.5 billion.73 The energy transition has lured asset managers deeper into the climate-related energy, transportation, and water sectors, where private-equity deals jumped from around $60 billion in 2020 to nearly $150 billion in 2022.74 But that doesn’t necessarily bode well: As Brett Christophers points out in his book Our Lives in Their Portfolios: Why Asset Managers Own the World, real asset funds would rather buy stuff that already exists, wrench more money out of it, and sell it on. They much prefer it to building new infrastructure, which is the plan in less than 20 percent of these investments.75 “What the evidence both before our eyes and in fund performance data shows,” he writes, “is that actually holding the asset—let alone stewarding it—is really not what the business is about.”76 For financial actors, “exposing” themselves to the green transition’s upside is not the same thing as building and maintaining it.iii A number of electric car manufacturers, however, have raised significant capital.
Field’s signature example is the US synthetic rubber program. Though historians traditionally consider the program to have been an industrial miracle, he finds a series of preventable errors. First, cheap rubber imports from Southeast Asia made US firms unwilling to hold significant reserve stocks—What if the price goes down?!—or invest in planting large amounts of guayule, a shrub indigenous to the American Southwest from which it was proposed to extract significant amounts of rubber.iv This left the United States so underprepared when Japanese advances cut off rubber supplies that the country was forced to restrict automobile travel not for lack of gas but for fear of running out of tires. Industry dragged its feet, refusing to invest in synthetic capacity, since it assumed the cheap natural rubber would start flowing again after hostilities concluded—an attitude that ignored the fact that the United States could lose the war. When the synthetic program did get up and running with government money, the oil industry insisted on using petroleum (rather than easily produced alcohol) as a feedstock, unnecessarily slowing output at a crucial time. Field concludes that the wait for synthetic rubber delayed the American invasion of France on D-Day by a year.77 “The decision to structure the program around an almost exclusive emphasis on petroleum as a feedstock,” he writes, “worked at cross-purposes with the immediate objective of winning (or at least not losing) the war.”78 We can imagine a future historian saying something similar about today, trying to answer the perplexing question of why, at a historical turning point for the planet, humanity spent such a large percentage of its collective resources on electrifying Americans’ cars: The decision to structure the transition program around electric vehicles worked at cross-purposes with the immediate objective of cooling (or at least not heating) the world.