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A novel about the near-term future
Bernard (Hope and Hard Times, 2010) wields a wise and skillful voice ...that cross-pollinates an impressive garden of genres. ---Kirkus Reviews.
A devastatingly truthful work of ecology-based fiction, and a gripping story of the coming-of-age of a group of post-carbon millennials. Much more than an ecological dystopia, Late-K Lunacy is a splendid evocation of the world going into – and eventually coming out of – an ecological crisis, as Holling’s ecological cycles are characterized by both collapse and recovery, like a never ending Möbius strip.
Fikret Berkes, author of Sacred Ecology
What Bernard offers us is worth turning the pages: an inside look at leadership in academia; true suspense (we know what's coming, but when and how will it happen?), including some shocking turns of events; characters that are more complicated than vanilla young "heroes" who can save the day; and, overall, a sense of at least wanting to enact a stubborn resiliency with the help of community.
Becca J.R. Lachman, author of The Apple Speaks and Other Acreage
We see something of endgame omega, and a great deal more of late-K lunacy, viewed through the eyes of some valiant and endearing resisters. And while the nature of such disasters has always fascinated me, what makes this book sing is no different from any great novel: the language, the plot, the descriptions, the characters. Omega may be coming soon to the earth, but until it arrives I’ll spend happy hours reading books as absorbing as this one. It’s a somewhat guilty pleasure, I admit. Instead of worrying about my grandchildren, I pick up Late-K Lunacy and surrender to my gruesome fascination with how easily our world could be torn apart.
John Thorndike, author of A Hundred Fires in Cuba
A college campus...
threatened by fracking.
Students occupy, protest, resist, bumble into
A storm of the century.
The world at the brink:
A heart-rending story of students
and their beloved mentor as they
confront the unhinged world of
Ms. Dukas and me
In antediluvian times, I earned degrees from Bridgewater State University and the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I taught legions of incredible students at Ohio University, Kenyatta University, and the University of Botswana. With my wife and best friend, Donna Lofgren, I live blissfully on a ridge-top farm not far from the Ohio River.
At eleven, I began to write to relieve my anxiety about cowering before the fast ball and befuddlement with the curve ball. In ninth grade, I quit baseball.
When Ms. Dukas, my English teacher, told me I was a writer, I thought she was joking. Me, the sophomore slacker, the dreamer, the kid at the periphery? By the end of that year, she had become a cherished mentor who, among many others, guided me toward the life I was meant to live.
In the sixties, I turned geeky to avoid the draft. That led to a PhD in geography and a totally fulfilling career teaching unforgetable students.
I'd not been a professor very long before encountering one big downside to academic life. It forced me to dial back creativity. I meekly submitted to the stultifying requisites of academic writing. Only after years of churning out boring articles and technical reports was I able to get back to spinning yarns like those Ms. Dukas once read. And now it's what I do most days.
Why? Because our planet's precarious future makes the good life I've lived seem more and more uncertain for the kids of my students and their kids and their kid's kids. That's what keeps those sentences coming.