Professional Documents
Culture Documents
and Culture
Daniel Cordle
Contains public sector information licensed under the Open Government Licence v3.0. The
cover of the Protect and Survive pamphlet is reproduced under this licence.
I am grateful for the support, interest and camaraderie of academic and other
colleagues in the School of Arts and Humanities at Nottingham Trent
University, particularly Professor Phil Leonard who has put up with sharing
both an office and numerous nuclear conversations. Their commitment to
ideals of knowledge, education and collegiality, in the face of forces in higher
education often antithetical to those things, is deeply heartening. I am
grateful too to colleagues and students on my nuclear literature modules at
NTU who over many years have brought inspiration, insight and delight.
Scholars of nuclear and Cold War culture in Britain and around the
world have taught me much and invigorated my work with their articles,
books, conversation and enthusiasm. Members of the British Society for
Literature and Science have nurtured my understanding of related areas
and provided more general inspiration, and the hard work and profession-
alism of staff at Palgrave Macmillan is also greatly appreciated.
Any project of this scope inevitably draws heavily on love and sustenance
provided by family and friends. My heartfelt thanks go to Celia and Derek
Cordle, Elizabeth Cordle, David and Rebecca Cordle and all the Gells for
their support and patience during the writing of this book, as well as to
friends, many of whom helped me outrun its more trying moments.
My greatest debt of gratitude is, as ever, to Sandra Gell, who has lived
with this project as long as I have and who has borne with patience what is
perhaps most appositely described as its fallout. Thank you.
vii
CONTENTS
ix
x CONTENTS
Bibliography 211
Index 223
LIST OF FIGURES
xi
CHAPTER 1
support and in June 1982, with several other protest organisations, Freeze
organised in Central Park, New York, “perhaps the largest political
demonstration in American history, [in which] nearly one million people
gathered . . . to demand an immediate halt to the arms race”.5
The large sizes of the Freeze and CND demonstrations show how
pressing for large numbers of people were the geopolitical and strategic
decisions shaping Cold War nuclear policy. Nuclear issues also shaped
domestic political debate, as the presence of Benn and Kinnock at CND
rallies shows. Indeed, unilateral disarmament was a manifesto commit-
ment in Labour’s disastrous 1983 general election campaign and there was
a more general resistance, particularly in the Nuclear Free Zone move-
ment, of Labour local authorities to the nuclear policy of the national
Conservative government. In the United States, Freeze resolutions were
passed in ten out of eleven state referenda in 1982 and a year later a Freeze
resolution was passed by the House of Representatives.6 Although nuclear
policy was taken up and debated within political parties, political affiliation
was not necessarily an accurate guide to one’s position on the arms race
and other nuclear issues. Hence, although nuclear disarmament and other
anti-nuclear positions were adopted predominantly by those on the poli-
tical left, they were neither exclusive to them, nor universally accepted by
them.
It is against this background of anxious debate on both sides of the
Atlantic that this book reads the 1980s as a nuclear decade and British and
US literature of the 1980s, particularly the fiction and prose genres on
which it concentrates, as a nuclear literature. It is a nuclear literature not
only because an unprecedented number of fictions with a nuclear theme
were published, but because many other fictions not normally read as
nuclear contain revealing flashes of Cold War and nuclear concerns.
Indeed, in some ways these less obviously nuclear texts more accurately
demonstrate the tensions of the decade, for they show how nuclear issues
(particularly, but not exclusively, the threat of nuclear war) were part of
the warp and weft of everyday experience. They were not always at the
forefront of people’s minds, but they haunted the 1980s, periodically
flickering through the preoccupations of everyday life to assert their pre-
sence. As I have argued elsewhere, nuclear literature is much more than
genre fiction explicitly about nuclear war or its aftermath.7
Of course, nuclear issues were not new in the 1980s. What was new was
the insistence with which they imposed themselves on the public imagina-
tion. The whole topography of the decade, comprising cultural, social,
1 PROTECT–PROTEST: INTRODUCING THE NUCLEAR 1980S 3
By assessing the nuclear 1980s, this book seeks to add to the emerging
body of scholarship on Cold War culture. In the last few years increasingly
many critics have seen the Cold War as a cultural, as well as a geopolitical,
phenomenon. From these efforts, as through the shadowy images of an x-ray,
a Cold War skeleton, giving structure and shape to the flesh of society and
culture, has emerged. Developing, sometimes even moving beyond, estab-
lished ways of theorising culture since 1945—postmodernism; postcolonial-
ism; late capitalism—a range of important studies have revealed the
embeddedness of cultural production in the geopolitics of Cold War con-
frontation.11 Such an understanding shaped my earlier book, States of
Suspense, but it is becoming an increasingly common critical perspective.
Andrew Hammond has, for instance, shown how “British literary fiction of
the 1945–1989 period was an expressly Cold War fiction” and Steven Belletto
has made a similar point about US fiction, reading the Cold War as a
“rhetorical field that shaped the way reality was understood”.12
Yet the excellent range of work on the cultural Cold War has left the
1980s largely untouched. While 1980s texts are by no means entirely
ignored by critics, they feature far less frequently in analysis of Cold War
culture than earlier literature. Consequently, 1980s nuclear literature has
yet to be theorised as part of a coherent late Cold War moment. This book
seeks to address this deficiency. It incorporates, too, attention to the
dynamics of transatlantic culture and politics in this late period, a topic
explored interestingly by Adam Piette in relation to earlier Cold War
literature in which he reads the “special relationship as a form of paranoid
plotline governing key Anglo-American texts”.13
After a hiatus of nearly two decades, following the Cuban Missile Crisis
of 1962, nuclear issues came strongly to the fore again in the 1980s and a
substantial body of literature, shaped by this nuclear consciousness, was
published. Simply put, the Cold War, and particularly the nuclear Cold
War, became urgent again in the 1980s and it demands our serious critical
attention.
Although there are many 1980s texts that are overtly nuclear (by, for
instance, imagining worlds shaped by nuclear war), like Russell Hoban’s
Riddley Walker (1980) and David Brin’s The Postman (1985), we must
also include in our definition of nuclear literature those many texts beyond
the genre confines of apocalyptic fiction that reveal the nuclear context as
part of the lived experience of ordinary life. This includes more “literary”
treatments of nuclear issues, like James Thackara’s America’s Children
(1984) and “mainstream” literature in which the threat of nuclear war
1 PROTECT–PROTEST: INTRODUCING THE NUCLEAR 1980S 7
PROTECT–PROTEST
On 16 January 1980, The Times began a four-part series about the state of
Britain’s planning for protection against nuclear attack, drawing attention,
in the process, to a civil-defence pamphlet, Protect and Survive (1976)
(Fig. 1.1), largely unknown in Britain before this point and designed to
be distributed should the country ever face nuclear war.19 On 10 March, the
BBC investigative news programme, Panorama, ran a documentary on civil
defence,20 broadcasting clips from an animated video version of Protect and
Survive that would be shown on television in the run-up to nuclear attack.
Both the booklet and the films advised householders to prepare themselves
for nuclear war by making small-scale improvements to the home: con-
structing simple “inner refuges”, stockpiling food and water and so on.
Over the next months and years, Protect and Survive became part of the
iconography of 1980s nuclear culture in Britain. The reaction both against
and in defence of the campaign is illustrative of a broader dialectic between
discourses of protection and protest that explains some of the dynamics at
play in British nuclear culture at this time. Across the Atlantic similar
contrapuntal discourses were also in operation, asserting and contesting
the state’s ability to protect its citizens with and from nuclear weapons.
Protect and Survive was significant because it came to denote, for those
opposed to the way in which the Cold War was being conducted, the
absurdity not only of the idea of nuclear civil defence, but of the Cold War
logics of Mutual Assured Destruction and, conversely, “limited” nuclear
war. As much as the advice offered by Protect and Survive was meant to
offer reassurance that nuclear attack could be survived, it served ultimately,
if inadvertently, to highlight the vulnerability of ordinary citizens in a
decade in which the threat of nuclear war came to seem more urgent. As
Joseph Masco put it, in discussing an American context for his major
ethnographic study of the nuclear culture of New Mexico,
One of the curious logics of the nuclear situation is that the more stress is
placed on the security and protection provided by nuclear weapons, the more
insecure and vulnerable the world seems. On the one hand, the immense
1 PROTECT–PROTEST: INTRODUCING THE NUCLEAR 1980S 11
We must throw whatever resources still exist in human culture across the
path of this degenerative logic. We must protest if we are to survive. Protest
is the only realistic form of civil defence.
We must generate an alternative logic, an opposition at every level of
society.24
essays, also called Protest and Survive, edited by Thompson and Dan
Smith. The phrase remained resonant for several years.
In 1982, the Schools Against the Bomb group produced a programme
for the BBC community television series, Open Door, under the title
Protest and Survive, in which they drew attention to what they saw as
the absurdity of civil defence planning, claiming, for instance, that while
three weeks’ warning of nuclear war was expected in which to distribute
the Protect and Survive booklet, “Her Majesty’s Stationery Office say it
will take them at least four weeks just to print enough to go round”.26 In
Threads, the BBC’s 1984 landmark depiction of nuclear attack on Britain,
Protect and Survive was included as part of the assumed experience of
impending nuclear war and can be seen playing on the television in the
background as a man tries desperately to reinforce his home against
nuclear attack. More generally, it entered popular culture: “Protect and
Survive” was the title of songs by Jethro Tull, Runrig and the Dubliners
(“World War Three can be such fun/If you protect and survive”) and
Discharge made “Protest and Survive” the title of one of their songs. It
had become such a commonplace by the mid-1980s that an otherwise
positive review in The Times of John Burrows’s 1984 nuclear musical,
Wartime Stories, confessed to the “heart sinking” when Protect and
Survive appeared onstage and yet another mockery of it was imminent.27
Literary culture, too, was drawn by the seeming absurdity of Protect
and Survive. Robert Swindells’s young adult novel Brother in the Land
(1984) opens with a nuclear attack and the young narrator, Danny,
remembering that, in the suddenly lost world of peacetime Britain, a
teacher had “brought this book to school once, Protect and Survive or
some such title. It reckoned to tell what would happen if H-bombs fell on
Britain. It was pretty horrible, but it didn’t tell the half of it. Not the half
of it.”28 Maggie Gee’s brilliant, searing attack on the nuclear Cold War in
her family saga The Burning Book features a protagonist, Angela, who
becomes preoccupied with the nuclear threat and plans to write a book
against war. On her bookshelf, we are told, along with a range of other
texts likely to feature in the reading of the nuclear-concerned citizen of the
period (Barbara Goodwin’s The K/V Papers, Tatsuichiro Akizuki’s
Nagasaki 1945, John Hersey’s Hiroshima and Nicholas Humphrey’s
Four Minutes to Midnight), sits Thompson’s Protest and Survive.
More famously, Raymond Briggs’s graphic novel When the Wind Blows
(1982), the success of which can be judged by the fact that it was
translated into stage, radio drama and film versions, constructs a derisory
1 PROTECT–PROTEST: INTRODUCING THE NUCLEAR 1980S 15
view of civil defence, typical of the period, by the ingenious and heart-
breaking conceit of simply letting its elderly protagonists, Hilda and Jim,
take government reassurance at face value (“Thank Goodness I got those
Official Leaflets today. Suppose I hadn’t! We’d have been totally non-
prepared!”) and then following the consequences as they seek to protect
their home from nuclear attack.29 Although Protect and Survive is not
explicitly named amongst the “Official Leaflets” in Briggs’s book, it is the
clear point of reference and it actually appears in the successful film
adaptation. The book’s success lies in its erasure of a direct voice of protest
(the closest we get to it is the couple’s son laughing cruelly down the
phone at his father’s naivety), leaving the reader to feel outrage on Hilda
and Jim’s behalf.
Of course, most literature published in the 1980s did not directly refer
to Protect and Survive. Its significance is not, then, that it directly inspired
many literary responses (although it certainly inspired some). Rather, the
controversy generated by it emerged from broader divisions in late Cold
War society. Belief in state protection and protest against it frequently
signalled not only differing views on nuclear strategy but a whole host of
other beliefs that would put one on one side or the other of the gulf
between the forces of a new, radical conservatism, epitomised by the
policies of Thatcher’s government (and of those of Reagan in the
United States), and those ranged against it. Opposing views on nuclear
arms and strategy often revealed entirely antithetical conceptions of the
social world.
The controversy Protect and Survive generated was symptomatic of some-
thing deeply rooted in Cold War society and the antagonistic dialogue
between discourses of protection and survival recurs again and again. It is
there, explicitly, whenever civil defence is considered. For example, in 1982
the British government had to cancel “Hard Rock”, a major civil defence
exercise, because many Labour local authorities—some identifying as
“nuclear free zones” and spurning the role in civil protection laid down for
them by national government30—refused to participate. It is there, too, in
broader activism against nuclear weapons. For instance, the mass movement
against the deployment of US cruise missiles in Europe, most famously
epitomised in Britain by the Women’s Peace Camp at Greenham
Common, directly contested the notion that the weapons would strengthen
the protective shield against the Soviet Union, arguing instead that they
would destabilise the Cold War balance, making war more likely. It is
explicitly the idea of protection as conceived by government that is at stake
16 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
in these protests. Sarah Green, a protester quoted in Alice Cook and Gwyn
Kirk’s collection of voices from Greenham, makes the point clearly:
The myth that’s been put around so long that we need armies, we need these
missiles, men must protect women and children from other men in other
countries. That’s just completely out of hand. Women must come out and say
“We don’t want this type of protection. It’s this type of protection which
is actually endangering our lives.”31
approach was not without its difficulties, nor without its critics amongst
activists: decision-making was a lengthy and difficult process because
leadership was seen as an inherently problematic concept, and there were
passionate and drawn-out divisions about seemingly minor issues like
whether taking wire-cutters to fences erected to keep protesters away
from key sites was an implicitly violent action.33 Nevertheless, this
approach was at the heart of an alternative vision of society, based on
discussion, compromise and the avoidance of hierarchical concentrations
of power and symbolic or actual violence. Such a vision contested precisely
the type of “protection”, manifested in the possession of nuclear weapons,
traditionally afforded by the state.
While reasonably large numbers of people participated in actions by
these groups and others like them, the majority of those who aligned
themselves with anti-nuclear positions of one sort or another sought
less radical solutions. A good example is the “Ribbon Around the
Pentagon” action, which is also discussed in Chapter 2 and which,
through churches and community groups and an army of willing
volunteers, mobilised tens of thousands to participate in an event that
was part protest, part art project. Justine Merritt, a retired school-
teacher and poet who had initiated the project three years earlier,
cited as its origin a period of intense, personal, spiritual anxiety that
had blossomed into a poem, “The Gift”, focusing on the problems of
protection and the vulnerability of “little ones” who are both children
and parents: “We too are the little ones, /Asked to protect children
from more than busy streets”.34
The admission of adults’ inability to provide security, of themselves
being infants in the face of the nuclear threat, unable to protect their
children, is a neat expression of the politics of vulnerability discussed in
Chapter 3, which subtly undermines the discourses of protection of the
nuclear state. The Ribbon’s success in generating support from a wide
constituency resulted perhaps in part from Merritt’s ostensibly apolitical
aspiration that the event serve as a “gentle reminder . . . that we as a nation
had better rethink nuclear war if the planet is to survive.”35 Merritt sought
not a particular policy position or set of actions to reduce the nuclear
threat, just to push it to the forefront of political discourse so that such
policies might be found and implemented; hence, those worried about
nuclear war—those dismayed at the lack of protection they could provide
their children, for instance—could participate in the project regardless of
their more conventional political affiliations.
18 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
vulnerability not only of individuals, but also of society, the species and
even the planet. It is this sense of instability that produces the politics of
vulnerability, a politics to which literary texts contribute by producing
images of frightening nuclear futures.
Chapter 2 lays the groundwork for this analysis, explaining the focus on
British and US texts by discussing transatlantic nuclear discourse in the 1980s.
Because of the close relations between the Thatcher and Reagan administra-
tions, and the shared ideological stances of those Britons and Americans
contesting their brands of radical conservatism (as well as the more prosaic
reason of a shared language in which ideas shuttled rapidly back and forth
between the countries), this transatlantic dialogue is manifested particularly in
British and American nuclear literatures, even though it is not entirely con-
fined to them. Chapter 3 elaborates on the politics of vulnerability in 1980s
literature. It looks at the representation of protest and protesters in literature,
explores the benefits and problems of the focus on vulnerability in the 1980s
and focuses on nuclear literature for children and young adults as a type of
writing in which these issues come into particularly sharp focus.
Chapters 4–6 tease out connections to the wider politics of the period
through the treatment of gender, environmental and socio-economic issues
that were pressing areas of debate in and of themselves, as well as being linked
to nuclear concerns. Visions of society in 1980s texts refract wider debates and
we see in nuclear literature not just an expression of, say, nuclear anxiety, but a
complex manifestation of a whole host of other fears and preoccupations.
Chapter 7 turns to the issue of writing itself. A recurrent preoccupation
in nuclear texts is the fragility of the written word, manifested in, for
instance, the image of the destroyed or ransacked library, which crops up
frequently in texts set after nuclear war. The focus on the survival or
destruction of the archive of our society relates to a broader anxiety
about the persistence and meaning of civilisation. The chapter maps this
concern into the formal and thematic preoccupations of postmodernism,
showing how a textual politics engages with the nuclear, gender, environ-
mental and socio-economic politics explored earlier in the book.
It is the claim of The Nuclear 1980s that, while reading literature of the
decade as a nuclear literature allows us better to situate it historically
within a Cold War framework, it also allows us better to see its continuing
relevance. It is relevant today partly because nuclear issues persist and the
literature of the 1980s makes visible what we all too easily forget: that a
technology of catastrophic destruction remains housed in missile silos,
submarines and military arsenals around the world; that we must plan
1 PROTECT–PROTEST: INTRODUCING THE NUCLEAR 1980S 21
safely to contain the nuclear waste our industry generates for tens of
thousands of years into the future. It is relevant too because the final
decade of the Cold War was the one in which the shape of our political
landscape was sculpted in key battles between neoliberalism and its oppo-
nents. Finally, it is relevant, indeed pressing, because the glimpses of
catastrophic human conflict and the end of the world emerging from
nuclear culture also produced alternative visions, imagining different,
more peaceable means of existence that have been all but lost in the
quarter century since the Cold War’s end. It reminds us of a period
when the peace movement was meaningful and perhaps provides clues as
to how it could become meaningful again.
NOTES
1. Tony Samstag and David Cross, “Protests Grow in CND Campaign”,
The Times, 26 October 1981, 1, 24. It is notoriously difficult to deter-
mine the size of protests. The Times says police claimed 150,000 people
participated, but the article notes that estimates ranged from 100,000 to
250,000.
2. “CND Army Takes London by Storm”, The Times, 24 October 1983, 10.
The crowd was “[m]ore than a quarter of a million people”, according to
The Times.
3. About this time there was a brief dalliance with Freeze ideas in the British peace
movement. As David Cartwright and Ron Pagnucco comment, “A British
freeze campaign surfaced briefly during the 1983–1984 period . . . but it was
unable to compete with the substantial following enjoyed by CND and quickly
dissolved.” Cartwright and Pagnucco, “Limits to Transnationalism: The
1980s Freeze Campaign”, in Smith, Chatfield and Pagnucco, Transnational
Social Movements and Global Politics, 168 (Smith et al. 1997).
4. Frances B. McCrea and Gerald Markle, Minutes to Midnight: Nuclear
Weapons Protest in America (London: Sage, 1989), 18 (McCrea and
Markle 1989).
5. McCrea and Markle, Minutes to Midnight, 15. Thirteen groups organised
the event, with Mobe (Mobilization for Survival) playing a central role.
McCrea and Markle, Minutes to Midnight, 112 (McCrea and Markle 1989).
6. For more details of Freeze election successes, see McCrea and Markle,
Minutes to Midnight, 15 (McCrea and Markle 1989).
7. Daniel Cordle, States of Suspense: The Nuclear Age, Postmodernism, and
United States Fiction and Prose (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
2008) (Cordle 2008).
22 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
and worthy of further investigation. A good starting point is Paul Williams, Race,
Ethnicity and Nuclear War. Alice Walker addresses black antipathy to the anti-
nuclear movement in “Only Justice Can Stop a Curse”, in Reweaving the Web of
Life, ed. McAllister, 262–265 (McAllister 1982).
17. Hammond, British Fiction and the Cold War, 81 (Hammond 2013).
18. Some of the ideas that follow first appeared in my article, “Protest/Protect:
British Nuclear Fiction of the 1980s”, British Journal of the History of
Science 45.4 (2012): 653–669 (Cordle 2012). As the title indicates, this
didn’t include the more expansive discussion of American literature that is
included in this book.
19. Peter Evans, “SS 20 Russian Missiles Expose Britain’s Weakness to Attack”,
The Times, January 16, 1980, 4 (Evans 1980).
20. At the time of writing, this episode of Panorama can be viewed on YouTube
under the title “Panorama: If the Bomb Drops”, <https://www.youtube.
com/watch?v=milbW4RDIco> [accessed June 22, 2016].
21. Joseph Masco, The Nuclear Borderlands: The Manhattan Project in Post-
Cold War New Mexico (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 3
(Masco 2006).
22. “Announcements Column”, The Times, 22 November 1980, 24.
23. Ross Davies, “Bunker Bouquet”, The Times, 16 September 16 1981, 19.
24. E.P. Thompson, “Protest and Survive”, in Protest and Survive, ed.
Thompson and Dan Smith (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1980), 57
(Thompson 1980).
25. Admittedly, these are CND’s own figures. Minnion and Bolsover,
Introduction, CND Story, 36 (Minnion and Bolsover 1983).
26. Protect and Survive, BBC 2, January 30, 1982. This phrase is lifted almost
directly from the Panorama programme of 10 March 1980.
27. Irving Wardle, “Reviews: Drill Hall”, The Times, 1 August 1984, 8.
28. Robert Swindells, Brother in the Land (London: Puffin, 2000), 9 (Swindells
2000). No italicization of Protect and Survive in original.
29. Raymond Briggs, When the Wind Blows (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1983),
no page numbers in text (Briggs 1983).
30. Nuclear Free Zones are parodied in Brian Bethell’s The Defence Diaries of W.
Morgan Petty (1984) in which the eponymous diarist, with the help of his
gardener, Roger, declares his suburban home, 3 Cherry Tree Lane,
Canterbury, a Nuclear Free Zone, though he worries that the sign they
put up declaring this fact is not visible to Russian aircraft and that its position
leaves unclear the status of his privet hedge within the zone (Bethell 1984).
31. Alice Cook and Gwyn Kirk (eds), Greenham Women Everywhere: Dreams,
Ideas and Actions from the Women’s Peace Movement (London: Pluto,
1983), 88 (Cook and Kirk 1983). Punctuation missing from end of para-
graph in original.
24 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
32. Anon [Grace Paley et al.], “Pentagon Action Unity Statement”, Peacework
Magazine, Social Justice 27.4 (2000), 161 (Anon 2000).
33. For an excellent account of these protest groups see Barbara Epstein,
Political Protest and Cultural Revolution: Nonviolent Direct Action in the
1970s and 1980s (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991) (Epstein
1991). The debate about fence cutting is described on 71–75.
34. Justine Merritt, “The Gift”, in Marianne Philbin and Lark Books staff (eds),
The Ribbon: A Celebration of Life (Asheville, North Carolina: Lark Books,
1985), 15.
35. Justine Merritt, quoted in Linda Pershing, Ribbon Around the Pentagon:
Peace by Piecemakers (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1996), 42
(Pershing 1996).
36. Peace Pilgrim and friends of Peace Pilgrim, Peace Pilgrim: Her Life and
Work in Her Own Words (Santa Fe: Ocean Tree Books, 2013), 97–98, 115.
37. Ronald Reagan, “Address to the Nation on National Security” (23 March
1983), Miller Center of Public Affairs <http://millercenter.org/scripps/
archive/speeches/detail/5454> [accessed April 21, 2010].
38. Paul Boyer, Fallout: A Historian Reflects on America’s Half-Century
Encounter with Nuclear Weapons (Columbus: Ohio State University Press,
1998), 176 (Boyer 1998). Boyer’s piece originally appeared in The Nation
in 1987.
39. In John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany (1989), the narrator, John, writes
of his distress at Reagan’s policies, including SDI, which he claims
encourages the Soviets to ignore the 1972 Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty.
Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany, 228.
CHAPTER 2
In a famous image (Fig. 2.1), that first appeared in 1980 in the far
left British paper the Socialist Worker and was subsequently widely
reproduced, Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan are depicted in a
spoof film poster for Gone with the Wind.1 Playing on Reagan’s career
as an actor, it shows him as Rhett Butler, with Thatcher as Scarlett
O’Hara, reclining submissively in his arms. A mushroom cloud bil-
lows in the background and the poster bills this version of Gone with
the Wind as “the film to end all films” and “the most EXPLOSIVE
love story ever”. Its tag line, running across the bottom of the poster,
is “She promised to follow him to the end of the earth. He promised
to organise it!”
There is much that is interesting about the poster, not least its depiction
of transatlantic relations. It makes a familiar connection between sexuality
and the bomb in order to turn the notoriously close working relationship
between Thatcher and Reagan, and the long-standing “special relationship”
between Britain and the United States, into a love story. Revealingly, Britain
is portrayed, through Thatcher as Prime Minister, as the minor partner in
the relationship, swooning in Reagan’s arms and following him—and by im-
plication the consequences of his hard-line Cold War policies—to the nuclear
end of the earth. The poster also contextualises nuclear policy in terms of the
broader radical economic and ideological conservatism for which Thatcher
and Reagan were such powerful figureheads in the 1980s: the film credits
reveal that it is presented (“in association with Pentagon Productions”)
Fig. 2.1 Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan as Rhett Butler and Scarlett
O’Hara in Gone with the Wind, originally published in Socialist Worker (1980)
2 THE MOST EXPLOSIVE LOVE STORY EVER 27
atomic technology that will cement its place as a superpower. The novel,
like many of those set in and around the Manhattan Project, narrates the
dawn of the atomic age as the dawn of US hegemony, with Los Alamos a
place in which people (like Thackara’s fictionalised Oppenheimer) reaffirm
their American identity or become (like the fictionalised immigrant phy-
sicist bomb-builders of many Los Alamos texts) American.
Thackara’s and Strieber and Kunetka’s novels aside, the transatlantic
theme is generally a minor consideration in US nuclear texts of the 1980s.
In British ones, however, it is a more powerful presence. Even though
Britain was an independent nuclear power, key components of its military
nuclear technology, Polaris (and later Trident) were bought from the
United States. Further, this nuclear deterrent was part of a NATO alliance
in which the United States was by far the major player (and this distin-
guished it from France, the other European nuclear power, which had a
more complex relationship with NATO).Hence, were conflict to arise it
seemed likely that it would be as a result of a confrontation between the
United States and the Soviet Union. Perhaps most of all (and certainly a
source of controversy that generated much of the publicity surrounding
nuclear issues in the 1980s), the NATO strategy decision of 1979 meant
that the United States was due, in the 1980s, to upgrade its ability to strike
against the Soviet Union with cruise missiles housed in American bases in
Britain and elsewhere in Europe. Symbolically, this was a powerful state-
ment of the relations between, and the relative strategic power of, the two
countries, resonant of the decades-old Orwellian nightmare of Britain as
“Airstrip One”, an outpost against a hostile continental Europe for a
Western power centred in North America.23
As a result of all this, it was impossible in the 1980s to think of nuclear
issues in Britain without thinking of the United States. Consequently,
various facets of the cultural and political relations with the United States
feature in British nuclear texts. Riddley Walker (1980), by Russell Hoban
(an American living in Britain), depicts a world so devastated by nuclear war
that centuries later England’s (or “Inland’s” as the novel has it) inhabitants
have only just begun to move from a nomadic, scavenging existence to
settled, farming communities; have only the vaguest concept that there
might be land over the English channel, let alone across the Atlantic; and
can only guess at the technological sophistication of their forebears. Yet
their legends preserve in the collective cultural memory something of the
technology and geopolitics that brought them to this place. In the “Littl
Shyning Man the Addom” (who is, as I discuss in Chapter 7, a sort of
38 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
trickster figure in the stories they tell), we find both a linguistic trace of
nuclear technology (the atom) and a key figure in a story of origins that
derives, though they cannot know it, from the Judeo-Christian tradition
(Adam). A key figure in their mythology is Eusa, who wields the power of
the Addom and, in his name, invokes both the legend of St Eustace, as
depicted in Canterbury Cathedral, one of the settings for the novel, and also
the United States (Eusa/USA). Although British political traditions are
preserved in the roles of powerful figures (the “Prymincer” and
“Wesmincer” who tour Inland in an attempt to assert their authority), it
is an inflection of the 1980s context of the novel’s publication that they are
struggling to invoke and control the power of Eusa/USA.
Ian McEwan’s The Child in Time (1987) is set in a near-future that is an
exaggerated version of the 1980s, foreseeing a British society in which the
Milton Friedman-style economic revolutions, beloved of the Thatcher and
Reagan governments, have been pushed to their extremes. It is a society
in which, as Chapter 6 discusses, the welfare state has shrunk (state
benefits seem to have been replaced by a system in which the very poor
are given licenses to beg) and in which it is hinted that state provision of
healthcare, education and transport has largely been devolved to the private
sector. It is also a world in which the Cold War is ongoing and dangerous.
For a novel that is so heavily populated with characters who are part of, or
connected to, the British political establishment (Stephen, the central pro-
tagonist, is a children’s author sitting on a parliamentary committee
writing a childcare manual and is even visited by the Prime Minister; his
friend, Charles Darke, is part of government), it is striking that this estab-
lishment is situated, with a couple of deft touches, as being in a relationship
of inferiority to the United States.
Stephen had a Cold War childhood: the son of a military father, his
early years were spent in various countries to which his father was posted.
It is, surely, no coincidence that the recounting of this period of his life
includes his experience during the Suez Crisis, the moment relatively early
in the Cold War that encapsulated the decline of British imperial power
and confirmed the United States’ superior global clout.24 As an adult,
Stephen’s work on the committee and his connections to Darke bring him
into contact with the Prime Minister, an encounter that reinforces the
vulnerability of Britain, a weakness affirmed precisely through its entan-
glement with nuclear weapons.
The Prime Minister’s visit to Stephen’s home is preceded by an en-
tourage of security and technical personnel who install four telephones
2 THE MOST EXPLOSIVE LOVE STORY EVER 39
precisely the extent to which his decisions are at the whim of political
self-interest.30 However, he is at the political apex of a country that is
globally significant, unlike his British counterpart. Although members of
the British political establishment populate the novel and the Prime
Minister’s connection to the nuclear hotline is noted—although, indeed,
Britain would be drawn into any conflict by its NATO commitments—we
never hear about the British government’s dilemmas and decisions during
this crisis, presumably because it could play a role neither in its escalation
nor its resolution.
While The Child in Time cannot be said to take the relationship
between Britain and the United States as its main focus, this brief incident
encapsulates, perhaps all the more devastatingly because it is so naturally
assumed, the changed relations between the two countries. The British
political establishment is powerless in this crisis to do anything other than
tacitly endorse US global strategic priorities.
Martin Amis’s London Fields (1989), set in contemporary London, more
fully explores the transatlantic theme. Its American narrator, Samson
Young, could be seen as a contemporary version of a Henry James character,
travelling to London where he is destroyed (through illness; through his
involvement in the murder of Nicola Six) by his encounter with the Old
World; although it becomes clear that a newer, brasher transatlantic relation-
ship is in place.
Young, a writer, has swapped his New York apartment with Mark
Asprey, a successful British author. At first, he thinks he has “gotten the
better of the deal” and “well and truly stiffed Mark”,31 for, in contrast to
Young’s grotty Hell’s Kitchen apartment in New York, Asprey’s home is
gloriously, if rather garishly, opulent (“[a]fter a few weeks here even the
great Presley would have started to pine for the elegance and simplicity of
Graceland”).32 Yet he never overcomes his jealousy of Asprey’s continued
success, he struggles and fails to control the narrative of the novel he is
writing (and we are reading, for London Fields is a self-reflexive, postmo-
dern fiction) and he is drawn into the dangerous world of the Black Cross
pub and Keith Talent, the novel’s cockney criminal.
The story takes place against the background of the “Crisis”, an unde-
fined but clearly Cold War and nuclear phenomenon (elusive references to
“Quiet Wall” evoke the secrecy, paranoia and conspiracy attending Cold
War technology and espionage). Although various characters—Young,
Asprey, Talent and Guy Clinch—criss-cross, or dream of criss-crossing,
the Atlantic, these journeys are shaped by the Crisis.
2 THE MOST EXPLOSIVE LOVE STORY EVER 41
Pentagon, is where the world’s fate will be decided. Indeed, the Crisis is
located at the very heart of American government for it is obscurely bound
up with the health of the President’s wife.
So, while, as in McEwan’s novel, the United States in London Fields is
not a source of security in the world (indeed, it is quite the opposite) it is—
and this marks out the transatlantic relationship very clearly—the definitive
source of global insecurity. It matters in a way that Britain does not. It is
the centre that must hold if the world is to hold, and if it does not then the
Britain of Amis’s novel, along with the rest of the planet, will be sucked
down with it. Hence, as the international situation becomes more fraught,
US capital is withdrawn from financial systems elsewhere and Guy re-
alises that “all American money was leaving the City [of London]”.40
America is, in Young’s assessment, “going insane”, and this matters
because the country “was never like anywhere else” and so much rests
on its recovery.41
The transatlantic focus of London Fields (a preoccupation in other Amis
novels, such as Money) is not as obvious in other texts, but a similar sense of the
fate of Britain being determined elsewhere is apparent. For instance, despite
the overt anti-nuclear politics of Gee’s The Burning Book, which ends in nuclear
war, there is little explicitly about British policy. Indeed, once again British fate
is determined by the United States’ confrontation with the Soviet Union. The
apocalyptic final chapter, “The Chapter of Burning”, is punctuated with news-
paper headlines, contextualising the personal lives of the novel’s protagonists
within a growing nuclear crisis. Of the nine headlines included in the chapter,
all mention Russia or the Soviet Union directly and seven mention the United
States; the British stance does not feature at all (except, by implication, in one
that mentions NATO). In this most politically committed of British nuclear
novels, then, British nuclear policy is of interest as part only of a broader
Western Cold War strategy. The major nuclear powers, the United States
and to a lesser extent the Soviet Union, are the focus of its political protest.
When, near the end, Henry and Lorna argue about the news and who is at fault
for the impending nuclear war, they divide over whether Russia or the United
States is to blame; neither comments on their own country’s complicity.
***
These texts make explicit, then, what was more generally implicit in 1980s
literature: that Britain and the United States were bound together by the
involvement of both countries in the globalised systems and alliances of
the late Cold War. While such systems obviously involved many countries,
both politically and culturally, a focus on these two can be a rich starting
2 THE MOST EXPLOSIVE LOVE STORY EVER 43
point for unpicking the tangled webs of global Cold War culture. The
shared language, the historical ties between the countries, the “special
relationship” (undoubtedly rather more special for Britain than for the
United States) and the economic and ideological continuities between
Reagan’s and Thatcher’s policies, as well as the protest movements their
brands of conservatism inspired, energised British and US nuclear cul-
tures. The lynchpin of these nuclear cultures in the late Cold War was a
latent vulnerability: the sense, not universally shared but strongly fostered
in the discourse of the time, that the world was one unresolved crisis away
from disaster.
NOTES
1. The Victoria & Albert Museum lists Christmas 1980 as the date of original
publication. V&A Search the Collections: Gone with the Wind <http://
collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O76710/gone-with-the-wind-poster-hous
ton-john/> [accessed 20 January 2016]. The image became a well-known
satirical poster.
2. Henry Kissinger, a former US National Security Advisor and Secretary of
State, was still influential in public life. Edward Heath was the Conservative
British Prime Minister from 1970–1974. Keith Joseph was Secretary of State
for Social Services under Heath and later became Secretary of State for
Education and Science under Thatcher.
3. Barbara Epstein, Political Protest and Cultural Revolution: Nonviolent
Direct Action in the 1970s and 1980s (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1991), 61 (Epstein 1991).
4. Walter M. Miller, Jr., “Forewarning (An Introduction)”, in Beyond
Armageddon, ed. Miller and Martin H. Greenberg, new edn. (Lincoln:
University of Nebraska Press, 2006), xii (Miller 2006).
5. Barbara Goodwin, The K/V Papers (London: Pluto, 1983), 90 (Goodwin
1983).
6. Ian McEwan, The Child in Time (London: Vintage, 1992), 34 (McEwan
1992).
7. Kate Hudson, CND—Now More Than Ever: The Story of a Peace Movement
(London: Vision, 2005), 138 (Hudson 2005). For a fuller description of the
Pentagon Actions see Epstein, Political Protest and Cultural Revolution,
161–163 (Epstein 1991).
8. “Women at the 1981 women’s Pentagon action wove webs around the
doors of the Pentagon, symbolically closing them, and this activity has
been used elsewhere.” Alice Cook and Gwyn Kirk, Greenham Women
44 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
Everywhere: Dreams, Ideas and Actions from the Women’s Peace Movement
(London: Pluto, 1983), 126 (Cook and Kirk 1983).
9. Epstein, Political Protest and Cultural Revolution, 163 (Epstein 1991).
10. Don Willcox, “The People”, in Marianne Philbin and Lark Books Staff
(eds), The Ribbon: A Celebration of Life (Asheville: Lark, 1985), 17
(Willcox 1985). For a discussion of the history of political fabric art out of
which the Ribbon emerged, see Linda Pershing, Ribbon Around the
Pentagon, 70–86 (Pershing 1996).
11. Whitley Strieber and James Kunetka, Warday and the Journey Onward
(London: Coronet, 1985), 332–335 (Strieber and Kunetka 1985).
12. Strieber and Kunetka, Warday, 50–51 (Strieber and Kunetka 1985).
13. Strieber and Kunetka, Warday, 223–224 (Strieber and Kunetka 1985).
14. David Graham, Down to a Sunless Sea (London: Pan, 1980), 15, 46
(Graham 1980).
15. Martin Cruz Smith, Stallion Gate (London: Pan, 1996), 57 (Smith 1996).
16. Smith, Stallion Gate, 15 (Smith 1996).
17. Smith, Stallion Gate, 47 (Smith 1996).
18. James Thackara, America’s Children (London: Chatto & Windus, 1984), 4
(Thackara 1984).
19. Thackara, America’s Children, 4 (Thackara 1984).
20. Thackara, America’s Children, 15 (Thackara 1984).
21. Thackara, America’s Children, 82 (Thackara 1984).
22. Thackara, America’s Children, 87–88 (Thackara 1984).
23. George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four (London: Penguin, 2013) (Orwell
2013). In Orwell’s 1949 vision of a world ruled by totalitarian states,
Airstrip One is part of Oceania, constantly at war with Eurasia and Eastasia.
24. McEwan, Child in Time, 76 (McEwan 1992).
25. McEwan, Child in Time, 204 (McEwan 1992).
26. McEwan, Child in Time, 209 (McEwan 1992).
27. McEwan, Child in Time, 88 (McEwan 1992).
28. McEwan, Child in Time, 88 (McEwan 1992).
29. McEwan, Child in Time, 33 (McEwan 1992). McEwan’s choice of an
Olympic moment as one that, absurdly, nearly sparks nuclear war reflects
the way in which the United States and Soviet Union used the Games for
Cold War posturing in the 1980s: both the 1980 Moscow and 1984 Los
Angeles Olympics were marred by superpower boycotts.
30. McEwan, Child in Time, 32 (McEwan 1992).
31. Martin Amis, London Fields (London: Vintage, 2003), 2 (Amis 2003).
32. Amis, London Fields, 13 (Amis 2003).
33. Amis, London Fields, 13 (Amis 2003).
34. Amis, London Fields, 2 (Amis 2003).
35. Amis, London Fields, 137–138 (Amis 2003).
2 THE MOST EXPLOSIVE LOVE STORY EVER 45
It is the argument of this book that 1980s nuclear texts constitute a political
literature, but that their politics—even their nuclear politics—is neither uni-
form nor straightforward. Whilst we might reasonably infer from their books
that many (but not all) writers were “against” the nuclear policies of both
Soviet and, particularly (given it was more obviously within their remit to
comment upon it), Western, governments, their opposition to these policies
was frequently nebulous. Certainly, we are unlikely to find in nuclear litera-
ture the steps necessary to move from nuclear standoff to a world without
nuclear weapons. While writers often expressed horror at what nuclear war
might involve and sometimes drew attention to the absurdities of nuclear
deterrence or civil defence, on the whole they did not advocate explicit ways
to ameliorate the nuclear threat. Hence, although texts were involved in
raising consciousness about the nuclear issues that became compelling in the
1980s, they usually eschewed particular policy positions.
Nevertheless, a powerful effect of representing nuclear technology (parti-
cularly nuclear weapons, though also, to a lesser extent, potential hazards of
researched fictions ideas like nuclear winter (as Chapter 5 discusses) and
government planning for post-nuclear society were crucial.
The politics of nuclear texts are complicated immensely by the generally
complex and multifaceted nature of 1980s nuclear politics more generally.
With a few disturbing exceptions (for instance, those fundamentalist
Christians who, if not necessarily welcoming nuclear war, nevertheless
saw it as precipitating the Apocalypse through which the world would
enter the end times prophesied by the Bible),2 no-one was “for” nuclear
war per se. Hence, being “against” it hardly seemed like a radical position.
If you were for nuclear armament it was almost certainly on the basis that
you felt that it deterred attack and hence made nuclear war less likely.
Being a nuclear protester, then, meant less that one was against nuclear
war itself (though, of course, it included that) than that one more broadly
contested nuclearism, defined by Andrew Hammond, as “the ideology
that conceives nuclear technologies as a necessary adjunct of modernity.”3
This could mean a whole range of specific positions. Nuclear protesters
might be against a particular aspect of nuclear policy (the decision to site new
cruise missiles in Europe, for instance), they might call for their country to set
an example by unilaterally disarming itself of nuclear weapons (as CND in
Britain did), or by capping its stocks of those weapons at their current level (as
the Freeze movement in the United States did), or they might urge greater
global efforts toward multilateral disarmament. Alternatively (or as well), they
might challenge weapons testing, either on the grounds of a generalised
opposition to militarism or on the basis of its impact on a particular landscape
and those occupying it. Such positions might or might not be part of a
broader pacifist philosophy. In the distinct but related area of civilian nuclear
power, protesters might contest nuclear energy in general, or simply be
against a particular nuclear power plant planned for their vicinity.
Often, the specific anti-nuclear position might not be precisely defined.
Nuclear protest could be a generalised expression of outrage and fear, a
nebulous desire to challenge the assumption that nuclear weapons were an
inevitable part of contemporary experience.
Frequently and significantly, too, nuclear protest was part of a much
broader challenge to the status quo. Metonymically, nuclear weapons (or
nuclear power, or a specific nuclear policy) often stood for a worldview, a
set of assumptions and values, in opposition to which protesters more
broadly defined themselves. As I noted in Chapter 1, E.P. Thompson’s call
to “protest and survive” was a plea not only to oppose the specifics of
nuclear policy, but to challenge a broader “degenerative logic” by
50 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
Revealingly, their fantasies are not the destruction of the Soviet Union,
but of America; of, indeed, the very city in which they live. The destruc-
tion of home and the chance to erase the dull, suburban existence mapped
out for them by school and family is the most instantly appealing fantasy,
and nuclear war is the most available means by which it might be effected.
3 THE POLITICS OF VULNERABILITY: PROTEST AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 53
Even, then, in this film in which the plot is built to warn against nuclear
danger, there is a brief, liberating moment of nuclear glee, a disturbing
flash of the death drive far from uncommon in nuclear culture.
Also generally inimical to the challenge to nuclearism is a tendency
in some fiction to techno-fetishism. So, for example, Tom Clancy’s
focus on the minutiae of real and imagined military hardware in the
gripping nuclear thrillers The Hunt for Red October (1984) and Red
Storm Rising (1986) makes the military and intelligence services
machine, understood as a composite of human actors and technological
artefacts, the solution to Soviet aggression and (in the earlier novel) the
means by which the mysterious actions of a Soviet missile submarine
might be accurately identified as preliminary to defection to, rather
than attack on, the United States. Such texts typify many nuclear
thriller narratives by being strongly rooted in protection, rather than
protest, discourse. They toy with the possibility of protection failing—
the aggressive or deceitful Soviet or (as in Clancy’s 1991 novel The Sum
of All Fears) terrorist enemy, seeking to launch a nuclear attack; the
misunderstandings or malfunctions by which nuclear war might be
triggered—but then resolve that anxiety through the heroic actions of
individuals who galvanise the architecture of protection (the military;
the secret services; the technologies at their disposal) to provide pro-
tection from attack. In former British General John Hackett’s The
Third World War: 1985 (1978), a book cited by Reagan as influential
upon him,8 the depiction of war is overtly aimed at showing the
necessity of military strength.
Even a novel like William Prochnau’s Trinity’s Child (1983), more
sceptical of the military mindset than Clancy’s Cold War thrillers (in
Prochnau’s novel military thinking is flawed and nuclear war breaks
out), is predicated on a reading pleasure derived from the detailed
delineation of convincing military artefacts and systems. It might
expose militarism, but it remains invested with the romance of lives
gambled in martial peril amidst the deadly, sinister glamour of military
technology and systems.
While such examples are not the norm, we must, nevertheless, under-
stand 1980s nuclear literature as a complex body of work encoding a range
of socio-political positions. The politics of vulnerability I read in it is not a
position uniformly held by every text; rather, it is a composite impression
of human fragility emerging collectively from the texts, particularly in the
context of the late Cold War moment.
54 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
in the face of rain and barbed wire is deliberately exposed. Their bodies are
in the “freezing open”, vulnerable to the “freezing rain”; their “flesh” is
set against “barbed wire” that will tear it. They strip away the illusion of
protection and survival and gamble their bodies against the nuclear holo-
caust that awaits. While Angela herself may ultimately fail to engage
politically, Gee’s novel, by showing the softness of all her characters’
flesh—indeed of all our flesh—in the face of nuclear attack, is a literature
of vulnerability that chimes with the modes of nuclear protest of the late
Cold War.
Gee’s description of the Greenham and Lakenheath protesters echoes
other accounts of the actions at US airbases in Britain. Lynne Jones, one of
the protesters, rebutted criticisms that an action at Greenham reinforced
stereotypes of women’s passivity by saying that forming a human chain
with which police physically had to engage “directly confront[ed] these
people [the police] with our bodies . . . with the comprehension of what
violence and power meant in human terms.”20 Guy Brett, writing at the
time, saw the Greenham protest as a form of popular art, countering a
discourse of power and aggression with an entirely other worldview.
Hence, in describing the symbols of life with which women decorated
the airbase’s fence, he draws attention to the rejection of a logic of
aggressive assertion of strength in favour of one that seeks to evoke
human empathy by rooting itself in vulnerability:
Anyone looking at the Greenham fence would have been struck by the way
the might of the weapons was opposed by the most fragile things: personal
possessions, baby clothes, wool. Someone left an egg in the mesh of the
fence, inscribed “For peace”. Aggression was met not by closing oneself in,
armouring oneself, but by exposing one’s vulnerability, by making visible
what the dominating power excludes or denies.21
The novel is haunted from the beginning by the atomic attacks upon
Japan that, in the context of world-ending nuclear war, must be understood
as a prelude to the Cold War’s most terrible possible conclusion. Voices from
Hiroshima erupt sporadically and, as the novel progresses, with increasing
frequency onto its pages. Indeed, the material text itself begins to fail because
at the end we are asked to imagine the very book we are holding bursting
into flames as the first missiles strike. The Burning Book—on fire by its final
pages—flaunts the vulnerability of people and of literature.
This is a politicised literary response to the nuclear age, an engage-
ment with the vulnerability of the Derridean concept of the archive to
which I will return in Chapter 7. The complexity of Gee’s portrayal of
nuclear protest, its attempt both to represent protesters and to express
the difficulties that stymie protest, is unusual in nuclear literature and
also reveals why it is unusual: the dilemmas Angela faces (the sense both
of urgency and of impotence in the face of the global systems and logics
of the Cold War; the numbing effects of imagining nuclear horror; the
difficulty of abstraction, of engaging with a hypothetical future far
removed from everyday experience) are those faced by writers and by
the population more generally. The complex mixture of anger, protest
and frustration coursing through The Burning Book, as well as the direct
reflection on what this means for political protest, is perhaps matched
only by Terry Tempest Williams’s extraordinary memoir, Refuge (1991),
which intertwines accounts of Williams’s work at the Bear River
Migratory Bird Refuge, in Utah, with her family’s experience of breast
cancer and the discovery that these cancers may be caused by nuclear
testing.
Notwithstanding these powerful accounts by Gee and Williams,
nuclear protesters are generally invisible, or at least marginalised, in
other nuclear texts. Sometimes more conservative texts even construct
protesters as naïve and dangerous. For instance, Dudley Bromley’s Final
Warning (1982) imagines a nuclear war precipitated by pacifist radicals,
whose plan to set off a bomb, to highlight nuclear danger, goes horribly
wrong.
The one genre where nuclear protesters do appear both prominently
and sympathetically (but almost entirely ignored by nuclear critics) in the
1980s is in children’s and young adult nuclear literature.29 This may be
because vulnerability is particularly acutely realised when parents, writers
and educators consider the potentially fraught issue of children’s first
realisation that they live in a nuclear world.
3 THE POLITICS OF VULNERABILITY: PROTEST AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 61
first appears. The focus on the fabric arts places it in a long-standing tradition
of what Linda Pershing calls “political needlework”, which found expres-
sion, as discussed elsewhere in this book, in nuclear politics in the Ribbon
Around the Pentagon protest, but also in other forms at the Women’s
Pentagon Actions, Greenham Common and elsewhere.31 Also, the material
transformation of the security blanket into a peace banner, dismantling an
object that provides psychological, but illusory, protection, enacts a chal-
lenge to the state’s discourse of nuclear protection.
Of course, the protest in Nobody Wants a Nuclear War remains muted:
it reveals rather than challenges the channels through which people
express concerns to government and it does not question whether their
political representatives will listen. Such assurance about the means by
which young people’s concerns might make themselves heard is given in
several other children’s and young adult texts, yet these texts do generally
acknowledge that making oneself heard can be problematic.
In Arnold Madison’s It Can’t Happen to Me (1981) the teenage
protagonist Sandy’s letter to the local paper about the nearby Rocky
Falls Nuclear Power Plant (named presumably to evoke Rocky Flats
where there were various nuclear and environmental scandals between
the 1950s and 1980s) provokes embarrassment and outrage from her
family, boyfriend and the conservative small town in which she lives. A
book for younger children, Jane Langton’s The Fragile Flag (1984),
begins with the failure of an adult protest against the “Peace Missile”, a
new nuclear weapon due to be based in outer space (and thus evoking
Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative, announced in 1983), and ends with
a successful children’s protest march. It deals in quite complex ways with
contested versions of American nationalism, countering the discourse of
patriotic protection against outside threats, which it casts as a betrayal of
long-standing American republican ideals, with one of vulnerability.
The president has redesigned the Stars and Stripes into a new flag that
“stands for strength”, and tries to engage children with this version of
what it means to be American by inviting them to write in to say what the
flag means to them. This version of Americanism is tied to the president’s
claim that the “only deterrent to global war is military strength”.32 The
children’s march carries the older, “fragile” flag of the book’s title and the
final confrontation is between this fragile flag and the “strong” flag of the
president.
The triumph is provided by the children’s vulnerability. As the children
approach the White House, the president wishes they “were a throng of
3 THE POLITICS OF VULNERABILITY: PROTEST AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 63
grown men and women” whom he could ignore or “an assaulting army of
tanks and guns” that could be defeated militarily.33 Yet it is precisely
because they are children, because their vulnerability is, in Caldicott’s
phrase, “disarming”, that he cannot take conventional action:
Once again the President wished with all his heart that they were a battalion
of enemy soldiers or a horde of angry adults. But they were not. They were
infants, not infantry and that was the whole trouble. . . . [I]t was because they
were young that they were strong. . . . How on earth could he fight back
against innocence?34
Although the book does not state it explicitly, this contest between the
vulnerable and the strong maps clearly onto contemporary controversies
about the Reagan administration’s hawkish conduct of the Cold War. The
book does not by any means reject American exceptionalism (indeed, quite
the opposite: it is the values of Old Glory, carried by the children to the
White House, that triumph), but it contests precisely what American values
might be and asserts an earlier, radical tradition rooted in transcendentalism
(the children march from Concord and pass Walden Pond on their way),
encapsulated in the book’s epigraph, taken from Henry David Thoreau: “It
is not an era of repose. We have used up all our inherited freedom. If we
would save lives, we must fight for them.”35
A very similar narrative resolution is provided in James Forman’s Doomsday
Plus Twelve (1984), although in this case the children’s “Doomsday
Crusade” takes place twelve years after nuclear war. In a bid to stop militants
provoking a nationalist revival by attacking the Japanese, now the preeminent
world power, Val leads a pacifist march to San Diego where they are based.
As in The Fragile Flag, the philosophy underpinning their march is to
counter force not with greater force, but with vulnerability. As Val tells a
friend who is tempted to fight back when they are threatened, “If you’re
too afraid to die, you’re too afraid to live . . . Listen, if we take guns, they’ll
have twice as many, but if we keep coming on, a bunch of unarmed kids,
what can they do?”36
Similar in intent is Bernard Benson’s The Peace Book (1981), which is
framed by a narrative set in a future, harmonious world, when Peace Day is
being celebrated. A storyteller narrates for children how the world found
peace, when the children of weapons scientists on both sides, a boy and a
girl, started asking questions and created a movement to rid the world of
military technology. As in The Fragile Flag and Doomsday Plus Twelve, the
64 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
child protagonists tactically exploit their own vulnerability (the boy threa-
tens to go on hunger strike, for instance)37 and rework what protection
might mean, replacing a philosophy based on military strength (“Protecting
ourselves from our neighbours is the path of arms and leads to WAR!”) with
one renouncing militarism (“Protecting our neighbours from ourselves is
the path of disarmament, and leads to PEACE”).38
Such convenient solutions to the complexities of Cold War nuclear
standoff may seem—perhaps are—terribly naïve. They also, of course,
involve adult authors investing children with simplistically realised values
of innocence that draw on Romanticist visions of the child as close to a state
of grace. The most extreme version of this is Gerald Jampolsky’s Children as
Teachers of Peace (1982), an anthology of prose and pictures about peace by
American children, built on the rather saccharine principle that adults will
be moved to action by these young people’s pleas. Nevertheless, such works
show authors prioritising peace as an important topic and seeing the need to
reassure children both about the legitimacy of their nuclear fears and the
responsiveness of the adult world to their anxieties. These visions of protest
also involve a fundamental reconfiguration of values away from militarism.
At the beginning of Susan Weston’s Children of the Light (1985) protest is a
transcendental experience. Jeremy joins his mother on demonstrations against
nuclear war, marching and singing with “other students, young mothers,
doctors, gray-haired women from the Women’s International League for
Peace, Republican account executives, and Democratic tool-and-die workers.”
The sense of being part of something has a religious quality: “This vision of
himself with others in a collective expression of a single purpose was like
believing in God, like finding transcendence.”39
Some books for teenagers engage in more complex ways with protest by
seeing it as an assertion and negotiation of values by which adolescents
enter the adult world. In Phyllis Reynolds Naylor’s The Dark of the Tunnel
(1985), a teenager, Craig, navigates a difficult adolescence in which he be-
comes aware of his country’s vulnerability to nuclear attack and must come to
terms with mortality. A personal trauma—the death of Craig’s mother from
cancer—is intertwined with a broader debate about nuclear policy articu-
lated through his uncle Jim, a civil defence coordinator experiencing doubts
about the value and efficacy of protective measures against nuclear attack.
Again, a discourse of protection is explicitly undermined. A colonel
who comes to defend nuclear policy at a public meeting argues that “the
only way to keep the peace was to keep America strong”,40 but this view is
challenged by Craig’s understanding that there are no winners—that
3 THE POLITICS OF VULNERABILITY: PROTEST AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 65
everyone is vulnerable—in nuclear war. The novel ends with Jim realising
(with Craig’s approval) that he has to declare the absurdity of civil defence,
in a letter to the governor, even though it may cost him his job. Craig, too,
realises that he must commit to work in what ways he can for peace and he
determines to join the Peace Exploration Society when he goes to college.
Although this text, like others, raises problems that are perhaps resolved
too easily by a denouement in which a commitment to peace activism is
espoused without detailing precisely what that activism might entail or
achieve, the novel is extremely effective in articulating the dawning of
vulnerability as a universal problem. This is communicated through a
striking simile, connecting the trauma of the impending death of his
mother with the trauma of nuclear fear. In his uncle’s office, Craig sees a
map of the United States studded with red and blue pins depicting likely
targets for nuclear attack, which are “like cancer cells, spreading out over
the state and into Marvin County.” This image brings to mind, of course,
the cancer cells that are at the same time killing his mother.41 The dawning
of adult consciousness, the realisation of his parent’s mortality, is linked to
consciousness of geopolitical vulnerability.
The death of a parent also features in Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes (1982), a
novel whose nuclear dimensions are quietly and subtly interwoven with its
main focus on the transition from adolescence to adulthood. When Davey’s
father is murdered at the 7–Eleven store he runs, she goes with her mother
and brother to live in Los Alamos, where her uncle Walter works on nuclear
bomb design at the Los Alamos National Laboratory and her aunt Bitsy is a
guide at the Bradbury Science Museum about the Manhattan Project. The
novel is about different responses to vulnerability. Davey’s father would not
keep a loaded gun in the store, but Walter carries one everywhere with him
on the basis that it is “better to be safe than sorry”.42 He and Bitsy are
suffocatingly protective of Davey, nagging her about wearing a helmet when
she is out on her bike, refusing to let her go skiing or learn to drive, desperate
for her to plan well ahead in her options at school and even giving her a card
that guarantees her a space in a bomb shelter (“it’s always better to be
prepared”).43 Walter’s philosophy of personal safety underpins his justifica-
tion for working on nuclear weaponry (“We’re in this business to design the
best weapons we can, so that no one will ever think they can win a war against
us”), but both Davey and her mother have to reject protective discourse and
embrace their vulnerability if they are to take the risks that allow them to get
on with their lives (the former explains this to Bitsy with the phrase “life is an
adventure”; the latter tells her that “I can’t let safety and security become the
66 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
focus of my life”).44 Although the novel is not overtly about nuclear policy, it
establishes a fault-line between security and vulnerability that maps the
personal lives of its protagonists into the geopolitical context.
Stephanie Tolan’s terrific Pride of the Peacock (1986) also involves a
teenager, Whitney, trying to work out how to live with vulnerability, in
this case precipitated by reading obsessively about nuclear war (particularly
Jonathan Schell’s influential 1982 book The Fate of the Earth). As with
Naylor’s novel, this is mediated through a personal story of mortality, a
friendship she forges with a sculptress who is mourning the death of her
husband. Whitney’s engagement with a nuclear future takes her beyond
fear of her own death to a struggle to cope with the loss of what Lifton has
called “symbolic immortality”,45 those means by which we imagine
human life to be ongoing even when we realise that we ourselves will die:
There wouldn’t be any cemeteries. . . . No stones with names and dates and
no one to read the names and dates or leave flowers or remember. . . . If there
was a writer somewhere writing a play this very moment . . . no one would
ever know if he was great, because there wouldn’t be anyone around in four
hundred years to read his plays. . . . There’d be no anthropologists or archae-
ologists to care about trying to figure out things.46
husbands come round demanding help finding their pyjamas and using
the kettle), but which is also a target of Townsend’s humour (a Labour
party candidate is “harangued” by Adrian’s mother about nuclear disar-
mament, a word evoking the stereotypes of Greenham women playing out
in the popular press).50
These examples aside, though, there are very few direct depictions of
protest or of protesters in nuclear literature. This may seem to make nuclear
literature a rather curiously depoliticised beast: it takes on a major issue of
the time, yet offers few depictions of people taking action (indeed, often it
shows them struggling to take action or, as in some of the examples given
earlier, expressing only the determination to take action rather than the
action itself). Nor does it offer explicit means by which the process of
disarmament might take place.
However, to demand that nuclear literature be political in these terms is
to misunderstand its predominant role in the always already politicised
public discourse about nuclear weapons at this time. Lifton writes that one
of the major impediments to dealing with nuclearism is the numbing effect
it has on our psychological responses—our tendency simply not to think
about it—but that, as he and Richard Falk note, there was a significant
shift taking place in the 1980s:
these systems, expressing the alienation of the individual from the power
structures that shape him or her.
Such thorough-going vulnerability on occasion seems to dictate a
literature of defeat, a resignation from meaningful opposition to the
nuclear establishment. Tim O’Brien’s The Nuclear Age (1985), for
instance, begins late in the Cold War with the narrator, William, a former
1960s activist, renouncing political radicalism (“it’s finished now, no more
crusades”) in favour of resignation (“Call it what you want—copping out,
dropping out, numbness, the loss of outrage, simple fatigue. I’ve
retired”). Seized with nuclear fear, he renounces activism in the face of
simple self-defence, and builds a bomb shelter.59 This hiding under-
ground is in marked contrast to his previous going underground, partici-
pating in radical political activism. He epitomises a conservative response
to vulnerability, a participation, however reluctant, in the actions urged by
the establishment discourses of protection.
Even this novel, though, built upon its protagonist’s attempts to resist
political commitment, is not quite so conservative. William’s narrative
point of view is undermined throughout the book and the reader, while
wakened to the nuclear threat by his pleas that we have become numbed
to danger (“Nobody’s scared. Nobody’s digging. . . . Why aren’t they out
here digging? Nuclear war. It’s no symbol. . . . Where’s the terror in the
world? Scream it: Nuclear war!”),60 is likely to distance him or herself from
the passivity of the solution William offers. William’s shelter-building
enacts a demand for security and protection impossible in the nuclear
age. Indeed, it results in William having a mental breakdown and in the
break-up of his family. Like Mitch in Jayne Anne Phillips’s Machine
Dreams (1984), whose plan to build a bomb shelter during the Cuban
Crisis is an effort to reclaim his masculinity but causes intense discord in
the family (during an argument about the shelter, Jean shouts from a
locked bathroom that “[t]here are laws to protect me from men like you”),61
William is unable to accept vulnerability. His attempts to ensure security
expose his shortcomings as a protector of his family and even endangers
them. He suffers a mental breakdown and, by imprisoning his wife and
daughter, precipitates the familial collapse he is trying to prevent.62
Other texts offer more constructive responses to vulnerability. The evoca-
tion of fragility in the face of power, as in the actions of peace campaigners
who flaunted their potential deaths in the face of nuclear holocaust, actually
becomes the source of a new kind of strength. It is not without its drawbacks,
but it seeks to change the ground on which issues are fought. Indeed, the
72 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
In Lynn Hall’s young adult novel If Winter Comes, the teenage protago-
nist, Meredith, has to negotiate the shocking possibility of nuclear war
over the few days of an international crisis. Unsurprisingly, this dawning of
nuclear consciousness also precipitates other kinds of awareness, sharpen-
ing her sense of the transition she is making from childhood to adulthood,
of the expectations placed on her as a young woman and of the social,
political and geopolitical contexts that shape her. Most profoundly, it
induces vulnerability through a fraught, jarring introduction to awareness
of her own mortality and that of those whom she loves.
Yet this is not, ultimately, disabling for Meredith. She has to come to terms
with her inability directly to influence the circumstances that imperil her
(characteristically, for a 1980s nuclear text, news of events threatening nuclear
war is depicted in scenes in which the protagonists view television news
broadcasts, a one-way medium emphasising their enforced passivity),64 but
this also involves an enabling reappraisal of her place in relationships and in
society. As the epigraph to this section makes clear, her initial reaction is to
reach for an available discourse of patriarchal protection—the stereotyped
reliance on the protective power of her (rather useless) boyfriend, Barry—
but this is swiftly superseded by an awareness both of his identical vulnerability
and of her own strength in the face of adversity. She has grown up in a culture
that assumes men are “bigger” and “more powerful”—able to act in the
public sphere in ways unavailable to women—but the vulnerability she shares
3 THE POLITICS OF VULNERABILITY: PROTEST AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 73
with Barry shows this not to be the case; indeed, it shows her greater strength.
The emptiness of acts of masculine protection (actually configured as aggres-
sive acts, designed to hide vulnerability and reproducing in microcosm the
warlike protection of the nuclear deterrent) is replaced by her self-determina-
tion and a different sort of strength that accepts, and finds a way of acting in, a
threatening world.
Barry, too, is reshaped positively by the experience, eventually rejecting
a nihilistic worldview and finding strength through an encounter with the
most vulnerable in society: a woman who has planted and nurtured a
garden amidst the rubble of the most rundown, deprived part of the
city. Neither of their new understandings protect them from nuclear
war, but they provide ways of living that constitute defiance in the face
of a hostile, nuclear world.
They adopt values that explicitly counter those underpinning the ways
in which the nuclear state does its business. Although neither is able to
shape the outcome of the crisis that threatens them, they are, in the ways
in which they conduct their lives, able to espouse alternative means of
living that embody life-enhancing values. This involves opening up to
others, rather than constructing defensive walls by which to keep them
out. Rather than seeking conventional models of security, through a
strength predicated ultimately on violence, they involve a laying down of
arms, an opening of oneself to others. Understanding this act is key, in
many texts, to understanding their politics of vulnerability. We will see it
reproduced in various ways in the issues of gender, environment and social
organisation explored in the following chapters.
NOTES
1. See my article on Threads, “That’s Going to Happen to Us”, in the Journal
of British Cinema and Television, for a more detailed discussion of the
tension between documentary and realism in the film.
2. For instance, although the American fundamentalist televangelist, Jerry
Falwell, advocated prayer for peace, he also pointed out that “[t]he Word of
God teaches that this planet will be destroyed with fervent heat. This could
imply a nuclear explosion.” He offered some comfort by suggesting that the
timetable for Armageddon implies an extended period of tribulation after the
Rapture, so “the earliest that a worldwide nuclear confrontation could happen
is at least 1007 years away if Jesus would come for his saints today!” Falwell,
Nuclear War and the Second Coming of Jesus Christ, 4–5, 8 (Falwell 1983).
The evangelist Hal Lindsey also read contemporary international affairs
74 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
through the prism of biblical prophecy, but saw the end as rather more immi-
nent: the back cover of one of his books includes the disquieting claim that “WE
ARE THE GENERATION THAT WILL SEE THE END TIMES . . . AND
THE RETURN OF JESUS.” Lindsey, The 1980’s: Countdown to
Armageddon (New York: Bantam, 1981), cover (Lindsey 1981).
3. Andrew Hammond, British Fiction and the Cold War (Houndmills:
Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 55 (Hammond 2013).
4. Stephen King, The Stand (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1990), Kindle
edition, 1243 (King 1990).
5. Peter B. Hales, “The Atomic Sublime”, American Studies 32.1 (1991): 5–31
(Hales 1991).
6. David Graham, Down to a Sunless Sea (London: Pan, 1980), 232 (Graham
1980).
7. WarGames, directed by John Badham (USA: MGM, 1983) (WarGames 1983).
8. Eric Schlosser, Command and Control (London: Penguin, 2013), 15, 501
(Schlosser 2013). Schlosser labels The Third World War a “techno-thriller”,
a useful term that he gets from J. William Gibson’s “Redeeming Vietnam”,
which delineates clearly the ideological work such texts do.
9. Maggie Gee, The Burning Book (London: Faber, 1983), 254 (Gee 1983).
10. Jonathan Raban, Coasting (London: Picador, 1987), 88, 161, 182
(Raban 1987).
11. Gee, Burning Book, 155 (Gee 1983).
12. Gee, Burning Book, 155 (Gee 1983).
13. See Lifton and Falk, Indefensible Weapons (Lifton and Falk 1982). See also
Lifton, Death in Life, for details of Lifton’s work with the survivors of
Hiroshima, from which he extrapolated his understanding of the broader
psychological responses to nuclearism.
14. Daniel Cordle, “In Dreams, In Imagination: Suspense, Anxiety and the
Cold War in Tim O’Brien’s The Nuclear Age”, Critical Survey 19.2
(2007): 101–120 (Cordle 2007). Daniel Cordle, States of Suspense: The
Nuclear Age, Postmodernism and United States Fiction and Prose
(Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2008), 127–136 (Cordle 2008).
15. Gee, Burning Book, 155 (Gee 1983).
16. Gee, Burning Book, 228–229 (Gee 1983).
17. Gee, Burning Book, 205 (Gee 1983).
18. Gee, Burning Book, 162 (Gee 1983).
19. Gee, Burning Book, 248–249 (Gee 1983).
20. Lynne Jones, “Women’s Peace Camp: Greenham Common”, in Keeping the
Peace: A Women’s Peace Handbook, ed. Jones (London: Women’s Press,
1983), 93 (Jones 1983).
21. Guy Brett, Through Our Own Eyes: Popular Art and Modern History
(London: Heretic, 1986), 149 (Brett 1986).
3 THE POLITICS OF VULNERABILITY: PROTEST AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 75
22. Alice Cook and Gwyn Kirk, Greenham Women Everywhere: Dreams, Ideas
and Actions from the Women’s Peace Movement (London: Pluto, 1983), 70–
71 (Cook and Kirk 1983).
23. Rebecca Johnson, quoted in Cook and Kirk, Greenham Women Everywhere,
68 (Cook and Kirk 1983).
24. Cook and Kirk, Greenham Women Everywhere, 68 (Cook and Kirk 1983).
25. Rebecca Johnson, quoted in Cook and Kirk, Greenham Women Everywhere,
68 (Cook and Kirk 1983).
26. Caldicott, Missile Envy, 234 (Caldicott 1986).
27. At the conclusion of the novel, war erupts and everyone dies. However, at the
point at which we are asked to imagine the book we are holding exploding into
flame in the midst of a nuclear attack, the novel also reminds us that this has not
yet come to pass and that this nuclear future can be contested.
28. Gee, Burning Book, 249 (Gee 1983).
29. As remarked in Chapter 1, the only critical work that deals extensively with
children’s nuclear literature is Lenz’s Nuclear Age Literature for Youth. Very
much a product of its time, Lenz’s work seeks interestingly for a children’s
literature that challenges, rather than reinforces, the modes of thinking that
produced the contemporary nuclear emergency. Paul Brians’s “Nuclear
Fiction for Children” is also worth reading.
30. Judith Vigna, Nobody Wants a Nuclear War (Niles, IL: Albert Whitman and
Company, 1986), no page numbers in text (Vigna 1986).
31. Linda Pershing, The Ribbon Around the Pentagon: Peace by Piecemakers
(Knoxville: University of Texas Press, 1996), 48. See also my discussion of
women’s activism in Chapters 1, 2 and 4 (Pershing 1996).
32. Jane Langton, The Fragile Flag (Cambridge: Harper & Row, 1984), 21,
253 (Langton 1984).
33. Langton, Fragile Flag, 205 (Langton 1984).
34. Langton, Fragile Flag, 259–260 (Langton 1984).
35. Langton, Fragile Flag, epigraph (Langton 1984).
36. James D. Forman, Doomsday Plus Twelve (New York: Charles Scribener’s
Sons, 1984), 208 (Forman 1984).
37. Bernard Benson, The Peace Book (London: Jonathan Cape, 1981), 126
(Benson 1981).
38. Benson, Peace Book, 79 (Benson 1981).
39. Susan B. Weston, Children of the Light (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1985),
3 (Weston 1985). It is not quite right to call Weston’s novel “young adult”,
for it is much more firmly rooted in the future fantasy genre but, through its
focus on a teenager thrown onto his own resources and thus entering
adulthood, it overlaps with the concerns of young adult fiction.
40. Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, The Dark of the Tunnel (New York: Atheneum,
1985), 172 (Naylor 1985).
76 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
(meaning, both within the United States and within actual American
homes) a period of seeming consensus and prosperity (characterised by a
baby boom, a proliferating consumer culture and a focus on the domestic
space) was intimately connected to nuclear and other anxieties.
May’s Homeward Bound finds, in the 1950s, a “symbiotic connection
between the culture of the cold war and the domestic revival”, manifested
both in the baby boom and in the emergence of powerful discourses of
domesticity.2 She shows how thoroughly politicised by the nuclear Cold
War the seemingly apolitical spaces of US homes were. By providing the
illusion of a natural and depoliticised space, the home provided an oasis in
which anxieties about nuclear technology, the spread of communism and a
host of other social fears and ills were suppressed. Decked out with the
consumer technologies of the post-war boom, the middle-class, suburban
family home symbolised the triumph of American capitalism and was both
the product and the source of powerful narratives favouring conformity
and consensus. The baby boomer family became a powerful symbol of an
American way of life that had to be defended against the ideology and the
nuclear weaponry of the Soviet Union. It also dictated gendered aspira-
tions and divisions of labour that “contained” subversion and dissent.
Nadel’s Containment Culture similarly reads ideas of home and family
as shaped by Cold War discourse. For Nadel the early Cold War exempli-
fies “the power of large cultural narratives to unify, codify, and contain—
perhaps intimidate is the best word—the personal narratives of its popula-
tion.”3 In popular culture of the period a “mythic nuclear family” became
“the universal container of democratic values”. Its narratives, “filled with
repressed duality”, struggled to “reconcile the cult of domesticity with the
demand for domestic security.”4
Of course, as May and Nadel reveal, the image of the idealised suburban
family home that proliferated in adverts, lifestyle magazines and popular
culture concealed, rather than resolved, deep-seated social and cultural
anxieties. With domestic culture frequently unable to deliver the content-
ment it promised, and certainly incapable of setting right broader anxieties
and social ills, containment culture eventually collapsed under the weight
of its internal contradictions.
British nuclear and Cold War culture has been less thoroughly analysed
than that of the United States. Indeed, until recently its existence has
barely even been acknowledged. Only now are a new generation of nuclear
historians—see, for instance, Matthew Grant’s After the Bomb, Jonathan
Hogg’s British Nuclear Culture and a special edition of The British
4 POST-CONTAINMENT CULTURE: GENDER, FAMILY AND SOCIETY 79
[I]n recent decades the American family has come under virtual attack. It has
lost authority to government rule writers. It has seen its central role in the
education of young people narrowed and distorted. And it’s been forced to
turn over to big government far too many of its own resources in the form of
taxation.16
The conflation of the idea of the family as the primary source of moral
rectitude with the dislike of big government, portrayed as inhibiting the
ability of the family to function, was characteristic of a broader worldview,
mapping the family into neoliberal economic and social policy. This was
not an isolated example.
82 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
(father, mother and two children, male and female). In the film version each
informational segment ends with a brief animated sequence in which the
words “PROTECT AND SURVIVE” wrap themselves around the silhou-
ette of the family and then solidify into a white circle.
This is an image of protection: the circle seals the family from putative
outside threats and the parents’ hands rest reassuringly and protectively on
their children’s shoulders. The advice contained in the leaflet is intended
to be similarly reassuring of the possibility of protection, showing how to
strengthen the shell of the family home and proof it against outside threats
like radioactive fallout.
The primary focus for protection is, specifically, the middle-class family.
Although the leaflet explains what to do in various types of accommoda-
tion, the first two images of dwellings put us firmly in suburbia, with a
silhouette of a semi-detached, new-build house with a garage and trees at
its side. Later, when the booklet returns to the world outside the home to
show the male adult disposing of fire hazards in a dustbin, a similar world
of semi-detached houses with shrubbery in the gardens is in evidence in
the background of the image.18
Such design choices, while almost certainly made with only practical
issues in mind, are, of course, not innocent of ideology. They must be
understood in the context of the contemporary social vision, of the
politics, of the family. To this end it is worth noting that Protect and
Survive advice assumes a vision of society in which, under the stresses of
nuclear attack, the country atomizes into individual family units. The first
paragraph of advice in the “Planning for Survival” chapter, for example, is
to “stay at home” (there are stern warnings that if you move to a new area
“the authority in your new area will not help you with accommodation or
food or other essentials”).19 In the weeks following attack, Britain is
envisaged as a nation of families cut off from one another, sheltering in
their homes and awaiting advice from the authorities, presumably through
the medium of the portable radios they are advised to keep in their
shelters. While such advice is made for practical reasons—clearly being in
the open as fallout drifts across the country is a bad idea—it is a vision of
social organization that effaces human connection in anything other than
the seemingly natural unit of the family and mitigates against the possibi-
lity of civil unrest, a recurrent anxiety in planning for the aftermath of
nuclear war. “Contained” in its shelter the family is imagined as protected
both from the ravages of nuclear war and from the temptation of alliances
and actions that run counter to the aims of the state. Dutifully following
84 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
advice, the family becomes the instrument through which state power and
control is exercised over the population; or, perhaps more accurately,
through which the population enacts its own acquiescence.
A similar aesthetic is at work in US civil defence advice in the 1980s. For
instance, the Federal Emergency Management Agency’s leaflet, Home Shelter:
Outside Concrete Shelter (1980), shows on its cover a family (two adults, three
children) sat around a garden table, enjoying refreshments on their patio. A
cut-away shows the shelter that sits beneath the patio.20 On the cover of
another pamphlet, Home Fallout Shelter: Modified Ceiling Shelter—Basement
Location, Plan A (1980), a woman is shown in the basement of her home
loading a washing machine, next to which stands a tumble dryer.21 The rest
of the family are implicit here—the implication is that she is a mother doing
the family washing—and the white goods suggest middle-class suburbia.
Families, particularly middle-class families, are then central to the ima-
gination of nuclear war in official discourse. They form the basic organisa-
tional unit through which practical measures for survival are enacted and,
implicitly, from which (by receiving and dutifully following instructions
from the authorities) society will be reconstructed afterward. When 1980s
nuclear fictions reference this official advice, it is usually to show it as grimly,
laughably inadequate, as in Robert Swindells’s Brother in the Land (1984),
Raymond Briggs’s When the Wind Blows (1982), Louise Lawrence’s
Children of the Dust (1985), Phyllis Reynolds Naylor’s The Dark of the
Tunnel (1985) and, the most influential television depictions of nuclear
war, ABC’s The Day After (1983) and the BBC’s Threads (1984).
This protection discourse of the Cold War state was countered by a
protest discourse. Not only did this discourse contest civil defence advice
and nuclear strategy, it also often offered alternative models of gender and
family relations and particularly, through the influence of feminist activists
within the anti-nuclear movement, made the nuclear state the primary
manifestation and symbol of patriarchy.
who can only get through each day with recourse to tranquillisers, live lives
made unhappy by his father. In Arnold Madison’s It Can’t Happen to Me
(1981), Sandy’s parents are separated and she feels excluded from the happy
lives she thinks she sees as she walks suburban streets, catching glimpses
through lighted windows of “rectangles of warm, yellow light that occasion-
ally illuminated a picture of family life.”35 In Phyllis Reynolds Naylor’s The
Dark of the Tunnel (1985), Craig’s father is dead, killed in a mining accident,
and his mother, Mary Susan, is dying of cancer. Only after Mary Susan dies is
Craig’s uncle Jim able to admit he loves her and say he regrets not having
asked her to marry him. In Julian Thompson’s A Band of Angels (1986),
David describes his family life as “living a big cliché . . . the drunken father; and
the weepy, ineffective mom; and the resentful, wise-ass kid.”36 In Stephanie
Tolan’s Pride of the Peacock (1986), although Whitney has a strong, suppor-
tive family, she is worried about her parents divorcing.37 Even in Jane
Langton’s gentle book for younger children, The Fragile Flag (1984), in
which the family unit is an explicit source of strength and in which
Georgie’s family are “like a grove of trees . . . guarding her from sun and
wind and snow and every kind of trouble”, the family in question is an
extended, post-nuclear one (stepcousins share the same house) and young
Georgie must “take it into her head to march out from under their [her
family’s] kindly shade and walk nearly half a thousand miles in the glaring
heat” to protest against the government’s militarism.38
The attitude these texts take toward these changes and tensions in the
nuclear family unit differ widely, from conservative anxiety about the
collapse of the family, bubbling under the surface of The Danger
Quotient, to a more positive sense of the complex forms of accommoda-
tion and rapprochement that are possible when Meredith’s parents begin
to reconcile in If Winter Comes. In order to explore in more detail how
these new representations are mapped into nuclear politics, the remainder
of this chapter turns to treatments of the family in two novels with a
contemporary setting and four novels set in a post-nuclear future.
Families and the tensions within them are the focus of both the American
writer Richard Powers’s Prisoner’s Dilemma (1988) and the British writer
Maggie Gee’s The Burning Book (1983). In both texts families can be read
4 POST-CONTAINMENT CULTURE: GENDER, FAMILY AND SOCIETY 91
as seismographs for the Cold War on which tremors from the wider world,
presaging disaster, leave their traces.
Daniel Grausam has eloquently documented the way in which
Prisoner’s Dilemma is steeped in the Cold War.39 Set in the late 1970s,
the novel’s focus is a family crisis that has been sustained, like the Cold
War itself, over several decades. Eddie Hobson, the father and a young
man during World War II, is ill, subject to unexplained fits that have
plagued him for several years. His wife, Ailene, and his adult children,
with ages ranging from eighteen to twenty-five, Artie, Lily, Rachel and
Edward, disagree about whether Eddie is suffering from a physiological or
psychological ailment. They are not helped by Eddie’s propensity to talk
allusively, endlessly to ironise and to set riddles for his family.
In contrast to the idealised family of the 1950s, the Hobsons live not in
openness but in perpetual secrecy; not as a unit, but as separate individuals
isolated by bonds of love, suspicion and resentment. They are physically
together for much of the book, but remain emotionally distant from one
another and “dissolve”, we are told in a line that draws the connection
between personal and international relations, “into the house’s corners to
rule over independent, empty countries.”40 As in Gee’s The Burning Book,
in which the family unit is identified as a society in miniature, the
Hobsons’ problems become a microcosm of broader human and interna-
tional relations.
The perpetual but deferred crisis of Eddie’s sickness echoes the endless
deferral, the stasis, of the Cold War. After Eddie suffers the attack with
which the novel starts, we are told that the “local crisis passed” but
“Hobson’s crisis was that there was no crisis, and so [there was] nothing
the rest of them could do.”41 This is part of a sustained impression in
Prisoner’s Dilemma of what I have discussed elsewhere as the “state of
suspense” of Cold War nuclear literature.
The effect of this suspense is psychologically paralysing. Lily, for
instance, finds herself unable to break away from the family and loses the
chance to go to university: “She had stayed for their sake. . . . It was not
her fault that the Hobsons were always in the middle of a ‘just now.’ It
occurred to her that they were once again in a ‘just now’ just now.”42 The
Cold War seemed like an endless “just now”: a sense of emergency in
which history was forever frozen before the catastrophic event that would
end it, just as Eddie’s drawn out illness leaves the Hobsons’ lives sus-
pended in a series of “just nows” preceding his recuperation or death.
92 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
This problem of trust, the need to find a way beyond mutual suspi-
cions plaguing both international relations and more personal interac-
tions, recurs throughout the novel. Lily, for instance, perceives how
fear and distrust produce the outcomes against which they are meant to
guard when she comments on the obsessive security precautions of a
neighbour, Mrs Swallow, who constantly locks and rechecks her doors
and windows: the “true thief . . . hearing your [Mrs Swallow’s] desperate
door-shaking from her post in the window next door, thinks: ‘Such
measures! Here at last is something worth stealing.’”47 As Lily realises,
such paranoia leads to an internalising of the security state, the con-
sciousness of watching oneself as if one were an agent of the security
services: “the one you really fear is the officer of the law, making his
preventative rounds. What if he checks your door for your own safety,
only to discover to his bitter disappointment that you have let the
neighbourhood down, fallen slack on the one job expected of you:
the job of living by common precaution?”48 The domestic space
becomes a corollary of the Cold War world here, structured and
governed by projected fears of a malignant other that have the effect
of calling that other into being.
Hobstown, Eddie’s fantasy place, is a world beyond this, a “domain
where escalating suspicion had no place.”49 When he imagines the film he
wishes Disney had made, it portrays a world in which nuclear material has
been replaced by “Fairy Dust”, the scattering of which wakes people to
what they have in common rather than what divides them: “Break forth the
Fairy Dust. Magic powder, absorbed into the lungs and capillaries of the
audience, reduces Stalingrad, Dresden, and Buchenwald to you and the you
you share the armrest with.”50 This imagined world breaks through and
beyond the Prisoner’s Dilemma mindset of the Cold War to something
that can transform it.
The Prisoner’s Dilemma is essentially a state of mind. It purports to
model reality, but imposes a particular perception of society—as a series
of self-interested, isolated individuals, working only in their own best
interests—on that reality:
[T]wo men are put in separate rooms. They can play it safe or they can put
their fate in the hands of another. Lack of trust begets lack of trust. The fear
of being undercut trickles into the garden, as irreversible as falling. The
choice of those first two people filters into four, the four eight, and the eight
several billion.51
4 POST-CONTAINMENT CULTURE: GENDER, FAMILY AND SOCIETY 95
Artie conceives of the way out as reaching across the apparent divide to put
one’s fate in the hands of someone else: “The only way out was to release
the us-and-us that was trapped inside the you-versus-he.”53 This is
another, rather subtle, incarnation of the politics of vulnerability: the
Hobsons are riven by mutual distrust, just as the Cold War world is, and
the only way out is to take the risk of putting one’s trust in others. In other
words, Artie’s solution is for the prisoner to accept his vulnerability,
making the choice that allows the best mutual payoff even though that
exposes him to the possibility of betrayal.
What initially seem only to be the problems of a singularly eccentric and
troubled family are shown in Prisoner’s Dilemma, then, to be manifesta-
tions of broader geopolitical traumas. Something similar happens in The
Burning Book, where divided anxieties about love and war across several
generations of the Ship family come to a dramatic end in nuclear war. Both
texts manifest a post-containment conception of family.
96 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
question, “[w]hen will I be blown up?” he argued they should keep returning
to the “problems of the human heart . . . which alone can make good writ-
ing.”60 Yet, for Gee, it is precisely these problems of the heart that are
imperilled by the threat of nuclear war, not only because nuclear war will
kill people but because it threatens also to erase human understanding of the
world, removing meaning from the objects around us. With humans gone, or
with only a few survivors scraping out an existence after the holocaust, the
human understanding produced by cultural modes like metaphor and symbol
becomes irrelevant as things are reduced to their literal selves. Indeed, the
idea of the heart as a means to understand feeling or love is itself overwhelmed
as it becomes just another “smashable organ”.61 When Lorna imagines that
nothing else in life matters than love because “her heart would be full of
Henry”, the narrator interjects on a line separated from the rest of the text:
The counterpoint between the preoccupations with love of the family saga
and the italicised, ungrammatical interjection stressing the materiality of
the heart, making us think of its as an organ not a metaphor, demonstrates
the collapse of meaning. The means by which we know ourselves, the
poetry of language by which we elevate and comprehend our existence,
collapses in the face of nuclear war.
The novel shows the lives and narratives of ordinary people in an
ordinary family to be subject to master narratives of the Cold War that
may assert themselves at any time. Ominously, early on, we are told that
beyond the Ship family, the subject of the novel, are “other people so
famous that they are more real than life”; these are “our leaders, perhaps to
the end of time.” In this novel, the narrator tells us, they “stay backstage”,
but crucially they can affect the lives of the Ships and everyone else,
because, in the background, unseen by the audience, they have “final
control of the lighting”.63 As the book builds relentlessly toward the
“final violence”, the narrator interjects into the story, in parentheses, to
tell us that “(All of us live in a novel, and none of us do the writing. Just
offstage there are grim old men, planning to cut the lighting.)”.64 What is
in parentheses may break out at any moment to assert its mastery. This
self-reflexive turn in the novel is, then, more than flashy postmodern
playfulness, for the game being played is deadly urgent. I will return to
this adoption of postmodern form as a response to a crisis in meaning
produced by the nuclear emergency in Chapter 7.
4 POST-CONTAINMENT CULTURE: GENDER, FAMILY AND SOCIETY 99
It is not simply in The Burning Book that ordinary, apolitical lives are
impinged upon from outside by international politics; rather, and this is
central to the reading of the book as a post-containment novel, it is that
family and personal relations are always already imbued with politics. In
particular, a gender politics, both shaping and emerging from the circum-
stances of the nuclear Cold War, moulds lives in this novel. This emerges
most strongly in the portrayal of the final generation of the Ship family, the
siblings, Angela, Guy and George. In Chapter 3, I discussed how Guy’s
inadequacy is tied to his inability to think outside of the gender roles
ascribed to him. His pride in his penis, imagined as a weapon, and the
hold over him of the racist Empire Party are a product of his desire to deny
his vulnerability: “Before he had always been frightened; now he could be
frightening, too. With his [Empire Party] uniform on, he looked tall.”65 His
response to vulnerability is to suppress it, a dangerous flipside to the politics
of vulnerability, reproducing in microcosm the desire of the nuclear state to
suppress self-knowledge of its fragility by being militarily strong.
The novel explicitly genders this response by making Guy’s reaction
characteristically male. Women, in The Burning Book, generally express
frustration with the oppressive consequences that follow when men act
out such stereotyped models of masculinity. When Guy visits the home of
an Empire Party pal and listens, rapt, as his friend’s father bemoans the
arrival in Britain of “niggers”, “Pakis”, “jewboys”, “wogs” and “coons”,
the only woman present, his friend’s mother, remains silent but is allowed
a parenthetical paragraph in which her unspoken thoughts about her
husband are revealed:
(Would they always go on like that . . . ? If life was left to the men, she was
sure life wouldn’t go on. Stupid old bugger, she thought, as his voice droned
on, all acting. . . . [T]hey always had the power. They were just like babies,
men. Inventing battles and fighting.)66
The suggestion that her husband and others like him are babies recalls the
more sophisticated and worked through feminist response to the nuclear
standoff, encapsulated in the anti-nuclear slogan used on both sides of the
Atlantic, “Take the toys away from the boys”, which constructs the
nuclear Cold War as a product of patriarchy. There is something intrinsi-
cally childish, undeveloped, in the immediate recourse to violence and
threats of violence to resolve conflict, the novel suggests, a theme to which
I will return in the discussion of Le Guin later in this chapter.
100 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
suddenly cuts to white” and why he “nearly slam[med] this little doomed
person to the ground in [his] uncontrollable anger.”70 The story estab-
lishes a continuity between personal expressions of anger and violence and
the broader violence lying latent in (and unnamed in the story as) the
nuclear missiles poised around the globe. As the man gallops off with his
daughter, playing “horsey” with her at the end, the woman wonders about
“how to make sure that they gallop safely home through the airy scary
dreams of scientists and the bulky dreams of automakers.”71
Like Paley’s story, Gee’s novel evokes an acute sense of our vulnerabil-
ity in the face of conflict. Rooted in the present, it can only look fearfully
to an apocalyptic near future. It struggles to see a way out of both the
contemporary nuclear emergency and the patriarchal social structures to
which it considers the present to be bound. Texts set in the future,
however, are able to imagine alternative ways of being, to experiment
with different worldviews.
the holocaust! . . . You have no right to destroy any living thing!”)75 and
on the rejection of a capitalist system (a subject to which I will return in
more detail in Chapter 6) based on the accumulation of material wealth
(“We have no right to keep things to ourselves”).76
The gender politics of the novel are not entirely straightforward.
Although it exposes the male hierarchy of the military bunker, it seems
blind to the patriarchal system that persists for a while in the alternative
community. Despite Catherine’s claim to live in a liberated version of a
post-nuclear family, a man, Johnson, has cultivated, one might even say
groomed, given her young age, a sexual relationship with her. By the end
of the novel, however, this new society has become a matriarchal society.
Simon’s key insight is that Laura, and the new society she represents, has
replaced his own. He recognises that “[i]t was her world now, not his.”77
If Lawrence’s imagined future is an attempt to construct an alternative
world, Ursula Le Guin’s Always Coming Home (1985) is an exponentially
more complex project along similar lines. An “archaeology of the future”,
it is set in the “Valley”, a California of a time still to come inhabited by a
people, the Kesh, modelled loosely on the Native American peoples of
California.78 Although some structure is provided by the story of a
woman, Stone Telling, which appears in three parts, the plot is largely
secondary and the novel is a loose assemblage of folktales, ethnography,
mythology, history, natural history, recipes, songs and poems. The text is
interspersed with line drawings of the Valley’s flora and fauna by the artist
Margaret Chodos, and the first edition of the book includes an audio
cassette by the composer Todd Barton of songs and poems from the
Valley. It is, in short, an extraordinary and spectacular attempt to imagine
an entirely other way of being and the culture it might entail.
Some calamity has befallen our civilization—or, at least, it has ceased to
be—but the exact nature of the calamity is left unclear. It has, though,
nuclear overtones. Contemporary anxieties of nuclear-threatened cities
seem to be invoked. For instance, when a traveller from the Valley,
being ferried by boat, passes an island locals refer to as “City”, now just
a patch of “bare rock and some yerba Buena and beach grass and a couple
of tall, slender towers or masts supported by guywires”, the locals warn
him not to get close: “You touch, you die!”79
There is, indeed, a general toxic legacy from our time. The inhabitants
of the Valley know, we are told, of “permanent desolation of vast regions
through release of radioactive or poisonous substances, the permanent
genetic impairment from which they suffered most directly in the form of
104 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
the Condor and the Kesh is revealed through Stone Telling’s surprise that
the Condor think it appropriate for her to marry while still a virgin and
sexually inexperienced; in contrast, they see her as “dirt” precisely because
she has this reaction.89
Men and women have more mobile relations and families (though the
term does not really apply in the way in which we understand it) are fluid.
When, for instance, Stone Telling is without a grandfather on her father’s
side, Ninepoint asks if he can be her “side-grandfather” and “he came over
from their summerhouse in Bear Creek Canyon to teach me the songs of
the Fathers.”90 Forms of sexuality deemed as “deviant” elsewhere are not
prohibited either. It emerges without fanfare (a significant fact given the
1980s’ fraught relationship with homosexuality) that same sex relation-
ships are accepted by the Kesh, for a Condor woman who escapes to Kesh
society with Stone Telling is puzzled when she sees two men living
together and asks, “[h]ow can Jay and Stag Alone be married if they are
both men?”91 Indeed, Kesh identities are generally mobile and fluid, and
people change their names at various points in their lives to reflect changed
circumstances (Stone Telling, for instance, is North Owl as a child and
becomes Coming Home when she escapes from the Condor).
They view the warrior culture of the Condor as childish, echoing
perhaps the antinuclear slogan, “take the toys away from the boys”,
noted earlier. For example, as the Condor presence in the Valley produces
tensions, several people, mostly men, gravitate toward the Warrior Lodge
of the Kesh, but this is seen as a temporary sickness. Stone Telling’s
cousin, Hops, is one of these people and adopts the name Spear, much
to her derision: “I thought Spear was pretty silly—he might as well call
himself Big Penis and be done with it.”92 Rather like Guy, in The Burning
Book, Spear rather tiresomely equates his prowess as a warrior with his
sexual potency.
Similarly, a piece of Kesh folk history that appears in the book, “A War
with the Pig People,” tells of an encounter with a neighbouring people
that escalates into tribal warfare. In “A Commentary on the War with the
Pig People,” a woman, Clear, writes that “I am ashamed that six of the
people of my town who fought this war were grown people. Some of the
others were old enough to behave like adults, too.” As she explains, it “is
appropriate for children to fight, not having learned yet how to be mind-
ful, and not yet being strong”, and similarly adolescents “may choose to
throw away their own life, if they wish not to go on and undertake to live a
whole life into old age”, but as an adult a “person has made the other
4 POST-CONTAINMENT CULTURE: GENDER, FAMILY AND SOCIETY 107
setting, has as its main protagonist not a male warrior but a female healer,
who resists the urge to power and violence, explores her sexuality and is more
in control of it than women generally are in fantasy fiction. Like Stone
Telling, in Always Coming Home, she travels and encounters less progressive
societies, more like those of the contemporary West in their attitudes, that
facilitate a critique of our society through her values. The novel also plays
with readers’ gendered genre and social assumptions, inserting moments of
narrative surprise to unsettle their expectations. For instance, a minor char-
acter, a prison guard, is revealed, nonchalantly and without comment,
several pages after first appearing in the text, to be a woman.97 In both
these novels, the conventional nuclear family is disrupted through, for
instance, the representation of same sex relationships, alternative childcare
arrangements and more fluid family structures.
Such fluidity, such attempts to reimagine society and human subjectiv-
ity, reverberate into the subject of the next chapter, environmentalism.
Just as nuclear protest was invigorated by feminist campaigners in the
1980s, so too was it energised by environmentalists. This often involved
rethinking the relations between people and the natural and social envir-
onments in which they existed.
NOTES
1. Alan Nadel, Containment Culture: American Narratives, Postmodernism,
and the Atomic Age (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1995) (Nadel
1995). Elaine Tyler May, Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold
War Era, 2nd edn. (New York: Basic Books, 1999) (May 1999).
2. May, Homeward Bound, xxi (May 1999).
3. Nadel, Containment Culture, 4 (Nadel 1995).
4. Nadel, Containment Culture, xii (Nadel 1995).
5. Jonathan Hogg, British Nuclear Culture: Official and Unofficial Narratives in
the Long Twentieth Century (London: Bloomsbury, 2015) (Hogg 2016);
Matthew Grant, After the Bomb: Civil Defence and Nuclear War in Britain,
1945–68 (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009) (Grant 2009); special edition on
British nuclear culture of The British Journal for the History of Science 45.4
(2012). Peter Hennessy’s pioneering work in the area is a particularly valuable
and influential forerunner of this new nuclear history; see, for instance, The Secret
State: Whitehall and the Cold War (London: Penguin, 2003) (Hennessy 2003).
6. Grant, After the Bomb, 3 (Grant 2009).
7. See Hennessy’s chapter, “The Importance of Being Nuclear: The Bomb and
the Fear of Escalation”, in Secret State, 44–76 (Hennessy 2003).
4 POST-CONTAINMENT CULTURE: GENDER, FAMILY AND SOCIETY 109
was made into an acclaimed 1983 television film, Testament, that also
received a theatrical release.
73. Louise Lawrence, Children of the Dust (London: Lions Tracks, 1986), 17
(Lawrence 1986).
74. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 113 (Lawrence 1986).
75. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 136 (Lawrence 1986).
76. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 163 (Lawrence 1986).
77. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 179 (Lawrence 1986).
78. Ursula Le Guin, Always Coming Home (London: Grafton, 1988), 3
(Le Guin 1988).
79. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 139 (Le Guin 1988).
80. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 159 (Le Guin 1988).
81. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 147 (Le Guin 1988).
82. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 28 (Le Guin 1988).
83. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 40 (Le Guin 1988)
84. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 42 (Le Guin 1988).
85. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 347 (Le Guin 1988).
86. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 348 (Le Guin 1988).
87. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 360 (Le Guin 1988).
88. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 44 (Le Guin 1988).
89. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 343 (Le Guin 1988).
90. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 22 (Le Guin 1988).
91. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 366 (Le Guin 1988).
92. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 176 (Le Guin 1988).
93. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 133–134 (Le Guin 1988).
94. Le Guin, Always Coming Home, 357 (Le Guin 1988).
95. Michael Brayndick, “Interview with Ursula Le Guin”, Iowa Journal of
Literary Studies 7 (1986), 87, <http://ir.uiowa.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?
article=1192&context=ijls> [accessed 12 May 2014] (Brayndick 1986)
96. Brayndick, “Interview with Ursula Le Guin”, 89 (Brayndick 1986).
97. Vonda N. McIntyre, Dreamsnake (London: Pan, 1979), 222 (McIntyre
1979).
CHAPTER 5
[w]hen combined with the prompt destruction from nuclear blast, fires, and
fallout and the later enhancement of solar ultraviolet radiation due to ozone
depletion, long-term exposure to cold, dark, and radioactivity could pose a
serious threat to human survivors and to other species.6
5 ENVIRONMENTALISM AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 117
For those concerned by the hotting up of the Cold War these startling
predictions provided a useful addition to the arsenal of arguments that
might be brought to bear to contest the new-found enthusiasm of strate-
gists and policy makers for “limited” and “winnable” nuclear wars.
There were, then, several contributory factors to the urgency acquired
by environmental issues in nuclear discourse in the decade. Some of these
issues found direct expression in nuclear literature and culture, but it is
important to understand that they also had broader ramifications for how
the place of human life in the natural world was understood. In more
sophisticated texts the very idea of the human was reconfigured. The
remainder of this chapter turns to images of dust, the seasons and of
refuge to explore nuclear literature’s engagement with the decade’s envir-
onmental consciousness, a consciousness that it not only reflected but also
helped to shape.
people, in any case, radiation and radioactive fallout were the defining
horrors of nuclear war, even though blast and heat were likely to kill
more people. They made nuclear weapons seem more insidious: poi-
sonous as well as destructive. After nuclear war—and perhaps, with
nuclear testing, before nuclear war too—the environment, maybe
even people’s own bodies, could no longer be trusted.
The way in which Solnit articulates her anxieties about the dust of
the desert is revealing. In narrating the experience of potential expo-
sure Solnit describes not fear as one would normally expect to experi-
ence it—an instant, instinctive response by the amygdala, preceding
conscious thought, to peril—but a consciously initiated “remember-
ing” of the need to be afraid. It is as if the self has been dislocated
within the environment. The world appears mundane and ordinary—
the dust “didn’t look like anything special”; there is no smell or taste
giving away the presence of radioactive contaminants—and so Solnit
must force the psychological shift by which it is understood as peri-
lous. This is an experience of the kind invoked by Joseph Masco’s
concept of the “nuclear uncanny”, introduced in Chapter 2. The
body’s senses become untrustworthy. Indeed, at this point the con-
tamination is as significant in its infection of the imagination as it is in
its compromising of the physical, corporeal space. Solnit may or may
not have inhaled a radioactive contaminant, but her mind has been
colonised by awareness of toxicity. She has become subject to a nuclear
consciousness that changes her relationship to her body and her sense
of her body within the environment. As Masco puts it, “one experience
of the nuclear uncanny” is the “inability to disarticulate a traumatized
self from the environment.”10
Dust is disturbing because of its particularity: its capacity for dis-
persal, for being carried unnoticed on the wind or the sole of a shoe,
transferring itself from one place to another, sifting its way into spaces
that seem secure and lying unnoticed in the environment, from whence
it may insinuate itself into bodies and ecologies unseen. In Gloria
Miklowitz’s After the Bomb (1985), a young adult novel about an
unexpected nuclear attack on Los Angeles, Philip finds himself unable
to read the symptoms from which he suffers in the stressful period after
the bomb falls:
Was it [the atomic cloud] already dropping its poisonous particles? Was that
why he felt so tired now, as if he had gone without rest for days? Was that
5 ENVIRONMENTALISM AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 119
why he ached everywhere, why his legs trembled and a nagging hunger-
nausea plagued his stomach?11
Like Solnit, Philip does not know how to read the evidence of his body.
He has symptoms, but of what they are symptomatic—the signs are
identical to those of stress—is unclear.
A similar uncertainty besets the protagonists of Arnold Madison’s It
Can’t Happen to Me (1981), a young adult novel about a leak at Rocky
Falls, a nuclear power station.12 Tammie, the daughter of a farmer, worries
about “radiation in the milk” that may destroy her family’s business.13 In
the same book Sandy comments how life has been rendered strange,
cinematic indeed, by rumours of a nuclear accident: “it’s like a science-
fiction movie” she tells her boyfriend, Bryan. When she asks him to look at
the air and he protests that he cannot see anything, she says, “That’s
what’s so spooky. Everything looks fine, but something we can’t see
might be all around here, hurting us.”14 The “spookiness” of the everyday
(its potential to be nuclear, even though there is no direct signification of
this quality; the understanding that the ordinary “might” be malign) is a
corollary of the uncanny and marks here the dawn of nuclear
consciousness.
In Denis Johnson’s Fiskadoro (1985), set in the Florida Keys a genera-
tion after nuclear war, this eerie association persists into the future.
Radiation has become a malign, mystical force that people ward off with
ceremony, ritual and superstition. A merchant, for instance, peddles
“radiation-sensitive badges that made travel possible through the con-
taminated regions”, but the badges may or may not work and they offer
more psychological comfort—possibly at the expense of actual health—
than actual warning against radiation.15
These are all American examples, but British literature also bears the
impression of this nuclear presence, tracing the psychological impact of
nuclear contamination. After nuclear war, in Robert Swindells’s young
adult novel Brother in the Land (1984), “trillions of deadly radioactive
particles began to fall. They fell soundlessly, settling like an invisible snow
on the devastated earth.”16 Again their evasion of human senses—their
silence; their invisibility—is stressed, for their presence is thought rather
than known directly by sight, sound or smell. Later a black rain seems to
make visible this threat,17 and the novel goes on to exploit a common
anxiety in nuclear literature of nature being put out of joint and rendered
other than it really is. Radiation cannot be seen, but its symptoms
120 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
These are images not simply of nature, but of humans integrated with
nature, through farming. We are not on the remote moors or in the
wilderness of the Highlands, but in the pastoral, agricultural West
Country and the only ominous feature in the landscape—a marker of
its industrialisation—is the “nuclear power station on the opposite
bank” of the river.25 In counterpoint to this vision of fecundity is the
novel’s central image, the dust. As Sarah, her stepsiblings and her
stepmother try to protect their home against the impending nuclear
attack, a radio announcer urges them to secure “one room against
fallout”, and the sealing off of the family from the outside world
becomes a major preoccupation.26
This isolation of one space from another is an attempt to resist the
central logic of the ecological vision: the interconnectedness of everything
as ecosystems facilitate the transfer of agents between different environ-
ments. It is the failure of this resistance that is the family’s undoing. All
their attempts to keep out radioactive fallout are revealed to be in vain in a
moment of shocking realisation for Sarah:
[T]here was dust in the hearth, grey dust falling like soot, silent and deadly. . . .
The dust was everywhere, on all the surfaces, floating like scum on the bucket
of drinking water. . . . And the dust was inside them now, in herself and William
and Veronica, inside their gullets and being absorbed. They had . . . forgotten
to block up the chimney which was open to the sky.27
This chilling moment reveals not only the compromising of the domestic
space (the attempt to secure themselves within a discrete space is a cor-
ollary of the vain attempts at domestic containment discussed in the last
chapter), but of individual human bodies. The body here is not simply a
discrete thing, existing in the world; it is an ecosystem involved in pro-
cesses of exchange (through the mouth and nose; through the skin) with
the larger ecosystems of its external environment; indeed, it is a subset of
that environment.
122 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
what its people call “desolations”. When Stavia encounters her first one it is a
“place where the green of field and tree ended and a carpet of black and gray
extended to the south and east, losing itself in the distances.” A travelling
companion tells her that “south and east of the mountains, there’s nothing
but bleak desolations, as far as you can travel. The whole continent is
gone.”33 Similarly, in Vonda McIntyre’s Dreamsnake (1978), we learn
that the “earth was covered with great circular basins. . . . The craters were
so large, spread over such a distance, that they could have only one source.
Nuclear explosions had blasted them.”34
Often, these areas of desolation are accompanied by insidious radio-
active legacies, as in Dreamsnake where the effects of the war “lingered
visibly and invisibly”.35 One character, refusing to believe the mythology
that has grown to warn people away from the craters, dies after spending
time in one, her body horribly transformed from within: “another bruise
began to form as the capillaries ruptured, their walls so damaged by
radiation that mild pressure completed their destruction.”36 In other
texts the areas directly devastated by nuclear explosion are places of super-
stitious dread, as in Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker (1980) in which
Riddley comments that there “ben the dead towns all them years”,
avoided by his people and the subject of anxious speculation: “And all
them years you heard storys of dog people [in the towns]. Peopl with dogs
heads and dogs with peopls heads.”37
We will encounter more “desolations” later in the chapter, but before
so doing we should turn to the literary representation of an expected
environmental consequence of nuclear war that has its origins in the
1980s: nuclear winter theory. By considering it we begin to move toward
a broader understanding of the way in which nuclear war was imagined as
disrupting the natural rhythms of the planet.
Brinkley’s The Last Ship (1988), details the journey of one of the last
communities of humans aboard the Nathan James, a destroyer equipped
with nuclear-armed cruise missiles, through a cloud of fallout that blocks out
the sun and in which temperatures drop dramatically.46 In Kim Stanley
Robinson’s The Wild Shore (1984) there is “a winter that lasted ten
years”.47 Pamela Service’s fantasy novel for young adults, Winter of
Magic’s Return (1985), set in Wales 500 years in the future, begins with
twelve-year-old Welly waking up to the excitement of a thaw in June and the
hope of an “August with no snow on the ground”, for, after nuclear war,
“cold and darkness . . . [had] wiped out most life on the planet” and only
now is it beginning to warm up again.48 In Paul Cook’s Duende Meadow
(1985) a community survives in a mall, deep below the earth’s surface, 600
years after a nuclear war has “trapped them”, or at least so they imagine,
“underneath the ice sheets left over from the devastating nuclear winter”.49
Nuclear winter became a culturally resonant idea partly, no doubt, because
it captured in a phrase, and seemed to provide scientific legitimacy for, the
long-held popular notion that nuclear war would be an ecological catastrophe.
Indeed, the TTAPS paper echoes the powerful depiction of environmental
collapse in Jonathan Schell’s The Fate of the Earth (1982), published earlier in
the same year, initially in serial form in The New Yorker and then as a book.
Beyond the paper’s specific model of a post-nuclear future, the idea of nuclear
winter evokes disruption of the seasons that speaks to the culturally embedded
idea of the “unnatural” quality of nuclear experience.
The disruption of the seasons may also evoke Rachel Carson’s Silent
Spring (1962), perhaps the central founding text of the modern environ-
mental movement. Carson’s book, about the effects of DDT and similar
pesticides, was not about nuclear technology—though it drew some of its
imagery from health scares about nuclear weapons testing—but its chilling
first chapter, “A Fable of Tomorrow”, contains an apocalyptic scene evoca-
tive of a nuclear future. It begins with an idyllic vision of small-town
America, a world “in harmony with its surroundings”, amidst a “checker-
board of prosperous farms”.50 It then imagines the devastation wreaked by
a “strange blight [that] crept over the area”, as pesticides, used widely and
without thought to their secondary consequences, accumulate in the envir-
onment, entering the food chains and ecosystems that constitute it:
There was a strange stillness. The birds, for example—where had they gone?
Many people spoke of them, puzzled and disturbed. The feeding stations in
the backyards were deserted. The few birds seen anywhere were moribund;
126 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
they trembled violently and could not fly. It was a spring without voices. On
the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins,
catbirds, doves, jays, wrens, and scores of other bird voices there was now
no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh.51
This reference back to a text from two decades earlier is relevant not only
because Carson’s book was important to the environmentalists who were
finding their voices more strongly in the 1980s than ever before, and not
only because its “strange stillness” echoes Masco’s nuclear uncanny, but
also because a world devoid of birdsong became a powerful metaphor for
the ecological impact of nuclear war.
In Whitley Strieber and James Kunetka’s Warday and the Journey
Onward (1984), America after nuclear war is scarred by blasted, radio-
active “Dead Zones”. Where Washington used to be, the L.A. Times
reports, is a “forty-square-mile desert of black glass dotted with the
carcasses of sparrows and larks and the occasional duck.” It is so toxic
that “[b]irds died flying over it”.52 In David Graham’s Down to a Sunless
Sea (1979), a pilot, caught in the air when nuclear war convulses the
world, discovers, when he finally finds a safe landing strip in the Azores,
“[b]irds beyond number, heaped pathetically around the shrubs and
bushes in which they made their last roost.”53 The crew of the destroyer
in Brinkley’s The Last Ship land briefly on an African coast and it takes a
while for the captain to realise that what disquiets him is the “absence of
[the] sound” of “millions of insects, the carrying sound of birds, infinitely
varying, of all the animals, of unnumbered thousands of living things, a
marvellous cacophony, a great and mighty symphony of life itself.”54 In
Strieber’s Wolf of Shadows, one of the first signs by which the wolf notices
that something is askew in nature, is the honking of a flock of geese who
land in great distress after flying through fallout: “Tufts of feathers fell
from their wings when they flapped. Some of them seemed to be choking
on their own craws.” Very soon and “[o]ne by one they dipped their heads
in the water, and flapped no more.”55 In Swindells’s Brother in the Land a
young survivor in a post-nuclear Britain suddenly realises, a year or so after
the attack, that “[t]here were no birds. It was a long time before I noticed
this and when I did, I couldn’t remember whether I’d seen any since the
nukes. Maybe they’d all been wiped out the day it happened, or perhaps
they’d just gradually faded away. Anyway, there were none now.”56 In
Service’s Winter of Magic’s Return, 500 years after nuclear war birds are
still “rare sights anytime of year.”57
5 ENVIRONMENTALISM AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 127
War geopolitical divisions that sought to set people against each other.
Visions of connectivity, of the connectedness of humans to the natural
world but also of humans with one another (perhaps recalling the powerful
feminist image of the web of mutual support, discussed in the previous
chapter), emerge to counter the destructive global systems of the Cold War.
Because Cold War systems (malign ecologies comprised of nuclear weap-
ons, conventional military technology and personnel, espionage networks,
state bureaucracies and economies) also plug into each other, spanning the
planet, contesting them requires a global vision.
REFUGES
The possibility of an earth scarred by nuclear “desolations”, toxic effects of
fallout and disruption to the ecology and climate might suggest a vulner-
ability, of humans and of the planet, to nuclear technology that could not
be endured, particularly in the context of a powerful Cold War machine
that seemed to brook no resistance. Yet, a countermovement can be
detected in nuclear literature. Frequently it functions not by denying
vulnerability, but—like the feminist politics described in the previous
chapter—by embracing and exploiting it. In this more progressive envir-
onmental politics of vulnerability, shared peril becomes an opportunity to
build new alliances and contest ways of thinking endemic to the late Cold
War nuclear establishment. It is important to reemphasise that this was not
a passive vulnerability (or not necessarily so): it could be impassioned and
confrontational.
Perhaps the most important dimension of 1980s nuclear environmental
peril was that, with the potential for global thermonuclear war meaning
that no-one was exempt from the planet’s nuclear fate, there emerged also
the necessity of thinking how our humanity was held in common, above
and beyond political and national difference. By demonstrating the ten-
dency of nuclear materials and consequences to pass beyond geographical
and political borders, nuclear literature could ask its readers to conceive of
nuclear war as an attack not so much on particular countries as on the
whole planet and on all people.61 It could even sometimes offer glimmers
of non-human perspectives, challenging people to look beyond the tracery
of political and other boundaries around the globe, dividing one human
society from another. We will see later in the chapter, for instance, how the
migrations of birds in Terry Tempest Williams’s Refuge transcend human
boundaries, weaving places together in different ways and revealing both
5 ENVIRONMENTALISM AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 129
the fragility of the ecosystem (as vectors of transmission span the planet)
and the ephemerality and partiality of human conceptions of the world.
As the human species seemed to be imperilled, nuclear literature some-
times also called up shared notions of human identity. If such a human
identity was opposed to anything it was to those who threatened nuclear
war, and thus, as I have argued elsewhere, there was a shift in some anti-
nuclear discourses from “horizontal” conceptions of conflict (West against
East) to “vertical” ones (in which ordinary people in different countries were
collectively threatened by their leaders and the nuclear military machine).62
Such globalised constructions of humanity are not unproblematic—they
might, for instance, efface cultural differences whose starting points for
understanding what it is to be human are at odds with one another; we
may instinctively react to them as naïvely utopian; we may even disagree that
it is nuclear bombs per se which are the problem—but they represent an
innervating and exhilarating attempt to challenge and reach beyond destruc-
tive forms of nationalism.
The politics of vulnerability is important to the activism of 1980s
nuclear literature as a means of acknowledging, indeed celebrating, the
small and the vulnerable whose fates would otherwise be passed over as
insignificant. It was not merely that the lives of individuals were threatened
by nuclear technology, it was that the effects of those technologies were to
problematize the conceptual categories by which the human was under-
stood. Physical bodily boundaries separating self from world seemed to
dissolve, for instance, in the face of radiation or the ingestion of radio-
active fallout. Even if free of dangerous physiological contamination (as
most surely were), the mind could be penetrated and haunted by nuclear
anxieties. The natural world through which human subjects moved
seemed also to be compromised, its ecosystems permeated by a nuclear
presence. All these things meant that the coherence of the self, the
integrity of body and mind, seemed to be subject to malign forces moving
across and through it.
Yet, in the face of these threats, a firmer assertion of the value of
humanity, conceived as part of the world’s natural systems, arose.
Redemptive acts in nuclear texts are often celebrations of what is fragile,
rather than confident assertions of strength. In If Winter Comes (1986)
teenager Barry’s horror of nuclear war initially finds expression in a
destructive nihilism that threatens to accept, even welcome, the destruc-
tion war will wreak. Thinking of his fellow humans, his first reaction is that
“[s]ome of them would deserve [death]. . . . Maybe all of them. All of us.
130 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
Maybe it really is time to erase human beings and start over again.”63 By
the end of the book, though, he has found faith through an encounter
with a woman who, in the most rundown part of town, is nurturing a
garden. The garden is fragile, both because it is a tiny oasis in a blighted,
threatening urban landscape and because it will not survive nuclear war if it
comes, but there is also strength in this fragility: investing time and care in
the garden is an act of hope, of faith, about what might grow in the future.
Barry finds himself transformed by the experience: “he did feel better
standing here between the grass and the petunias than he had out on
the sidewalk. . . . Was it the growing things, he wondered, or this woman,
or the sheltered feeling of the place?”64 The “sheltered feeling” suggests a
refuge, but this is not a refuge of the kind imagined in civil defence
material: a shelter designed to be robust enough to withstand nuclear
attack. Instead, and more profoundly, the refuge is a new state of mind
that finds value in creativity, hope and empathy, both for other people and
for the natural environment.
Similarly, Stephanie Tolan’s Pride of the Peacock (1986) begins with
Whitney’s nuclear trauma, induced by reading Schell’s description in The
Fate of the Earth of ecological collapse following nuclear war. Schell’s vision
makes life seem unbearable for Whitney, especially when she thinks of the
vulnerability of her younger brother, Jeremy: “It was intolerable that Jeremy
should live in the dangerous, horrible world Jonathan Schell had written
about. It was intolerable that the fate of the earth would also be the fate of
Jeremy Whitehurst.”65 Whitney’s teenage awareness of nuclear war is por-
trayed through tropes of traumatic stress: flashbacks (albeit to imagined,
rather than actual, experience) and psychological fragility. There are “images
she couldn’t shut out. There were pictures she remembered from a movie
[almost certainly, from the description, ABC’s The Day After], of missiles
streaking across a clear blue sky, leaving clouds of vapor behind them.”66
Like Barry, in If Winter Comes, Whitney’s redemption comes through an
encounter with a woman and a garden. She meets and is befriended by a
sculptor, Theodora, who is seeking her own way out of grief following the
murder of her husband and who has moved into a rundown local property,
the garden of which she is trying to revive. By learning to appreciate garden-
ing, to embrace it as a creative means by which to nurture hope for the future,
Whitney is finally able to live in defiance of the destructive forces of the era.
When she sees that for “plants being underground meant life and growing”,
it is a realisation of the way in which life renews itself from the most
unpromising conditions.67 Theodora tells Whitney that she’s “been like a
5 ENVIRONMENTALISM AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 131
flower bulb the last few weeks, all hard and dry, with everything alive locked
up inside” and the implication at the end of the book is that, like the bulb,
Whitney will grow and blossom by living with and beyond the nuclear despair
that besets her.68
It is not coincidental in either of these books that hope comes through
encounters with women and with physical engagement with the natural
world through gardening. They signal an embracing of values that are
gendered as female and creative, in contrast to the values of the nuclear
state that are, by implication, patriarchal and sterile. There are in these
texts tentative assertions of human connection, one to another, and with
the earth. These are the roots of an ecological vision. Perhaps the fullest
and most sophisticated expression of this vision comes in Terry Tempest
Williams’s memoir Refuge (1991).69
Refuge appears, at first, to be a number of things, but not a nuclear text:
it is a work of nature writing, detailing the lives of birds in and around the
Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge in Utah, where Williams worked; it is a
memoir about the devastation wreaked in Williams’s family by breast
cancer; and it recounts attempts to manage rises in the level of the Great
Salt Lake that threaten the surrounding area. It is only a furious, powerful
essay, “The Clan of One-Breasted Women”, appended after the main
narrative, which reveals a nuclear dimension, transforming our under-
standing of what has gone before and showing how deeply embedded
personal and local concerns are in Cold War nuclear contexts. Through
this essay the rest of the text becomes nuclear, for it unfolds an, if not quite
secret, certainly strongly suppressed nuclear history, explaining the perso-
nal narratives of loss with which the book is concerned.
In “The Clan of One-Breasted Women” Williams reveals what she
herself discovers late on: that the illness suffered by the women in her
family (before 1960 only one had faced breast cancer; afterwards, nine
women, seven of whom later died, had mastectomies for breast cancer—
hence the clan of “one-breasted” women) might be a consequence of
nuclear testing in Nevada, where atmospheric tests took place in the
1950s. The dust Solnit fears in Savage Dreams, noted earlier, is the dust
from these and subsequent tests (the peace camp Solnit visits, at about the
same time Williams is writing Refuge, is in Nevada).
Williams discovers the nuclear connection when she recounts a
recurring a dream (a “flash of light in the desert”) to her father, who
reveals its origin in childhood experience of a nuclear test, as the family
were driving down the highway: “You were sitting on Diane’s [your
132 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
Nuclear war became the bombs bursting over and over again in rehearsals
for holocaust, and war became a mother’s issue, because it was no longer on
an international frontier or in a distant future. It was in the bones of
children, and it might already be fatal.72
establishment (and persisting beyond the end of the Cold War), based on
suspicion, division and defence against an other assumed always to be hostile.
Such attempts to think globally recur elsewhere, although they are not of
course universal in nuclear literature. Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony
(1977), for instance, about a Native American World War II veteran strug-
gling to fit back into life in New Mexico,82 is not conventionally read as a
nuclear text, but is reliant on symbolic matrices that draw heavily on nuclear
contexts (from references invoking the bombings of Hiroshima and
Nagasaki, to Tayo’s grandmother’s vision of a bright flash that is the
Trinity test of July 1945). Contamination and sickness, of the land (through
drought) and of humans, are predominant tropes in the novel and the
climax, at an abandoned uranium mine, invokes a world infused by the
physical, psychological and cultural consequences of living in a nuclear
world. The mythology of the “destroyers” constructed by the text, through
its invocation of Native American stories and ceremonies, projects Tayo’s
battle to survive and readjust onto a global level. Tayo must protect himself
from the destroyers, but also, significantly for the text’s politics of vulner-
ability, he must protect them from himself: at the novel’s climax he refuses to
use violence in revenge against an enemy and this is the only way he can deny
the destroyers’ power and refuse to become a destroyer himself.
Like Refuge, Ceremony invokes a deep connection with the planet—“we
came out of the land and we are hers” says the narrator,83 toward the end of
the novel, invoking a different sort of emergence from the earth than the
references to mining in both texts—and suggests a profound embedding of
humans within the ecologies, spiritual as well as natural, of the Earth. There
is a mythic dimension to texts like Refuge and Ceremony, but it is combined
with a sharp understanding of the concrete political realities of lived experi-
ence. Both texts locate their ecological visions within an adroit, historically
informed depiction of people’s relation to land and society.
Another dimension of the politics of nuclear texts is their engagement
with contemporary debates about the economy and about social structure
and organisation. It is to these issues that the next chapter turns.
NOTES
1. Catriona Davies, “20 Years On, Britain Still Feels the Effects of Chernobyl”, The
Telegraph, 1 April 2006 <http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/
1514492/20-years-on-Britain-still-feels-the-effects-of-Chernobyl.html>
[accessed 13 July 2015]. Geoffrey Lean, “Chernobyl ‘Still Causing Cancer in
5 ENVIRONMENTALISM AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 137
20. See, for instance, Judith Merril’s short story “That Only a Mother” (1948),
originally published in 1948, for an early articulation of this fear. Available in
The Best of Judith Merril, 15–25.
21. Kate Bush, “Breathing”, 7” single (EMI, 1980).
22. Maggie Gee, Grace (London: Sphere, 1989), 47 (Gee 1989). For a more
direct engagement with the Chernobyl disaster and its radioactive conse-
quences, see Frederik Pohl’s Chernobyl: A Novel (1987) (Pohl 1987), a
gripping novelization of the accident.
23. Gee, Grace, 89 (Gee 1989).
24. Louise Lawrence, Children of the Dust (London: Lions Tracks, 1986), 10
(Lawrence 1986).
25. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 10 (Lawrence 1986).
26. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 13 (Lawrence 1986).
27. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 39 (Lawrence 1986).
28. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 192 (Lawrence 1986).
29. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 191 (Lawrence 1986).
30. Millicent Lenz, Nuclear Age Literature for Youth: The Quest for a Life-Affirming
Ethic (Chicago: American Library Association, 1990), 156 (Lenz 1990). David
Palmer’s Emergence (1984) is similarly problematic (Palmer 1986).
31. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 161 (Lawrence 1986).
32. Lawrence, Children of the Dust, 172 (Lawrence 1986).
33. Sheri S. Tepper, The Gate to Women’s Country (London: Corgi, 1990),
120–121 (Tepper 1990).
34. Vonda N. McIntyre, Dreamsnake (London: Pan, 1979), 50 (McIntyre
1979).
35. McIntyre, Dreamsnake, 50 (McIntyre 1979).
36. McIntyre, Dreamsnake, 50, 51 (McIntyre 1979).
37. Russell Hoban, Riddley Walker (London: Bloomsbury, 2002), 14 (Hoban
2002). The curious spelling is Riddley’s post-apocalyptic argot, in which the
book is narrated.
38. Walter M. Miller, Jr, “Forewarning”, in Miller and Martin H. Greenberg
(eds), Beyond Armageddon (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006),
xiv (Miller and Greenberg 2006).
39. I discuss the North American reception of Threads, as well as its strange and
brilliant genre-breaking, in my article “That’s going to happen to us, it is”.
40. See note 6.
41. Lynne Hall, If Winter Comes (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1986), 4
(Hall 1986).
42. Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, The Dark of the Tunnel (New York: Atheneum,
1985), 167, 169–170 (Naylor 1985).
43. William Prochnau, Trinity’s Child (London: Sphere, 1985), 232 (Prochnau
1985).
5 ENVIRONMENTALISM AND NUCLEAR LITERATURE 139
social and economic organisation into the future, using the stresses of
post-war life as a test bed for competing theories about how humans
might best come back together, share their lives and defend their nascent
communities from outside threats. Such literary thought experiments
about society were given added urgency by controversies, particularly in
Britain, about government plans for running the country after nuclear
attack.
This chapter explores how nuclear issues became caught up in 1980s
debates about economic and social organisation, particularly the emer-
gence of neoliberalism as a powerful political force in the United States
and Britain. Nuclear texts frequently map the defence establishment, the
Cold War status quo and nuclear policy into contemporary political con-
flicts. Indeed, although for Western democracies the Cold War was pri-
marily about the struggle with the authoritarian communist powers of the
Soviet Union that seemed to threaten from outside their borders, the most
captivating debates in nuclear texts are on the subject of struggles within
Western societies about social organisation.
Such conflicts were felt acutely in both Britain and the United States
and crystallised around the figures of Margaret Thatcher and Ronald
Reagan, whose governments combined aggressive neoliberal restructuring
of society (shrinking the state; cutting welfare; challenging the role of
unions) with bellicose Cold War rhetoric and, particularly in the United
States, massive military investment (in, for instance, the neutron bomb,
the MX missile system and the Strategic Defense Initiative). Indeed, one
of the reasons the literature of the 1980s should remain compelling to us is
that it emerges from the decade in which key political battles were fought
that still shape society. Nuclear texts of the decade are the indices both of
our own society and of alternative societies that might have been, perhaps
could still be, possible.
It is not merely that the 1980s radical governments of the right estab-
lished a new orthodoxy at a time that happened to be one in which there
was public interest in nuclear issues, for debates about nuclear and Cold War
policy were bound up with broader discussion about how society should be
organised. For instance, some argued that military investment took money
from more productive sectors of society at a time of recession, high unem-
ployment and deep unease about the ability of American and British econo-
mies to keep pace with the surging economies of Japan and West Germany.
Most pointedly, if rather simplistically, this was captured in placards at anti-
nuclear rallies calling for “Jobs Not Bombs”. However, there was also a
6 FROM THE ASHES: SOCIETY AND ECONOMY IN NUCLEAR LITERATURE 143
The world is moving rapidly toward the final medical epidemic, thermo-
nuclear war. This planet can be compared to a terminally ill patient infected
with lethal “macrobes” which are metastasizing rapidly. The terminal event
will be essentially medical in nature, but there will be few physicians remain-
ing to treat the survivors.3
Crucially, pointing this out for Geiger is not simply about identifying an
issue, the “essentially hopeless [medical] task of response to a nuclear
attack”, facing his profession. Rather, this challenge is indicative of a
broader societal implication of nuclear war: the difficulty that would face
doctors is a “metaphor for all complex human—that is to say, social—
activities in the post-attack period.”5 Medical care, an assumed corner-
stone of civilised society, becomes a metonym for other pillars of civiliza-
tion that we take for granted. Not only will physical infrastructure (power,
transport, communication, food distribution networks) be destroyed,
complex “human interactions and organizations” that rely on that infra-
structure will also fail: “social fabric is ruptured, probably irreparably, by
even a single nuclear weapon.”6
Geiger articulates a concern here that was more broadly present in
1980s debates about the threat nuclear war posed to human civilization.
Late twentieth-century society’s complexity was both its strength and its
weakness. The point was perhaps most powerfully made for the public in
6 FROM THE ASHES: SOCIETY AND ECONOMY IN NUCLEAR LITERATURE 145
Such arguments were not limited to the United States and were also
being made in Britain. A 1980 editorial in the prestigious medical journal
The Lancet argued that the medical profession “must never neglect its
responsibility to protest at the grim paradox between the world’s enor-
mous and mounting military expenditure and the comparatively meagre
efforts devoted to the relief of poverty, malnutrition, and disease.”10
The most striking inclusion in The Final Epidemic on this subject,
because its presence signalled dissent from the new economic paradigm
driving the policies of both American and British governments in the
1980s, is the economist J.K. Galbraith’s piece “Economics of an Arms
Race—and After”, quoted for the epigraph to this chapter. Galbraith’s
presence was significant because as a post-Keynesian economist he was at
odds with the policies advocated by Chicago School economists like
Milton Friedman, whose radical free-market philosophies were being put
into action by the Reagan and Thatcher governments and were to become
the basis for the neoliberal consensus that followed the 1980s.11
(Revealingly, in The K/V Papers, the fictionalised correspondence between
Soviet and US military officials in cahoots over the arms trade, Barbara
Goodwin has K, the American, respond archly to his Soviet counterpart,
“[b]y the way ‘our’ Keynes was British, and a dangerous socialist. Anyway,
he’s obsolete. We’re keener on Milton Freedman over here.”)12
Like other contributors Galbraith draws attention to the impact of spend-
ing money that could be directed elsewhere: “Have we strengthened our
position in the world by accepting a decline in our civilian industry? In an age
of overkill, do we win industrial strength by investing in yet more overkill?”13
However, he goes further by drawing attention to what he sees as the
absurdity of defending an economic and social system with weapons that
would so wreck the world as to render the niceties of economic theory
irrelevant in an “ultra-primitive struggle for existence”.14 In his article, we
see once again the emergence of a voice of protest (albeit a tempered one) to
counter the protection discourse that made ever-increasing nuclear strength
the source of security. The “force sustaining the arms race”, he says, is the
belief that it is “by a large and growing commitment to weaponry, at
whatever cost or danger, that we protect” capitalism and “free institutions”
against communism.15
Such debates about economy, society and government spending priorities
might seem rather distant from the more ethereal concerns of nuclear
literature with its focus on individual human experience and anxiety about
nuclear war. On the contrary, however, such preoccupations—part of
148 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
broader and heated debate about domestic economic policies and the rela-
tive merits of post-Keynesian, Chicago School and socialist economics—are
often very much present in nuclear texts. They are there in texts set in the
1980s or in near-future extrapolations of 1980s society, in which, for
instance, the shifts in Western economies, and their human consequences,
can be seen. This is the focus of the next section of this chapter. The final
section then turns to fictions set after nuclear war where they can be seen in
the assumptions writers make about the forms of society that will arise from
the “ashes” that Galbraith guessed might produce no society at all.
living at . . . cheating” but “no one seemed to have thought through the
implications of a world in which everyone cheated.” Everyone cheated
“because everyone was cheating” and so “Keith would have to cheat
more, cheat sooner and cheat harder than the next guy, and generally
expand the whole concept of cheating.”24 Like Clinch he participates in the
system which he also diagnoses. As he comments, ruefully, “[c]apitalism
innit. . . . Just bloodsuckers as such.”25
If London Fields works as, amongst other things, a satire on Thatcherite
Britain through which linguistic playfulness and dark insinuations evoke,
while rarely explicitly naming, nuclear dread, The Child in Time proffers a
near-future vision in which McEwan extrapolates from contemporary
trends to imagine a more intensely Thatcherite society. The Britain of
The Child in Time is one in which, almost without comment, the privati-
sation initiatives of the decade have been radically extended. Education is
no longer seen as a means to equalise society or as a service provided by the
state; rather, “schools were up for sale to private investors, the leaving age
was soon to be lowered.”26 Although McEwan’s invention here seems
presciently to anticipate an extension of privatisation that eventually came
in 2010 with the Academies Act (which provided for Academies and Free
Schools, outside local authority control, in some cases with private spon-
sorship), it echoes ideas that were already being floated in the 1980s. In
her 1987 conference speech (the same year in which The Child in Time
was published, though presumably McEwan could have had no inkling
how closely it would echo his book), Thatcher averred that “we will give
parents and governors the right to take their children’s school out of the
hands of the local authority and into the hands of their own governing
body.”27
This is just one of a whole series of areas in which, in The Child in Time,
the public sector and state provision of support for its citizens have been
cut. The book begins with the statement that both government and most
citizens believe subsidised public transport to be a “denial of individual
liberty”.28 Welfare seems now to be a matter not of state provision to
support the vulnerable, but of private, individual charity, for beggars are
“licensed”.29 In his father’s house, Stephen spots a list of phone numbers
for a “few private ambulance companies”, implying that the National
Health Service has been at least partially privatised.30
The vision of society in The Child in Time is one in which the neoliberal
aspiration to shrink the role of government has come to pass: “govern-
mental responsibilities had been redefined in purer, simpler terms: to keep
6 FROM THE ASHES: SOCIETY AND ECONOMY IN NUCLEAR LITERATURE 151
order, and to defend the State against its enemies.”31 This redefinition of
the role of the state, shrinking from playing an active role in the promotion
of people’s happiness and wellbeing to the most basic of functions, is
continuous with the protection discourses of 1980s nuclear policy as it
existed in the context of a refashioning of the economy. It is a conserva-
tism that involves a general withdrawal of the state from engagement with
people’s social being:
[There was a] demise of a more general principle that on the whole life
would get better for more and more people and that it was the responsibility
of governments to stage-manage this drama of realised potential, widening
possibilities. The cast of improvers had once been immense and there had
always been jobs for types like Stephen and his friends. Teachers, museum
keepers mummers, actors, itinerant story-tellers—a huge company and all
bankrolled by the State.32
Presciently, the novel depicts the extinction of debate between left and right
in British politics—a portrayal that anticipates the conceding of socialist
principles by the Labour Party—and in Charles Darke creates a figure whose
political career is the logical outcome of this shift. With no challenge to the
neoliberal worldview, politics becomes managerial rather than ideological
and Darke can prosper in such a world, for he has “managerial skill and
great ambition” rather than “political convictions”.33
Such overt engagements with the broader currents of political philo-
sophy in the 1980s are less obvious in US literature, perhaps because the
organised labour movement was less involved in mainstream politics than
it was, through the Labour Party, in Britain. Nevertheless, the political
and economic climate of the 1980s is of course present in American
texts. Robert McCammon’s Swan Song (1987) begins with a portrait of a
country swept by poverty, strikes, drug problems and homelessness, an
apocalyptic vision of the contemporary moment, and then describes its
destruction in nuclear attack. In Tim O’Brien’s The Nuclear Age (1985)
William Cowling, the narrator, terrified of nuclear war, is an ex-1960s
radical who has made it rich on the back of uranium but whose purchase
of the comforts of domestic commodities can buy him security neither
from nuclear war, nor from the possibility that his family will break apart.
In Don DeLillo’s White Noise (1986), implicitly rather than explicitly a
nuclear text as I have discussed elsewhere,34 Jack Gladney similarly seeks
vainly to assuage fear of death and disaster with capital expenditure.
152 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
Shopping at the mall with his family he says he “began to grow in value and
self-regard. I filled myself out, found new aspects of myself, located a person
I’d forgotten existed.”35 Jack’s existential void—a fear of death brought into
focus in the small-scale apocalypse of the “airborne toxic event” that is at the
heart of the novel—is briefly, inadequately filled with consumer goods, his
ability to spend temporarily validating his existence. Indeed, the mall, suf-
fused with one of many examples of white noise in the novel—“a roar
[of voices and Muzak] that echoed and swirled through the vast gallery,
mixing with noises from the tiers, with shuffling feet and chiming bells, the
hum of escalators, the sound of people eating, the human buzz of some vivid
and happy transaction”36—becomes an image of the consumerist distrac-
tions that can never quite compensate for anxiety about death, a fear that in
the 1980s was associated on the societal and global level with nuclear war.
Hence, visions of contemporary (or near future) society in 1980s
nuclear literature are inevitably contextualised through a broader contem-
porary politics. Depictions of societies after nuclear war also draw on this
politics. Fictions imagining the world after the Bomb, or after unspecified
calamities implying something akin to it, project contemporary debates
about social organisation and economy into the future.
POST-NUCLEAR SOCIETIES
Unsurprisingly, there was much discussion in the 1980s of what the world
would be like after nuclear war. This meant not only the physical condition
of survivors and the environmental conditions they might face, but also
the forms in which society might survive and how it could continue to
function. A particular preoccupation was the role of the state. Would
nation states as we know them persist in any meaningful sense? Would
there be functioning authorities or would survivors have to generate their
own structures for governance and survival? If a government did remain,
would it operate meaningfully on a national level or would it be fractured
into loosely connected, or entirely disconnected, local arrangements?
Fiction was particularly preoccupied with the social impact of nuclear
war and the politics of the post-apocalyptic world. Imagining the shatter-
ing of the familiar world furnished writers with scenarios in which to play
out fears about the more authoritarian energies of the nuclear state, as well
as to explore the possibilities for alternative societies.
Whitley Strieber and James Kunetka’s Warday (1985) imagines nuclear
war as an economic catastrophe. Set a few years after a “limited” nuclear
6 FROM THE ASHES: SOCIETY AND ECONOMY IN NUCLEAR LITERATURE 153
war has devastated the United States, the novel’s conceit is that Strieber
and Kunetka have themselves survived the attack and are now undertaking
a journey around the United States. This conceit is carried through to the
framing apparatus of the novel, for the book’s dedication is to “October
27, 1988, the last full day of the old world.” These fictionalised authorial
personas produce, through this travel narrative, which includes (fictional)
interviews and tables of statistics, an impression of how the country has
changed.
Everywhere they go they encounter economic, as well as human and
environmental, catastrophe. On the very first page, Strieber, writing of the
“artefacts of that time” before nuclear war (treasured possessions that
remind him of a world that turned out to be less permanent than it
seemed), comments on a statement of shareholdings:
I have been marked by the economic disaster as much as, or more than, by the
radiation. In the final analysis, for so many of us, the closed bank and the
worthless money are truer expressions of Warday than is some distant mush-
room cloud. My last stock statement from Shearson/American express, for
example, is probably my most treasured talisman of the past. It reminds me of
the fragility of complex things. Somehow, age has given it beauty. I can imagine
that such a thing, covered with symbols and symbolic numbers, associated with
a mythical time of plenty, could one day become an object of worship.37
The focus on the materiality of this text, its tactility (Strieber goes on to
describe smoothing out the paper to read it) typifies a broader concern in
nuclear literature with the material presence of the written word (an issue
to which I will return in Chapter 7) and highlights by contrast the
immateriality and ephemerality of an economic system that had seemed
so concrete. What seemed so robust turned out to be fragile and vulner-
able. The “time of plenty”, the era of capitalist abundance, conceived as
the telos of history, turns out to have been a chimera, a passing illusion.
This revelation of the fragility of the financial system, the extent to
which it is a virtual construct, is revisited later in the novel. Walter Tevis,
an economist interviewed by Strieber and Kunetka, recalls his “sense of
panic when I discovered I had no money. None. Even my MasterCard was
meaningless. My bank account was simply another lost record among
billions of lost records. Our economy was electronically erased, really.”38
The world depicted by Strieber and Kunetka reproduces three contem-
porary American anxieties in addition to nuclear war. The first is about the
154 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
These shape the new structures and accommodations to life after nuclear
war with which the novel is so fascinated. In the Southwest Strieber and
Kunetka encounter members of the “Destructuralist Movement”, border-
line terrorists yearning nostalgically for an older America rooted in a
traditional conception of the family and believing there should be “no
social structure beyond the extended family.”44 One woman tells them of
Destructuralist aspirations: “We have a vision . . . of a true Jeffersonian
society in America. This could be a nation of famers, where everybody is
self-sufficient and God-fearing, and the family is the centre of things.”45
The homey Americanism here is an extreme extrapolation from the values
on which Reagan staked his appeal. In general, the complex map of the
United States that emerges from Strieber and Kunetka’s novel is one riven
by alternative conceptions of how America should be.
Different anxieties about society immediately after nuclear war haunt
Robert Swindells’s young adult novel Brother in the Land (1984). The
novel begins with the nuclear attack on Britain that will change its teenage
protagonist’s life and then goes on to depict struggles over governance
and society.
The horror of nuclear attack is followed by another kind of horror: the
realisation by survivors in the English northern town of Skipton that the
authorities in whom they put their faith are capitalising on the state of
emergency to impose a brutal authoritarianism. This is presented within a
continuum of suspect advice from authorities, the roots of which lie in the
late Cold War Britain inhabited by Swindells’s readers. As noted in
Chapter 1, the schoolboy narrator, Danny, is withering about the official
civil defence advice provided in Protect and Survive.46 Attempts to follow
the leaflet’s guidance for the post-attack scenario expose further inade-
quacies, for instance, when Danny’s father wraps up the body of his wife,
but has no way to label the body, as instructed; meanwhile, many other
corpses remain unwrapped and unburied.47 It is not simply, though, the
absurd disjunction between the ordered world imagined by the leaflets and
the reality of Britain after nuclear attack that the novel exposes; it soon
reveals something more sinister.
When soldiers set up base at a local farm, people anticipate that, as the
civil defence booklet promises, the “dead will be collected and feeding-
centres set up”.48 However, people who go to the farm to request help
disappear and the few remaining sources of food are monopolised and
guarded by armed men in fallout suits. Men claiming to represent the
“Local Commissioner” arrive in a truck to collect the injured, but
156 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
eventually it becomes clear that that the infirm are shot in secret, not
cared for. Swindells thus presents his teenage readers with a brutal vision
of the post-war nuclear state. Authority is military, dictatorial and unac-
countable. Hopes that civilian government has survived in a deep shelter
somewhere are frustrated: all they ever hear over the radio (official advice
was to sit tight and await instructions via the radio) is static.49
This depiction of a nascent far-right state draws on contemporary
discussion about official plans for governing the country after nuclear
attack. For instance, in “If the Bomb Drops”, the 1980 episode of the
Panorama documentary series introducing many people to Protect and
Survive for the first time (discussed in Chapter 1), there is a chilling
exchange during a civil defence exercise in Humberside between the
reporter, a youthful Jeremy Paxman, and Keith Bridge, a former accoun-
tant who is Chief Executive of the local authority in peacetime but who
would be “The Controller” of the region during and after nuclear war.
Bridge says that “as soon as the bomb goes off” he has “total power”,
including that over “life and death”. When pressed on what this would
mean, he says, “if people were looting it would be within my competence
to instruct that they be executed” and then calmly says that he has no
concerns about being invested with such power. Later in the exercise, we
see him enacting exactly this power, giving police on the ground the
authority to shoot a group of thirty survivors heading for the control
bunker, demanding food.50
Other frightening visions of post-nuclear society appeared elsewhere
too. The investigative journalist, Duncan Campbell, published War Plan
UK in 1983, revealing that there would be requisition of food supplies,
internment of suspected dissidents and strict controls on citizens’ move-
ment during national emergency. As Campbell puts it, in “Britain, the idea
of ‘civil’ defence has been turned on its head. Home Defence is about the
protection of government—if need be, against the civil population.”51
Campbell was also an advisor for the BBC’s drama-documentary about
nuclear war scripted by Barry Hines, Threads (1984), a chilling feature of
which is its depiction of post-nuclear government as, by turns, chaotic,
incompetent and brutal—for example, in a scene in which looters are shot
without trial.
Hence, as well as fear of the Bomb itself, there were real anxieties about
the potential for fascistic forms of society to emerge as government
struggled to preserve order after nuclear attack. In general, in British
texts these are fears of government; in US texts they are fears of extreme
6 FROM THE ASHES: SOCIETY AND ECONOMY IN NUCLEAR LITERATURE 157
Similar conflicts are apparent across the Atlantic in Paul Cook’s Duende
Meadow (1985). Following nuclear war, Americans have survived deep
below the surface of the Midwest in shopping malls sunk swiftly (through
the science fiction conceit of a complex future technology) to avoid Soviet
nuclear attack. When the descendants of these survivors break back
through the Earth’s crust several hundred years later it is to discover a
world not frozen by nuclear winter as they expect, but a lush field of wheat
being harvested by a massive red combine harvester, marked with the
“CCCP” of the Soviets. The real conflict with which the book deals,
however, is not with the seeming Soviets on the surface (who, it transpires,
have rejected the totalitarianism of Soviet Russia), but amongst the
Americans underground, who are split into two forms of society, the
“Meadow” (civilian, peaceful) and the “Hive” (military, aggressive and
determined to continue the war they still imagine themselves to be fight-
ing against the Russians on the surface). The choice facing the Americans
is felt acutely by the protagonist, Preston Kitteridge, who sees that they are
poised at a pivotal moment between a reignition or rejection of violence.
He “felt the age-old human dialectic at work. Peace versus War. Love
versus Hate. . . . No one in that humming War Room [of the Hive]
remembered the Santayana dictum: those who do not recall the lessons
of the past are doomed to repeat them.”65
The philosophy of the Meadow, which finds a more developed expres-
sion in the society that has formed on the surface during the Americans’
long internment underground, is summed up by Kitteridge when he’s
accused of being a Communist sympathiser by the military: “We rule
ourselves by committee, we contribute to the general well-being of the
commune, we live as an organism for our mutual survival.”66 It is this
heartening emphasis on trust rather than suspicion, on peace versus war,
which eventually wins out, though the novel’s adherence to this philoso-
phy is rather undone by the denouement, which involves members of the
Hive precipitating a battle in which they are conveniently killed.
Nevertheless, the novel presents an endearing, if perhaps simplistic, vision
of people brought together after nuclear war to work in the cause of a
common humanity: a “Great War” is being fought on the Earth’s surface
(it is this which arouses the suspicions of the Hive), but it turns out that
this war is metaphorical rather than literal, an assault not on other people
but on “hunger and disease”.67
More complexly realised future societies, drawing on feminist dis-
course of the period, are depicted in two US fantasy novels, Sherri Tepper’s
6 FROM THE ASHES: SOCIETY AND ECONOMY IN NUCLEAR LITERATURE 161
Snake felt the people moving, surrounding her. Arevin took one step
towards her and stopped, and she could see he wanted her to defend herself.
“Can any of you cry?” she said. “Can any of you cry for me and my despair,
or for them and their guilt [they who killed the snake], or for small things
[the snakes] and their pain?” She felt tears slip down her cheeks.71
Snake’s defence here is not to express anger but sadness; not to cast the
people who have wronged her as enemies but as misguided, frightened
and, now, guilt-ridden. The plea to share tears is an appeal to a humanity
united in its shared vulnerability.
The novel acknowledges that such an approach is difficult. Snake
herself, for instance, feels the lure to dominate others later in the novel
when a thrill of power runs through her at the opportunity to defeat
North, who threatens Melissa, now her adoptive daughter. She has to
struggle to suppress this in order to remain true to her way of being:
Lilith giving jewels to artisans in Children of the Dust, they conceive only
of giving it away as a token of appreciation for more creative endeavours:
“Well, of course we use money. To give people who act and dance and
recite and make, for making dances, you know!”75 For the Kesh, to be rich
is to give, whereas for the Condor to be rich is to have: “Wealth consisted”
for the Kesh, we are told, “not in things but in an act: the act of giving.”76
Such different conceptions of economy on a personal and local level are
shown to have implications on the much higher level of interactions
between different peoples. When Stone Telling goes with her father to
live with the Condor, she finds a society severely stretched by its colonial
expansion across the continent and which is struggling because its econ-
omy is locked into war and conquest. The Condors’ wars are driven by
military-economic exploitation (“armies going out from Sai now were not
making war to gain land, but to take copper, tin, and other metals” to
manufacture greater weapons),77 and their whole economy becomes
geared toward further conquest, thus generating greater dependency on,
and necessity for, colonial expansion. This dictates how they relate to the
people whose lands they conquer: “many tyon and hontik [derogatory
words for non-Condor animals and humans] that had used to grow crops,
or herd, or hunt, were employed on the great labors of making the
Weapons and supplying them with fuel.”78 The myth of the possibility
of infinite growth drives the Condor to acquire more and more.
Le Guin depicts here precisely the problems of economies that are
structured around war that were the subject of the essays from The Final
Epidemic discussed at the beginning of this chapter. The clash between the
Kesh and the Condor (a clash in which the former are always acutely
vulnerable in the face of the latter) is one between alternative models of
society, one valuing community, giving and sharing, and the other indivi-
duality, acquisitiveness and domination.
Le Guin’s novel demonstrates the complex ways in which nuclear litera-
ture can function as a node through which discourses about social organisa-
tion flow. Perhaps surprisingly, the novel demonstrates that divergent ways
of thinking are even embedded at linguistic and neural levels, for it shows
that the divergent social formations of the Kesh and the Condor produce,
and are produced by, the very grammar of their languages. For instance, as
discussed in Chapter 4, Abhao’s insistence that he “owns” Stone Telling is
not merely abhorrent to the Kesh, but entirely nonsensical, his claim experi-
enced as the comic incongruity of “reversal words”, for Kesh grammar does
not allow for concepts of ownership of other living beings.79
6 FROM THE ASHES: SOCIETY AND ECONOMY IN NUCLEAR LITERATURE 165
NOTES
1. The book is described in its prefatory pages as “a project undertaken with
the Physicians for Social Responsibility and the Council for a Livable World
Education Fund”. Adams and Cullen, The Final Epidemic, vi (Adams and
Cullen Adams and Cullen 1981).
2. The historian Paul Boyer raises questions about the efficacy of what he sees
as Caldicott’s scare tactics, in, “The Battle for Public Opinion in the 1940s
and 1980s”, an article first published in 1986 in The Bulletin of the Atomic
Scientists and reprinted in his book Fallout, 167–174.
3. Helen Caldicott, “Introduction”, in Adams and Cullen, The Final Epidemic, 1
(Adams and Cullen 1981).
4. H.J. Geiger, “Illusion of Survival”, in Adams and Cullen, Final Epidemic,
177 (Adams and Cullen 1981).
5. Geiger, “Illusion of Survival”, 178 (Adams and Cullen 1981).
6. Geiger, “Illusion of Survival”, 179 (Adams and Cullen 1981).
7. Threads, BBC 2, 23 September 1984 (Threads 1984).
8. Bernard Lown, “The Physician’s Commitment”, in Adams and Cullen,
Final Epidemic, 237 (Adams and Cullen 1981).
9. George B. Kistiakowsky, “Preface”, in Adams and Cullen, Final Epidemic, ix
(Adams and Cullen 1981); Victor W. Sidel, “Buying Death with Taxes: Impact
of Arms Race on Health Care”, in Adams and Cullen, Final Epidemic, 35, 37,
166 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
One of the most curious nuclear texts of the 1980s, Jenny: My Diary
(1981), seeks to go beyond mere description of the horrors of nuclear
war to manifest them in a material textual artefact. It is presented as a
found object: a handwritten journal kept by a woman who survives
nuclear war in a communally owned bunker. The book appears in the
reader’s hand almost as if unearthed in an archaeological dig that has
somehow discovered remnants not of the ancient past but from a nuclear
future.
As the diary progresses and civilization collapses, its status as a meaningful
textual artefact is imperilled as the culture that values writing disintegrates;
indeed, the very continuation of the diary becomes uncertain. Hence, it finds
a new way to approach a recurrent concern of nuclear writing, using the
textual materiality of literature to engage the erasure of literary and cultural
memory by nuclear war.
The diary appears to be handwritten. Indeed, although the tidy, clean
script with which Jenny’s opening entries record games of tennis and theatre
productions at the National are regular enough conceivably to be produced by
a typeface designed to mimic handwriting, later writing becomes increasingly
messy, erratic, even skew-whiff, as the psychological impact of international
crisis, war, tensions in the bunker community and emergence into a brutal,
socially fragmented post-nuclear Britain, are recorded. These are surely hand-
written. Diary entries are annotated with doodles and scrawls, some depicting
the catastrophe literally (a mushroom cloud) or metonymically (graveyard
crosses), while others (scrawls, scribbles and abstract doodles) evoke the
tedium of bunker life and the mental anguish of witnessing the end of
civilisation. Jenny’s trauma is conveyed, then, not simply by what she writes
about; it is materially manifested in the textual artefact.
The illusion extends to the packaging of the book. The cover has a
non-descript pattern, such as one might find on a diary, and there are no
page numbers. The name of its real author, Yorick Blumenfeld, is on
neither the cover nor the title page and he can only be identified from an
annotation on a bookmark accompanying the book. Even the publishing
information is pushed to the back of the book to maintain the suspension
of disbelief as one picks up and opens the text, although inevitably this
illusion is rather spoiled by a Penguin logo that intrudes on the spine and
on the title page.1
Of course, the magic wrought by these tricks is limited. The conceit
is stymied less by the publisher’s branding, than because we pick up and
read the book in a pre-apocalyptic world: the contexts it evokes are of a
world that has not yet come to pass and we are not fooled by the illusion.
Nevertheless, by drawing attention to the text as artefact—less a lens
through which we see the world, than an object in the world we see—it
is rather effective. By putting into our hands a material legacy of nuclear
war, or at least a facsimile of that imagined legacy, it facilitates suspension
of disbelief, defamiliarising us a little from the post-apocalyptic genre of
which it is a part and provoking new ways of imagining the world in which
such a text might exist.
Jenny: My Diary is an extreme example of a more general tendency in
nuclear literature to focus on the imperilled archive of our culture. The
text prompts precisely the ontological questions that would later be
broached by Jacques Derrida in his influential 1984 essay on the topic,
“No Apocalypse, Not Now (full speed ahead, seven missiles, seven mis-
sives)”. For Derrida, a challenge of the nuclear age, and of our capacity to
“think” the possibility of nuclear war, is “the possibility of an irreversible
destruction, leaving no traces, of the juridico-literary archive—that is, total
destruction of the basis of literature and criticism.”2
Derrida draws our attention to the challenge of conceiving what nuclear
destruction means. When he writes of the “total and remainderless destruc-
tion of the archive” as distinguished from the “destruction of humanity, of
the human habitat” he makes the point that our concept of humanity, of
ourselves, is bound up with historically specific modes of understanding
rooted in textual culture.3 The totality of nuclear destruction threatens
7 TEXTUALITY IN NUCLEAR AND POSTMODERN LITERATURE 171
manifests this vulnerability. The book, the text, operates in this literature
as a symbol of civilization and its fragility signals the threat to civilisation
and culture. The human act of knowing, of remembering—and the means
by which knowledge and memory persist from one person to another and
one generation to another—are themselves imperilled by nuclear war and
provoke broader existential anxieties about the meaning, or perhaps the
meaninglessness, of human life. Human identity is technologically embo-
died through that most basic of human technologies: the code that is
writing; the programmes in which that code runs, the book; and the
physical hardware in which those programmes sit, the library (metaphori-
cally understood).
The end of Jenny’s diary is a gentle one: she simply stops writing. “I
cannot, I will not make any more entries in this diary” she writes on the
final page, adding “I must try again, as in the old days, to live in the
present. A minute, an hour, a day at a time.”7 Disconcertingly, for the
reader, this brings home the fragility of the first-person narrative form,
revealing how dependent it is on the survival of the narrator, her inclina-
tion to write and the existence of readers to read and comprehend the
world whose loss she mourns. The future peters out into nothing ahead of
us. Even if Jenny and others survive, the written documents, the memory
of our civilisation, are ceasing to record human experience and we are left
with a perpetual present: minutes, hours and days at a time, but no
memory of one day, one week, one month or one year to the next. Our
contemporary sense of what it is to be human perishes, even if the
biological form of the human persists.
Other nuclear literature of the decade more brutally signals its
material demise. Maggie Gee’s The Burning Book (1983) has a double
ending, the bleaker of which involves, as the novel’s title implies, the
explosion into flames of the book we are holding (its final lines are,
“[b]lackening paper, the last leaves burning”).8 As in Jenny: My Diary,
the comfortable and familiar readerly experience of the written text
that tells a story of which it is not itself a part is disrupted and the
following pages are cross-hatched in black to represent the paper’s
combustibility. It attempts to produce a visceral connection with the
nuclear moment: the heat of nuclear explosion as it hits the book in
our hands. This also implies a particular twist on postmodern self-
reflexivity that I read as intrinsic to nuclear literature and to which I
will return later in this chapter: an insistence on the deadly earnestness
7 TEXTUALITY IN NUCLEAR AND POSTMODERN LITERATURE 173
seeks to teach Henry and his friends the knowledge that is disappearing from
the world. When the two visit San Diego, where Americans are trying to
organise to take back the country, they are amazed to find a library in which
“tall book cases alternated with tall windows, and [which] held books old and
new.”14
In a Welsh school 500 years after nuclear war, in Pamela Service’s
Winter of Magic’s Return (1985), two boys bond in “the musty shadows
of the library”, the “repository for most of the surviving books in southern
Wales.” One of them, Earl, speaks with passion of how “I read everything,
about anything, and then read something else.”15 In Louise Lawrence’s
Children of the Dust (1985), salvaging what exists in libraries is one of
Johnson’s first acts as he builds a society that can flourish after nuclear war
in the west of England: “When the snows [of nuclear winter] receded he
took the Land Rover and brought back all the books we were likely to
need. People come here if they want to know anything and Johnson
teaches them, from the books.”16
There is an extraordinary preoccupation in much nuclear literature
about the details both of those texts that have been saved and those that
have been lost. Although Johnson’s library appears rather utilitarian—a
set of texts about how to build and grow things—in most nuclear
literature the preoccupation with reading is more obviously literary. In
William Brinkley’s The Last Ship (1989), in which the sailors aboard a
US destroyer are almost all that remains of human life, the captain and
his first mate discuss a new-found passion for reading amongst the ship’s
crew. The captain reveals he is taking advantage of the end of the world
to work his way through Dickens. “Well”, as his first mate says, “we
couldn’t leave Dickens behind.”17 In total, the ship’s library includes
religious texts, an encyclopaedia, 985 works of literature (a fairly pre-
dictable Western canon of European and American texts), Western
music (from Beethoven to Whitney Houston) and American films.
The reverential attitude toward this library implies that the ship has
become an Ark with the knowledge stored in these texts the basis for
a new civilisation (though the novel leaves unaddressed that the formats
in which music and film are preserved—audio and video cassette—are
perhaps not the first one would choose when long-term preservation is
an issue). Later, when the ship’s company form an alliance with a
surviving Russian submarine, the Pushkin, one of the improvements
made as the Pushkin is refitted is a library to go where its nuclear missiles
used to be housed.18
7 TEXTUALITY IN NUCLEAR AND POSTMODERN LITERATURE 175
Ninevah, Babylon, and Rome each bustled a time in the sun. So also, New
York. Nobody ever called it an eternal city, it was too immediate for that.
But we all thought it was one.29
These imperilled libraries slide into a concern with the materials from which
books are made in several fictions. One of the horrors articulated by several
novels is the possibility of the transformation of books and documents from
reusable repositories of ideas into a one-use fuel source. They cease to be
symbolising machines, the batteries in which civilization stores its intellectual
energy, and become only material objects, most valuable for the warmth their
burning will provide. In Robert McCammon’s Swan Song (1987), Sister
entered the “Homewood Public Library and found the building deserted,
most of the books gone, used as fuel in fires that kept people alive.”35 In
Fiskadoro Mr Cheung’s family have to burn a “copy of the [US] Constitution
and all the books to stay alive”, but try to preserve some of the knowledge they
contain by committing to memory two paragraphs each from the
Constitution.36
In several texts paper and pen are fetishized for their scarcity. In The
Last Ship, the captain realises the preciousness of his ship’s store of pens
and paper (his eyes “drilled in on these with a special intensity”), which
may be all they will have to last them into the future. Indeed, so crucial is
this store that he is highly specific not only about the number of pens and
how much paper survives, but even about its precise weight and quality:
“Five dozen reams of 20-pound bond. Thirty thousand sheets of paper.
One hundred dozen-sized boxes of ballpoints.”37
In The Danger Quotient, Casey, a teenager surviving in an underground
colony in a world long after nuclear war, travels back in time to the 1980s.
When he comes across a bookshop, the material existence of paper strikes him
as extraordinary: “you can’t just walk past an old-time bookstore, stacked
high with the real thing, made of genuine paper as if it would never go out of
style.” Although there is a frippery to the volumes it sells—“[t]housands of
long-lost trees felled to publish those volumes on jogging and cookery”—
there is a fullness to the textual documentation of the world that is in sharp
contrast to the “patched remnants” of newspapers and “[o]dds and ends” of
videos that will survive into the future into which he will be born.38
For a trader in Neal Barrett’s short story “Ginny Sweethips’ Flying
Circus” (1988), the limited supply is a godsend, with paper and pens
becoming valuable commodities. He has his sales patter down to a tee,
luring potential buyers in by emphasising the tactility and variety of his
goods:
This here is heavy bond. . . . Fifty percent linen weave, and we got it by the
ream. . . . We got pencils too. Mirado twos and threes, unsharpened, with erasers
7 TEXTUALITY IN NUCLEAR AND POSTMODERN LITERATURE 179
on the end. When’s the last time you saw that? Why this stuff’s good as gold. We
got staples and legal pads. Claim forms, maim forms, forms of every sort.39
Of course, what this preoccupation with the materiality of print culture really
signals is a concern with words and the worlds they conjure. Many post-
nuclear texts evoke what has disappeared by having their protagonists spec-
ulate about the extraordinary profusion of objects and experiences that now
exist only in books. In Sherri Tepper’s The Gate to Women’s Country (1988),
set long after nuclear devastation, Chernon reads wonderingly of a lost world
from “before the convulsions”, when “life was varied”, with elephants,
crocodiles, Laplanders and tropical islanders, their exoticism and diversity
in sharp contrast to the narrow life he now leads.40 Elsewhere in the novel,
Stavia sits with a “book open on her lap, tears running down her face”
because it records so many things that no longer exist. When Beneda objects
that this reaction makes no sense for there are all sorts of things that they
don’t have any more (“clothes-drying machines and mechanical transporta-
tion and furnaces that heat your whole house, and cotton and silk and . . . and
cows and horses and . . . and all kinds of other animals and birds”), Stavia says
that the fact the book makes her “know about them” means that “I miss
them.”41 Books here offer only a tantalising glimpse of a disappeared world
and a collapsed civilization. Things persist only in the abstraction of words;
material objects remain only in their signifiers.
Similarly, Septemius finds himself perusing an “old dictionary”, which is
“among his most prized possessions”, pursuing words from one to another,
tracing culinary sensations he can never experience. The entry for “eggnog”
leads him to search “for the words brandy and rum. . . . Gone, along with
nutmeg and cloves. Along with pepper and turmeric. All the spices were
merely words now. Chocolate was a word. And coffee.”42 The system, the
structure of language, conjures up only emptiness; it points to worlds of
sensory experience that can only intangibly haunt the nuclear future.
Books here therefore signify not presence—the original signifieds are
hollowed out, ghostly—but abstraction and absence. Each word becomes
a signifier of loss, a tantalising glimpse of a disappeared world and a
collapsed civilization. What these nuclear texts play with is the possibility
of the passing of human memory. The reduced or burning libraries signal
the diminishment of human experience. When what they contain has
gone, what it is to be human passes with them.
The horror of words becoming meaningless or disappearing is a recur-
ring preoccupation. In Fiskadoro, Mr Cheung is dismayed by the facility
180 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
with which his contemporaries let go the memory of the past and play fast
and loose with words. When someone rechristens herself, leaving her old
name behind, Mr Cheung sees this as the beginning of a dangerous game, a
relinquishing of an identity rooted in language and in the past and ulti-
mately thus also a relinquishing of human knowledge of the world: “It isn’t
good, calling yourself Swanson-Johnson, as if a name is a joke. Next a word
will be a joke, and then comes a time when even a thought is a joke.”43
Octavia Butler’s short story “Speech Sounds” (1983) does not have an
explicitly nuclear setting, but it captures the apocalyptic feeling of the time
through its depiction of the collapse of civilization as people lose language
through a “stroke-swift” illness with mysterious origins (“people hardly
had time to lay blame on the Soviets . . . a new virus, a new pollutant,
radiation, divine retribution”).44 The horror of end times is focalised
through the loss of language. Devastated by the plague, Rye, the prota-
gonist, can no longer make sense of literature, but clings to “a houseful of
books that she could neither read nor bring herself to use as fuel.”45
Lucius Shepard’s short story “Salvador” (1984) similarly lacks an expli-
citly nuclear context, but contains an apocalyptic vision of war. Here, too,
there is a striking image of literature’s collapse as Dantzler remembers
finding a copy of Gulliver’s Travels when he was nine: “He had been
taught to treasure old books, and so he had opened it eagerly to look at
the illustrations, only to find that the centers of the pages had been eaten
away, and there, right in the heart of the fiction, was a nest of larvae.
Pulpy, horrid things.”46 The violence done to literature is linked through
this image to the violence of war, for Dantzler finds corpses of shot men
whose poses in death recall the larvae: they “had been struggling out of
their hammocks when the bullets hit, and as a result, they were hanging
half-in, half-out, their limbs dangling, blood pooled beneath them”; they
look “like monsters killed as they emerged from their cocoons.”47
and Mary, who, surviving nuclear war, dedicate their lives to collecting and
preserving books.
The novel contains many of the motifs outlined already. There is a library,
the contents of which we learn in some detail, built mainly from Rachel’s
personal collection. Initially, this constitutes 6000 texts, including literary
works by “Shakespeare . . . Sophocles . . . Dickens, Kafka, Melville, Tolstoy,
Cervantes, Austen, Conrad, Steinbeck . . . Dickinson, Eliot, Yeats, Dante,
Wordsworth, Sappho, Auden, Whitman.”48 It also contains encyclopaedias
and science and history books. They are aware that this is a “pitiful fraction of
human knowledge”, a gutted Western canon.49 Mary is both distraught at
what is lost to future generations, but also feels these books may at least give
children of the future a glimpse of what the human mind is capable. They
may know the Sistine Chapel only from pictures, but they would at least
know it had existed; its memory would persist in some form.
There is no confidence that the library forms a secure body of knowledge.
Not only is it but a fragment of the wider libraries of human understanding,
destroyed in nuclear conflagration, but there is also an acute awareness of the
material fragility of the literature it contains. Rachel points out the “problem
of acidification”. The only viable long-term plan, she says, is to “seal the
books as nearly airtight as possible, then hope that someday, someone will
learn how to make paper and ink—or even a crude printing press—so they
can copy the books before they disintegrate.”50 As she acknowledges, per-
haps “nothing will come of it but a pile of rotten paper”, but the attempt to
save the books is a gesture of defiance.51
Their project becomes the building of this archive. Books are sealed in
wax for posterity. Mary understands this vocation as a choice about being
human. It is the second significant choice they make. The first was simply,
in the face of the horrors of nuclear winter, to survive, but she conceives of
the second choice, a choice to be human by saving the books, as the really
key one. When she writes that “they were making another choice in a
silent, lightless wilderness”, that wilderness is no longer simply the actually
experienced hostility of nuclear winter, it is a metaphor for an intellectual,
perhaps a spiritual, wilderness. It is, she says, a “choice to live, not just
survive; to live as human beings.”52
The threat to the archive is not merely that posed by the limitations
of paper and by Rachel’s and Mary’s mortality. It is also threatened by
other humans. Several years after the war, Rachel and Mary come into
contact with a religious community who believe that nuclear war was a
biblical Armageddon (mirroring a 1980s preoccupation with—mostly
182 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
[I]t could be argued that all writing—all art, in all times—has a bearing on
nuclear weapons, in two important respects. Art celebrates life and not the
other thing, not the opposite of life. And art raises the stakes, increasing the
store of what might be lost.57
Metafiction
The second preoccupation of postmodern literature is perhaps the most
obvious defining characteristic of the genre (although it is not unique to
that literature, having made its appearance at least as far back as the
7 TEXTUALITY IN NUCLEAR AND POSTMODERN LITERATURE 187
This is an Eden myth for a post-nuclear age. Much has been forgotten
by Riddley’s people in the collapse of civilisation following nuclear war,
including knowledge of what nuclear technology is, but its traces persist in
their language. One of their key myths, the “Eusa Story”, epitomises this.
In it, the splitting of the atom is not understood as we would understand
it, but is reconstituted in the trickster figure of “The Littl Shynin Man the
Addom” (punningly evoking both the atom of nuclear technology and
Adam of the Genesis story) who is “[p]ult in 2 lyk he wuz a chicken.”67
This story is performed and interpreted by travelling puppeteers from the
government in an attempt both to exert ideological control over the
population and to recover the knowledge of the technologies of warfare
that would help to cement their power.
This is a world in which narrative carries power: violence and coercion
accompany the struggles over the Eusa story. It is also a human society
from which we are defamiliarised by being placed, if not quite outside,
certainly on the edges of, the language in which it is narrated. Playful
though the novel is in making us work to decode Riddley’s narrative, the
language of the novel is also extraordinarily effective in demonstrating the
shift in human consciousness that has occurred following nuclear war. We
see the shards of our culture less in the ruins of buildings, the contami-
nated towns and the metals scavenged by Riddley’s people, than we do in
the words, stories and fractured narratives through which Riddley sees the
world. The novel even comically plays with our attempts to interpret it by
presenting us with a scene that is a mirror image of our reading experience:
Riddley and Goodparley struggle to interpret the single text that seems to
have survived from our era, a tourist leaflet describing the Legend of St
Eustace in Canterbury Cathedral. This leaflet is the only passage in stan-
dard English in the novel. When Goodparley says of it, “[s]ome parts is
easyer workit out nor others theres bits of it wewl never know for cern just
what they mean”, he could be describing the reader’s feelings about
Riddley Walker.68 (It is also worth noting in this scene the rather lovely
joke by which Hoban shows the limitations of their interpretations when
he has Goodparley translate a passage about a landscape studded with
hamlets: “Wel thats little pigs innit.”)69
What Hoban shows us in Riddley Walker is a radical fracturing of the
archive and its impact on human identity. Indeed, it shows us how the
human is transformed by this fracturing of the archive. When Riddley
chooses to write it is a decision to engage in the struggle to make sense
of existence. “I finely come to writing all this down”, he says, “[t]hinking
7 TEXTUALITY IN NUCLEAR AND POSTMODERN LITERATURE 189
on what the idea of us myt be. Thinking on that thing whats in us lorn and
loan and oansome.”70 Although the words he uses do not translate
straightforwardly into our language, the long “o”s (“lorn”; “loan”; “oan-
some”) suggest longing and loneliness and communicate the sense of
being cast adrift by the dramatic rupture in history. There is something
inside him that is not him, or with which he cannot connect.
One thing this internal “other” might be is the memory of the world left
behind centuries before by nuclear war, lurking in the language his people
have inherited from us. In the novel’s most moving moments Riddley
glimpses the extent of what has been lost, even though, by definition, he
can never know exactly what that is. He even gains a nebulous impression,
perhaps, of the diminishment of the archive, perceiving inside himself those
traces of a world he can never recapture, that thing “what thinks us but it
dont think like us. Our woal life is a idear we dint think of nor we dont know
what it is. What a way to live.”71
there was a severe risk posed by the three flasks of nuclear fuel that passed
every week through London from power stations in the south east to
Windscale (now Sellafield). The Party’s report, according to The Times,
estimated a serious accident could “cause up to 6,000 deaths from cancer
over a period of 30 years” and might necessitate the mass evacuation of the
capital. The report’s author, Dr Charles Wakstein, claimed that “each flask
contained . . . the fall-out equivalent to between five and eight Hiroshima
bombs.”72 This controversy rumbled on throughout the decade, perhaps
its most spectacular moment coming in July 1984 when the Central
Electricity Generating Board (CEGB) staged a £1.6m crash in front of
1500 invited guests and television news cameras, by driving a diesel,
pulling three carriages at 100mph, into a flask used to carry nuclear
waste. The CEGB’s chairman called it “the most pessimistic and horren-
dous crash we could arrange”, though the scientific value of the spectacle,
staged in a “carnival-like atmosphere” according to The Times, was
instantly questioned.73
It would be pushing it to claim that these debates about environmental
safety are equivalent to the “Airborne Toxic Event” that disrupts Jack
Gladney’s life in Don DeLillo’s White Noise (1986), or that this staging of
virtual disaster as spectacle is quite as absurd as the “SIMUVAC” exercise
(for an “all-purpose leak or spill” that could be “radioactive steam, che-
mical cloudlets, a haze of unknown origin”—though not a “nuclear fire-
ball” which is planned for a later date) in the same novel, where there is
“no substitute for a planned simulation” and participants are warned not
to react if, inconveniently, “reality intrudes” in the form of actual injury or
disaster.74 They do, however, indicate the anxieties about visibility and
actuality that accrete around nuclear materials and technologies that seem
a strange mix of the mysterious, exotic, everyday, mundane, invisible and
spectacular, and the risks of which are hard to process and properly to
calculate, particularly because the scale of imagined nuclear disaster pro-
blematizes the concept of acceptable risk.
They also feature directly in Maggie Gee’s novel Grace (1988), where
the story of Paula, an anti-nuclear activist, brings in anxieties about the
nuclear waste trains “running close to the sleeping backs of houses and the
people sleeping behind those walls.”75 Later, evidence of leaks is men-
tioned, with low-level radiation recorded on the flasks, the track and the
trains themselves, “unleashed particles fly[ing] through the air . . . to find
the cells that might be looking for them, waiting to be entered, waiting to
be split, waiting to start their extraordinary journey.”76 Lying in bed in
7 TEXTUALITY IN NUCLEAR AND POSTMODERN LITERATURE 191
reports, an entropy of significance in which the banal and the weighty are
flattened into equivalence, as in the announcement of the end of the war:
“Scattered snow-showers are forecast overnight, and a cessation of hostilities
has been agreed between the US and the USSR. After the break—the latest
expert comment on that attack of Presdiential flatulence.”80
Other postmodern texts do not push nuclear war quite to this level of
virtuality and abstraction, but there is often a similar sense of the absurd.
Indeed, Martin Amis’s London Fields (1989), discussed in earlier chapters,
contains a very similar motif to “The Secret History of World War 3”, tying
the corporeal health of a key presidential figure to impending catastrophe in
mysterious and unexplained ways. In this instance the safe resolution of the
ominous “Crisis” rests not on the President but on the health of his wife,
Faith. A radio news item on geopolitics reports not on the specifics of a
confrontation with the Soviet Union, but on a medical scan for the First
Lady, and Guy’s vision of impending Armageddon includes the assumption
that the president’s wife is already dead.81 When things are pushed to the
cusp of cataclysm near the end, it is reported that the “President had made
his decision. They were going in.” Yet, “going in” here is not, as we would
expect, a direct reference to sending in military forces in the hope of resol-
ving the crisis, but to the decision to “operate on the President’s wife.”82
Nuclear war is a real threat and yet it seems abstract, displaced into
absurdity by the curious machinations of Cold War confrontation and its
processing by media that, it was becoming apparent in the 1980s, were
being transformed by the transition to rolling news. Cable News Network
(CNN), which pioneered the twenty-four-hours-a-day news cycle, was
founded in 1980 and there is a strong sense in both “The Secret History
of World War 3” and London Fields of media information overload, with
the always-in-the-present format of rolling news pushing reality to the
point of absurdity as it both changes the world on which it reports and
feeds the sense of continually sustained drama and crisis.
Deferral of Closure
Both texts also point to another feature of many nuclear fictions: the sense of
suspense, followed by anti-climax. In “The Secret History of World War 3”
nuclear war happens, but is hardly noticed. In London Fields the “Crisis”
builds and builds, but then just dissipates (the revealing term used in the
novel, implying an absence of actual resolution, is “dissolution”).83 In Ian
McEwan’s The Child in Time (1987), a nuclear crisis erupts and then
7 TEXTUALITY IN NUCLEAR AND POSTMODERN LITERATURE 193
NOTES
1. These details refer to the 1983 Penguin edition. It was originally published
by Centaur under the title, Jenny Ewing: My Diary.
2. Jacques Derrida, “No Apocalypse, Not Now (Full Speed Ahead, Seven
Missiles, Seven Missives)”, trans. Catherine Porter and Philip Lewis,
Diacritics (summer 1984): 26 (Derrida 1984).
194 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
30. Strieber and Kunetka, Warday, 372 (Strieber and Kunetka 1985).
31. Strieber and Kunetka, Warday, 372 (Strieber and Kunetka 1985).
32. Annabel Johnson and Edgar Johnson, The Danger Quotient (New York:
Harper & Row, 1984), 23 (Johnson and Johnson 1984).
33. Vonda N. McIntyre, Dreamsnake (London: Pan, 1979), 176 (McIntyre
1979).
34. Michael Swanwick, “The Feast of Saint Janis”, in Walter M. Miller, Jr. and
Martin H. Greenberg (eds), Beyond Armageddon (Lincoln: University of
Nebraska Press, 2006), 300 (Swanwick 2006).
35. Robert R. McCammon, Swan Song (New York: Open Road, 2011), Kindle
edition, 422 (McCammon 2011).
36. Johnson, Fiskadoro, 128 (Johnson 1986).
37. Brinkley, Last Ship, 31 (Brinkley 1989).
38. Johnson and Johnson, Danger Quotient, 66 (Johnson and Johnson 1984).
39. Neal Barrett, Jr., “Ginny Sweethips’ Flying Circus”, in John Joseph Adams
(ed.), Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse (San Francisco: Nightshade,
2008), 277 (Barrett 2008).
40. Tepper, Gate to Women’s Country, 249 (Tepper 1990).
41. Tepper, Gate to Women’s Country, 74 (Tepper 1990). Ellipses in original.
42. Tepper, Gate to Women’s Country, 195 (Tepper 1990).
43. Johnson, Fiskadoro, 128 (Johnson 1986).
44. Octavia Butler, “Speech Sounds”, in Adams (ed.), Wastelands, 249 (Butler
2008).
45. Butler, “Speech Sounds”, 250 (Butler 2008).
46. Lucius Shepard, “Salvador”, in Miller and Greenberg (eds), Beyond
Armageddon, 29 (Shepard 2006).
47. Shepard, “Salvador”, 29–30 (Miller and Greenberg 2006).
48. M.K. Wren, A Gift Upon the Shore (London: Penguin, 1990), 149 (Wren
1990).
49. Wren, Gift Upon the Shore, 148 (Wren 1990).
50. Wren, Gift Upon the Shore, 149 (Wren 1990).
51. Wren, Gift Upon the Shore, 150 (Wren 1990).
52. Wren, Gift Upon the Shore, 150 (Wren 1990).
53. Wren, Gift Upon the Shore, 277 (Wren 1990).
54. Wren, Gift Upon the Shore, 97 (Wren 1990).
55. Wren, Gift Upon the Shore, 346 (Wren 1990).
56. Wren, Gift Upon the Shore, 372 (Wren 1990).
57. Martin Amis, “Introduction: Thinkability”, in Amis, Einstein’s Monsters
(London: Vintage, 2003), 24 (Amis 2003b).
58. For instance, the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory makes an
appearance, an analogy is made with the death of Louis Slotin from a
radiation accident at Los Alamos in 1946 and the Russians try to contain
196 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
84. Ian McEwan, The Child in Time (London: Vintage, 1992), 33–34
(McEwan 1992).
85. Daniel Grausam, On Endings: American Postmodern Fiction and the Cold
War (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2011), 4, 5. (Grausam
2011).
CHAPTER 8
military objectives by being fired, than to shape and constrain the actions
of the “enemy” by the cataclysmic future they symbolised and threatened.
But nuclear technology’s significance went far beyond the symbolic.
Nuclear industry, incorporating a panoply of processes from mining of raw
materials, manufacture of technologies and power production to trans-
port, storage, deployment and disposal of nuclear materials and artefacts,
along with the infrastructures accompanying these things, was intimately
bound up with the broader social, economic, political and, of course,
cultural structures of the late Cold War. It was knotted into everyday
life. Consequently, literature of the period depicted nuclear concerns
arising amidst other issues.
All these things suggest why we should have a historical interest in
nuclear culture of the late Cold War: it opens up dimensions of the period
that have thus far been insufficiently documented. A rich and complex
area, with a mindset distinct from the earlier Cold War, it challenges some
of our critical assumptions about the decade. The literature of the 1980s is
a nuclear literature. It is, of course, a lot of other things besides, but the
nuclear experience is a defining aspect of the period and should be
acknowledged as such.
Nor is the literature only of historical interest: it should speak to us still
for it includes some extraordinary, rich and vibrant texts. Such texts are
valuable in the way that literature is more broadly valuable: for what it says
and the questions it asks about being human. In particular, nuclear litera-
ture asks us to confront the nature and limits of human experience and to
reflect on how our technologies shape our culture and society. It may
even, in addressing potential ends to human civilisation, wrench us out of
the timescales of human lifetimes through which we ordinarily chart
human significance. It prompts us to think of our species in the contexts
of deep time that have recently attended the rise of the concept of the
Anthropocene.
What nuclear literature also does is remind us that the specifically
nuclear issues it raises have not gone away. Nuclear technologies are
present—they are here, now—and the world remains nuclear in complex
and subtle ways. While arguments for and against persisting with nuclear
energy and nuclear deterrents are not easily resolved, what will not do is to
ignore the nuclear presence. We continue to generate toxic waste that we
must keep safe for tens of thousands of years, far beyond the lifetimes of
any civilization that has existed on this planet. We retain the capacity to
inflict horror on our fellow human beings and on our world, through
202 LATE COLD WAR LITERATURE AND CULTURE
nuclear war, that staggers comprehension.2 When the stakes are so high
we have to know what we mean by risk and what, if anything, constitutes
acceptable risk.
Nuclear literature cannot resolve these dilemmas, but it makes us aware of
them and at its best it challenges us to imagine our possible futures in all their
beauty and their horror. It reminds us that we might, still, be between the
wars.
NOTES
1. Paul Vanderbilt, Survival City: Adventures Among the Ruins of Atomic
America (New York: Princeton, 2002), 19 (Vanderbilt 2002).
2. William Bunge claims that the missiles on a single Poseidon submarine in
1982 contained three times all the firepower expended throughout World
War II. Eric Schlosser claims that the warhead on a single Titan II missile
“had a yield of 9 megatons—about three times the explosive force of all the
bombs dropped during the Second World War, including both atomic
bombs.” Such figures are hard to verify, are subject to estimation and shift
with new nuclear technologies, but they give a sense of the scale involved.
Bunge, Nuclear War Atlas, 12 (Bunge 1988); Schlosser, Command and
Control, 3 (Schlosser 2014).
APPENDIX: TIMELINE
This timeline does not include every nuclear text of the long 1980s, but it
might help in situating those that particularly informed this study. As
novels and short stories are the main focus of this book, they feature
most frequently, but a little drama, poetry and non-fiction prose is also
included as the reader may appreciate being able to locate this.
How these texts are nuclear varies tremendously. Some are explicitly
and directly so, but in others there are just passing nuclear moments or a
broadly apocalyptic dimension resonating with the nuclear consciousness
of the period.
A final qualification is that the distinction between British and US
writers is not always straightforward. For instance, Russell Hoban, who
spent marginally less of his life in Britain than in the United States, has
been classified as British because Riddley Walker was written in Britain and
is deeply imbued with the landscape and cultural topography of Kent, but
Pamela Service, whose Winter of Magic’s Return is similarly infused with
British geography and mythology (of Wales, the West Country and King
Arthur), is classified as American because her time in Britain (three years
studying archaeology) was more limited. It will be noticed that there are
many more US than British texts listed (seventy-three to twenty-four), but
this reflects the relative sizes of the countries’ populations (approximately
226 million to 56 million in 1980).
BEFORE 1980
British Literature
David Graham, Down to a Sunless Sea (1979); John Hackett et al, The
Third World War: August 1985 (1978; rev. ed. published in 1982 as The
Third World War: The Untold Story)
US Literature
Stephen King, The Stand (1978; rev. ed. published 1990); Vonda
N. McIntyre, Dreamsnake (1978); Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony (1977)
1980
British Literature
Russell Hoban, Riddley Walker
US Literature
Michael Swanwick, “The Feast of Saint Janis”
1981
British Literature
Bernard Benson, The Peace Book; Yorick Blumenfeld, Jenny: My Diary
US Literature
Carol Amen, “The Last Testament”; Arnold Madison, It Can’t Happen to Me
1982
British Literature
Raymond Briggs, When the Wind Blows; Sue Townsend, The Secret Diary
of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾
US Literature
Judy Blume, Tiger Eyes; Dudley Bromley, Final Warning; Gerald
Jampolskyet al (eds), Children as Teachers of Peace; Bernard Malamud,
God’s Grace; Jonathan Schell, The Fate of the Earth; Peace Pilgrim, Peace
Pilgrim: Her Life and Work in Her Own Words; Alice Walker, “Nuclear
Madness: What You Can Do”
1983
British Literature
Maggie Gee, The Burning Book; Barbara Goodwin, The K/V Papers
US Literature
Octavia Butler, “Speech Sounds”; William Prochnau, Trinity’s Child
1984
British Literature
J.G. Ballard, Empire of the Sun; Brian Bethell, The Defence Diaries of
W. Morgan Petty; Robert Swindells, Brother in the Land; Sue Townsend,
The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole
US Literature
Tom Clancy, The Hunt for Red October; Don DeLillo, White Noise; James
D. Forman, Doomsday Plus Twelve; Annabel and Edgar Johnson, The
Danger Quotient; Arthur Kopit, End of the World; Jane Langton, The
Fragile Flag; Clint McCown, “Survivalists”; David R. Palmer,
Emergence; Jayne Anne Phillips, Machine Dreams; Kim Stanley
Robinson, The Wild Shore; Jonathan Schell, “The Abolition”; Lucius
Shepard, “Salvador”; Whitley Strieber and James Kunetka, Warday and
the Journey Onward; James Thackara, America’s Children; John Witte
(ed.), Warnings: An Anthology on the Nuclear Peril
APPENDIX: TIMELINE 207
1985
British Literature
Martin Booth, Hiroshima Joe; Louise Lawrence, Children of the Dust
US Literature
Greg Bear, Blood Music; David Brin, The Postman; Paul Cook, Duende
Meadow; Orson Scott Card, Ender’s Game; William Gaddis,
Carpenter’s Gothic; John Hersey, Hiroshima (update of 1946 edition,
with extra chapter); Denis Johnson, Fiskadoro; Ursula Le Guin, Always
Coming Home; Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian; Gloria Miklowitz,
After the Bomb; Walter M. Miller, Jr. and Martin Greenberg (eds),
Beyond Armageddon; Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, The Dark of the Tunnel;
Tim O’Brien, The Nuclear Age; Grace Paley, Later the Same Day;
Whitley Strieber, Wolf of Shadows; Pamela F. Service, Winter of
Magic’s Return; Kurt Vonnegut, Galapagos; Susan B. Weston,
Children of the Light
1986
British Literature
Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons and John Higgins, Watchmen (continues into
1987); Jonathan Raban, Coasting
208 APPENDIX: TIMELINE
US Literature
Orson Scott Card, “Salvage”; Tom Clancy, Red Storm Rising; Lynn Hall,
If Winter Comes; Stephen King, “The End of the Whole Mess”; Gary
Paulson, Sentries; Martin Cruz Smith, Stallion Gate; Julian F. Thompson,
A Band of Angels; Stephanie S. Tolan, Pride of the Peacock; Judith Vigna,
Nobody Wants a Nuclear War
1987
British Literature
Martin Amis, Einstein’s Monsters; Ian McEwan, The Child in Time
US Literature
Paul Auster, In the Country of Last Things; Octavia E. Butler, Dawn;
Robert R. McCammon, Swan Song; Frederik Pohl, Chernobyl: A Novel;
Barbara and Scott Siegal, The Burning Land
1988
British Literature
J.G. Ballard, “The Secret History of World War 3”; Maggie Gee,
Grace
APPENDIX: TIMELINE 209
US Literature
Neal Barratt, Jr., “Ginny Sweethips’ Flying Circus”; William Brinkley, The
Last Ship; Richard Powers, Prisoner’s Dilemma; Sherri S. Tepper, The Gate
to Women’s Country
1989
British Literature
Martin Amis, London Fields; Julian Barnes, A History of the World in 10½
Chapters; Taggart Deike et al, Plays for the Nuclear Age; Sue Townsend,
The True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole, Margaret Hilda Roberts and
Susan Lillian Townsend
US Literature
John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany
US Literature
John Bradley (ed.), Atomic Ghost: Poets Respond to the Nuclear
Age (1995); Tom Clancy, The Sum of All Fears (1991); Nancy Kress,
210 APPENDIX: TIMELINE
Adams, John Joseph, ed. 2008. Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse. San Francisco:
Night Shade.
Adams, Ruth, and Susan Cullen, eds. 1981. The Final Epidemic: Physicians and
Scientists on Nuclear War. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.
Amen, Carol. 1981. Last Testament. Ms. Magazine, August, 72–74, 81–82.
https://www.scribd.com/doc/59083080/Amen-Carol-The-Last-Testament-
Ms-Aug-81. Accessed 25 June 2016.
Amis, Martin. 2003a. Einstein’s Monsters. London: Vintage.
Amis, Martin. 2003b. London Fields. London: Vintage.
Andrews, Valerie, Robert Bosnak, and Karen Walter Goodwin, eds. 1987. Facing
Apocalypse. Dallas: Spring.
Anon. 1980. Threat of Nuclear War. The Lancet, November 15: 1061.
Anon [Grace Paley et al]. 2000. Unity Statement: Women’s Pentagon Action.
Social Justice 27(4): 160–163.
Auster, Paul. 1989. In the Country of Last Things. London: Faber.
Badash, Lawrence. 2009. A Nuclear Winter’s Tale: Science and Politics in the
1980s. Cambridge: MIT Press.
Ballard, J.G. 1991. War Fever. London: Paladin.
Ballard, J.G. 2014. Empire of the Sun. London: Fourth Estate. Kindle edition.
Barber, Ed, Zoë Fairbairns, and James Cameron. 1984. Peace Moves: Nuclear
Protest in the 1980s. London: Chatto & Windus.
Barnes, Julian. 2009. A History of the World in 10½ Chapters. London: Vintage.
Kindle edition.
Bear, Greg. 2001. Blood Music. London: Gollancz.
Belletto, Steven. 2012. No Accident Comrade: Chance and Design in Cold War
Narratives. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Benson, Bernard. 1981. The Peace Book. London: Jonathan Cape.
Bethell, Brian. 1984. The Defence Diaries of W. Morgan Petty. London: Penguin.
Blouin, Michael, Morgan Shipley, and Jack Taylor, eds. 2013. The Silence of
Fallout: Nuclear Criticism in a Post-Cold War World. Newcastle: Cambridge
Scholars.
Blume, Judy. 2001. Tiger Eyes. London: Macmillan Children’s Books.
Blumenfeld, Yorick. 1983. Jenny: My Diary. London: Penguin.
Bolsover, Philip. 1983. The CND Story. London: Allison and Busby.
Booth, Martin. 1986. Hiroshima Joe. London: Arrow.
Boyer, Paul. 1998. Fallout: A Historian Reflects on America’s Half-Century
Encounter with Nuclear Weapons. Columbus: Ohio State University Press.
Bradley, John, ed. 1995. Atomic Ghost: Poets Respond to the Nuclear Age.
Minneapolis: Coffee House.
Bradley, John, ed. 2000. Learning to Glow: A Nuclear Reader. Arizona: University
of Arizona Press.
Brayndick, Michael. 1986. Interview with Ursula Le Guin. Iowa Journal of Literary
Studies 7. http://ir.uiowa.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1192&context=ijls.
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Brett, Guy. 1986. Through Our Own Eyes: Popular Art and Modern History.
London: Heretic.
Brians, Paul. 1987. Nuclear Holocausts: Atomic War in Fiction, 1895–1985. Kent:
Kent State University Press.
Brians, Paul. 1988. Nuclear Fiction for Children. Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists
44(6): 24–27.
Briggs, Raymond. 1983. When the Wind Blows. London: Penguin.
Brin, David. 1987. The Postman. London: Bantam.
Brinkley, William. 1989. The Last Ship. New York: Ballantine.
Broad, William J. 1986. Star Warriors: The Weaponry of Space—Reagan’s Young
Scientists. London: Faber.
Bromley, Dudley. 1982. Final Warning Doomsday Journals. Belmont: David
Lake.
Buell, Laurence. 1998. Toxic Discourse. Critical Inquiry 24: 639–665.
Bunge, William. 1988. Nuclear War Atlas. Oxford: Blackwell.
Butler, Octavia E. 2000. Dawn. New York: Grand Central.
Calder, Nigel. 1981. Nuclear Nightmares: An Investigation Into Possible Wars.
New York: Penguin.
Caldicott, Helen. 1978. Nuclear Madness: What You Can Do! Brookline:
Autumn.
Caldicott, Helen. 1984 (1986). Missile Envy: The Arms Race and Nuclear War.
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BIBLIOGRAPHY 213
Grant, Matthew. 2009. After the Bomb: Civil Defence and Nuclear War in Britain,
1945–68. London: Palgrave Macmillan.
Grausam, Daniel. 2011. On Endings: American Postmodern Fiction and the Cold
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Grossman, Andrew D. 2001. Neither Dead Nor Red: Civilian Defense and American
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Hackett, John. 1979. The Third World War: The Untold Story. London: Sphere.
Hales, Peter B. 1991. The Atomic Sublime. American Studies 32(1): 5–31.
Hall, Lynn. 1986. If Winter Comes. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.
Hammond, Andrew, ed. 2006. Cold War Literature: Writing the Global Conflict.
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Hammond, Andrew. 2013. British Fiction and the Cold War. London: Palgrave.
Hennessy, Peter. 2003. The Secret State: Whitehall and the Cold War. London:
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Hersey, John. 1985. Hiroshima. New edn. London: Penguin.
Hevly, Bruce, and John M. Findlay, eds. 1998. The Atomic West. Seattle: University
of Washington Press.
Hines, Barry. 1990. Three Sheffield Plays, ed. Mick Mangan. Sheffield: Sheffield
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Hoban, Russell. 2002. Riddley Walker. London: Bloomsbury.
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Hudson, Kate. 2005. CND—Now More Than Ever: The Story of a Peace Movement.
London: Vision.
Humphrey, Nicholas. 1982. Four Minutes to Midnight. London: Menard Press.
Humphrey, Nicholas, and Robert Jay Lifton, eds. 1984. In a Dark Time. London:
Faber.
Hunt, Alex. 1998. Cormac McCarthy’s The Crossing. The Explicator 56(3):
158–160.
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James, P.D. 2005. The Children of Men. London: Faber.
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Foundation for Spiritual Alternatives.
Janssen, David, and Edward Whitelock. 2009. Apocalypse Jukebox: The End of the
World in American Popular Music. Brooklyn: Soft Skull.
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Kennard, Peter and Ric Sissons, No Nuclear Weapons. London: Pluto, 1981.
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Thompson, E.P. Protest and Survive. London: Russell Press, 1980.
Zuckerman, Solly. “Europe and America” and “The Nuclear Shadow”: Two Essays
by Lord Zuckerman, OM. London: Menard Press, 1983.
Zuckerman, Solly. Nuclear Illusion and Reality. London: Collins, 1982.
FILMS
The Atomic Café. Kevin Rafferty, Jayne Loader and Pierce Rafferty. USA: Archives
Project, 1982.
The China Syndrome. James Bridges. USA: Columbia, 1979.
Empire of the Sun. Steven Spielberg. USA: Amblin, 1987.
The Miracle Mile. Steve De Jarnatt. USA: Herndale, 1988.
The Ploughman’s Lunch. Richard Eyre. UK: Goldcrest, 1983.
Red Dawn. John Milius. USA: United Artists, 1984.
The Terminator. James Cameron. USA: Herndale, 1984.
Terminator 2: Judgment Day. James Cameron. USA: Carolco, 1991.
Testament. Lynne Littman. USA: Paramount, 1983.
WarGames. John Badham. USA: MGM, 1983.
When the Wind Blows. Jimmy T. Murakami. UK: Meltdown, 1986.
I L
International Physicians for the Labour Party, 67, 151
Prevention of Nuclear War Lakenheath, 22n15, 30, 54, 56, 57
(IPPNW), 143, 146, 165n9 Langton, Jane, 62, 90
Irving, John, 24n39 The Fragile Flag, 62, 63, 90, 206
A Prayer for Owen Meany, Lawrence Livermore National
24n39, 209 Laboratory, 28, 115, 195n58
Lawrence, Louise, 28, 84, 101, 103,
120, 122, 124, 157–159, 174
J
Children of the Dust, 84, 101–108,
James, P.D., 184
120, 122, 124, 157, 159, 162,
The Children of Men, 184, 209
164, 174, 207
Jampolsky, Gerald, 64
Le Guin, Ursula, 99, 101, 103,
Children as Teachers of Peace, 64, 205
104, 107, 159, 163, 164, 185
Jethro Tull, 14
Always Coming Home, 101–108,
Johnson, Annabel and Edgar, 89, 177
159, 163, 185, 207
The Danger Quotient, 89, 90, 177,
Lenz, Millicent, 22n14, 122
178, 206
Lifton, Robert Jay, 47, 54, 66, 67, 70,
Johnson, Denis, 119, 173
74n13, 171
Fiskadoro, 119, 173, 176, 178, 179,
Limited Test Ban Treaty, 113
187, 207
Lindsey, Hal, 73n2
Johnson, Rebecca, 58
Livermore Action Group, 16, 28, 115
Jones, Lynne, 57
Lovelock, James, 114
Joseph, Keith, 27, 43n2, 81
Lown, Bernard, 145
K M
King, Stephen Madison, Arnold, 62, 90, 119
The End of the Whole Mess, 185, It Can’t Happen to Me, 62,
196n60, 208 90, 119
The Stand, 7, 51, 204 Malamud, Bernard, 89, 175
King, Ynestra, 109n22, 110n23 God’s Grace, 89, 175, 205
Kinnock, Neil, 1, 2 Mark, Carson, 146
Kirk, Gwyn, 16, 31, 57, 58, 86, 87, Markle, Gerald, 1, 21n5
110n28 Masco, Joseph, 10, 68, 69, 118,
Kissinger, Henry, 43n2 126, 189
Kistiakowsky, George, 146 May, Elaine Tyler, 3, 77–80
Klein, Naomi, 166n11 McCammon, Robert R., 7, 124, 151,
Kopit, Arthur, 206 157, 178
End of the World, 206 Swan Song, 7, 124, 151, 157,
Kunetka, James, 7, 32, 33, 37, 126, 178, 208
152–155, 176–177, See also McCarthy, Cormac
Strieber, Whitley Blood Meridian, 186, 207
INDEX 227