Invisible Ink: adventures of a misanthropic memoirist, writing from the heart of the climate crisis
Invisible Ink is the ‘most brilliant climate crisis memoir the world has never heard of, and no one wants to read’, according to the entirely unbiased author.
It is a rollicking, white-knuckled ride through 20 years of misadventures on the frontline of climate reporting in Africa.
It is sometimes dark, sometimes funny, often furious. It's also 'too much', according to one critic. Way too much.
A self-inflicted injury this big — turning a planet’s climate system into chaos — is too much.
Join our intrepid misanthropic memoirist — a competent writer who is not a man, if you can believe it — as she goes utterly mad in the face of climate collapse, and is absolutely sane as she watches herself do so.
Warning: includes at least one irate witch hunter, a few insurgents with hand-me-down Kalashnikovs and murderous intent, some predatory capitalists, a sexist or two, and a deity in the shape of a cat.
Because no adventure is complete without a cat.
Even dog people know this to be true.
Invisible Ink: adventures of a misanthropic memoirist, writing from the heart of the climate crisis
Invisible Ink Leo Joubert Ch 6 Invisible Ink
I have gone goblin-mode, but this time I may have pushed it a little far, even by plague standards.
The venue is industrial-chic-meets-Burning-Man in a grimy part of town where the kiss of gentrification makes the repurposed warehouse ideal for tonight’s 60th shindig. The guests are pimped up in sequins and faux furs with a dusting of psychedelics, and they’re stomping to Deep House on a dance floor. How retirement-age women can pull off the spray-on lycra look is a thing of mystery, given most of us have bloated like startled puffer fish after months of soothing our way through pandemic house arrest with comfort carbs and boot-legged wine.