It is the curse and indulgence of every era to think of itself as remarkable: as uniquely burdened and momentous. But the case for the present is strong. “It’s as if something immense or catastrophic is always on the cusp of happening …” writes the Zambian-American novelist Namwali Serpell. “We are all heroes of cataclysm now.”
If there’s an emerging theme to the art of these crisis-racked times, it’s time itself: multiverses, parallel lives and wormholes; groundhog days and grandfather paradoxes; time-travellers and their ever-patient wives. From indie films (Everything Everywhere All at Once; Palm Springs), to prestige TV (Russian Doll, Dark), to queer romance novels (see Casey McQuiston’s delightful One Last Stop), creators seem intent on mucking with the space-time continuum. Could there be a better metaphor for our perpetual present than an inescapable cosmic loop? The more inevitable the future seems, the more we dream of one that can be averted – of a past that can be undone.
