Dominic Pettman and Eugene Thacker are both old friends of mine. I suppose this might have affected my response to their new book. But believe me, SAD PLANETS is both brilliant and original. It works through massive swathes of contemporary culture, and finds in it all massive reasons for us to be melancholy or depressed. In books, movies, and other recent cultural phenomena, SAD PLANETS finds evidence that our anthropocentric fantasies are deluded. Human beings aren't eternal, aren't brilliantly inventive, and aren't at the center of everything. Arguably, the world is telling us this all the time; but Pettman and Thacker show us that our own culture does it too, even in spite of ourselves. Our own efforts at reaching towards transcendence teach us the lesson that we cannot actually ever succeed at this. Our own forms of consolation and self-reassurance in fact end up letting us down and revealing the bleak hopelessness that we would do nearly anything to avoid recognizing. The book is fairly long, but it is intensely readable -- both in its welcoming and open style (unusual in books of High Theory, but very effectively managed here), and in its choice of innumerable examples, covering everything from Immanuel Kant to David Bowie, from European Renaissance humanism to postmodern fiction, and from bizarre apocalyptic cults to sober scientific studies. There is a certain sort of exhilaration that results from reading this book at length -- a sense that we cannot ever get enough, that there is always more for us to devour and to transform -- and yet this exhilaration is entirely in the service of the message that there is no hope, no exit, no transcendence, no departure from our terminally finite and miserable condition. It is almost as if we are being infinitely reminded that we can never attain infinity. The book exceeds all limits in its proclamation that there is no escaping our very narrow limits. This is an aesthetic accomplishment of the highest order, even as it conveys the message that aesthetic accomplishments count for little. The book goes along with a lot of other recent scholarship and creative activity that seeks to decenter human beings, to suggest that the world is not to our measure, and that there are whole ecologies for which we count for very little -- whether we are thinking of planets like K2-141b (where the oceans are made of lava on the light side, and vaporized rocks and magma shower down from the atmosphere on the dark side), or simply of the ways that trees and insects have their own sensibilities which need not have any regard for ours. But Sad Planets is also a book about affect, or feeling: its most powerful (and to me, surprising) aspect is how it suggests that our unavoidable and continuing reflection on the way that the world and the universe are not to our measure and do not care for us leads us predominantly to feelings of deep sadness (rather than, say, Nietzschean resolution to surpass it all, or -- my own inclination -- sheer gibbering terror). Sadness, or melancholy, is more than a momentary tonality; it is a whole kind of atmosphere of feeling within which we are bathed, and within which the distinctions between self and other, human and inhuman, and so on, tend to break down (but without ever vanishing entirely). There may not be any end of the world, in the sense that the ending of the world is a continual process that itself never entirely culminates; but the termination of things, in its very interminability, bathes us in tears and in grief. Here I am using perhaps an overly philosophical (or deconstructive) terminology in order to summarize something that Pettman and Thacker would never express in such a way -- because the intellectualized description of the situation is a way of failing to fully deal with it. And perhaps the real lesson of the book is that there is no way to ever fully deal with our overall reality. But by translating this dilemma from an intellectual one into an emotional one -- sadness as the best response we are capable of -- Sad Planets not only contributes powerfully to the project anthrodecentering, perhaps the most urgent intellectual task of the early 21st century, but also establishes itself alongside the greatest texts about melancholia in the English language: Robert Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy and Andrew Solomon's The Noonday Demon.