Wendell Berry, who recently passed at 92, spent his life proving that sometimes the most radical thing you can do is simply not log on. From his Kentucky farmhouse, he churned out over 50 books of poetry, fiction, and essays — all penned with a pencil, no screens allowed. Because apparently that’s where we are now: writing with a pencil is an act of defiance.
Berry wasn't just a Luddite with a literary bent; he was a farmer, teacher, philosopher, and environmental activist who inspired generations to think a little differently about our relationship with the planet. He was the guy who made you want to put down your phone and pick up a shovel. Or at least, a very good book.
The Radical Act of Thinking Small
Berry's core belief? To live right, you have to start small. He argued that instead of waiting for politicians to save the world, we should appreciate Earth's beauty and put in the daily work to mend the damage we've done. As he put it in his 1972 essay "Think Little," "There is no public crisis that is not also private." Which, if you think about it, is both impressive and slightly terrifying.
We're a new kind of news feed.
Regular news is designed to drain you. We're a non-profit built to restore you. Every story we publish is scored for impact, progress, and hope.
Start Your News DetoxHe wasn't shy about his convictions. In his poem "Manifesto: Mad Farmer Liberation Front," he famously urged people to "Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias. / Say that your main crop is the forest / that you did not plant." Try explaining that to your venture capitalist.
This approach often put him at odds with traditional environmental activism, which tends to focus on looming disaster. Berry, ever the farmer, saw the world in cycles of death and rebirth, not a straight shot to destruction or salvation. A refreshing perspective, if a bit inconvenient for the doom-scrolling set.
Getting Arrested (The Old-Fashioned Way)
Despite his philosophical disagreements, Berry wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty — literally. He was arrested in 1979 for protesting a nuclear plant and again in 2011 for protesting mountaintop removal coal mining in Kentucky. He even pulled his papers from the University of Kentucky after they accepted a hefty donation from Alliance Coal. Because some things are more important than an archive.
When he wrote "Why I am not Going to Buy a Computer" in 1987, some called him a Luddite. And sure, he shared a certain spirit with those 19th-century textile workers who smashed machines to preserve the value of their craft. Berry just wanted to keep technology from separating him from his work, even if it meant being branded a curmudgeon. A badge he likely wore with pride.
His ideas were too nuanced for simple political boxes. He believed marriage and family strengthened communities, but government shouldn't legislate them. He was religious but often skipped church on nice Sundays to walk in the woods instead, calling himself a "bad weather church-goer." He disliked rigid dualisms — humanity vs. nature, body vs. soul — which made his work resonate with a surprisingly broad audience.
Berry knew our hands are all a little dirty in this flawed world. "Our hands are all dirty, and we’re making these compromises," explained Jeffrey Bilbro, an English professor who's written about Berry. The trick, he suggested, is to be honest about it and still strive to live right, even if perfect purity is a myth. Because even a strip-mined mountaintop, with enough time and tending, can eventually become a lush forest again. It just might take a while. Like, a really long while.
In his poem "A Discipline," Berry envisioned an apocalypse closing in, yet he wrote, nothing truly disappears. "It is the time’s discipline to think / of the death of all living, and yet live." He believed that by connecting with a small handful of earth, by caring for a single seedling, you could understand the fight for massive change. And maybe, just maybe, make things a little better than you found them. All without ever needing to charge your phone.
