There’s a spectacularly successful genre in publishing, the pilgrimage/immersion first person. My favorites, “I was a miserable 20-something and cooked my way through Julia Child” (Julie and Julia, by Julie Powell), and “I was a miserable divorcee and traveled the world.” (Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert) Variations include, reading the encyclopedia or living biblically, and the forthcoming “Swish: My Quest to Become the Gayest Man Alive” by this gorgeous genius.

I love a good quest. I have cooked entirely round meals. In every category of clothing - shirt, shoes, socks, etc. - I own at least one item that is crossing-guard orange. I think these narratives amount to a healthy kind of OCD. They can give shape to our lives.

In the past week, the NYTimes has treated us to two previews of the next addition to the library: my year of living locally and conscientiously. Sub-headlined “The Year Without Toilet Paper,” the book will soon be known as “No Impact,” from venerable publisher FSG.

Bleccch.

“I was a writer guy, hunting for a gig, and threw the toilet paper out with the bathwater,” coming soon to a bookstore near you. In his own words, it reads like a life without pleasure.

The greatest joy of the “new” environmentalism is it isn’t about what you leave out, but how much better life gets: buy a Prius, fill your gas tank once a month; eat a seasonal green, fighting its way through the frost at the end of March, and it is packed with flavor, the accumulated dormancy of winter bursting free in every crisp bite.

There is a time for sacrifice, I’ll admit. Current climate data is grim. Pesach focuses us on unwanted, unneeded excess. But historically and presently, there has also been a use for cross-pollination, a need for creativity, for spices from far-away places, for things that are entirely new under the sun.

However green, this brand of retro-utopianism looks so very bleak. “Simplify, simplify” is a great gimmick, but a crappy answer.

Literally.