Book vs. Wild

 

            As my professor stands at the front of the classroom, her nose buried in Roderick Nash’s Wilderness and the American Mind and her voice projecting across the classroom what she believes to be the critical line from last night’s reading, I allow my eyes to drift away from my copy of the article on the desk in front of me. Though I should be following along word for word, I instead find myself gazing out of the window of the School of Natural Resources and Environment Building onto the serene-looking Diag. It is 10 minutes after the hour; the oft-used transit area is currently deserted except for the innumerable, majestic trees towering silently over the vast expanse of pavement and grass. When I first signed up for this environmental seminar, I was skeptical to say the least—what good would a class about investing the natural world be if it is based entirely on literature and no direct observation? Despite my reservations, I was mildly interested in the subject area and rather limited in course options; I decided to give the seminar a shot. As soon as the professor assigned the first reading, a novel entitled Moby Duck, my doubts about the course began to multiply. Before even opening the book, troubling questions started flooding my mind: How can one learn to appreciate the natural world by just sitting in a library, flipping through page after page of black-and-white text? How could literature possibly provide a more adequate pathway to environmental appreciation than actually going out and appreciating the environment can? Where, essentially, can these creations of man coexist with and complement the awesome power of nature, if they can at all?

 

            After much deliberation, I soon deduced that the possible answers to these questions could only be found in one place: the texts themselves. I eventually stopped staring out the window of classrooms and instead began investigating the works assigned as required readings. One such text, an article entitled Vision by Diane Ackerman, became the first step in my understanding of how literature could enhance one’s understanding of something so very different than a collection of words printed on paper. This article, ironically enough, focused on the concept of sight—the author leads off with a quote by John Ruskin reading “The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something…To see clearly is poetry, prophecy, and religion, all in one.” I struggled to contain a snort of laughter the first time I read this in the library; this first quote of the article was exactly the reason why I believed reading the article would be so pointless; one needs to actually see the natural world in order to appreciate its power and subtlety, not just read about it. But I once again gave the class the benefit of the doubt and read on.  Our professor had described Ackerman as a naturalist writer and poet, a description that I took to mean she would be a tree-hugging nature lover, pleading with her readers to rescue a critically endangered species of butterfly without providing much social or philosophical commentary.

 

          So imagine my surprise when, after only a paragraph, I felt shivers running down my spine from the frighteningly powerful language of this “tree-hugger.” Ackerman begins her article by comparing the features of humans, specifically the eyes, to those of the most vicious predators of the natural world, showing how the human species is built for ferocity and competition. She then proceeds into the physiological realm, exploring the science behind color and light and how they can influence mood and emotion in humans. While presenting a great amount of facts, she leaves several key questions entrenched firmly in the readers’ heads, such as “If no human eye is around to view it, is an apple really red?” (252) This rhetorical question sticks with me, and it runs through my mind as I walk back from the library that night. With no company besides the rustling trees lining my path, I throw my head back and look at the elaborate canvas of stars twinkling far above my head. Ackerman’s voice penetrates my mind further, especially her description of “The sky that gods inhabit, the sky whose permanence we depend on and take for granted, as if it really were a solid, vaulted ceiling on which stars were painted…” (239) As I stare up at this vaulted ceiling, I ask myself if I would have had the same sense of awe at these distant specks of light had I not just been awakened to the delightfully mysterious concept of light and how the human eye perceives it. I allow myself only a few moments of innocent pondering before I remember the time and hurry back to my dorm.

 

            Several less thought-provoking nights later, I find a new reading, Annie Dillard’s book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, on the desk in front of me at the library. More cautious about passing premature judgment about the author this time, I begin reading the book as objectively as possible. After the first couple chapters, it becomes clear that this work is much different than any other I have read before. There is no real storyline, no clear-cut message, no external conflict; there is only Annie Dillard and one big, thriving forest surrounding Tinker Creek. Admittedly, the first few readings bore me to death—I soon realize that perhaps I should have saved the title of tree-hugger for this author. She seems more concerned with describing the mating process of the praying mantis than she does with providing any information that a reader could relate to or ponder on. I began to believe, with significant disappointment, that this is what nature writing is truly about. I am chugging away at one such chapter, trying to absorb enough information to write a halfway decent reading summary, when a phrase catches my eye and I realize there may be more to her eccentric anecdotes than I first believed. The phrase was “Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me” (178). I pause to think about this line for a minute, then hastily flip back a few pages and begin reading the entire chapter more thoroughly. 

 

          This time around, Dillard’s story about the birthing processes of barnacle larvae makes a little more sense. Why, she wonders, is there such massive birth and such massive death in the world? Would it not have been easier for ‘The Creator’, as she calls it, to create creatures incapable of conceiving new life and of dying? It would certainly make the world less messy and less painful. These questions were certainly intriguing, but as I paused to reflect on them, the sight of the wooden desks and metal bookshelves surrounding me did not do much to encourage my curiosity. I decided to take the book out into the arboretum and finish the chapter there.

Surrounded by trees, plants, and insects that were multiplying and perishing every second, I read on and soon came to Dillard’s theory that human beings are freaks due to their emotions. She claims that we are moral creatures in an amoral universe, and that ‘The Creator’ was cruel to our species by giving us emotions and the obligation to mourn a death. The ubiquitous death in the world is bad enough, she asserts, but to make one feel pain each time they lose a loved one is nothing short of torture. At this point I look up from the book and take a few moments to focus on my surroundings. As a gentle breeze blows the top leaves of the trees around me, a squirrel darts out from the bushes to snatch a crab apple. Sensing my presence, it stands erect and flourishes its tail in an astoundingly charming way. I will later read Dillard’s conclusion that “if you want to live, you have to die,” but by that point I have already begun to realize that it only makes sense for there to be a high price for taking part in such an amazing and curious venture as life (183).

 

            Only four weeks into the class, I already feel as though I have begun to see how much of an effect the viewpoints of other, more experienced thinkers can have on a student’s perception of the natural world and all the complexities that go with it. The careful placement of words and phrases by these authors can invoke incredibly powerful emotions in a reader and have him question beliefs that he used to base his foundation of existence on. The use of texts in this one class has already challenged me to question how human beings perceive everything that surrounds them and how generations of people have justified the concept of death to themselves. Despite my initial hesitancies, I have come to realize the sheer power of these texts when combined with the wonder of the natural world, a mixture which already seems to have inspired a change in my perspective of life and the meaning of it—one which I hope to continue to develop throughout the rest of my life in many different ways. For now however, I’m content with staring out the window of my classroom, learning to appreciate the wisdom of the written word one author at a time.