Tuan Romantic Geography
Transcrição
Tuan Romantic Geography
RoÂ�manÂ�tic GeogÂ�raÂ�phy roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy In Â�Search of the SubÂ�lime LandÂ�scape yi-fu tuan t h e u n i Â�v e r sÂ� i t y o f w i s cÂ� o n Â�s i n p r e s s The UniÂ�verÂ�sity of WisÂ�conÂ�sin Press 1930 MonÂ�roe Â�Street, 3rd Floor MadÂ�iÂ�son, WisÂ�conÂ�sin 53711-2059 uwÂ�press.wisc.edu 3 HenÂ�rietta Â�Street LonÂ�don WC2E 8LU, EnÂ�gland euÂ�rosÂ�panÂ�bookÂ�store.com CopyÂ�right © 2013 The Board of ReÂ�gents of the UniÂ�verÂ�sity of WisÂ�conÂ�sin Â�System All Â�rights reÂ�served. No part of this pubÂ�liÂ�caÂ�tion may be reÂ�proÂ�duced, Â�stored in a reÂ�trieval Â�system, or transÂ�mitÂ�ted, in any forÂ�mat or by any means, digÂ�iÂ�tal, elecÂ�tronic, meÂ�chanÂ�iÂ�cal, photoÂ�copÂ�yÂ�ing, reÂ�cordÂ�ing, or othÂ�erÂ�wise, or conÂ�veyed via the InterÂ�net or a webÂ�site withÂ�out writÂ�ten perÂ�misÂ�sion of the UniÂ�verÂ�sity of WisÂ�conÂ�sin Press, exÂ�cept in the case of brief quoÂ�taÂ�tions emÂ�bedÂ�ded in critÂ�iÂ�cal arÂ�tiÂ�cles and reÂ�views. Â�Printed in the Â�United Â�States of AmerÂ�ica LiÂ�brary of ConÂ�gress Â�Cataloging-in-Publication Data Tuan, Yi-fu, 1930– RoÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy: in Â�search of the subÂ�lime landÂ�scape / Yi-Fu Tuan. p.â•…â•… cm. InÂ�cludes bibÂ�lioÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal refÂ�erÂ�ences and index. ISBN 978-0-299-29680-3 (cloth: alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-299-29683-4 (e-book) 1.╇ GeogÂ�raÂ�phy—PhiÂ�loÂ�soÂ�phy.╇╇ 2.╇ DisÂ�covÂ�erÂ�ies in geogÂ�raÂ�phy. 3.╇ RoÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism.╇╇ I.╇ Title. G70.T83â•…â•…â•… 2013 910.01—dc23 2013010425 ConÂ�tents AcÂ�knowlÂ�edgÂ�ments vii overÂ�ture 3 1â•… PoÂ�larÂ�ized ValÂ�ues 9 2â•… Earth and Its NatÂ�uÂ�ral EnÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments 29 interÂ�lude: wholeÂ�some but orÂ�diÂ�nary 109 3â•… The City 113 v contents vi 4â•… The Human Being 147 coda 167 Notes 179 IlÂ�lusÂ�traÂ�tion CredÂ�its 193 Index 195 AcÂ�knowlÂ�edgÂ�ments Eight of my books were writÂ�ten and pubÂ�lished since my reÂ�tireÂ� ment in 1998. I Â�couldn’t posÂ�sibly have done as much withÂ�out the supÂ�port of my deÂ�partÂ�menÂ�tal colÂ�leagues, who gave me a sunny ofÂ�fice in which to work—or Â�should I say play?—for it was so much fun! I want to thank my reÂ�cent pubÂ�lishÂ�ers: the UniÂ�verÂ�sity of MinÂ�neÂ�sota Press, the UniÂ�verÂ�sity of WisÂ�conÂ�sin Press, and the newly esÂ�tabÂ�lished Â�George F. ThompÂ�son Press. They have been conÂ�sisÂ�tently symÂ�paÂ�thetic. Among the edÂ�iÂ�tors of the Â�present book, I am inÂ�debted to RaÂ�phael KadÂ�uÂ�shin, Adam MehÂ�ring, BarÂ�bara Lund, and MatÂ�thew Cosby. I am esÂ�peÂ�cially inÂ�debted to RaÂ�phael KadÂ�uÂ�shin, who welÂ�comed RoÂ�manÂ�tic GeogÂ�raÂ�phy as a posÂ�sible pubÂ�liÂ�caÂ�tion in less than a week after my subÂ�misÂ�sion. Now, Â�that’s a real boost to an Â�author’s moÂ�rale! vii ac knowle dgme nts viii ReÂ�tireÂ�ment sugÂ�gests a lowÂ�erÂ�ing of viÂ�talÂ�ity—a withÂ�drawal from life. This Â�hasn’t been quite my fate in the last fourÂ�teen years, Â�thanks to the friendÂ�ship of the efÂ�ferÂ�vesÂ�cent young, of whom there are many, inÂ�cludÂ�ing: Nick Bauch, Chu Hao Chan, Â�Chaoyi Chang, Zhi Cheng, RichÂ�ard DonÂ�oÂ�hue, AnÂ�drew Grant, DanÂ�iel Â�Gresch, HongÂ�nian Huang, AnÂ�drew Kern, BenÂ�jaÂ�min Kern, NaÂ�than LarÂ�son, MathÂ�ias LeÂ�Bossé, DusÂ�tin Lenz, Matt Â�Liesch, Chris LimÂ�burg, MelÂ�aÂ�nie McCalÂ�mont, Kevin McDoÂ�nald, AnÂ�drew Â�Miller, Kyle Mills, Nick MurÂ�phy, GarÂ�rett NelÂ�son, Lindy NelÂ�son, Matt Â�O’Brien, Kyle PresÂ�ton, Peter ProÂ�haska, JeÂ�muel RiÂ�pley, JesÂ�sica Sack, Greg Â�Schwartz, Ben Â�Spaier, JusÂ�tin Stock, Sean ThompÂ�son, Jamon van den Hoek, XuÂ�zheng Wang, Kevin Â�Warnke, David WasÂ�kowÂ�ski, Peter WeisÂ�sels, ConÂ�rad Wiles, SamÂ�uel Zhu, and I-Ou Zuo. The young inÂ�spire me if only by showÂ�ing interÂ�est, makÂ�ing me feel that I can reach Â�across the chasm of time, but I Â�should menÂ�tion one gradÂ�uÂ�ate stuÂ�dent—GarÂ�rett NelÂ�son—who has also given me speÂ�cific asÂ�sisÂ�tance by findÂ�ing ilÂ�lusÂ�traÂ�tions (iconic anÂ�nounceÂ�ments) for the secÂ�tions on natÂ�uÂ�ral enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments and seekÂ�ing perÂ�misÂ�sion from copyÂ�right holdÂ�ers to use them in my book. As to inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual debt, I owe much to UmÂ�berto Eco, edÂ�iÂ�tor of On UgÂ�liÂ�ness (RizÂ�zoli, 2007). ReadÂ�ing the text and lookÂ�ing at the strikÂ�ing ilÂ�lusÂ�traÂ�tions made me think that I would like to write a book on ugÂ�liÂ�ness and disÂ�gust. But I Â�couldn’t make any headÂ�way. ac knowle dgme nts ix I was fightÂ�ing Â�against my naÂ�ture, which reÂ�sists dwellÂ�ing on the dark side of life. So why not make my next book be one on roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy that, for all its Â�bright élan, does also have its murky Â�depths? RoÂ�manÂ�tic GeogÂ�raÂ�phy overÂ�ture Â� Coupling “roÂ�manÂ�tic” with “geogÂ�raÂ�phy” could seem a contraÂ�dicÂ�tion of terms, for few peoÂ�ple nowÂ�aÂ�days see geogÂ�raÂ�phy as roÂ�manÂ�tic. Â�Down-to-earth, full of comÂ�mon sense, necÂ�esÂ�sary to surÂ�viÂ�val, yes—but roÂ�manÂ�tic? Yet there was a time, not so long ago, when geogÂ�raÂ�phy did have Â�glamor, was conÂ�sidÂ�ered roÂ�manÂ�tic. It was the time of heÂ�roic exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tions. ExÂ�plorÂ�ers were known as geogÂ�raÂ� phers, peoÂ�ple Â�skilled in surÂ�veyÂ�ing and mapÂ�ping. Their adÂ�venÂ�tures, when reÂ�ported, were Â�widely folÂ�lowed and much adÂ�mired. One could make blockÂ�buster moÂ�vies of David LivÂ�ingÂ�stone and ErÂ�nest ShackÂ�leÂ�ton as one could of ElizÂ�aÂ�beth I and GanÂ�dhi. What they had in comÂ�mon was that they inÂ�itiated and parÂ�ticÂ�iÂ�pated in major Â�events. 3 ov erture 4 HowÂ�ever, were these Â�events Â�really geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal Â�events? Â�Wouldn’t an acÂ�count of the adÂ�venÂ�tures of David LivÂ�ingÂ�stone in AfÂ�rica be hisÂ�tory Â�rather than geogÂ�raÂ�phy? The two Â�fields are very difÂ�ferÂ�ent and yet they are often Â�taught as a packÂ�age in Â�schools and colÂ�leges. How do they difÂ�fer? The one tells a good story, the other does not. A hisÂ�tory of the Â�American Civil War is rich in perÂ�sonÂ�alÂ�ities and drama, with inÂ�stances of chivÂ�alry that are at the heart of roÂ�mance. A geogÂ�raÂ�phy of the Â�American Civil War, by Â�contrast, is Â�likely to be inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tive and useÂ�ful but not exÂ�citÂ�ing. HisÂ�toÂ�ries can be dry too, of Â�course, but they can at least be Â�deemed “roÂ�manÂ�tic” in the sense that they are an extra or a luxÂ�ury that is unÂ�necÂ�esÂ�sary to civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion and its surÂ�viÂ�val. India, for exÂ�amÂ�ple, is a great civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion, one Â�backed by fanÂ�tasÂ�tic myths and legÂ�ends Â�rather than hisÂ�tory of the sort known to EuÂ�rope and China. On the other hand, to surÂ�vive, all soÂ�ciÂ�eties—primÂ�iÂ�tive and soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated— must have a more or less systemÂ�atic knowlÂ�edge of the lay of the land. HisÂ�tory also has hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal roÂ�mances, a genre piÂ�oÂ�neered by Sir WalÂ�ter Scott. But to the quesÂ�tion, are there geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ� cal roÂ�mances? Most peoÂ�ple would draw a blank unÂ�less they Â�thought of tales of exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion. So, again, the idea of a “roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy”—one that is imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tive and darÂ�ing yet anÂ�chored in reÂ�alÂ�ity—seems contraÂ�dicÂ�tory. Can there, nevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less, be a roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy? Can it be Â�argued that there is need for one since much of human life is in fact Â�driven by pasÂ�sion—by the deÂ�sire to reach what is out of reach or even beÂ�yond reach?1 ov erture 5 My anÂ�swer to both quesÂ�tions is yes, and I will give reaÂ�sons for my opinÂ�ion in this book. But beÂ�fore I do, I need to take care of a few preÂ�limÂ�iÂ�narÂ�ies, the first of which is deÂ�finÂ�ing the words “roÂ�manÂ�tic” or “roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism,” a loose set of ideas and valÂ�ues that Â�emerged in EuÂ�rope Â�between 1780 and 1848. The preÂ�ciÂ�sion of the dates is misÂ�leadÂ�ing for the ideas and valÂ�ues themÂ�selves are vague and often contraÂ�dicÂ�tory. T. E. Hulme Â�opines that roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism is esÂ�senÂ�tially a transcenÂ�dence of the everyÂ�day and a faith in human perÂ�fectÂ�ibilÂ�ity. Â�Jacques BarÂ�zun Â�speaks of a roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cist temÂ�perÂ�aÂ� ment, which he charÂ�acÂ�terizes as “adÂ�miÂ�raÂ�tion for enÂ�ergy, moral enÂ�thuÂ�siasm, origÂ�iÂ�nal genÂ�ius, recÂ�ogÂ�niÂ�tion of Â�contrast Â�between man’s Â�greatness-wretchedness, Â�power-misery.” RoÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism overÂ�lapped with the idea of the subÂ�lime and of the Â�gothic. Both then doveÂ�tailed into a phase of WestÂ�ern imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion Â�called the decaÂ�dent (1880–1900). All four charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tics—roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism, the subÂ�lime, the Â�gothic, and the decaÂ�dent—were reÂ�belÂ�lions Â�against the norms of life, with their ideal of stabilÂ�ity.2 GeogÂ�raÂ�phy, howÂ�ever, is Â�mostly about the norms of life. When geogÂ�raÂ�phers note change, Â� the Â�change is usuÂ�ally asÂ�cribed to imÂ�perÂ�sonal Â�forces. To even hint that a yearnÂ�ing to Â�transcend the everyÂ�day or that the lure of human perÂ�fectÂ�ibilÂ�ity plays a role would put the work out of the catÂ�eÂ�gory of seÂ�riÂ�ous scholÂ�arÂ�ship and into the catÂ�eÂ�gory of roÂ�mance. GeoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal writÂ�ing can, of Â�course, show “moral enÂ�thuÂ�siasm,” one of the roÂ�manÂ�tic Â�traits menÂ�tioned by BarÂ�zun, but the enÂ�thuÂ�siasm—the ferÂ�vor—is far ov erture 6 more Â�likely to be deÂ�nunÂ�ciaÂ�tory than adÂ�mirÂ�ing, more a Â�cutting criÂ�tique of capÂ�iÂ�talÂ�ism than a glowÂ�ing Â�praise of soÂ�cialÂ�ism. Â�Lastly, the roÂ�manÂ�tic temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ment, says BarÂ�zun, is torn Â�between greatÂ� ness and wretchÂ�edÂ�ness, power and misÂ�ery. The works of conÂ�temÂ� poÂ�rary geogÂ�raÂ�phers show litÂ�tle trace of such roÂ�manÂ�tic agony. The laÂ�cuÂ�nae in the Â�geographer’s imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion and work are not Â�merely a disÂ�ciÂ�pliÂ�nary blind spot, for they reÂ�flect the mood of the secÂ�ond half of the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury, which is esÂ�senÂ�tially antiÂ� roÂ�manÂ�tic. As evÂ�iÂ�dence, conÂ�sider the exÂ�traorÂ�diÂ�nary popÂ�uÂ�larÂ�ity, not only in acÂ�aÂ�deÂ�mia but in soÂ�ciÂ�ety at large, of such conÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�tive, houseÂ�keepÂ�ing noÂ�tions as enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�menÂ�talÂ�ism, ecolÂ�ogy, susÂ�tainÂ� abilÂ�ity, and surÂ�viÂ�val. The isÂ�sues they raise and the voÂ�cabÂ�uÂ�lary they use may difÂ�fer, but since they all atÂ�tempt to make the earth a Â�stable and livÂ�able home, they all come down to being “home ecoÂ�nomÂ�ics.” And home ecoÂ�nomÂ�ics, howÂ�ever useÂ�ful and necÂ�esÂ� sary to human Â�well-being, does not stir the pasÂ�sions or make the Â�spirit soar: it is not roÂ�manÂ�tic. RoÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism inÂ�clines toÂ�ward exÂ�tremes in feelÂ�ing, imÂ�aÂ�ginÂ�ing, and thinkÂ�ing. It seeks not so much the Â�pretty or the clasÂ�siÂ�cally beauÂ�tiÂ�ful as the subÂ�lime with its adÂ�mixÂ�ture of the enÂ�chantÂ�ing and the horÂ�rifyÂ�ing, the Â�heights and the Â�depths. PushÂ�ing poÂ�larÂ� ized valÂ�ues to their limit is, howÂ�ever, a luxÂ�ury of adÂ�vanced soÂ� ciÂ�ety or civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion in which peoÂ�ple, enÂ�joyÂ�ing a large measÂ�ure of ecoÂ�nomic seÂ�curÂ�ity, value the inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual—even the ecÂ�cenÂ�tric inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual. There are many civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tions—a dozen to Â�twenty, ov erture 7 acÂ�cordÂ�ing to ArÂ�nold J. ToynÂ�bee—but only one, the WestÂ�ern, has deÂ�velÂ�oped a way of thinkÂ�ing and feelÂ�ing about the world that jusÂ�tifies the name of roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism.3 Much that I have to say is thereÂ�fore of the WestÂ�ern world. MoreÂ�over, much of it draws on the hunÂ�dred years or so beÂ�fore the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury, the reaÂ�son being that since 1900, the Â�ideals of high roÂ�mance have been proÂ�gresÂ�sively overÂ�shadÂ�owed by the Â�ideals of deÂ�mocÂ�racy and the comÂ�mon man. Still, in popÂ�uÂ�lar culÂ�ture, roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism is alive and well: witÂ�ness the blockÂ�buster moÂ�vies that feaÂ�ture Â�knights in shinÂ�ing armor seekÂ�ing to resÂ�cue the fair damÂ�sel or even in Â�search of the Holy Grail. High culÂ�ture deems such roÂ�mance shalÂ�low and childÂ�ish, yet it conÂ�tinÂ�ues to afÂ�fect, sub rosa, the way that even the soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated think and feel about naÂ�ture, enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ment, soÂ� ciÂ�ety, and polÂ�iÂ�tics. They can’t help being so afÂ�fected, for underÂ� lyÂ�ing roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism, and inÂ�deed underÂ�lyÂ�ing all human deÂ�sires, tempÂ�taÂ�tions, and asÂ�piÂ�raÂ�tions, are the poÂ�larÂ�ized valÂ�ues, exÂ�isÂ�tence of which lures peoÂ�ple to move, at least in imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion, beÂ�yond the norm to the exÂ�tremes. 1 PoÂ�larÂ�ized ValÂ�ues W hat are the poÂ�larÂ�ized valÂ�ues? They inÂ�clude darkÂ�ness and light, chaos and order, body and mind, matÂ�ter and Â�spirit, naÂ�ture and culÂ�ture, among othÂ�ers. Every culÂ�ture has its own set that is subÂ�tly difÂ�ferÂ�ent from those of other culÂ�tures. With all of them, there is a famÂ�ily reÂ�semÂ�blance—a simÂ�iÂ�lar evÂ�oÂ�caÂ�tion of valÂ�ues such that one pole conÂ�tains the “negÂ�aÂ�tives” of darkÂ�ness, chaos, body, matÂ�ter, and naÂ�ture, and the other pole, the “posÂ�iÂ�tives” of light, order, mind, Â�spirit, and culÂ�ture. (The inÂ�verted comÂ�mas are put there as a reÂ�minÂ�der that the valÂ�ues are reÂ�verÂ�sible.) These biÂ�narÂ�ies underÂ�lie a roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy for the folÂ�lowÂ�ing reaÂ�sons: they focus on the exÂ�tremes Â�rather than on the Â�middle-range; they afÂ�fect our feelÂ�ings and judgÂ�ments toÂ�ward obÂ�jects and peoÂ�ple in the orÂ�diÂ�nary enÂ�counÂ�ters of life, but also—and more cenÂ�tral to roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy—in the enÂ�viÂ�sionÂ�ing and exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�encÂ�ing of 9 p olariz ed va lues 10 large, chalÂ�lengÂ�ing enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments such as the Â�planet Earth with its natÂ�uÂ�ral subÂ�diÂ�viÂ�sions of mounÂ�tain, ocean, tropÂ�iÂ�cal forÂ�est, Â�desert, and ice plaÂ�teaus, and their human counterÂ�part in chalÂ�lenge— the city. BoostÂ�ing the roÂ�manÂ�tic flaÂ�vor of these enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments are inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als who seek adÂ�venÂ�ture and someÂ�thing else—someÂ�thing more mysÂ�terÂ�iÂ�ous that they are unÂ�able to arÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�late. AdÂ�venÂ�tures of the latÂ�ter sort may be charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�ized as quest, and quest—as in the quest for the Holy Grail—is at the core of roÂ�mance. But first, we need to turn to the biÂ�narÂ�ies beÂ�cause they both deÂ�fine the limÂ�its of what is acÂ�ceptÂ�able in the norÂ�mal opÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tions of human life—geogÂ�raÂ�phy—and hint at posÂ�sibilÂ�ities beÂ�yond—roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy. DarkÂ�ness and Light “In the beÂ�ginÂ�ning God Â�created Â�heaven and the earth. And the earth was withÂ�out form, and void; and darkÂ�ness was upon the face of the deep. And the Â�Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waÂ�ters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light that it was good: and God diÂ�vided the light from darkÂ�ness.” These faÂ�milÂ�iar Â�verses at the beÂ�ginÂ�ning of GenÂ�eÂ�sis are supÂ�pleÂ� mented by Â�verses in the first chapÂ�ter of the gosÂ�pel acÂ�cordÂ�ing to Saint John. “In the beÂ�ginÂ�ning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” In him (that is, in the Word) “was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shinÂ�eth p olariz ed va lues 11 in darkÂ�ness; and the darkÂ�ness comÂ�preÂ�hended it not.” A man was sent from God “to bear witÂ�ness of the Light, that all men Â�through him might beÂ�lieve. He was not that Light, but was sent to bear witÂ�ness of that Light. That was the true Light, which lightÂ�eth every man that comes into the world” (John 1:1, 4–6, 8–9). God is Light or, to put it the other way, Light is God. In the human world, light is inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion or spirÂ�iÂ�tual enÂ� lightÂ�enÂ�ment. More than other reÂ�liÂ�gions, such as BudÂ�dhism, light in ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity is given a Â�richly varÂ�ied symÂ�bolic meanÂ�ing in litÂ�erÂ�aÂ� ture, art, and archiÂ�tecÂ�ture. Thus, when Dante Â�passes beÂ�yond the crysÂ�tal Â�sphere of the outÂ�erÂ�most star, he is said to have enÂ�tered a Â�Heaven that is “pure light, inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual light, full of love” (ParÂ�aÂ� diso XXX.38). In art, Â�saints are recÂ�ogÂ�nized by their halos. HowÂ� ever, it was in archiÂ�tecÂ�ture—in the Â�Gothic caÂ�theÂ�dral—that light as physÂ�iÂ�cal fact and symÂ�bol Â�reached a peak of splenÂ�dor and figÂ�uraÂ�tive power. That which disÂ�tinÂ�guished the Â�Gothic style in the Â�twelfth cenÂ�tury was not the Â�cross-ribbed vault, the Â�pointed arch, or the flyÂ�ing butÂ�tress. Â�Rather it was light. As Otto von SimÂ�son put it, “The Â�Gothic wall seems to be porÂ�ous: light filÂ�ters Â�through it, perÂ�meatÂ�ing it, mergÂ�ing with it, transÂ�figÂ�urÂ�ing it. The Â�Gothic may be deÂ�scribed as transÂ�parÂ�ent, diÂ�aphÂ�aÂ�nous archiÂ�tecÂ�ture, a conÂ�tinÂ�uÂ�ous Â�sphere of light.”1 Suger (1081?–1151), the abbot of Â�Saint-Denis who is credÂ�ited with the inÂ�venÂ�tion of the Â�Gothic Â�church, said that in it he saw himÂ�self “dwellÂ�ing, as it were, in some Â�strange reÂ�gion of the p olariz ed va lues 12 uniÂ�verse which exÂ�ists neiÂ�ther enÂ�tirely in the slime of the earth nor enÂ�tirely in the purÂ�ity of Â�Heaven; and, by the grace of God, I can be transÂ�ported from this inÂ�feÂ�rior to that Â�higher world in an anÂ�aÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal manÂ�ner.” In other words, Â�Suger’s Â�church, since it could not avoid reÂ�tainÂ�ing “the slime of the earth,” was at best a mere foreÂ�taste of Â�heaven.2 DarkÂ�ness and death perÂ�vaded the house of God: litÂ�eral darkÂ� ness in the musty, cavÂ�ernÂ�ous crypt and figÂ�uraÂ�tive darkÂ�ness in the monÂ�strous garÂ�goyles. As for death, the stone efÂ�fiÂ�gies in their cold, stiff soÂ�lidÂ�ity Â�seemed to mock the idea of resÂ�urÂ�recÂ�tion. Suger, Â�though he emÂ�braced light and its symÂ�bolÂ�ism, inÂ�cluded darkÂ�ness in his conÂ�cepÂ�tion of the caÂ�theÂ�dral. His conÂ�temÂ�poÂ�rary BerÂ�nard of ClairÂ�vaux (1090–1153) was more of a purÂ�ist. Of the orÂ�naÂ�ments in one monÂ�asÂ�tery, he comÂ�mented inÂ�digÂ�nantly: “And furÂ�ther, in the cloisÂ�ters, under the eyes of the brethÂ�ren enÂ�gaged in readÂ�ing, what busiÂ�ness has there that riÂ�dicÂ�uÂ�lous monÂ�strosÂ�ity, that amazÂ�ing misÂ�shaÂ�pen shapeÂ�liÂ�ness and Â�shapely misÂ�shaÂ�penÂ�ness? Those unÂ� clean monÂ�keys? Those Â�fierce lions? Those monÂ�strous cenÂ�taurs? Those Â�semi-human beÂ�ings?”3 HuÂ�mans favor light as Â�against darkÂ�ness for the obÂ�viÂ�ous reaÂ�son that we are priÂ�marÂ�ily visÂ�ual anÂ�iÂ�mals. In darkÂ�ness, unÂ�able to see, we are disÂ�oriented and lost. WithÂ�out the guidÂ�ance and conÂ�straint of a Â�clearly deÂ�linÂ�eated exÂ�terÂ�nal reÂ�alÂ�ity, our imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion runs wild and conÂ�jures up monÂ�sters that haunt us. Note the asymÂ�meÂ�try: we have nightÂ�mares but only pleasÂ�ant dayÂ�dreams; the one p olariz ed va lues 13 makes us sweat in terÂ�ror, the other Â�merely makes us smile. A comÂ�mon but Â�deeply reÂ�wardÂ�ing exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence is to wake up from disÂ�turbed sleep to beÂ�hold, outÂ�side the winÂ�dow, a scene of brightÂ�enÂ�ing sky, leafy trees, and twitÂ�terÂ�ing birds that are a foreÂ� taste of the resÂ�urÂ�recÂ�tion. UnderÂ�standÂ�ably, peoÂ�ple worldÂ�wide see darkÂ�ness and light, black and white, as antiÂ�thetÂ�iÂ�cal. Even Â�dark-skinned peoÂ�ple in AfÂ�rica favor light and white against Â� darkÂ�ness and black. To the West Â�African tribe, the BamÂ�bara, white is a regal color, repÂ�reÂ� sentÂ�ing wisÂ�dom and purÂ�ity of Â�spirit. The dark tones of inÂ�digo, on the other hand, are idenÂ�tified with sadÂ�ness and imÂ�purÂ�ity. To the Nupe tribe of NiÂ�geÂ�ria, black sigÂ�nifies sorÂ�cery, evil, and scary prosÂ�pects. To the MalÂ�aÂ�gasy in MadÂ�aÂ�gasÂ�car, “black” conÂ�notes inÂ� feÂ�riÂ�orÂ�ity, evil, susÂ�piÂ�cion, and disÂ�agreeÂ�ableÂ�ness while “white” sigÂ�nifies the opÂ�poÂ�site valÂ�ues of light, hope, joy, and purÂ�ity.4 Light and white have, howÂ�ever, also negÂ�aÂ�tive meanÂ�ings. In China, white, inÂ�soÂ�far as it is couÂ�pled with yang (light, day, sun), is posÂ�iÂ�tive and deÂ�sirÂ�able, but as the color of the Â�corpse Â�drained of blood and life, it sigÂ�nifies death. In the WestÂ�ern world, white, for all its posÂ�iÂ�tive meanÂ�ings, also has a few negÂ�aÂ�tives, even in the Bible; thus Saint MatÂ�thew (23:27) likÂ�ens hypoÂ�crites to “whited sepÂ�ulÂ�chres,” outÂ�wardly beauÂ�tiÂ�ful but Â�within full of men’s bones and unÂ�cleanÂ�ness. JoÂ�seph ConÂ�rad uses the traÂ�diÂ�tional opÂ�poÂ�siÂ�tion of white (good), dark (bad) in the Heart of DarkÂ�ness, but he also gives “white” the sense of corÂ�rupÂ�tion and death when he Â�speaks p olariz ed va lues 14 of Â�bleached Â�skulls Â�around Â�Kurtz’s hut, of Â�Kurtz’s shinÂ�ing bald head, of the ivory that Â�tempts EuÂ�roÂ�peans to avÂ�aÂ�rice, and of the “white sepÂ�ulÂ�chre” city in which the Â�company’s headÂ�quarÂ�ters are loÂ�cated.5 White is brightÂ�ness—glare. ProÂ�longed exÂ�poÂ�sure to it is exÂ�cruÂ�ciatÂ�ing torÂ�ture. EnÂ�forced wakeÂ�fulÂ�ness leads to death. The color white, as in the white flag of surÂ�renÂ�der, sigÂ�nifies imÂ�poÂ�tence, weakÂ�ness, and cowÂ�arÂ�dice. InÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tuÂ�ally, it sugÂ�gests shalÂ�lowÂ�ness— all surÂ�face, no depth. Black or darkÂ�ness, on the other hand, sigÂ� nifies ferÂ�tilÂ�ity, poÂ�tency, nurÂ�ture, the gerÂ�miÂ�nal, and the maÂ�terÂ�nal. Dark red color is Â�blood-gorged power; paleÂ�ness is aneÂ�mia. Black soil is good soil, pale soil a sign of nuÂ�triÂ�ent deÂ�fiÂ�ciency. A plant only grows beÂ�cause its roots are burÂ�ied in dark murk. Human sex is faÂ�vored by darkÂ�ness, as is resÂ�toÂ�raÂ�tive sleep. One reaÂ�son we are senÂ�tiÂ�menÂ�tal about home is that it is the only place where, for a few hours every night, we inÂ�dulge in the luxÂ�ury of oblivÂ�ion. Chaos and Form The first Â�verses of GenÂ�eÂ�sis show God as arÂ�tiÂ�san. He did what all human arÂ�tiÂ�sans do—Â�create order and clarÂ�ity out of chaos. “The earth was withÂ�out form.” So, by a sucÂ�cesÂ�sion of Â�mighty acts, God Â�created form. He sepÂ�arÂ�ated the firÂ�maÂ�ment from the waÂ�ters and then gathÂ�ered the waÂ�ters into one place so that dry land could apÂ�pear (GenÂ�eÂ�sis 1:9–10). Human arÂ�tiÂ�sans Â�couldn’t, of Â�course, Â�create order at such a scale, but they tried, using Â�heaven as a temÂ�plate. They saw in the moÂ�tion of the stars a preÂ�dictÂ�abilÂ�ity—an p olariz ed va lues 15 orÂ�derÂ�liÂ�ness—that they could not see in the feaÂ�tures and hapÂ�penÂ� ings on earth. Their task, then, was to bring that orÂ�derÂ�liÂ�ness down to earth, and they did so in the form of cosÂ�mic citÂ�ies, with walls and key buildÂ�ings Â�aligned to the carÂ�diÂ�nal Â�points—that is to say, to critÂ�iÂ�cal poÂ�siÂ�tions in the moÂ�tion of the sun, by far the most promÂ�iÂ�nent of stars. LookÂ�ing up to Â�heaven, anÂ�cient astronÂ�oÂ�mers saw that the stars cirÂ�cuÂ�lated Â�around one heaÂ�venly body that did not move—the North Star. Closer Â� at hand they saw the sun rise in the east and set in the west, in apÂ�parÂ�ent cirÂ�cuÂ�lar moÂ�tion Â�around the earth. As a matÂ�ter of fact, the anÂ�cients were inÂ�clined to see if not cirÂ�cles, then cirÂ�cuÂ�lar moÂ�tion Â�nearly everyÂ�where, in the orÂ�derly posÂ�sesÂ� sion of seaÂ�sons, in the miÂ�graÂ�tory paths of birds, and in the life cyÂ�cles of livÂ�ing Â�things. BuildÂ�ing giÂ�ganÂ�tic cirÂ�cuÂ�lar walls to enÂ�close a city was, howÂ�ever, a chalÂ�lenge that the anÂ�cients could not easÂ�ily meet. So they Â�sought a subÂ�stiÂ�tute in the Â�square or recÂ�tanÂ�gle. Â�Heaven’s order was Â�brought down to earth as the geoÂ�metÂ�ric cosÂ�mic city, whose conÂ�strucÂ�tion reÂ�quired the levÂ�elÂ�ing of hills and valÂ�leys, the diÂ�verÂ�sion of Â�streams, and the demÂ�oÂ�liÂ�tion of vilÂ�lages—in other words, the subÂ�juÂ�gaÂ�tion of earth. The great city began its life as a cosÂ�mic cerÂ�eÂ�moÂ�nial cenÂ�ter. Its prinÂ�ciÂ�pal inÂ�habÂ�iÂ�tants were the Â�priest-king, reÂ�liÂ�gious ofÂ�fiÂ�cials, and the elite of soÂ�ciÂ�ety. They conÂ�ducted the rites they beÂ�lieved to be necÂ�esÂ�sary to order and life. But their own life and Â�well-being deÂ�pended on all kinds of goods and serÂ�vices. These were proÂ�vided p olariz ed va lues 16 by peoÂ�ple floodÂ�ing in from the counÂ�tryÂ�side and beÂ�yond. Â�Though necÂ�esÂ�sary to the ruler and the elite, the comÂ�mon peoÂ�ple of heteroÂ� geÂ�neÂ�ous backÂ�ground, comÂ�merÂ�cial and arÂ�tisÂ�aÂ�nal Â�rather than agÂ�riÂ� culÂ�tuÂ�ral and hence not an esÂ�senÂ�tial part of the cosÂ�mic parÂ�aÂ�digm, were seen as a poÂ�tenÂ�tial Â�threat to Â�society’s order. A large buÂ�reauÂ�cÂ� racy came into exÂ�isÂ�tence to monÂ�iÂ�tor this heteroÂ�geÂ�neÂ�ous popÂ�uÂ� laÂ�tion and see to it that soÂ�ciÂ�ety ran with someÂ�thing like the regÂ�uÂ�larÂ�ity and preÂ�dictÂ�abilÂ�ity of the stars. The key word was harÂ�mony.6 To be civÂ�ilÂ�ized is to move from formÂ�lessÂ�ness to form, from chaos to harÂ�mony. Who would disÂ�pute that this is the right diÂ�recÂ�tion for huÂ�manÂ�kind to go, that it conÂ�stiÂ�tutes progÂ�ress? Yet there is cause for doubt. God Â�created order out of chaos, but being a great artÂ�ist, with the temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ment of a roÂ�manÂ�tic, he would have found “order” too preÂ�dictÂ�able and a Â�trifle borÂ�ing. So he added the human being to his works—a creaÂ�ture that unÂ�like all other creaÂ�tures is caÂ�pable of freeÂ�dom, that is to say, of Â�choice and with Â�choice the posÂ�sibilÂ�ity of proÂ�ducÂ�ing disÂ�orÂ�der. The human being is also an artÂ�ist who seeks to Â�create order out of chaos, harÂ�mony out of disÂ�soÂ�nance. ImÂ�pressed by the orÂ�derly proÂ�cesÂ� sion of the stars Â�around the unÂ�movÂ�ing North Star, he Â�wishes to esÂ�tabÂ�lish a soÂ�ciÂ�ety in which vasÂ�sals and the comÂ�mon peoÂ�ple subÂ�mit to and move Â�around the one unÂ�movÂ�ing emÂ�peror. The reÂ�sult, if it can be Â�achieved, is inÂ�deed order and harÂ�mony. But it is also dicÂ�tatÂ�orÂ�ship. The good soÂ�ciÂ�ety canÂ�not be one of perÂ�fect harÂ�mony. It reÂ�quires a measÂ�ure of chaos, for out of its tenÂ�sions p olariz ed va lues 17 and conÂ�flicts new ideas Â�emerge. In other words, the good soÂ�ciÂ�ety, like good art, must conÂ�tain disÂ�soÂ�nance. In emÂ�bracÂ�ing disÂ�soÂ�nance and openÂ�ness, the good soÂ�ciÂ�ety is more roÂ�manÂ�tic than clasÂ�siÂ�cal. Low and High CulÂ�ture may be Â�deemed “low” or “high.” “Low” is of the body and the earth, “high” is of the mind and the sky; the one asÂ�soÂ�ciated with the comÂ�mon peoÂ�ple, the other with the elite, a disÂ�tincÂ�tion that the elite make to which the comÂ�mon peoÂ�ple acÂ�quiesce. The elite see themÂ�selves as demÂ�iÂ�gods, their abode the city cenÂ�ter and, conÂ�cepÂ�tuÂ�ally, also the highÂ�est point. From the cenÂ�ter, the city “slopes down,” first, to the quarÂ�ters of the midÂ�dling class, and then to the marÂ�gins where the poor and the disÂ�repÂ�uÂ�taÂ�ble hudÂ�dle. For cenÂ�tuÂ�ries, if not milÂ�lenÂ�nia, this is the archiÂ�tecÂ�tuÂ�ral and soÂ�cial model of great citÂ�ies. As for orÂ�diÂ�nary dwellÂ�ings, their evÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tionÂ�ary path is upÂ�ward, the earÂ�liÂ�est being parÂ�tially underÂ�ground, as Â�though reÂ�lucÂ�tant to leave the seÂ�curÂ�ity of maÂ�terÂ�nal earth. In time, they stood above Â�ground, with the more imÂ�porÂ�tant ones on Â�raised platÂ�forms. ReÂ�liÂ�gion and its archiÂ�tecÂ�ture moved from a deÂ� penÂ�dence on the spirÂ�its of grotÂ�toes and hills, water holes and Â�streams, to a deÂ�penÂ�dence on the overÂ�archÂ�ing sky and its gods; and from ritÂ�uÂ�als conÂ�ducted outÂ�doors to ritÂ�uÂ�als conÂ�ducted in the seÂ�cluded interÂ�iÂ�ors of temÂ�ples.7 As with “darkÂ�ness” and “light,” “high” and “low” may be reÂ�versed in value. Thus, in both anÂ�cient Rome and modÂ�ern ChiÂ�cago, Â�high-rise teneÂ�ment buildÂ�ings proÂ�vide housÂ�ing for the p olariz ed va lues 18 poor, Â�whereas vilÂ�las and manÂ�sions close to the Â�ground are resÂ�iÂ� dences for the rich. Â�Low-flung buildÂ�ings sigÂ�nify stabilÂ�ity. GovernÂ� ment buildÂ�ings, as disÂ�tinct from corÂ�poÂ�rate headÂ�quarÂ�ters, do not rise many Â�floors above the Â�ground. One can’t easÂ�ily imÂ�aÂ�gine BuckÂ�ingÂ�ham PalÂ�ace, a symÂ�bol of conÂ�tiÂ�nuÂ�ity and traÂ�diÂ�tion, or the PenÂ�taÂ�gon, the seat of milÂ�iÂ�tary power, as skyÂ�scrapÂ�ers. “High” and “low” are Â�strongly Â�charged words. WhatÂ�ever is superÂ�ior or exÂ�celÂ�lent is elÂ�eÂ�vated, asÂ�soÂ�ciated with a sense of physÂ�iÂ�cal Â�height. InÂ�deed “superÂ�ior” is deÂ�rived from a Latin word meanÂ�ing “higher.” “Excel” (celÂ�sus) is anÂ�other Latin word for “high.” The SanÂ�skrit BrahÂ�man is deÂ�rived from a term meanÂ�ing “height.” “DeÂ�gree,” in the litÂ�eral sense, is a step by which one moves up or down in space. SoÂ�cial Â�status is desÂ�igÂ�nated “high” or “low” Â�rather than “great” or “small.” On the other hand, it is stressÂ� ful to reach the Â�heights where one beÂ�comes vulÂ�nerÂ�able to envy and maÂ�lefÂ�iÂ�cence. UnderÂ�standÂ�ably, in high civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tions, inÂ�diÂ� vidÂ�uÂ�als at the peak of achieveÂ�ment ocÂ�caÂ�sionÂ�ally feel the draw of being Â�merely avÂ�erÂ�age. AesÂ�thetes can show a cerÂ�tain nosÂ�talÂ�gia for mud, inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tuÂ�als for the senÂ�sual reÂ�alÂ�ity of Â�beasts. High Â�status in any area of enÂ�deavor risks a fall, but this would seem parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�larly true of soÂ�cial Â�status. Â�George OrÂ�well, a man of the upper Â�middleclass, finds comÂ�fort in being Â�down-and-out. As a dishÂ�washer in a PaÂ�riÂ�sian resÂ�tauÂ�rant, he is at the botÂ�tom, yet it turns out to be bearÂ�able. “You have Â�talked so often of going to the dogs—and well, here are the dogs, and you have Â�reached them, and you can stand it. It takes off a lot of anxÂ�iety.”8 p olariz ed va lues 19 The Human Body The more adÂ�vanced anÂ�iÂ�mals alÂ�ready know the poÂ�laÂ�rities of high and low, light and darkÂ�ness, form and chaos. Â�Unique to huÂ�mans is their inÂ�dexÂ�ing and elabÂ�oraÂ�tion on the body. So inÂ�dexed and elabÂ�orated, these poÂ�laÂ�rities are no Â�longer vague and abÂ�stract but have a high deÂ�gree of specÂ�iÂ�ficÂ�ity and Â�weight. Each culÂ�ture, each civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion, has its own index. The Â�West’s is Â�strongly inÂ�fluÂ�enced by Plato, to whom the body is a corÂ�poÂ�real soul, the diÂ�vine part of which is the head, the seat of reaÂ�son and ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion. The head, which is imÂ�morÂ�tal, is kept at a disÂ�tance by the neck from the torso and stomÂ�ach, which are the Â�body’s lower parts. Â�Though morÂ�tal, the torso has much to comÂ�mend it, for it is the seat of a “manly Â�spirit.” Â�Reason’s disÂ�courses are heard by the Â�breast part of the torso, which supÂ�ports raÂ�tional Â�thought by reÂ�strainÂ�ing the exÂ�cesses of deÂ�sire. And, then, there is the heart, which Plato calls the guarÂ�droom. The guarÂ�droom acts Â�quickly at the emerÂ�gence of a probÂ�lem, passÂ�ing inÂ�forÂ�maÂ�tion to all senÂ�siÂ�tive memÂ�bers. As for the stomÂ�ach and orÂ�gans farÂ�ther down, they serve the lower needs. The stomÂ�ach is thus “a manÂ�ger for the Â�body’s nourÂ�ishÂ� ment,” and nourÂ�ishÂ�ment being esÂ�senÂ�tial to the Â�body’s funcÂ�tionÂ�ing canÂ�not be disÂ�missed as someÂ�how secÂ�onÂ�dary. But what about the other apÂ�peÂ�tites, tethÂ�ered “like wild Â�beasts” to the loins? Their loÂ�caÂ�tion below the stomÂ�ach means that the noxÂ�ious fumes of pasÂ�sion do not easÂ�ily reach reaÂ�son and preÂ�vent it from doing its work. MoreÂ�over, there is the neck, which acts as the final corÂ�don p olariz ed va lues 20 sanÂ�iÂ�taire.9 In modÂ�ern times, this way of thinkÂ�ing has led to the Â�quaint noÂ�tion that a longÂ�ish neck is a good inÂ�diÂ�caÂ�tor of inÂ�telÂ�liÂ� gence. AdÂ�mirÂ�ers of SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes and his arÂ�chriÂ�val ProÂ�fesÂ�sor MorÂ�iÂ�arty have been perÂ�suaded that masÂ�terÂ�minds can be only ecÂ�toÂ�morphs, lean of build and long of limb, this deÂ�spite the Â�contrary evÂ�iÂ�dence of MyÂ�croft Â�Holmes and Â�Father Brown, both brilÂ�liant but stout. Â�Plato’s readÂ�ing of the human body inÂ�fluÂ�enced EdÂ�mund Â�Spenser (1552–99), whose own readÂ�ing difÂ�fers by being even more geoÂ�metÂ�riÂ�cal and archiÂ�tecÂ�tuÂ�ral. The body, to Â�Spenser, conÂ� sists of three parts: cirÂ�cle (head), recÂ�tanÂ�gle (torso), and spreadÂ�ing legs (triÂ�anÂ�gle). BuildÂ�ings are supÂ�posed to show these Â�shapes and proÂ�porÂ�tions. As in Plato, the body is a corÂ�poÂ�real soul—a whole. Or, as Â�Spenser puts it, the body is a “work diÂ�vine” and not someÂ�thing alien to and sepÂ�aÂ�raÂ�ble from the soul. On the other hand, the body defÂ�iÂ�nitely exÂ�hibÂ�its a hierÂ�arÂ�chy of valÂ�ues, with the head and the legs at the polar exÂ�tremes. The head conÂ� tains the highÂ�est and most perÂ�fect form of the soul, Â�whereas the legs are of the earth, Â�tainted by conÂ�cuÂ�pisÂ�cence and all that is genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tive.10 Body, House, and Space The body is a house, the house is a body, an inÂ�tuiÂ�tion that is Â�widely Â�shared. One finds it in the De ArchiÂ�tecÂ�tura of ViÂ�truÂ�vius (first cenÂ�tury BCE–first cenÂ�tury CE), in the dreams Â� of ArÂ�teÂ�midÂ�orus p olariz ed va lues 21 DaÂ�ldiÂ�aÂ�nus (secÂ�ond cenÂ�tury CE), in Â�Shakespeare’s AnÂ�tony and CleÂ�oÂ�paÂ�tra (“This morÂ�tal house I’ll ruin, Do CaeÂ�sar what he can”), in AnÂ�drew Â�Marvell’s “Upon ApÂ�pleÂ�ton House,” in Henri Â�Bosco’s novel MalÂ�iÂ�croix, in Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher and The Tell Tale Heart, in Â�Freud’s metaÂ�phors and, inÂ�deed, in his Â�well-padded, Â�womb-like conÂ�sultÂ�ing room, and in James Â�Thurber’s carÂ�toon “Home,” which shows a small, timid man apÂ�proachÂ�ing the large, maÂ�terÂ�nal house. This is, of Â�course, an ecÂ�lecÂ�tic seÂ�lecÂ�tion, and alÂ�though all draw on the Â�body-house analÂ�ogy, the naÂ�ture of that analÂ�ogy varÂ�ies from the Â�coolly figÂ�uraÂ� tive to the inÂ�tiÂ�mately exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�enÂ�tial. I Â�choose to exÂ�amÂ�ine the latÂ�ter, for it is there that biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues are most Â�clearly manÂ�iÂ�fest. The dream house (or the Â�child’s house) is a verÂ�tiÂ�cal strucÂ�ture with a Â�pitched roof. Its three levÂ�els are attic, livÂ�ing room, and celÂ�lar. Attic is the place for the Â�dreamer and poet. In Â�dreams, one alÂ�ways goes up to the attic, which, to FreuÂ�dians, Â�stands for the superÂ�ego. The livÂ�ing room is the pubÂ�lic and soÂ�cial self, the place where one makes one’s Â�worldly plans. It Â�stands for the ego. The celÂ�lar is the dark Â�ground of being, the place of the furÂ�nace that fuels the pasÂ�sionÂ�ate self. In Â�dreams, one alÂ�ways goes down into the dark celÂ�lar—the id.11 The verÂ�tiÂ�cal house is charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tic of the late Â�nineteenthcentury midÂ�dle class, Â�Freud’s class and world. By Â�mid-twentieth cenÂ�tury, the new Â�middle-class house in the westÂ�ern Â�United Â�States is Â�likely to be horÂ�iÂ�zonÂ�tal, as in a ranch house. The ranch house p olariz ed va lues 22 has a Â�well-marked front and back, just like a human being. At the front is the livÂ�ing room. Its winÂ�dows, one on eiÂ�ther side of the door, are “eyes” that surÂ�vey the front lawn and beÂ�yond. The livÂ�ing room is soÂ�cial space. It is where one enÂ�terÂ�tains. At night, one pulls down the Â�blinds (shutÂ�ting the eyes) and withÂ�draws to the back of the house, made up of the bedÂ�room, toiÂ�let, and Â�kitchen, all of which cater to one’s bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal needs. Every night, one takes out the garÂ�bage that has acÂ�cuÂ�muÂ�lated in the Â�kitchen bins, just as every night one sits on the toiÂ�let to be rid of the Â�body’s Â�wastes. At the front of the house are the imÂ�macÂ�uÂ�late lawn and the Â�flower garÂ�den. It is for show and is unÂ�fenced. At the back of the house is a vegÂ�eÂ�taÂ�ble plot, a swing for the chilÂ�dren, and a place for barÂ�beÂ�cuÂ�ing and inÂ�forÂ�mal famÂ�ily gathÂ�erÂ�ings. The backÂ�yard, being priÂ�vate space, is Â�fenced in, proÂ�tected from probÂ�ing eyes.12 The courtÂ�yard house, Â�whether of China, anÂ�cient Rome, or Latin counÂ�tries, also has a front and a back. The front is forÂ�mal and semiÂ�pubÂ�lic; the back is inÂ�forÂ�mal and priÂ�vate. In preÂ�modÂ�ern times, the courtÂ�yard at the front was Â�largely reÂ�served for men and that at the back for women and chilÂ�dren; the one caÂ�tered to the Â�social-political, the other to the Â�social-biological; the one exÂ�posed and “bright,” the other hidÂ�den and “dark.” AlÂ�though the house may be parÂ�tiÂ�tioned and its rooms asÂ�signed difÂ�ferÂ�ent valÂ�ues, the house as a whole is conÂ�sidÂ�ered feÂ�male and nurÂ�turÂ�ing, deÂ�voted to acÂ�tivÂ�iÂ�ties that mainÂ�tain bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal life. By p olariz ed va lues 23 Â� contrast, the city is the doÂ�main of men and of maÂ�nipÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tive reaÂ�son. AnÂ�cient Â�Greeks made the most of this difÂ�ferÂ�ence. Their home in the counÂ�tryÂ�side was esÂ�senÂ�tially a farmÂ�stead, its purÂ�pose being to proÂ�duce food and mainÂ�tain life. Women, chilÂ�dren, and Â�slaves—the miÂ�nors of clasÂ�siÂ�cal soÂ�ciÂ�ety—beÂ�longed there. Men were exÂ�pected to make their repÂ�uÂ�taÂ�tions in the glare of pubÂ�lic life in the city.13 Until well into the 1950s, these Â�gender-based difÂ�ferÂ�ences were widely Â� acÂ�cepted in the WestÂ�ern world, inÂ�cludÂ� ing in the Â�United Â�States. Women Â�raised the chilÂ�dren, did the shopÂ�ping, and Â�cooked the meals, their doÂ�main being the home. Men drove into the city every day, where they vied with other men for Â�higher inÂ�come and betÂ�ter Â�status, but also—so they liked to beÂ�lieve—to imÂ�prove soÂ�ciÂ�ety and the world. The world is roÂ�manÂ�tic as the home is not. Men are roÂ�manÂ�tic as women are not. One Â�strain in the femÂ�iÂ�nist moveÂ�ment is to asÂ�sert that women, too, can be roÂ�manÂ�tic; that they, too, can lead a life of darÂ�ing, tilt Â�against windÂ�mills, and risk much for a dream. AnÂ�other Â�strain in the femÂ�iÂ�nist moveÂ�ment, Â�equally Â�strong, is to asÂ�sert the opÂ�poÂ�site—not that women Â�should join men, but Â�rather that men Â�should join women in the colÂ�lecÂ�tive task of makÂ�ing the earth a susÂ�tainÂ�able home. I have Â�called this moveÂ�ment “houseÂ� keepÂ�ing” or “home ecoÂ�nomÂ�ics.” ViÂ�tally imÂ�porÂ�tant as the moveÂ� ment is to the Â�earth’s and our Â�well-being, and apÂ�pealÂ�ing as it is to geogÂ�raÂ�phers who beÂ�lieve that they have a leadÂ�ing role in that underÂ�takÂ�ing, it is not roÂ�manÂ�tic. p olariz ed va lues 24 SoÂ�cial Â�Status ExÂ�cept for small Â�hunting-gathering bands, hierÂ�arÂ�chy has alÂ�ways exÂ�isted in soÂ�ciÂ�ety. MoreÂ�over, the Â�larger the soÂ�cial group and the Â�higher its maÂ�teÂ�rial culÂ�ture, the more its Â�status disÂ�tincÂ�tions are Â�likely to be elabÂ�orate and rigid. Yet, for all their comÂ�plexÂ�ity, soÂ�cial disÂ�tincÂ�tions rest ulÂ�tiÂ�mately on the hierÂ�archiÂ�cal body, memÂ�bers of which—head, torso, legs, and feet—are unÂ�equal. The verÂ�tiÂ�cal Â�stance itÂ�self, Â�unique to huÂ�mans among priÂ�mates, Â�yields “high” and “low,” with mind and Â�spirit couÂ�pled with the “high,” that is to say, the head, and serÂ�vile anÂ�iÂ�malÂ�ity with the “low,” that is to say, the stomÂ�ach and loin, legs and feet. As for the role of musÂ�cuÂ�lar power in soÂ�cial standÂ�ing, etholÂ�oÂ� gists see its cenÂ�tral imÂ�porÂ�tance everyÂ�where in the anÂ�iÂ�mal world, but it Â�doesn’t quite fit the human one. True, the strongÂ�est guy in a Â�street gang rules the roost. Even there, howÂ�ever, it is Â�likely that he Â�gained his Â�status inÂ�itially Â�through verÂ�bal Â�rather than physÂ�iÂ�cal Â�jousts. In a triÂ�bal soÂ�ciÂ�ety, the man of highÂ�est presÂ�tige is the Â�all-seeing shaÂ�man Â�rather than the warÂ�rior. InÂ�dian civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion recÂ�ogÂ�nized four Â�castes: Â�priestly and Â�learned, warÂ�rior and ruler, Â�farmer and merÂ�chant, and peasÂ�ant and laÂ�borer. SigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cantly, even though Â� warÂ�riÂ�ors and rulÂ�ers enÂ�joyed more power, in presÂ�tige they were a notch below Â�priests and the Â�learned; they were “torso” Â�rather than “head.” SoÂ�cial stratÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tion in China was less rigid than in India. Â�Rather than Â�castes, China had someÂ�thing p olariz ed va lues 25 more permeÂ�able—Â�classes. There were four such Â�classes: Â�scholarofficial, Â�farmer, arÂ�tiÂ�san, and merÂ�chant. Again, note that the Â�scholar-official, and not just the ofÂ�fiÂ�cial, enÂ�joyed high presÂ�tige. The ChiÂ�nese could see that good governÂ�ment reÂ�quired men who were Â�trained to see far and act Â�wisely. The semiÂ�diÂ�vine emÂ�peror himÂ�self, interÂ�estÂ�ingly Â�enough, was not Â�obliged to act, for he was above all soÂ�cial catÂ�eÂ�goÂ�ries. For the world to be in harÂ�mony, all the emÂ�peror had to do was to emÂ�uÂ�late the North Star and sit imÂ�moÂ�bile on his Â�throne. Brain vs. Brawn In ChrisÂ�tianÂ�ized EuÂ�rope, spirÂ�iÂ�tual lords outÂ�ranked temÂ�poÂ�ral lords. Kings bent the knee to the Pope. The real Â�source of power in the paÂ�pacy lay, howÂ�ever, not so much in its small army and milÂ�iÂ�tary alÂ�liÂ�ances as in a vast buÂ�reauÂ�cracy Â�manned by litÂ�erÂ�ate Â�priests and monks. The power of the Word transÂ�muted into the power of words. Â�Around the sixÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, the upper Â�classes in EnÂ�gland began to reÂ�alÂ�ize that if they were to conÂ�tinue to govÂ�ern, they could not deÂ�pend on just marÂ�tial prowÂ�ess. They had to deÂ�velop the mind. So they sent their sons to Â�schools and uniÂ�verÂ�sities—WinÂ�chesÂ�ter and Eton, OxÂ�ford and CamÂ�bridge— that were once the preÂ�serves of Â�lower-class boys preÂ�parÂ�ing for caÂ�reers in the Â�Church. At these inÂ�stiÂ�tuÂ�tions the young genÂ�tleÂ� men were Â�taught theolÂ�ogy and clasÂ�siÂ�cal phiÂ�lolÂ�ogy, disÂ�ciÂ�plines that had no bearÂ�ing on the governÂ�ance of a naÂ�tion. No matÂ�ter, p olariz ed va lues 26 for what the arisÂ�tocÂ�racy and the Â�gentry Â�really asÂ�pired to— withÂ�out their quite knowÂ�ing it themÂ�selves—was someÂ�thing that came to be Â�called the mysÂ�tique of the mind.14 That mysÂ�tique reÂ�mains to this day and inÂ�deed may have deepÂ�ened as soÂ�ciÂ�ety beÂ�comes not only more comÂ�plex but also more techÂ�noÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal, more deÂ�penÂ�dent on anÂ�aÂ�lytÂ�iÂ�cal and sciÂ�enÂ�tific reaÂ�sonÂ�ing. The word “mysÂ�tique” is apÂ�proÂ�priÂ�ate beÂ�cause the power and presÂ�tige of the mind is Â�rarely pubÂ�liÂ�cally acÂ�knowlÂ�edged, least of all in demÂ�oÂ�cratic and popÂ�uÂ�list AmerÂ�ica. It has not, of Â�course, alÂ�ways been so. In the anteÂ�belÂ�lum South, planÂ�taÂ�tion ownÂ�ers cerÂ�tainly saw themÂ�selves as Â�endowed with a qualÂ�ity of mind that their Â�slaves did not have. To the planÂ�taÂ�tion ownÂ�ers, it was the disÂ�tincÂ�tion Â�between “head” and “body,” and there could be no quesÂ�tion as to which was orÂ�dained to rule and which orÂ�dained to obey. In facÂ�toÂ�ries, there perÂ�sisted the habit of callÂ�ing workÂ�ers “hands.” When AmerÂ�ica was rapÂ�idly inÂ�dusÂ�triÂ�alÂ�izÂ�ing in the nineÂ� teenth cenÂ�tury, Dr. FredeÂ�rick DougÂ�lass, the great emanÂ�ciÂ�paÂ�tor of his race, sugÂ�gested that Â�blacks be Â�trained in maÂ�chine shops and techÂ�noÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal colÂ�leges so that they could be the “hands” of the the proÂ�poÂ�sal was much too modÂ�est to boost fuÂ�ture. In retrospect, Â� the Â�self-esteem and Â�status of forÂ�mer Â�slaves, who would then reÂ�main “body.”15 AmerÂ�ica, unÂ�like EuÂ�rope, is conÂ�sidÂ�ered anti-intellectual, Â� with the lopÂ�sided pay scale as evÂ�iÂ�dence. ProÂ�fesÂ�sional athÂ�letes earn far more than do the most acÂ�comÂ�plished proÂ�fesÂ�sors. True Â�enough, p olariz ed va lues 27 but then proÂ�fesÂ�sional athÂ�letes are enÂ�terÂ�tainÂ�ers. It is their job to Â�please their cliÂ�ents and payÂ�masÂ�ters. ProÂ�fesÂ�sors who take their callÂ�ing seÂ�riÂ�ously do not seek to Â�please but to teach, and what they teach is not only useÂ�ful knowlÂ�edge but knowlÂ�edge that was once Â�called “wisÂ�dom,” garÂ�nered from Mount OlymÂ�pus. In short, proÂ�fesÂ�sors are “brain,” proÂ�fesÂ�sional athÂ�letes “brawn.” Being “brain” gives those in that catÂ�eÂ�gory such high Â�status that furÂ�ther boastÂ�ing is quite unÂ�necÂ�esÂ�sary and in the worst of taste. The physÂ�iÂ�cist RichÂ�ard FeynÂ�man Â�couldn’t posÂ�sibly say, “I am the greatÂ�est.” The boxer MuÂ�hamÂ�mad Ali could and did. This shift toÂ�ward the brain, alÂ�ready evÂ�iÂ�dent in Â�sixteenthcentury EnÂ�gland, won’t it have meant the end of roÂ�mance? Monks could read and write, but they were not conÂ�sidÂ�ered roÂ�manÂ�tic as Â�knights were—Â�though they be ilÂ�litÂ�erÂ�ate. Monks did not qualÂ�ify as roÂ�manÂ�tic beÂ�cause they Â�merely copÂ�ied that which was alÂ�ready known. What hapÂ�pened Â�around the time of GalÂ�iÂ�leo and KepÂ�ler was a shift in the conÂ�cept of knowlÂ�edge. Book learnÂ�ing still reÂ�tained its presÂ�tige, but inÂ�creasÂ�ingly Â�greater presÂ�tige acÂ�crued to the idea of Â�search—or quest. As meÂ�diÂ�eval Â�knights went on Â�quests for the Holy Grail, so early modÂ�ern scholÂ�ars went on quests Â� for eluÂ�sive knowlÂ�edge, and in time, these purÂ�suits beÂ�came Â�quests for a betÂ�ter underÂ�standÂ�ing of naÂ�ture, or sciÂ�ence. Quest, as I have said, is at the heart of roÂ�mance. ExÂ�plorÂ�ers are Â�driven by the deÂ�sire to know the Â�source of the Nile, what it is like at the Poles or on top of the highÂ�est mounÂ�tain, with no Â�worldly recÂ�omÂ�pense in p olariz ed va lues 28 mind. AstronÂ�oÂ�mers are glued to their teleÂ�scopes, loÂ�cated on a mounÂ�tain or in the Â�desert, peerÂ�ing at stars that shine Â�brightly but were in fact exÂ�tinct milÂ�lions of years ago. If one wonÂ�ders, what for? perÂ�haps the anÂ�swer is that some inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als deÂ�light in vastÂ�ness and the utÂ�terly reÂ�mote and that they, for all their alÂ�leÂ�giance to preÂ�ciÂ�sion, are roÂ�manÂ�tics. 2 Earth and Its NatÂ�uÂ�ral EnÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments T he roÂ�manÂ�tic imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion faÂ�vors pheÂ�nomÂ�ena that are very large or very small Â�rather than those of a midÂ�dle scale. MoreÂ�over, the roÂ�manÂ�tic imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion readÂ�ily leaps from one exÂ�treme to the next, an exÂ�amÂ�ple being in Â�William Â�Blake’s faÂ�mous lines, “To see a world in a grain of sand / And a Â�heaven in a wild Â�flower.” It may be that all writÂ�ers of a Â�poetic bent asÂ�pire to make the small imply the large, the inÂ�sigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cant the Â�highly sigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ� cant. GeogÂ�raÂ�phers are not such writÂ�ers. Their local studÂ�ies are not inÂ�tended to imply the Â�larger scene, much less the uniÂ�verÂ�sally human; hence, Â�though useÂ�ful as Â�guides to parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar Â�places, they do not lift the Â�spirit. But there are exÂ�cepÂ�tions. WithÂ�out sacÂ�riÂ�ficÂ�ing facÂ�tual deÂ�tails, a geogÂ�raÂ�pher can write with verve, an exÂ�emÂ�plar of this achieveÂ�ment being HenÂ�drik WilÂ�lem van Loon. When a schoolÂ�boy asked for a geogÂ�raÂ�phy book that he could acÂ�tuÂ�ally 29 eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 30 enjoy readÂ�ing, Van Loon rose to the chalÂ�lenge with his GeogÂ�raÂ�phy, first pubÂ�lished in 1932, in which he Â�starts draÂ�matÂ�iÂ�cally with an acÂ�count of the smallÂ�ness of the human bioÂ�mass. All of it, he noted, can be put in a box measÂ�urÂ�ing a half mile in each diÂ�recÂ�tion. Place the box on top of a rock pinÂ�naÂ�cle on the edge of Â�Arizona’s Grand CanÂ�yon. Have a dachsÂ�hund nudge it with his nose. The box Â�crashes down to the botÂ�tom and splinÂ�ters into a thouÂ�sand Â�pieces. HuÂ�manÂ�kind comes to a sorry end, but so what? The “Grand CanÂ�yon would go on batÂ�tling wind and air and sun and rain as it has done since it was Â�created.” HavÂ�ing shown human inÂ�sigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cance and Â�nature’s inÂ�difÂ�ferÂ�ence, Van Loon then uses the next five hunÂ�dred pages to show the opÂ�poÂ�site—the range of human works, gloÂ�riÂ�ous and inÂ�gloÂ�riÂ�ous, in difÂ�ferÂ�ent parts of the world.1 The earth as a Â�planet Â�arouses wonÂ�der, promptÂ�ing a tone of exÂ�posÂ�iÂ�tory writÂ�ing that is nonÂ�utilÂ�iÂ�tarÂ�ian, elÂ�eÂ�vated, and roÂ�manÂ�tic. The same tenÂ�dency apÂ�plies to the Â�earth’s large natÂ�uÂ�ral subÂ�diÂ�viÂ� sions that reÂ�sist human habÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion, such as mounÂ�tains, Â�oceans, rainÂ�foÂ�rests, Â�deserts, and ice plaÂ�teaus. Not being habÂ�itÂ�able or easÂ�ily habÂ�itÂ�able, they free the human mind from the need to deÂ�libÂ�erÂ�ate exÂ�haustÂ�ingly about how to make a livÂ�ing and turn it inÂ�stead to satisÂ�fyÂ�ing its more playÂ�ful and inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual bent. EnÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments that one conÂ�sidÂ�ers both apÂ�pealÂ�ing and reÂ�pelÂ�lent also raise quesÂ� tions of aesÂ�thetÂ�ics and moÂ�ralÂ�ity. To adÂ�dress them, I draw on the biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues I Â�sketched earÂ�lier. eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 32 Earth and Solar Â�System A comÂ�mon misÂ�conÂ�cepÂ�tion that may still linÂ�ger in Â�school textÂ� books is that CoÂ�perÂ�niÂ�cus (1473–1543) was conÂ�demned by the Â�Church for his helioÂ�cenÂ�tric theÂ�ory—the idea that the earth reÂ�volves Â�around the sun Â�rather than the sun reÂ�volves Â�around the earth. The new theÂ�ory, so the misÂ�conÂ�cepÂ�tion goes, deÂ�thrones both the earth and its most privÂ�iÂ�leged inÂ�habÂ�iÂ�tants—human beÂ�ings made in the image of God. The real story is someÂ�thing else and much more comÂ�plex. Its high Â�points are as folÂ�lows. MeÂ�diÂ�eval cosÂ�molÂ�ogy, Â�strongly inÂ�fluÂ�enced by anÂ�cient Greek Â�thought, asÂ�sumed that the uniÂ�verse was made up of a seÂ�ries of transÂ�parÂ�ent Â�globes, with the earth, also a globe, at the cenÂ�ter. The Â�earth’s cenÂ�tral poÂ�siÂ�tion did not, howÂ�ever, give our Â�planet presÂ�tige. Quite the Â�contrary. For meÂ�diÂ�eval cosÂ�molÂ�oÂ�gists also enÂ�terÂ�tained a diÂ�menÂ�sion, the verÂ�tiÂ�cal, that was at odds with its inÂ�herÂ�ited Greek ideal of cirÂ�cle, Â�sphere, and cirÂ�cuÂ�larÂ�ity. The verÂ�tiÂ�cal diÂ�menÂ�sion inÂ�evÂ�iÂ�taÂ�bly gave rise to the biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues of “high” and “low,” “bright” and “dark,” and at a furÂ�ther disÂ�tance, “mind” and “body.” WhatÂ�ever was purÂ�est rose to the highÂ�est place. That which had less purÂ�ity beÂ�came air and sank to the secÂ�ond level. That which was gross Â�enough to offer tacÂ�tual reÂ�sisÂ�tance gathÂ�ered into one place as water. FiÂ�nally, the dregs of the uniÂ�verse Â�plunged to the lowÂ�est point and conÂ�stiÂ�tuted the earth. In reÂ�verse order, and to put it someÂ�what difÂ�ferÂ�ently, earth lies at the lowÂ�est point. Above earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 33 it is a sucÂ�cesÂ�sion of transÂ�parÂ�ent Â�globes, each of which has afÂ�fixed on it a heaÂ�venly body. These heaÂ�venly bodÂ�ies are sucÂ�cesÂ�sively Moon, MerÂ�cury, Venus, Sun, Mars, JuÂ�piÂ�ter, and SatÂ�urn. Above SatÂ�urn is the StelÂ�laÂ�tum, the reÂ�gion of “fixed stars.” Above that is the PriÂ�mum MoÂ�bile, or the first roÂ�tatÂ�ing Â�sphere. And above that is the UnÂ�moved Mover, or God, a Being who is sufÂ�fused in light, pure inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual light, and full of love.2 This model of the uniÂ�verse has had the strongÂ�est hold on the Â�West’s roÂ�manÂ�tic imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion, its inÂ�fluÂ�ence evÂ�iÂ�dent even in Â�twentieth-century fanÂ�taÂ�sies.3 The first shock to it came with the new astronÂ�omy of the sevenÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, which not only disÂ� placed Earth from the cenÂ�ter of the uniÂ�verse but also chalÂ�lenged the idea that the paths of the planÂ�ets were cirÂ�cuÂ�lar Â�rather than elÂ�lipÂ�tiÂ�cal. The cirÂ�cle—an anÂ�cient ideal of perÂ�fecÂ�tion—was a key comÂ�poÂ�nent of the meÂ�diÂ�eval worldÂ�view. Its deÂ�strucÂ�tion led to the fadÂ�ing of other gloÂ�ries, such as the beÂ�lief that Â�heaven is Â�filled with music and that the planÂ�ets and stars are high inÂ�telÂ�liÂ�gences. In 1600, howÂ�ever, ShakeÂ�speare could still use the model and exÂ�pect to be underÂ�stood. Thus he made LoÂ�renzo rhapÂ�soÂ�dize, Sit JesÂ�sica. Look how the floor of Â�heaven Is thick inÂ�laid with paÂ�tines of Â�bright gold; Â�There’s not the smallÂ�est orb which thou Â�behold’st But in his moÂ�tion like an angel sings, Still quirÂ�ing to the Â�young-ey’d cherÂ�uÂ�bims: Such harÂ�mony is in imÂ�morÂ�tal souls; eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 34 But, while this muddy vesÂ�ture of decay Doth Â�grossly close it in, we canÂ�not hear it. The MerÂ�chant of VenÂ�ice (Act V, Scene I) At that time, not only the uniÂ�verse and the earth were conÂ�sidÂ�ered spherÂ�iÂ�cal, but so was the human soul; and all three exÂ�hibÂ�ited the harÂ�mony of music, which we in our muddy vesÂ�ture of decay could not hear. Not long after Â�Shakespeare’s time, the Â�mathematician-philosopher Â�Blaise PasÂ�cal (1623–62) saw a very difÂ�ferÂ�ent reÂ�alÂ�ity. Space, to him, was “inÂ�fiÂ�nite and eterÂ�nally siÂ�lent.”4 The prosÂ�pect frightÂ�ened him. And it would have frightÂ�ened us, too, if we had his imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion. Where are the “paÂ�tines of Â�bright gold” that in their moÂ�tion like anÂ�gels sing? What in the dark and siÂ�lent uniÂ�verse can conÂ�sole us? NothÂ�ing—or if there is someÂ�thing, it is the human presÂ�ence—the human touch, such as the Â�homely picÂ�tures that astroÂ�nauts tape on the walls of their spaceÂ�craft. PicÂ�tures of home are comÂ�fortÂ�ing. Will a Â�smelly old shoe also do? Will it even do betÂ�ter? In the movie The Cure (UniÂ�verÂ�sal, 1995), a shoe proÂ�vides a Â�needed disÂ�tracÂ�tion and comÂ�fort. The story is about two boys—Erik and DexÂ�ter—who are Â�friends. DexÂ�ter Â�caught AIDS Â�through a blood inÂ�fuÂ�sion, and his Â�health Â�slowly deÂ�clined. When Erik read about a cure in New OrÂ�leans, the boys deÂ�cided to go there, hitchÂ�ing boat rides on the MisÂ�sisÂ� sippi River Â�wherever they could. They someÂ�times had to set up camp on the riverÂ�bank and sleep there overÂ�night. One night, earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 35 DexÂ�ter woke up Â�drenched in sweat. He had had a nightÂ�mare. When Erik asked him what it was, he said he had Â�dreamed that he was adrift Â� in deep, dark space with no hope of resÂ�cue. What made him deÂ�spair was to be utÂ�terly alone. Â�Erik’s anÂ�swer? He threw his gym shoe at DexÂ�ter and said, “Next time you find yourÂ� self in deep, dark space, ask yourÂ�self, ‘What on earth is Â�Erik’s Â�smelly old shoe doing on my lap?’” Note the biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues at work. AbÂ�sent are the gloÂ�ries of Â�heaven. InÂ�stead, there is the other exÂ�treme—a “smelly old shoe”—to conÂ�sole. We might even argue that the latÂ�ter is true conÂ�soÂ�laÂ�tion, Â�whereas the forÂ�mer is fanÂ�tasy—its glory a deÂ�luÂ�sion. Yet this isn’t quite the last word eiÂ�ther. There may not be music in Â�heaven, no harÂ�mony of the Â�spheres as forÂ�merly conÂ�ceived, but there is surÂ�prisÂ�ing mathÂ�eÂ�matÂ�iÂ�cal elÂ�eÂ�gance in the play of Â�heaven’s Â�forces. MoreÂ�over, seeÂ�ing Â�heaven as a muÂ�siÂ�cal inÂ�struÂ�ment, Â�though not true, has been and conÂ�tinÂ�ues to be a real force that afÂ�fects lanÂ�guage, litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture, and asÂ�piÂ�raÂ�tion. By Â�contrast, a Â�friend’s old shoe on one’s lap, for all its touchÂ�ing huÂ�manÂ�ness, Â�doesn’t raise one’s eyes high and make one’s Â�spirit soar. The earth, as we have noted, was once conÂ�sidÂ�ered to be at the botÂ�tom of a verÂ�tiÂ�cal uniÂ�verse—its dregs; at the same time it was also conÂ�sidÂ�ered to be the cenÂ�tral point Â�around which the heaÂ�venly Â�spheres roÂ�tated. As we have Â�learned more and more about the uniÂ�verse in the last forty years or so, how have our feelÂ�ings toÂ�ward the earth Â�changed? They have beÂ�come Â�fonder. eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 36 ConÂ�tribÂ�utÂ�ing to the Â�greater fondÂ�ness is our awareÂ�ness that a Â�planet like ours, one that is caÂ�pable of supÂ�portÂ�ing adÂ�vanced life, is exÂ�tremely rare and may even be Â�unique. AbÂ�stract underÂ� standÂ�ing of this sort is, howÂ�ever, unÂ�likely to have a lastÂ�ing imÂ�pact unÂ�less it is Â�backed by diÂ�rect exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence. The diÂ�rect exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence ocÂ�curred when we acÂ�tuÂ�ally saw—not Â�merely conÂ�ceived—the globe that is the earth. For this to have hapÂ�pened, huÂ�manÂ�kind had to wait for the creaÂ�tion of a Â�highly soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated space techÂ�nolÂ�ogy. The moÂ�menÂ�tous date of DeÂ�cemÂ�ber 7, 1972, was the first time human beÂ�ings on a spaceÂ�craft, the Â�Apollo 17, were able to take a snapÂ�shot of Earth from a Â�height of 28,000 miles. The reÂ�sultÂ�ing image has since beÂ�come Â�iconic, and is more Â�widely disÂ�tribÂ�uted than any other photoÂ�graph in exÂ�isÂ�tence. The earth Â�turned out to be a globe of marÂ�bled Â�beauty—an inÂ�cuÂ�baÂ�tor of life—floatÂ�ing in space. I can’t help but apply to it the words that ShakeÂ�speare used of EnÂ�gland—for the earth, too, is a “blessed plot,” a “preÂ�cious stone set in the silÂ�ver sea,” to which we owe our loyÂ�alty and love (RichÂ�ard II, Act II, Scene 1). The astroÂ�nauts Â�looked backÂ�ward to a cozy and nurÂ�turÂ�ing Earth while headÂ�ing toÂ�ward cold, lifeÂ�less imÂ�menÂ�sity. But even this was only the beÂ�ginÂ�ning of the story. As spaceÂ�crafts reach farÂ�ther and farÂ�ther out, will even the solar Â�system be Â�viewed as cozy and nurÂ�turÂ�ing? On FebÂ�ruÂ�ary 13, 1990, VoyÂ�ager 1 left the solar Â�system, and as it did so, it Â�looked over its shoulÂ�der to take a picÂ�ture of the sun, the earth, and six other planÂ�ets. There it is—a earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 37 snapÂ�shot of the solar Â�system, reÂ�proÂ�duced in SciÂ�ence magÂ�aÂ�zine, that I can cut out, frame, and hang on my bedÂ�room wall.5 Now comes the ulÂ�tiÂ�mate quesÂ�tion, What about the uniÂ�verse itÂ�self? Is it in any sense a home? FranÂ�cis Bacon was the first to say that, dizÂ�zyÂ�ingly vast as the uniÂ�verse is, it is just the right size to be home for the human mind. To our body, the earth and its subÂ� diÂ�viÂ�sions are the right size, but to our mind and its inÂ�comÂ�parÂ�able reach, anyÂ�thing Â�smaller than the uniÂ�verse would feel conÂ�finÂ�ing.6 earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 41 MounÂ�tains In the meÂ�diÂ�eval cosÂ�mic model, the cirÂ�cle conÂ�flicted with the verÂ�tiÂ�cal, as we have seen. The meÂ�diÂ�eval cosÂ�mic model also gave rise to conÂ�flictÂ�ing atÂ�tiÂ�tudes about the mounÂ�tain, with the cirÂ�cle conÂ�demnÂ�ing it and the verÂ�tiÂ�cal faÂ�vorÂ�ing it. Take the cirÂ�cle first. Since God is a suÂ�preme arÂ�tiÂ�san, the earth God deÂ�signed Â�should be a perÂ�fect Â�sphere—a thing of Â�beauty, like the full, shinÂ�ing face of an inÂ�noÂ�cent child. So why all the defÂ�orÂ�maÂ�tions—the mounÂ�tains, valÂ�leys, jutÂ�ting peÂ�ninÂ�suÂ�las, and Â�oceans? One anÂ�swer, Â�bruited in the sevenÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, was the Fall. The sin of our first parÂ�ents Â�caused the crust of the earth to colÂ�lapse into the waÂ�tery abyss. What we see are the ruins. Ruin was one figÂ�ure of Â�speech. AnÂ�other was corÂ�rupÂ�tion. HavÂ�ing lost its inÂ�noÂ�cence, the once Â�smooth face of the earth was enÂ�crusted with “tuÂ�mors, blisÂ�ters, and warts.”7 The sevenÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury Â�boasted genÂ�iuses of the calÂ�iÂ�ber of KepÂ�ler and NewÂ�ton. Yet, for all the boldÂ�ness of their imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion, which Â�ushered in the new astronÂ�omy, they reÂ�tained vesÂ�tiÂ�gial theoÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal beÂ�liefs. AstonÂ�ishÂ�ing as it must seem to us now, NewÂ�ton was symÂ�paÂ�thetic to the theÂ�ory of the Fall and the great colÂ�lapse that Â�brought about the ugly proÂ�tuÂ�berÂ�ances and holÂ�lows. On the other hand, the sciÂ�ence of that time was also used to deÂ�fend God. Far from being a Â�clumsy arÂ�tiÂ�san who Â�failed to make the Â�earth’s surÂ�face Â�smooth, God put mounÂ�tains and hills there so that water, as Â�streams and rivÂ�ers, could Â�spread over as much land eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 42 as posÂ�sible, and land was, of Â�course, where huÂ�mans lived. As for the size of the Â�oceans, it had to be imÂ�mense so that it could genÂ�erÂ�ate Â�enough water vapor to proÂ�duce Â�clouds and the Â�clouds Â�enough rain to water the earth.8 SciÂ�enÂ�tific atÂ�tempts at exÂ�onÂ�erÂ�atÂ�ing God Â�didn’t have much inÂ�fluÂ�ence outÂ�side a small Â�learned cirÂ�cle. MounÂ�tains reÂ�mained much Â�feared until well into the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury in large part beÂ�cause they were so litÂ�tle known. PeoÂ�ple Â�avoided them, not beÂ�cause they were ugly but beÂ�cause they were beÂ�lieved to be inÂ�fested by brigÂ�ands. That Â�sounds reaÂ�sonÂ�able to us now, but mounÂ�tains were also Â�thought to be the home of Â�witches, and as evÂ�iÂ�dence, peoÂ�ple Â�pointed to the turÂ�buÂ�lent Â�weather, charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tic of high Â�places. Great witch hunts were conÂ�ducted in the Alps, the Jura, the VosÂ�ges, and the PyÂ�reÂ�nees. In the Â�Basque Â�region’s Â�wilder areas, peasÂ�ants and shepÂ�herds spoke of Â�witches raisÂ�ing Â�storms even in the early part of the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury.9 If the cirÂ�cle of perÂ�fecÂ�tion led to a reÂ�pulÂ�sive view of mounÂ�tains, what about the verÂ�tiÂ�cal diÂ�menÂ�sion? It has genÂ�erÂ�ated worldÂ�wide a noÂ�tion of “high” and “low” such that posÂ�iÂ�tive valÂ�ues are Â�loaded on the one, and negÂ�aÂ�tive valÂ�ues are Â�loaded on the other. A mounÂ�tain Â�wrapped in mist and difÂ�fiÂ�cult of acÂ�cess sugÂ�gests the abode of the gods—one that not only Â�reaches to the sky but also is cenÂ�trally loÂ�cated; that is to say, it is the navel of the earth. Of the many exÂ�amÂ�ples, the betÂ�ter known inÂ�clude Mount Meru of InÂ�dian myÂ�tholÂ�ogy. It was beÂ�lieved to stand right below PoÂ�laÂ�ris at earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 43 the cenÂ�ter of the world. A temÂ�ple—the BoÂ�robÂ�uÂ�dur—repÂ�liÂ�cated this beÂ�lief archiÂ�tecÂ�tuÂ�rally. Mount Meru apÂ�peared as the KunÂ�lun on ChiÂ�nese and KoÂ�rean cosÂ�moÂ�graphic charts. Â� In adÂ�diÂ�tion, early ChiÂ�nese legÂ�ends spoke of Five SaÂ�cred Peaks, the chief among them being Tai Shan, which was conÂ�sidÂ�ered a diÂ�vinÂ�ity. The Â�Greeks had Mount OlymÂ�pus, the JapÂ�aÂ�nese Mount Fuji, the GerÂ�manic peoÂ�ples their HiÂ�mingbÂ�jörg (ceÂ�lesÂ�tial mounÂ�tain), and so on. What about ChrisÂ�tianÂ�ized EuÂ�rope? The New TesÂ�taÂ�ment gives a mixed mesÂ�sage: on the one hand, the devil Â�tempted Jesus on a mounÂ�tain; on the other hand, Jesus reÂ�vealed his diÂ�vine naÂ�ture on a mounÂ�tain. WestÂ�ern ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity has its holy Â�places, but their nuÂ�miÂ�nous aura has litÂ�tle to do with being on a high peak. EastÂ�ern (OrÂ�thoÂ�dox) ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity, by Â�contrast, does have a numÂ�ber of holy mounÂ�tains, the most faÂ�mous of which is Mount Athos, loÂ�cated at the end of a jutÂ�ting Greek peÂ�ninÂ�sula. For more than a thouÂ�sand years, Athos shelÂ�tered moÂ�nasÂ�tic comÂ�muÂ�nities that were and are famed for their ausÂ�tere way of life and their spirÂ�iÂ� tuÂ�alÂ�ity. Both the ausÂ�terÂ�ity and the spirÂ�iÂ�tuÂ�alÂ�ity find exÂ�presÂ�sion in their rigid exÂ�cluÂ�sion of everyÂ�thing that is feÂ�male, inÂ�cludÂ�ing feÂ�male anÂ�iÂ�mals. Was this atÂ�tiÂ�tude simÂ�ply the Â�age-old misÂ�ogÂ�yny that idenÂ�tified the spirÂ�iÂ�tual/inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual with the male/head, and the maÂ�teÂ�rial/bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal with the feÂ�male/body—the one ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ� nated, the other in darkÂ�ness? It is hard to avoid this conÂ�cluÂ�sion if only beÂ�cause of the exÂ�tremÂ�ism of the exÂ�cluÂ�sion—the idea that even a hen in Â�Athos’s holy preÂ�cincts would be conÂ�tamÂ�iÂ�natÂ�ing. eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 44 On the other hand, sevÂ�eral other Â�strains of Â�thought, prevÂ�aÂ�lent at Athos, would seem to mudÂ�dle and even reÂ�verse the biÂ�poÂ�lar forÂ�mula. First, Athos was dedÂ�iÂ�cated to the VirÂ�gin Mary. One legÂ�end has it that Mary, on her way to CyÂ�prus, was diÂ�verted to Athos by a sudÂ�den storm. While there, she was so overÂ�come by the Â�mountain’s Â�beauty that she Â�prayed to her Son to grant it as her perÂ�sonal doÂ�main. SecÂ�ond, the disÂ�tincÂ�tion Â�between “high” and “low” Â�doesn’t Â�really apply at Athos. The enÂ�tire mounÂ�tain— inÂ�deed, the enÂ�tire peÂ�ninÂ�sula—is holy, and not just the Â�heights. MoreÂ�over, the monÂ�asÂ�terÂ�ies themÂ�selves do not by any means seek the highÂ�est elÂ�eÂ�vaÂ�tions. SevÂ�eral are loÂ�cated quite close to the shore so that the merit of pilÂ�grimÂ�age lies in the traÂ�vail of getÂ�ting there by sea Â�rather than in asÂ�cent. Third, in part beÂ�cause of the asÂ�soÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion of Athos with Mary and in part beÂ�cause of the Â�place’s prisÂ�tine forÂ�ests, Athos is also known as a garÂ�den—one enÂ�closed by the sea—that is more welÂ�comÂ�ing than forÂ�bidÂ�ding. Â�Fourth, the spirÂ�iÂ�tual jourÂ�ney on Athos folÂ�lows the three steps anÂ�nounced by GregÂ�ory of Nyssa: purÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tion of the soul from egoÂ�ism, enÂ�lightÂ�enÂ� ment of the soul by the Holy Â�Spirit, and union with God. These steps have their geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal corÂ�relÂ�aÂ�tives: entry into a moonÂ�lit Â�desert, asÂ�cent to a Â�fog-covered mounÂ�tain, and entry into a thick dark cloud. The pilÂ�grimÂ�age, then, was not from darkÂ�ness to light, from valÂ�ley to mounÂ�tainÂ�top, but Â�rather the reÂ�verse, for it would seem that the Â�higher one’s spirÂ�iÂ�tual asÂ�cent and the Â�deeper one penÂ�eÂ�trates the holy, the Â�greater is Â�Athos’s darkÂ�ness and mysÂ�tery.10 earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 45 Athos is an exÂ�cepÂ�tional case, worth menÂ�tionÂ�ing beÂ�cause the idea that mounÂ�tains were holy lost Â�ground with the passÂ�ing of clasÂ�siÂ�cal anÂ�tiqÂ�uity. Â�Rather than their being holy, they—as the haunt of outÂ�laws and Â�witches—were more Â�likely to be seen as proÂ�fane. From the sevenÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury onÂ�ward, howÂ�ever, atÂ�tiÂ� tudes about mounÂ�tains began to shift for the betÂ�ter. They did so for a numÂ�ber of reaÂ�sons, inÂ�cludÂ�ing the odd one, which I Â�broached earÂ�lier, Â�namely that mounÂ�tains were put there by God so that water could be disÂ�tribÂ�uted more Â�evenly. Of far Â�greater imÂ�porÂ� tance than a mere theoÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal and Â�quasi-scientific exÂ�plaÂ�naÂ�tion were such facÂ�tors as the inÂ�crease in popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion durÂ�ing the eighÂ� teenth cenÂ�tury, forcÂ�ing farmÂ�ers to move up to the lower mounÂ�tain Â�slopes, makÂ�ing them seem less threatÂ�enÂ�ing; the imÂ�proveÂ�ment of the road Â�system; the rise of sciÂ�enÂ�tific cuÂ�riÂ�osÂ�ity in reÂ�gard to glaÂ�ciers; the idea that pure mounÂ�tain air imÂ�proved Â�health; and the emerÂ�gence of an aesÂ�thetic of the subÂ�lime. The last two facÂ�tors have been inÂ�fluÂ�enced by the biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues of high and low, body and Â�spirit. MounÂ�tains have pure air, lowÂ�lands air that is dense and less pure. At one level, this is simÂ�ply a stateÂ�ment of fact: one can measÂ�ure the presÂ�sure of air with a merÂ�cury colÂ�umn, the colÂ�umn dropÂ�ping as one carÂ�ries it up. But a moral readÂ�ing Â�quickly folÂ�lowed. PeoÂ�ple of lowÂ�lands, livÂ�ing in the Â�denser air, were beÂ�lieved to grow slugÂ�gish and leÂ�tharÂ� gic as their blood vesÂ�sels grew conÂ�stricted under presÂ�sure.11 To overÂ�come this efÂ�fect, sanÂ�aÂ�toria were built in EuÂ�roÂ�pean Alps and eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 46 Â� American RockÂ�ies from the 1850s to the early part of the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury. The Â�health to be Â�gained was physÂ�iÂ�cal, yet the more thoughtÂ�ful paÂ�tients could also disÂ�cern a spirÂ�iÂ�tual diÂ�menÂ� sion. They, after all, had to leave their busiÂ�ness conÂ�cerns beÂ�hind and could not inÂ�dulge, even if they Â�wished, in the pasÂ�sions of the flesh. Their mind, still alert and acÂ�tive, could turn to Â�higher Â�things. In time, they might even see their atÂ�tenÂ�uÂ�ated life in the mounÂ�tain sanÂ�aÂ�torÂ�ium as an aesÂ�thetic and spirÂ�iÂ�tual gain. Â�Thomas Mann, howÂ�ever, reÂ�verses these valÂ�ues in his novel The Magic MounÂ�tain (1924). As he sees it, the sanÂ�aÂ�torÂ�ium in the Swiss Alps, with its interÂ�naÂ�tional clienÂ�tele, is a model of a decaÂ� dent EuÂ�rope on the eve of World War I—a world that, for all its afÂ�fluÂ�ence and soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�caÂ�tion, is Â�drenched in the Â�sweet-sickly odor of death. How can it be othÂ�erÂ�wise, so far is it reÂ�moved from the acÂ�tive life of norÂ�mal peoÂ�ple on the Â�plains below? “High” does inÂ�deed conÂ�note inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tuÂ�alÂ�ity and spirÂ�iÂ�tuÂ�alÂ�ity, and “low” the bodÂ�ily and the maÂ�teÂ�rial, yet a reÂ�versed underÂ�standÂ�ing is also posÂ� sible such that “high” conÂ�notes an enÂ�erÂ�vated soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�caÂ�tion that easÂ�ily slips into decaÂ�dence, and “low,” roÂ�bust Â�health and viÂ�talÂ�ity. Now, I turn to the secÂ�ond facÂ�tor—the risÂ�ing popÂ�uÂ�larÂ�ity in the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury of an aesÂ�thetic conÂ�cept Â�called the subÂ�lime, a conÂ�cept that the towÂ�erÂ�ing AlÂ�pine peaks gave visÂ�ual specÂ�iÂ�ficÂ�ity. MounÂ�tain climbÂ�ing beÂ�came fashÂ�ionÂ�able. The early climbÂ�ers were arisÂ�toÂ�crats who Â�traveled in style, supÂ�ported by a large retÂ�iÂ�nue of serÂ�vants. ClimbÂ�ing was thus a Â�well-organized and Â�well-financed earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 47 group enÂ�terÂ�prise. Later, in the course Â� of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, young men of an inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual bent and good edÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion took on the Alps. They Â�climbed for more perÂ�sonal reaÂ�sons, such as wantÂ�ing to exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence the Â�mountains’ eerie Â�beauty, the Â�thrill of danÂ�ger, and the proxÂ�imÂ�ity of death. They Â�climbed in small numÂ�bers, perÂ�haps three or just two, for they also Â�sought to be Â�self-sufficient and alone.12 Even if not conÂ�fessed, mounÂ�tainÂ�eers, as they Â�paused among the siÂ�lent peaks, must have felt that they were someÂ�how difÂ�ferÂ�ent and superÂ�ior. ArÂ�thur SchoÂ�penÂ�hauer cerÂ�tainly felt that way. “He had a Â�well-developed sense of the verÂ�tiÂ�cal,” wrote one biogÂ�raÂ�pher. That sense “catÂ�aÂ�pulted him upÂ�ward. Only thus could the horÂ�iÂ� zonÂ�tal be tolÂ�erÂ�ated, from the Â�bird’s-eye view.” SchoÂ�penÂ�hauer Â�climbed whenÂ�ever he could throughÂ�out his life, likÂ�ing it best when he could do so as the sun rose. “Those were moÂ�ments of ecÂ�stasy. He would Â�record them in his Â�travel diary. Below, everyÂ� thing would still be in darkÂ�ness, Â�asleep, yet he would alÂ�ready be in the sun, in an inÂ�tiÂ�mate meetÂ�ing with the cenÂ�tral heaÂ�venly body, of which nothÂ�ing was susÂ�pected yet down in the valÂ�ley. Here from his Â�height, he would also find pleasÂ�ure in the uniÂ�verÂ�sal. He was DioÂ�nyÂ�sus not from below, outÂ�ward, but from above, downÂ�ward.”13 RisÂ�ing to a chalÂ�lenge, setÂ�ting a Â�record, masÂ�terÂ�ing danÂ�ger, enÂ�counÂ�terÂ�ing a Â�beauty not of this world, standÂ�ing above one’s felÂ�lows bathed Â� in early sunÂ�light while the rest of huÂ�manÂ�kind eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 48 was still Â�asleep in the dark holÂ�lows were some of the reaÂ�sons for scalÂ�ing mounÂ�tains in the late nineÂ�teenth and early twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tuÂ�ries. They were inÂ�noÂ�cent Â�enough, exÂ�cept perÂ�haps for the last menÂ�tioned. We may all harÂ�bor a deÂ�sire to surÂ�pass our felÂ�lows, a deÂ�sire enÂ�courÂ�aged by the someÂ�times osÂ�tenÂ�taÂ�tious reÂ�wards of achieveÂ�ment. AchieveÂ�ments may be chalÂ�lenged, howÂ�ever, for who, after all, is the betÂ�ter cook or Â�scholar, genÂ�eral or polÂ�iÂ�tiÂ�cian? PhysÂ�iÂ�cal prowÂ�ess such as runÂ�ning and jumpÂ�ing is difÂ�ferÂ�ent, for it can be measÂ�ured. MounÂ�tain climbÂ�ing likeÂ�wise, but comÂ�pared with runÂ�ning and jumpÂ�ing, its symÂ�bolic meanÂ�ing is Â�weightier. One who Â�reaches the top and Â�bestrides the peak towÂ�ers litÂ�erÂ�ally over his Â�weaker brethÂ�ren. Who is fit to rule? Who demÂ�onÂ�strates the triÂ�umph of the will more conÂ�vincÂ�ingly than the darÂ�ing alÂ�pinÂ�ist? GerÂ�many in the 1920s, still reÂ�covÂ�erÂ�ing from the huÂ�milÂ�iÂ�aÂ�tions of milÂ�iÂ�tary deÂ�feat, piÂ�oÂ�neered not only mounÂ�tain climbÂ�ing but also its visÂ�ual draÂ�maÂ� tiÂ�zaÂ�tion. Acts of superÂ�huÂ�man darÂ�ing and forÂ�tiÂ�tude were reÂ�corded in such moÂ�vies as MounÂ�tain of DesÂ�tiny (1924), SaÂ�cred MounÂ�tain (1926), The White Hell of Piz Palü (1929), and The Blue Light (1932). An image that was to beÂ�come a cliÂ�ché of the genre Â�showed a man standÂ�ing on a mounÂ�tain, lit up by the sun, with the Â�masses still Â�asleep below. HitÂ�ler was drawn to such films and to Leni RieÂ�fenÂ�stahl who first acted in and then diÂ�rected them. He perÂ�suaded RieÂ�fenÂ�stahl to Â�record the NuÂ�remÂ�berg party rally in 1934. She comÂ�plied and the reÂ�sult is TriÂ�umph of the Will, earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 49 a clasÂ�sic of Nazi propÂ�aÂ�ganda. A comÂ�mon image of this and other Â�party-line films shows HitÂ�ler standÂ�ing on a Â�raised platÂ�form and below him, in the Â�shadow of his spellÂ�bindÂ�ing rhetÂ�oÂ�ric, the enÂ�thralled Â�masses.14 earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 53 Â�Oceans On the third day, God gathÂ�ered the waÂ�ters under the Â�heaven “unto one place, and let the dry land apÂ�pear,” and when he had done so, he saw that it was good. “Let the earth proÂ�duce fresh Â�growths, .€.€. and so it was.” And the waÂ�ters? “Let them teem with countÂ�less livÂ�ing creaÂ�tures,” and so it was; but among them were the leÂ�viÂ�aÂ�thans. Â�Clearly God faÂ�vored land, for it was where he put the GarÂ�den of Eden, and in the GarÂ�den he made his finÂ�est creaÂ�tures—Adam and Eve. The sea reÂ�mained someÂ�what outÂ�side God’s doÂ�main. Until the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury, to the roÂ�manÂ�tic imagÂ�iÂ� naÂ�tion, the sea has alÂ�ways symÂ�bolÂ�ized priÂ�morÂ�dial, unÂ�difÂ�ferÂ�enÂ� tiated flux, a state of barÂ�baric vagueÂ�ness and disÂ�orÂ�der out of which civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion would Â�emerge but into which it could alÂ�ways reÂ�turn. To the auÂ�thor of the Book of RevÂ�eÂ�laÂ�tion, an ideal world at the end of time is the furÂ�thest reÂ�moved from anyÂ�thing fluid and bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal—a geoÂ�metÂ�ric and crysÂ�talÂ�line city withÂ�out vegÂ�eÂ�taÂ�tion and a world in which “there is no more sea.” Until the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, peoÂ�ple did not venÂ�ture into the sea willÂ�ingly. NeiÂ�ther of the two anÂ�cient voyÂ�agÂ�ers—OdysÂ�seus and Jason—did so. OdysÂ�seus was simÂ�ply tryÂ�ing to get home, and if it were not for the enÂ�mity of PoÂ�seiÂ�don, the Â�father of the monÂ�ster Â�Cyclops, OdysÂ�seus would have arÂ�rived home much Â�sooner. SimÂ�iÂ�larly, Jason was no sea voyÂ�ager: he simÂ�ply Â�sought the Golden Â� Â�Fleece, which hapÂ�pened to be in a disÂ�tant counÂ�try. Later, eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 54 ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity made the jourÂ�ney or pilÂ�grimÂ�age a natÂ�uÂ�ral symÂ�bol of the spirÂ�iÂ�tual life, but salÂ�vaÂ�tion never lay in crossÂ�ing a body of water as such, even Â�though it had to be done to reach the holy site. Dante disÂ�apÂ�proved of UlysÂ�ses, whose sea voyÂ�ages in Â�search of virÂ�tue and knowlÂ�edge made him a maÂ�rine hero, but a deÂ�fecÂ� tive one in view of his willÂ�ingÂ�ness to abanÂ�don his famÂ�ily. Â�Shakespeare’s heÂ�roes never wanÂ�dered out to sea volÂ�unÂ�tarÂ�ily. Â�Rather it was a disÂ�tress to be enÂ�dured, a death that could lead to reÂ�birth, a trial that could preÂ�pare one to build an abidÂ�ing city.15 What lay beÂ�yond land were “the waÂ�ters” in bibÂ�liÂ�cal lanÂ�guage, or folÂ�lowÂ�ing Greek usage, the “Ocean.” Ocean was a Titan, one of the suÂ�preme gods of the uniÂ�verse. Â�Stripped of its anthroÂ�poÂ�morÂ�phÂ� ism, it was the great river, never trouÂ�bled by wind or storm, that Â�flowed Â�around the land. The Â�Greeks were good sailÂ�ors, at ease with the seas that split the Â�disk-shaped land into two equal parts. What lay beÂ�yond the PilÂ�lars of HerÂ�cules, that is to say, beÂ�yond the westÂ�ern limit of the largÂ�est sea—the MedÂ�iÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean—Â� aroused litÂ�tle interÂ�est, exÂ�cept for Â�Plato’s later story of the subÂ� merged isÂ�land city of AtÂ�lanÂ�tis. In other words, one way to diÂ� minÂ�ish awe of the ocean was to reÂ�duce its size. CarÂ�togÂ�raÂ�phers conÂ�sisÂ�tently did so from the time of the anÂ�cient Â�Greeks to the Age of ExÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion. InÂ�deed, Â�Columbus’s opÂ�tiÂ�misÂ�tic esÂ�tiÂ�maÂ�tion of how long it would take him to reach land if he Â�sailed westÂ�ward was based on the carÂ�togÂ�raÂ�phers underÂ�esÂ�tiÂ�matÂ�ing the size of the ocean to be Â�crossed. earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 55 Or, to put it anÂ�other way, there was a tenÂ�dency to exÂ�agÂ�gerÂ�ate the size of land. The fact that we huÂ�mans live on land conÂ�tribÂ�uted to the exÂ�agÂ�gerÂ�aÂ�tion, but there was anÂ�other reaÂ�son, the human parÂ�tialÂ�ity for symÂ�meÂ�try. The Â�Greeks Â�clearly Â�showed this parÂ�tialÂ�ity when they conÂ�ceived of land as diÂ�vided into two Â�halves by the MedÂ�iÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean Sea. In later ages, as EuÂ�roÂ�peans came to know the size of land Â�masses in the northÂ�ern hemiÂ�sphere, they asÂ�sumed that land Â�masses of simÂ�iÂ�lar size could be found below the equaÂ�tor. A major purÂ�pose in the exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tions of Â�Louis-Antoine de BourÂ� gainÂ�ville and James Cook in the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury was to find the southÂ�ern conÂ�tiÂ�nent. They Â�failed, with only AusÂ�traÂ�lia as a conÂ�soÂ�laÂ�tion prize. The Â�ocean’s exÂ�tent was Â�firmly esÂ�tabÂ�lished only toÂ�ward the end of the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury. At a psychoÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal level, howÂ�ever, it alÂ�ways inÂ�voked vastÂ�ness, and this deÂ�spite the beÂ�lief that it had an edge, never far off as the perÂ�ceived hoÂ�riÂ�zon was never far off. ConÂ�tribÂ�utÂ�ing to the sense of vastÂ�ness was the unÂ�known. That which is unÂ�known can seem unÂ�bounded and threatÂ�enÂ�ing. True, beÂ�fore the modÂ�ern age, much of land was also unÂ�known, hence Â�thought to be vast and threatÂ�enÂ�ing too. MitÂ�iÂ�gatÂ�ing this imÂ�presÂ�sion is the fact that, for the most part, land has recÂ�ogÂ�nizÂ�able and even faÂ�milÂ�iar feaÂ�tures that the eyes can latch on to. Being able to latch on to such feaÂ�tures reÂ�duces Â�land’s overÂ�all strangeÂ�ness and size. To see is to know. But what is there to see on the ocean surÂ� face? It is a blank sheet to everyÂ�one who is not a seaÂ�soned Â�sailor. eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 56 ConÂ�tribÂ�utÂ�ing furÂ�ther to the Â�ocean’s unÂ�knowÂ�abilÂ�ity is its depth. Water has depth as land does not. A man can drown in water, Â�whereas land holds him up. How deep is the ocean? Not until the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury were seÂ�riÂ�ous atÂ�tempts made at measÂ�ureÂ� ment. MeanÂ�while, the imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion ran wild. ShakeÂ�speare Â�showed the diÂ�recÂ�tion it could take when in RichÂ�ard III (Act I, Scene 4), he had ClarÂ�ence fall, in a dream, “into the tumÂ�bling bilÂ�lows of the main.” Lord, Lord! meÂ�thought, what pain it was to drown! What dreadÂ�ful noise of water in mine ears! What ugly Â�sights of death Â�within my eyes! MeÂ�thought I saw a thouÂ�sand fearÂ�ful Â�wrecks; Ten thouÂ�sand men that Â�fishes Â�gnaw’d upon; Â�Wedges of gold, great anÂ�chors, heaps of pearl, InÂ�esÂ�timÂ�able Â�stones, Â�unvalu’d jewÂ�els. All Â�scatter’d in the botÂ�tom of the sea: Some lay in dead men’s Â�skulls, and, in those holes Where eyes did once inÂ�habit there were crept, As ’twere in scorn of eyes, reÂ�flectÂ�ing gems, Which woo’d the slimy botÂ�tom of the deep, And Â�mock’d the dead bones that lay scatÂ�tered by. The ocean has moods, like an anÂ�iÂ�mal. It can be preÂ�terÂ�natÂ�uÂ�rally calm. In the Â�mid-Atlantic Ocean, days and even weeks may go by when the surÂ�face is Â�glass-smooth. Sail ships in the old days were beÂ�calmed. In the hope that even a light Â�breeze would set ships in earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 57 moÂ�tion if they were Â�lighter, carÂ�gos of Â�horses and Â�slaves were jetÂ�tiÂ�soned. Since Â�hardly anyÂ�thing Â�stirred on board, siÂ�lence was so total that apÂ�preÂ�henÂ�sive sailÂ�ors could hear their own heartÂ� beats. UnÂ�canny stillÂ�ness is one exÂ�treme of the Â�ocean’s moods. At the other exÂ�treme, the ocean roars—its waves rise and crush like an enÂ�raged beast. The ocean can also seem cunÂ�ning, lurÂ�ing ships into its Â�deadly vorÂ�tiÂ�ces known as maelÂ�stroms. A maelÂ�strom is a natÂ�uÂ�ral feaÂ�ture that comes about when Â�strong curÂ�rents Â�backed by Â�strong tide proÂ�duces a whirlÂ�ing body of water. Its powÂ�erÂ�ful downÂ�draft can enÂ�gulf small Â�crafts and sink them. But in the imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion, the whirlÂ�pool has been transÂ�formed into a monÂ�ster. AlÂ�ready in Â�Homer’s epic, OdysÂ�seus had to Â�choose Â�between sailÂ�ing near the whirlÂ�pool ChaÂ�rybÂ�dis or the Â�six-headed monÂ�ster Â�Scylla. On the Carta MaÂ�rina (1539), it is deÂ�picted as a Â�coiled serÂ�pent off the coast of NorÂ�way. But nothÂ�ing quite Â�matches the imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion of two Â�nineteenth-century writÂ�ers, Edgar Allan Poe and Jules Verne. Here are Poe’s words: SudÂ�denly—very sudÂ�denly—[these vorÂ�tiÂ�ces] asÂ�sumed a disÂ�tinct and defÂ�iÂ�nite exÂ�isÂ�tence, in a cirÂ�cle of more than a mile in diÂ�amÂ�eÂ�ter. The edge of the whirl was repÂ�reÂ�sented by a broad belt of gleamÂ�ing spray; but no parÂ�tiÂ�cle that Â�slipped into the mouth of the terÂ�rific funÂ�nel, whose interÂ�ior, as far as the eye could Â�fathom it, was a Â�smooth, shinÂ�ing, and Â�jet-black wall of water, inÂ�clined to the hoÂ�riÂ�zon at an angle of some Â�forty-five deÂ�grees, speedÂ�ing dizÂ�zily round and round with a swayÂ�ing and swelÂ�terÂ�ing moÂ�tion, eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 58 and sendÂ�ing forth to the winds an apÂ�pallÂ�ing voice, half Â�shriek, half roar, such as not even the Â�mighty catÂ�aÂ�ract of NiÂ�agÂ�ara ever lifts up in its agony to Â�Heaven.16 Poe Â�evoked a roarÂ�ing, ocean fiend. To be Â�sucked into its mouth was to disÂ�apÂ�pear forÂ�ever, or to be Â�ground into splinÂ�ters and spat out. The ocean was itÂ�self an omÂ�iÂ�nous imÂ�menÂ�sity that inÂ�vited the imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion to popÂ�uÂ�late it with groÂ�tesque creaÂ�tures. AnÂ�cient Â�Greeks and RoÂ�mans (Homer, ArÂ�isÂ�totle, Pliny the Elder) conÂ�tribÂ�uted to the lore. MeÂ�diÂ�eval carÂ�togÂ�raÂ�phers, as we well know, put Â�strange Â�beasts at the edges of their known world. SurÂ�prisÂ�ingly, the imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion Â�worked truly overÂ�time in the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury when the size of the ocean was esÂ�tabÂ�lished and crude techÂ�nolÂ�oÂ�gies of Â�oceanic probÂ�ing were inÂ�vented. One might have Â�thought that, with Â�greater knowlÂ�edge, the mysÂ�tery would diÂ�minÂ�ish. Not so, howÂ�ever, perÂ�haps beÂ�cause the ocean Â�proved to be even more alien in its depth, darkÂ�ness, and coldÂ�ness than peoÂ�ple Â�thought. AcÂ�counts of ocean and its denÂ�iÂ�zens sold well. The popÂ�uÂ�larÂ�ity of Jules Â�Verne’s novel Â�Twenty ThouÂ�sand Â�Leagues under the Sea (1869–70) inÂ�diÂ�cated that his conÂ�temÂ�poÂ� rarÂ�ies Â�lapped up stoÂ�ries of fanÂ�tasy proÂ�vided they were interÂ�larded with facts. FasÂ�ciÂ�naÂ�tion with the Â�oceanic deep conÂ�tinÂ�ued into our time. In 1964, Walt DisÂ�ney made a film of Â�Verne’s novel. It was one of his most amÂ�biÂ�tious Â�live-action adÂ�apÂ�taÂ�tions, with a cast of major stars and a Â�lushly fitÂ�ted model of the subÂ�maÂ�rine NauÂ�tiÂ�lus. earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 59 The Â�movie’s sucÂ�cess led to the caÂ�nonÂ�izaÂ�tion of Â�Verne’s story in DisÂ�ney World. HowÂ�ever, the theme park, for all its inÂ�geÂ�nuÂ�ity, could proÂ�duce only a Â�scaled-down, toyÂ�like verÂ�sion. A subÂ�maÂ�rine ride in the manÂ�made pool is a travÂ�esty of the Â�thrills and horÂ�rors enÂ�viÂ�sioned of the priÂ�morÂ�dial abyss. Â�Verne’s litÂ�erÂ�ary skill fared betÂ�ter. His monÂ�sters inÂ�clude “a long obÂ�ject, Â�spindle-shaped, ocÂ�caÂ�sionÂ�ally phosÂ�phoÂ�resÂ�cent, and inÂ�fiÂ�nitely Â�larger and more rapid in its moveÂ�ments than a whale” and the Â�seventy-five-foot-long cachÂ�aÂ�lot, whose enorÂ�mous head ocÂ�cuÂ�pies Â�one-third of its enÂ�tire body and whose jaw is supÂ�plied by Â�twenty-five large tusks. But the most horÂ�rible and disÂ�gustÂ�ing of all is the giant, carÂ�nivÂ�orÂ�ous cutÂ�tleÂ�fish. It has eight tenÂ�taÂ�cles fitÂ�ted with Â�suction-cups, and proÂ�pels itÂ�self forÂ�ward with jet proÂ�pulÂ�sion, forÂ�cibly exÂ�pelÂ�ling water Â�through a siÂ�phon. To this more or less acÂ�cuÂ�rate deÂ�scripÂ�tion, Verne added Â�touches of horÂ�ror: [T]the Â�monster’s mouth, a Â�horned beak like a Â�parrot’s, Â�opened and shut verÂ�tiÂ�cally. Its Â�tongue, a Â�horned subÂ�stance, furÂ�nished with sevÂ�eral rows of Â�pointed teeth, came out quivÂ�erÂ�ing from this verÂ�iÂ�taÂ�ble pair of Â�shears. Its spindle-like Â� body Â�formed a Â�fleshy mass that might weigh 4,000 to 5,000 lbs; the color changÂ�ing with great raÂ�pidÂ�ity, acÂ�cordÂ�ing to the irÂ�riÂ�taÂ�tion of the anÂ�iÂ�mal, Â�passed sucÂ�cesÂ�sively from livid grey to redÂ�dish brown. The giant cutÂ�tleÂ�fish Â�sought to deÂ�stroy NauÂ�tiÂ�lus with its swingÂ�ing tenÂ�taÂ�cles. As the subÂ�maÂ�rine rose to the surÂ�face, eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 60 One of the sailÂ�ors unÂ�screwed the bolt of the panÂ�els. But Â�hardly were the Â�screws Â�loosed, when the panel rose with great viÂ�oÂ�lence, evÂ�iÂ�dently drawn by the suckÂ�ers of a Â�poulp’s arm. ImÂ�meÂ�diÂ�ately one of these arms slid like a serÂ�pent down the openÂ�ing. The arms crept up the Â�flanks of the ship, and as the crew Â�fought them with their axes, the anÂ�iÂ�mal Â�ejected a Â�stream of black liqÂ�uid and disÂ�apÂ�peared. MeanÂ�while, the Â�chopped off tenÂ�taÂ�cles “wrigÂ�gled on the platÂ�form in waves of blood and ink.”17 Â�Verne’s book gains interÂ�est by revÂ�elÂ�ing in exÂ�tremes of primÂ�iÂ� tivÂ�ity and civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion—body verÂ�sus brain, darkÂ�ness verÂ�sus light. And light, to Verne, was Â�electric light, a novÂ�elty of his time, a creaÂ�tion of reaÂ�son that was also a symÂ�bol of reaÂ�son. The NauÂ�tiÂ�lus had techÂ�niÂ�cal gadÂ�gets gaÂ�lore, but it also Â�boasted the Â�riches of high EuÂ�roÂ�pean culÂ�ture. CapÂ�tain Nemo gave ProÂ�fesÂ�sor AronÂ�nax a tour, and AronÂ�nax reÂ�ported: “As soon as I had Â�passed the door, I found myÂ�self in a pasÂ�sage Â�lighted by electricÂ�ity. .€.€. I then enÂ�tered a dinÂ�ing room, [which had] oaken sideÂ�boards, inÂ�laid with ebony. Upon their Â�shelves glitÂ�tered china, porÂ�ceÂ�lain, and glass of inÂ� esÂ�timÂ�able value.” The liÂ�brary had “a great numÂ�ber of books, uniÂ�formly bound. Its diÂ�vans, covÂ�ered with brown Â�leather, were Â�curved to afÂ�ford the greatÂ�est comÂ�fort.” In a picÂ�ture galÂ�lery, “sevÂ�eral Â�schools of the old masÂ�ters were repÂ�reÂ�sented by a MaÂ�donna of RaÂ�phael, a VirÂ�gin of LeÂ�oÂ�nardo da Vinci, a nymph of CorÂ�regÂ�gio, a woman of TiÂ�tian, an AdÂ�oÂ�raÂ�tion of VerÂ�oÂ�nese, an AsÂ�sumpÂ�tion of earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 61 MuÂ�rillo, a porÂ�trait of HolbÂ�ein, a monk of VeÂ�lazÂ�quez. .€.€. Some adÂ�mirÂ�able statÂ�ues in marÂ�ble and Â�bronze, after the finÂ�est Â�antique modÂ�els, stood upon pedÂ�esÂ�tals in the corÂ�ner of this magÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cent muÂ�seum.”18 At the end of the book, the NauÂ�tiÂ�lus and its capÂ�tain were Â�sucked into a vorÂ�tex off the coast of NorÂ�way. Their fate was unÂ� known. But this is ficÂ�tion, writÂ�ten to inÂ�duce a pleaÂ�surÂ�able frisÂ�son. ReÂ�alÂ�ity more than Â�matches ficÂ�tion in the fate of the TiÂ�tanic. True, the TiÂ�tanic Â�wasn’t swalÂ�lowed by a vorÂ�tex; it Â�struck an iceÂ�berg off the coast of NewÂ�foundÂ�land on April 15, 1912, and sank. HowÂ� ever, from eyeÂ�witÂ�ness reÂ�ports and from visÂ�ual draÂ�maÂ�tiÂ�zaÂ�tion in three major films, the ship, as it Â�tilted at a Â�forty-five deÂ�gree angle beÂ�fore takÂ�ing a noseÂ�dive into the black abyss, Â�looked as Â�though it had been maÂ�liÂ�ciously swalÂ�lowed, thus provÂ�ing that in the ceaseÂ�less conÂ�test Â�between man and naÂ�ture, the manÂ�made Titan was no match for the ocean, a Titan in Greek myth. Some 1,500 pasÂ�senÂ�gers Â�drowned, their bones, Â�trapped in the disÂ�inÂ�teÂ�gratÂ�ing steel casÂ�ket, lay two and a half miles below the ocean surÂ�face. Jules Verne was enamÂ�ored with the NauÂ�tiÂ�lus as a human creaÂ�tion. He Â�boasted of its size (232 feet long and 26 feet broad) and speed (50 knots) and that it was Â�driven by a powÂ�erÂ�ful enÂ�gine. The ownÂ�ers of the TiÂ�tanic likeÂ�wise Â�boasted of its size (882.5 feet long) and speed (24 to 25 knots), but above all, of its waÂ�terÂ�tight conÂ�strucÂ�tion that made the ship “unÂ�sinkÂ�able.” TiÂ�tanic was then the largÂ�est movÂ�ing obÂ�ject in human hisÂ�tory. It was also a floatÂ�ing eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 62 palÂ�ace, with no exÂ�pense Â�spared in its interÂ�ior decÂ�oÂ�raÂ�tion and furÂ�nishÂ�ing. The large foyer on Â�A-Deck feaÂ�tured a huge glass dome, oak panÂ�elÂ�ing, magÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cent balÂ�usÂ�trades with Â�wrought-iron scrollÂ�work, and, “lookÂ�ing down on them all, an inÂ�credÂ�ible wall clock Â�adorned with two Â�bronze Â�nymphs, someÂ�how symÂ�bolÂ�izÂ�ing Honor and Glory crownÂ�ing Time.” A surÂ�viÂ�vor of the disÂ�asÂ�ter enÂ�thused over the dinÂ�ing room carÂ�pet, which was so thick that “you sank in it up to your knees.” And the furÂ�niÂ�ture was “so heavy that you could Â�hardly lift it.”19 It goes withÂ�out sayÂ�ing that the tableÂ�ware and cutÂ�lery, the wineÂ�glasses and deÂ�cantÂ�ers, the bed Â�sheets and Â�quilts were all of the highÂ�est qualÂ�ity. MoreÂ�over, since the TiÂ�tanic was on its Â�maiden voyÂ�age, no cup had been used beÂ�fore and no sheet had ever been slept on. The fate of the TiÂ�tanic shows how easÂ�ily and Â�quickly order beÂ�comes chaos, as Â�though there is only a thin parÂ�tiÂ�tion Â�between them. We are Â�prompted to ask: Where might one find the thinÂ�nest parÂ�tiÂ�tion, the sharpÂ�est Â�contrast Â�between order and chaos, civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion and primÂ�iÂ�tivÂ�ity, in Â�today’s world? BeÂ�cause flyÂ�ing has beÂ�come comÂ�monÂ�place, one might think it is Â�between the interÂ�ior of an airÂ�plane and the space outÂ�side. InÂ�side a plane I can sit Â�calmly in a padÂ�ded seat and read a magÂ�aÂ�zine while ocÂ�caÂ� sionÂ�ally glancÂ�ing Â�through the winÂ�dow at the splenÂ�did skyÂ�scape of Â�fluffy Â�clouds, lit by the late afterÂ�noon sun. But outÂ�side is inÂ�stant death, from which I am sepÂ�arÂ�ated by a mere plate of glass. The Â�slight anxÂ�iety I feel is not irÂ�raÂ�tional, for if the airÂ�plane exÂ�plodes earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 63 and I am flung into space, the inÂ�tense airÂ�less cold will kill me inÂ�stantly—inÂ�tense cold, not a monÂ�ster, howÂ�ever, for air Â�travel and space are not Â�freighted by myth. Yet crossÂ�ing the ocean on a great ship proÂ�vides an even Â�higher order of Â�contrast. InÂ�side the ship is civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion, and one might even say, Â�over-the-top civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion, for more than on land, soÂ�ciÂ�ety is Â�finely Â�graded, with the capÂ�tain servÂ�ing as Â�priest-king; and, more than on land, peoÂ�ple dress up for dinÂ�ner in a Â�tallceilinged room lit by chanÂ�deÂ�liers. Seen at night from afar, the ship is a glitÂ�terÂ�ing jewel movÂ�ing seÂ�renely on the Â�ocean’s Â�pitchblack surÂ�face. A pasÂ�senÂ�ger leanÂ�ing Â�against the rails and lookÂ�ing at that surÂ�face would, if he or she had any imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion, shudÂ�der at its horÂ�rifyÂ�ing depth and the weird forms of life that Â�surely haunt it. Could any naÂ�ture/culÂ�ture diÂ�viÂ�sion be Â�greater than Â�between, to one side of the promÂ�eÂ�nade deck, a VienÂ�nese waltz and soÂ�cial chatÂ�ter and, to the other side, the dark, cold, Â�clammy unÂ�known?20 earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 67 ForÂ�ests Our reÂ�mote anÂ�cesÂ�tors, the apes, lived in a tropÂ�iÂ�cal forÂ�est—a clutÂ�tered and multiÂ�layÂ�ered enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ment. SurÂ�viÂ�val there reÂ�quired kinÂ�esÂ�thetic and perÂ�cepÂ�tual nimÂ�bleÂ�ness. Then some three milÂ�lion years ago, their deÂ�scenÂ�dants—the protoÂ�huÂ�mans—moved out of the forÂ�est into an open, parkÂ�like setÂ�ting of grass and scatÂ�tered trees. In this open setÂ�ting, they acÂ�quired their upÂ�right posÂ�ture, biÂ�pedalÂ�ism, and a large brain. Our anÂ�cesÂ�tors thus beÂ�came human by leavÂ�ing the forÂ�est. It was a forÂ�tuÂ�nate move from a bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal, evÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tionÂ�ary point of view. HowÂ�ever, did the Â�change in habÂ�iÂ�tat lead to adÂ�diÂ�tional Â�changes, with huÂ�mans beÂ�comÂ�ing symÂ�paÂ�thetic toÂ�ward the parkÂ�land and hosÂ�tile toÂ�ward the forÂ�est, symÂ�paÂ�thetic toÂ�ward light and hosÂ�tile toÂ�ward dimÂ�ness? I bring it up to sugÂ�gest that human hosÂ�tilÂ�ity toÂ�ward the forÂ�est could be Â�deep-seated, going all the way back to the tranÂ�siÂ�tion from ape (dense forÂ�est), to protoÂ�huÂ�man (open forÂ�est), to fully human (parkÂ�land). In the hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal peÂ�riod of, say, the last five thouÂ�sand years, Â�humans’ atÂ�tiÂ�tude toÂ�ward the forÂ�est has been mixed. Those huÂ�mans who at some stage Â�re-entered the forÂ�est were able to find it acÂ�comÂ�moÂ�datÂ�ing, proÂ�vided they Â�didn’t try to alter it sigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ� cantly. Â�Hunter-gatherers Â�didn’t, and they inÂ�deed found the rainÂ� forÂ�est supÂ�porÂ�tive. The Mbuti PygÂ�mies of the northÂ�eastÂ�ern Congo proÂ�vide a Â�well-documented case. ConÂ�tact there with the rainÂ� forÂ�est is inÂ�tiÂ�mate. InÂ�fants are Â�bathed in water mixed with the eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 68 juice of forÂ�est vine, and the forÂ�est is Â�viewed as their proÂ�tecÂ�tor and Â�life-giver. With the onset of puÂ�berty, girls renew their tie to the forÂ�est by makÂ�ing symÂ�bolic conÂ�tact with its vines and Â�leaves. LoveÂ�makÂ�ing often takes place in the forÂ�est, near a Â�stream, in a Â�splash of sunÂ�light or moonÂ�light. When anthroÂ�polÂ�oÂ�gist Colin M. TurnÂ�bull asked one Mbuti why he was dancÂ�ing alone, he reÂ�plied that he was not alone: he was dancÂ�ing with the forÂ�est and the moon. When a criÂ�sis or a disÂ�asÂ�ter ocÂ�curs, as it must someÂ�time, the Mbuti reÂ�spond by tryÂ�ing to wake up the beÂ�nevÂ�oÂ�lent Â�spirit of the forÂ�est, who will see their Â�plight and come to their resÂ�cue. But one Â�plight—death—is beÂ�yond help. When death Â�strikes, the Mbuti say, “DarkÂ�ness is all Â�around us but if the forÂ�est alÂ�lows it, then DarkÂ�ness is good.”21 A forÂ�est Eden is thus posÂ�sible. But supÂ�pose peoÂ�ple seek to Â�change their enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ment and have the means to do so. To Â�create a clearÂ�ing, trees are reÂ�moved, crops Â�planted, and huts built. The forÂ�est that surÂ�rounds the clearÂ�ing will then take on a very difÂ�ferÂ�ent asÂ�pect. Far from being proÂ�tecÂ�tive and nurÂ�turÂ�ing, it is Â�filled with evil spirÂ�its. Bantu farmÂ�ers, neighÂ�bors of the Mbuti, show this negÂ�aÂ�tive reÂ�sponse. The crops they grow are conÂ�stantly Â�raided by forÂ�est anÂ�iÂ�mals. MoreÂ�over, the clearÂ�ing alÂ�lows sunÂ�light to penÂ�eÂ�trate, enaÂ�bling forÂ�est vegÂ�eÂ�taÂ�tion to inÂ�vade, comÂ�pete, and overÂ�whelm the crops. NaÂ�ture, Â�friendly to Â�hunter-gatherers, can be reÂ�lentÂ�less and hosÂ�tile to Â�slash-and-burn farmÂ�ers.22 What if the bounÂ�dary Â�between forÂ�est and grassÂ�land is “natÂ�uÂ�ral” in the sense that it has staÂ�biÂ�lized over a long peÂ�riod of earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 69 time? In that case, the peoÂ�ple who live on the grassÂ�land will not feel threatÂ�ened by the forÂ�est, even if its wild anÂ�iÂ�mals ocÂ�caÂ�sionÂ�ally inÂ�vade and cause havoc. The Lele of Kasai proÂ�vide an exÂ�amÂ�ple. They live on the grassÂ�land near the edge of the Congo forÂ�est where it is Â�crossed by the Kasai River. There they have Â�created a huÂ�manÂ�ized world of sorts, but they take no pride in it. They see that world as exÂ�posed to Â�bright sunÂ�light, dry and barÂ�ren, inÂ�tensely hot, and suitÂ�able only for the culÂ�tiÂ�vaÂ�tion of Â�ground nuts. As for the huts, they are Â�flimsy, subÂ�ject to inÂ�vaÂ�sion by verÂ�min, and in conÂ�stant need of reÂ�pair. By Â�contrast, the adÂ�joinÂ�ing forÂ�est is cool and inÂ�vitÂ�ing. The Lele feel reÂ�laxed under the multiÂ�layÂ�ered canÂ�opy. MoreÂ�over, the forÂ�est is rich in game and edÂ�ible Â�plants. When the Lele speak of the wombÂ�like forÂ�est enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ment, they do so in words of high Â�praise.23 And yet, they have not abanÂ� doned agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, with all its hardÂ�ships, for the easy life of the forÂ�est. HisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cally, the diÂ�recÂ�tion of Â�change worldÂ�wide is counterÂ� inÂ�tuiÂ�tive, with peoÂ�ple movÂ�ing from a comÂ�fortÂ�able liveÂ�liÂ�hood deÂ�penÂ�dent on the genÂ�eÂ�rosÂ�ity of naÂ�ture to a more strenÂ�uÂ�ous and anxÂ�ious liveÂ�liÂ�hood deÂ�penÂ�dent on vigÂ�iÂ�lance and sweat. AgÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture was inÂ�vented some 12,000 years ago. Â�Through most of this peÂ�riod, farmÂ�ers strugÂ�gled to mainÂ�tain a Â�hard-earned human world in the midst of forÂ�est wildÂ�erÂ�ness.24 For thouÂ�sands of years, farmÂ�ers have Â�viewed the forÂ�est as a Â�threat. True, it ofÂ�fered fireÂ�wood, timÂ�ber, and game, but if one penÂ�eÂ�trated beÂ�yond the Â�fringe, one enÂ�tered the doÂ�main of brigÂ�ands, savÂ�ages, danÂ�gerÂ� ous anÂ�iÂ�mals, and evil spirÂ�its. CerÂ�tain words enÂ�shrine this fear. eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 70 Thus “savÂ�age” deÂ�rives from silva, a wood; and “foreigner,” an alien being, has the same root as “forÂ�est.” A Â�mid-seventeenthcentury dicÂ�tionÂ�ary gave the forÂ�est such epiÂ�thets as “dreadÂ�ful,” “gloomy,” “wild,” “unÂ�couth,” “melÂ�anÂ�choly,” and “beast-haunted.”25 Even in the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, circumÂ�ventÂ�ing the forÂ�est to visit relÂ�aÂ�tives or conÂ�duct busiÂ�ness would have been difÂ�fiÂ�cult, for forÂ�ests still covÂ�ered much of the conÂ�tiÂ�nent. A comÂ�mon fear of childÂ�hood is to be abanÂ�doned. A numÂ�ber of fairy tales, datÂ�ing back to the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury but drawÂ�ing on older folkÂ�lore, tell of chilÂ�dren being left in the “dark wood” to fend for themÂ�selves. Trees, tall to Â�adults, are Â�giants to chilÂ�dren, towÂ�erÂ�ing over them, Â�cutting off sunÂ�light, plungÂ�ing them into a beÂ�wilÂ�derÂ�ing world of unÂ�friendly Â�beasts and spirÂ�its. ChilÂ�dren who surÂ�vive the forÂ�est and come out into a sunÂ�lit land beÂ�come Â�adults. The forÂ�est in fairy tales may thus be seen as a trial that chilÂ�dren must go Â�through. ReÂ�asÂ�surÂ�ingly, they don’t have to do so alone, for they often enÂ�counÂ�ter a Â�friendly giant and guide. The fairy tale furÂ�ther reÂ�asÂ�sures chilÂ�dren by tellÂ�ing them that the forÂ�est has limÂ�its, that it is not endÂ�less.26 If the temÂ�perÂ�ate forÂ�est can be dauntÂ�ing, the tropÂ�iÂ�cal rainÂ�forÂ�est is far more so—cerÂ�tainly to the outÂ�sider who Â�strays into it. ForÂ�bidÂ�ding is the superÂ�abunÂ�dance of life itÂ�self. Trees of difÂ�ferÂ�ent speÂ�cies reach difÂ�ferÂ�ent levÂ�els, creatÂ�ing a Â�densely layered Â� canÂ�opy. ClimbÂ�ers cross from tree to tree. Human viÂ�sion is Â�blocked in all diÂ�recÂ�tions. To find oneÂ�self in this tanÂ�gled bioÂ�mass and know that earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 71 one is lost is a nightÂ�mare. Life so abunÂ�dant and interÂ�twined can seem to be one palÂ�piÂ�tatÂ�ing whole, a monÂ�ster eager to abÂ�sorb and evisÂ�cerÂ�ate any being that enÂ�ters it. AddÂ�ing to the visÂ�ual conÂ�fuÂ�sion is the noise. The tombÂ�like siÂ�lence of a rainÂ�forÂ�est can be shatÂ�tered withÂ�out warnÂ�ing and turn into a roarÂ�ing, shriekÂ�ing madÂ�house. Alex ShouÂ�matÂ�off visÂ�ited a vilÂ�lage in the AmÂ�aÂ�zon in the 1970s. Here is his acÂ�count of the noise: A dense field of rhythÂ�mic Â�sounds surÂ�rounded the sleepÂ�ing vilÂ�lage. KaÂ�tyÂ�dids proÂ�duced a loud, Â�steady hum, while giant cockÂ�roaches Â�hissed, tree frogs ratÂ�tled and other inÂ�sects tireÂ� lessly reÂ�peated Â�chk-chk-chk in alÂ�terÂ�natÂ�ing ocÂ�taves. Bats, as they Â�echo located prey, emitÂ�ted a ranÂ�dom stacÂ�cato of soft pings, which Â�sounded like rain fallÂ�ing on the roof. [And then came the atÂ�tenÂ�tion grabÂ�ber—the Â�howler monÂ�key.] SomeÂ�time Â�around midÂ�night I was awakÂ�ened by an unÂ�earthly sound from deep Â�within the junÂ�gle—the casÂ�cadÂ�ing roar of Â�howler monÂ�keys. .€.€. It Â�sounded like hunÂ�dreds of them, Â�though there were probÂ� ably far fewer. The long roars Â�blended into each other in a harÂ�rowÂ�ing conÂ�tinÂ�uum. I had never heard of anyÂ�thing so wild and terÂ�rifyÂ�ing.27 To a EuÂ�roÂ�pean used to the quiet manÂ�ners of his felÂ�low counÂ�tryÂ�men, the naÂ�tives of AfÂ�rica can be inÂ�sufÂ�ferÂ�ably noisy too. As one man writÂ�ing in 1623 put it, “NeiÂ�ther are these drums withÂ�out daily emÂ�ployÂ�ment, for this is their conÂ�tinÂ�ual cusÂ�tom every night to reÂ�pair to the open yard, about which they do eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 72 conÂ�tinue drumÂ�ming, hoopÂ�ing, singÂ�ing, and makÂ�ing a heaÂ�thenÂ� ish noise, most comÂ�monly until the day beÂ�gins to break.”28 Two hunÂ�dred years later, anÂ�other white man comÂ�plained: “In AfÂ�rica, Â�whether one is ill or well, it is exÂ�actly the same, nothÂ�ing like peace or quiet is anyÂ�where to be found. In adÂ�diÂ�tion to the anÂ�iÂ�mal Â�noises, we are still more seÂ�riÂ�ously anÂ�noyed by the inÂ�cesÂ�sant clatÂ�ter of Â�women’s Â�tongues, which purÂ�sues us everyÂ�where, and which I Â�really beÂ�lieve nothÂ�ing less than sickÂ�ness or death on their part can efÂ�fecÂ�tuÂ�ally siÂ�lence.”29 To the EuÂ�roÂ�pean who conÂ�sidÂ�ers noise vulÂ�gar, peoÂ�ple who alÂ�ways seek to be with othÂ�ers and who, moreÂ�over, seek to drown their sense of self in a wash of unÂ�ceasÂ�ing noise are unÂ�couth, barÂ�baric, or simÂ�ply imÂ�maÂ�ture.30 Odor is a charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tic of livÂ�ing Â�things. The more of them in one place, the more punÂ�gent that place beÂ�comes. WithÂ�out doubt, tropÂ�iÂ�cal forÂ�ests are among the most natÂ�uÂ�rally odorÂ�ous Â�places on earth. Yet the peoÂ�ple livÂ�ing in them are litÂ�tle aware of the arÂ�oÂ�matic asÂ�sault. They may find the odors overÂ�whelmÂ�ing inÂ�itially, but it Â�quickly disÂ�siÂ�pates. Do EuÂ�roÂ�peans find the Â�strong tropÂ�iÂ�cal aroÂ�mas pleasÂ�ant? They may, if only in Â�contrast to the lack of odor stimÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion in their home counÂ�try. On the other hand, when unÂ�well or disÂ�oriented, EuÂ�roÂ�peans may find that the odors sigÂ�nify not Â�growth and life but decay and corÂ�rupÂ�tion. In the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, EuÂ�roÂ�peans came to beÂ�lieve in what they Â�called “maÂ�lefic miÂ�asÂ�mas,” the Â�source of which lay in the upÂ�turned soil and deÂ�cayÂ�ing vegÂ�eÂ�taÂ�tion. Wind carÂ�ried and Â�spread the earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 73 emÂ�aÂ�naÂ�tions. Â�Wherever they Â�landed, they Â�caused sickÂ�ness and death—hence the repÂ�uÂ�taÂ�tion of the tropÂ�ics as the “White Man’s Grave.” An EnÂ�glishÂ�man wrote in 1881: From whatÂ�ever diÂ�recÂ�tion the wind preÂ�vails, the prodÂ�ucts of rapid tropÂ�iÂ�cal deÂ�comÂ�poÂ�siÂ�tion, aided as they are by the hygroÂ�metÂ�ric state of the atÂ�mosÂ�phere, hang over parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar spots like Â�clouds, and poiÂ�son, like so much meÂ�phitic gas, those who are exÂ�posed to their inÂ�fluÂ�ence. So well underÂ�stood is the poiÂ�sonÂ�ous charÂ�acÂ�ter of those emÂ�aÂ�naÂ�tions that resÂ�iÂ�dents close the doors and winÂ�dows Â�against the land Â�breeze, and usuÂ�ally burn the air in their bedÂ� rooms by placÂ�ing in it a chaufÂ�fer of Â�lighted charÂ�coal at a safe interÂ�val of time beÂ�fore they reÂ�tire for the night.31 Given these views, built on cenÂ�tuÂ�ries of exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence and Â�backed by “civÂ�ilÂ�ized” man’s biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues, no wonÂ�der forÂ�ests are seen as barÂ�riers to progÂ�ress. They are to be Â�cleared to let in light and raÂ�tionÂ�alÂ�ity. In the West, this atÂ�tiÂ�tude has been perÂ�vaÂ�sive since at least Greek and Roman times, when peoÂ�ple were Â�skyworshippers. ForÂ�est canÂ�oÂ�pies, by blockÂ�ing from view the sun and the stars, Â�sources of clarÂ�ity and order, were an abomÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion.32 All adÂ�vanced culÂ�tures (civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tions) draw inÂ�spiÂ�raÂ�tion from the sky and so treat forÂ�ests disÂ�misÂ�sively even when they deÂ�pend on them for timÂ�ber and game, and even when they sing their Â�praises in reÂ�liÂ�gion and Â�poetry. China, for exÂ�amÂ�ple, is one of the most deÂ�nuded counÂ�tries in the world, and this deÂ�spite Â�Daoism, a eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 74 phiÂ�loÂ�soÂ�phy that urges reÂ�spect for naÂ�ture. HowÂ�ever, to ChiÂ�nese Â�Daoists, naÂ�ture is more Â�likely to mean a sinÂ�gle picÂ�tuÂ�resque tree or a small pine grove next to a temÂ�ple than the forÂ�est, and cerÂ� tainly not the dense, tanÂ�gled Â�growth that is the tropÂ�iÂ�cal forÂ�est. PeoÂ�ple of the northÂ�ern Â�plains began to miÂ�grate south in large numÂ�bers durÂ�ing the Later Han DyÂ�nasty (25–220 CE). There they enÂ�counÂ�tered vast exÂ�panses of tropÂ�iÂ�cal vegÂ�eÂ�taÂ�tion for the first time, and they Â�didn’t like what they saw. A poem of that peÂ�riod exÂ�presses fear and disÂ�taste. In the deep Â�forest’s tanÂ�gle TiÂ�gers and leopÂ�ard Â�spring TowÂ�erÂ�ing and Â�rugged, The Â�craggy rocks, frownÂ�ing. Â�Crooked and interÂ�locked The Â�forest’s Â�gnarled trees.33 HowÂ�ever, this was the past. By the end of the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury, enÂ�lightÂ�ened peoÂ�ple the world over saw forÂ�ests in a faÂ�vorÂ�able light, reÂ�gardÂ�ing them as reÂ�sources or Â�things of Â�beauty to be proÂ�tected and, if posÂ�sible, reÂ�stored. But resÂ�toÂ�raÂ�tion to what peÂ�riod in the past and to what state of being? The two largÂ�est rainÂ�foÂ�rests in the world are the Congo and the AmÂ�aÂ�zon. The asÂ�sumpÂ�tion that prior to EuÂ�roÂ�pean exÂ�ploiÂ�taÂ�tion they were unÂ� broken carÂ�pets of green now seems inÂ�corÂ�rect. Take, first, the Congo. Some two to three thouÂ�sand years ago Â�Bantu-speaking earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 75 peoÂ�ples moved into the Congo from what is now eastÂ�ern NiÂ�geÂ�ria. They were agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�turÂ�ists, Â�equipped with Â�iron-smelting Â�skills. They cut trees to make way for Â�slash-and-burn agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture and for iron smeltÂ�ing. They subÂ�stanÂ�tially alÂ�tered the rainÂ�forÂ�est.34 As for the AmÂ�aÂ�zon, the Â�change that took place one to two thouÂ�sand years ago was even Â�greater, for it would seem that a civÂ�ilÂ�ized way of life flourÂ�ished in the westÂ�ern end of the AmÂ�aÂ�zon basin. By civÂ�ilÂ�ized, I mean a value Â�system that faÂ�vored simÂ�plicÂ�ity and clarÂ�ity, for disÂ�covÂ�ered in the dense rainÂ�forÂ�est were land carvÂ�ings in the shape of Â�squares, ocÂ�taÂ�gons, cirÂ�cles, recÂ�tanÂ�gles, and ovals. Since some of them were Â�twenty feet deep, an early hypothÂ�eÂ�sis has it that they were built for deÂ�fense. But this is no Â�longer tenÂ�able, for no signs of human setÂ�tleÂ�ment and farmÂ�ing have been found. The geoÂ�metÂ�ric figÂ�ures might thereÂ�fore have Â�served a reÂ�liÂ�gious purÂ�pose. If they did, the reÂ�liÂ�gion could only be some form of solar worÂ�ship and not the worÂ�ship of Â�plants and anÂ�iÂ�mals, typÂ�iÂ�cal of hoe agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�tuÂ�ralÂ�ists strugÂ�gling to surÂ�vive in later times. AnÂ�other strikÂ�ing feaÂ�ture of these arÂ�chaeÂ�oÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal findÂ�ings in the AmÂ�aÂ�zon is that deÂ�forestÂ�aÂ�tion took place more than once. A civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion Â�emerged, deÂ�clined, and was reÂ�taken by the forÂ�est sevÂ�eral times. The reÂ�peated efÂ�fort at clearÂ�ing sugÂ�gests that the anÂ�cient AmÂ�aÂ�zoÂ�nians Â�failed to learn the lesÂ�son of their preÂ�deÂ� cesÂ�sors. Or can it be that they saw no alÂ�terÂ�naÂ�tive, that given the Â�chance to reÂ�start a proÂ�cess that led to civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion, they could not eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 76 reÂ�sist? ComÂ�batÂ�ing the dense forÂ�est, subÂ�stiÂ�tutÂ�ing simÂ�plicÂ�ity for comÂ�plexÂ�ity, bringÂ�ing light into darkÂ�ness, Â�proved comÂ�pelÂ�ling and not just an abÂ�erÂ�raÂ�tion of modÂ�ern times.35 CivÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion enÂ�courÂ�ages inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als to stand out, their Â�thoughts and deeds to be recÂ�ogÂ�nized and reÂ�corded. WritÂ�ing helps the proÂ�cess along. At first used by reÂ�liÂ�gion to regÂ�uÂ�late worÂ�ship, then by adÂ�minÂ�isÂ�traÂ�tors of governÂ�ment and busiÂ�ness to keep Â�records and faÂ�cilÂ�iÂ�tate coopÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion, when writÂ�ing evenÂ�tuÂ�ally came to be used by priÂ�vate inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als, it enÂ�aÂ�bled them to not only Â�record but elabÂ�orate on their exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ences as well as those of othÂ�ers. TropÂ�iÂ�cal civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tions have not left beÂ�hind a litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture of perÂ�sonal views and Â�thoughts. We do not know how inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als in Â�preColumbian AmÂ�aÂ�zoÂ�nian civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion Â�viewed their life and world. Could some have Â�yearned roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cally for primÂ�iÂ�tivÂ�ity? The quesÂ�tion is not abÂ�surd, for it may be a law of human naÂ�ture that once civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion Â�reaches a cerÂ�tain level, nosÂ�talÂ�gia sets in. The ChiÂ�nese Â�dreamed of a Â�Golden Age. That was their way to roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cize the past. Under Â�Daoism’s inÂ�fluÂ�ence, they Â�sought to reÂ�turn to a life of rusÂ�tic simÂ�plicÂ�ity when being a ConÂ�fuÂ�cian courÂ�tier, surÂ�rounded by imÂ�peÂ�rial riÂ�gidÂ�ities and splenÂ�dor, began to pall. What the ChiÂ�nese Â�didn’t do was to pine for someÂ�thing eleÂ�menÂ�tal and primÂ�iÂ�tive. They never adÂ�mired the barÂ�barÂ�ians for their bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal vigor and anÂ�iÂ�mal grace.36 EuÂ�roÂ�pean writÂ�ers and artÂ�ists did. Bored with livÂ�ing a life of tinkÂ�ling teaÂ�cups and white parÂ�aÂ�sols, they Â�sought reÂ�juÂ�veÂ�naÂ�tion among primÂ�iÂ�tive peoÂ�ples. earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 77 One of them, André Gide, set off for cenÂ�tral AfÂ�rica in 1925. His exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence there was amÂ�bivÂ�aÂ�lent. He loved the black men, the “joyÂ�ful play of their musÂ�cles, their faÂ�rouche enÂ�thuÂ�siasm.” He found their merÂ�riÂ�ment “charmÂ�ing,” their laughÂ�ter “frank and open.” He Â�watched them flash “like eels” Â�through the water.37 The way Gide deÂ�scribed Â�African men made them seem like beauÂ�tiÂ�ful anÂ�iÂ�mals, and he reÂ�sented their exÂ�ploiÂ�taÂ�tion by white plantÂ�ers and tradÂ�ers just as he would—I imÂ�aÂ�gine—abomÂ�iÂ�nate turnÂ�ing AraÂ�bian pureÂ�breds into draft Â�horses. As for the Â�African landÂ�scape, Gide found its vastÂ�ness and timeÂ�lessÂ�ness a Â�threat to his sense of self. He could apÂ�preÂ�ciate Â�nature’s strangeÂ�ness in small doses, but “the enorÂ�mousÂ�ness, the inÂ�deÂ�ciÂ�sion, the abÂ�sence of diÂ�recÂ�tion, of deÂ�sign, of orÂ�ganÂ�izaÂ�tion” were disÂ�turbÂ�ing. CulÂ�ture means disÂ�crimÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion. How is it that Â�Africans do not put up signs that say, this is the tallÂ�est mounÂ�tain, that is the swiftÂ�est river, or the most gloÂ�riÂ�ous sunÂ�set? Yet Gide esÂ�caped to AfÂ�rica preÂ�cisely beÂ�cause he wearÂ�ied of Â�Europe’s penÂ�chant for orÂ�ganÂ�izaÂ�tion comÂ�bined parÂ�aÂ�doxÂ�iÂ�cally with pride in being Â�stand-alone inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als.38 Of all the novÂ�els on the Congo, none is more read, studÂ�ied, and inÂ�fluenÂ�tial than JoÂ�seph Â�Conrad’s Heart of DarkÂ�ness, first pubÂ�lished in 1899. One might think that the “darkÂ�ness” in the title reÂ�fers to AfÂ�rica in genÂ�eral and the Congo rainÂ�forÂ�est in parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar, if only figÂ�uraÂ�tively. But no. The darkÂ�ness is of the human heart, in which case, why AfÂ�rica and why the Congo? eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 78 There is, in fact, litÂ�tle geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal deÂ�scripÂ�tion in the novel. Where ConÂ�rad does deÂ�scribe, the word “light” Â�rather than “dark” or “gloomy” is more often used. How can this be? At one level, the anÂ�swer is that much of the novel takes place along rivÂ�ers and riverÂ�fronts, and these loÂ�caÂ�tions, under the noon tropÂ�iÂ�cal sun, can be glarÂ�ingly Â�bright. At a Â�deeper level, “light” and “dark” refer to Â�psycho-moral Â�states, and it is by no means the case that “light” or “white” alÂ�ways sigÂ�nifies the good and “dark” or “black” the bad. Â�Conrad’s “darkÂ�ness” is the evil that lies at the core of our being no matÂ�ter how civÂ�ilÂ�ized and white our outÂ�ward apÂ�pearÂ�ance. To him, going up the Congo River is also to Â�travel backÂ�ward in time to find there not only inÂ�noÂ�cence but ugÂ�liÂ�ness and Â�frenzy. The Â�steamer Â�toiled along Â�slowly on the edge of a black and inÂ�comÂ�preÂ�henÂ�sible Â�frenzy. The preÂ�hisÂ�toric man was cursÂ�ing us, prayÂ�ing to us, welÂ�comÂ�ing us—who could tell? We were cut off from the comÂ�preÂ�henÂ�sion of our surÂ�roundÂ�ings; we Â�glided past like phanÂ�toms, wonÂ�derÂ�ing and seÂ�cretly apÂ�palled, as sane men would be beÂ�fore an enÂ�thuÂ�siasÂ�tic outÂ�break in a madÂ�house. We could not reÂ�memÂ�ber beÂ�cause we were travelÂ�ing in the night of the first ages, of those ages that are gone, leavÂ�ing Â�hardly a sign—and no memÂ�oÂ�ries. What did Â�Conrad’s surÂ�roÂ�gate—MarÂ�low—make of the naÂ�tives? “They were not inÂ�huÂ�man. They Â�howled and Â�leaped, and spun, and made horÂ�rid faces; but what Â�thrilled you was just the earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 79 Â� thought of your reÂ�mote kinÂ�ship with this wild and pasÂ�sionÂ�ate upÂ�roar. Ugly.”39 Heart of DarkÂ�ness plays reÂ�peatÂ�edly with the Â�light-and-dark poÂ�laÂ�rities, esÂ�peÂ�cially in the closÂ�ing Â�scenes.40 What Â�things are good? What fall under “light” and “reaÂ�son”? Kurtz himÂ�self is preÂ�sented as good, a man of exÂ�cepÂ�tional inÂ�telÂ�liÂ�gence who Â�wanted to introÂ�duce sciÂ�ence and progÂ�ress to the naÂ�tives. True, he was also a sucÂ�cessÂ�ful comÂ�merÂ�cial agent, one who colÂ�lected more ivory than anyÂ�one else. SucÂ�cess in such an enÂ�terÂ�prise could only be Â�achieved with ruthÂ�less exÂ�ploiÂ�taÂ�tion, and exÂ�ploiÂ�taÂ�tion, even if begun modÂ�erÂ�ately, could only end in moral decay and death. Or is there someÂ�thing even more Â�deeply corÂ�ruptÂ�ing—Â�namely, abÂ�stract, tyÂ�ranÂ�niÂ�cal reaÂ�son itÂ�self? In the junÂ�gle of the Inner StaÂ�tion, Kurtz cuts himÂ�self off from all comÂ�mon deÂ�cency and truth. He colÂ�lapses into the sort of evil that ConÂ�rad beÂ�lieves lies Â�coiled like a hiÂ�berÂ�natÂ�ing snake in the heart of us all. earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 83 Deserts ForÂ�ests, for all the fear they once elicÂ�ited, also stood for someÂ� thing good—life in all its abunÂ�dance and vaÂ�riety. Now that they no Â�longer Â�elicit fear, we see them as a reÂ�source that enÂ�riches our maÂ�teÂ�rial life or as Â�things of Â�beauty that lift our Â�spirit. ForÂ�ests are to be proÂ�tected, and we huÂ�mans feel sorÂ�row when they are diÂ�minÂ�ished. Â�Deserts are quite anÂ�other matÂ�ter. They are on the march, threatÂ�enÂ�ing farmÂ�lands, and we want to do all we can to stop them. No one Â�speaks of preÂ�servÂ�ing a Â�desert, unÂ�less it be a small patch of pure white sand (like White Sands NaÂ�tional MonÂ�uÂ�ment in New MexÂ�ico) that atÂ�tracts tourÂ�ists.41 How were Â�deserts perÂ�ceived and underÂ�stood hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cally? WestÂ�ern civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion began on the marÂ�gin of the greatÂ�est Â�desert in the world. Yet the anÂ�cient Â�Greeks, Â�well-known for their cuÂ�riÂ�osÂ� ity about other Â�places and peoÂ�ples and those EuÂ�roÂ�pean saÂ�vants of later times who folÂ�lowed their lead, have perÂ�sisÂ�tently underÂ� esÂ�tiÂ�mated the Â�desert’s exÂ�tent. It was as Â�though they Â�wanted to deny someÂ�thing that threatÂ�ened their liveÂ�liÂ�hood. Libya, one of the three funÂ�daÂ�menÂ�tal units of the earth, was anÂ�other Â�source of the error. Under Â�Homer’s inÂ�fluÂ�ence, Greek geogÂ�raÂ�phers from HeÂ�rodÂ�oÂ�tus to Â�Strabo reÂ�garded the Â�desert as ferÂ�tile and far Â�smaller than it is, a douÂ�ble error that fed on each other. AnÂ�other Â�source of underÂ�esÂ�tiÂ�maÂ�tion was the anÂ�cient Greek conÂ�cepÂ�tion of cliÂ�mate zones. It was based on temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ture, not on preÂ�cipÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion; and eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 84 until the Â�mid-twentieth cenÂ�tury, Â�whether Â�places were hot or cold reÂ�ceived far Â�greater sciÂ�enÂ�tific atÂ�tenÂ�tion than Â�whether they were dry or wet.42 DurÂ�ing the ChrisÂ�tian cenÂ�tuÂ�ries, geogÂ�raÂ�phers were underÂ� standÂ�ably reÂ�lucÂ�tant to acÂ�knowlÂ�edge the Â�desert’s great exÂ�tent beÂ�cause its vastÂ�ness Â�seemed to contraÂ�dict God’s provÂ�iÂ�denÂ�tial wisÂ�dom. Even in the late eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, a sciÂ�enÂ�tist of the statÂ�ure of James HutÂ�ton adÂ�mitÂ�ted to only two dry areas on the Â�earth’s surÂ�face, “Lower Egypt and a narÂ�row spot upon the coast of Peru.”43 Their true size, even Â�though known to exÂ�plorÂ�ers, tradÂ�ers, and misÂ�sionÂ�arÂ�ies for cenÂ�tuÂ�ries, had been conÂ�sisÂ�tently overÂ�looked in the efÂ�fort to mainÂ�tain their beÂ�lief in God’s wise deÂ�sign. NatÂ�uÂ�ral theoÂ�loÂ�gians were not alone in their cavÂ�aÂ�lier disÂ�reÂ�gard of evÂ�iÂ�dence. ExÂ�plorÂ�ers and early setÂ�tlers of dry lands in North AmerÂ�ica and AusÂ�traÂ�lia Â�showed a simÂ�iÂ�lar disÂ�poÂ�siÂ�tion. True, in North AmerÂ�ica the myth of the Great Â�American Â�Desert Â�emerged to capÂ�ture for a time the imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion of cerÂ�tain EastÂ�ern writÂ�ers.44 NevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less, most Â�Americans in the latÂ�ter part of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury were inÂ�clined to see a poÂ�tenÂ�tial for agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�tuÂ�ral Â�wealth beÂ�yond the hunÂ�dredth meÂ�ridÂ�ian. As for AusÂ�traÂ�lia, the exÂ�isÂ�tence of a forÂ�bidÂ�ding dry core was deÂ�nied for as long as posÂ�sible. Â�Rather than sterÂ�ilÂ�ity and inÂ�acÂ�cessÂ�ibilÂ�ity, AusÂ�traÂ�lian exÂ�plorÂ�ers held on to the view that a great river Â�crossed the isÂ�land conÂ�tiÂ�nent, or that a large body of water—an inÂ�land sea—ocÂ�cuÂ�pied its cenÂ�ter.45 earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 85 To those who culÂ�tiÂ�vated land and Â�gained from it a good livÂ�ing, the Â�desert at their doorÂ�step could not help but be laden with negÂ�aÂ�tive imÂ�ages. A duÂ�alÂ�ism of good and evil Â�emerged among the agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�tuÂ�ralÂ�ists, and in none was it Â�sharper than in ZoÂ�roasÂ�trianÂ� ism, which Â�contrasted a setÂ�tled life of agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�tuÂ�ral Â�plenty with the viÂ�oÂ�lence and preÂ�daÂ�tion of miÂ�gratÂ�ing Â�desert Â�tribes, the folÂ�lowÂ�ers of truth with the folÂ�lowÂ�ers of lie.46 In China, a reÂ�curÂ�rent theme in hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal writÂ�ing is the conÂ�flict Â�between farmÂ�ers and noÂ�mads, culÂ�ture and barÂ�barÂ�ism. ChiÂ�nese Â�poetry, where it Â�touches the Â�steppe and Â�desert, is Â�filled with desÂ�oÂ�laÂ�tion, melÂ�anÂ�choly, and death. In Â�Hebraic-Christian Â�thought, the Â�desert is a howlÂ�ing waste Â�haunted by evil spirÂ�its and beÂ�yond God’s purÂ�view. One exÂ�plaÂ�naÂ�tion of the Â�desert is that God Â�cursed it, and he did so in anger at Â�Adam’s Fall (GenÂ�eÂ�sis 3:17). Moses Â�warned his peoÂ�ple that if they did not heed the Â�Lord’s comÂ�mandÂ�ments, “their Â�heaven shall be brass, their earth shall be iron, and their rain shall be powÂ�der and dust” (DeuÂ�teÂ�ronÂ�omy 28:23). 47 As late as 1849, LieuÂ�tenÂ�ant J. H. SimpÂ�son reÂ�sorted to this exÂ�plaÂ�naÂ�tion. While crossÂ�ing northÂ�westÂ�ern New MexÂ�ico, he noted the barÂ�renÂ� ness of the land and the many InÂ�dian ruins on it. God, wrote SimpÂ�son, must have Â�cursed the land, makÂ�ing it sterÂ�ile and so forcÂ�ing its inÂ�habÂ�iÂ�tants to miÂ�grate.48 HuÂ�mans canÂ�not just want to chew the cud on ferÂ�tile land and live conÂ�tentÂ�edly. They are, after all, chilÂ�dren of God, not catÂ�tle. They have a Â�higher desÂ�tiny. That, at least, is the bibÂ�liÂ�cal view, eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 86 and it shows in asÂ�signÂ�ing Â�deserts a radÂ�iÂ�cally difÂ�ferÂ�ent purÂ�pose and meanÂ�ing. The Sinai Â�wastes stood not only for disÂ�orÂ�der, darkÂ� ness, and death but also for transcenÂ�dent power and reÂ�dempÂ� tive love. The Â�pre-exilic prophÂ�ets interÂ�preted the forty years of wanÂ�derÂ�ing in the Â�desert to be a peÂ�riod when God was esÂ�peÂ�cially close to IsÂ�rael. In the New TesÂ�taÂ�ment, Â�Christ was sent into the wildÂ�erÂ�ness to be Â�tempted by Satan (MatÂ�thew 4:1), yet he also withÂ�drew into the wildÂ�erÂ�ness to be close to his Â�Father (Mark 1:35). Both the tempÂ�taÂ�tion and the transÂ�figÂ�uraÂ�tion ocÂ�curred on a mounÂ�tain (MatÂ�thew 17:1–3). ContraÂ�dicÂ�tory atÂ�tiÂ�tudes perÂ�sisted into the early ChrisÂ�tian era. From the secÂ�ond to the Â�fourth cenÂ�tury, herÂ�mits venÂ�tured into the EgypÂ�tian Â�desert as spirÂ�iÂ�tual athÂ�letes who strengthÂ�ened their souls by doing batÂ�tle with Satan and his minÂ�ions, the wild Â�beasts. Yet herÂ�mits also beÂ�lieved that they lived in an Eden of inÂ�noÂ�cence. The anÂ�iÂ�mals who visÂ�ited them in their caves were anÂ�iÂ�mals beÂ�fore the Fall, willÂ�ing to subÂ�mit to human doÂ�minÂ�ion and care.49 “To me a town is a Â�prison, and the Â�desert loneÂ�liÂ�ness a parÂ�aÂ� dise,” wrote Saint JeÂ�rome (ca. 347–420). BeÂ�hind the senÂ�tiÂ�ment was a disÂ�taste not only for the Â�world’s pomp and circumÂ�stance but also for the Â�Church’s own inÂ�creasÂ�ing worldÂ�liÂ�ness. HerÂ�mits Â�sought freeÂ�dom from enÂ�tanÂ�gleÂ�ment with maÂ�teÂ�rial Â�things and human beÂ�ings, since both could be a disÂ�tracÂ�tion, makÂ�ing it difÂ�fiÂ� cult, if not imÂ�posÂ�sible, to conÂ�temÂ�plate God—“naked man to naked God.”50 Naked God? A comÂ�mon metaÂ�phor for the human soul and for God is the Â�desert. “Be like a Â�desert,” Â�preached MeisÂ�ter earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 87 EckÂ�hart (ca. 1260–1328), “as far as self and the Â�things of this world are conÂ�cerned. Move from multiÂ�plicÂ�ity to the unity of the Holy TrinÂ�ity, and then beÂ�yond the TrinÂ�ity to the ‘barÂ�ren GodÂ� head,’ to the Â�desert of the GodÂ�head.”51 From the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury onÂ�ward, the reÂ�liÂ�gious moÂ�tiÂ� vaÂ�tion for seekÂ�ing the Â�desert waned or disÂ�apÂ�peared. What took its place? MisÂ�anÂ�thropy, for one. A disÂ�taste for the petty needs, Â�wishes, and afÂ�fecÂ�taÂ�tions of orÂ�diÂ�nary huÂ�mans led the misÂ�anÂ�thrope to find conÂ�soÂ�laÂ�tion in the Â�life-denying Â�desert. Thus NorÂ�man DougÂ�las, at his first view of the sterÂ�ile salt deÂ�presÂ�sion in TuÂ�niÂ�sia, exÂ�pressed reÂ�lief “at the idea that this litÂ�tle speck of the globe, at least, was irÂ�reÂ�claimÂ�able for all time; never to be conÂ�verted into arÂ�able land or even pasÂ�ture, safe from the inÂ�truÂ�sion of the Â�potato-planters or what not.” A cerÂ�tain “charm,” he added, acÂ�crued to that “picÂ�ture of eterÂ�nal, irÂ�reÂ�meÂ�diÂ�able sterÂ�ilÂ�ity.”52 The same bias is evÂ�iÂ�dent in such Â�well-known Â�adventurer-writers as Â�Charles Â�Doughty, T. E. LawÂ�rence, and WilÂ�fred TheÂ�siÂ�ger. When TheÂ�siÂ�ger was given the opÂ�porÂ�tuÂ�nity to traÂ�verse the Empty QuarÂ�ter of AraÂ�bia, he reÂ�joiced for he beÂ�lieved that “in those empty Â�wastes I could find the peace that comes from solÂ�iÂ�tude.” But to his surÂ�prise and disÂ�apÂ�pointÂ�ment, he found that BedÂ�ouin camps and carÂ�aÂ�vans were not only Â�crowded but exÂ�tremely noisy, as if by noise they could fill the void.53 The Â�European’s inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�alÂ�ism and deÂ�sire for siÂ�lence and isoÂ�laÂ�tion are not necÂ�esÂ�sarÂ�ily Â�shared by the Arab, as TheÂ�siÂ�ger and, later, LawÂ�rence were to disÂ�cover. HowÂ�ever, the deÂ�luÂ�sion is eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 88 underÂ�standÂ�able, for even a Â�crowded oasis is a tiny speck of huÂ�manÂ�ity Â�against the vastÂ�ness of sky and Â�desert, and all the more so when the Arabs moved out of the oasis into a waste that is as deÂ�void of the human imÂ�print as the sea. In the nineÂ�teenth and early twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tuÂ�ries, EuÂ�roÂ�pean adÂ�venÂ�turÂ�ers also might be conÂ�sidÂ�ered roÂ�manÂ�tics on a quest, for they Â�sought perÂ�sonal freeÂ� dom and salÂ�vaÂ�tion. HowÂ�ever, what Â�started as a perÂ�sonal quest had a way of seÂ�guing into poÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal amÂ�biÂ�tions for one’s naÂ�tion. Â�Sooner or later, reÂ�alÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tik Â�trumped roÂ�mance. T. E. LawÂ�rence might be conÂ�sidÂ�ered an exÂ�cepÂ�tion, for even Â�though he was Â�forced to see Arab gains whitÂ�tled away at the conÂ�ferÂ�ence table, he reÂ�mained pasÂ�sionÂ�ate about their cause. Of the many roÂ�mancÂ�ers of the Â�desert, LawÂ�rence is unÂ�doubtÂ� edly the best known, if only Â�through David Â�Lean’s much acÂ�claimed movie of his life, made in 1962. In hindÂ�sight, even early in life, LawÂ�rence Â�showed three Â�traits that made him Â�iconic. They were asÂ�cetÂ�iÂ�cism, a likÂ�ing for open space, and a chivÂ�alÂ�rous temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ment. As a teenÂ�ager he was alÂ�ready exÂ�cepÂ�tionÂ�ally deÂ�mandÂ�ing of himÂ� self, not only inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tuÂ�ally but physÂ�iÂ�cally, going to great Â�lengths to Â�toughen the body and make it enÂ�dure seÂ�vere hardÂ�ships. He disÂ�liked the flesh, unÂ�less it be musÂ�cle. MaÂ�teÂ�rial Â�things had no apÂ�peal; they were, Â�rather, an enÂ�cumÂ�brance to moveÂ�ment—to freeÂ�dom. As to a likÂ�ing for open space, it Â�showed when he was Â�barely Â�twenty, in a letÂ�ter to his Â�mother who urged on him the Â�beauty of mounÂ�tains. earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 89 You are wrong, Â�Mother dear, a mounÂ�tain may be a great thing, a grand thing, “but if it is betÂ�ter to be peaceÂ�ful, and quiet, and pure, pacÂ�ata posse omnia mente tueri, if that is the best state, then a plain is the best counÂ�try:” the purÂ�ifyÂ�ing inÂ�fluÂ�ence is the parÂ�aÂ�mount one in the plain, there one can sit down Â�quietly and think, of anyÂ�thing, or nothÂ�ing. .€.€. [There] one feels the litÂ�tleÂ�ness of Â�things, of deÂ�tails, and the great and unÂ�broken level of peaceÂ� fulÂ�ness of the whole: no give me a level plain, exÂ�tendÂ�ing as far as the eye can reach, and there I have Â�enough Â�beauty to Â�satisfy me, and tranÂ�quilÂ�ity as well!54 Note the words “pure” and “purÂ�ifyÂ�ing.” The Â�desert purÂ�ified. LawÂ�rence abomÂ�iÂ�nated biolÂ�ogy. Think how he would have fared in a rainÂ�forÂ�est. It would have Â�seemed to him a caulÂ�dron of puÂ�trid life and corÂ�rupÂ�tion, a dense palÂ�piÂ�tatÂ�ing mass in which no inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual—plant, anÂ�iÂ�mal, or human—stood out. ConÂ�tempt for the body shows Â�clearly in his masÂ�terÂ�work the Seven PilÂ�lars of WisÂ�dom. “The body,” he wrote, “was too Â�coarse to feel the utÂ�most of our sorÂ�rows and of our joys. ThereÂ�fore we abanÂ�doned it as rubÂ�bish.” Shun food other than what was necÂ�esÂ�sary to surÂ�vive. Not for LawÂ�rence “this jasÂ�mine, this viÂ�oÂ�let, this rose”; Â�rather he Â�yearned to inÂ�hale, with his Arab Â�friends, “the very sweetÂ�est scent of all .€.€. the efÂ�fortÂ�less, empty, edÂ�dyÂ�less wind of the Â�desert.”55 After the Arab venÂ�ture, LawÂ�rence Â�joined the Tank Corps to esÂ�cape reÂ�nown. While there he was utÂ�terly reÂ�pelled by the men’s raw, lechÂ�erÂ�ous sexÂ�uÂ�alÂ�ity, the “anÂ�iÂ�mal reek here which keeps me eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 90 awake at night with the horÂ�ror that manÂ�kind Â�should be like it.” But what about the BedÂ�ouÂ�ins? He temÂ�pered his judgÂ�ment if only beÂ�cause he could enÂ�visÂ�age the lean bodÂ�ies of his two boy serÂ�vants, FarÂ�raj and Daud, copÂ�uÂ�latÂ�ing pasÂ�sionÂ�ately yet playÂ�fully in clean white sand. LawÂ�rence paid FarÂ�raj and Daud a comÂ�pliÂ�ment that he never paid anyÂ�one else. They were, he said, “two sunÂ�lit beÂ�ings, on whom the Â�shadow of the world had not yet falÂ�len—the most galÂ�lant, the most enÂ�viÂ�able, I knew.”56 LawÂ�rence Â�hardly loved huÂ�manÂ�kind. He would not have been Â�shocked by the NietzsÂ�chean idea of elimÂ�iÂ�natÂ�ing orÂ�diÂ�nary, unÂ� clean, birthÂ�ing human beÂ�ings: “What is Â�wanted is a new masÂ�ter speÂ�cies—birth conÂ�trol for us, to end the human race in fifty years—and then a clear field for some Â�cleaner mamÂ�mal.”57 LawÂ�rence liked the Arabs for their cleanÂ�ness and adÂ�mired them for their galÂ�lantry, genÂ�eÂ�rosÂ�ity, and tolÂ�erÂ�ance for pain. He Â�wanted to be one of them, yet he could write that “for an EnÂ�glishÂ�man to put himÂ�self at the disÂ�poÂ�sal of a red race is to sell himÂ�self to a brute.”58 Why, then, deÂ�vote himÂ�self to the Arab cause? The anÂ�swer would seem to lie in his idealÂ�ism, his love of honor and chivÂ�alry, his ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity, all of which inÂ�clined him toÂ�ward alÂ�lyÂ�ing himÂ�self with the weak. Even as a schoolÂ�boy, he was drawn to Le Morte Â�d’Arthur and the meÂ�diÂ�eval cruÂ�sades, to galÂ�lant heÂ�roes— RichÂ�ard Coeur de Lion and SalÂ�aÂ�din—who Â�fought on opÂ�poÂ�site sides. UnÂ�like traÂ�diÂ�tional roÂ�mances, howÂ�ever, Â�Lawrence’s life ended in total disÂ�ilÂ�luÂ�sionÂ�ment. If it ended in death, it would still earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 91 have falÂ�len under the ruÂ�bric “roÂ�manÂ�tic,” but total disÂ�ilÂ�luÂ�sionÂ�ment made Â�Lawrence’s life modÂ�ern. Did only exÂ�cepÂ�tional inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als find solÂ�ace and virÂ�tue in barÂ�renÂ�ness? Did these inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als inÂ�fluÂ�ence soÂ�ciÂ�ety at large in any way? Was the inÂ�fluÂ�ence the other way Â�around? Or was it muÂ�tual? In any case, the dry interÂ�iÂ�ors of North AmerÂ�ica and AusÂ�traÂ�lia someÂ�how Â�gained high reÂ�gard—an alÂ�most Â�mythic Â�status—in the nineÂ�teenth and the first half of the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tuÂ�ries. FronÂ�tier and outÂ�back have been Â�turned into naÂ�tional symÂ�bols of hardy manÂ�hood and inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�alÂ�ism in AmerÂ�ica and into hardy manÂ�hood and camÂ�aÂ�radÂ�eÂ�rie in AusÂ�traÂ�lia. EiÂ�ther way, a clean and genÂ�uÂ�ine way of life Â�emerged that Â�contrasted Â�sharply with the comÂ�muÂ�nal stickiÂ�ness and unÂ�asÂ�simÂ�iÂ�lated alien ways of the Â�coastal citÂ�ies. In both naÂ�tions the love of the interÂ�ior waxed with misÂ�ogÂ�yny, a disÂ�taste for the “softÂ�ness” of culÂ�ture, comÂ�merÂ�cialÂ�ism, and, more genÂ�erÂ�ally, manÂ�kind in its swarmÂ�ing numÂ�bers.59 earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 95 Ice Few Â�deserts are Â�wholly barÂ�ren. By Â�contrast, the great ice floes and inÂ�land plaÂ�teaus are imÂ�plaÂ�cably hosÂ�tile to human life. They are the great empty Â�spaces. Why would anyÂ�one want to go there? HisÂ�toÂ�ries of polar exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion and biogÂ�raÂ�phies of exÂ�plorÂ�ers show how mixed the moÂ�tives can be. BeÂ�fore the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, the chief drivÂ�ing force apÂ�pears to have been ecoÂ�nomic. ExÂ�plorÂ�ers Â�wanted to find a way to the land of the Â�spices over the ceilÂ�ing of the world. The Â�long-held noÂ�tion that there must be an open pasÂ�sage in the reÂ�mote north to corÂ�reÂ�spond with the one in the reÂ�mote south (the Â�Strait of MaÂ�gelÂ�lan) made such reÂ�peated atÂ�tempts seem reaÂ�sonÂ�able. By the end of the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, howÂ�ever, the idea had to be given up. Even if there were such a NorthÂ�west PasÂ�sage, it could not have any comÂ�merÂ�cial value.60 From then on, the most freÂ�quently proÂ�claimed reaÂ�son for trips to GreenÂ�land, the ArcÂ�tic, and AntÂ�arcÂ�tica was sciÂ�ence. GeogÂ�raÂ�phy must be Â�served. So long as there were unÂ�reÂ�corded Â�places, sciÂ�enÂ� tists were exÂ�pected to risk their lives exÂ�plorÂ�ing and reÂ�cordÂ�ing them. The ecoÂ�nomic reaÂ�son jusÂ�tifies itÂ�self. Even so, one might wonÂ�der why so much efÂ�fort was exÂ�pended to acÂ�quire someÂ�thing nonÂ�esÂ�senÂ�tial, such as the Â�spices of India. As for reaÂ�sons such as pride, vainÂ�glory, paÂ�triÂ�otÂ�ism, we acÂ�cept them only beÂ�cause we are eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 96 part of WestÂ�ern civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion. To someÂ�one of anÂ�other civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion, polar adÂ�venÂ�tures could seem pure madÂ�ness. PowÂ�erÂ�ful Â�forces must be at work to make peoÂ�ple beÂ�have so reckÂ�lessly. PowÂ�erÂ�ful, yes, but “power” in what sense? We can underÂ�stand it if the power in quesÂ�tion is milÂ�iÂ�tary, poÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal, or ecoÂ�nomic, but can it be just an aesÂ�thetic idea? It apÂ�parÂ�ently can, proÂ�vided the idea is in tune with the preÂ�vailÂ�ing ZeitÂ�geist. In the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, one such idea is the subÂ�lime, arÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lated by EdÂ�mund Burke in 1757, but with roots in clasÂ�siÂ�cal anÂ�tiqÂ�uity. And what is the subÂ�lime? It has someÂ�thing in comÂ�mon with the beauÂ�tiÂ�ful, but it is not order and harÂ�mony, and it does not necÂ�esÂ�sarÂ�ily give pleasÂ�ure. InÂ�deed, it can inÂ�voke the opÂ�poÂ�site senÂ�saÂ�tion of being overÂ�whelmed by the huge, the Â�chaotic, and even the ugly, makÂ�ing one feel ecÂ�static to the point of pain, inÂ�tensely alive and yet yearn for death. This state of being is Â�tailed by two othÂ�ers, RoÂ�manÂ�tic and Â�Gothic, the one risÂ�ing to promÂ�iÂ�nence in the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, the other someÂ�what later. Tales of polar exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tions are like Â�Gothic roÂ�mances in that they can end in madÂ�ness and canÂ�niÂ�balÂ�ism.61 Of all the polar exÂ�plorÂ�ers, the NorÂ�weÂ�gian FridtÂ�jof NanÂ�sen (1861–1930) and the Â�American RichÂ�ard E. Byrd (1888–1957) are the most introÂ�specÂ�tive and philÂ�oÂ�sophÂ�iÂ�cal. They have left beÂ�hind not only sciÂ�enÂ�tific obÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�tions and Â�records of great adÂ�venÂ�ture and superÂ�huÂ�man enÂ�duÂ�rance but also reÂ�flecÂ�tions on naÂ�ture, the cosÂ�mos, and the meanÂ�ing of life. Both exÂ�plorÂ�ers apÂ�pear to beÂ�lieve earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 97 that life is more Â�likely to yield its deepÂ�est meanÂ�ing when one is surÂ�rounded by ice than by books. NanÂ�sen was an acÂ�comÂ�plished maÂ�rine biolÂ�oÂ�gist, dipÂ�loÂ�mat, and huÂ�manÂ�iÂ�tarÂ�ian. His claim to enÂ�durÂ�ing fame rests, howÂ�ever, on his achieveÂ�ment as an exÂ�plorer. Two exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�tions were esÂ�peÂ�cially notÂ�able. In the first, underÂ�taken in 1888 with five comÂ�panÂ�ions, he sucÂ�cessÂ�fully Â�crossed the ice plaÂ�teau of GreenÂ�land. In the secÂ�ond, far more amÂ�biÂ�tious, he atÂ�tempted to reach the North Pole by driftÂ�ing Â�across the polar basin in his ship the Fram. When NanÂ�sen reÂ�alÂ�ized that the ice floes were not going to carry Fram all the way to the Pole, he abanÂ�doned the ship (March 14, 1895), and with only one comÂ�panÂ�ion, F. H. JoÂ�hanÂ�sen, Â�sought to walk to their desÂ�tiÂ�naÂ�tion. They Â�reached latÂ�iÂ�tude 86° 14´ North, which was then the northÂ�ernÂ�most point atÂ�tained by huÂ�mans, but had to give up going farÂ�ther beÂ�cause of the Â�jagged, imÂ�passÂ� able conÂ�diÂ�tion of the ice. Their trip back to civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion was a saga in itÂ�self, stuntÂ�like in its boldÂ�ness: they Â�walked south Â�across the shiftÂ�ing ice, padÂ�dled in kayÂ�aks over open Â�stretches of water, and Â�reached Franz Josef Land, where they winÂ�tered (1895–96) and were evenÂ�tuÂ�ally Â�picked up by memÂ�bers of a BritÂ�ish team.62 DeÂ�spite his failÂ�ure to reach the North Pole, NanÂ�sen won interÂ� naÂ�tional acÂ�claim. The exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�tion was Â�counted a sucÂ�cess beÂ�cause no memÂ�ber of his team was lost (the Fram reÂ�turned Â�safely under the leadÂ�erÂ�ship of Otto SverÂ�drup) and beÂ�cause the venÂ�ture eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 98 obÂ�tained voÂ�luÂ�miÂ�nous sciÂ�enÂ�tific data on all asÂ�pects of ArcÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy and oceanÂ�ogÂ�raÂ�phy, inÂ�cludÂ�ing the fact that a thick ice carÂ�aÂ�pace covÂ�ered the polar basin. NanÂ�sen had a talÂ�ent for sciÂ�ence and could have led a reÂ�wardÂ�ing sciÂ�enÂ�tific caÂ�reer. He must have wonÂ�dered, Â�though, Â�whether sciÂ�ence was the real drive beÂ�hind his exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�tions. ConÂ�sider his crossÂ�ing of Â�Greenland’s ice plaÂ�teau on skis. JourÂ�nalÂ�ists Â�tended to see it as a darÂ�ing feat or even as a sport beÂ�cause of his use of skis. NanÂ�sen preÂ�ferred to jusÂ�tify the exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�tion by its reÂ�sults, which were a conÂ�triÂ�buÂ�tion to sciÂ�ence. He had some doubt, howÂ�ever, as a Â�couple of Â�dreams inÂ�diÂ�cate. While he was driftÂ�ing on an ice floe off the coast of GreenÂ�land in 1888, “he Â�dreamed that he had reÂ�turned home after crossÂ�ing the inÂ�land ice, but he was Â�ashamed beÂ�cause he could tell nothÂ�ing of what they had seen on the way Â�across.” Again, on JanÂ�uÂ�ary 18, 1894, when the Fram was driftÂ�ing toÂ�ward the North Pole, he Â�dreamed that he had reÂ�turned to NorÂ�way after sucÂ�cessÂ� fully comÂ�pletÂ�ing his trip, only to reÂ�alÂ�ize in the same dream that he “had neÂ�glected to take exact obÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�tions, so that when peoÂ�ple asked where he had been, he could not anÂ�swer.”63 A Â�spirit that pines for exÂ�treme adÂ�venÂ�ture canÂ�not have much feelÂ�ing for home, so one might think. Yet, the two senÂ�tiÂ�ments are Â�linked. From one point of view, home is the necÂ�esÂ�sary seÂ�cure base and point of deÂ�parÂ�ture for the adÂ�venÂ�turer; from anÂ�other, venÂ�turÂ�ing into the unÂ�known tends to exÂ�agÂ�gerÂ�ate the goodÂ�ness of home. In any case, the senÂ�tiÂ�ment for home is surÂ�prisÂ�ingly earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 99 Â� strong in Â�Nansen’s writÂ�ings. They might even be conÂ�sidÂ�ered mawÂ�kish by comÂ�parÂ�iÂ�son with the Â�hard-edged prose used to deÂ�scribe the exÂ�traorÂ�diÂ�nary hardÂ�ships. For the last time I left my home and went alone down the garÂ�den to the beach, where the Â�Fram’s litÂ�tle peÂ�troÂ�leum Â�launch pitÂ�iÂ�lessly Â�awaited me. BeÂ�hind me lay all I held dear in life. And what hapÂ�pens beÂ�fore me? How many years would pass ere I Â�should see it all again? What would I not have given at that moÂ�ment to be able to turn back; but up at the winÂ�dow litÂ�tle Liv was sitÂ�ting clapÂ�ping her hand.64 HiÂ�berÂ�natÂ�ing with JoÂ�hanÂ�sen in their primÂ�iÂ�tive hut on Franz Josef Land, NanÂ�sen Â�thought of his wife and daughÂ�ter at home. He wrote in his diary (DeÂ�cemÂ�ber 19, 1895): There she sits in the Â�winter’s eveÂ�ning, sewÂ�ing by lampÂ�light. Â�Beside her Â�stands a young girl with blue eyes and Â�golden hair playÂ�ing with a doll. She looks tenÂ�derly at the child and Â�strokes her hair. Her eyes grow moist, and heavy tears fall on her sewÂ�ing. .€.€. Here Â�beside me lies JoÂ�hanÂ�sen Â�asleep. He is smilÂ�ing in his sleep. Poor boy, I exÂ�pect he is at home spendÂ�ing ChristÂ�mas with those he loves.65 Camp is a Â�home-away-from-home, which can seem all the more homeÂ�like in the sharp Â�contrast it ofÂ�fers Â�between, inÂ�side, faÂ�milÂ�iarÂ�ity and comÂ�fort and, outÂ�side, the inÂ�difÂ�ferÂ�ence or hosÂ�tilÂ�ity eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 100 of snow and ice. Of his doÂ�mesÂ�tic life on top of GreenÂ�land, NanÂ�sen wrote: HowÂ�ever hard the day had been, howÂ�ever exÂ�hausted we were, and howÂ�ever Â�deadly the cold, all was forÂ�gotÂ�ten as we sat Â�around our Â�cooker, gazÂ�ing at the faint rays of light which shone from the lamp, and waitÂ�ing paÂ�tiently for our supÂ�per. InÂ�deed I do not know how many hours in my life on which I look back with Â�greater pleasÂ�ure than these. And when the soup, or stew, or whatÂ� ever the prepÂ�arÂ�aÂ�tion might be, was Â�cooked, when the raÂ�tions were Â�served round, and the litÂ�tle Â�candle-stump Â�lighted that we might see to eat, then rose our hapÂ�piÂ�ness to the zeÂ�nith, and I am sure all Â�agreed with me that life was more than worth livÂ�ing.66 ErÂ�nest ShackÂ�leÂ�ton (1874–1922), the BritÂ�ish exÂ�plorer of AntÂ�arcÂ�tica, Â�shared Â�Nansen’s senÂ�tiÂ�ment for home, Â�though to those he left beÂ�hind it could seem bafÂ�fling, if not a litÂ�tle hypoÂ�critÂ�iÂ�cal. The Â�launch that Â�awaited “pitÂ�iÂ�lessly” to take NanÂ�sen to his ship was there in anÂ�swer to his own deÂ�sire and will: no exÂ�terÂ�nal circumÂ�stance dicÂ�tated his deÂ�parÂ�ture. ShackÂ�leÂ�ton would seem to have laÂ�bored under the same amÂ�bivÂ�aÂ�lence or false conÂ�sciousÂ�ness. When he left in 1907 for his AntÂ�arcÂ�tic exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion, he wrote to his wife, exÂ�pressÂ�ing his reÂ�gret as Â�though he had no Â�choice. My darÂ�ling wife, your dear brave face is beÂ�fore me now and I can see you just as you stand on the wharf and are smilÂ�ing at earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 101 me my heart was too full to speak and I felt that I Â�wanted just to come Â�ashore and clasp you in my arms and love and care for you.67 Like NanÂ�sen, ShackÂ�leÂ�ton deÂ�velÂ�oped a Â�strong atÂ�tachÂ�ment to his temÂ�poÂ�rary shelÂ�ter. On OcÂ�toÂ�ber 29, 1908, he wrote: As we left the hut where we had spent so many Â�months in comÂ�fort, we had a feelÂ�ing of real reÂ�gret. .€.€. It was dark inÂ�side, the acetÂ�yÂ�lene was feeÂ�ble in comÂ�parÂ�iÂ�son with the sun outÂ�side, and it was small comÂ�pared to an orÂ�diÂ�nary dwellÂ�ing, yet we were sad at leavÂ�ing it. Last night as we were sitÂ�ting at dinÂ�ner the eveÂ�ning sun enÂ�tered Â�through the venÂ�tiÂ�laÂ�tor and a cirÂ�cle of light shone on the picÂ�ture of the Queen.68 NanÂ�sen reÂ�sponded Â�keenly to Â�nature’s splenÂ�dors. Of the auÂ�rora borÂ�ealis he wrote: “HowÂ�ever often we see this weird play of light, we never tire of gazÂ�ing at it; it seems to cast a spell over both sight and sense till it is imÂ�posÂ�sible to tear one’s self away.” North myÂ�tholÂ�ogy enÂ�hanced the spell. “Is it the Â�fire-giant Surt himÂ�self, strikÂ�ing his might[y] silÂ�ver harp, so that the Â�strings tremÂ�ble and sparÂ�kle in the glow of the Â�flames of MusÂ�pellÂ�sheim?” But perÂ�haps even Â�stronger evÂ�iÂ�dence of Â�Nansen’s roÂ�manÂ�tic temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ment and love of naÂ�ture ocÂ�curs in those pasÂ�sages in which he does not try to deÂ�scribe a landÂ�scape but is simÂ�ply reÂ�cordÂ�ing an event. CrossÂ�ing the ice plaÂ�teau of GreenÂ�land by sail and eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 102 under moonÂ�light is an exÂ�amÂ�ple. NanÂ�sen noted: “It was a cuÂ�riÂ�ous sight for me to see the two vesÂ�sels comÂ�ing rushÂ�ing along beÂ�hind me, with their Â�square Â�Viking-like sails showÂ�ing dark Â�against the white snowÂ�field and the big round disc of the moon beÂ�hind.”69 NanÂ�sen at one time Â�called himÂ�self an atheÂ�ist; later an agÂ�nosÂ� tic. He did not beÂ�lieve in the exÂ�isÂ�tence of God, nor in afterÂ�life. If life had a purÂ�pose, it was to use one’s faÂ�culÂ�ties to benÂ�eÂ�fit fuÂ�ture genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tions. Not conÂ�tent with just holdÂ�ing a noble senÂ�tiÂ�ment, he reÂ�peatÂ�edly Â�sought to transÂ�late it into efÂ�fecÂ�tive huÂ�manÂ�iÂ�tarÂ� ian acÂ�tion. OutÂ�wardly sucÂ�cessÂ�ful in every way, he nevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less sufÂ�fered from deÂ�presÂ�sion in those peÂ�riÂ�ods when he was not enÂ�gaged with strenÂ�uÂ�ous polar exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�tion. Even when he was enÂ�gaged and saw the Â�beauty in the glitÂ�terÂ�ing ice field, he also saw death. Ice and death were couÂ�pled in his mind. The first senÂ�tence of his Â�two-volume work FarÂ�thest North reads: “UnÂ�seen and unÂ�trodÂ�den under their spotÂ�less manÂ�tle of ice the rigid polar reÂ�gions slept the proÂ�found sleep of death from the earÂ�liÂ�est dawn of time.” Time itÂ�self Â�seemed froÂ�zen. He goes on: Years come and go unÂ�noÂ�ticed. In this siÂ�lent naÂ�ture no Â�events ever hapÂ�pen. There is nothÂ�ing in view save the twinkÂ�ling stars, imÂ�meaÂ�surÂ�ably far away in the freezÂ�ing night, and the flickÂ�erÂ�ing sheen of the auÂ�rora borÂ�ealis. I can just disÂ�cern close by the vague outÂ�line of the Fram, dimly standÂ�ing out in the desÂ�oÂ�late gloom. Like an inÂ�finÂ�iÂ�tesÂ�iÂ�mal speck, the vesÂ�sel seems lost Â�amidst the boundÂ�less exÂ�panse of this realm of death.70 earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 103 On Franz Josef Land where NanÂ�sen winÂ�tered in boreÂ�dom and disÂ�comÂ�fort, his morÂ�bid Â�thoughts proÂ�duced imÂ�ages of whiteÂ�ness, coldÂ�ness, marÂ�ble, and siÂ�lence. His jourÂ�nal entry for DeÂ�cemÂ�ber 1, 1895, reads: A weird Â�beauty, withÂ�out feelÂ�ing, as Â�though of a dead Â�planet, built of shinÂ�ing white marÂ�ble. Just so must the mounÂ�tains stand there, froÂ�zen and icy cold; just so must the lakes lie conÂ�gealed beÂ�neath their snow covÂ�erÂ�ing; and now as ever the moon sails siÂ�lently and Â�slowly on her endÂ�less Â�course Â�through lifeÂ�less space. And everyÂ�thing so still, so awÂ�fully still, with the siÂ�lence that shall one day reign when the earth again beÂ�comes desÂ�oÂ�late and empty.71 The year RichÂ�ard Byrd was born was the year FridtÂ�jof NanÂ�sen Â�sailed Â�across the inÂ�land ice of GreenÂ�land. The Â�American and the NorÂ�weÂ�gian are thus a genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion apart: the one rose to be an adÂ�miÂ�ral, the other an amÂ�basÂ�saÂ�dor and a statesÂ�man. Both were sucÂ�cessÂ�ful men of the world as well as polar exÂ�plorÂ�ers. What disÂ�tinÂ�guished them from early exÂ�plorÂ�ers was the modÂ�ern deÂ�sire to make their voyÂ�ages into the geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal unÂ�known also voyÂ�ages of Â�self-discovery. Both wrote books. Â�Nansen’s are dated. Â�Byrd’s book Alone is still in print. His acÂ�count of the Â�four-and-ahalf Â�months he spent alone (in 1934) on the Ross Ice Shelf of AntÂ�arcÂ�tica has the timeÂ�lessÂ�ness of litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture. Why was he there? What were the reaÂ�sons for winÂ�terÂ�ing at latÂ�iÂ�tude 80° 08´ South? He had good sciÂ�enÂ�tific reaÂ�sons for the misÂ�sion, but the one that eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 104 matÂ�tered to him was perÂ�sonal. He Â�wanted “to be by himÂ�self for a while and to taste peace and quiet and solÂ�iÂ�tude to find out how good they Â�really are.”72 PhysÂ�iÂ�cal isoÂ�laÂ�tion at the AdÂ�vanced Base was abÂ�soÂ�lute: “In whatÂ�ever diÂ�recÂ�tion I Â�looked, north, east, south, or west, the vista was the same, a Â�spread of ice fanÂ�ning to meet the hoÂ�riÂ�zon. The shack itÂ�self faced west for no parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar reaÂ�son.” HarÂ�rowÂ�ing exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence ocÂ�curred. But the worst was an atÂ�tack of deÂ�spair that folÂ�lowed a peÂ�riod of sickÂ�ness. Â�Self-doubt asÂ�sailed him. “I had gone there lookÂ�ing for peace and enÂ�lightÂ�enÂ�ment, .€.€. [and] I had also gone armed with the jusÂ�tifiÂ�caÂ�tion of a sciÂ�enÂ�tific misÂ�sion. Now I saw both for what they Â�really were: the first as a deÂ�luÂ�sion, the secÂ�ond as a Â�dead-end Â�street.”73 His Â�thoughts Â�drifted to his famÂ�ily, and he was led to conÂ�clude that, At the end only two Â�things Â�really matÂ�ter to a man, reÂ�gardÂ�less of who he is; and they are the afÂ�fecÂ�tion and underÂ�standÂ�ing of his famÂ�ily. AnyÂ�thing and everyÂ�thing else he Â�creates are inÂ�subÂ�stanÂ� tial; they are ships given over to the mercy of the winds and tides of prejÂ�uÂ�dice. But the famÂ�ily is an everÂ�lastÂ�ing anÂ�chorÂ�age, a quiet harÂ�bor where a man’s ship can be left to swing to the moorÂ�ings of pride and loyÂ�alty.74 And so Byrd, like NanÂ�sen and ShackÂ�leÂ�ton, Â�turned to famÂ�ily and home for conÂ�soÂ�laÂ�tion. FamÂ�ily, home, comÂ�muÂ�nity—these conÂ�crete, Â�down-to-earth exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ences of goodÂ�ness—are the anÂ�chorÂ�age, the Â�source of stabilÂ�ity, for the more abÂ�stract, earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 105 Â� mind-directed, Â�ethereal-aesthetic satisÂ�facÂ�tions of roÂ�manÂ�tic Â�quests. Home Â�stands for life. RoÂ�manÂ�tic quest? WhatÂ�ever it is, it is not rumÂ�pled bedÂ�sheets or the aroma of Â�freshly baked bread. Can it be—can part of it be—the apÂ�peal of death? Â�Nansen’s Â�thoughts in the ArcÂ�tic were drawn to death, not in moÂ�ments of deÂ�spair or danÂ�ger but Â�rather in moÂ�ments when he could pause and conÂ�front the vast sheet of ice. Byrd was more sanÂ�guine, Â�though even his prose can carry a fuÂ�neÂ�real tone, as, for exÂ�amÂ�ple, when he deÂ�scribed iceÂ�bergs Â�enveloped in fog as “stricken Â�fleets of ice, Â�bigger by far than all the naÂ�vies in the world, [wanÂ�derÂ�ing] hopeÂ�lessly Â�through a smokÂ�ing gloom.” On anÂ�other ocÂ�caÂ�sion, he comÂ�mented on the disÂ�apÂ�pearÂ�ance of the sun at AdÂ�vance Base as folÂ�lows: “Even at midÂ�day the sun is only sevÂ�eral times its diÂ�amÂ�eÂ�ters above the hoÂ�riÂ�zon. It is cold and dull. At its brightÂ�est it Â�scarcely gives light Â�enough to throw a Â�shadow. A fuÂ�neÂ�real gloom hangs in the twiÂ�light sky. This is the peÂ�riod Â�between life and death. This is the way the world will look to the last man when it dies.” 75 For NanÂ�sen, polar Â�beauty did not necÂ�esÂ�sarÂ�ily conÂ�sole; for Byrd, by Â�contrast, it was the porÂ�tal to oneÂ�ness with the cosÂ�mos. ReÂ�peatÂ�edly in Â�Byrd’s diary, the mesÂ�sage of peace and harÂ�mony came Â�through. The day was dying, the night being born—but with great peace. Here were the imÂ�ponÂ�derÂ�able proÂ�cesses and Â�forces of the cosÂ�mos, eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 106 harÂ�moÂ�niÂ�ous and soundÂ�less. HarÂ�mony, that was it! That was what came out of the siÂ�lence—a genÂ�tle Â�rhythm, the Â�strain of a perÂ�fect Â�rhythm, moÂ�menÂ�tarÂ�ily to be myÂ�self a part of it. In that inÂ�stant I could feel no doubt of man’s oneÂ�ness with the uniÂ�verse.76 A draÂ�matic demÂ�onÂ�straÂ�tion of this feelÂ�ing of oneÂ�ness ocÂ�curred at midÂ�night on May 11. Byrd was playÂ�ing a reÂ�cordÂ�ing of Â�Beethoven’s Fifth SymÂ�phony. The night was calm and clear. I left the door to my shack open and also my trapÂ�door. I stood there in the darkÂ�ness to look Â�around at some of my faÂ�vorÂ�ite conÂ�stelÂ�laÂ�tions. PresÂ�ently I began to have the ilÂ�luÂ�sion that what I was seeÂ�ing was also what I was hearÂ�ing, so perÂ�fectly did the music seem to blend with what was hapÂ�penÂ�ing in the sky. As the notes Â�swelled, the dull auÂ�rora on the hoÂ�riÂ�zon Â�pulsed and quickÂ�ened and Â�draped itÂ�self into Â�arches and fanÂ�ning beams which Â�reached Â�across the sky until at my zeÂ�nith the disÂ�play atÂ�tained its cresÂ�cendo. The music and the night beÂ�came one; and I told myÂ�self that all Â�beauty was akin and Â�sprang from the same subÂ�stance. I reÂ�called a galÂ�lant, unÂ� selfÂ�ish act that was of the same esÂ�sence as the music and the auÂ�rora.77 & I have drawn atÂ�tenÂ�tion to two exÂ�treme enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments—Â�desert and ice. In WestÂ�ern man’s exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence, what are their difÂ�ferÂ�ences earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s 107 and what have they in comÂ�mon? A major difÂ�ferÂ�ence is that the Â�desert has oases that lure peoÂ�ple in. The ice plaÂ�teau has no such lure. The one is rich in hisÂ�tory, the other not. From the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury onÂ�ward, scholÂ�ars have shown an interÂ�est in Egypt and the Near East for their ruins, burÂ�ied arÂ�tiÂ�facts, and reÂ�corded hisÂ�tory. The ice plaÂ�teaus have, for the most part, atÂ�tracted only sciÂ�enÂ�tists and them only in the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury. In temÂ�perÂ�aÂ� ment, those who venÂ�ture into the Â�desert seem to difÂ�fer from those who venÂ�ture into the ice field, the forÂ�mer being more Â�self-sufficient and Â�self-absorbed than the latÂ�ter. ExÂ�plorÂ�ers such as Â�Doughty, LawÂ�rence, and TheÂ�siÂ�ger disÂ�owned not only their ferÂ�tile naÂ�tive land but also its peoÂ�ple and culÂ�ture. For them, home was not a fount of senÂ�tiÂ�ment; paÂ�triÂ�otÂ�ism and the flag were not a Â�source of inÂ�spiÂ�raÂ�tion. In Â�contrast, polar exÂ�plorÂ�ers venÂ�tured forth as Â�close-knit teams with the Â�strong moral, if not alÂ�ways fiÂ�nanÂ�cial, supÂ�port of their home base. True, Byrd was alone, but only in the physÂ�iÂ�cal sense, for throughÂ�out his soÂ�journ at AdÂ�vance Base, he mainÂ�tained radio conÂ�tact with his team at LitÂ�tle AmerÂ�ica. Â�Lastly, note again the polar Â�explorers’ senÂ�tiÂ�menÂ�tal atÂ�tachÂ�ment to home. For all their deÂ�sire to be at the poles, they reÂ�mained proud of their naÂ�tion and culÂ�ture. Why this difÂ�ferÂ�ence Â�between exÂ�plorÂ�ers of Â�desert and exÂ�plorÂ�ers of ice? May it not be that the Â�desert, howÂ�ever bleak, has oases and water holes, which can supÂ�port a way of life—one of moveÂ�ment and miÂ�graÂ�tion—that is freer than any known at home, burÂ�dened by maÂ�teÂ�rial and soÂ�cial conÂ�straints? The ice sheet is far less eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s 108 acÂ�comÂ�moÂ�datÂ�ing. For all its visÂ�ual alÂ�lure, it is imÂ�plaÂ�cably hosÂ�tile to any sort of perÂ�maÂ�nent human habÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion. Â�Face-to-face with that hosÂ�tilÂ�ity makes the ice Â�sheet’s opÂ�poÂ�site—the faÂ�milÂ�iar home—deÂ�luÂ�sorÂ�ily atÂ�tracÂ�tive. Â�Desert and ice are barÂ�ren, a fact that is often noted. Less often noted are two other Â�shared feaÂ�tures. One is the sharpÂ�ness of the culÂ�ture/naÂ�ture bounÂ�dary. In the Â�desert, green oases yield to brown sand with Â�barely a tranÂ�siÂ�tion. On the ice sheet, the bounÂ�dary is even Â�sharper, for inÂ�side the tent is cozy home, imÂ�meÂ�diÂ�ately outÂ� side it is a world of ice that threatÂ�ens death. The secÂ�ond trait in comÂ�mon is that both Â�desert and ice Â�satisfy a Â�thirst for spirÂ�iÂ�tual elÂ�eÂ�vaÂ�tion. We know that monks of the secÂ�ond and third cenÂ�tuÂ�ries went to the Â�desert for that purÂ�pose, but did peoÂ�ple go to the froÂ�zen world for a simÂ�iÂ�lar purÂ�pose? A few monks in the Â�eighth cenÂ�tury apÂ�parÂ�ently did, and they Â�reached as far north as IceÂ�land. In the modÂ�ern secÂ�uÂ�lar age, I have noted that NanÂ�sen and Byrd had spirÂ�iÂ�tual/aesÂ�thetic asÂ�piÂ�raÂ�tions. Such asÂ�piÂ�raÂ�tions reÂ�quire a loss of the sense of self, which the hosÂ�tile imÂ�menÂ�sities of Â�desert and ice enÂ�courÂ�age. ExÂ�plorÂ�ers Â�undergo great hardÂ�ship. Why subÂ�mit to it? In pubÂ�lic they give ecoÂ�nomic or sciÂ�enÂ�tific reaÂ�sons Â�rather than one that can seem quite irÂ�raÂ�tional, which is that, for all their viÂ�talÂ�ity, the exÂ�plorÂ�ers are half in love with death. As the soughÂ�ing wind fades to total siÂ�lence, do the Â�bone-tired exÂ�plorÂ�ers hear the dying notes of the LiebÂ�stod? interÂ�lude: wholeÂ�some but orÂ�diÂ�nary In GenÂ�eÂ�sis, God, after sepÂ�arÂ�atÂ�ing light from darkÂ�ness, gathÂ�ered the waÂ�ters toÂ�gether into one place and Â�created dry land. On the dry land, God “planted a garÂ�den eastÂ�ward in Eden.” He then acted as the DiÂ�vine GarÂ�dener. “Out of the Â�ground” he made “to grow every tree that is pleasÂ�ant to the sight, and good for food. .€.€. And a river went out of Eden to water the garÂ�den.” He also Â�formed out of the Â�ground every beast of the field. Adam was Â�charged to have doÂ�minÂ�ion over the Â�beasts and to “dress” and “keep” the garÂ�den. There was work for Adam to do, but it was light work. An air of inÂ�forÂ�malÂ�ity is proÂ�jected by havÂ�ing the DiÂ�vine GarÂ�dener walk among his creaÂ�tures “in the cool of the day” (GenÂ�eÂ�sis 3:8). 109 interlude 110 Eden is the archeÂ�type of the wholeÂ�some life—one that may not be very exÂ�citÂ�ing, but it is what peoÂ�ple want. What did the anÂ�cient SuÂ�merÂ�ians want? “Wealth and posÂ�sesÂ�sions, rich harÂ�vests, Â�well-stocked graÂ�narÂ�ies, folds and Â�stalls Â�filled with catÂ�tle large and small, sucÂ�cessÂ�ful huntÂ�ing on the plain and good fishÂ�ing in the sea.”1 The list is sigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cant—inÂ�deed poigÂ�nant—preÂ�cisely beÂ�cause it is so preÂ�dictÂ�able, so orÂ�diÂ�nary. As to the anÂ�cient Â�Greeks, they were good sailÂ�ors, but they much preÂ�ferred farms and orÂ�chards to the “wine-dark” sea, which the Â�Greeks Â�called a stepÂ�mother. What were the reÂ�wards of life on a farm? HeÂ�siod in Works and Days (seventh cenÂ�tury, BCE) put it as inÂ�tiÂ�macy with land and soil, the seaÂ�sonal cyÂ�cles, conÂ�tiÂ�nuÂ�ity and stabilÂ�ity, the camÂ�aÂ�radÂ�eÂ�rie of sowÂ�ing and harÂ�vestÂ�ing toÂ�gether, and, at a more conÂ�crete level, such senÂ�suÂ�ous gifts of naÂ�ture as chirpÂ�ing crickÂ�ets, sumÂ�mer heat, fresh Â�goat’s milk, cool Â�breezes, and tree shade, in which one may rest after a good meal. LitÂ�tle has Â�changed since. Thus Â�Shakespeare’s noÂ�tion of the good life or what he Â�called “the norms of life” were “quiet days, fair issue, and long life” (The TemÂ�pest). Juno reÂ�itÂ�erÂ�ated them as “Honor, Â�riches, marÂ�riage blessÂ�ing / Long conÂ�tinÂ�uÂ�ance and inÂ�creasÂ�ing.”2 Were there no Â�rebels—roÂ�manÂ�tic temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ments who Â�wanted more? There Â�surely were, but their exÂ�isÂ�tence beÂ�came evÂ�iÂ�dent only in the modÂ�ern peÂ�riod. I offer two rebels, Â� both drawn from litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture, and I draw from litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture beÂ�cause it is there that the pasÂ�sion is given the most vivid exÂ�presÂ�sion. In Jean Â�Anouilh’s interlude 111 play AntiÂ�gone (1944), Creon adÂ�vises his reÂ�belÂ�lious niece as folÂ�lows: “Life is a child playÂ�ing Â�around your feet, a tool you hold Â�firmly in your grip, a bench you sit on in the eveÂ�ning in the garÂ�den. BeÂ�lieve me, the only poor conÂ�soÂ�laÂ�tion that we have in our old age is to disÂ�cover that what I have said to you is true.” Â�Sounds reaÂ�sonÂ�able, for what else is there other than these solÂ�idly real, enÂ�dearÂ�ing parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lars? Pass them by and chase the wind, and one will end up with—well, the wind. Yet Â�Antigone’s reÂ�sponse to her uncle is one of outÂ�rage: “I spit on your hapÂ�piÂ�ness! I spit on your idea of life.” The secÂ�ond exÂ�amÂ�ple is from ArÂ�nold Â�Wesker’s play Roots (1967). A young woman, BeaÂ�tie, wants to find her roots, and wants her famÂ�ily to help her in her Â�search. But what can she mean by roots? She is not, after all, Â�adrift in faceÂ�less citÂ�ies; she comes from a famÂ�ily of farm laÂ�borÂ�ers who has mainÂ�tained its ties to the farm and its folkÂ�ways. In a quarÂ�rel with her Â�mother, BeaÂ�tie Â�shouts: God in Â�heaven Â�Mother, you live in the counÂ�try but you got no— no—no maÂ�jesty. You spend your time among green Â�fields, you grow flowÂ�ers and you Â�breathe fresh air and you got no maÂ�jesty. Your Â�mind’s clutÂ�tered up with nothÂ�ing and you shut out the world. What kind of a life did you give me? Â� Wesker’s herÂ�oÂ�ine Â�gropes toÂ�ward the idea that havÂ�ing roots is not simÂ�ply a matÂ�ter of stayÂ�ing put and knowÂ�ing one’s linÂ�eÂ�age, interlude 112 but Â�rather a matÂ�ter of exÂ�pandÂ�ing awareÂ�ness. HavÂ�ing roots means being aware of not only what one’s famÂ�ily has done but what huÂ�manÂ�ity has done. To be among green Â�fields and Â�breathe fresh air is Â�enough for cows but is not Â�enough for human beÂ�ings, and cerÂ�tainly is not Â�enough for her. BeaÂ�tie wants someÂ�thing she calls “maÂ�jesty”—a life that beÂ�fits her human Â�status. 3 The City T he city has maÂ�jesty, one that is Â�achieved by disÂ�tancÂ�ing itÂ�self as far as posÂ�sible from bondÂ�age to earth. The city began as an atÂ�tempt to bring the order and maÂ�jesty of Â�heaven down to earth, and it proÂ�ceeded from there by Â�cutting itÂ�self from agÂ�riÂ� culÂ�tuÂ�ral roots, civÂ�ilÂ�izÂ�ing winÂ�ter, turnÂ�ing night into day, and disÂ�ciÂ� plinÂ�ing the senÂ�suÂ�ous human body in the interÂ�est of deÂ�velÂ�opÂ�ing the mind. HuÂ�mans have done all these Â�things such that, in the city, one can exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence the Â�heights and the Â�depths—in a word, the subÂ�lime. BringÂ�ing Â�Heaven Down to Earth HisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cally, the orÂ�iÂ�gin of the city—the city Â�rather than Â�bloated marÂ�ket towns—was Â�closely tied to the rise of priestÂ�craft and 113 the c ity 114 kingÂ�ship, and with it, the rise of large ritÂ�ual cenÂ�ters. These cenÂ�ters were Â�oriented skyÂ�ward, to the sun, moon, stars, and other hierÂ� ophÂ�aÂ�nies of the sky Â�rather than, as in NeoÂ�lithic times, downÂ�ward to the spirÂ�its of the earth. With the ritÂ�ual cenÂ�ter, and later the city, human hoÂ�riÂ�zons exÂ�panded beÂ�yond the local and the fleetÂ�ing to the cosÂ�mos and its orÂ�derly cyÂ�cles. Not only that, Â�priests and kings beÂ�lieved that they could meÂ�diÂ�ate Â�between Â�heaven and earth, imÂ�pose the Â�former’s stabilÂ�ities on the Â�latter’s proÂ�penÂ�sity for chaos. In form, these citÂ�ies were recÂ�tanÂ�guÂ�lar, with the four corÂ�ners Â�oriented to the carÂ�diÂ�nal Â�points, as with Dur SharÂ�ruÂ�kin (721–705 BCE) and BorÂ�sippa (604–561 BCE), or with the four sides Â�oriented to the carÂ�diÂ�nal Â�points, as with the hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal citÂ�ies of China. What does a cosÂ�mic city look like and how does it Â�transcend the limÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tions of biolÂ�ogy and earth? I offer the ChiÂ�nese cosÂ�mic city as an exÂ�amÂ�ple beÂ�cause more is known about it than about the cosÂ�mic city in any other reÂ�gion. PreÂ�served in the Zhou Li (Book of Rites, secÂ�ond cenÂ�tury BCE) is the Â�sketch of an ideal plan. “The capÂ�iÂ�tal city is a recÂ�tanÂ�gle of nine Â�square li. Each side of the wall has three gates. The Altar of AnÂ�cesÂ�tors is to the left [east], and that of Earth, right [west]. Court life is conÂ�ducted in front, and marÂ�ketÂ�ing is done in the rear.”1 The emÂ�peror sits on the Â�throne in the auÂ�diÂ�ence hall at the Â�city’s cenÂ�ter, and the cenÂ�ter is not only a poÂ�siÂ�tion in horÂ�iÂ�zonÂ�tal space but also one conÂ�notÂ�ing Â�height. The emÂ�peror faces south and looks down on the prinÂ�ciÂ�pal Â�north-south avÂ�eÂ�nue (the axis mundi) to the human world. the c ity 115 This was not just a utoÂ�pian dream, for when China was reÂ� united in 589 CE, the Â�founder of the new (Sui) dyÂ�nasty deÂ�cided to build his capÂ�iÂ�tal, Â�Ch’ang-an, in acÂ�corÂ�dance with the anÂ�cient preÂ�scripÂ�tion. The venÂ�ture Â�called for a clean sheet, which meant that hills had to be levÂ�eled, Â�streams diÂ�verted, and vilÂ�lages reÂ�moved—an eraÂ�sure of all that sigÂ�nified the earth and its humÂ�ble forms of life. AstronÂ�oÂ�mers measÂ�ured the Â�shadow of the noon sun on sucÂ�cesÂ�sive days and obÂ�served the North Star by night to arÂ�rive at acÂ�cuÂ�rate alignÂ�ments of the city walls to the four diÂ�recÂ�tions. Each of the city walls had three gates, repÂ�reÂ�sentÂ�ing the three Â�months of the year. The main south gate of the palÂ�ace and adÂ�minÂ�isÂ�traÂ�tive city was Â�called VerÂ�milÂ�ion Bird, a yang symÂ�bol of solar enÂ�ergy. The prinÂ�ciÂ�pal gate along the east wall was Â�called BrightÂ�ness of Â�Spring, the diÂ�recÂ�tion of sunÂ�rise, the place where the new Â�warmth of Â�spring Â�emerged after the darkÂ�ness and cold of winÂ�ter. The prinÂ�ciÂ�pal gate along the south wall was Â�called Red PhoeÂ�nix, the redÂ�ness of sumÂ�mer and the noon sun. The prinÂ�ciÂ�pal gate along the west wall was Â�called White Tiger, the loÂ�calÂ�ity of the setÂ�ting sun and of fallÂ�ing Â�leaves, the auÂ�tumÂ�nal seaÂ�son that sigÂ�nified the apÂ�proach of death. The prinÂ�ciÂ�pal gate along the north wall was Â�called HiÂ�berÂ�natÂ�ing Snake, the place of darkÂ�ness and cold. The emÂ�peror on his Â�throne faced, as noted earÂ�lier, south and downÂ�ward to the world of orÂ�diÂ�nary peoÂ�ple. In an imÂ�peÂ�rial auÂ�diÂ�ence, civil ofÂ�fiÂ�cials enÂ�tered the courtÂ�yard from the east, milÂ�iÂ�tary ofÂ�fiÂ�cials from the west. The emÂ�peror had his back the c ity 116 to the north, which was proÂ�fane space, and it was there that the marÂ�ket Â�should be loÂ�cated.2 What might a vilÂ�lager see upon enÂ�terÂ�ing Â�Ch’ang-an? What would he learn and how might his worldÂ�view be alÂ�tered? I ask beÂ�cause if he were alert and Â�open-minded, his world would open up in funÂ�daÂ�menÂ�tally the same way as an inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual from any preÂ�modÂ�ern peÂ�riod of hisÂ�tory and had tranÂ�siÂ�tioned from counÂ�try to city, from the small scale to the large, and from a life that is rouÂ�tine and reÂ�asÂ�surÂ�ing to one that is comÂ�plex, shiftÂ�ing, and inÂ�tense. For exÂ�amÂ�ple, a Â�traveler enÂ�terÂ�ing Â�Tang-dynasty Â�Ch’ang-an Â�through its main gate would be overÂ�come by the multiÂ�tudes of peoÂ�ple, esÂ�tiÂ�mated to be Â�around one milÂ�lion, but, even more, by the Â�population’s ethÂ�nic diÂ�verÂ�sity. ForeignÂ�ers inÂ�cluded not only the Arabs, PerÂ�sians, and HinÂ�dus who were comÂ�monly found in the South, but also those from the North and West—Turks, UiÂ�ghurs, ToÂ�charÂ�ians, SogÂ�dians, SyrÂ�ians, TarÂ�tars, and TibeÂ�tans. At its peak, no fewer than two thouÂ�sand Â�foreign tradÂ�ing firms did busiÂ�ness Â�within the city walls. Of Â�course, not all foreignÂ�ers came to trade: many were drawn to the Â�city’s culÂ�ture—to the NaÂ�tional AcadÂ�emy, for inÂ�stance, which in the latÂ�ter part of the Â�seventh cenÂ�tury Â�boasted eight thouÂ�sand stuÂ�dents, of whom half were ChiÂ�nese and the other half KoÂ�reÂ�ans, JapÂ�aÂ�nese, TibeÂ�tans, and stuÂ�dents from CenÂ�tral Asia. In other words, the Â�traveler would have found himÂ�self in a cosÂ�moÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tan world.3 the c ity 117 CosÂ�moÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tanÂ�ism, as used here, has a meanÂ�ing that is radÂ�iÂ�cally difÂ�ferÂ�ent from the one I proÂ�posed earÂ�lier, which is an orÂ�dered, geoÂ�metÂ�ric reÂ�alÂ�ity modÂ�eled after the perÂ�ceived order of the cosÂ�mos. Both meanÂ�ings would have been new and mind openÂ�ing for someÂ�one from the counÂ�tryÂ�side. The perÂ�son would enÂ�counÂ�ter, on the one hand, the colÂ�orÂ�ful multiÂ�tudes and, on the other hand, the geoÂ�metÂ�ric and ausÂ�tere urban plan, with its recÂ�tiÂ�linÂ�ear Â�streets and magÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cent buildÂ�ings. In time, the Â�person’s sense of the superÂ� natÂ�uÂ�ral would have Â�changed too, from place to space, from a feelÂ�ing of the nuÂ�miÂ�nous in parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar loÂ�calÂ�ities such as a tree, a well, a parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar corÂ�ner of the Â�street, to a feelÂ�ing of the nuÂ�miÂ�nous in space as deÂ�fined by the carÂ�diÂ�nal Â�points and by the seaÂ�sonal cycle of Â�spring, sumÂ�mer, auÂ�tumn, and winÂ�ter. Â�Cutting AgÂ�riÂ�culÂ�tuÂ�ral Ties The roÂ�manÂ�tic, I have Â�argued, is the urge to reach beÂ�yond the norm, beÂ�yond what is natÂ�uÂ�ral and necÂ�esÂ�sary, and nothÂ�ing is more natÂ�uÂ�ral and necÂ�esÂ�sary to human beÂ�ings than the acÂ�quiÂ�siÂ�tion of food, a form of which is agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture. To the exÂ�tent that the city disÂ�tances itÂ�self from agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, it is roÂ�manÂ�tic, foolÂ�ishly so perÂ�haps, but then roÂ�mance is never senÂ�sible. Below I Â�sketch the hisÂ�tory of the Â�city’s sevÂ�erÂ�ance from agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, a proÂ�cess that Â�barely began in anÂ�cient MesopoÂ�taÂ�mia and China. But then, in those days, citÂ�ies were not Â�thought of as Â�built-up areas of busÂ�tling comÂ�merce; Â�rather they were Â�thought of as cosÂ�moses—the orÂ�dered the c ity 118 toÂ�talÂ�ity of Â�things that, of neÂ�cesÂ�sity, inÂ�cluded farms and vilÂ�lages. SuÂ�merÂ�ian and AkÂ�kaÂ�dian lanÂ�guages did not even disÂ�tinÂ�guish Â�between vilÂ�lage and city: both were Â�called uru in SuÂ�merÂ�ian and alu in AkÂ�kaÂ�dian. And food supÂ�ply was a conÂ�stant worry. For this reaÂ�son, in a typÂ�iÂ�cal SuÂ�merÂ�ian city, next to the Â�built-up core was an enÂ�closed area of farms, catÂ�tle folds, Â�fields, and garÂ�dens.4 The traÂ�diÂ�tional ChiÂ�nese city is surÂ�prisÂ�ingly rural. Â�Ch’ang-an, the Han dyÂ�nasty capÂ�iÂ�tal, is a good exÂ�amÂ�ple. It is subÂ�diÂ�vided into 160 wards or li, which now means “a mile” but once meant “vilÂ�lage” or “hamÂ�let.” The fact that the word li was used sugÂ�gests that Han Â�Ch’ang-an was far from being Â�built-up and that large parts Â�within its walls were open counÂ�try. HunÂ�dreds of years later, Â�Ch’ang-an reÂ�mained the capÂ�iÂ�tal city, this time of the Tang emÂ�pire. Its basic plan beÂ�came even more geoÂ�metÂ�ric. Broad Â�streets, formÂ�ing a recÂ�tiÂ�linÂ�ear grid, must have Â�looked imÂ�presÂ�sive and yet ocÂ�cuÂ�pied only 19 perÂ�cent of the Â�walled comÂ�pound, and as much as a third of the southÂ�ern part of the city was given over to farmÂ�ing and a park. It took time, of Â�course, for peoÂ�ple and busiÂ�nesses to fill up space, but that Â�wasn’t why so much of the city was rural. RecÂ�ogÂ�nizÂ�ing Â�Ch’ang-an’s need to be supÂ�plied with food, esÂ�peÂ�cially durÂ�ing times of criÂ�sis, an imÂ�peÂ�rial deÂ�cree of 932 CE forÂ�bade conÂ�strucÂ�tion in cerÂ�tain disÂ�tricts.5 What I have deÂ�scribed is true not just of the disÂ�tant past. Even in the 1920s, anyÂ�one who enÂ�tered a ChiÂ�nese city Â�through the side gate might see not only a busy Â�street lined with shops but also Â�fields, marÂ�ket garÂ�dens, and duck ponds. the c ity 119 As for citÂ�ies in meÂ�diÂ�eval EuÂ�rope, they were much Â�smaller than those in conÂ�temÂ�poÂ�rary China. Their charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�isÂ�tic form was also difÂ�ferÂ�ent, being typÂ�iÂ�cally that of a starÂ�fish. From the Â�town’s core of Â�church, town hall, and marÂ�ket Â�square raÂ�diÂ�ated Â�streets lined with shops and Â�houses. The open triÂ�anÂ�guÂ�lar Â�spaces Â�between them were Â�filled with farms and orÂ�chards. The starÂ�fish form was long enÂ�durÂ�ing and could be found even in the midÂ�dle of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury.6 As to the imÂ�porÂ�tance of agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, CoÂ�blenz may be taken as an exÂ�amÂ�ple. At CoÂ�blenz, in the secÂ�ond half of the thirÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, work on the city walls had to be given up durÂ�ing harÂ�vest time, beÂ�cause of the lack of workÂ�men; at FrankÂ�fort in the year 1387 the city emÂ�ployed four herdsÂ�men and six Â�field-guards, and even in the fifÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury a Â�strict law was enÂ�acted Â�against alÂ�lowÂ�ing pigs to run about the city Â�streets. Even in the largÂ�est citÂ�ies there are very many inÂ�diÂ�caÂ�tions of an exÂ�tended popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion enÂ�gaged in agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture. Â�Cattle-breeding and garÂ�denÂ�ing were comÂ�mon acÂ�tivÂ�iÂ�ties along with manÂ�uÂ�facÂ�turÂ�ing and trade; in fact, the forÂ�mer had their own loÂ�caÂ�tion in the counÂ�try beÂ�fore the gates, as well as in the parts of the city which lay nearÂ�est to the walls.7 Â� Shakespeare’s LonÂ�don ocÂ�cuÂ�pied one Â�square mile and Â�housed some 100,000 peoÂ�ple. It was a pleasÂ�ant counÂ�try town with many garÂ�dens and broad green Â�fields close to the Â�packed Â�streets. Even in the midÂ�dle of the city, chatÂ�terÂ�ing birds and wild flowÂ�ers made naÂ�ture seem close to LonÂ�donÂ�ers. Â�Across the ChanÂ�nel, many the c ity 120 PaÂ�riÂ�sians at the end of the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury were still enÂ�gaged in counÂ�try purÂ�suits such as marÂ�ket garÂ�denÂ�ing and the breedÂ�ing of rabÂ�bits. “In revÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tionÂ�ary Paris,” wrote RichÂ�ard Cobb, “chickÂ�ens were as much at home as caÂ�narÂ�ies in the upper Â�floors, Â�flower-pots were freÂ�quently reÂ�ported to the comÂ�misÂ�saire as fallÂ�ing from atÂ�tics, and the Â�streets themÂ�selves Â�teemed with anÂ�iÂ�malia led by rusÂ�tic types.”8 One exÂ�pects such inÂ�truÂ�sions of the counÂ�try into the city beÂ�fore the InÂ�dusÂ�trial RevÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tion, but what about inÂ�dusÂ�triÂ�alÂ�ized citÂ�ies of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury? From the writÂ�ings of EnÂ�glish reÂ�formÂ�ers and novÂ�elÂ�ists (parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�larly Â�Charles DickÂ�ens), one gains an image of sprawlÂ�ing, Â�crowded warÂ�rens, Â�half-buried in inÂ�dusÂ�trial filth, that bear no hint of rural acÂ�tivÂ�ity. The popÂ�uÂ�lar image is misÂ� leadÂ�ing, for acÂ�cordÂ�ing to H. J. Dyos and MiÂ�chael Wolff, In the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury no EnÂ�glish city had seÂ�vered itÂ�self from rural conÂ�necÂ�tions. The largÂ�est of them still conÂ�ducted exÂ�tenÂ�sive backÂ�yard agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, not Â�merely Â�half-a-dozen hens in a coop of soap boxes, but Â�cow-stalls, sheep folds, pig sties above and below Â�ground, in and out of dwellÂ�ings, on and off the Â�streets, Â�wherever this ruÂ�diÂ�menÂ�tary Â�factory-farming could be made to work.9 As popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion conÂ�tinÂ�ued to swell and open space to Â�contract, citÂ�ies Â�sought a soÂ�luÂ�tion to crowdÂ�ing in the form of alÂ�lotÂ�ments, small plots of land both inÂ�side and outÂ�side city bounÂ�darÂ�ies the c ity 121 where inÂ�habÂ�iÂ�tants could grow vegÂ�eÂ�taÂ�bles and flowÂ�ers on weekÂ� ends. BirmÂ�ingÂ�ham had them early in the 1800s.10 Other citÂ�ies in BritÂ�ain and EuÂ�rope folÂ�lowed suit. In GerÂ�many, asÂ�signÂ�ing alÂ�lotÂ� ments began in the 1870s and conÂ�tinÂ�ued for anÂ�other cenÂ�tury. The moveÂ�ment was popÂ�uÂ�lar, and it soon beÂ�came a comÂ�mon sight to see miniÂ�ature farms girdÂ�ing GerÂ�man towns.11 As for North AmerÂ�ica, the downÂ�town areas of its meÂ�tropÂ�olÂ�ises can Â�hardly be more arÂ�tiÂ�facÂ�tual. From a high point, one sees nothÂ�ing but buildÂ�ings, Â�streets, and parkÂ�ing lots. One Â�scholar, pubÂ�lishÂ�ing in the Â�highly reÂ�spected magÂ�aÂ�zine SciÂ�ence, even sugÂ�gested that in a city whose citÂ�iÂ�zens are as diÂ�vorced from naÂ�ture as those in Los AnÂ�geles are, trees might as well be made of plasÂ�tic.12 Yet the need for conÂ�tact with naÂ�ture has by no means vanÂ�ished. A Â�stroll in the park is not quite the anÂ�swer. Also Â�needed is hard, diÂ�rect conÂ�tact of the sort that ocÂ�curs when one pracÂ�tices agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture. But where can it take place? Where is land to be found? The New Â�Yorker’s soÂ�luÂ�tion is the roof garÂ�den. By the 1950s sevÂ�eral thouÂ�sand New YorkÂ�ers—some rich, some poor— used their miniÂ�ature rake and hoe to culÂ�tiÂ�vate their skyÂ�line plots. The New York Times reÂ�ported in 1958 that the most knowlÂ�edgeÂ� able Â�top-floor husÂ�bandÂ�man is a freeÂ�lance Â�writer on horÂ�tiÂ�culÂ�ture. “He has more than 2,000 plantÂ�ings on the Â�eleventh floor at 1394 LexÂ�ingÂ�ton AvÂ�eÂ�nue, near Â�Ninety-second Â�Street. His crop inÂ�cludes figs, baÂ�naÂ�nas, strawÂ�berÂ�ries, Â�peaches, cherÂ�ries. He mainÂ�tains a rich comÂ�post heap of leaf mold and Â�kitchen leavÂ�ings.”13 the c ity 122 Those were the first stirÂ�rings of urban agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture in our time, Â�closely asÂ�soÂ�ciated with the cult of eatÂ�ing loÂ�cally grown, safer, and tasÂ�tier food. The cult in turn grew out of the rise of ecÂ�oÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal and soÂ�cial conÂ�sciousÂ�ness, an averÂ�sion to Â�mass-produced, chemÂ�iÂ� cally aided prodÂ�ucts of a gloÂ�bal econÂ�omy. Urban Â�elites of such citÂ�ies as New York, LonÂ�don, Paris, ChiÂ�cago, DeÂ�troit, Los AnÂ�geles, and MilÂ�wauÂ�kee led the moveÂ�ment. Their exÂ�periÂ�ments in urban agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture were ecÂ�oÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cally and techÂ�niÂ�cally soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated, seekÂ�ing to take adÂ�vanÂ�tage of a Â�city’s microÂ�enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments to proÂ� duce, for exÂ�amÂ�ple, honey and wine, introÂ�ducÂ�ing such new techÂ� nolÂ�oÂ�gies as aqÂ�uaÂ�ponÂ�ics, and hapÂ�pily reÂ�tainÂ�ing such traÂ�diÂ�tional methÂ�ods as verÂ�miÂ�culÂ�ture and the plantÂ�ing of multiÂ�ple, comÂ�patÂ�ible crops. 14 There is unÂ�doubtÂ�edly an eleÂ�ment of nosÂ�talÂ�gia in Â�today’s urban farmÂ�ing. AlÂ�though proÂ�ducÂ�ing food as such is not roÂ�manÂ�tic, that backÂ�ward Â�glance to a more wholeÂ�some way of life is. OrÂ�ganic farmÂ�ing, after all, can be backÂ�breakÂ�ing and tough on peoÂ�ple with even mild arÂ�thritis. J. R. R. Â�Tolkien Â�doesn’t menÂ�tion eiÂ�ther in the melÂ�low Â�Middle-earth of the hobÂ�bits. CivÂ�ilÂ�izÂ�ing WinÂ�ter The city proÂ�tects human beÂ�ings Â�against Â�nature’s vaÂ�garÂ�ies. In the tropÂ�ics the need for such proÂ�tecÂ�tion is miniÂ�mal; likeÂ�wise, in the warm seaÂ�son in the midÂ�dle latÂ�iÂ�tudes. SumÂ�mer alÂ�lows peoÂ�ple to be natÂ�uÂ�ral: it is the time of the year when they can work or play in the field. WinÂ�ter reÂ�turns them to urban soÂ�ciÂ�ety and the shelÂ�ters of arÂ�tiÂ�fice. The Â�city’s seaÂ�sons are thus the reÂ�verse of those in the c ity 123 sumÂ�mer. PubÂ�lic Â�squares and Â�streets come to their own in winÂ�ter when the counÂ�tryÂ�side lies dorÂ�mant and barÂ�ren. In China durÂ�ing the Zhou dyÂ�nasty (1027–256 BCE), famÂ�iÂ�lies were orÂ�gaÂ�nized into Â�groups that left their forÂ�tified town in early Â�spring, Â�worked and lived on the land Â�through the sumÂ�mer, and reÂ�turned to the town after harÂ�vest. WolÂ�fram EbeÂ�rhard wrote: “This type of setÂ�tleÂ�ment imÂ�plied a sharp diÂ�viÂ�sion of the year into two parts: winÂ�ter life in the city, sumÂ�mer life in the Â�fields. .€.€. The conÂ�stant interÂ�play of Ying and Yang in ChiÂ�nese phiÂ�loÂ�soÂ�phy reÂ�flected this duÂ�aÂ�lisÂ�tic way of life.” 15 Lewis MumÂ�ford reÂ�minded us that Greek citÂ�ies in their forÂ�maÂ�tive peÂ�riod also never lost their close ties to the counÂ�tryÂ�side: there was, he said, “a tidal driftÂ�ing in and out of the city with the seaÂ�sons.” The proÂ�longed PelÂ�oÂ�ponÂ�neÂ�sian War (431– 404 BCE) interÂ�rupted this tidal moveÂ�ment. Many counÂ�tryÂ�men, shut up Â�within the city walls, were homeÂ�sick for their farms and comÂ�plained bitÂ�terly.16 In the first cenÂ�tury CE, pubÂ�lic funcÂ�tions in Rome Â�slowed down durÂ�ing the sumÂ�mer Â�months. Â�Courts were Â�closed in July. Â�Wealthy RoÂ�mans abanÂ�doned town house for counÂ�try villa in Â�spring, and when sumÂ�mer heat beÂ�came unÂ�bearÂ� able, they Â�sought the coolÂ�ness of the seaÂ�shore. They Â�stayed in their villa Â�through the fall seaÂ�son and reÂ�turned to their town house as winÂ�ter apÂ�proached.17 SeaÂ�sonal miÂ�graÂ�tion reÂ�mained comÂ�mon in ReÂ�naisÂ�sance citÂ�ies. A Â�well-to-do citÂ�iÂ�zen of FlorÂ�ence owned a resÂ�iÂ�dence in town, a shop where he Â�worked, and a villa or farm in the subÂ�urb. If he were a merÂ�chant, he might have an esÂ�tate beÂ�yond the city walls the c ity 124 that supÂ�plied him with vegÂ�eÂ�taÂ�bles, wine, oil, forÂ�age, and wood. FloÂ�renÂ�tines were city soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cates in winÂ�ter and genÂ�tleÂ�men farmÂ�ers in sumÂ�mer. WinÂ�ters, which could be cold and bleak Â�between ChristÂ�mas and EpiphÂ�any, met with spirÂ�ited culÂ�tural reÂ�sponse in the form of reÂ�liÂ�gious acÂ�tivÂ�iÂ�ties. “ThouÂ�sands Â�flocked into the caÂ�theÂ�dral every eveÂ�ning durÂ�ing Lent to hear the serÂ�mons of faÂ�mous preachÂ�ers. Each reÂ�liÂ�gious holÂ�iÂ�day feaÂ�tured a pubÂ�lic cerÂ�eÂ�mony in which both Â�clergy and laity parÂ�ticÂ�iÂ�pated.”18 Â�Spring was the liveÂ�liÂ�est time in ReÂ�naisÂ�sance FlorÂ�ence as it is today: merÂ�chants were eager to do busiÂ�ness, pilÂ�grims Â�poured in on their way to Rome, and pickÂ�pockÂ�ets Â�worked the Â�crowds. MidÂ�sumÂ�mer was the dead seaÂ�son. FloÂ�renÂ�tine paÂ�triÂ�cians left the city for their counÂ�try vilÂ�las and reÂ�turned to the city in late SepÂ�temÂ�ber or early OcÂ�toÂ�ber.19 FerÂ�meÂ�ture anÂ�nuelle, or “anÂ�nual cloÂ�sure,” also ocÂ�curs in Â�France, and for tourÂ�ists who swarm over Paris in AuÂ�gust, the signs are ubiqÂ�uiÂ�tous and disÂ�pirÂ�itÂ�ing. Paris, like many other metÂ�roÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tan cenÂ�ters, is abanÂ�doned by its naÂ�tives in sumÂ�mer. CulÂ�tural life tends to offer light fare comÂ�menÂ�suÂ�rate with the mood of the seaÂ�son and with the unÂ�soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated taste of gawkÂ�ing visÂ�iÂ�tors. In a speÂ�cial issue of the SatÂ�urÂ�day ReÂ�view, Â�within the introÂ�ducÂ�tion enÂ�tiÂ�tled “CitÂ�ies in WinÂ�ter,” edÂ�iÂ�tor HorÂ�ace SutÂ�ton inÂ�tones: CitÂ�ies bloom with the first chill winds. Urban forÂ�ests are the inÂ�verse pheÂ�nomÂ�eÂ�non of trees and flowÂ�ers. They Â�sprout with the c ity 125 plumÂ�age as the winÂ�ter deÂ�scends. For it is then, amid the Â�flakes and the gusts, that shopÂ�pers husÂ�tle, that Â�stores burÂ�geon into Â�brightly lit baÂ�zaars. .€.€. The citÂ�ies in winÂ�ter are nurÂ�tured by the Â�warmth of the café, nourÂ�ished by the exÂ�pecÂ�tant bubÂ�ble of auÂ�diÂ�ences beÂ�fore curÂ�tain rise. MuÂ�seums burst efÂ�ferÂ�vesÂ�cently into Â�flower. AnÂ�cient civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tions creep from storÂ�ages and asÂ�semÂ�ble in galÂ�lerÂ�ies like fragÂ�ments of Â�far-flung clans Â�called to conÂ�venÂ�tion by triÂ�bal drums heard only by the memÂ�berÂ�ship.20 On isoÂ�lated farms and in small towns, winÂ�ter is a state of siege from which peoÂ�ple look for deÂ�liverÂ�ance in Â�spring. Not so in a busÂ�tling meÂ�tropÂ�oÂ�lis. In New York City, says RichÂ�ard Eder, it isn’t in Â�spring that peoÂ�ple think to themÂ�selves: “Well, we made it Â�through anÂ�other year.” That comes some Â�late-autumn afterÂ� noon when the air has Â�turned very clear, and sudÂ�denly we smell roastÂ�ing chestÂ�nuts just north of Saint Â�Patrick’s CaÂ�theÂ�dral. The city lives at Â�cross-purposes with naÂ�ture: cold, not heat, Â�brings it to life. It is durÂ�ing the fall and winÂ�ter that the sense of reÂ�newal is at its Â�height. Look what gets born in New York. SoHo, the loft disÂ�trict below GreenÂ�wich VilÂ�lage, is a whole new culÂ�tural cenÂ�ter, with art galÂ�lerÂ�ies, exÂ�periÂ�menÂ�tal theÂ�aÂ�ters, and bars that serve up hamÂ�burÂ�gers and rough chic. The Â�once-depressing side Â�streets off First and SecÂ�ond AvÂ�eÂ�nues are now among the most cheerÂ�ful and atÂ�tracÂ�tive in the city. Even Â�Hell’s Â�Kitchen, grim as it still looks, beÂ�gins to show signs of Â�polish here and there. New York keeps reÂ�genÂ�erÂ�atÂ�ing itÂ�self.21 the c ity 126 These obÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�tions were made in the 1970s. Â�Thirty-five years later, the deÂ�tails Â�change, but the seaÂ�sonal reÂ�verÂ�sal—the city comÂ�ing fully to life when naÂ�ture Â�sleeps—reÂ�mains. It has been a part of human exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence for so long that we take it comÂ�pletely for Â�granted, forÂ�getÂ�ting how inÂ�genÂ�uÂ�ous and unÂ�natÂ�uÂ�ral such a step is. But even more darÂ�ing—and far more reÂ�cent—is the conÂ�quest of night. ConÂ�querÂ�ing Night On earth, priÂ�morÂ�dial chaos is symÂ�bolÂ�ized by wasteÂ�land, water, and darkÂ�ness. Of these three, the chalÂ�lenge of imÂ�posÂ�ing order on wasteÂ�land was met when walls that deÂ�fined huÂ�manÂ�ized space were built some eight or nine thouÂ�sand years ago. The conÂ�quest of Â�marshes and Â�swamps (water) was more difÂ�fiÂ�cult and sucÂ�cessÂ�ful on a large scale only in the hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal peÂ�riod: think what a headÂ� ache the PonÂ�tine Â�Marshes gave the EtrusÂ�cans and RoÂ�mans. DarkÂ�ness Â�proved to be the hardÂ�est of the three to overÂ�come. CanÂ�dles and Â�open-flame oil lamps, alÂ�ready in use when the PyrÂ�aÂ�mids were built, reÂ�mained the most comÂ�mon form of ilÂ�luÂ� miÂ�naÂ�tion until the apÂ�proach of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury. These deÂ�vices made only the feeÂ�blest inÂ�roads on darkÂ�ness. Large inÂ�roads beÂ�came posÂ�sible with the introÂ�ducÂ�tion of gasÂ�light in the nineÂ� teenth cenÂ�tury, but only in the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury, with the wide use of electricÂ�ity, can we truly say of some citÂ�ies that human beÂ�ings had alÂ�tered anÂ�other funÂ�daÂ�menÂ�tal Â�rhythm—the diurÂ�nal Â�rhythm—of naÂ�ture. the c ity 127 Today we measÂ�ure a Â�city’s soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�caÂ�tion by the qualÂ�ity of its nightÂ�life, forÂ�getÂ�ting how reÂ�cent nightÂ�life is. ImÂ�peÂ�rial Rome, a city of vast size and splenÂ�dor, subÂ�mitÂ�ted to the dicÂ�tate of day and night like any proÂ�vinÂ�cial town. Â�Jérôme CarÂ�coÂ�pino wrote: When there was no moon its Â�streets were Â�plunged in imÂ�penÂ�eÂ� traÂ�ble darkÂ�ness. No oil lamps Â�lighted them, no canÂ�dles were afÂ�fixed to the walls; no lanÂ�terns were hung over the linÂ�tel of the doors, save on fesÂ�tive ocÂ�caÂ�sions. .€.€. In norÂ�mal times night fell over the city like the Â�shadow of a great danÂ�ger, difÂ�fused, sinÂ�isÂ�ter, and menÂ�acÂ�ing. EveryÂ�one fled to his home, shut himÂ�self in, and barÂ�riÂ�caded the enÂ�trance. The shops fell siÂ�lent, Â�safety Â�chains were drawn Â�across beÂ�hind the Â�leaves of the doors; the shutÂ�ters of the flats were Â�closed and the pots of flowÂ�ers withÂ� drawn from the winÂ�dows they had Â�adorned.22 In imÂ�peÂ�rial China as in meÂ�diÂ�eval EuÂ�rope and early coÂ�loÂ�nial AmerÂ�ica, curÂ�few was imÂ�posed on towns after dark. CurÂ�few proÂ�tected citÂ�iÂ�zens from the Â�threats of fire and strangÂ�ers. HowÂ�ever imÂ�pressed we are with imÂ�ages of busÂ�tling life in a preÂ�inÂ�dusÂ�trial city, we Â�should reÂ�memÂ�ber that in many inÂ�stances, all pubÂ�lic and outÂ�door acÂ�tivÂ�iÂ�ties Â�ceased with the toll of the curÂ�few bell. Night beÂ�longed to the bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal and priÂ�vate Â�sphere. It was the time for reÂ�cuÂ�perÂ�aÂ�tion and enÂ�terÂ�tainÂ�ment in the priÂ�vacy of the houseÂ�hold. This was true even of ReÂ�naisÂ�sance FlorÂ�ence, a place of high art and culÂ�ture. Only exÂ�cepÂ�tional ocÂ�caÂ�sions warÂ�ranted lightÂ�ing after dark. In China, these were the great celÂ�eÂ�braÂ�tions of New Year the c ity 128 and the Â�emperor’s birthÂ�day. In anÂ�cient Rome, the Feast of Flora was a nightÂ�time acÂ�tivÂ�ity and Â�called for specÂ�tacÂ�uÂ�lar lightÂ�ing. In a few citÂ�ies, such as AntiÂ�och in the Â�fourth cenÂ�tury, night ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ� tion was stanÂ�dard and a Â�source of pride to the loÂ�cals.23 In China, HangÂ�zhou went dark after nightÂ�fall, exÂ�cept for the ImÂ�peÂ�rial Way, along which shops and Â�eat-places, lit by lanÂ�terns, busÂ�tled with acÂ�tivÂ�ity. The MonÂ�gols inÂ�vaded the Song capÂ�iÂ�tal in 1276 and put an end to its nightÂ�life by imÂ�posÂ�ing Â�strict curÂ�few.24 Few preÂ�modÂ�ern citÂ�ies atÂ�tempted to exÂ�tend day into night. The rule was to live by the sun. Paris in the sixÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury could not even dream of beÂ�comÂ�ing the “City of Â�Lights.” EfÂ�forts to perÂ�suade PaÂ�riÂ�sians livÂ�ing in the lower stoÂ�ries of Â�houses to keep canÂ�dles in their winÂ�dows durÂ�ing the early eveÂ�ning hours met with litÂ�tle sucÂ�cess. The first imÂ�peÂ�tus toÂ�ward efÂ�fiÂ�cient ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion came in the year 1667, when GaÂ�briel NiÂ�coÂ�las de la ReÂ�ynie—Â� Paris’s powÂ�erÂ�ful lieuÂ�tenÂ�ant of poÂ�lice—orÂ�dered some 6,500 lanÂ�terns to be Â�strung Â�across the Â�streets. By the end of the sevenÂ� teenth cenÂ�tury, canÂ�dles ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�nated some Â�sixty-five miles of city Â�streets durÂ�ing the winÂ�ter Â�months.25 As for LonÂ�don, in 1662 an act of ParÂ�liaÂ�ment reÂ�quired every houseÂ�hold whose house Â�fronted a Â�street to hang out a canÂ�dle tall Â�enough to burn from dusk to nine Â�o’clock. In 1716 the hours were exÂ�tended to Â�eleven in the eveÂ�ning Â�between MiÂ�chaelÂ�mas and Lady Day. LightÂ�ing had imÂ� proved, but LonÂ�don was still left withÂ�out lamps or lanÂ�terns for 247 Â�nights in the year. The lamps themÂ�selves were too feeÂ�ble to the c ity 129 cast much light, and peoÂ�ple who venÂ�tured out at night, Â�whether on foot or in a carÂ�riage, still had to be led by a linkÂ�boy.26 AuÂ�thorÂ�ities in such citÂ�ies as Paris, AmÂ�sterÂ�dam, HamÂ�burg, and Â�Vienna reÂ�garded the long dark Â�nights in winÂ�ter as a Â�threat to soÂ�cial order. They Â�sought to disÂ�couÂ�rage thievÂ�ery and other petty Â�crimes by proÂ�motÂ�ing the use of canÂ�dles and oil lamps. These deÂ�vices Â�didn’t, howÂ�ever, do much good. Real efÂ�fecÂ�tiveÂ�ness had to wait for the inÂ�stalÂ�laÂ�tion of gasÂ�lit lamps. LonÂ�don first exÂ�periÂ� mented with them in 1807. They Â�spread Â�fairly Â�quickly in EuÂ�rope and the Â�United Â�States, but not withÂ�out Â�protest. One arÂ�guÂ�ment Â�against them was that betÂ�ter lightÂ�ing acÂ�tuÂ�ally Â�helped evilÂ�doers do their work. BirmÂ�ingÂ�ham citÂ�iÂ�zens beÂ�lieved that if their Â�city’s crime rate was lower than Â�London’s, it was beÂ�cause their city was Â�darker. In 1816 a CoÂ�logne newsÂ�paper opÂ�posed Â�gas-lighting on the Â�ground that peoÂ�ple were more Â�likely to go out, inÂ�dulge in drunkÂ�enÂ�ness, and comÂ�mit misÂ�deeds as the fear of dark Â�nights deÂ�clined. MoreÂ�over, gasÂ�light transÂ�gressed the laws of God and of naÂ�ture. “ArÂ�tiÂ�fiÂ�cial ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion,” the newsÂ�paper edÂ�iÂ�toÂ�riÂ�alÂ�ized, “is an atÂ�tempt to interÂ�fere with the diÂ�vine plan of the world, which has preÂ�orÂ�dained darkÂ�ness durÂ�ing the night.”27 The city ofÂ�fered enÂ�terÂ�tainÂ�ment. AnÂ�cient Â�Greeks loved the theÂ�aÂ�ter, anÂ�cient RoÂ�mans specÂ�taÂ�cles of all sorts. When did they take place? With few exÂ�cepÂ�tions, they took place in dayÂ�light hours or on Â�bright, moonÂ�lit Â�nights. ReÂ�liÂ�gious plays in meÂ�diÂ�eval times might start as early as 4:30 in the mornÂ�ing. Some were the c ity 130 of such Â�length that they had to be preÂ�sented in a sucÂ�cesÂ�sion of afterÂ�noons. In Spain durÂ�ing the sixÂ�teenth and sevenÂ�teenth cenÂ�tuÂ�ries, perÂ�forÂ�mances were reÂ�quired to end at least an hour beÂ�fore nightÂ�fall. This meant that in the fall and winÂ�ter seaÂ�sons, plays could begin at two in the afterÂ�noon. In EnÂ�gland, howÂ�ever, startÂ�ing time Â�showed a Â�steady proÂ�gresÂ�sion to later hours. DurÂ�ing the ResÂ�toÂ�raÂ�tion peÂ�riod, it was 3 or 3:30 p.m.; “by 1700, it had been moved to 4 or 5; Â�between 1700 and 1710, the time varÂ�ied from 5 to 6; after 1710, the usual hour was 6; by the last quarÂ�ter of the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, it beÂ�came 6:16 or 6:30.”28 The adÂ�vent of Â�electric lightÂ�ing fiÂ�nally made the conÂ�quest of night posÂ�sible. PubÂ�lic acÂ�tivÂ�iÂ�ties no Â�longer deÂ�pended on the sun. TwiÂ�light presÂ�aged not withÂ�drawal but a new burst of life on Â�brightly lit bouleÂ�vards that came to be known as the “great white ways.” No city in the twenÂ�tiÂ�eth cenÂ�tury could claim to be cosÂ�moÂ� polÂ�iÂ�tan and glamÂ�orÂ�ous withÂ�out a vigÂ�orÂ�ous nightÂ�life. There could be no roÂ�mance when eyeÂ�lids Â�drooped with sunÂ�set. Here is ElizÂ�aÂ�beth Â�Hardwick’s view of BosÂ�ton in the 1950s. In BosÂ�ton there is an utter abÂ�sence of that wild Â�electric Â�beauty of New York, of the marÂ�veÂ�lous exÂ�cited rush of peoÂ�ple in taxÂ�iÂ�cabs at twiÂ�light, of the great AvÂ�eÂ�nues and Â�Streets, the resÂ�tauÂ�rants, theÂ�aÂ�ters, bars, Â�hotels, delÂ�iÂ�caÂ�tesÂ�sens, shops. In BosÂ�ton the night comes down with an inÂ�credÂ�ible heavy, Â�small-town fiÂ�nalÂ�ity. The cows come home; the chickÂ�ens go to roost; the Â�meadow is dark. Â�Nearly every BosÂ�tonÂ�ian is in his own house or in someÂ�one Â�else’s house, dinÂ�ing at the home board, enÂ�joyÂ�ing doÂ�mesÂ�tic and soÂ�cial the c ity 131 priÂ�vacy. The “nice litÂ�tle dinÂ�ner party”—for this the BosÂ�tonÂ�ian would sell his soul.29 BosÂ�ton in Â�mid-twentieth cenÂ�tury Â�lacked Â�glamor, but what is Â�glamor? The root meanÂ�ing of the word is magic. A modÂ�ern meÂ�tropÂ�oÂ�lis, howÂ�ever deÂ�fiÂ�cient in lusÂ�ter durÂ�ing the day, is transÂ� formed by the mere flip of Â�switches into a braÂ�zen world of glitÂ�terÂ�ing Â�lights after dark. PeoÂ�ple, too, disÂ�carded their worÂ�kaÂ�day perÂ�sonÂ�alÂ�ities for fanÂ�cier masks. In cinÂ�eÂ�mas and theÂ�aÂ�ters, the inÂ�choateÂ�ness of orÂ�diÂ�nary livÂ�ing is forÂ�saken for the magÂ�iÂ�cal clarÂ�ity of the Â�screen and stage. NightÂ�life is unÂ�natÂ�uÂ�ral, for as dayÂ�light fades, so Â�should human conÂ�sciousÂ�ness. What is Â�gained by this exÂ�tenÂ�sion and heightÂ�enÂ�ing of conÂ�sciousÂ�ness? 30 What is the loss? BeÂ�fore I adÂ�dress this quesÂ�tion, I Â�should first conÂ�sider the underÂ�side—the dark world that both susÂ�tains and underÂ�mines the Â�bright, busÂ�tling city above Â�ground. After all, the city is Â�hardly fit to be Â�called “roÂ�manÂ�tic subÂ�lime” withÂ�out a thrillÂ�ing underÂ�side. The UnderÂ�side The underÂ�side has a figÂ�uraÂ�tive and a litÂ�eral meanÂ�ing. The figÂ�uraÂ� tive meanÂ�ing draws on an analÂ�ogy with the human body. As I have noted earÂ�lier, since clasÂ�siÂ�cal anÂ�tiqÂ�uity the head of the human body is conÂ�sidÂ�ered to be the Â�source of reaÂ�son, the lower part the Â�source of pasÂ�sion. ReaÂ�son Â�housed in the head can be conÂ�tamÂ�iÂ�nated by “fumes” risÂ�ing from below, and yet reaÂ�son can Â�hardly be efÂ�fecÂ�tive withÂ�out the enÂ�ergy and pasÂ�sion of the lower the c ity 132 part. The human body is, after all, one. To reÂ�main Â�healthy, the body has to expel its waste prodÂ�ucts and their noxÂ�ious fumes. AnalÂ�ogy with the city is obÂ�viÂ�ous. The Â�city’s swarmÂ�ing popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion genÂ�erÂ�ates a stagÂ�gerÂ�ing load of reÂ�fuse that has to be reÂ�moved if the city is to reÂ�main Â�healthy and livÂ�able. The priÂ�mary and earÂ�liÂ�est deÂ�vice inÂ�vented to do so on a large scale is the sewer. A great achieveÂ�ment of anÂ�cient Rome was its netÂ�work of sewÂ�ers, begun in the sixth cenÂ�tury BCE and conÂ�tinÂ�uÂ�ally exÂ�tended and imÂ�proved under, first, the reÂ�pubÂ�lic and, then, the emÂ�pire. The sewÂ�ers (cloaÂ�cae) were conÂ�ceived and built on such a grand scale that “in cerÂ�tain Â�places a wagon laden with hay could drive Â�through them with ease.” Â�Agrippa diÂ�verted Â�enough water from the aqueÂ�duct into them so that one could Â�travel by boat Â�through their enÂ�tire Â�length. ConÂ�strucÂ�tion was so solid that the mouth of the largÂ�est and oldÂ�est sewer, “the Â�Cloaca MaxÂ�ima, can still be seen openÂ�ing into the river at the level of the Ponte Rotto. Its semiÂ�cirÂ�cuÂ�lar arch, five meÂ�ters in diÂ�amÂ�eÂ�ter, and its patÂ�iÂ�nated tufa vousÂ�soirs (calÂ�cified limeÂ�stone Â�vaults) have Â�defied the pasÂ�sage of Â�twenty-five hunÂ�dred years.”31 Â�Rome’s netÂ�work of subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean tunÂ�nels was a reÂ�markÂ�able early achieveÂ�ment. NevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less, it was in the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury that subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean tunÂ�nels atÂ�tained subÂ�limÂ�ity in geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal exÂ�tent and in filth, magÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cence, and horÂ�ror. VicÂ�tor Hugo was so imÂ�pressed by those of Paris that he deÂ�voted sevÂ�eral deÂ�tailed chapÂ�ters of Les MisÂ�érÂ�ables to them. The downÂ�ward jourÂ�ney of the c ity 133 the Â�novel’s hero, Jean ValÂ�jean, was a jourÂ�ney into hell. Hugo Â�evoked a nightÂ�mare of “dripÂ�ping walls and low ceilÂ�ing, the miÂ�asÂ�mas and pitÂ�falls, the fetid odor, the obÂ�scurÂ�ity, the heavy burÂ�den, the omÂ�iÂ�nous shadÂ�ows of crimÂ�iÂ�nals and poÂ�liceÂ�men.” HorÂ�ror Â�reached a cliÂ�max when Jean ValÂ�jean Â�stepped into a creÂ�vice of mud and sank up to his armÂ�pits in slime and exÂ�creÂ�ment.32 The verÂ�tiÂ�cal axis loÂ�cates Â�heaven as “above” and hell as “below.” Hugo acÂ�cepted this way of thinkÂ�ing, but he was also inÂ�fluÂ�enced by a new twist, alÂ�most a reÂ�verÂ�sal, that makes the underÂ�world seem imÂ�presÂ�sive and if not apÂ�pealÂ�ing, then necÂ�esÂ�sary. NecÂ�esÂ�sary to what? NecÂ�esÂ�sary to the mainÂ�teÂ�nance of the world above. DurÂ�ing the peÂ�riod from 1852 to 1870, Baron Â�Georges-Eugène HaussÂ�mann, preÂ�fect of the Seine under NaÂ�poÂ�leon III, radÂ�iÂ�cally transÂ�formed Paris above Â�ground, openÂ�ing it up so that it beÂ�came a sunÂ�lit city of broad, raÂ�diÂ�atÂ�ing avÂ�eÂ�nues and bouleÂ�vards. But he transÂ�formed subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean Paris as well, givÂ�ing Â�nearly every Â�street a drain to carry wasteÂ�waÂ�ter into the Seine well below Paris. But the underÂ�ground was soon to conÂ�tain far more than just water and sewÂ�age netÂ�works; it also made room for utilÂ�ity lines, teleÂ�phone lines, and subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean train tunÂ�nels and Â�trains. It beÂ�came a caÂ�paÂ�cious and Â�crowded world of its own, but not for its own sake, Â�rather for the sake of the glitÂ�terÂ�ing city aboveÂ�ground. Two Â�strains of Â�thought enÂ�courÂ�aged this upÂ�beat view of the world below Â�ground. One was roÂ�manÂ�tic fanÂ�tasy, as capÂ�tured in the novÂ�els of Jules Verne and EdÂ�ward Â�George Â�Bulwer-Lytton. the c ity 134 Verne, in JourÂ�ney to the CenÂ�ter of the Earth (1864), enÂ�visÂ�aged the downÂ�ward Â�plunge as a Â�plunge not into gloom but into Â�bright light, a hint of his exÂ�traorÂ�diÂ�nary faith in Â�electricity’s power, once fully deÂ�velÂ�oped, to conÂ�quer darkÂ�ness. Â�Bulwer-Lytton, in The ComÂ�ing Race (1871), enÂ�visÂ�aged an underÂ�ground landÂ�scape of Â�strange vegÂ�eÂ�taÂ�tion, lakes, and Â�streams, borÂ�dered by arÂ�tiÂ�fiÂ�cial banks, all under a dome that was sunÂ�less but Â�bright. The other Â�strain of Â�thought enÂ�terÂ�tained the idea of a Â�lively subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean world that exÂ�isted in its own right and not Â�merely as a supÂ�port Â�system for the city above. It was also a fanÂ�tasy, but one beÂ�lieved to be reÂ�alÂ�izÂ�able. Why? BeÂ�cause planÂ�ners and enÂ�giÂ�neers of the time had faith in the techÂ�nolÂ�oÂ�gies at their disÂ�poÂ�sal; moreÂ�over, they beÂ�lieved that the world they Â�wanted to build, being subÂ�terÂ� raÂ�nean, would not have to meet such chalÂ�lenges as the unÂ�cerÂ�tainÂ� ties and batÂ�terÂ�ings of naÂ�ture. But what susÂ�tained their opÂ�tiÂ�mism most was the fact that by the end of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, much had alÂ�ready been acÂ�comÂ�plished in LonÂ�don and Paris. Each meÂ�tropÂ�oÂ�lis could alÂ�ready boast of a world below the surÂ�face made up not only of sewÂ�age and utilÂ�ity netÂ�works but also of train tunÂ�nels, side coves for train reÂ�pairs, and, above all, comÂ�fortÂ� able and Â�well-lit staÂ�tions for Â�middle-class pasÂ�senÂ�gers.33 Light—LitÂ�eral and FigÂ�uraÂ�tive Light disÂ�pels darkÂ�ness, exÂ�poses igÂ�norÂ�ance. Its meanÂ�ing has alÂ�ways had an Â�intellectual-spiritual comÂ�poÂ�nent, as perÂ�haps the word the c ity 135 “ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion” more Â�clearly inÂ�diÂ�cates. MeanÂ�while, the city is a place of ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion, and it beÂ�came that way long beÂ�fore the arÂ�riÂ�val of arÂ�tiÂ�fiÂ�cial light, or beÂ�fore it litÂ�erÂ�ally beÂ�came ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�nated. Greek poÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal thinkÂ�ing, founÂ�daÂ�tional to much of WestÂ�ern thinkÂ�ing, is cenÂ�tered on the city or Â�city-state (polis). The city is conÂ�sidÂ�ered the human ideal, the place where human exÂ�celÂ� lence, moral and inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual, is fully reÂ�alÂ�izÂ�able. Why the city? BeÂ�cause it is where Â�speech is maxÂ�iÂ�mally conÂ�cenÂ�trated. Words make us who we are. Our moral standÂ�ing rises and falls by what we say or do not say. An inÂ�spired elÂ�oÂ�quence can lift a Â�people’s Â�spirit, help a perÂ�son be more couÂ�raÂ�geous, genÂ�erÂ�ous, pious, or as Â�Pericles’s oraÂ�tion demÂ�onÂ�strates, paÂ�triÂ�otic. Even comÂ�monÂ�place words can have a powÂ�erÂ�ful efÂ�fect when they are Â�spoken on the right ocÂ�caÂ�sion and in the right setÂ�ting. The city, more than any other miÂ�lieu, is rich in such ocÂ�caÂ�sions and setÂ�tings. Â�Speech seÂ�riÂ� ously and senÂ�siÂ�tively enÂ�gaged is the path to both moral proÂ�bity and truth. No wonÂ�der SocÂ�raÂ�tes says he never Â�learns from “fields and trees;” rather Â� he Â�learns in diÂ�alogue with his felÂ�low huÂ�mans in the Â�street, marÂ�ketÂ�place, and gymÂ�naÂ�sium, or under the temÂ�ple porch, of a city.34 And there is more. The city has magÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cent buildÂ�ings. It Â�boasts archiÂ�tecÂ�ture, which is the third comÂ�poÂ�nent—Â�besides Â�poetry and music—of a Â�triune. RaisÂ�ing a buildÂ�ing, esÂ�peÂ�cially a reÂ�liÂ�gious one, was acÂ�comÂ�paÂ�nied hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cally by ritÂ�uÂ�alÂ�ized words and music; moreÂ�over, workÂ�ers might sing as they Â�toiled. An the c ity 136 even Â�closer reÂ�laÂ�tionÂ�ship exÂ�isted in the WestÂ�ern world if we take seÂ�riÂ�ously the Greek myÂ�tholÂ�ogy that told of a Â�magus-poet who recÂ�ogÂ�nized a parÂ�allel Â�between the “numÂ�bers” of music and Â�poetry and the proÂ�porÂ�tions and diÂ�viÂ�sions of matÂ�ter and space and, Â�thereby, could make Â�stones of music. To the Â�Greeks, moreÂ�over, poem and city—in their proÂ�porÂ�tion, symÂ�meÂ�try, and balÂ�ance— emÂ�bodÂ�ied reaÂ�son.35 A faÂ�mous inÂ�stance is the PartheÂ�non. Its bulk and maÂ�teÂ�riÂ�alÂ�ity make it seem to weigh down on its rock pedÂ�esÂ�tal. CounÂ�terÂ�ing this imÂ�presÂ�sion and balÂ�ancÂ�ing it are the beauÂ�tiÂ�ful proÂ�porÂ�tions that make the buildÂ�ing seem to rise up. Â�Goethe sees archiÂ�tecÂ�ture as froÂ�zen music. May he not see the beauÂ�tiÂ�ful city as a froÂ�zen symÂ�phony? In any case, I disÂ�cern Â�music’s lilt and surge as I read Â�Wordsworth’s paean to LonÂ�don, writÂ�ten in 1802. Earth has not anyÂ�thing to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touchÂ�ing in its maÂ�jesty: The City now doth like a garÂ�ment wear The Â�beauty of the mornÂ�ing; siÂ�lent, bare, Ships, towÂ�ers, domes, theaÂ�tres, and temÂ�ples lie Open unto the Â�fields, and to the sky; All Â�bright and glitÂ�terÂ�ing in the smokeÂ�less air. Never did sun more beauÂ�tiÂ�fully steep In his first splenÂ�dour valÂ�ley, rock, or hill; Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!36 the c ity 137 Urban hisÂ�toÂ�rians and geogÂ�raÂ�phers are reÂ�lucÂ�tant to Â�praise a city for fear of seemÂ�ing naive, but also beÂ�cause Â�praise, as disÂ�tinct from critÂ�iÂ�cism, reÂ�quires a litÂ�erÂ�ary flair that few have. Ada Â�Louise HuxÂ�table, an archiÂ�tecÂ�tuÂ�ral Â�critic, is an exÂ�cepÂ�tion. When she was a stuÂ�dent in Rome, she was taken to see a baÂ�roque Â�church and plaza by moonÂ�light. She wrote: I had no idea at the time that citÂ�ies could be so devÂ�asÂ�tatÂ�ingly beauÂ�tiÂ�ful, that stone could be so senÂ�suÂ�ous, that archiÂ�tects dealt in such subÂ�lime stage sets for human drama, that space could move one to such Â�strong emoÂ�tions, that archiÂ�tecÂ�ture could make men so much Â�larger than life.37 Even ManÂ�hatÂ�tan soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cates may be Â�deeply moved. Of Fifth AvÂ�eÂ�nue at dusk, the edÂ�iÂ�tors of the New Â�Yorker magÂ�aÂ�zine say: We had the feelÂ�ing that the Â�lights had gone up on a theÂ�aÂ�ter set and that someÂ�thing most sigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cant was on the point of hapÂ�penÂ�ing. GildÂ�ing sparÂ�kled from the black frame of the VicÂ�toÂ�rian faÂ�cade of Â�Scribner’s bookÂ�store, and slantÂ�ing beams of brightÂ�ness gave the Â�store’s Â�depths a sacÂ�roÂ�sanct digÂ�nity to rival St. Â�Patrick’s. Every inch of glass or metal in view Â�beamed back its rosy burÂ�nishÂ�ing. The poles of trafÂ�fic Â�lights Â�glowed like treasÂ�ure, and orÂ�diÂ�nary Â�shoe-store winÂ�dows Â�looked like Â�jewelers’ showÂ�cases. The buildÂ�ings never apÂ�peared more inÂ�tensely themÂ� selves. PinkÂ�ness Â�soaked deep to play up texÂ�tures and Â�patches the c ity 138 of light and Â�shadow, while disÂ�tincÂ�tive outÂ�lines and ecÂ�cenÂ�tric crenÂ�elÂ�laÂ�tions stood Â�etched Â�against the viÂ�oÂ�let air.38 The city ofÂ�fers Â�beauty and more—the subÂ�lime, a Â�lifeenhancing exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence laced with Â�stress and pain, for the city is not only life and light, but also darkÂ�ness and death. WordsÂ�worth inÂ�vited Â�Charles Lamb to visit him in the Lake DisÂ�trict. Lamb Â�turned him down, anÂ�swerÂ�ing a litÂ�tle unÂ�graÂ�ciously: I have Â�passed all my days in LonÂ�don, until I have Â�formed as many and inÂ�tense local atÂ�tachÂ�ments as any of you mounÂ�tainÂ�eers can have done with dead NaÂ�ture. The Â�lighted shops of the Â�Strand and Fleet Â�street; the inÂ�nuÂ�merÂ�able Â�trades, tradesÂ�men, and cusÂ�tomÂ�ers, Â�coaches, wagÂ�gons, playÂ�houses; all the busÂ�tle and wickÂ�edÂ�ness round about CoÂ�vent GarÂ�den; the very women of the Town; the watchÂ�men, Â�drunken Â�scenes, ratÂ�tles; life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night; the imÂ�posÂ�sibilÂ�ity of being dull in Fleet Â�Street; the Â�crowds, the very dirt and mud .€.€. all these Â�things work themÂ�selves into my mind, and feed me, withÂ�out a power of saÂ�tiÂ�atÂ�ing me. The wonÂ�der of these Â�sights imÂ�pels me into Â�night-walks about her Â�crowded Â�streets, and I often shed tears in the motÂ�ley Â�Strand from fullÂ�ness of joy at so much life. .€.€. Have I not Â�enough, withÂ�out your mounÂ�tains?39 AnÂ�thony BurÂ�gess, a man of our time and hence more jaded than Lamb, deÂ�scribes New York in Â�darker colÂ�ors, Â�though he the c ity 139 Â� clearly adÂ�mires it. He beÂ�rates New YorkÂ�ers for not acÂ�knowlÂ� edgÂ�ing that their city is beauÂ�tiÂ�ful. He reÂ�minds them that Ezra Pound once adÂ�dressed it as “beÂ�loved” and likÂ�ened it to “a slim girl withÂ�out Â�breasts.” BeauÂ�tiÂ�ful may not be the right word, howÂ� ever, for, to BurÂ�gess, New York is a parÂ�aÂ�dox—a city of enorÂ�mous vaÂ�riety and darÂ�ing whose proÂ�penÂ�sity for viÂ�oÂ�lence and death is itÂ�self Â�life-enhancing. I often feel suiÂ�ciÂ�dal in Rome, Paris and LonÂ�don, and there is no antiÂ�dote there exÂ�cept drink or litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture. In New York, when the desÂ�perÂ�ate mood comes on, all I have to do is deÂ�scend to the subÂ�way after midÂ�night and obÂ�serve the omÂ�niÂ�presÂ�ent evÂ�iÂ�dence of viÂ�oÂ�lence there, and then the urge to go on livÂ�ing rushÂ�ing in with the speed of a subÂ�urÂ�ban exÂ�press. New York is a place where every taste is caÂ�tered to, the most recÂ�onÂ�dite gusÂ�taÂ�tory urge, the most rarÂ�eÂ�fied form of art. It is also a junÂ�gle where one has to keep alert .€.€. and walk on the balls of one’s feet. If it colÂ�lapses it will not be in a welÂ�ter of efÂ�fete murÂ�murs. This is a big growlÂ�ing human conÂ�diÂ�tion, comÂ�plete with baÂ�roque music and fifty vaÂ�rieÂ�ties of sour cream. 40 New York is, to me, a Â�superb inÂ�stance of the roÂ�manÂ�tic subÂ�lime, not a good place where chilÂ�dren Â�squirt one anÂ�other with water pisÂ�tols and grandÂ�parÂ�ents Â�snooze under the chestÂ�nut tree, but a junÂ�gle where one has to “walk on the balls of one’s feet,” not the c ity 140 a comÂ�muÂ�nity of good plain folks atÂ�tendÂ�ing the town Â�square band on a SunÂ�day afterÂ�noon, but a “growlÂ�ing human conÂ�diÂ�tion, comÂ�plete with baÂ�roque music and fifty vaÂ�rieÂ�ties of sour cream.” DarkÂ�ness—LitÂ�eral and FigÂ�uraÂ�tive AlÂ�though gasÂ�light citÂ�ies were Â�brighter, they were figÂ�uraÂ�tively “darker” as popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion Â�swelled durÂ�ing the InÂ�dusÂ�trial RevÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tion, and Â�masses of peoÂ�ple, some Â�foreign, miÂ�grated there to foÂ�ment a seethÂ�ing huÂ�manÂ�ity that, to the midÂ�dle class, was as Â�strange and inÂ�comÂ�preÂ�henÂ�sible as the denÂ�iÂ�zens of “darkÂ�est AfÂ�rica.” JourÂ�nalÂ�ists like Henry MayÂ�hew and novÂ�elÂ�ists like Â�Charles DickÂ�ens were conÂ�sidÂ�ered brave men who dared to exÂ�plore Â�London’s mews and alÂ�leys, bringÂ�ing back news that titÂ�ilÂ�lated and Â�shocked the readÂ�ing pubÂ�lic. Both writÂ�ers foÂ�cused on the poorÂ�est of the poor and Â�thereby gave a picÂ�ture of the city that was unÂ�duly deÂ�pressÂ�ing. Both also had a flair for draÂ�maÂ�tiÂ�zaÂ�tion and, it must be said, Â�rather inÂ�dulged in it. MayÂ�hew Â�dwelled on the Â�filthy interÂ�ior of the homes and reÂ�ported odors “so rank and foul” that when he went in, he was sickÂ�ened by “a Â�moment’s inÂ�haÂ�laÂ�tion of the fetid atÂ�moÂ� sÂ�phere.” MayÂ�hew paid even more atÂ�tenÂ�tion to the peoÂ�ple, whom he reÂ�garded as utÂ�terly alien, that is to say, “superÂ�stiÂ�tious, hosÂ�tile, and faÂ�talÂ�ist. They spoke in a Â�thieves’ Â�tongue that Â�sounded like the gibÂ�berÂ�ish of some primÂ�iÂ�tive tribe.”41 Â�Charles DickÂ�ens is the preÂ�mier novÂ�elÂ�ist of the inÂ�dusÂ�triÂ�alÂ�izÂ�ing EnÂ�glish city for the peÂ�riod from the 1830s to the 1860s. His the c ity 141 LonÂ�don feels real in part beÂ�cause he conÂ�cenÂ�trated on the odors. He Â�smelled Â�things, even the disÂ�gustÂ�ing. He Â�called this proÂ�penÂ�sity “the atÂ�tracÂ�tion of reÂ�pulÂ�sion,” the Â�French equivÂ�aÂ�lent of which is “nosÂ�talÂ�gie de la boue” (Émile AuÂ�gier). Â�Dickens’s LonÂ�don is not quite of his time, howÂ�ever. He Â�doesn’t menÂ�tion, for exÂ�amÂ�ple, the underÂ�ground railÂ�ways that were built in the early 1860s, or even the subÂ�urÂ�ban comÂ�muter Â�trains. His charÂ�acÂ�ters Â�mostly Â�traveled on foot or by cab, and his LonÂ�don was cenÂ�tral LonÂ�don, the LonÂ�don of his childÂ�hood. His earÂ�liÂ�est novÂ�els—The PostÂ�huÂ�mous Â�Papers of the PickÂ�wick Club (1836–37), OlÂ�iÂ�ver Twist (1837–39), and The Life and AdÂ�venÂ�tures of NichÂ�oÂ�las NickÂ�leby (1838–39)— could have porÂ�trayed their heÂ�roes as leadÂ�ing comÂ�fortÂ�able lives, but inÂ�stead the novÂ�els dwelt with relÂ�ish on the worst asÂ�pects of life: “the Fleet and NewÂ�gate prisÂ�ons, the crimÂ�iÂ�nal underÂ�world, the Â�squalid Â�Jacob’s IsÂ�land where Bill Sikes meets his death, SmithÂ� field marÂ�ket (a reÂ�itÂ�erÂ�ated topic for disÂ�gust in his ficÂ�tion and jourÂ�nalÂ�ism), the ‘very dirty and dusty Â�suburb’ where MadeÂ�line Bray lives, the ‘unÂ�heedÂ�ing restÂ�less Â�crowd’ which NichÂ�oÂ�las NickÂ�leby conÂ�temÂ�plates, conÂ�tainÂ�ing ‘pale and Â�pinched-up faces, hunÂ�gry eyes, Â�half-naked shivÂ�erÂ�ing figÂ�ures.’”42 The PriÂ�vate DeÂ�tecÂ�tive Â�Against imÂ�ages of filth and degÂ�raÂ�daÂ�tion were those of Â�wealth, “the brilÂ�liant flood of light that Â�streamed from the winÂ�dows of the shops, emÂ�porÂ�iums of splenÂ�did Â�dresses, vesÂ�sels of burÂ�nished the c ity 142 gold and silÂ�ver.”43 In the inÂ�dusÂ�triÂ�alÂ�izÂ�ing citÂ�ies of the late VicÂ�toÂ�rian era, isÂ�lands of Â�wealth were Â�swamped by povÂ�erty and its most conÂ�spicÂ�uÂ�ous prodÂ�uct—an alien and threatÂ�enÂ�ing popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion. Â�Forces of Â�law-and-order were feeÂ�ble Â�lights that Â�barely made any difÂ�ferÂ�ence on the darkÂ�enÂ�ing landÂ�scape. What to do? IgÂ�nore the Â�blight was the most comÂ�mon soÂ�luÂ�tion then as now. One might think that writÂ�ers like MayÂ�hew and DickÂ�ens reÂ�minded LonÂ�donÂ�ers of the horÂ�rors, but inÂ�stead they ofÂ�fered esÂ�cape in the form of a litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture that could be read in the comÂ�fort of an armÂ�chair. An even more acÂ�cessÂ�ible means of esÂ�cape—deÂ�tecÂ�tive ficÂ�tion—Â� emerged in the secÂ�ond half of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury. In deÂ�tecÂ�tive ficÂ�tion, the poÂ�lice may be slow of wit but not the priÂ�vate Â�sleuth who is inÂ�varÂ�iÂ�ably brilÂ�liant. MoreÂ�over, he is reÂ�spectÂ�ful of his Â�client’s priÂ�vacy, for unÂ�like the poÂ�lice ofÂ�fiÂ�cer, he is a genÂ�tleÂ�man, alÂ�beit one with unÂ�conÂ�venÂ�tional and even BoÂ�heÂ�mian Â�tastes. DeÂ�tecÂ�tive Â�fiction’s most faÂ�mous charÂ�acÂ�ter is Conan Â�Doyle’s SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes. Â�Besides being a man of the sharpÂ�est inÂ�telÂ�lect, he has other notÂ�able qualÂ�ities, among them being an exÂ�cepÂ�tional sense of diÂ�recÂ�tion (he is never lost in the back alÂ�leys of LonÂ�don or the wilds of Tibet) and a soÂ�cial ease in all ranks of soÂ�ciÂ�ety (he could as easÂ�ily have ofÂ�fered tea to Lord St. Simon as have hobÂ�nobbed with Â�street urÂ�chins, boxÂ�ers in smoky baseÂ�ments, or habÂ�iÂ�tués of opium dens). Â�Holmes is an inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�alÂ�ist, one who might be adÂ�mired by capÂ�iÂ�talÂ�ist enÂ�treÂ�prenÂ�eurs, but unÂ�like them, he has heart and beÂ�lieves in noÂ�blesse Â�oblige and will offer his serÂ�vice to one who canÂ�not pay. the c ity 143 Yet, by the secÂ�ond half of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, the more asÂ�tute LonÂ�donÂ�ers, conÂ�fronted by the swarmÂ�ing multiÂ�tudes, might have wonÂ�dered, What pasÂ�sions lurk beÂ�hind these Â�people’s imÂ�pasÂ�sive faces? What plots stew beÂ�hind the faÂ�cades of their serÂ�ried row Â�houses? And perÂ�haps most disÂ�turbÂ�ing of all, Can viÂ�oÂ�lent crime be comÂ�mitÂ�ted by the Â�neighborhood’s Â�friendly toÂ�bacÂ�conÂ�ist or bespecÂ�taÂ�cled liÂ�brarÂ�ian? PoÂ�lice conÂ�stables Â�lacked the imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion to raise such quesÂ�tions, hence their inÂ�abilÂ�ity to solve many Â�crimes. At least, this was how ficÂ�tion writÂ�ers liked to see it. Â�Holmes did have the reqÂ�uiÂ�site psychoÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal penÂ�eÂ�traÂ�tion. He could see beÂ�hind the mask, a knack that made him seem unÂ�canny to his adÂ�verÂ�sarÂ�ies. When Â�Holmes “read” ColoÂ�nel Moran, for exÂ�amÂ�ple, and used psychoÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal cues alone to unÂ�cover him as the vilÂ�lain, Moran Â�couldn’t help atÂ�tribÂ�utÂ�ing that abilÂ�ity to someÂ� thing not of this world. “You Â�clever, Â�clever fiend!” he Â�shouted.44 PeoÂ�ple were then drawn in by Â�Holmes’s repÂ�uÂ�taÂ�tion and Â�sought his help. But there were other reaÂ�sons as well. UnÂ�like ofÂ�fiÂ�cers of the law, Â�Holmes could reÂ�spect his Â�clients’ priÂ�vacy if it Â�didn’t hinÂ�der his inÂ�vesÂ�tiÂ�gaÂ�tion. VicÂ�toÂ�rians were knowlÂ�edgeÂ�able in ways of the world and could face, if they had to, the sorÂ�did revÂ�eÂ�laÂ�tions of MayÂ�hew and DickÂ�ens, but they were not yet preÂ� pared to conÂ�front revÂ�eÂ�laÂ�tions, soon to be proÂ�claimed by Freud, conÂ�cernÂ�ing the underÂ�side—the anÂ�iÂ�malÂ�ity and viÂ�oÂ�lence—of sex in Â�four-poster beds. AnÂ�other Â�source of anxÂ�iety, more imÂ�perÂ�sonal and nebÂ�uÂ� lous, had to do with the econÂ�omy—in parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar, the capÂ�iÂ�talÂ�ist the c ity 144 disÂ�triÂ�buÂ�tion of Â�wealth, the exÂ�treme inÂ�equalÂ�ity of which could igÂ�nite soÂ�cial unÂ�rest. At one level, it is Â�strange that VicÂ�toÂ�rians Â�should have this nagÂ�ging sense of unÂ�ease when their emÂ�pire covÂ�ered much of the globe and their queen was Â�crowned EmÂ�press of India; moreÂ�over, many techÂ�niÂ�cal and soÂ�cial imÂ�proveÂ�ments, such as betÂ�ter lightÂ�ing, a more efÂ�fiÂ�cient buÂ�reauÂ�cracy, and a more adÂ�eÂ�quate poÂ�lice force, culÂ�miÂ�nated in the peÂ�riod of Â�Holmes’s asÂ�cenÂ�dancy Â�between 1880 and 1900. Even more surÂ�prisÂ�ing is that the Â�detective’s popÂ�uÂ�larÂ�ity exÂ�tended, unÂ�diÂ�minÂ�ished, into the next cenÂ�tury. The origÂ�iÂ�nal Â�Holmes canon has been Â�vastly enÂ�riched by imÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion, pasÂ�tiche, and seÂ�riÂ�ous writÂ�ing, as well as by movie and teleÂ�viÂ�sion. In a gloÂ�bal econÂ�omy, a new Â�Holmes story or movie is guarÂ�anÂ�teed comÂ�merÂ�cial sucÂ�cess not only in the West but also in the newly rich Asian counÂ�tries. The enÂ�duÂ�rance of Â�Holmes and other priÂ�vate Â�sleuths Â�raises the quesÂ�tion, What do the charÂ�acÂ�ters Â�within this long, eventÂ�ful peÂ�riod, from, say, 1850 to 2000, have in comÂ�mon? One thing is that they all have exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�enced the huge exÂ�panÂ�sion of comÂ�muÂ� niÂ�caÂ�tion, Â�thanks to the inÂ�venÂ�tion and apÂ�pliÂ�caÂ�tion of new techÂ� nolÂ�oÂ�gies. The new techÂ�nolÂ�ogy in the time of DickÂ�ens and VicÂ�toria was the teleÂ�graph, which Â�created vast soÂ�cial netÂ�works Â�across the naÂ�tion and beÂ�yond. The new techÂ�nolÂ�ogy in our time is of Â�course the InterÂ�net, which has sucÂ�ceeded in weavÂ�ing peoÂ�ple Â�within a soÂ�cial fabÂ�ric that covÂ�ers our gloÂ�bal soÂ�ciÂ�ety. But it is the comÂ�moÂ�nÂ� alÂ�ity, which on the downÂ�side is Â�mostly of an ecoÂ�nomic and soÂ�cial naÂ�ture, that has proÂ�vided ferÂ�tile soil for priÂ�vate Â�sleuths to the c ity 145 flourÂ�ish. Â�Dickens’s early novÂ�els, for exÂ�amÂ�ple, were set in a time of “unÂ�precÂ�eÂ�dented fiÂ�nanÂ�cial unÂ�cerÂ�tainty. An ecoÂ�nomic colÂ�lapse in 1825 led to Â�around 80 banks failÂ�ing and alÂ�most 500 comÂ�paÂ�nies going bankÂ�rupt, and thirÂ�teen years later the memÂ�ory was still raw Â�enough to reÂ�surÂ�face in NichÂ�oÂ�las NickÂ�leby.” The rich beÂ�came Â�richer and the poor Â�poorer. KinÂ�ship bond and paÂ�terÂ�naÂ�lisÂ�tic obÂ�liÂ� gaÂ�tion waned; in conÂ�seÂ�quence, reÂ�sentÂ�ment rose among workÂ�ers and anÂ�oÂ�mie rose among the Â�well-off.45 Later, in the 1880s, proÂ�longed reÂ�cesÂ�sion Â�brought viÂ�oÂ�lence into Â�London’s Â�streets, and the word “unÂ�emÂ�ployÂ�ment” was introÂ�duced into the lexÂ�iÂ�con. The huge metÂ�roÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tan popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion, Â�swelled by imÂ�miÂ�grants from the colÂ�oÂ�nies and Â�foreign counÂ�tries, some of whom were disÂ�siÂ�dents and revÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tionÂ�arÂ�ies, made soÂ�ciÂ�ety seem Â�barely governÂ�able and alÂ�ways someÂ�how under Â�threat. “Irish naÂ�tionÂ�alÂ�ists Â�adopted a new exÂ�ploÂ�sive, dyÂ�naÂ�mite, and added ‘terrorism’ to urban exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence; Jack the RipÂ�per ran rings round the poÂ�lice and exÂ�posed the terÂ�rifyÂ�ing vulÂ�nerÂ�abilÂ�ity of marÂ�giÂ�nal Â�groups.”46 These dysÂ�funcÂ�tions of the DickÂ�ens/VicÂ�toÂ�rian era reÂ�mind us of the ills of our time. By now SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes has been with us for 125 years. Â�Besides solvÂ�ing Â�crimes and rightÂ�ing inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual Â�wrongs, what Â�broader and more lastÂ�ing soÂ�luÂ�tion has Â�Holmes proÂ�posed? It is edÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion—the power of knowlÂ�edge to disÂ�pel the murk of igÂ�norÂ�ance and evil. For knowlÂ�edge to be taken up seÂ�riÂ�ously and over the long haul, there has to be a large dose of opÂ�tiÂ�mism— unÂ�reÂ�alisÂ�tic, roÂ�manÂ�tic opÂ�tiÂ�mism. Â�Holmes famed for his anÂ�aÂ�lytÂ�iÂ�cal powÂ�ers is noneÂ�theÂ�less a roÂ�manÂ�tic, by which I mean not only in the c ity 146 his unÂ�conÂ�venÂ�tionÂ�alÂ�ity, his BoÂ�heÂ�mianÂ�ism, but also in his faith in edÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion. In “The Naval Â�Treaty,” Â�Holmes Â�shares that opÂ�tiÂ�mism as he and WatÂ�son disÂ�cuss the view of the city from the train: “It’s a very charmÂ�ing thing to come into LonÂ�don by any of these lines which run high and allow you to look down upon the Â�houses like this.” I Â�thought Â�Holmes was jokÂ�ing, for the view was sorÂ�did Â�enough, but he soon exÂ�plained himÂ�self. “Look at those big, isoÂ�lated Â�clumps of buildÂ�ings risÂ�ing above the Â�slates, like brick isÂ�lands in a Â�lead-colored sea.” “The Board Â�schools.” “LightÂ�houses, my boy! BeaÂ�cons of the fuÂ�ture! CapÂ�sules, with hunÂ�dreds of Â�bright litÂ�tle seeds in each out of which will Â�spring the wiser, betÂ�ter EnÂ�gland of the fuÂ�ture.”47 EdÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion is still given as the anÂ�swer to Â�society’s ills, at least in the long run, but withÂ�out SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes’s conÂ�fiÂ�dence—his Â�naïveté. BoardÂ�ing Â�schools? No. “LightÂ�houses, my boy! BeaÂ�cons of the fuÂ�ture!” Can one imÂ�aÂ�gine Lord Peter WimÂ�sey or HerÂ�cule PoiÂ�rot, Â�twentieth-century creaÂ�tions, much less the hardÂ�nosed deÂ�tecÂ�tives of the Â�American Â�writer DaÂ�shiell HamÂ�mett, sayÂ�ing that? If they ever offer a panÂ�aÂ�cea for soÂ�ciÂ�ety, it would be in a tone of mockÂ�ery. And mockÂ�ery—or even an Â�ironic, soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cated tone—is Â�wholly alien to the roÂ�manÂ�tic temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ment. 4 The Human Being C ivÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion has proÂ�duced three disÂ�tincÂ�tive human types: aesÂ�thete, hero, and saint. All three are inÂ�clined toÂ�ward a beÂ�havÂ�ior or quest that goes beÂ�yond, or tresÂ�passes, soÂ�ciÂ�etal norm. The perÂ�son Â�stands out from the group, even when, as in the case of the saint, modÂ�esty and selfÂ�lessÂ�ness are the disÂ�tinÂ�guishÂ�ing virÂ�tues. AesÂ�thete, hero, and saint are, in other words, inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�alÂ� ists. Why, one might ask, asÂ�sign them a sepÂ�arÂ�ate chapÂ�ter in a work enÂ�tiÂ�tled “roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy,” when geogÂ�raÂ�phy is, traÂ�diÂ� tionÂ�ally, conÂ�cerned with the group, its Â�well-being and surÂ�viÂ�val? My anÂ�swer is that geogÂ�raÂ�phy not only is a spaÂ�tial sciÂ�ence but also is an enÂ�quiry into naÂ�ture and culÂ�ture, the tranÂ�siÂ�tion from livÂ�ing close to naÂ�ture to livÂ�ing in an arÂ�tiÂ�facÂ�tual world, and, in the case of the inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual, from bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal being to culÂ�tural being. GeogÂ�raÂ�phers study such tranÂ�siÂ�tions, but at a group level, they 147 the human be ing 148 atÂ�tribÂ�ute the Â�changes alÂ�most Â�solely to imÂ�perÂ�sonal Â�forces. I, by Â�contrast, introÂ�duce inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als. Their stoÂ�ries are perÂ�sonal, more Â�driven by emoÂ�tion and Â�ideals, more Â�likely to deÂ�part from group conÂ�venÂ�tion, more roÂ�manÂ�tic. AesÂ�thetes PeoÂ�ples difÂ�fer in their apÂ�preÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion of the deÂ�gree of clutÂ�ter in their natÂ�uÂ�ral and built enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments. DwellÂ�ers of tropÂ�iÂ�cal forÂ�ests know no other setÂ�ting than tropÂ�iÂ�cal forÂ�est and no doubt apÂ�preÂ� ciate its clutÂ�ter. Â�Desert dwellÂ�ers, by Â�contrast, preÂ�fer simÂ�ple, open space. As to the built enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ment, north Asian culÂ�ture has opted for sweepÂ�ing simÂ�plicÂ�ity, Â�China’s ForÂ�bidÂ�den City being an exÂ�amÂ�ple. South and SouthÂ�east Asian culÂ�tures, by Â�contrast, revel in comÂ�plexÂ�ity, the inÂ�triÂ�cately sculpÂ�tured temÂ�ples of Â�Angkor Wat being an exÂ�amÂ�ple. In the West, modÂ�ern high art, under the inÂ�fluÂ� ence of sleek maÂ�chines, faÂ�vors the simÂ�ple, or what looks simÂ�ple. Its aesÂ�thetic quest takes one from Â�nature’s inÂ�choate mass to Â�culture’s clarÂ�ity, from the heaviÂ�ness of body to the lightÂ�ness of Â�spirit, from amorÂ�phous crudÂ�ity to arÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lated elÂ�eÂ�gance. AlÂ�though comÂ�plexÂ�ity and simÂ�plicÂ�ity may both be valÂ�ued at the same time, they also mark a proÂ�gresÂ�sion, the deÂ�sire to move from one to the other. One such proÂ�gresÂ�sion is from the bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ� cal needs of the body to the aesÂ�thetic/culÂ�tural asÂ�piÂ�raÂ�tions of the Â�spirit. CaÂ�mille PaÂ�glia ilÂ�lusÂ�trates it by comÂ�parÂ�ing two sculpÂ�tures of the feÂ�male human body: the Venus of WilÂ�lenÂ�dorf (30,000 BCE) the human be ing 149 and Queen NeÂ�ferÂ�titi (1350 BCE). Venus of WilÂ�lenÂ�dorf is pure naÂ�ture—a Â�chthonic, Â�bowel-of-earth godÂ�dess. Â�Paglia’s charÂ�acÂ�terÂ�izaÂ� tion is Â�richly viÂ�tuÂ�perÂ�aÂ�tive, sayÂ�ing of her that she “feels but does not see or think;” that she is “blind, tonÂ�gueÂ�less, brainÂ�less, armÂ� less, Â�knock-kneed .€.€. a Â�rooted tuber that Â�presses down;” that she has “no lines, only Â�curves and cirÂ�cles;” that she is “formÂ�less, mired in the miÂ�asÂ�mic swamp;” that she is “life, hence Â�squalor.”1 In sharpÂ�est Â�contrast is Queen NeÂ�ferÂ�titi, “the triÂ�umph of ApolÂ�loÂ�nian image over the lumpiÂ�ness and horÂ�ror of Â�mother earth. EveryÂ�thing fat, slack, and Â�sleepy is gone.” If the Venus of WilÂ�lenÂ�dorf is all body, NeÂ�ferÂ�titi is all head. Her “face Â�gleams with the newÂ�ness of reÂ�birth, a sun that never sets.” Her neck is so slenÂ�der that it seems on the point of snapÂ�ping. NeÂ�ferÂ�titi proÂ�pels herÂ�self “like a jet into Â�sky-cult. .€.€. She has great bones.” She is stone archiÂ�tecÂ�ture, “just as Venus de WilÂ�lenÂ�dorf is Â�earthen ovals, woman as quivÂ�erÂ�ing Â�poached egg. NeÂ�ferÂ�titi is feÂ�maleÂ�ness made mathÂ�eÂ�matÂ�iÂ�cal, feÂ�maleÂ�ness subÂ�liÂ�mated by beÂ�comÂ�ing Â�harder and more conÂ�crete.”2 The one word for slim and Â�sharp-edged form is elÂ�eÂ�gance. “ElÂ�eÂ�gance” is of Â�course not conÂ�fined to feÂ�male form and fashÂ�ion; it may also deÂ�scribe DanÂ�ish furÂ�niÂ�ture, aphorÂ�ism, and mathÂ�eÂ�matÂ�ics. When the word is used, a cerÂ�tain superÂ�iorÂ�ity is imÂ�plied. ElÂ�eÂ�gance is of the arisÂ�toÂ�crats. Those who claim it deÂ�spise the inÂ�coÂ�herÂ�ence, formÂ�lessÂ�ness, clutÂ�ter, and visÂ�cosÂ�ity in the lives of the “lower orÂ�ders,” be they primÂ�iÂ�tives or the workÂ�ing poor. But the human be ing 150 the Â�so-called lower orÂ�ders enjoy the viÂ�talÂ�ity of unÂ�inÂ�hibÂ�ited livÂ�ing that the elÂ�eÂ�gant and the superÂ�ior of mind do not have. MoreÂ�over, raw and gross viÂ�talÂ�ity may be a bulÂ�wark and an antiÂ�dote Â�against the arÂ�roÂ�gance of the simÂ�plifyÂ�ing, reÂ�ducÂ�tive, and, ulÂ�tiÂ�mately, dicÂ�taÂ�toÂ�rial mind. Â�George OrÂ�well cerÂ�tainly Â�thought so. In his dysÂ�toÂ�pian fanÂ�tasy 1984, nothÂ�ing seems caÂ�pable of standÂ�ing up to Big Â�Brother exÂ�cept, just posÂ�sibly, a life of garÂ�ish, mindÂ�less Â�strength. WinsÂ�ton, the Â�besieged hero, glimÂ�mered hope when he Â�looked down and saw a woman who had no mind, she had only Â�strong arms, a warm heart and a ferÂ�tile belly. He wonÂ�dered how many chilÂ�dren she had given birth to. It might easÂ�ily be fifÂ�teen. She had had her moÂ�menÂ�tary flowÂ�erÂ�ing, a year, perÂ�haps, of wild rose Â�beauty, and then she had sudÂ�denly swolÂ�len like a ferÂ�tiÂ�lized fruit and grown hard and red and Â�coarse, and then her life had been launderÂ�ing, scrubÂ�bing, launderÂ�ing, first for chilÂ�dren, then for grandÂ�chilÂ�dren, over Â�thirty unÂ�broken years. At the end of it she was still singÂ�ing.3 WinsÂ�ton Â�speaks conÂ�desÂ�cendÂ�ingly but, it seems, also adÂ�mirÂ� ingly. One wonÂ�ders, Â�though, about the adÂ�miÂ�raÂ�tion. He does so from a Â�height. He looks down and sees, but seeÂ�ing imÂ�plies disÂ� tance and is disÂ�tancÂ�ing. Could WinsÂ�ton—could Â�George OrÂ�well— have tolÂ�erÂ�ated more inÂ�tiÂ�mate conÂ�tact? A memÂ�ber of the lower Â�upper-middle class, as OrÂ�well himÂ�self put it, and a gradÂ�uÂ�ate of Eton, OrÂ�well was conÂ�vinced that Â�working-class peoÂ�ple Â�smelled, the human be ing 151 and “the Â�thought made him sick.” Â�Rather than stay in a world of clean launÂ�dry and tinkÂ�ling teaÂ�cups that was his birthÂ�right, OrÂ�well chose to lacÂ�erÂ�ate his senÂ�sibilÂ�ity. One day, he Â�changed into worn, dirty Â�clothes, set off for LimeÂ�house, and there, shorÂ�ing up his couÂ�rage, enÂ�tered the dark doorÂ�way of a comÂ�mon lodgÂ�ing house that adÂ�verÂ�tised “good beds” for sinÂ�gle men. Going down there, he conÂ�fessed later, was like going down into some dreadÂ�ful subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean place—“a sewer full of rats, for inÂ�stance.”4 Did OrÂ�well think he could find an anÂ�swer to life by going to the slums, as SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes Â�thought he could find the soÂ�luÂ� tion to crime by going to an opium den? Can it even be said that OrÂ�well beÂ�haved Â�rather like a Â�fin-de-siècle aesÂ�thete, seekÂ�ing exÂ�treme senÂ�saÂ�tions in exÂ�otic quarÂ�ters?5 ObÂ�viÂ�ously the aesÂ�thetÂ�iÂ� cism that OrÂ�well Â�sought was not that of the “pansy poet” he deÂ�spised. Â�Rather it was a viÂ�talÂ�ism—raw life that could inÂ�ject viÂ�talÂ�ity into his own aneÂ�mic exÂ�isÂ�tence and be also a genÂ�eral bulÂ�wark Â�against emasÂ�cuÂ�laÂ�tion by overÂ�weenÂ�ing reaÂ�son in the Â�larger soÂ�ciÂ�ety. HeÂ�roes The hero is one who acts Â�boldly, even at a risk to one’s own life. How comÂ�mon is the hero? “Not comÂ�mon” is one plauÂ�sible anÂ�swer beÂ�cause the inÂ�stinct for surÂ�viÂ�val is Â�strong and Â�backed, moreÂ�over, by the Â�group’s own cauÂ�tious, conÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�tive Â�stance, which is to avoid any acÂ�tion that makes one stand out, an exÂ�cepÂ�tion. On the the human be ing 152 other hand, “not all that unÂ�usual” is also a plauÂ�sible anÂ�swer, if only beÂ�cause the inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual has a Â�strong need for apÂ�plause. Again, soÂ�cial apÂ�proval comes into play, Â�though with a very difÂ�ferÂ�ent efÂ�fect on the inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual. A true hero is of Â�course neiÂ�ther deÂ�scripÂ� tion comÂ�pletely. His acÂ�tion may be long and Â�drawn-out and meÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lously Â�planned, but it can also be inÂ�tuiÂ�tive and imÂ�pulÂ�sive, as the folÂ�lowÂ�ing exÂ�amÂ�ple shows. On the night of OcÂ�toÂ�ber 10, 1975, 18Â�-Â�year-old BradÂ�ley T. VanÂ�Damme of FulÂ�ton, IlÂ�liÂ�nois, was inÂ�volved in a seÂ�riÂ�ous Â�onecar acÂ�ciÂ�dent. As he lay unÂ�conÂ�scious in the front seat, the rear of his veÂ�hiÂ�cle burst into Â�flames. By the time byÂ�stander BilÂ�lie Joe McCulÂ�lough Â�reached the car, the fire had Â�spread into the front of the pasÂ�senÂ�ger comÂ�partÂ�ment. McCulÂ�lough Â�crawled into the car and with great difÂ�fiÂ�culty and at obÂ�viÂ�ous risk to his own life, Â�pulled VanÂ�Damme free. MoÂ�ments later the enÂ�tire car exÂ�ploded into Â�flames. AlÂ�though VanÂ�Damme sufÂ�fered exÂ�tenÂ�sive inÂ�juÂ�ries and was badly Â�burned, he evenÂ�tuÂ�ally reÂ�covÂ�ered.6 McCulÂ�lough, a 22Â�-Â�year-old laÂ�borer, was later Â�awarded the CarneÂ�gie Medal, an honor given for outÂ�standÂ�ing acts of selfÂ�less heroÂ�ism perÂ�formed in the Â�United Â�States and CanÂ�ada. Â�Fifty-six medÂ�als were Â�awarded in 1977, eight of them postÂ�huÂ�mously. To reÂ�ceive the CarneÂ�gie Medal, the actor must be in danÂ�ger of losÂ�ing his or her own life, must not be diÂ�rectly reÂ�lated to the vicÂ�tim, and must not be in an ocÂ�cuÂ�paÂ�tional role, such as that of a poÂ�lice the human be ing 153 ofÂ�fiÂ�cer or a lifeÂ�guard, in which duty would have reÂ�quired the act. McCulÂ�lough reÂ�sponded withÂ�out hesÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion. How could a young felÂ�low so readÂ�ily reÂ�press his bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal urge to live? His task Â�wasn’t just a sinÂ�gle swift acÂ�tion. He had to crawl into the Â�wrecked car and strugÂ�gle to free the vicÂ�tim. At any time he might have had secÂ�ond Â�thoughts, but if he did, he Â�didn’t act on them. WhatÂ�ever the weakÂ�nesses of his flesh and howÂ�ever Â�strong the tempÂ�taÂ�tion was to give up, those imÂ�pulses were Â�trumped by his Â�spirit, and that unÂ�doubtÂ�edly made him a hero. But can he also be Â�called a roÂ�manÂ�tic? I think he can, as inÂ�deed all true heÂ�roes can, in that their acÂ�tions belie what soÂ�ciÂ�ety exÂ�pects and are deÂ�void of calÂ�cuÂ�laÂ�tions of conÂ�seÂ�quence to self. In other words, their acÂ�tions lack comÂ�mon sense, which, howÂ�ever comÂ�mendÂ�able in the Â�dayto-day conÂ�duct of life, is not roÂ�manÂ�tic. NevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less, one eleÂ�ment was missÂ�ing from Â�McCullough’s acÂ�tion that makes for roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ� cism, Â�namely, the idea of a quest. ExÂ�plorÂ�ers who willÂ�ingly sufÂ�fered enorÂ�mous hardÂ�ship to disÂ�cover the Â�source of the Nile or to do someÂ�thing even more quixÂ�otic, such as disÂ�cover how emÂ�peror penÂ�guins proÂ�tect their eggs in AntÂ�arcÂ�tic winÂ�ter, were enÂ�gaged in Â�quests, and so are in my view roÂ�manÂ�tic heÂ�roes. To be disÂ�tinÂ�guished from them are other exÂ�plorÂ�ers. Â�Though they too might sufÂ�fer enorÂ�mous hardÂ� ship, they were after such Â�worldly ends as findÂ�ing gold, esÂ�tabÂ� lishÂ�ing comÂ�merce, or exÂ�tendÂ�ing imÂ�peÂ�rial sway. Given the Â�widely the human be ing 154 acÂ�cepted view that the secÂ�ond half of the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury was a time of EuÂ�roÂ�pean raÂ�paÂ�cious greed, it is hard to see RichÂ�ard FranÂ�cis BurÂ�ton, John Speke, Henry MorÂ�ton StanÂ�ley, and David LivÂ�ingÂ�stone as unÂ�tainted. Of Â�course they all had human Â�faults, egreÂ�giously so, like vanÂ�ity and comÂ�petÂ�iÂ�tiveÂ�ness, but they were not a part of the imÂ�peÂ�rial grab that ocÂ�curred later. In the 1850s and 1860s, these BritÂ�ish exÂ�plorÂ�ers were still able to reÂ�tain a cerÂ�tain boyÂ�ish inÂ�noÂ�cence and enÂ�thuÂ�siasm that could make their Â�quests seem roÂ�manÂ�tic. Why AfÂ�rica? There was the hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal conÂ�necÂ�tion. AfÂ�rica was the “dark” conÂ�tiÂ�nent closÂ�est to the anÂ�cient Â�Greeks and RoÂ�mans, whose cuÂ�riÂ�osÂ�ity Â�passed down fitÂ�fully to their EuÂ�roÂ�pean sucÂ�cesÂ� sors. Among the most often asked quesÂ�tions were, “Where is the Â�source of the Nile, and why does it flow the way it does?” Homer, HeÂ�rodÂ�oÂ�tus, AlÂ�exÂ�anÂ�der the Great, and Nero, as well as geogÂ�raÂ�phers of a later time, Â�wanted to know the anÂ�swers, but none came close to reÂ�ceivÂ�ing them until the 1870s. Â�Nineteenth-century geogÂ�raÂ� phers exÂ�tended their cuÂ�riÂ�osÂ�ity beÂ�yond the Â�source of the Nile to the genÂ�eral lay of the land, deÂ�picÂ�tion of which reÂ�quired careÂ�ful mapÂ�ping. Under primÂ�iÂ�tive conÂ�diÂ�tions, the task Â�called for the paÂ�tience of Job. John Speke sat up all night in bad Â�weather to calÂ�cuÂ�late his lunar anÂ�gles. waitÂ�ing for a break in the clouds Â� Henry MorÂ�ton StanÂ�ley Â�risked Â�health and life to make maps that were acÂ�cuÂ�rate.7 the human be ing 155 As for physÂ�iÂ�cal hardÂ�ship, conÂ�sider what Â�fifty-three-year-old David LivÂ�ingÂ�stone had to enÂ�dure when he atÂ�tempted to loÂ�cate the Â�source of the Nile. In June 1870, he enÂ�tered a counÂ�try that was about 150 miles east of what is now Lake TanÂ�ganÂ�yika. Of the origÂ�iÂ�nal Â�thirty-five portÂ�ers who acÂ�comÂ�paÂ�nied him, many died or deÂ�serted so that in the end he was left with only three. They Â�crossed a valÂ�ley so dense with palms of long, thick leafÂ�stalks that they were Â�obliged to folÂ�low a track Â�created by elÂ�eÂ�phant and bufÂ�falo. “In conÂ�seÂ�quence, he and his men often sank into Â�elephants’ footÂ�prints up to their Â�thighs. The going was so rough that LivÂ�ingÂ�stone, a keen natÂ�uÂ�ralÂ�ist, was unÂ�able to write deÂ�scripÂ� tions of the many birds and monÂ�keys he was seeÂ�ing for the first time.” Rain came down heavÂ�ily. Each eveÂ�ning, he Â�stripped off his Â�clothes and dried them by a smoky fire. MaÂ�laria prosÂ�trated him; acute inÂ�diÂ�gesÂ�tion folÂ�lowed such that whenÂ�ever his food was Â�coarse, his piles bled. “His damÂ�aged teeth made so litÂ�tle imÂ�presÂ� sion on green maize and elÂ�eÂ�phant meat that his stomÂ�ach was left with too much to do. The reÂ�sult was conÂ�stant heartÂ�burn. Many of his moÂ�lars were so loose that he was Â�obliged to perÂ�form exÂ�tracÂ�tions, emÂ�ployÂ�ing ‘a Â�strong Â�thread’ .€.€. and then ‘strikÂ�ing the Â�thread with a heavy pisÂ�tol.’”8 PhysÂ�iÂ�cal sufÂ�ferÂ�ing can be tolÂ�erÂ�ated if the reÂ�ward is to solve a milÂ�lenÂ�nial mysÂ�tery. But it Â�doesn’t even have to be that. A puzÂ�zle of far less anÂ�cesÂ�try and conÂ�seÂ�quence can inÂ�spire an exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�tion the human be ing 156 of epic heroÂ�ism. ConÂ�sider a jourÂ�ney that ApÂ�sley Â�Cherry-Garrard parÂ�ticÂ�iÂ�pated in, one that he later deÂ�scribed as the worst in the world. Why was it underÂ�taken? AnÂ�swer: To disÂ�cover how emÂ�bryo penÂ�guin eggs surÂ�vived exÂ�treme cold. With this sciÂ�enÂ�tific purÂ�pose in mind—or, was it just an exÂ�cuse?—on June 22, 1911, in the depth of AntÂ�arcÂ�tic winÂ�ter, three men from the RobÂ�ert FalÂ�con Scott exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�tion left their camp and set out for Cape CroÂ�zier. At first, the cold Â�didn’t feel so terÂ�rible. The temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ture was only -47 deÂ�grees FahÂ�renÂ�heit. Â�Cherry-Garrard took his hands out of his mitts and alÂ�most inÂ�stantly “all ten finÂ�gers were Â�frost-bitten, and Â�within a few hours there were two or three large blisÂ�ters, up to an inch long, on all of them. For many days those blisÂ�ters hurt frightÂ�fully.” As to how cold it could be, Â�Cherry-Garrard wrote that he had just had his breakÂ�fast in the warm tent and, once outÂ�side, Â�raised his head to look round and found that he could not move it back. “My clothÂ�ing had froÂ�zen hard as I stood—perÂ�haps fifÂ�teen secÂ�onds. For four hours I had to pull with my head stuck up, and from that time we all took care to bend down into a pullÂ�ing poÂ�siÂ�tion beÂ�fore being froÂ�zen in.”9 AlÂ�though the inÂ�tense cold punÂ�ished Â�cruelly, it was the pitch darkÂ�ness that made the jourÂ�ney hell. I don’t beÂ�lieve minus Â�seventy temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�tures would be quite so bad in dayÂ�light when you could see where you were going, where you were stepÂ�ping, could see your footÂ�steps Â�lately trodÂ�den the human be ing 157 into the soft snow that you might find your way back to the rest of your load, could read a comÂ�pass withÂ�out strikÂ�ing three or four difÂ�ferÂ�ent boxes to find one dry match.10 Even today, mounÂ�tainÂ�eers, polar exÂ�plorÂ�ers, and Â�deep-sea divÂ�ers willÂ�ingly subÂ�mit to danÂ�ger and hardÂ�ship for goals that have litÂ�tle ecoÂ�nomic or sciÂ�enÂ�tific value. Is there, then, a difÂ�ferÂ�ence in heÂ�roic adÂ�venÂ�turÂ�ing Â�between then and now? I beÂ�lieve there is. UnÂ�like modÂ�ern secÂ�uÂ�larÂ�ist exÂ�plorÂ�ers, those of the VicÂ�toÂ�rian and EdÂ�wardÂ�ian peÂ�riÂ�ods emÂ�barked on Â�quests that can now seem, in Â�retrospect, more roÂ�manÂ�tic beÂ�cause they were Â�tinted by a meÂ�diÂ�eval noÂ�tion of chivÂ�alry and a ChrisÂ�tian beÂ�lief in reÂ�dempÂ�tion Â�through sufÂ�ferÂ�ing. To be on the moral high Â�ground was as imÂ�porÂ�tant to peoÂ�ple like David LivÂ�ingÂ�stone and Sir WalÂ�ter Scott as to be the first to disÂ�cover the Â�source of the Nile or the first to reach the South Pole. Of Â�course, we modÂ�erns are skepÂ�tiÂ�cal, for we are in the habit of lookÂ�ing for low moÂ�tives. But this habit of seeÂ�ing Â�frailty Â�rather than Â�strength, selfÂ�ishÂ�ness Â�rather than virÂ�tue in our felÂ�low human is simÂ�ply anÂ�other difÂ�ferÂ�ence Â�between our time and Â�theirs. While readÂ�ing Â�Cherry-Garrard, I was Â�struck by the reÂ�spect and afÂ�fecÂ�tion that the exÂ�plorÂ�ers had for one anÂ�other. Of Bill WilÂ�son, Â�Cherry-Garrard wrote: I canÂ�not do jusÂ�tice to his value. If you knew him you could not like him: you simÂ�ply had to love him. Bill was of the salt of the the human be ing 158 earth. If I were asked what qualÂ�ity it was beÂ�fore othÂ�ers that made him so useÂ�ful, so lovÂ�able, I think I Â�should anÂ�swer that it was beÂ�cause he never for one moÂ�ment Â�thought of himÂ�self.11 We might gush in an obitÂ�uÂ�ary but not in a seÂ�riÂ�ous narÂ�raÂ�tive of a sciÂ�enÂ�tific exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion. MoreÂ�over, the high Â�praise of WilÂ�son Â�wasn’t just an isoÂ�lated inÂ�stance; it surÂ�faced at varÂ�iÂ�ous Â�places throughÂ�out the text. And WilÂ�son Â�wasn’t the only hero. There were othÂ�ers of alÂ�most equal statÂ�ure. AnÂ�other difÂ�ferÂ�ence was that the earÂ�lier exÂ�plorÂ�ers took for Â�granted that human beÂ�ings had Â�reached a moral Â�height unÂ�known to other anÂ�iÂ�mals. We modÂ�erns see Â�rather difÂ�ferÂ�ently. DisÂ�ilÂ�luÂ�sioned with human veÂ�nalÂ�ity and wickÂ�edÂ�ness, we are all too prone to find exÂ�emÂ�plary moral beÂ�havÂ� ior in anÂ�iÂ�mals. Â�Cherry-Garrard Â�couldn’t disÂ�agree more. He would have conÂ�sidÂ�ered our view hopeÂ�lessly senÂ�tiÂ�menÂ�tal. Here is what he Â�thinks of Â�Antarctica’s AdÂ�éÂ�lie penÂ�guins: The life of an AdÂ�éÂ�lie penÂ�guin is one of the most unÂ�chrisÂ�tian and sucÂ�cessÂ�ful in the world. The penÂ�guin which went for being a true beÂ�liever would never stand the ghost of a Â�chance. Watch them go to bathe. Some fifty or sixty agÂ�iÂ�tated birds are gathÂ�ered upon the Â�ice-foot, peerÂ�ing over the edge, tellÂ�ing one anÂ�other how nice it will be, and what a good dinÂ�ner they are going to have. But this is all swank: they are Â�really worÂ�ried by a horÂ�rid susÂ�piÂ�cion that a Â�sea-leopard is waitÂ�ing to eat the first to dive. The Â�really noble bird, acÂ�cordÂ�ing to our theÂ�oÂ�ries, would say, “I the human be ing 159 will go first and if I am Â�killed I shall at any rate have died unÂ� selfÂ�ishly, sacÂ�riÂ�ficÂ�ing my life for my comÂ�panÂ�ions”; and in time all the most noble birds would be dead. What they Â�really do is to try and perÂ�suade a comÂ�panÂ�ion of Â�weaker mind to Â�plunge: failÂ�ing this, they hastÂ�ily pass a conÂ�scripÂ�tion act and push him over. And then—bang, Â�helter-skelter, in go all the rest.12 What then does learnÂ�ing from anÂ�iÂ�mals mean for us? If their goal is to surÂ�vive and propÂ�aÂ�gate the speÂ�cies, Â�should surÂ�viÂ�val and propÂ�aÂ�gatÂ�ing the speÂ�cies also be our goal? This is putÂ�ting it too Â�strongly, and so we might qualÂ�ify it by sayÂ�ing that we have other goals as well, one of which is roÂ�manÂ�tic transcenÂ�dence, the deÂ�sire to go beÂ�yond surÂ�viÂ�val and the comÂ�fortÂ�able life. But for what? To the hero and, more speÂ�cifÂ�iÂ�cally, to the Â�geographer-explorer hero, it is to solve a geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal puzÂ�zle; to test the limÂ�its of one’s enÂ� duÂ�rance; to see Â�whether the Â�spirit can overÂ�come the frailÂ�ties of the flesh; and to exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence, even at the risk of death, someÂ�thing vast and inÂ�toxÂ�iÂ�catÂ�ing such as might be found at the North or South Pole, the highÂ�est mounÂ�tain, the deepÂ�est Â�trench, the densÂ�est forÂ�est, or the bleakÂ�est Â�desert. Â�Saints If there is any doubt that the saint can be roÂ�manÂ�tic, one has only to point to Saint FranÂ�cis. He was roÂ�manÂ�tic even in the childÂ�ish sense of seeÂ�ing himÂ�self a Â�knight in shinÂ�ing armor. He Â�boasted to his Â�mother, “Don’t you know that I’ll be a great Â�knight, that I’ll the human be ing 160 marry a prinÂ�cess Â�who’ll give me lots of chilÂ�dren?”13 His Â�mother no doubt found her son’s boast naive but charmÂ�ing. The Â�knightly ideal, howÂ�ever, was inÂ�grained in his perÂ�sonÂ�alÂ�ity and not a phase that he could outÂ�grow. It conÂ�tinÂ�ued to show in his atÂ�tiÂ�tude toÂ�ward women, which was inÂ�fluÂ�enced by the cult of Our Lady then at its Â�height. CourÂ�tesy, to FranÂ�cis, was an atÂ�tribÂ�ute of God and hence must also be inÂ�nate in his creaÂ�tures, howÂ�ever Â�deeply burÂ�ied. FranÂ�cis even Â�greeted sheep with a bow. When threatÂ�ened with the cauÂ�terÂ�iÂ�zaÂ�tion of his face to remÂ�edy his deÂ�fecÂ�tive eyeÂ�sight, he Â�besought Â�Brother Fire to be courÂ�teous. One might think that the snake, Â�cursed by God himÂ�self, would fall outÂ�side the deÂ�mand for good manÂ�ners, but no, not even the snake or other repÂ�tiles. To apÂ�preÂ�ciate how far FranÂ�cis went in exÂ�tendÂ�ing courÂ�tesy, conÂ�sider the atÂ�tiÂ�tude of the Â�eighteenth-century Swede, CarÂ�oÂ�lus LinÂ�naeus. One might think that as a sciÂ�enÂ�tist enÂ�gaged in taxÂ�onÂ�omy, he would avoid makÂ�ing value judgÂ�ments. He did on the whole, but he Â�couldn’t reÂ�sist conÂ�demnÂ�ing the repÂ�tiles. He found them “foul, loathÂ�some, and abÂ�horÂ�rent beÂ�cause of their cold body, pale color, carÂ�tiÂ�lagÂ�iÂ�nous skeleÂ�ton, Â�filthy skin, Â�fierce asÂ�pect, calÂ�cuÂ�latÂ�ing eye, ofÂ�fenÂ�sive smell, harsh voice, Â�squalid habÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion, and terÂ�rible venom.”14 ReÂ�spect for all did not come easÂ�ily to FranÂ�cis—not even reÂ�spect to all human beÂ�ings. If as a child, he asÂ�pired to the noble ideal of knightÂ�hood, as a young man he was a dandy who loved fine Â�clothes, and all Â�things beauÂ�tiÂ�ful. He Â�avoided the ugly, the the human be ing 161 sick, the lame, and the poor. He was fasÂ�tidÂ�iÂ�ous. He took pride in his own viÂ�talÂ�ity and charm, in the stylÂ�ishÂ�ness with which he rode his prancÂ�ing horse, bathÂ�ing in the adÂ�miÂ�raÂ�tion of his Â�friends. FranÂ�cis was, howÂ�ever, Â�enough Â�self-aware to deÂ�spise himÂ�self for his worldÂ�liÂ�ness, the cause of which he recÂ�ogÂ�nized as sin, and nothÂ�ing is ugÂ�lier and more reÂ�pelÂ�lent than sin. When as a teenÂ�ager FranÂ�cis heard God’s voice, it was to reÂ�mind him of the Â�beauty of creaÂ�tion, which was Â�hardly necÂ�esÂ�sary since FranÂ�cis had a natÂ�uÂ�ral bent toÂ�ward it. One day, howÂ�ever, the voice spoke difÂ�ferÂ�ently. It urged him to asÂ�pire to spirÂ�iÂ�tual Â�heights. To atÂ�tain it, he would taste bitÂ�terÂ�ness. BitÂ�terÂ�ness? This lover of Â�beauty and bon viÂ�vant was to overÂ� come the reÂ�vulÂ�sion he once felt for the Â�stench of begÂ�gars, their foul disÂ�eases, and the verÂ�min that Â�crawled under their Â�filthy rags. A seÂ�vere test came when ridÂ�ing in the counÂ�try, FranÂ�cis enÂ�counÂ�tered a leper. What was he to do? Â�Rather than turn Â�around, he Â�leaped down from his horse, apÂ�proached the leper whose face was one vast sore, “took his hand, and Â�placed his mouth—that once squeamÂ�ish mouth—on the Â�leper’s rotÂ�ting flesh.” And the story goes that an imÂ�mense joy then swept over him.15 FranÂ�cis of AsÂ�sisi was a man of his time. KissÂ�ing a leper is not now conÂ�sidÂ�ered a test of saintÂ�hood and can even seem Â�rather showy. FranÂ�cis is also our conÂ�temÂ�poÂ�rary. Â�Today’s naÂ�ture lovÂ�ers will find him a kinÂ�dred Â�spirit. Â�Tree-hugging? I can imÂ�aÂ�gine FranÂ�cis doing it. SavÂ�ing the hamÂ�merÂ�head shark? Ditto. HowÂ�ever, the human be ing 162 for all the beÂ�havÂ�ioral simÂ�iÂ�larÂ�ity, the moÂ�tiÂ�vaÂ�tion beÂ�hind his beÂ�havÂ�ior is difÂ�ferÂ�ent. FranÂ�cis cared for naÂ�ture beÂ�cause God did. We care for naÂ�ture beÂ�cause we have come to reÂ�alÂ�ize that ecÂ�oÂ�logÂ�iÂ� cal diÂ�verÂ�sity is necÂ�esÂ�sary to ecÂ�oÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal Â�health and in the long run, to our own Â�well-being. Â�Today’s naÂ�ture lovÂ�ers and enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�menÂ�talÂ� ists are thereÂ�fore senÂ�sible Â�rather than roÂ�manÂ�tic. AnÂ�other difÂ�ferÂ�ence Â�between FranÂ�cis and us is that we are Â�steeped in isÂ�sues of equalÂ�ity and soÂ�cial jusÂ�tice, our litÂ�erÂ�aÂ�ture on the subÂ�ject packÂ�ing many bookÂ�shelves. FranÂ�cis, by Â�contrast, never Â�talked about eiÂ�ther. His Â�showed his beÂ�lief in human equalÂ�ity by kissÂ�ing a leper and his beÂ�lief in anÂ�iÂ�mal equalÂ�ity by adÂ�dressÂ�ing a sheep courÂ�teously. To FranÂ�cis, what one does and says in the Â�street or marÂ�ket Â�square Â�counts far more than what one proÂ�fesses in a holy place. This difÂ�ferÂ�ence Â�between him and us rests on anÂ�other tenet—faith. ModÂ�ern soÂ�cial reÂ�formÂ�ers and revÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tionÂ� arÂ�ies Â�strive to right wrong, corÂ�rect inÂ�jusÂ�tice, withÂ�out quite knowÂ�ing why. In dark moÂ�ments, they may ask themÂ�selves, “Is what I want so badly no more than a perÂ�sonal prefÂ�erÂ�ence? Am I simÂ�ply folÂ�lowÂ�ing the moral fashÂ�ion of my time?” FranÂ�cis and his folÂ�lowÂ�ers were not so trouÂ�bled, for to them jusÂ�tice was Â�grounded in the idea of a just God. SeekÂ�ing jusÂ�tice on earth was a quest— even a quixÂ�otic quest—ever alÂ�lurÂ�ing but unÂ�atÂ�tainÂ�able, as God was alÂ�lurÂ�ing but unÂ�atÂ�tainÂ�able. I now turn to a modÂ�ern Â�American saint, DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day (1897– 1980). Her perÂ�sonÂ�alÂ�ity and life story are quite unÂ�like that of the human be ing 163 FranÂ�cis, a fact that supÂ�ports my beÂ�lief that Â�saints are exÂ�citÂ�ingly difÂ�ferÂ�ent Â�whereas bad peoÂ�ple are borÂ�ingly alike. As a teenÂ�ager, Day Â�joined soÂ�cialÂ�ist Â�causes; she was pasÂ�sionÂ�ate about imÂ�provÂ�ing the lives of the poor, but the poor were never just a soÂ�cial catÂ�eÂ� gory: inÂ�stead, she enÂ�visÂ�aged what it was like to be this feÂ�male begÂ�gar or that male tramp and wonÂ�dered how they could live the way they did, for it Â�seemed to her to reÂ�quire a level of enÂ�duÂ�rÂ� ance far beÂ�yond her powÂ�ers. Day was inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tuÂ�ally Â�gifted and amÂ�biÂ�tious. FriendÂ�ship with New York inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tuÂ�als enÂ�courÂ�aged her to take up the pen in a seÂ�riÂ�ous way, and in time, she beÂ�came a sucÂ�cessÂ�ful jourÂ�nalÂ�ist and autoÂ�biogÂ�raÂ�pher. On top of these litÂ�erÂ� ary sucÂ�cesses, torÂ�rid love afÂ�fairs came her way. EvenÂ�tuÂ�ally she met a man named Â�Forster. They lived toÂ�gether in muÂ�tual reÂ�spect and love. The daughÂ�ter they had gave great satisÂ�facÂ�tion, esÂ�peÂ�cially to the Â�mother. All Â�seemed well. NevÂ�erÂ�theÂ�less, Day was Â�haunted by someÂ�thing above and beÂ�yond, a reÂ�alÂ�ity that is reÂ�mote, unÂ� graspÂ�able, and yet made everyÂ�thing else a litÂ�tle unÂ�real. In 1927, she Â�joined the CathÂ�oÂ�lic Â�Church. To the world, DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day’s most notÂ�able achieveÂ�ment was the foundÂ�ing, in 1933, of The CathÂ�oÂ�lic Â�Worker, a newsÂ�sheet that by the 1940s Â�started to gain naÂ�tionÂ�wide inÂ�fluÂ�ence reÂ�gardÂ�ing how to grow food for local conÂ�sumpÂ�tion, Â�strengthen comÂ�muÂ�nities, and inÂ�fuse moral senÂ�siÂ�tivÂ�ity and seÂ�riÂ�ousÂ�ness into comÂ�muÂ�nal life. NoteÂ�worthy as these good works were, a quesÂ�tion of Â�greater Â�human-psychological interÂ�est was the folÂ�lowÂ�ing: Was DorÂ�oÂ�thy the human be ing 164 Day a Â�really good perÂ�son—a saint? To me, the quesÂ�tion is anÂ�swered in an anecÂ�dote that RobÂ�ert Coles told about her. In 1952, Coles was a medÂ�iÂ�cal stuÂ�dent who Â�thought of abanÂ�donÂ�ing medÂ�iÂ�cine—in other words, a young man Â�adrift. He Â�showed up at the CathÂ�oÂ�lic Â�Worker soup Â�kitchen in ManÂ�hatÂ�tan, thinkÂ�ing that he might do some volÂ�unÂ�teer work there. He found DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day, then alÂ�ready a Â�much-admired figÂ�ure in inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual and reÂ�liÂ�gious cirÂ�cles, lisÂ�tenÂ�ing to a Â�middle-aged woman who was Â�clearly quite drunk. From where Coles stood, he could see that the exÂ�changes were not makÂ�ing much headÂ�way. Still, Day lisÂ�tened until she saw Coles and asked the woman Â�whether she would mind an interÂ� rupÂ�tion. Day then Â�turned to Coles with the query, “Do you want to speak with one of us?” Not “with me,” but “with one of us.”16 FranÂ�cis Â�kissed a leper. DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day Â�didn’t, but on one ocÂ�caÂ� sion she did Â�rather reÂ�lucÂ�tantly kiss the slobÂ�berÂ�ing mouth of an inÂ�ebriÂ�ated Â�street woman beÂ�cause it was deÂ�manded of her. We modÂ�erns are susÂ�piÂ�cious of such theatÂ�riÂ�calÂ�ity. To us, goodÂ�ness is more conÂ�vincÂ�ingly demÂ�onÂ�strated in small inÂ�stanÂ�taÂ�neÂ�ous acts. “Do you want to speak with one of us?” is one such act. It is in such moÂ�ments, so fleetÂ�ing and seemÂ�ingly comÂ�monÂ�place, that DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day reÂ�veals herÂ�self a genÂ�uÂ�ine saint. But why call her a roÂ�manÂ�tic? She may well deny the label, for the word now carÂ�ries meanÂ�ings that deÂ�cent peoÂ�ple, much less Â�saints, would have no truck with. Why? Well, one reaÂ�son is the conÂ�noÂ�taÂ�tion of Â�glamor: it is glamÂ�orÂ�ous—Â�movie-star Â� word’s the human be ing 165 glamÂ�orÂ�ous—to be roÂ�manÂ�tic. AnÂ�other reaÂ�son is the Â�word’s imÂ�plicit claim of superÂ�iorÂ�ity, of livÂ�ing at a Â�higher level than do orÂ�diÂ�nary peoÂ�ple. Yet Â�saints are, in fact, not like us. They are more alive and can Â�thereby seem more vivid, colÂ�orÂ�ful, and—yes—glamÂ�orÂ�ous. We want famÂ�ily, a reÂ�wardÂ�ing job, recÂ�ogÂ�niÂ�tion, and such tanÂ�gible pleasÂ�ures as good sex, a Â�stroll in the park, and a canÂ�dleÂ�light dinÂ�ner with Â�canned music sereÂ�nadÂ�ing us. Â�Saints, being human, no doubt apÂ�preÂ�ciate these Â�things too, but they difÂ�fer from us in findÂ�ing them ulÂ�tiÂ�mately unÂ�fulÂ�fillÂ�ing and unÂ�real. DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day cerÂ�tainly did. Â�Saints Â�thirst after someÂ�thing else—someÂ�thing inÂ�tanÂ�gible, alÂ�most imÂ�posÂ�sible to picÂ�ture or put into words—and yet that someÂ�thing is the suÂ�premely real, the ulÂ�tiÂ�mate good. Its atÂ�tainÂ�ment, howÂ�ever, makes barÂ�riers along the way—such as sufÂ�ferÂ�ing and even death—seem of litÂ�tle conÂ�seÂ�quence. It is this imÂ�plaÂ�cable drive toÂ�ward the transcenÂ�dent that gives one a seÂ�rene disÂ�reÂ�gard of Â�worldly goods and soÂ�cial conÂ�venÂ�tions. It’s what makes Â�saints arÂ�cheÂ�typal roÂ�manÂ�tics. coda Let me reÂ�caÂ�pitÂ�ulate some of the key Â�points. Quest is at the heart of roÂ�mance, but only if it is after someÂ�thing truly Â�worthy. The drive for money or repÂ�uÂ�taÂ�tion, even if it reÂ�quires heavy sacÂ�riÂ�fice, does not count. Nor is the drive to surÂ�vive, and since geogÂ�raÂ�phy and the soÂ�cial sciÂ�ences deÂ�vote themÂ�selves to the art of surÂ�viÂ�val, they are not roÂ�manÂ�tic. As a matÂ�ter of fact, they shun the label. What, then, may be conÂ�sidÂ�ered truly Â�worthy of purÂ�suit—the equivÂ�aÂ�lent of the Holy Grail—in geogÂ�raÂ�phy? One type of Â�worthy purÂ�suit is of enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments that are reÂ�mote and inÂ�acÂ�cessÂ�ible. Their exÂ�plorÂ�ers (a few of the most disÂ�tinÂ�guished) are surÂ�prisÂ�ingly unÂ� worldly in that they deÂ�sire neiÂ�ther monÂ�eÂ�tary reÂ�ward nor pubÂ�lic recÂ�ogÂ�niÂ�tion, nor even presÂ�tige for their counÂ�try. When Â�pressed 167 c oda 168 for a reaÂ�son, the anÂ�swers they give are eiÂ�ther perÂ�sonal or sciÂ�enÂ� tific. At the perÂ�sonal level, they want to feel what it is like to be inÂ�toxÂ�iÂ�catÂ�ingly alive in moÂ�ments of danÂ�ger. At the sciÂ�enÂ�tific level, they seek to know naÂ�ture at its harshÂ�est, beÂ�lievÂ�ing (misÂ�taÂ�kenly as it turns out) that it is there that Â�nature’s deepÂ�est seÂ�crets lie. What else imÂ�pels them? A touch of mysÂ�tiÂ�cism? Why not? After all, when Â�George MalÂ�lory was asked why he Â�climbed Mount EverÂ�est, he ofÂ�fered the Â�Zen-like anÂ�swer, “BeÂ�cause it is there.” In the nineÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, geogÂ�raÂ�phers were also exÂ�plorÂ�ers. Their adÂ�venÂ�tures in reÂ�mote Â�places had the exÂ�citeÂ�ment of geoÂ� graphÂ�iÂ�cal roÂ�mance. The pubÂ�lic was keen to read what they wrote. By the Â�mid-twentieth cenÂ�tury, that keenÂ�ness had Â�largely faded. ExÂ�plorÂ�ers still Â�sought adÂ�venÂ�ture in difÂ�fiÂ�cult enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments, and they still Â�sought anÂ�swers to sciÂ�enÂ�tific ridÂ�dles, but the halo of their work was Â�dimmed by ecoÂ�nomic conÂ�sidÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tions such as findÂ�ing coal, oil, and preÂ�cious minÂ�erÂ�als. In our postÂ�reÂ�ligÂ�ious and postÂ�roÂ�manÂ�tic age, Â�hardly any goal—even that of sciÂ�ence—is unÂ� tarÂ�nished by the susÂ�piÂ�cion that its real purÂ�pose is ecoÂ�nomic or poÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal. One exÂ�cepÂ�tion is physÂ�iÂ�cal sciÂ�ence in its highÂ�est Â�reaches. PhysÂ�iÂ�cists who measÂ�ure the speed at which a neuÂ�trino Â�travels, cosÂ�molÂ�oÂ�gists who ask what was there beÂ�fore the Big Bang, astronÂ�oÂ�mers who spend weeks in reÂ�mote obÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�toÂ�ries gazÂ�ing at stars that have long Â�ceased to exist, these sciÂ�enÂ�tists do not exÂ�pect their laÂ�bors to imÂ�prove Â�people’s stanÂ�dard of livÂ�ing or make gains in their Â�country’s milÂ�iÂ�tary prowÂ�ess or add anÂ�other c oda 169 lease of life to the Â�earth’s green manÂ�tle. Why, then, do they perÂ�sist, and not only perÂ�sist, but take deÂ�light in what they do? Can the anÂ�swer lie in their genes, paÂ�renÂ�tal enÂ�courÂ�ageÂ�ment, and inÂ�spirÂ�ing edÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion? No one Â�really knows. What we do know is that roÂ�mancÂ�ing naÂ�ture, layÂ�ing aside the Â�body’s need to Â�please the inÂ�quirÂ�ing mind, Â�brings them hapÂ�piÂ�ness and fulÂ�fillÂ�ment. In sharp Â�contrast to Â�starry-eyed sciÂ�enÂ�tists, geogÂ�raÂ�phers are pracÂ�tiÂ�cal and Â�down-to-earth, their obÂ�ject of study being the earth as human habÂ�iÂ�tat. A key conÂ�cept is home. “Home,” what a Â�lovely, Â�heart-warming word! Who can be inÂ�difÂ�ferÂ�ent to home, Â�whether it be house, town, or Â�planet? Yet, Â�strangely, geogÂ�raÂ�phy does not have much popÂ�uÂ�lar apÂ�peal. We don’t find geogÂ�raÂ�phy magÂ�aÂ�zines on sale in superÂ�marÂ�kets and airÂ�ports. True, NaÂ�tional GeoÂ�graphic is an exÂ�cepÂ�tion. We do find it on the racks alongÂ�side SciÂ�enÂ�tific Â�American, Â�though both are Â�swamped by fashÂ�ion and Â�peopleinterest magÂ�aÂ�zines. But why NaÂ�tional GeoÂ�graphic? Why is it by far the most popÂ�uÂ�lar geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal pubÂ�liÂ�caÂ�tion? AnÂ�swer: BeÂ�cause it conÂ�tinÂ�ues the roÂ�mance of exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion. When the Â�earth’s land surÂ�face beÂ�comes too faÂ�milÂ�iar, the magÂ�aÂ�zine moves on to the Â�oceans, and then beÂ�yond earth itÂ�self to other planÂ�ets, and Â�thence to the stars. HowÂ�ever, by so Â�vastly exÂ�tendÂ�ing its coverÂ�age, the magÂ�aÂ�zine glarÂ�ingly Â�abuses the meanÂ�ing of “geo” in geogÂ�raÂ�phy. NaÂ�tional GeoÂ�graphic is no Â�longer the study of the earth as human home. If Â�that’s so, is it then posÂ�sible to jusÂ�tify the conÂ�tinÂ�uÂ�ing use of the c oda 170 word “geoÂ�graphic”? I beÂ�lieve it is, but only if we shift emÂ�phaÂ�sis from “earth” to “home.” What is “home” for human beÂ�ings? If we conÂ�sider ourÂ�selves to be Â�solely bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal creaÂ�tures strugÂ�gling to surÂ�vive, then the anÂ�swer has to be the earth. But if we inÂ�clude the mind and inÂ�deed highÂ�light the mind as the esÂ�sence of what it means to be human, then, as I beÂ�lieve FranÂ�cis Bacon was the first to point out, we huÂ�mans may need the whole uniÂ�verse as playÂ�ground if we are not to feel clausÂ�troÂ�phoÂ�bic. MakÂ�ing a case for roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy isn’t difÂ�fiÂ�cult when the focus is on inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als emÂ�barked on some sort of quest. But can a case for roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy also be made for a whole comÂ�muÂ�nity or soÂ�ciÂ�ety? The anÂ�swer is yes. To exÂ�plain, I need to go back to the biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues that I introÂ�duced earÂ�lier. An imÂ�porÂ� tant difÂ�ferÂ�ence Â�between small isoÂ�lated comÂ�muÂ�nities and large comÂ�plex soÂ�ciÂ�eties is this. In the forÂ�mer, the biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues are fixed, and fixed, moreÂ�over, at an atÂ�tainÂ�able level. Take body/mind as a biÂ�poÂ�lar value: To, say, the HutÂ�terÂ�ites, body isn’t some imÂ� posÂ�sible GreÂ�cian ideal, or mind a reÂ�minÂ�der of the atÂ�tainÂ�ment of LeibÂ�niz. This being the case, inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als in a HutÂ�terÂ�ite comÂ�muÂ� nity are not chalÂ�lenged to Â�stretch and exÂ�tend their caÂ�paÂ�bilÂ�ities beÂ�yond their own culÂ�tuÂ�rally deÂ�fined limÂ�its. In large comÂ�plex soÂ�ciÂ�eties, the biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues are set much furÂ�ther apart; moreÂ�over, they are not fixed and can acÂ�quire added meanÂ�ings as time Â�passes. AmÂ�biÂ�tious inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als in such soÂ�ciÂ�eties are chalÂ�lenged to move up from a lower to a Â�higher level, seekÂ�ing as they do so c oda 171 supÂ�port from Â�like-minded peoÂ�ple. WorkÂ�ing toÂ�gether, they form creaÂ�tive cells, which are the yeast that can ferÂ�ment an enÂ�tire soÂ�ciÂ�ety, enaÂ�bling it to rise to new Â�heights of soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�caÂ�tion and granÂ�deur. The story of a Â�society’s rise jusÂ�tifies the label “roÂ�manÂ�tic subÂ�lime,” for it is, Â�besides the opÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion of imÂ�perÂ�sonal Â�forces, rich in perÂ�sonÂ�alÂ�ities whose strivÂ�ing and pasÂ�sion litÂ�ter the story with inÂ�ciÂ�dents huÂ�mane and inÂ�huÂ�mane, gloÂ�riÂ�ous and inÂ�gloÂ�riÂ�ous. AddÂ�ing to the drama is Â�society’s alÂ�most inÂ�evÂ�iÂ�taÂ�ble deÂ�cline from its peak, the reÂ�sult of a fateÂ�ful comÂ�biÂ�naÂ�tion of interÂ�nal weakÂ�ness and exÂ�terÂ�nal Â�threat. An outÂ�standÂ�ing acÂ�comÂ�plishÂ�ment of large comÂ�plex soÂ�ciÂ�eties (civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tions) is systemÂ�atic knowlÂ�edge. It can of Â�course be Â�rather dry. More and more of geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal knowlÂ�edge today is Â�rather dry. ReadÂ�ing it selÂ�dom exÂ�cites—even when it goes beÂ�yond deÂ�tailÂ�ing reÂ�sources and liveÂ�liÂ�hoods to conÂ�sidÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tions of human conÂ�flict. The probÂ�lem there is that the conÂ�flicts so conÂ�sidÂ�ered are eiÂ�ther those highÂ�lighted by some curÂ�rently fashÂ�ionÂ�able guru— MarxÂ�ist, femÂ�iÂ�nist, deÂ�conÂ�strucÂ�tionÂ�ist—and can thereÂ�fore seem a litÂ�tle too acÂ�aÂ�demic, Â�inward-looking, and parti pris to the genÂ�eral Â�reader, or they are the soÂ�cial conÂ�cerns and poÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal batÂ�tles of the day that are alÂ�ready Â�widely reÂ�ported in the news media and can thereÂ�fore seem, to the genÂ�eral Â�reader, déjà vu. If geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal writÂ�ing comÂ�manded more atÂ�tenÂ�tion in the past, it canÂ�not be beÂ�cause geogÂ�raÂ�phers were more Â�gifted then; it can be only that geogÂ�raÂ�phy was then less a proÂ�fesÂ�sional and c oda 172 acÂ�aÂ�demic fief, with its Â�strict code of what was and was not acÂ�ceptÂ�able in conÂ�tent or style, and was more an Â�amateur’s avÂ�oÂ�caÂ� tion, Â�driven by the deÂ�sire to know, free from preÂ�scribed reÂ�search agenÂ�das and paths. The reÂ�sult was that works were more litÂ�erÂ�ary, imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tive, and diÂ�rected at the genÂ�eral Â�reader, but on the negÂ�aÂ� tive side, they were also more prone to facÂ�tual error and hasty genÂ�erÂ�alÂ�izaÂ�tion, and more Â�likely to carry, subÂ�conÂ�sciously, underÂ� curÂ�rents of moÂ�ralÂ�ism and theolÂ�ogy. The work of an adult amÂ�aÂ�teur (from the Latin amaÂ�tor or “lover”) disÂ�plays at times an exÂ�uÂ�berÂ�ance that reÂ�semÂ�bles the sort of unÂ�inÂ�hibÂ�itÂ�edÂ�ness so often seen in the work of a young child. UnderÂ�standÂ�ably so, for every young child is a roÂ�manÂ�tic, bold in imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tive reach, a state that one beÂ�gins to lose at age seven or eight when he or she is soÂ�cialÂ�ized to conÂ� form to the Â�speech patÂ�tern and mores of one’s group. AnÂ�other difÂ�ferÂ�ence Â�between geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal works of an older genÂ�erÂ�aÂ�tion and ours is that the earÂ�lier works are more willÂ�ing to take on large units of the earth—the earth itÂ�self as well as its major diÂ�viÂ�sions. In chapÂ�ter 2, I have given in capÂ�sule form a samÂ�ple of what such Â�large-scale works might be like. I see them as a type of roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy, one that holds a mirÂ�ror to the peoÂ�ple of a parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar time and place, exÂ�posÂ�ing their asÂ�piÂ�raÂ�tions and fears, darÂ�ing and greed, of which the peoÂ�ple themÂ�selves are litÂ�tle aware. As for modÂ�ern acÂ�aÂ�demic writÂ�ing, it too holds a mirÂ�ror but to a much more reÂ�stricted group and, in the exÂ�treme case, c oda 173 to a mere coÂ�terie. Its memÂ�bers, for all their conÂ�fiÂ�dence in the imÂ�porÂ�tance of their view and the deÂ�sire to Â�spread it, frusÂ�trate that purÂ�pose by adoptÂ�ing a voÂ�cabÂ�uÂ�lary acÂ�cessÂ�ible only to themÂ� selves. For this reaÂ�son, such Â�writing’s imÂ�pact may well be more interÂ�nal than exÂ�terÂ�nal: that is to say, it Â�serves to ceÂ�ment Â�withingroup bondÂ�ing. RoÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy, allow me to say again, foÂ�cuses on the more exÂ�treme biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues and on large, chalÂ�lengÂ�ing enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ� ments. The merit of doing so is that the exÂ�tremes reÂ�veal—as midÂ�range valÂ�ues and small acÂ�comÂ�moÂ�datÂ�ing enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments do not—what human beÂ�ings truly fear and deÂ�sire. Take the tropÂ�iÂ�cal rainÂ�foÂ�rests. DeÂ�velÂ�oped naÂ�tions now conÂ�sider them a rich ecÂ�oÂ� sysÂ�tem and an inÂ�valÂ�uÂ�able reÂ�source to be proÂ�tected. To judge, howÂ�ever, by both past and Â�present acÂ�tion, peoÂ�ple Â�driven by neÂ�cesÂ�sity or greed do not at all reÂ�gard tropÂ�iÂ�cal forÂ�ests as someÂ� thing wonÂ�derÂ�ful to be proÂ�tected, but Â�rather as an adÂ�verÂ�sary to be deÂ�feated or a reÂ�source to be used. The probÂ�lem goes Â�deeper than that, for whenÂ�ever and Â�wherever human beÂ�ings have the techÂ�nique to efÂ�fect a Â�change in naÂ�ture, they do so irÂ�reÂ�specÂ�tive of the pieÂ�ties they utter; and inÂ�deed the pieÂ�ties can be a cover or disÂ�tracÂ�tion that enÂ�ables them to do their worst in good conÂ�science. If this is true, then human beÂ�ings are funÂ�daÂ�menÂ�tally at odds with naÂ�ture. They need to alter whatÂ�ever is ofÂ�fered them. The methÂ�ods used to efÂ�fect Â�change began with just words (viz., garÂ�den c oda 174 of Eden), then with words and tools (viz., the farm), and as the tools beÂ�came inÂ�creasÂ�ingly powÂ�erÂ�ful, they comÂ�bined with words to proÂ�duce, ulÂ�tiÂ�mately, the great city. The great city is blaÂ�tantly antiÂ�naÂ�ture. It imÂ�poses geoÂ�metÂ�ric form on topÂ�oÂ�graphic conÂ�fuÂ�sion and reÂ�verses Â�nature’s cyÂ�cles, comÂ�ing to life in winÂ�ter Â�rather than in sumÂ�mer, and turnÂ�ing night into day, darkÂ�ness into light. And light? It is not just brightÂ�ness and glare; it also conÂ�notes inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual and spirÂ�iÂ�tual ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion. The story of the pasÂ�sage from naÂ�ture to glitÂ�terÂ�ing city is a geoÂ� graphÂ�iÂ�cal roÂ�mance, made posÂ�sible by imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion and moral idealÂ�ism, held back by stuÂ�pidÂ�ity and greed, and yet endÂ�ing with luck as the place most caÂ�pable of fulÂ�fillÂ�ing the human poÂ�tenÂ�tial. The city Â�rather than the counÂ�tryÂ�side or naÂ�ture has this caÂ�paÂ�bilÂ�ity, Â�firstly, beÂ�cause we are fully human by virÂ�tue of Â�speech, and Â�speech in all its vaÂ�riety, range, and depth is far more Â�likely to occur in an urban setÂ�ting than in the midst of hayÂ�stacks or Â�beside bubÂ�bling Â�brooks; and, secÂ�ondly, in a Â�well-designed city, we can still get a taste of naÂ�ture in its parks and roofÂ�top farms. NaÂ�ture, howÂ�ever, is unÂ�able to reÂ�cipÂ�roÂ�cate. In its varÂ�ied yet funÂ�daÂ�menÂ�tally monotÂ�oÂ� nous exÂ�panse, it proÂ�vides us with no reÂ�lief in the form of a miniÂ�ature city. ReachÂ�ing toÂ�ward exÂ�alted goals is not only Â�likely to be stressÂ� ful but also Â�likely to end in failÂ�ure. ReÂ�mainÂ�ing at or reÂ�turnÂ�ing to a lower, Â�less-demanding level can thereÂ�fore be welÂ�comed. One lower level is the idealÂ�ized farm of a disÂ�tant past, one that ofÂ�fers c oda 175 such comÂ�fortÂ�ing imÂ�ages as the Â�thatched-roofed cotÂ�tage, the fire in the Â�hearth, the fraÂ�grance of Â�freshly baked bread, bedÂ�time stoÂ�ries for chilÂ�dren, and Â�good-humored gosÂ�sip over jugs of cider for Â�grown-ups. These cliÂ�chés of rural life give no hint of the hardÂ� ship and sufÂ�ferÂ�ing that are an esÂ�caÂ�pable part of livÂ�ing withÂ�out modÂ�ern amenÂ�ities. It is easy to see, howÂ�ever, why the exÂ�plorer of barÂ�ren ice plaÂ�teaus, or inÂ�deed of anyÂ�one who risks death for a quixÂ�otic goal, may in moÂ�ments of weakÂ�ness beÂ�come senÂ�tiÂ�menÂ�tal about leadÂ�ing the simÂ�ple life at home or on a farm, givÂ�ing it a roÂ�manÂ�tic glow that in the abÂ�sence of Â�stress is delÂ�uÂ�sory. For inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tuÂ�als tired of dwellÂ�ing in the thin air of mind and Â�spirit, walÂ�lowÂ�ing in the Â�sweaty Â�charms of the body has disÂ�tinct apÂ�peal. James Joyce cerÂ�tainly Â�thinks so. His book UlysÂ�ses ends with the word “yes,” but the word “yes,” he exÂ�plains, Â�stands for a Â�woman’s cunt. Joyce, like other modÂ�ernÂ�ists, disÂ�dains the roÂ�manÂ�tic, disÂ�dains the yearnÂ�ing for Â�height, and, above all, disÂ�dains the idea of subÂ�liÂ�matÂ�ing the “low” to reach the “high,” a path comÂ�mended by WestÂ�ern morÂ�alÂ�ists since Plato. To the modÂ�ern soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�cate and cynic, raw bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal life—the “low”—is all the true satisÂ�facÂ� tion there is.1 Joyce and the modÂ�ernÂ�ists have a point. AimÂ�ing too high is huÂ�bris, as the Â�Greeks would say. All too often it leads to error and a deÂ�luÂ�sion of granÂ�deur that bring one’s self and one’s comÂ�muÂ�nity to ruin. ReÂ�call the Â�aesthete’s pasÂ�sion for elÂ�eÂ�gance, which is all very well exÂ�cept that it easÂ�ily leads to conÂ�tempt for peoÂ�ple who c oda 176 are less reÂ�cherÂ�ché in taste. And even if a touch of hauÂ�teur is acÂ�ceptÂ�able, the elÂ�eÂ�gant Â�should reÂ�memÂ�ber that fiÂ�nesse carÂ�ried too far sigÂ�nifies a horÂ�ror of life, which is natÂ�uÂ�rally messy. The mounÂ�tain Â�climber proÂ�vides anÂ�other exÂ�amÂ�ple. The Â�climber’s venÂ�ture may be Â�wholly inÂ�noÂ�cent, being a deÂ�sire to test one’s power of enÂ�duÂ�rance in the midst of subÂ�lime Â�beauty, but it may also be a prideÂ�ful afÂ�firÂ�maÂ�tion of superÂ�iorÂ�ity over the Â�masses, who dwell in the shadÂ�ows out of Â�sunlight’s reach. At the group level, roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism can lead to nationÂ�alisÂ�tic exÂ�cess, as shown in Â�Hitler’s GerÂ�many. Nazi ideoÂ�logues were Â�arch-romantics, longÂ�ing siÂ�mulÂ�taÂ�neÂ�ously for Â�rooted comÂ�muÂ�nities bound by blood and soil and rootÂ�less glisÂ�tenÂ�ing white citÂ�ies of monÂ�uÂ�menÂ�tal archiÂ� tecÂ�ture, Â�suited to limÂ�ber ArÂ�yans of the ThouÂ�sand Year Reich. Â�Germany’s venÂ�tures under HitÂ�ler were so deÂ�luded by hyperÂ�bole and theatÂ�riÂ�calÂ�ity—those masÂ�sive paÂ�rades ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�nated by torchÂ�light—that a caÂ�lamÂ�iÂ�tous end was inÂ�evÂ�iÂ�taÂ�ble. RoÂ�manÂ�tic Â�quests emÂ�braced by a whole peoÂ�ple are Â�rightly susÂ�pect. PerÂ�haps the only ferÂ�vent quest that will not enÂ�danÂ�ger one’s self and othÂ�ers is an Â�individual’s quest for the Good. Even so, care must be taken that the Good is not vanÂ�ity and deÂ�luÂ�sion. On the other hand, if one is haÂ�bitÂ�uÂ�ally careÂ�ful, if one is forÂ�ever countÂ�ing cost, one loses sponÂ�taÂ�neÂ�ity and pasÂ�sion, key Â�traits of being fully alive. RoÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy is not a thing of the past. There are still Â�places on earth—the Â�oceans, for exÂ�amÂ�ple—for geogÂ�raÂ�phers to exÂ�plore, and beÂ�yond earth are the other planÂ�ets and stars. They, c oda 177 too, are grist for Â�geographers’ mill if they acÂ�cept the idea that “home” is for the Â�far-ranging human mind and not just for the more easÂ�ily acÂ�comÂ�moÂ�dated human body. On the other hand, if “home” is taken in this Â�larger sense, then perÂ�haps what we study is not geogÂ�raÂ�phy but cosÂ�mogÂ�raÂ�phy. As a matÂ�ter of fact, any culÂ�ture that has moved beÂ�yond earth cults to an apÂ�preÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion of the sky, sun, and stars—and all civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tions have made the tranÂ�siÂ�tion— tacÂ�itly acÂ�knowlÂ�edges that our home is not simÂ�ply the earth but also the cosÂ�mos, and that to the bulk of huÂ�manÂ�kind Â�through most of human hisÂ�tory, geogÂ�raÂ�phy is also cosÂ�mogÂ�raÂ�phy. FiÂ�nally, there is the quesÂ�tion of inÂ�spiÂ�raÂ�tion for the inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual geogÂ�raÂ�pher and sciÂ�enÂ�tist. Too much conÂ�cern for the Â�nitty-gritty deÂ�tails of houseÂ�keepÂ�ing—what I have Â�called “home ecoÂ�nomÂ�ics”— can lead to a buÂ�reauÂ�cratic frame of mind, turnÂ�ing acÂ�aÂ�demic geogÂ� raÂ�phy deÂ�partÂ�ments into ofÂ�fices for the colÂ�lecÂ�tion and analÂ�yÂ�sis of socioÂ�economic data, or geogÂ�raÂ�phers into punÂ�dits arÂ�guing in favor of or Â�against the ideolÂ�oÂ�gies of the day. What is Â�needed to supÂ�pleÂ�ment the necÂ�esÂ�sary houseÂ�keepÂ�ing is a roÂ�manÂ�tic, transcenÂ� denÂ�tal Â�source of inÂ�sights—Â�Wordsworth’s “inÂ�tiÂ�maÂ�tion of someÂ� thing far more Â�deeply interÂ�fused, Whose dwellÂ�ing is the light of setÂ�ting suns,” or Â�Einstein’s “music of the Â�spheres.” While “music of the Â�spheres” has long gone out of vogue in modÂ�ern physÂ�ics, EinÂ�stein hints that withÂ�out it, and withÂ�out the ear for it, no Â�really good sciÂ�enÂ�tific work can be done. Notes OverÂ�ture 1. DonÂ�ald E. Brown, HierÂ�arÂ�chy, HisÂ�tory, and Human NaÂ�ture: The SoÂ�cial OrÂ�iÂ�gins of HisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal ConÂ�sciousÂ�ness (TucÂ�son: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ArÂ�iÂ�zona Press, 1988), 19–72; Yi-Fu Tuan, “ReÂ�alÂ�ism and FanÂ�tasy in Art, HisÂ�tory, and GeogÂ�raÂ�phy,” AnÂ�nals of the AsÂ�soÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion of Â�American GeogÂ�raÂ�phers 80, no. 3 (1990): 435–46. 2.Â�Jacques BarÂ�zun, ClasÂ�sic, RoÂ�manÂ�tic, and ModÂ�ern (GarÂ�den City, NJ: AnÂ�chor Books, 1961), 15; Â�Charles E. LarÂ�more, The RoÂ�manÂ�tic LegÂ�acy (New York: CoÂ�lumÂ�bia UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1996); Jean PierÂ�rot, The DecaÂ�dent ImagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion, 1880–1900 (ChiÂ�cago: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ChiÂ�cago Press, 1981). 3. ArÂ�nold J. ToynÂ�bee, CivÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion on Trial (New York: OxÂ�ford UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1948), 55; ArÂ�nold J. ToynÂ�bee, A Study in HisÂ�tory (New York: OxÂ�ford UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1972), 70–72. 179 notes to pa ge s 11–22 180 ChapÂ�ter 1.╇ PoÂ�larÂ�ized ValÂ�ues 1. Otto von SimÂ�son, The Â�Gothic CaÂ�theÂ�dral: OrÂ�iÂ�gins of Â�Gothic ArchiÂ�tecÂ� ture and the MeÂ�diÂ�eval ConÂ�cept of Order (New York: Â�Pantheon Books, 1962), 3–4. 2. Erwin PanofÂ�sky, Abbot Suger on the Abbey Â�Church of St. Denis and Its Art TreasÂ�ures (PrinceÂ�ton: PrinceÂ�ton UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1946), 63, 65. 3. Ibid., 132. 4. KenÂ�neth J. GerÂ�gen, “The SigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cance of Skin Color in Human ReÂ�laÂ�tions,” DaeÂ�dalus, Â�Spring 1967, 397–99. 5. CedÂ�ric Watts, Â�Conrad’s “Heart of DarkÂ�ness”: A CritÂ�iÂ�cal and ConÂ�texÂ�tual DisÂ�cusÂ�sion (Milan: MurÂ�sia InterÂ�naÂ�tional, 1977), 7, 9–10; reÂ�proÂ�duced in HarÂ�old Bloom, ed., JoÂ�seph Â�Conrad’s “Heart of DarkÂ�ness” and “The SeÂ�cret Â�Sharer” (New York: ChelÂ�sea House, 1996), 56. 6. Paul WheatÂ�ley, The Pivot of the Four QuarÂ�ters (ChiÂ�cago: AlÂ�dine, 1971); James DouÂ�gherty, The FiÂ�vesÂ�quare City: The City in the ReÂ�liÂ�gious ImagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion (Notre Dame: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of Notre Dame Press, 1980). 7. VinÂ�cent Â�Scully, Jr., The Earth, the TemÂ�ple, and the Gods: Greek SaÂ�cred ArchiÂ�tecÂ�ture (New Haven: Yale UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1962). 8.Â�George OrÂ�well, Down and Out in Paris and LonÂ�don (LonÂ�don: Â�Secker & WarÂ�burg, 1951), 21. 9. LeÂ�oÂ�nard BarÂ�kan, Â�Nature’s Work of Art (New Haven: Yale UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1975), 12–13. 10. Ibid., 132. 11. GasÂ�ton BacheÂ�lard, La Â�Poètique de Â�l’espace (Paris: Â�Presse UniÂ�verÂ�siÂ�taire de Paris, 1958), 35, 41; Â�George Â�Steiner, “The LanÂ�guage AnÂ�iÂ�mal,” EnÂ�counÂ�ter, AuÂ�gust 1969, 17. 12. Yi-Fu Tuan, “ForeÂ�word,” in KenÂ�neth Olwig, LandÂ�scape, NaÂ�ture, and the Body PolÂ�iÂ�tic (MadÂ�iÂ�son: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of WisÂ�conÂ�sin Press, 2002), xii–xiii. notes to pa ge s 23–45 181 13. HanÂ�nah Â�Arendt, The Human ConÂ�diÂ�tion (GarÂ�den City, NY: DouÂ�bleÂ�day / AnÂ�chor, 1959), 155–223. 14. J. H. HexÂ�ter, “The EdÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion of the ArisÂ�tocÂ�racy in the ReÂ�naisÂ�sance,” ReÂ�apÂ�praiÂ�sals in HisÂ�tory (EvansÂ�ton: NorthÂ�westÂ�ern UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1962). 15. John M. HoÂ�berÂ�man, Â�Darwin’s AthÂ�letes (BosÂ�ton: HoughÂ�ton MifÂ�flin, 1997). ChapÂ�ter 2.╇ Earth and Its NatÂ�uÂ�ral EnÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments 1. HenÂ�drik WilÂ�lem van Loon, Van Â�Loon’s GeogÂ�raÂ�phy (New York: Simon & Â�Schuster, 1932), 3. 2. C. S. Lewis, The DisÂ�carded Image (CamÂ�bridge: CamÂ�bridge UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1964), 96–99. 3. OutÂ�standÂ�ingly, C. S. Â�Lewis’s Â�science-fictional trilÂ�ogy, Out of the SiÂ�lent Â�Planet (LonÂ�don: Pan, 1938), PerÂ�elanÂ�dra (LonÂ�don: Pan, 1943), and That HidÂ�eÂ�ous Â�Strength (LonÂ�don: Pan, 1945). 4.Â�Blaise PasÂ�cal, PenÂ�sées, 206. 5. SciÂ�ence 248 (June 15, 1990): 1308. 6. FranÂ�cis Bacon, The AdÂ�vanceÂ�ment of LearnÂ�ing, 1605, First Book, I, 3. See They Stand ToÂ�gether: The LetÂ�ters of C. S. Lewis to ArÂ�thur Â�Greeves, 1914–1963, ed. WalÂ�ter Â�Hooper (New York: MacÂ�milÂ�lan, 1979), 322–23. 7. MarÂ�joÂ�rie Hope NicÂ�olÂ�son, MounÂ�tain Gloom and MounÂ�tain Glory (New York: NorÂ�ton, 1962). 8. Yi-Fu Tuan, The HydroÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal Cycle and the WisÂ�dom of God (ToÂ�ronto: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ToÂ�ronto Press, 1968). 9. Julio Caro BaÂ�roja, The World of Â�Witches (ChiÂ�cago: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ChiÂ�cago Press, 1965), 238. 10. VeÂ�ronÂ�ica Della Dora, ImÂ�aÂ�ginÂ�ing Mount Athos (CharÂ�lottesÂ�ville: UniÂ�verÂ� sity of VirÂ�ginia Press, 2011), 113. 11. Gavin RyÂ�lands de Beer, Early TravelÂ�lers in the Alps (LonÂ�don: SidgÂ�wick & JackÂ�son, 1930), 89–90. notes to pa ge s 47–70 182 12. JerÂ�emy BernÂ�stein, AsÂ�cent: Of the InÂ�venÂ�tion of MounÂ�tain ClimbÂ�ing and Its PracÂ�tice (New York: RanÂ�dom House, 1965), 49–50. 13.Â�Rüdiger SaÂ�franÂ�ski, SchoÂ�penÂ�hauer and the Wild Years of PhiÂ�loÂ�soÂ�phy (CamÂ�bridge: HarÂ�vard UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1990), 39–40. 14. Ray Â�Müller, diÂ�recÂ�tor, The WonÂ�derÂ�ful, HorÂ�rible Life of Leni RieÂ�fenÂ�stahl (1993). 15. W. H. Auden, The Â�Enchafèd Flood: Three CritÂ�iÂ�cal EsÂ�says on the RoÂ�manÂ�tic Â�Spirit (New York: VinÂ�tage Books, 1967); Â�George WilÂ�son Â�Knight, The ShakeÂ�spearÂ�ian TemÂ�pest (OxÂ�ford: OxÂ�ford UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1932). 16. Edgar Allan Poe, “A DeÂ�scent into the MaelÂ�strom,” in Great Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe (New York: Simon & Â�Schuster, 1997), 233. 17. Jules Verne, Â�Twenty ThouÂ�sand Â�Leagues under the Sea, Â�transl. H. Frith (LonÂ�don: Dent; RutÂ�land, VT: C. E. TutÂ�tle, 1992), 1, 215, 258–60. 18. Ibid., 49–53. 19. WalÂ�ter Lord, A Night to ReÂ�memÂ�ber (New York: Henry Holt, 1955), 24–25, 169. 20. James Â�Hamilton-Paterson, The Great Deep: The Sea and Its ThreshÂ�olds (New York: RanÂ�dom House, 1992), 191. 21. Colin M. TurnÂ�bull, “The Mbuti PygÂ�mies of the Congo,” in James L. Gibbs, ed., PeoÂ�ples of AfÂ�rica (New York: Holt, RineÂ�hart, & WinsÂ�ton, 1965), 308–9. 22. Colin M. TurnÂ�bull, WayÂ�ward SerÂ�vants (LonÂ�don: Eyre & SpotÂ�tisÂ�woode, 1965), 19–21. 23. Mary DougÂ�las, “The Lele of the Kasai,” in DaÂ�ryll Forde, ed., Â�African Â�Worlds: StudÂ�ies in the CosÂ�moÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal Ideas and SoÂ�cial ValÂ�ues of Â�African PeoÂ�ples (LonÂ�don: OxÂ�ford UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1963), 4–7. 24. MiÂ�chael Â�Williams, DeÂ�forestÂ�ing the Earth: From PreÂ�hisÂ�tory to GloÂ�bal CriÂ�sis (ChiÂ�cago: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ChiÂ�cago Press, 2003). 25. Cited in Keith Â�Thomas, Man and the NatÂ�uÂ�ral World: A HisÂ�tory of the ModÂ�ern SenÂ�sibilÂ�ity (New York: Â�Pantheon Books, 1983), 194. notes to pa ge s 70–79 183 26. Bruno BetÂ�telÂ�heim, The Uses of EnÂ�chantÂ�ment: The MeanÂ�ing and ImÂ�porÂ� tance of Fairy Tales (New York: AlÂ�fred A. Knopf, 1976), 66. 27. Alex ShouÂ�matÂ�off, “AmÂ�aÂ�zon: DisÂ�patches from the Men’s Hut,” OutÂ�side, July–AuÂ�gust 1973, 65–66. 28. HarÂ�old Evans, ed., Men in the TropÂ�ics: A CoÂ�loÂ�nial AnÂ�tholÂ�ogy (LonÂ�don: Â�William Hodge, 1949), 28. 29. Ibid. 30. RobÂ�ert PatÂ�tiÂ�son, The TriÂ�umph of VulÂ�garÂ�ity (New York: OxÂ�ford UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1987); HilÂ�lel Â�Schwartz, MakÂ�ing Noise: From Babel to the Big Bang and BeÂ�yond (BrookÂ�lyn, NY: Zone Books, 2011). 31. Evans, Men in the TropÂ�ics, 17–18. 32. RobÂ�ert Pogue HarÂ�riÂ�son, ForÂ�ests: The Â�Shadow of CivÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion (ChiÂ�cago: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ChiÂ�cago Press, 1992), 6. 33. David HawÂ�kes, Ch’u Tz’u: The Songs of the South (BosÂ�ton: BeaÂ�con PaperÂ�back, 1962), 119–20. 34. Lydie DuÂ�pont, “The Human FacÂ�tor,” SciÂ�ence 335 (March 9, 2012): 1180–81. 35. Simon RoÂ�mero, “Once HidÂ�den by ForÂ�est, CarvÂ�ings in Land AtÂ�test to Â�Amazon’s Lost World: A ScholÂ�arly and EnÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�menÂ�tal ReÂ�apÂ�praiÂ�sal,” New York Times, JanÂ�uÂ�ary 15, 2012, 6. 36. JoÂ�seph R. LeÂ�venÂ�son and Franz SchurÂ�mann, China: An InterÂ�preÂ�tive HisÂ�tory (BerkeÂ�ley: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of CalÂ�iÂ�forÂ�nia Press, 1969), 113. 37. André Gide, Â�Travels in the Congo (New York: ModÂ�ern Age Books, 1937), 174. 38. Ibid., 140, 111–12.; MarÂ�iÂ�anna TorÂ�govÂ�nick, PrimÂ�iÂ�tive PasÂ�sions: Men, Women, and the Quest for EcÂ�stasy (New York: Knopf, 1996), 15–17. 39. HarÂ�old Bloom, JoÂ�seph Â�Conrad’s “Heart of DarkÂ�ness” and “The SeÂ�cret Â�Sharer” (New York: ChelÂ�sea House, 1996), 58–59; see also ChiÂ�nua Â�Achebe, “An Image of AfÂ�rica,” MasÂ�saÂ�chuÂ�setts ReÂ�view 18, no. 4 (WinÂ�ter 1977): 783–85. notes to pa ge s 79–87 184 40. Bloom, JoÂ�seph Â�Conrad’s “Heart of DarkÂ�ness” and “The SeÂ�cret Â�Sharer,” 61; WalÂ�ter J. Ong, “Truth in Â�Conrad’s DarkÂ�ness,” MoÂ�saic 11, no. 1 (Fall 1977): 152–55. 41. In the two secÂ�tions “Deserts” and “Ice,” I have drawn on my paper “Desert and Ice: AmÂ�bivÂ�aÂ�lent AesÂ�thetÂ�ics,” in Salim Kemal and Ivan GasÂ�kell, eds., LandÂ�scape, NatÂ�uÂ�ral Â�Beauty, and the Arts (CamÂ�bridge: CamÂ�bridge UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1993), 139–57. 42. John Â�Leighly, “Dry CliÂ�mates: Their NaÂ�ture and DisÂ�triÂ�buÂ�tion,” Â�Desert ReÂ�search, ProÂ�ceedÂ�ings InterÂ�naÂ�tional SymÂ�poÂ�sium, ReÂ�search CounÂ�cil of IsÂ�rael, speÂ�cial pubÂ�liÂ�caÂ�tion no. 2 (JeÂ�ruÂ�saÂ�lem, 1953). 43. James HutÂ�ton, “The TheÂ�ory of Earth,” Royal SoÂ�ciÂ�ety of EdinÂ�burgh 1, part 2 (1788): 62. 44. Ralph C. MorÂ�ris, “The NoÂ�tion of a Great Â�American Â�Desert East of the RockÂ�ies,” MisÂ�sisÂ�sippi ValÂ�ley HisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal ReÂ�view 13 (1926): 190–200. 45. J. H. L. CumpsÂ�ton, The InÂ�land Sea and the Great River: The Story of AusÂ�traÂ�lian ExÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion (SydÂ�ney: Angus & RobÂ�ertÂ�son, 1964). 46. R. C. ZaehÂ�ner, The Dawn and TwiÂ�light of ZoÂ�roasÂ�trianÂ�ism (New York: PutÂ�nam, 1961), 36–40. 47.Â�George H. Â�Williams, WildÂ�erÂ�ness and ParÂ�aÂ�dise in ChrisÂ�tian Â�Thought (New York: Â�Harper & BrothÂ�ers, 1962), 11–18. 48. J. H. SimpÂ�son, JourÂ�nal of a MilÂ�iÂ�tary ReÂ�conÂ�naisÂ�sance from Santa Fé, New MexÂ�ico, to the NaÂ�vajo CounÂ�try (PhilÂ�aÂ�delÂ�phia: LipÂ�pinÂ�cott, 1852), 32. 49. W. H. MackÂ�ean, ChrisÂ�tian MonÂ�asÂ�tiÂ�cism in Egypt (LonÂ�don: SPCK, 1920), 135–37. 50. John CasÂ�sian, ConÂ�ferÂ�ences 9 and 19, trans. Edgar C. S. GibÂ�son, in NiÂ�cene and Â�Post-Nicene Â�Fathers (2nd seÂ�ries; New York, 1984), vol. 11. 51. RayÂ�mond B. BlakÂ�ney, MeisÂ�ter EckÂ�hart: A ModÂ�ern TransÂ�laÂ�tion (New York: Â�Harper TorchÂ�books, 1941), 200–201. 52. NorÂ�man DougÂ�las, ExÂ�periÂ�ments (New York: Â�McBride, 1925), 19–20. notes to pa ge s 87–99 185 53. RichÂ�ard Â�Trench, AraÂ�bian TravelÂ�lers: The EuÂ�roÂ�pean DisÂ�covÂ�ery of AraÂ�bia (TopsÂ�field, MA: Salem House, 1986), 213. 54. RobÂ�ert Payne, LawÂ�rence of AraÂ�bia: A TriÂ�umph (LonÂ�don: RobÂ�ert Hale, 1966), 45. 55. T. E. LawÂ�rence, Seven PilÂ�lars of WisÂ�dom (GarÂ�den City, NY: DouÂ�bleÂ�day, Doran & Co., 1935), 40. 56. Payne, LawÂ�rence of AraÂ�bia, 116. 57. JefÂ�frey MeyÂ�ers, The Â�Wounded Â�Spirit: T. E. Â�Lawrence’s Seven PilÂ�lars of WisÂ�dom (New York: St. Â�Martin’s Press, 1989), 126; Â�quoted by ErÂ�nest ThurÂ�tle in T. E. LawÂ�rence, by His Â�Friends, 355. 58. MiÂ�chael A. AndeÂ�regg, “LawÂ�rence of AraÂ�bia: The Man, the Myth, the Movie,” in LaurÂ�ence GoldÂ�stein, ed., SeaÂ�sonal PerÂ�forÂ�mances: A MichÂ�iÂ�gan QuarÂ� terly ReÂ�view Â�Reader (Ann Arbor: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of MichÂ�iÂ�gan Press, 1991), 124. 59. Yi-Fu Tuan, “AmÂ�biÂ�guÂ�ity in AtÂ�tiÂ�tudes toÂ�ward EnÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ment,” AnÂ�nals of the AsÂ�soÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion of Â�American GeogÂ�raÂ�phers 63, no. 4 (1973): 416–17. 60. John K. Â�Wright, “The Open Polar Sea,” GeoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal ReÂ�view 43 (1953): 338–65. 61. FranÂ�cis SpufÂ�ford, I May Be Some Time: Ice and the EnÂ�glish ImagÂ�iÂ�naÂ� tion (New York: St. Â�Martin’s Press, 1997); ChaunÂ�cey C. LooÂ�mis, “The ArcÂ�tic SubÂ�lime,” in UlÂ�rich CaÂ�milÂ�lus KnoepflÂ�macher and G. B. TenÂ�nyÂ�son, eds., NaÂ�ture and the VicÂ�toÂ�rian ImagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion (BerkeÂ�ley: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of CalÂ�iÂ�forÂ�nia Press, 1977), 95–112. 62. EdÂ�ward ShackÂ�leÂ�ton, NanÂ�sen the ExÂ�plorer (LonÂ�don: WithÂ�erby, 1959). 63. Liv NanÂ�sen Hoyer, NanÂ�sen: A FamÂ�ily PorÂ�trait (LonÂ�don: LongÂ�mans, 1957), 48–49, 79. 64. FridtÂ�jof NanÂ�sen, FarÂ�thest North: Being the Â�Record of a VoyÂ�age of ExÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion of the Ship “Fram,” 1893–1896 (New York: Â�Harper & BrothÂ�ers, 1897), vol. 1, 81. 65. Ibid., vol. 2, 446. note s to p ages 100–116 186 66. FridtÂ�jof NanÂ�sen, The First CrossÂ�ing of GreenÂ�land (LonÂ�don: Â�Longman’s, 1892), 297. 67. ChrisÂ�toÂ�pher RallÂ�ing, ShackÂ�leÂ�ton: His AntÂ�arcÂ�tic WritÂ�ings (LonÂ�don: BritÂ�ish BroadÂ�castÂ�ing CorÂ�poÂ�raÂ�tion, 1983), 29. 68. Ibid., 79. 69. NanÂ�sen, FarÂ�thest North, vol. 2, 446–47; First CrossÂ�ing, 313. 70. NanÂ�sen, FarÂ�thest North, vol. 2, 41. 71. Ibid., vol. 2, 440. 72. RichÂ�ard E. Byrd, Alone (first pubÂ�lished in 1938; Los AnÂ�geles: Â�Tarcher, n.d.), 3–4. 73. RichÂ�ard E. Byrd, DisÂ�covÂ�ery (New York: Â�Putnam’s, 1935), 167. 74. Byrd, Alone, 178–79. 75. Ibid., 25, 73–74. 76. Ibid., 85. 77. Ibid., 138–39. InterÂ�lude:╇ WholeÂ�some but OrÂ�diÂ�nary 1. S. N. Â�Kramer, The SuÂ�merÂ�ians (ChiÂ�cago: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ChiÂ�cago Press, 1963), 263. 2. For the idea of the norm of life in ShakeÂ�speare, see LiÂ�oÂ�nel TrillÂ�ing, SinÂ�cerÂ�ity and AuÂ�thenÂ�ticÂ�ity (CamÂ�bridge: HarÂ�vard UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1972), 39. ChapÂ�ter 3. The City This chapÂ�ter is a reÂ�vised verÂ�sion of my essay “The City: Its DisÂ�tance from NaÂ�ture,” pubÂ�lished in GeoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal ReÂ�view 68, no. 1 (1978): 1–12. Â�Thanks to the Â�American GeoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal SoÂ�ciÂ�ety for perÂ�misÂ�sion to reÂ�print this maÂ�teÂ�rial. 1. EdÂ�ouard Biot, Le Â�Tcheou Li (Paris, 1851), vol. 2, 554–55. 2. ArÂ�thur F. Â�Wright, The Sui DyÂ�nasty: The UniÂ�fiÂ�caÂ�tion of China, A.D. 581–617 (New York: Knopf, 1978), 87–88; ArÂ�thur F. Â�Wright, “SymÂ�bolÂ�ism note s to p ages 116–121 187 and FuncÂ�tion: ReÂ�flecÂ�tions on Â�Ch’ang-an and Other Great CitÂ�ies,” JourÂ�nal of Asian StudÂ�ies 24, no. 4 (1965): 667–69. 3. EdÂ�ward H. Â�Schafer, The Â�Golden Â�Peaches of SaÂ�marÂ�kand (BerkeÂ�ley: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of CalÂ�iÂ�forÂ�nia Press, 1963), 15. 4. The secÂ�tion on the city draws on my paper “The City: Its DisÂ�tance from NaÂ�ture,” GeoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal ReÂ�view 68, no. 1 (1978): 1–12.; A. Leo OpÂ�penÂ�heim, AnÂ�cient MesopoÂ�taÂ�mia (ChiÂ�cago: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ChiÂ�cago Press, 1974), 115–16. 5.Â�Etienne BaÂ�lazs, ChiÂ�nese CivÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion and BuÂ�reauÂ�cracy (New Haven: Yale UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1964), 68; Â�Ping-ti Ho, “Lo-yang, A.D. 495–534: A Study of PhysÂ�iÂ�cal and SocioÂ�-Economic PlanÂ�ning of a MetÂ�roÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tan Area,” HarÂ�vard JourÂ�nal of Â�Asiatic StudÂ�ies 26 (1966): 52–101; refÂ�erÂ�ence on 69 and 81. 6. HoÂ�ward SaalÂ�man, MeÂ�diÂ�eval CitÂ�ies (New York: BraÂ�ziller, 1968), 24–25, 40. 7. Dana CarleÂ�ton Munro and Â�George C. SelÂ�lery, MeÂ�diÂ�eval CivÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion (New York: CenÂ�tury, 1910), 362–63; transÂ�lated from Karl LamÂ�precht, DeutsÂ�che GesÂ�chichte (BerÂ�lin: R. GaertÂ�ners, 1896), vol. 4, 211–17. 8. NorÂ�man G. Â�Brett-James, The Â�Growth of StuÂ�art LonÂ�don (LonÂ�don: Â�George Allen & Unwin, 1935), 27–28; RichÂ�ard Cobb, The PoÂ�lice and the PeoÂ�ple: Â�French PopÂ�uÂ�lar Â�Protest, 1789–1820 (LonÂ�don: OxÂ�ford UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1970), 223. 9. H. J. Dyos and MiÂ�chael Wolff, “The Way We Live Now,” in H. J. Dyos and MiÂ�chael Wolff, eds., The VicÂ�toÂ�rian City: ImÂ�ages and ReÂ�alÂ�ities (LonÂ�don: RoutÂ�ledge & Kegan Paul, 1971), vol. 2, 893–907, refÂ�erÂ�ence on 899. 10. ConÂ�rad Gill, HisÂ�tory of BirmÂ�ingÂ�ham (LonÂ�don: OxÂ�ford UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1952), vol. 1, 123–24. 11. RobÂ�ert E. DickÂ�inÂ�son, The West EuÂ�roÂ�pean City (LonÂ�don: RoutÂ�ledge & Kegan Paul, 1961), 259. 12. MarÂ�tin H. Â�Krieger, “What’s Wrong with PlasÂ�tic Trees?” SciÂ�ence 179 (1973): 446–55. 13. Meyer BerÂ�ger, “RoofÂ�top GarÂ�denÂ�ers Bring Forth BlosÂ�soms High Above a City of Stone and Steel,” New York Times, April 23, 1958; reÂ�printed in AnÂ�selm note s to p ages 122–129 188 L. Â�Strauss, The Â�American City: A SourceÂ�book of Urban ImÂ�agery (ChiÂ�cago: AlÂ�dine, 1968), 385–86; David Owen, “Green ManÂ�hatÂ�tan,” New Â�Yorker, OcÂ�toÂ�ber 18, 2004, 111–23. 14. JenÂ�niÂ�fer Â�Cockrall-King, Food and the City: Urban AgÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture and the New Food RevÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tion (AmÂ�herst, MA: ProÂ�meÂ�theus, 2012). 15. WolÂ�fram EbeÂ�rhard, ConÂ�querÂ�ors and RulÂ�ers: SoÂ�cial Â�Forces in MeÂ�diÂ�eval China (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1965), 35–36. 16. Lewis MumÂ�ford, The City in HisÂ�tory (New York: HarÂ�court, Brace & World, 1961), 128. 17. LudÂ�wig Â�Friedländer, Roman Life and ManÂ�ners under the Early EmÂ�pire (New York: Â�Barnes & Noble, 1968), vol. 2, 193. 18. Gene A. Â�Brucker, ReÂ�naisÂ�sance FlorÂ�ence (New York: Wiley, 1969), 44. 19. Ibid., 43. 20. HorÂ�ace SutÂ�ton, “CitÂ�ies in WinÂ�ter [IntroÂ�ducÂ�tion],” SatÂ�urÂ�day ReÂ�view, JanÂ�uÂ�ary 8, 1977, 11. 21. RichÂ�ard Eder, “New York,” SatÂ�urÂ�day ReÂ�view, JanÂ�uÂ�ary 8, 1977, 25–28. 22.Â�Jérôme CarÂ�coÂ�pino, Daily Life in AnÂ�cient Rome (New Haven: Yale UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1940), 47. 23.Â�Friedländer, Roman Life and ManÂ�ners under the Early EmÂ�pire, 13. 24.Â�Jacques GerÂ�net, Daily Life in China on the Eve of the MonÂ�gol InÂ�vaÂ�sion, 1250–1276 (LonÂ�don: Â�George Allen & Unwin, 1962), 36. 25. Leon BerÂ�nard, The EmergÂ�ing City: Paris in the Age of Louis XIV (DurÂ�ham: Duke UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1970), 161–66. 26. WalÂ�ter Â�Besant, LonÂ�don in the EighÂ�teenth CenÂ�tury (LonÂ�don: Adam & Â�Charles Black, 1903), 91–93. 27.Â�William T. O’Dea, The SoÂ�cial HisÂ�tory of LightÂ�ing (LonÂ�don: RoutÂ�ledge & Kegan Paul, 1958), 98; Gill, HisÂ�tory of BirmÂ�ingÂ�ham, 157; MatÂ�thew LuckÂ�iesh, ArÂ�tiÂ�fiÂ�cial Light: Its InÂ�fluÂ�ence upon CivÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion (New York: CenÂ�tury, 1920), 158. note s to p ages 130–141 189 28. Oscar G. BrockÂ�ett, HisÂ�tory of the TheaÂ�tre (BosÂ�ton: Allyn & Bacon, 1977), 201, 297. 29. ElizÂ�aÂ�beth HardÂ�wick, A View of My Own (New York: NoonÂ�day Press, 1962), 150. 30. ReÂ�cent books on lightÂ�ing: A. Roger Â�Ekirch, At Day’s Close: Night in Times Past (New York: NorÂ�ton, 2004); Craig KosÂ�lofÂ�sky, Â�Evening’s EmÂ�pire: A HisÂ�tory of the Night in Early ModÂ�ern EuÂ�rope (CamÂ�bridge: CamÂ�bridge UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 2010). 31. CarÂ�coÂ�pino, Daily Life in AnÂ�cient Rome, 39–40. 32. RosÂ�aÂ�lind H. Â�Williams, Notes on the UnderÂ�ground (CamÂ�bridge: MIT Press, 1990), 82. 33. Ibid., 98–99. 34. Plato, PhaeÂ�drus 230d. 35.Â�George Â�Steiner, “The City under AtÂ�tack,” in RobÂ�ert BoyÂ�ers and Peggy BoyÂ�ers, eds., The SalÂ�maÂ�gundi Â�Reader (BloomÂ�ingÂ�ton: InÂ�diÂ�ana UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1983), 3–4. 36.Â�William WordsÂ�worth, “ComÂ�posed upon WestÂ�minÂ�ster Â�Bridge, SepÂ�temÂ� ber 3, 1802,” SeÂ�lected Poems (LonÂ�don: PenÂ�guin, 1994), 170. 37. Ada Â�Louise HuxÂ�table, “The CriÂ�sis in ArchiÂ�tecÂ�ture,” New York ReÂ�view of Books 27, no. 1 (1980): 29. 38. Notes and ComÂ�ments, New Â�Yorker, July 27, 1981, 26. 39. LetÂ�ters of Â�Charles Lamb, ed. ErÂ�nest Rhys (LonÂ�don: Â�Everyman’s LiÂ�brary, 1909), vol. 1, 177–78. 40. AnÂ�thony BurÂ�gess, New York Times MagÂ�aÂ�zine, OcÂ�toÂ�ber 29, 1972. 41. GerÂ�trude HimÂ�melÂ�farb, “The CulÂ�ture of PovÂ�erty,” in Dyos and Wolff, The VicÂ�toÂ�rian City, 725. 42.Â�Quoted in Â�Philip ColÂ�lins, “DickÂ�ens and LonÂ�don,” in Dyos and Wolff, The VicÂ�toÂ�rian City, 540. note s to p ages 142–157 190 43. Ibid. 44. ArÂ�thur Conan Doyle, “The AdÂ�venÂ�ture of the Empty House,” in The ComÂ�plete SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes (GarÂ�den City, NY.: DouÂ�bleÂ�day, c. 1930), 492. 45. RobÂ�ert Â�Douglas-Fairhurst, “Are We in a New DickÂ�enÂ�sian Age?” OxÂ�ford Today 24, no. 2 (2012): 32–34. 46. John PemÂ�ble, “GasÂ�light and Fog,” LonÂ�don ReÂ�view of Books 34, no. 2 (JanÂ�uÂ�ary 26, 2012): 21–22. 47. Doyle, “The Naval Â�Treaty,” in The ComÂ�plete SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes, 456–57; see also Yi-Fu Tuan, “The LandÂ�scapes of SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes,” Baker Â�Street MisÂ�celÂ�lanea 45 (Spring 1984): 1–10. ChapÂ�ter 4.╇ The Human Being 1. CaÂ�mille PaÂ�glia, SexÂ�ual PerÂ�sonae: Art and DecaÂ�dence from NeÂ�ferÂ�titi to Emily DickÂ�inÂ�son (New York: VinÂ�tage Books, 1991), 55–57. 2. Ibid., 69. 3.Â�George OrÂ�well, NineÂ�teen Â�Eighty-Four (first pubÂ�lished in 1949; LonÂ�don: ComÂ�pact Books, 1993), 228–29. 4.Â�George OrÂ�well, The Road to Wigan Pier (New York: BerkÂ�ley EdiÂ�tion, 1961), 130. 5.Â�George WoodÂ�stock, The CrysÂ�tal Â�Spirit: A Study of Â�George OrÂ�well (New York: Â�Schocken Books, 1984), 110. 6. RobÂ�ert H. Frank, PasÂ�sions Â�within ReaÂ�son: The StraÂ�teÂ�gic Role of the EmoÂ�tions (New York: NorÂ�ton, 1988), 212. 7. Tim Jeal, ExÂ�plorÂ�ers of the Nile: The TriÂ�umph and TragÂ�edy of a Great VicÂ�toÂ�rian AdÂ�venÂ�ture (New Haven: Yale UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 2011), 5. 8. Ibid., 18–19. 9. ApÂ�sley Â�Cherry-Garrard, The Worst JourÂ�ney in the World (New York: CarÂ�roll & Graf, 1989), 284, 286. 10. Ibid., 284–85. note s to p ages 158–175 191 11. Ibid., 249. 12. Ibid., 626. 13. ChrisÂ�tian Bobin, The SeÂ�cret of FranÂ�cis of AsÂ�sisi: A MedÂ�iÂ�taÂ�tion (BosÂ�ton: ShambÂ�hala, 1997), 31. 14.Â�Q uoted in EdÂ�ward A. ArmÂ�strong, Saint FranÂ�cis: NaÂ�ture MysÂ�tic (BerkeÂ�ley: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of CalÂ�iÂ�forÂ�nia Press, 1973), 170. 15. JuÂ�lien Green, God’s Fool: The Life and Times of FranÂ�cis of AsÂ�sisi (San FranÂ�cisco: Â�Harper & Row, 1985), 74. 16. RobÂ�ert Coles, DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day: A RadÂ�iÂ�cal DeÂ�voÂ�tion (ReadÂ�ing, MA: Â�Addison-Wesley, 1987), xviii. Coda 1. MarÂ�tha C. NussÂ�baum, “Love and ViÂ�sion: Iris MurÂ�doch on Eros and the InÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual,” in Maria AnÂ�toÂ�nacÂ�cio and Â�William Â�Schweiker, eds., Iris MurÂ�doch and the Â�Search for Human GoodÂ�ness (ChiÂ�cago: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ChiÂ�cago Press, 1996), 51–52. IlÂ�lusÂ�traÂ�tion CredÂ�its Page 31 “Primo MoÂ�bile (Prime Mover),” c. 1465, courÂ�tesy of the NaÂ�tional GalÂ�lery of Art, WashÂ�ingÂ�ton, DC. Pages 38–39 “SplenÂ�did MounÂ�tain WaÂ�terÂ�color,” by John Â�Singer SarÂ�gent, 1870, the MetÂ�roÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tan MuÂ�seum of Art, Gift of Mrs. FranÂ�cis OrÂ�mond, 1950 (50.130.146). Pages 50–51 “Storm at Sea,” by CapÂ�tain Â�Thomas HasÂ�tings, Fine Arts MuÂ�seums of San FranÂ�cisco. Pages 64–65 “ForÂ�est Path,” by Carel NiÂ�coÂ�laas Storm van ’Â�s-Gravesande, c. 1885, SterÂ�ling and FranÂ�cine Clark Art InÂ�stiÂ�tute, WilliamÂ�stown, MasÂ�saÂ�chuÂ�setts (1988.4); image © SterÂ�ling and FranÂ�cine Clark Art InÂ�stiÂ�tute, photo by MiÂ�chael Agee. Pages 80–81 “Desert MonÂ�uÂ�ments, ArÂ�iÂ�zona,” by Â�George ElÂ�bert Burr, c. 1930, courÂ�tesy of the ArÂ�iÂ�zona CapÂ�iÂ�tol MuÂ�seum. Pages 92–93 View in the ArcÂ�tic reÂ�gions, a ship probÂ�ably HMS TerÂ�ror, by AdÂ�miÂ�ral Sir Â�George Back, BritÂ�ish MuÂ�seum (1891, 1031.307). 193 Index Page refÂ�erÂ�ences in italÂ�ics inÂ�diÂ�cate ilÂ�lusÂ�traÂ�tions. Adam and Eve, 53, 85, 109 AdÂ�éÂ�lie penÂ�guins, 158–59 adÂ�venÂ�ture vs. home, 98–100, 104–5, 175 aesÂ�thetes, 147, 148–51, 175–76 AfÂ�rica, exÂ�plorÂ�ers in, 154–55 Â�Africans: EuÂ�roÂ�pean fasÂ�ciÂ�naÂ�tion with, 76– 77; noise of, 71–72; prefÂ�erÂ�ence for light vs. darkÂ�ness, 13 agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, 69, 85, 117–22 Â�Agrippa, 132 air, mounÂ�tain vs. lowÂ�land, 45 airÂ�plane Â�flight, 62–63 AkÂ�kaÂ�dian lanÂ�guage, 118 AlÂ�exÂ�anÂ�der the Great, 154 Alone (Byrd), 103 Alps, EuÂ�roÂ�pean, 45–46, 47 amÂ�aÂ�teurs, 171–72 AmÂ�aÂ�zon rainÂ�forÂ�est, 75–76 AmerÂ�ica as Â�anti-intellectual, 26–27 Â�Angkor Wat (CamÂ�boÂ�dia), 148 Â�Anouilh, Jean: AntiÂ�gone, 110–11 AntÂ�arcÂ�tic exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion, 100–101, 103–5, 156–57 AntiÂ�gone (Anouilh), 110–11 AntiÂ�och, 128 AnÂ�tony and CleÂ�oÂ�paÂ�tra (ShakeÂ�speare), 20–21 Â�Apollo 17, 36 195 inde x 196 arcÂ�tic reÂ�gions. See icy lands and reÂ�gions ArÂ�teÂ�midÂ�orus DalÂ�diÂ�aÂ�nus, 20–21 Asian culÂ�tures, 148 astronÂ�oÂ�mers, anÂ�cient, 15 athÂ�letes (brawn) vs. proÂ�fesÂ�sors (brain), 26–27 Athos, Mount (Greece), 43–45 AtÂ�lanÂ�tis, 54 auÂ�rora borÂ�ealis, 101 AusÂ�traÂ�lian Â�desert, 84 Bacon, FranÂ�cis, 37, 170 BamÂ�bara tribe (West AfÂ�rica), 13 Bantu peoÂ�ples (AfÂ�rica), 68 BarÂ�zun, Â�Jacques, 5–6 BerÂ�nard of ClairÂ�vaux, 12 biÂ�narÂ�ies. See poÂ�larÂ�ized valÂ�ues BirmÂ�ingÂ�ham (EnÂ�gland), 121, 129 blackÂ�ness, posÂ�iÂ�tive meanÂ�ings of, 14 black vs. white, 13. See also darkÂ�ness: vs. light Blake, Â�William, 29 The Blue Light, 48 body: as house, 20–23; lower reÂ�gion of, 131–32; vs. mind, 25–26, 32, 170, 175; poÂ�laÂ�rizaÂ�tion of, 19–20, 32 BoÂ�robÂ�uÂ�dur temÂ�ple (InÂ�doÂ�neÂ�sia), 43 BorÂ�sippa (Sumer), 114 BosÂ�ton nightÂ�life, 130–31 BourÂ�gainÂ�ville, Â�Louis-Antoine de, 55 BrahÂ�man, meanÂ�ing of, 18 brain vs. brawn, 25–28 Â�Bulwer-Lytton, EdÂ�ward Â�George: The ComÂ�ing Race, 133–34 buÂ�reauÂ�cracy, 16, 25 BurÂ�gess, AnÂ�thony, 138–39 Burke, EdÂ�mund, 96 BurÂ�ton, RichÂ�ard FranÂ�cis, 154 Byrd, RichÂ�ard E., 96–97, 103–6, 107, 108; Alone, 103 canÂ�dleÂ�light, 128–29 capÂ�iÂ�talÂ�ist disÂ�triÂ�buÂ�tion of Â�wealth, 143–44 CarÂ�coÂ�pino, Â�Jérôme, 127 CarneÂ�gie Medal, 152–53 Carta MaÂ�rina, 57 caste Â�system, 24 CathÂ�oÂ�lic Â�Worker, 163–64 Â�Ch’ang-an (China), 115–16, 118 chaos vs. form/order, 14–17, 62 ChaÂ�rybÂ�dis, 57 Cherry-Garrard, Â� ApÂ�sley, 156–59 chilÂ�dren as roÂ�manÂ�tics, 172 China: cosÂ�mic/traÂ�diÂ�tional citÂ�ies of, 114–17, 118, 148; farmÂ�ers vs. noÂ�mads in, 85; forÂ�est clearÂ�ing in, 73–74; miÂ�graÂ�tion in, 74, 123; nightÂ�time celÂ�eÂ�braÂ�tions in, 127–28; rusÂ�tic simÂ�plicÂ�ity Â�sought in, 76; soÂ�cial stratÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tion in, 24–25 chivÂ�alry, 157 ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity: on Â�deserts, 84, 85–86; EastÂ�ern (OrÂ�thoÂ�dox), 43–45; light in, 11; on reÂ�dempÂ�tion Â�through sufÂ�ferÂ�ing, 157 cirÂ�cle, in meÂ�diÂ�eval worldÂ�view, 33–34, 41 inde x 197 citÂ�ies, 113–46; agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture in, 117–22; alÂ�lotÂ�ments in and Â�around, 120–21; archiÂ�tecÂ�ture of, 135–37; Â�beauty of, 138–39; ChiÂ�nese cosÂ�mic/traÂ�diÂ�tional, 114–17, 118, 148; curÂ�few in, 127, 128; darkÂ�ness of, litÂ�eral and figÂ�uraÂ� tive, 140–41; deÂ�tecÂ�tive ficÂ�tion set in, 141–46; high vs. low archiÂ�tecÂ�ture and culÂ�ture in, 17–18; as human ideal, 135; inÂ�dusÂ�triÂ�alÂ�ized, 120, 140–42; light of, litÂ�eral and figÂ�uraÂ�tive, 134–40, 174; maÂ�jesty of, 113; as male doÂ�main, 22–23; meÂ�diÂ�eval EuÂ�roÂ�pean, 119–20; vs. naÂ�ture, 174; nightÂ�life in, 126–31; North Â�American, 121; orÂ�iÂ�gins as cosÂ� mic cerÂ�eÂ�moÂ�nial cenÂ�ters, 15–17, 113– 14, 117–18; Â�praise of, 136–39; reaÂ�son emÂ�bodÂ�ied by, 136; ReÂ�naisÂ�sance, 119– 20, 123–24; roof garÂ�dens in, 121, 174; seaÂ�sonal patÂ�terns in, 122–26; sewÂ�ers/subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean tunÂ�nels of, 131– 34; Â�speech conÂ�cenÂ�trated in, 135, 174; Â�starfish-shaped, 119; the subÂ�lime exÂ� peÂ�riÂ�enced in, 113; SuÂ�merÂ�ian, 118; vs. vilÂ�lages, 117–18; in winÂ�ter, 123–25 civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion: and forÂ�ests, 75–76; and harÂ�mony, 16; high vs. low, 18; and writÂ�ing, 76 Â�classes, soÂ�cial, 24–25, 149–51 cliÂ�mate zones, 83–84 Â�Cloaca MaxÂ�ima (oldÂ�est sewer; Rome), 132 clutÂ�ter, 148 Cobb, RichÂ�ard, 120 CoÂ�blenz (GerÂ�many), 119 cold reÂ�gions. See icy lands and reÂ�gions Coles, RobÂ�ert, 164 CoÂ�lumÂ�bus, ChrisÂ�toÂ�pher, 54 The ComÂ�ing Race (Bulwer-Lytton), 133–34 comÂ�mon man/peoÂ�ple, 7, 17 comÂ�muÂ�niÂ�caÂ�tion techÂ�nolÂ�ogy, 144 comÂ�plexÂ�ity vs. simÂ�plicÂ�ity, 148 Conan Doyle, Sir ArÂ�thur: SherÂ�lock Â�Holmes seÂ�ries, 142–46, 151 Congo rainÂ�forÂ�est, 74–75 ConÂ�rad, JoÂ�seph: Heart of DarkÂ�ness, 13–14, 77–79 Cook, James, 55 CoÂ�perÂ�niÂ�cus, NicÂ�oÂ�laus, 32 cosÂ�mic citÂ�ies, 15. See also under citÂ�ies cosÂ�molÂ�ogy: geoÂ�cenÂ�tric theÂ�ory, 35–36; helioÂ� cenÂ�tric theÂ�ory, 32; meÂ�diÂ�eval, 32–34, 41; space as inÂ�fiÂ�nite, 34 cosÂ�moÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tanÂ�ism, 116–17. See also citÂ�ies courÂ�tesy, 160, 162 courtÂ�yard Â�houses, 22 culÂ�ture: Asian, 148; as disÂ�crimÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion, 77; high vs. low, 17 The Cure, 34–35 Dante AlÂ�iÂ�ghieri, 11, 54 Â�Daoism, 73–74, 76 darkÂ�ness: of citÂ�ies, litÂ�eral and figÂ�uraÂ�tive, 140–41; in Â�Gothic caÂ�theÂ�drals, 11–12; vs. light, 10–14, 32, 78–79, 174 inde x 198 Day, DorÂ�oÂ�thy, 162–65 dayÂ�dreams vs. nightÂ�mares, 12–13 De ArchiÂ�tecÂ�tura (ViÂ�truÂ�vius), 20–21 death, symÂ�bols of, 12, 13–14 the decaÂ�dent, 5 deÂ�gree, meanÂ�ing of, 18 Â�deserts, 80–81, 83–91, 106–8, 148 deÂ�tecÂ�tive ficÂ�tion, 141–46 DickÂ�ens, Â�Charles, 120, 140, 142; The Life and AdÂ�venÂ�tures of NichÂ�oÂ�las NickÂ�leby, 141, 145; OlÂ�iÂ�ver Twist, 141; The PostÂ� huÂ�mous Â�Papers of the PickÂ�wick Club, 141 DisÂ�ney, Walt: Â�Twenty ThouÂ�sand Â�Leagues under the Sea, 58–59 Â�Doughty, Â�Charles, 87, 107 DougÂ�las, NorÂ�man, 87 DougÂ�lass, FredeÂ�rick, 26 dream analÂ�yÂ�sis, 21 Dur SharÂ�ruÂ�kin (AsÂ�syria), 114 dyÂ�naÂ�mite, 145 Dyos, H. J., 120 earth and natÂ�uÂ�ral enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments: Â�deserts, 80–81, 83–91, 106–8, 148; imÂ�ages of earth/solar Â�system from space, 36– 37; mounÂ�tains, 38–39, 41–49; Â�oceans, 50–51, 53–63; solar Â�system, 32–37 (see also cosÂ�molÂ�ogy); space as inÂ�fiÂ� nite, 34; uniqueÂ�ness of the earth, 36; in van Â�Loon’s GeogÂ�raÂ�phy, 29–30; vastÂ�ness of the uniÂ�verse, 37. See also forÂ�ests; icy lands and reÂ�gions EastÂ�ern (OrÂ�thoÂ�dox) ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity, 43–45 EbeÂ�rhard, WolÂ�fram, 123 EckÂ�hart, MeisÂ�ter, 86–87 ecolÂ�ogy, 6 ecoÂ�nomic colÂ�lapse (1825), 145 Eder, RichÂ�ard, 125 edÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion, 25–26, 145–46 ego, 21 EinÂ�stein, AlÂ�bert, 177 Â�electric lightÂ�ing, 60, 126, 130, 134 elÂ�eÂ�gance, 149–50, 175–76 EnÂ�gland’s theÂ�aÂ�ter perÂ�forÂ�mances, 130 enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�menÂ�talÂ�ists/naÂ�ture lovÂ�ers, 6, 161–62 equalÂ�ity, 162 “excel,” meanÂ�ing of, 18 exÂ�plorÂ�ers: in AfÂ�rica, 154–55; geogÂ�raÂ�phers as, 3, 168; roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism of, 96, 153– 58, 167–68; VicÂ�toÂ�rian/EdÂ�wardÂ�ian vs. modÂ�ern, 157–58 faith, 162 the Fall (bibÂ�liÂ�cal), 41, 85 The Fall of the House of Usher (Poe), 21 farms, idealÂ�ized, 174–75 FarÂ�thest North (NanÂ�sen), 102 Feast of Flora, 128 femÂ�iÂ�nist moveÂ�ment, 23 ferÂ�meÂ�ture anÂ�nuelle (anÂ�nual cloÂ�sure), 124 Five SaÂ�cred Peaks (China), 43 inde x 199 FlorÂ�ence, 123–24, 127 ForÂ�bidÂ�den City (China), 148 forÂ�ests, 64–65, 67–79; apes in, 67; and civÂ�ilÂ� izaÂ�tion, 75–76; clearÂ�ing of, 73–74; fear of, 69–70, 74; folkÂ�tales of chilÂ� dren abanÂ�doned in, 70; vs. grassÂ� lands, 68–69; hosÂ�tilÂ�ity toÂ�ward, 67, 68; and human evÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tion, 67; odor of, 72–73; proÂ�tecÂ�tion/resÂ�toÂ�raÂ�tion of, 74–75, 83, 173; rainÂ�foÂ�rests, 67–68, 70–76, 148, 173; vs. sun/sky, 73–74 Â�France’s seaÂ�sonal patÂ�terns, 124 FranÂ�cis of AsÂ�sisi, Saint, 159–62 Freud, SigÂ�mund, 21, 143 Fuji, Mount, 43 GarÂ�den of Eden (bibÂ�liÂ�cal), 53, 109–10 garÂ�goyles, 12 gasÂ�light, 126, 129, 140 GenÂ�eÂ�sis (Bible), 10, 14, 109 geogÂ�raÂ�phy: amÂ�aÂ�teur (early) vs. proÂ�fesÂ�sional (modÂ�ern) works of, 171–73; geogÂ�raÂ� phers as exÂ�plorÂ�ers, 3, 168, 169; geogÂ� raÂ�phers vs. sciÂ�enÂ�tists, 169; at the group vs. inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual level, 147–48, 170; vs. hisÂ�tory, 4; and home, 169–70, 176–77; Â�large-scale works of, 172– 73; popÂ�uÂ�larÂ�ity of, 169; roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism of, 3–4, 6, 172–73, 176–77 (see also roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism) GeogÂ�raÂ�phy (van Loon), 29–30 GerÂ�many: alÂ�lotÂ�ments in, 121; mounÂ�tain climbÂ�ing piÂ�oÂ�neered/draÂ�maÂ�tized by, 48–49; under the Nazis, 48–49, 176 Gide, André, 77 glamÂ�our, 131, 164–65 God: as arÂ�tiÂ�san, 14, 16, 41–42; as Â�desert, 86–87; Â�desert Â�cursed by, 85; earth/Â� oceans Â�created by, 53, 109; GarÂ�den of Eden Â�created by, 109; as light, 10–11; as UnÂ�moved Mover, 33 Â�Goethe, JoÂ�hann WolfÂ�gang von, 136 good soÂ�ciÂ�ety, harÂ�mony/disÂ�soÂ�nance in, 16–17 the Â�Gothic: darkÂ�ness and light in caÂ�theÂ�drals, 11–12; and roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism, 5, 96 Great Â�American Â�Desert, 84 Â�Greeks, anÂ�cient: city (male) vs. counÂ�try (feÂ�male) life of, 23, 123; on cliÂ�mate zones, 83–84; Â�deserts underÂ�esÂ�tiÂ�mated by, 83–84; as farmÂ�ers, 110; on land as diÂ�vided into two Â�halves, 55; on poem and city, 136; as sailÂ�ors, 54, 110; theÂ�aÂ�ter enÂ�joyed by, 129 GreenÂ�land ice plaÂ�teau, 97, 98, 101–2 GregÂ�ory of Nyssa, 44 HamÂ�mett, DaÂ�shiell, 146 Han dyÂ�nasty, 118 HangÂ�zhou (China), 128 HardÂ�wick, ElizÂ�aÂ�beth, 130–31 harÂ�mony vs. chaos/disÂ�orÂ�der, 16–17 inde x 200 HaussÂ�mann, Â�Georges-Eugène, Baron, 133 Heart of DarkÂ�ness (ConÂ�rad), 13–14, 77–79 heaÂ�venly bodÂ�ies, 33 helioÂ�cenÂ�tric theÂ�ory, 32 Â�Hell’s Â�Kitchen (New York City), 125 herÂ�mits, 86 HeÂ�rodÂ�oÂ�tus, 83, 154 heÂ�roes, 147, 151–59 HeÂ�siod: Works and Days, 110 high vs. low, 17–18, 32, 42–45, 175–76 Â�Himinbjörg (myÂ�tholÂ�ogy), 43 hisÂ�torÂ�iÂ�cal roÂ�mances, 4 hisÂ�tory vs. geogÂ�raÂ�phy, 4 HitÂ�ler, Adolf, 48–49, 176 Â�Holmes, SherÂ�lock (ficÂ�tional charÂ�acÂ�ter), 142–46, 151 Holy Grail, quest for, 7, 10, 27 home: vs. adÂ�venÂ�ture, 98–100, 104–5, 175; meanÂ�ing of, 169–70, 176–77; vs. world, 23 “Home” (ThurÂ�ber), 21 home ecoÂ�nomÂ�ics, 6, 23, 177 Homer, 83, 154; The OdysÂ�sey, 57 houseÂ�keepÂ�ing/home ecoÂ�nomÂ�ics moveÂ�ment, 23 Â�houses: body as house, 20–23; as feÂ�male doÂ�main, 22–23; Â�styles of, 21–22 Hugo, VicÂ�tor: Les MisÂ�érÂ�ables, 132–33 Hulme, T. E., 5 human beÂ�ings, 147–65; aesÂ�thetes, 147, 148–51, 175–76; vs. anÂ�iÂ�mals, moÂ�ralÂ�ity of, 158–59; evÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tion of, 67; goals of, 159, 168; heÂ�roes, 147, 151–59; vs. naÂ�ture, 173–74; Â�saints, 147, 159–65; Â�working-class peoÂ�ple, 149–51 HutÂ�ton, James, 84 HuxÂ�table, Ada Â�Louise, 137 icy lands and reÂ�gions, 92–93, 95–108; and adÂ�venÂ�ture vs. home, 98–100, 104–5, 175; AntÂ�arcÂ�tic exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion, 100–101, 103–5, 156–57; auÂ�rora borÂ�ealis, 101; culÂ�ture/naÂ�ture bounÂ�dary in, 108; and death, Â�thoughts of, 105; vs. Â�deserts, 106–8; exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion of, 95–98; GreenÂ� land ice plaÂ�teau Â�crossed, 97, 98, 101– 2; North Pole exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion, 97–98; NorthÂ�west PasÂ�sage Â�through, 95; spirÂ�iÂ� tual elÂ�eÂ�vaÂ�tion Â�sought in, 108; and the subÂ�lime, 96 id, 21 ImÂ�peÂ�rial Way (HangÂ�zhou, China), 128 Â�India’s caste Â�system, 24 InÂ�dusÂ�trial RevÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tion, 120, 140–42 InterÂ�net, 144 Jason (myÂ�tholÂ�ogy), 53 JeÂ�rome, Saint, 86 Jesus, 43, 86 JoÂ�hanÂ�sen, F. H., 97 John, Saint, 10, 11 jourÂ�ney, spirÂ�iÂ�tual symÂ�bolÂ�ism of, 53–54 inde x 201 JourÂ�ney to the CenÂ�ter of the Earth (Verne), 133–34 Joyce, James: UlysÂ�ses, 175 JuÂ�piÂ�ter, 33 jusÂ�tice, 162 KepÂ�ler, JoÂ�hannes, 41 knowlÂ�edge, 27–28, 171 KunÂ�lun (China), 43 Lamb, Â�Charles, 138 lampÂ�light, 126, 128–29 Later Han DyÂ�nasty, 74 LawÂ�rence, T. E. (“LawÂ�rence of AraÂ�bia”), 87– 91, 107; Seven PilÂ�lars of WisÂ�dom, 89 Lean, David: LawÂ�rence of AraÂ�bia, 88 Lele peoÂ�ple, 69 lepÂ�ers, kissÂ�ing of, 161 Les MisÂ�érÂ�ables (Hugo), 132–33 Libya, 83 The Life and AdÂ�venÂ�tures of NichÂ�oÂ�las NickÂ�leby (DickÂ�ens), 141, 145 light: of citÂ�ies, litÂ�eral and figÂ�uraÂ�tive, 134– 40, 174; vs. darkÂ�ness, 10–14, 32, 78– 79, 174; God as, 10–11; in Â�Gothic caÂ�theÂ�drals, 11–12; ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion in citÂ�ies, 126, 128–30, 134–35, 140; Â�intellectual-spiritual comÂ�poÂ�nent of, 134–35, 174 LinÂ�naeus, CarÂ�oÂ�lus, 160 LivÂ�ingÂ�stone, David, 3, 4, 154, 155, 157 LonÂ�don: ca. 1600, 119–20; inÂ�dusÂ�triÂ�alÂ�ized, 140–41; lightÂ�ing in, 128–29; Â�praise of, 138; reÂ�cesÂ�sion in (1880s), 145; sewÂ�ers/subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean tunÂ�nels of, 134 Los AnÂ�geles, 121 lowÂ�land peoÂ�ple, 45–46 maelÂ�stroms, 57 The Magic MounÂ�tain (Mann), 46 MalÂ�aÂ�gasy tribe (MadÂ�aÂ�gasÂ�car), 13 maÂ�lefic miÂ�asÂ�mas, 72–73 MalÂ�lory, Â�George, 168 Mann, Â�Thomas: The Magic MounÂ�tain, 46 Mars, 33 Â�marshes/Â�swamps, conÂ�quest of, 126 MarÂ�vell, AnÂ�drew: “Upon ApÂ�pleÂ�ton House,” 21 Â�Mary’s asÂ�soÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion with Athos, 44 MatÂ�thew, Saint, 13 MayÂ�hew, Henry, 140, 142 Mbuti PygÂ�mies (Congo), 67–68 McCulÂ�lough, BilÂ�lie Joe, 152–53 men as roÂ�manÂ�tic, 23 The MerÂ�chant of VenÂ�ice (ShakeÂ�speare), 33–34 MerÂ�cury, 33 Meru, Mount (India), 42–43 mind vs. body, 25–26, 32, 170, 175 misÂ�anÂ�thropy, 87 MonÂ�gols, 128 monks as nonÂ�roÂ�manÂ�tic, 27 inde x 202 Moon, 33 Moses, 85 mounÂ�tain climbÂ�ing, 46–49, 176 MounÂ�tain of DesÂ�tiny, 48 mounÂ�tains, 38–39, 41–49 MumÂ�ford, Lewis, 123 music and archiÂ�tecÂ�ture, 136 music of the Â�spheres, 177 mysÂ�tiÂ�cism, 168 mysÂ�tique of the mind, 25–26 NanÂ�sen, FridtÂ�jof, 96–103, 105, 108; FarÂ�thest North, 102 NaÂ�tional AcadÂ�emy (China), 116 NaÂ�tional GeoÂ�graphic, 169–70 naÂ�ture, 108, 173–74. See also earth and natÂ�uÂ�ral enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments naÂ�ture lovÂ�ers/enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�menÂ�talÂ�ists, 6, 161–62 Nazis, 48–49, 176 NeÂ�ferÂ�titi, Queen, Â�statue of, 148–49 Nero, 154 New TesÂ�taÂ�ment, mounÂ�tains in, 43 NewÂ�ton, Sir Isaac, 41 New York City: nightÂ�life of, 130; Â�praise of, 137–39; roof garÂ�dens in, 121; as the subÂ�lime, 139–40; winÂ�ter in, 125 New Â�Yorker, 137–38 New York Times, 121 night ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion. See under light nightÂ�mares vs. dayÂ�dreams, 12–13 Nile, Â�source of, 154–55, 157 1984 (OrÂ�well), 150 North Pole exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion, 97–98 North Star, 15, 16 NorthÂ�west PasÂ�sage, 95 Nupe tribe (NiÂ�geÂ�ria), 13 Ocean (myÂ�tholÂ�ogy), 54, 61 Â�oceans, 50–51, 53–63 OdysÂ�seus (myÂ�tholÂ�ogy), 53 The OdysÂ�sey (Homer), 57 OlÂ�iÂ�ver Twist (DickÂ�ens), 141 OlymÂ�pus, Mount, 43 orÂ�ganic farmÂ�ing, 122 OrÂ�well, Â�George, 18, 151; 1984, 150 Our Lady, cult of, 160 PaÂ�glia, CaÂ�mille, 148–49 papal power, 25 Paris: nightÂ�life of, 128; Â�revolutionaryperiod, 120; sewÂ�ers/subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean tunÂ�nels of, 132–33, 134 PartheÂ�non, 136 PasÂ�cal, Â�Blaise, 34 pasÂ�sion, 176 PelÂ�oÂ�ponÂ�neÂ�sian War, 123 PilÂ�lars of HerÂ�cules, 54 Plato, 19–20, 54 Poe, Edgar Allan, 57–58; The Fall of the House of Usher, 21; The Tell Tale Heart, 21 Â�poetry, reaÂ�son emÂ�bodÂ�ied by, 136 poÂ�larÂ�ized valÂ�ues, 9–28; body, house, and space, 20–23; brain vs. brawn, 25–28; inde x 203 chaos vs. form/order, 14–17, 62; darkÂ�ness vs. light, 10–14, 32, 78– 79, 174; of the human body, 19– 20, 32; in isoÂ�lated comÂ�muÂ�nities vs. comÂ�plex soÂ�ciÂ�eties, 170–71; low vs. high, 17–18, 32, 42–45, 175–76; overÂ�view of, 9–10; and roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ� cism, 6–7, 27–28; of soÂ�cial Â�status, 24–25 polar reÂ�gions. See icy lands and reÂ�gions PonÂ�tine Â�Marshes (Italy), 126 The PostÂ�huÂ�mous Â�Papers of the PickÂ�wick Club (DickÂ�ens), 141 Pound, Ezra, 139 PriÂ�mum MoÂ�bile (first roÂ�tatÂ�ing Â�sphere), 33 protoÂ�huÂ�mans, 67 Â�quests: for the Good, 176; for the Holy Grail, 7, 10, 27; for jusÂ�tice, 162; knowlÂ� edge via, 27–28; roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism of, 27– 28, 153–54, 167, 176; for the Â�source of the Nile, 154–55, 157 rainÂ�foÂ�rests, 67–68, 70–76, 148, 173 ranch Â�houses, 21–22 Â�rebels, 110–11 reÂ�cesÂ�sion (1880s), 145 reÂ�dempÂ�tion Â�through sufÂ�ferÂ�ing, 157 reÂ�liÂ�gious plays, 129–30 RevÂ�eÂ�laÂ�tion (Bible), 53 revÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tionÂ�arÂ�ies, 162 ReÂ�ynie, GaÂ�briel NiÂ�coÂ�las de la, 128 RichÂ�ard II (ShakeÂ�speare), 36 RichÂ�ard III (ShakeÂ�speare), 56 RieÂ�fenÂ�stahl, Leni: TriÂ�umph of the Will, 48–49 roads, 45 RockÂ�ies, Â�American, 46 roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism: of chilÂ�dren, 172; vs. comÂ� mon sense, 153; of exÂ�plorÂ�ers, 96, 153– 58, 167–68; of geogÂ�raÂ�phy, 3–4, 6, 172–73, 176–77; glamÂ�our of, 164–65; of heÂ�roes, 153; and naÂ�tionÂ�alÂ�ism, 176; perÂ�sisÂ�tence of, 7; as reachÂ�ing beÂ�yond the norm, 117; roÂ�manÂ�tic Â�traits, 5–6; of Â�saints, 159–60, 164–65; of the subÂ�lime, 5, 6, 171; of world vs. home, 23. See also Â�quests Rome, anÂ�cient: city vs. counÂ�try life of, 123; nightÂ�life of, 127, 128; sewÂ�ers of, 132; specÂ�taÂ�cles enÂ�joyed in, 129 Roots (Wesker), 111–12 rural life, cliÂ�chés of, 174–75 SaÂ�cred MounÂ�tain, 48 Â�saints, 147, 159–65 Â�saints’ halos, 11 sanÂ�aÂ�toria, mounÂ�tain, 45–46 SatÂ�urn, 33 SchoÂ�penÂ�hauer, ArÂ�thur, 47 SciÂ�enÂ�tific Â�American, 169 sciÂ�enÂ�tists, goals/moÂ�tives of, 168–69. See also exÂ�plorÂ�ers Scott, RobÂ�ert FalÂ�con, 156 inde x 204 Scott, Sir WalÂ�ter, 4, 157 Â�Scylla, 57 Seven PilÂ�lars of WisÂ�dom (LawÂ�rence), 89 sewÂ�ers, 132–33 ShackÂ�leÂ�ton, ErÂ�nest, 3, 100–101 ShakeÂ�speare, Â�William, 54, 110; AnÂ�tony and CleÂ�oÂ�paÂ�tra, 20–21; The MerÂ�chant of VenÂ�ice, 33–34; RichÂ�ard II, 36; RichÂ�ard III, 56 ShouÂ�matÂ�off, Alex, 71 simÂ�plicÂ�ity vs. comÂ�plexÂ�ity, 148 SimpÂ�son, J. H., 85 Sinai Â�Desert, 86 soÂ�cial reÂ�formÂ�ers, 162 soÂ�cial Â�status, 24–25 SocÂ�raÂ�tes, 135 SoHo (New York City), 125 solar Â�system, 32–37. See also cosÂ�molÂ�ogy soul, 19–20, 86–87 Â�Spain’s dayÂ�time theÂ�aÂ�ter perÂ�forÂ�mances, 130 Speke, John, 154 Â�Spenser, EdÂ�mund, 20 sponÂ�taÂ�neÂ�ity, 176 StanÂ�ley, Henry MorÂ�ton, 154 StelÂ�laÂ�tum (reÂ�gion of fixed stars), 33 Â�Strabo, 83 the subÂ�lime: defÂ�iÂ�niÂ�tion of, 96; mounÂ�tain climbÂ�ing, 46–49, 176; roÂ�manÂ�tic, 5, 6, 171 Suger of Â�Saint-Denis, 11–12 Sui dyÂ�nasty, 115 SuÂ�merÂ�ian lanÂ�guage, 118 SuÂ�merÂ�ians, anÂ�cient, 109 Sun, 33 superÂ�ego, 21 “superÂ�ior,” meanÂ�ing of, 18 surÂ�viÂ�val, 6, 67, 151, 159, 167 susÂ�tainÂ�abilÂ�ity, 6 SutÂ�ton, HorÂ�ace, 124–25 symÂ�meÂ�try, human parÂ�tialÂ�ity for, 55 systemÂ�atic knowlÂ�edge, 171 Tai Shan (China), 43 teleÂ�graph, 144 The Tell Tale Heart (Poe), 21 terÂ�rorÂ�ism, 145 theÂ�aÂ�ter, dayÂ�time, 129–30 TheÂ�siÂ�ger, WilÂ�fred, 87, 107 ThurÂ�ber, James: “Home,” 21 TiÂ�tanic (pasÂ�senÂ�ger liner), 61–62 ToynÂ�bee, ArÂ�nold J., 6–7 TriÂ�umph of the Will (RieÂ�fenÂ�stahl), 48–49 TurnÂ�bull, Colin M., 68 Â�Twenty ThouÂ�sand Â�Leagues under the Sea (film; DisÂ�ney), 58–59 Â�Twenty ThouÂ�sand Â�Leagues under the Sea (novel; Verne), 58–61 Â�Twenty ThouÂ�sand Â�Leagues under the Sea (ride; DisÂ�ney World), 59 UlysÂ�ses (myÂ�tholÂ�ogy), 54 UlysÂ�ses (novel; Joyce), 175 inde x 205 unÂ�emÂ�ployÂ�ment, 145 uniÂ�verÂ�sities, 25–26 “Upon ApÂ�pleÂ�ton House” (MarÂ�vell), 21 urban agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, 121–22 van Loon, HenÂ�drik WilÂ�lem: GeogÂ�raÂ�phy, 29–30 Venus (planet), 33 Venus of WilÂ�lenÂ�dorf, 148–49 Verne, Jules: JourÂ�ney to the CenÂ�ter of the Earth, 133–34; Â�Twenty ThouÂ�sand Â�Leagues under the Sea, 58–61 viÂ�talÂ�ism, 149–50, 151 ViÂ�truÂ�vius: De ArchiÂ�tecÂ�tura, 20–21 von SimÂ�son, Otto, 11 VoyÂ�ager 1, 36–37 wasteÂ�land, conÂ�quest of, 126 Â�Wesker, ArÂ�nold: Roots, 111–12 white, posÂ�iÂ�tive/negÂ�aÂ�tive meanÂ�ings of, 13–14 The White Hell of Piz Palü, 48 white vs. black, 13. See also darkÂ�ness: vs. light WilÂ�son, Bill, 157–58 Â�witches’ mounÂ�tain homes, 42 Wolff, MiÂ�chael, 120 women as unÂ�roÂ�manÂ�tic, 23 WordsÂ�worth, Â�William, 136, 138, 177 Â�working-class peoÂ�ple, 149–51 Works and Days (HeÂ�siod), 110 writÂ�ing and civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion, 76 yang (light, day, sun), 13 Zhou dyÂ�nasty, 123 Zhou Li (Book of Rites), 114 ZoÂ�roasÂ�trianÂ�ism, 85