Tuan Romantic Geography

Ro�man�tic Geog�ra�phy
ro�man�tic geog�ra�phy
In �Search of
the Sub�lime Land�scape
yi-fu tuan
t h e
u n i �v e r s� i t y
o f
w i s c� o n �s i n
p r e s s
The Uni�ver�sity of Wis�con�sin Press
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�Printed in the �United �States of Amer�ica
Li�brary of Con�gress �Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tuan, Yi-fu, 1930–
Ro�man�tic geog�ra�phy: in �search of the sub�lime land�scape /
Yi-Fu Tuan.
p.â•…â•… cm.
In�cludes bib�lio�graph�i�cal ref�er�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.╇ Ro�man�ti�cism.╇╇ I.╇ Title.
G70.T83â•…â•…â•… 2013
910.01—dc23
2013010425
Con�tents
Ac�knowl�edg�ments
vii
over�ture
3
1╅ Po�lar�ized Val�ues
9
2╅ Earth and Its Nat�u�ral En�vi�ron�ments
29
inter�lude: whole�some but or�di�nary
109
3â•… The City
113
v
contents
vi
4â•… The Human Being
147
coda
167
Notes
179
Il�lus�tra�tion Cred�its
193
Index
195
Ac�knowl�edg�ments
Eight of my books were writ�ten and pub�lished since my re�tire�
ment in 1998. I Â�couldn’t posÂ�sibly have done as much withÂ�out
the sup�port of my de�part�men�tal col�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 re�cent pub�lish�ers: the
Uni�ver�sity of Min�ne�sota Press, the Uni�ver�sity of Wis�con�sin Press,
and the newly es�tab�lished �George F. Thomp�son Press. They have
been con�sis�tently sym�pa�thetic. Among the ed�i�tors of the �present
book, I am in�debted to Ra�phael Kad�u�shin, Adam Meh�ring,
Bar�bara Lund, and Mat�thew Cosby. I am es�pe�cially in�debted to
Ra�phael Kad�u�shin, who wel�comed Ro�man�tic Geog�ra�phy as a
pos�sible pub�li�ca�tion in less than a week after my sub�mis�sion.
Now, Â�that’s a real boost to an Â�author’s moÂ�rale!
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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, �thanks to the friend�ship of the ef�fer�ves�cent young, of
whom there are many, in�clud�ing: Nick Bauch, Chu Hao Chan,
�Chaoyi Chang, Zhi Cheng, Rich�ard Don�o�hue, An�drew Grant,
Dan�iel �Gresch, Hong�nian Huang, An�drew Kern, Ben�ja�min Kern,
NaÂ�than LarÂ�son, MathÂ�ias LeÂ�Bossé, DusÂ�tin Lenz, Matt Â�Liesch, Chris
Lim�burg, Mel�a�nie McCal�mont, Kevin McDo�nald, An�drew �Miller,
Kyle Mills, Nick Mur�phy, Gar�rett Nel�son, Lindy Nel�son, Matt
Â�O’Brien, Kyle PresÂ�ton, Peter ProÂ�haska, JeÂ�muel RiÂ�pley, JesÂ�sica
Sack, Greg �Schwartz, Ben �Spaier, Jus�tin Stock, Sean Thomp�son,
Jamon van den Hoek, Xu�zheng Wang, Kevin �Warnke, David
Was�kow�ski, Peter Weis�sels, Con�rad Wiles, Sam�uel Zhu, and I-Ou
Zuo.
The young in�spire me if only by show�ing inter�est, mak�ing
me feel that I can reach �across the chasm of time, but I �should
menÂ�tion one gradÂ�uÂ�ate stuÂ�dent—GarÂ�rett NelÂ�son—who has also
given me spe�cific as�sis�tance by find�ing il�lus�tra�tions (iconic
an�nounce�ments) for the sec�tions on nat�u�ral en�vi�ron�ments and
seek�ing per�mis�sion from copy�right hold�ers to use them in my
book.
As to in�tel�lec�tual debt, I owe much to Um�berto Eco, ed�i�tor of
On Ug�li�ness (Riz�zoli, 2007). Read�ing the text and look�ing at the
strik�ing il�lus�tra�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.
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I was fight�ing �against my na�ture, which re�sists dwell�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 �depths?
Ro�man�tic Geog�ra�phy
over�ture
�
Coupling
“roÂ�manÂ�tic” with “geogÂ�raÂ�phy” could seem a contraÂ�dicÂ�tion
of terms, for few peo�ple now�a�days see geog�ra�phy as ro�man�tic.
�Down-to-earth, full of com�mon sense, nec�es�sary to sur�vi�val,
yes—but roÂ�manÂ�tic? Yet there was a time, not so long ago, when
geog�ra�phy did have �glamor, was con�sid�ered ro�man�tic. It was the
time of he�roic ex�plo�ra�tions. Ex�plor�ers were known as geog�ra�
phers, peo�ple �skilled in sur�vey�ing and map�ping. Their ad�ven�tures,
when re�ported, were �widely fol�lowed and much ad�mired. One
could make block�buster mo�vies of David Liv�ing�stone and Er�nest
Shack�le�ton as one could of Eliz�a�beth I and Gan�dhi. What they
had in com�mon was that they in�itiated and par�tic�i�pated in major
�events.
3
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How�ever, were these �events �really geo�graph�i�cal �events?
Â�Wouldn’t an acÂ�count of the adÂ�venÂ�tures of David LivÂ�ingÂ�stone in
Af�rica be his�tory �rather than geog�ra�phy? The two �fields are very
dif�fer�ent and yet they are often �taught as a pack�age in �schools
and col�leges. How do they dif�fer? The one tells a good story, the
other does not. A his�tory of the �American Civil War is rich in
per�son�al�ities and drama, with in�stances of chiv�alry that are at
the heart of ro�mance. A geog�ra�phy of the �American Civil War, by
�contrast, is �likely to be in�for�ma�tive and use�ful but not ex�cit�ing.
His�to�ries can be dry too, of �course, but they can at least be �deemed
“roÂ�manÂ�tic” in the sense that they are an extra or a luxÂ�ury that is
un�nec�es�sary to civ�il�iza�tion and its sur�vi�val. India, for ex�am�ple,
is a great civ�il�iza�tion, one �backed by fan�tas�tic myths and leg�ends
�rather than his�tory of the sort known to Eu�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 system�atic knowl�edge of the lay of the
land. His�tory also has his�tor�i�cal ro�mances, a genre pi�o�neered
by Sir Wal�ter Scott. But to the ques�tion, are there geo�graph�i�
cal ro�mances? Most peo�ple would draw a blank un�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
ro�man�tic geog�ra�phy? Can it be �argued that there is need for one
since much of human life is in fact Â�driven by pasÂ�sion—by the
de�sire to reach what is out of reach or even be�yond reach?1
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My an�swer to both ques�tions is yes, and I will give rea�sons
for my opin�ion in this book. But be�fore I do, I need to take care
of a few pre�lim�i�nar�ies, the first of which is de�fin�ing the words
“roÂ�manÂ�tic” or “roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism,” a loose set of ideas and valÂ�ues that
�emerged in Eu�rope �between 1780 and 1848. The pre�ci�sion of the
dates is mis�lead�ing for the ideas and val�ues them�selves are vague
and often contra�dic�tory. T. E. Hulme �opines that ro�man�ti�cism is
es�sen�tially a transcen�dence of the every�day and a faith in human
per�fect�ibil�ity. �Jacques Bar�zun �speaks of a ro�man�ti�cist tem�per�a�
ment, which he charÂ�acÂ�terizes as “adÂ�miÂ�raÂ�tion for enÂ�ergy, moral
en�thu�siasm, orig�i�nal gen�ius, rec�og�ni�tion of �contrast �between
man’s Â�greatness-wretchedness, Â�power-misery.” RoÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism
over�lapped with the idea of the sub�lime and of the �gothic. Both
then dove�tailed into a phase of West�ern imag�i�na�tion �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
�against the norms of life, with their ideal of stabil�ity.2
Geog�ra�phy, how�ever, is �mostly about the norms of life.
When geog�ra�phers note change,
�
the �change is usu�ally as�cribed
to im�per�sonal �forces. To even hint that a yearn�ing to �transcend
the every�day or that the lure of human per�fect�ibil�ity plays a role
would put the work out of the cat�e�gory of se�ri�ous schol�ar�ship
and into the cat�e�gory of ro�mance. Geo�graph�i�cal writ�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
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more �likely to be de�nun�cia�tory than ad�mir�ing, more a �cutting
cri�tique of cap�i�tal�ism than a glow�ing �praise of so�cial�ism. �Lastly,
the ro�man�tic tem�per�a�ment, says Bar�zun, is torn �between great�
ness and wretch�ed�ness, power and mis�ery. The works of con�tem�
po�rary geog�ra�phers show lit�tle trace of such ro�man�tic agony.
The laÂ�cuÂ�nae in the Â�geographer’s imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion and work are
not �merely a dis�ci�pli�nary blind spot, for they re�flect the mood of
the sec�ond half of the twen�ti�eth cen�tury, which is es�sen�tially anti�
ro�man�tic. As ev�i�dence, con�sider the ex�traor�di�nary pop�u�lar�ity,
not only in ac�a�de�mia but in so�ci�ety at large, of such con�ser�va�tive,
house�keep�ing no�tions as en�vi�ron�men�tal�ism, ecol�ogy, sus�tain�
abil�ity, and sur�vi�val. The is�sues they raise and the vo�cab�u�lary
they use may dif�fer, but since they all at�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 �well-being, does not stir the pas�sions or make the
�spirit soar: it is not ro�man�tic.
Ro�man�ti�cism in�clines to�ward ex�tremes in feel�ing, im�a�gin�ing,
and think�ing. It seeks not so much the �pretty or the clas�si�cally
beau�ti�ful as the sub�lime with its ad�mix�ture of the en�chant�ing
and the hor�rify�ing, the �heights and the �depths. Push�ing po�lar�
ized val�ues to their limit is, how�ever, a lux�ury of ad�vanced so�
ci�ety or civ�il�iza�tion in which peo�ple, en�joy�ing a large meas�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,
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acÂ�cordÂ�ing to ArÂ�nold J. ToynÂ�bee—but only one, the WestÂ�ern, has
de�vel�oped a way of think�ing and feel�ing about the world that
jus�tifies the name of ro�man�ti�cism.3 Much that I have to say is
there�fore of the West�ern world. More�over, much of it draws on
the hun�dred years or so be�fore the twen�ti�eth cen�tury, the rea�son
being that since 1900, the �ideals of high ro�mance have been
pro�gres�sively over�shad�owed by the �ideals of de�moc�racy and the
com�mon man. Still, in pop�u�lar cul�ture, ro�man�ti�cism is alive and
well: wit�ness the block�buster mo�vies that fea�ture �knights in
shin�ing armor seek�ing to res�cue the fair dam�sel or even in �search
of the Holy Grail. High cul�ture deems such ro�mance shal�low and
child�ish, yet it con�tin�ues to af�fect, sub rosa, the way that even
the so�phis�ti�cated think and feel about na�ture, en�vi�ron�ment, so�
ciÂ�ety, and polÂ�iÂ�tics. They can’t help being so afÂ�fected, for underÂ�
ly�ing ro�man�ti�cism, and in�deed under�ly�ing all human de�sires,
temp�ta�tions, and as�pi�ra�tions, are the po�lar�ized val�ues, ex�is�tence
of which lures peo�ple to move, at least in imag�i�na�tion, be�yond
the norm to the ex�tremes.
1
Po�lar�ized Val�ues
W
hat are the po�lar�ized val�ues? They in�clude dark�ness and
light, chaos and order, body and mind, mat�ter and �spirit,
na�ture and cul�ture, among oth�ers. Every cul�ture has its own set
that is sub�tly dif�fer�ent from those of other cul�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, �spirit, and cul�ture. (The in�verted com�mas
are put there as a re�min�der that the val�ues are re�ver�sible.) These
bi�nar�ies under�lie a ro�man�tic geog�ra�phy for the fol�low�ing rea�sons:
they focus on the ex�tremes �rather than on the �middle-range; they
af�fect our feel�ings and judg�ments to�ward ob�jects and peo�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
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large, chal�leng�ing en�vi�ron�ments such as the �planet Earth with
its nat�u�ral sub�di�vi�sions of moun�tain, ocean, trop�i�cal for�est, �desert,
and ice plaÂ�teaus, and their human counterÂ�part in chalÂ�lenge—
the city. Boost�ing the ro�man�tic fla�vor of these en�vi�ron�ments are
inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�als who seek adÂ�venÂ�ture and someÂ�thing else—someÂ�thing
more mys�ter�i�ous that they are un�able to ar�tic�u�late. Ad�ven�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 bi�nar�ies be�cause they both de�fine the
lim�its of what is ac�cept�able in the nor�mal op�er�a�tions of human
life—geogÂ�raÂ�phy—and hint at posÂ�sibilÂ�ities beÂ�yond—roÂ�manÂ�tic
geog�ra�phy.
Dark�ness and Light
“In the beÂ�ginÂ�ning God Â�created Â�heaven and the earth. And the
earth was with�out form, and void; and dark�ness was upon the
face of the deep. And the �Spirit of God moved upon the face of
the wa�ters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
And God saw the light that it was good: and God di�vided the
light from darkÂ�ness.”
These fa�mil�iar �verses at the be�gin�ning of Gen�e�sis are sup�ple�
mented by �verses in the first chap�ter of the gos�pel ac�cord�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
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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 be�lieve. He was not that Light, but was sent to bear
wit�ness of that Light. That was the true Light, which light�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 in�tel�lec�tual il�lu�mi�na�tion or spir�i�tual en�
light�en�ment. More than other re�li�gions, such as Bud�dhism, light
in Chris�ti�an�ity is given a �richly var�ied sym�bolic mean�ing in lit�er�a�
ture, art, and archi�tec�ture. Thus, when Dante �passes be�yond the
crys�tal �sphere of the out�er�most star, he is said to have en�tered
a Â�Heaven that is “pure light, inÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tual light, full of love” (ParÂ�aÂ�
diso XXX.38). In art, �saints are rec�og�nized by their halos. How�
ever, it was in archiÂ�tecÂ�ture—in the Â�Gothic caÂ�theÂ�dral—that light
as phys�i�cal fact and sym�bol �reached a peak of splen�dor and
fig�ura�tive power. That which dis�tin�guished the �Gothic style in
the �twelfth cen�tury was not the �cross-ribbed vault, the �pointed
arch, or the fly�ing but�tress. �Rather it was light. As Otto von
SimÂ�son put it, “The Â�Gothic wall seems to be porÂ�ous: light filÂ�ters
�through it, per�meat�ing it, merg�ing with it, trans�fig�ur�ing it. The
�Gothic may be de�scribed as trans�par�ent, di�aph�a�nous archi�tec�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 in�ven�tion of the �Gothic �church, said that in it he saw
himÂ�self “dwellÂ�ing, as it were, in some Â�strange reÂ�gion of the
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uni�verse which ex�ists nei�ther en�tirely in the slime of the earth
nor en�tirely in the pur�ity of �Heaven; and, by the grace of God, I
can be trans�ported from this in�fe�rior to that �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
fore�taste of �heaven.2
Dark�ness and death per�vaded the house of God: lit�eral dark�
ness in the musty, cav�ern�ous crypt and fig�ura�tive dark�ness in
the mon�strous gar�goyles. As for death, the stone ef�fi�gies in their
cold, stiff so�lid�ity �seemed to mock the idea of res�ur�rec�tion. Suger,
�though he em�braced light and its sym�bol�ism, in�cluded dark�ness
in his con�cep�tion of the ca�the�dral. His con�tem�po�rary Ber�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 clois�ters, under the eyes of the breth�ren en�gaged in read�ing,
what busi�ness has there that ri�dic�u�lous mon�stros�ity, that amaz�ing
mis�sha�pen shape�li�ness and �shapely mis�sha�pen�ness? Those un�
clean mon�keys? Those �fierce lions? Those mon�strous cen�taurs?
Those Â�semi-human beÂ�ings?”3
Hu�mans favor light as �against dark�ness for the ob�vi�ous rea�son
that we are pri�mar�ily vis�ual an�i�mals. In dark�ness, un�able to see,
we are dis�oriented and lost. With�out the guid�ance and con�straint
of a �clearly de�lin�eated ex�ter�nal re�al�ity, our imag�i�na�tion runs wild
and con�jures up mon�sters that haunt us. Note the asym�me�try:
we have night�mares but only pleas�ant day�dreams; the one
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makes us sweat in ter�ror, the other �merely makes us smile. A
com�mon but �deeply re�ward�ing ex�pe�ri�ence is to wake up from
dis�turbed sleep to be�hold, out�side the win�dow, a scene of
bright�en�ing sky, leafy trees, and twit�ter�ing birds that are a fore�
taste of the res�ur�rec�tion.
Under�stand�ably, peo�ple world�wide see dark�ness and light,
black and white, as anti�thet�i�cal. Even �dark-skinned peo�ple in
Af�rica favor light and white against
�
dark�ness and black. To the
West �African tribe, the Bam�bara, white is a regal color, rep�re�
sent�ing wis�dom and pur�ity of �spirit. The dark tones of in�digo,
on the other hand, are iden�tified with sad�ness and im�pur�ity. To
the Nupe tribe of Ni�ge�ria, black sig�nifies sor�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”
sig�nifies the op�po�site val�ues of light, hope, joy, and pur�ity.4
Light and white have, how�ever, also neg�a�tive mean�ings. In
China, white, in�so�far as it is cou�pled with yang (light, day, sun),
is pos�i�tive and de�sir�able, but as the color of the �corpse �drained of
blood and life, it sig�nifies death. In the West�ern world, white, for
all its pos�i�tive mean�ings, also has a few neg�a�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 un�clean�ness. Jo�seph Con�rad uses the tra�di�tional op�po�si�tion
of white (good), dark (bad) in the Heart of Dark�ness, but he also
gives “white” the sense of corÂ�rupÂ�tion and death when he Â�speaks
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of Â�bleached Â�skulls Â�around Â�Kurtz’s hut, of Â�Kurtz’s shinÂ�ing bald
head, of the ivory that �tempts Eu�ro�peans to av�a�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
ex�cru�ciat�ing tor�ture. En�forced wake�ful�ness leads to death. The
color white, as in the white flag of sur�ren�der, sig�nifies im�po�tence,
weakÂ�ness, and cowÂ�arÂ�dice. InÂ�telÂ�lecÂ�tuÂ�ally, it sugÂ�gests shalÂ�lowÂ�ness—
all sur�face, no depth. Black or dark�ness, on the other hand, sig�
nifies fer�til�ity, po�tency, nur�ture, the ger�mi�nal, and the ma�ter�nal.
Dark red color is �blood-gorged power; pale�ness is ane�mia. Black
soil is good soil, pale soil a sign of nu�tri�ent de�fi�ciency. A plant
only grows be�cause its roots are bur�ied in dark murk. Human
sex is fa�vored by dark�ness, as is res�to�ra�tive sleep. One rea�son we
are sen�ti�men�tal about home is that it is the only place where, for
a few hours every night, we in�dulge in the lux�ury of obliv�ion.
Chaos and Form
The first �verses of Gen�e�sis show God as ar�ti�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
�created form. He sep�ar�ated the fir�ma�ment from the wa�ters and
then gath�ered the wa�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,
�create order at such a scale, but they tried, using �heaven as a
temÂ�plate. They saw in the moÂ�tion of the stars a preÂ�dictÂ�abilÂ�ity—an
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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 or�der�li�ness down
to earth, and they did so in the form of cos�mic cit�ies, with walls
and key buildÂ�ings Â�aligned to the carÂ�diÂ�nal Â�points—that is to say,
to crit�i�cal po�si�tions in the mo�tion of the sun, by far the most
prom�i�nent of stars.
Look�ing up to �heaven, an�cient astron�o�mers saw that the stars
cirÂ�cuÂ�lated Â�around one heaÂ�venly body that did not move—the
North Star. Closer
�
at hand they saw the sun rise in the east and
set in the west, in ap�par�ent cir�cu�lar mo�tion �around the earth. As
a mat�ter of fact, the an�cients were in�clined to see if not cir�cles,
then cir�cu�lar mo�tion �nearly every�where, in the or�derly pos�ses�
sion of sea�sons, in the mi�gra�tory paths of birds, and in the life
cy�cles of liv�ing �things. Build�ing gi�gan�tic cir�cu�lar walls to en�close
a city was, how�ever, a chal�lenge that the an�cients could not eas�ily
meet. So they �sought a sub�sti�tute in the �square or rec�tan�gle.
Â�Heaven’s order was Â�brought down to earth as the geoÂ�metÂ�ric
cos�mic city, whose con�struc�tion re�quired the lev�el�ing of hills
and val�leys, the di�ver�sion of �streams, and the dem�o�li�tion of
vilÂ�lages—in other words, the subÂ�juÂ�gaÂ�tion of earth.
The great city began its life as a cos�mic cer�e�mo�nial cen�ter. Its
prin�ci�pal in�hab�i�tants were the �priest-king, re�li�gious of�fi�cials, and
the elite of so�ci�ety. They con�ducted the rites they be�lieved to be
nec�es�sary to order and life. But their own life and �well-being
de�pended on all kinds of goods and ser�vices. These were pro�vided
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by peo�ple flood�ing in from the coun�try�side and be�yond. �Though
nec�es�sary to the ruler and the elite, the com�mon peo�ple of hetero�
ge�ne�ous back�ground, com�mer�cial and ar�tis�a�nal �rather than ag�ri�
cul�tu�ral and hence not an es�sen�tial part of the cos�mic par�a�digm,
were seen as a poÂ�tenÂ�tial Â�threat to Â�society’s order. A large buÂ�reauÂ�cÂ�
racy came into ex�is�tence to mon�i�tor this hetero�ge�ne�ous pop�u�
la�tion and see to it that so�ci�ety ran with some�thing like the
reg�u�lar�ity and pre�dict�abil�ity of the stars. The key word was
har�mony.6
To be civ�il�ized is to move from form�less�ness to form, from
chaos to har�mony. Who would dis�pute that this is the right
di�rec�tion for hu�man�kind to go, that it con�sti�tutes prog�ress? Yet
there is cause for doubt. God �created order out of chaos, but
being a great art�ist, with the tem�per�a�ment of a ro�man�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 crea�tures is ca�pable of free�dom, that is to say, of �choice
and with �choice the pos�sibil�ity of pro�duc�ing dis�or�der. The human
being is also an art�ist who seeks to �create order out of chaos,
har�mony out of dis�so�nance. Im�pressed by the or�derly pro�ces�
sion of the stars �around the un�mov�ing North Star, he �wishes to
es�tab�lish a so�ci�ety in which vas�sals and the com�mon peo�ple
sub�mit to and move �around the one un�mov�ing em�peror. The
re�sult, if it can be �achieved, is in�deed order and har�mony. But it
is also dic�tat�or�ship. The good so�ci�ety can�not be one of per�fect
har�mony. It re�quires a meas�ure of chaos, for out of its ten�sions
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and con�flicts new ideas �emerge. In other words, the good so�ci�ety,
like good art, must con�tain dis�so�nance. In em�brac�ing dis�so�nance
and open�ness, the good so�ci�ety is more ro�man�tic than clas�si�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 com�mon peo�ple, the other with the elite, a dis�tinc�tion
that the elite make to which the com�mon peo�ple ac�quiesce. The
elite see them�selves as dem�i�gods, their abode the city cen�ter and,
con�cep�tu�ally, also the high�est point. From the cen�ter, the city
“slopes down,” first, to the quarÂ�ters of the midÂ�dling class, and
then to the mar�gins where the poor and the dis�rep�u�ta�ble hud�dle.
For cen�tu�ries, if not mil�len�nia, this is the archi�tec�tu�ral and so�cial
model of great cit�ies. As for or�di�nary dwell�ings, their ev�o�lu�tion�ary
path is up�ward, the ear�li�est being par�tially under�ground, as
�though re�luc�tant to leave the se�cur�ity of ma�ter�nal earth. In time,
they stood above �ground, with the more im�por�tant ones on
�raised plat�forms. Re�li�gion and its archi�tec�ture moved from a de�
pen�dence on the spir�its of grot�toes and hills, water holes and
�streams, to a de�pen�dence on the over�arch�ing sky and its gods;
and from rit�u�als con�ducted out�doors to rit�u�als con�ducted in the
se�cluded inter�i�ors of tem�ples.7
As with “darkÂ�ness” and “light,” “high” and “low” may be
re�versed in value. Thus, in both an�cient Rome and mod�ern
Chi�cago, �high-rise tene�ment build�ings pro�vide hous�ing for the
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poor, �whereas vil�las and man�sions close to the �ground are res�i�
dences for the rich. �Low-flung build�ings sig�nify stabil�ity. Govern�
ment build�ings, as dis�tinct from cor�po�rate head�quar�ters, do not
rise many Â�floors above the Â�ground. One can’t easÂ�ily imÂ�aÂ�gine
Buck�ing�ham Pal�ace, a sym�bol of con�ti�nu�ity and tra�di�tion, or the
Pen�ta�gon, the seat of mil�i�tary power, as sky�scrap�ers.
“High” and “low” are Â�strongly Â�charged words. WhatÂ�ever is
super�ior or ex�cel�lent is el�e�vated, as�so�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 �heights where one be�comes vul�ner�able to envy
and ma�lef�i�cence. Under�stand�ably, in high civ�il�iza�tions, in�di�
vid�u�als at the peak of achieve�ment oc�ca�sion�ally feel the draw of
being �merely av�er�age. Aes�thetes can show a cer�tain nos�tal�gia for
mud, in�tel�lec�tu�als for the sen�sual re�al�ity of �beasts. High �status in
any area of en�deavor risks a fall, but this would seem par�tic�u�larly
true of so�cial �status. �George Or�well, a man of the upper �middleclass, finds com�fort in being �down-and-out. As a dish�washer in a
Pa�ri�sian res�tau�rant, he is at the bot�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 �reached them, and you can
stand it. It takes off a lot of anxÂ�iety.”8
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The Human Body
The more ad�vanced an�i�mals al�ready know the po�la�rities of high
and low, light and dark�ness, form and chaos. �Unique to hu�mans
is their in�dex�ing and elab�ora�tion on the body. So in�dexed and
elab�orated, these po�la�rities are no �longer vague and ab�stract but
have a high de�gree of spec�i�fic�ity and �weight. Each cul�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 cor�po�real soul, the di�vine part of
which is the head, the seat of rea�son and il�lu�mi�na�tion. The head,
which is im�mor�tal, is kept at a dis�tance by the neck from the
torso and stomÂ�ach, which are the Â�body’s lower parts. Â�Though
mor�tal, the torso has much to com�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 sup�ports ra�tional �thought by re�strain�ing the
ex�cesses of de�sire. And, then, there is the heart, which Plato calls
the guar�droom. The guar�droom acts �quickly at the emer�gence
of a prob�lem, pass�ing in�for�ma�tion to all sen�si�tive mem�bers. As
for the stom�ach and or�gans far�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
can�not be dis�missed as some�how sec�on�dary. But what about the
other apÂ�peÂ�tites, tethÂ�ered “like wild Â�beasts” to the loins? Their
lo�ca�tion below the stom�ach means that the nox�ious fumes of
pas�sion do not eas�ily reach rea�son and pre�vent it from doing its
work. More�over, there is the neck, which acts as the final cor�don
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san�i�taire.9 In mod�ern times, this way of think�ing has led to the
�quaint no�tion that a long�ish neck is a good in�di�ca�tor of in�tel�li�
gence. Ad�mir�ers of Sher�lock �Holmes and his ar�chri�val Pro�fes�sor
Mor�i�arty have been per�suaded that mas�ter�minds can be only
ec�to�morphs, lean of build and long of limb, this de�spite the
�contrary ev�i�dence of My�croft �Holmes and �Father Brown, both
bril�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 geo�met�ri�cal and archi�tec�tu�ral. The body, to �Spenser, con�
sists of three parts: cir�cle (head), rec�tan�gle (torso), and spread�ing
legs (tri�an�gle). Build�ings are sup�posed to show these �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 some�thing alien to and sep�a�ra�ble from the soul. On the
other hand, the body def�i�nitely ex�hib�its a hier�ar�chy of val�ues,
with the head and the legs at the polar ex�tremes. The head con�
tains the high�est and most per�fect form of the soul, �whereas the
legs are of the earth, �tainted by con�cu�pis�cence and all that is
gen�er�a�tive.10
Body, House, and Space
The body is a house, the house is a body, an in�tui�tion that is �widely
�shared. One finds it in the De Archi�tec�tura of Vi�tru�vius (first
cenÂ�tury BCE–first cenÂ�tury CE), in the dreams
�
of Ar�te�mid�orus
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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 �well-padded, �womb-like con�sult�ing room, and in James
Â�Thurber’s carÂ�toon “Home,” which shows a small, timid man
ap�proach�ing the large, ma�ter�nal house. This is, of �course, an
ec�lec�tic se�lec�tion, and al�though all draw on the �body-house
anal�ogy, the na�ture of that anal�ogy var�ies from the �coolly fig�ura�
tive to the in�ti�mately ex�pe�ri�en�tial. I �choose to ex�am�ine the lat�ter,
for it is there that bi�po�lar val�ues are most �clearly man�i�fest.
The dream house (or the Â�child’s house) is a verÂ�tiÂ�cal strucÂ�ture
with a �pitched roof. Its three lev�els are attic, liv�ing room, and
cel�lar. Attic is the place for the �dreamer and poet. In �dreams, one
al�ways goes up to the attic, which, to Freu�dians, �stands for the
super�ego. The liv�ing room is the pub�lic and so�cial self, the place
where one makes one’s Â�worldly plans. It Â�stands for the ego. The
cel�lar is the dark �ground of being, the place of the fur�nace that
fuels the pas�sion�ate self. In �dreams, one al�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
cen�tury, the new �middle-class house in the west�ern �United �States
is �likely to be hor�i�zon�tal, as in a ranch house. The ranch house
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has a �well-marked front and back, just like a human being. At
the front is the liv�ing room. Its win�dows, one on ei�ther side of
the door, are “eyes” that surÂ�vey the front lawn and beÂ�yond. The
liv�ing room is so�cial space. It is where one en�ter�tains. At night,
one pulls down the �blinds (shut�ting the eyes) and with�draws to
the back of the house, made up of the bed�room, toi�let, and
Â�kitchen, all of which cater to one’s bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal needs. Every night,
one takes out the gar�bage that has ac�cu�mu�lated in the �kitchen
bins, just as every night one sits on the toi�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 �flower gar�den. It is for show and is un�fenced. At the
back of the house is a veg�e�ta�ble plot, a swing for the chil�dren,
and a place for bar�be�cu�ing and in�for�mal fam�ily gath�er�ings. The
back�yard, being pri�vate space, is �fenced in, pro�tected from
prob�ing eyes.12
The court�yard house, �whether of China, an�cient Rome, or
Latin coun�tries, also has a front and a back. The front is for�mal
and semi�pub�lic; the back is in�for�mal and pri�vate. In pre�mod�ern
times, the court�yard at the front was �largely re�served for men
and that at the back for women and chil�dren; the one ca�tered
to the �social-political, the other to the �social-biological; the one
exÂ�posed and “bright,” the other hidÂ�den and “dark.”
Al�though the house may be par�ti�tioned and its rooms as�signed
dif�fer�ent val�ues, the house as a whole is con�sid�ered fe�male and
nur�tur�ing, de�voted to ac�tiv�i�ties that main�tain bio�log�i�cal life. By
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�
contrast,
the city is the do�main of men and of ma�nip�u�la�tive
rea�son. An�cient �Greeks made the most of this dif�fer�ence. Their
home in the coun�try�side was es�sen�tially a farm�stead, its pur�pose
being to pro�duce food and main�tain life. Women, chil�dren, and
Â�slaves—the miÂ�nors of clasÂ�siÂ�cal soÂ�ciÂ�ety—beÂ�longed there. Men
were ex�pected to make their rep�u�ta�tions in the glare of pub�lic
life in the city.13 Until well into the 1950s, these �gender-based
dif�fer�ences were widely
�
ac�cepted in the West�ern world, in�clud�
ing in the �United �States. Women �raised the chil�dren, did the
shop�ping, and �cooked the meals, their do�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 ro�man�tic as the home is not. Men are ro�man�tic
as women are not. One �strain in the fem�i�nist move�ment is to
as�sert that women, too, can be ro�man�tic; that they, too, can lead
a life of dar�ing, tilt �against wind�mills, and risk much for a dream.
An�other �strain in the fem�i�nist move�ment, �equally �strong, is to
asÂ�sert the opÂ�poÂ�site—not that women Â�should join men, but Â�rather
that men �should join women in the col�lec�tive task of mak�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
geog�ra�phers who be�lieve that they have a lead�ing role in that
under�tak�ing, it is not ro�man�tic.
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So�cial �Status
Ex�cept for small �hunting-gathering bands, hier�ar�chy has al�ways
ex�isted in so�ci�ety. More�over, the �larger the so�cial group and the
�higher its ma�te�rial cul�ture, the more its �status dis�tinc�tions are
�likely to be elab�orate and rigid. Yet, for all their com�plex�ity,
so�cial dis�tinc�tions rest ul�ti�mately on the hier�archi�cal body,
memÂ�bers of which—head, torso, legs, and feet—are unÂ�equal.
The ver�ti�cal �stance it�self, �unique to hu�mans among pri�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 mus�cu�lar power in so�cial stand�ing, ethol�o�
gists see its cen�tral im�por�tance every�where in the an�i�mal world,
but it Â�doesn’t quite fit the human one. True, the strongÂ�est guy in
a �street gang rules the roost. Even there, how�ever, it is �likely that
he �gained his �status in�itially �through ver�bal �rather than phys�i�cal
�jousts. In a tri�bal so�ci�ety, the man of high�est pres�tige is the
�all-seeing sha�man �rather than the war�rior. In�dian civ�il�iza�tion
rec�og�nized four �castes: �priestly and �learned, war�rior and ruler,
�farmer and mer�chant, and peas�ant and la�borer. Sig�nif�i�cantly,
even though
�
war�ri�ors and rul�ers en�joyed more power, in pres�tige
they were a notch below �priests and the �learned; they were
“torso” Â�rather than “head.” SoÂ�cial stratÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tion in China was less
rigid than in India. �Rather than �castes, China had some�thing
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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
�scholar-official, and not just the of�fi�cial, en�joyed high pres�tige.
The Chi�nese could see that good govern�ment re�quired men who
were �trained to see far and act �wisely. The semi�di�vine em�peror
him�self, inter�est�ingly �enough, was not �obliged to act, for he was
above all so�cial cat�e�go�ries. For the world to be in har�mony, all
the em�peror had to do was to em�u�late the North Star and sit
im�mo�bile on his �throne.
Brain vs. Brawn
In Chris�tian�ized Eu�rope, spir�i�tual lords out�ranked tem�po�ral
lords. Kings bent the knee to the Pope. The real �source of power
in the pa�pacy lay, how�ever, not so much in its small army and
mil�i�tary al�li�ances as in a vast bu�reau�cracy �manned by lit�er�ate
�priests and monks. The power of the Word trans�muted into the
power of words. �Around the six�teenth cen�tury, the upper �classes
in En�gland began to re�al�ize that if they were to con�tinue to
gov�ern, they could not de�pend on just mar�tial prow�ess. They
had to de�velop the mind. So they sent their sons to �schools and
uniÂ�verÂ�sities—WinÂ�chesÂ�ter and Eton, OxÂ�ford and CamÂ�bridge—
that were once the pre�serves of �lower-class boys pre�par�ing for
ca�reers in the �Church. At these in�sti�tu�tions the young gen�tle�
men were �taught theol�ogy and clas�si�cal phi�lol�ogy, dis�ci�plines
that had no bear�ing on the govern�ance of a na�tion. No mat�ter,
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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 �called the mys�tique of the mind.14
That mys�tique re�mains to this day and in�deed may have
deep�ened as so�ci�ety be�comes not only more com�plex but also
more tech�no�log�i�cal, more de�pen�dent on an�a�lyt�i�cal and sci�en�tific
reaÂ�sonÂ�ing. The word “mysÂ�tique” is apÂ�proÂ�priÂ�ate beÂ�cause the power
and pres�tige of the mind is �rarely pub�li�cally ac�knowl�edged, least
of all in dem�o�cratic and pop�u�list Amer�ica. It has not, of �course,
al�ways been so. In the ante�bel�lum South, plan�ta�tion own�ers
cer�tainly saw them�selves as �endowed with a qual�ity of mind that
their �slaves did not have. To the plan�ta�tion own�ers, it was the
disÂ�tincÂ�tion Â�between “head” and “body,” and there could be no
ques�tion as to which was or�dained to rule and which or�dained to
obey. In fac�to�ries, there per�sisted the habit of call�ing work�ers
“hands.” When AmerÂ�ica was rapÂ�idly inÂ�dusÂ�triÂ�alÂ�izÂ�ing in the nineÂ�
teenth cen�tury, Dr. Frede�rick Doug�lass, the great eman�ci�pa�tor of
his race, sug�gested that �blacks be �trained in ma�chine shops and
techÂ�noÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal colÂ�leges so that they could be the “hands” of the
the pro�po�sal was much too mod�est to boost
fu�ture. In retrospect,
�
the �self-esteem and �status of for�mer �slaves, who would then
reÂ�main “body.”15
Amer�ica, un�like Eu�rope, is con�sid�ered anti-intellectual,
�
with
the lop�sided pay scale as ev�i�dence. Pro�fes�sional ath�letes earn far
more than do the most ac�com�plished pro�fes�sors. True �enough,
p olariz ed va lues
27
but then pro�fes�sional ath�letes are en�ter�tain�ers. It is their job to
�please their cli�ents and pay�mas�ters. Pro�fes�sors who take their
call�ing se�ri�ously do not seek to �please but to teach, and what
they teach is not only use�ful knowl�edge but knowl�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
boast�ing is quite un�nec�es�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 con�sid�ered ro�man�tic as
Â�knights were—Â�though they be ilÂ�litÂ�erÂ�ate. Monks did not qualÂ�ify
as ro�man�tic be�cause they �merely cop�ied that which was al�ready
known. What hap�pened �around the time of Gal�i�leo and Kep�ler
was a shift in the con�cept of knowl�edge. Book learn�ing still
re�tained its pres�tige, but in�creas�ingly �greater pres�tige ac�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 mod�ern schol�ars went on quests
�
for
elu�sive knowl�edge, and in time, these pur�suits be�came �quests
for a bet�ter under�stand�ing of na�ture, or sci�ence. Quest, as I have
said, is at the heart of ro�mance. Ex�plor�ers are �driven by the de�sire
to know the �source of the Nile, what it is like at the Poles or on
top of the high�est moun�tain, with no �worldly rec�om�pense in
p olariz ed va lues
28
mind. Astron�o�mers are glued to their tele�scopes, lo�cated on a
moun�tain or in the �desert, peer�ing at stars that shine �brightly
but were in fact ex�tinct mil�lions of years ago. If one won�ders,
what for? per�haps the an�swer is that some in�di�vid�u�als de�light
in vast�ness and the ut�terly re�mote and that they, for all their
al�le�giance to pre�ci�sion, are ro�man�tics.
2
Earth and Its Nat�u�ral En�vi�ron�ments
T
he ro�man�tic imag�i�na�tion fa�vors phe�nom�ena that are very
large or very small �rather than those of a mid�dle scale.
More�over, the ro�man�tic imag�i�na�tion read�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 in�sig�nif�i�cant the �highly sig�nif�i�
cant. Geog�ra�phers are not such writ�ers. Their local stud�ies are
not in�tended to imply the �larger scene, much less the uni�ver�sally
human; hence, �though use�ful as �guides to par�tic�u�lar �places, they
do not lift the �spirit. But there are ex�cep�tions. With�out sac�ri�fic�ing
fac�tual de�tails, a geog�ra�pher can write with verve, an ex�em�plar
of this achieve�ment being Hen�drik Wil�lem van Loon. When a
school�boy asked for a geog�ra�phy book that he could ac�tu�ally
29
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
30
enjoy read�ing, Van Loon rose to the chal�lenge with his Geog�ra�phy,
first pub�lished in 1932, in which he �starts dra�mat�i�cally with an
ac�count of the small�ness of the human bio�mass. All of it, he
noted, can be put in a box meas�ur�ing a half mile in each di�rec�tion.
Place the box on top of a rock pinÂ�naÂ�cle on the edge of Â�Arizona’s
Grand Can�yon. Have a dachs�hund nudge it with his nose. The
box �crashes down to the bot�tom and splin�ters into a thou�sand
�pieces. Hu�man�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, glo�ri�ous and in�glo�ri�ous, in dif�fer�ent parts of the
world.1
The earth as a �planet �arouses won�der, prompt�ing a tone of
ex�pos�i�tory writ�ing that is non�util�i�tar�ian, el�e�vated, and ro�man�tic.
The same tenÂ�dency apÂ�plies to the Â�earth’s large natÂ�uÂ�ral subÂ�diÂ�viÂ�
sions that re�sist human hab�i�ta�tion, such as moun�tains, �oceans,
rain�fo�rests, �deserts, and ice pla�teaus. Not being hab�it�able or eas�ily
hab�it�able, they free the human mind from the need to de�lib�er�ate
ex�haust�ingly about how to make a liv�ing and turn it in�stead to
satis�fy�ing its more play�ful and in�tel�lec�tual bent. En�vi�ron�ments
that one con�sid�ers both ap�peal�ing and re�pel�lent also raise ques�
tions of aes�thet�ics and mo�ral�ity. To ad�dress them, I draw on the
bi�po�lar val�ues I �sketched ear�lier.
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
32
Earth and Solar �System
A com�mon mis�con�cep�tion that may still lin�ger in �school text�
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
re�volves �around the sun �rather than the sun re�volves �around the
earth. The new the�ory, so the mis�con�cep�tion goes, de�thrones
both the earth and its most privÂ�iÂ�leged inÂ�habÂ�iÂ�tants—human
be�ings made in the image of God. The real story is some�thing else
and much more com�plex. Its high �points are as fol�lows.
Me�di�eval cos�mol�ogy, �strongly in�flu�enced by an�cient Greek
�thought, as�sumed that the uni�verse was made up of a se�ries of
trans�par�ent �globes, with the earth, also a globe, at the cen�ter. The
Â�earth’s cenÂ�tral poÂ�siÂ�tion did not, howÂ�ever, give our Â�planet presÂ�tige.
Quite the �contrary. For me�di�eval cos�mol�o�gists also en�ter�tained a
di�men�sion, the ver�ti�cal, that was at odds with its in�her�ited Greek
ideal of cir�cle, �sphere, and cir�cu�lar�ity. The ver�ti�cal di�men�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.”
What�ever was pur�est rose to the high�est place. That which had
less pur�ity be�came air and sank to the sec�ond level. That which
was gross �enough to offer tac�tual re�sis�tance gath�ered into one
place as water. Fi�nally, the dregs of the uni�verse �plunged to the
low�est point and con�sti�tuted the earth. In re�verse order, and to
put it some�what dif�fer�ently, earth lies at the low�est point. Above
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
33
it is a suc�ces�sion of trans�par�ent �globes, each of which has af�fixed
on it a hea�venly body. These hea�venly bod�ies are suc�ces�sively
Moon, Mer�cury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Ju�pi�ter, and Sat�urn. Above
SatÂ�urn is the StelÂ�laÂ�tum, the reÂ�gion of “fixed stars.” Above that is
the Pri�mum Mo�bile, or the first ro�tat�ing �sphere. And above that
is the Un�moved Mover, or God, a Being who is suf�fused in light,
pure in�tel�lec�tual light, and full of love.2
This model of the uni�verse has had the strong�est hold on the
Â�West’s roÂ�manÂ�tic imagÂ�iÂ�naÂ�tion, its inÂ�fluÂ�ence evÂ�iÂ�dent even in
�twentieth-century fan�ta�sies.3 The first shock to it came with the
new astron�omy of the seven�teenth cen�tury, which not only dis�
placed Earth from the cen�ter of the uni�verse but also chal�lenged
the idea that the paths of the plan�ets were cir�cu�lar �rather than
elÂ�lipÂ�tiÂ�cal. The cirÂ�cle—an anÂ�cient ideal of perÂ�fecÂ�tion—was a key
com�po�nent of the me�di�eval world�view. Its de�struc�tion led to the
fad�ing of other glo�ries, such as the be�lief that �heaven is �filled
with music and that the plan�ets and stars are high in�tel�li�gences.
In 1600, how�ever, Shake�speare could still use the model and
ex�pect to be under�stood. Thus he made Lo�renzo rhap�so�dize,
Sit Jes�sica. Look how the floor of �heaven
Is thick in�laid with pa�tines of �bright gold;
Â�There’s not the smallÂ�est orb which thou Â�behold’st
But in his mo�tion like an angel sings,
Still quirÂ�ing to the Â�young-ey’d cherÂ�uÂ�bims:
Such har�mony is in im�mor�tal souls;
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
34
But, while this muddy ves�ture of decay
Doth �grossly close it in, we can�not hear it.
The Mer�chant of Ven�ice (Act V, Scene I)
At that time, not only the uni�verse and the earth were
con�sid�ered spher�i�cal, but so was the human soul; and all three
ex�hib�ited the har�mony of music, which we in our muddy ves�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 pros�pect fright�ened him. And it would have fright�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
pic�tures that astro�nauts tape on the walls of their space�craft.
Pic�tures of home are com�fort�ing. Will a �smelly old shoe also
do? Will it even do bet�ter? In the movie The Cure (Uni�ver�sal,
1995), a shoe pro�vides a �needed dis�trac�tion and com�fort. The
story is about two boys—Erik and DexÂ�ter—who are Â�friends.
Dex�ter �caught AIDS �through a blood in�fu�sion, and his �health
�slowly de�clined. When Erik read about a cure in New Or�leans,
the boys de�cided to go there, hitch�ing boat rides on the Mis�sis�
sippi River �wherever they could. They some�times had to set up
camp on the river�bank and sleep there over�night. One night,
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
35
Dex�ter woke up �drenched in sweat. He had had a night�mare.
When Erik asked him what it was, he said he had �dreamed that
he was adrift
�
in deep, dark space with no hope of res�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 bi�po�lar val�ues at work. Ab�sent are the glo�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 �heaven, no har�mony of the �spheres as for�merly con�ceived, but
there is surÂ�prisÂ�ing mathÂ�eÂ�matÂ�iÂ�cal elÂ�eÂ�gance in the play of Â�heaven’s
�forces. More�over, see�ing �heaven as a mu�si�cal in�stru�ment, �though
not true, has been and con�tin�ues to be a real force that af�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 con�sid�ered to be at
the botÂ�tom of a verÂ�tiÂ�cal uniÂ�verse—its dregs; at the same time it
was also con�sid�ered to be the cen�tral point �around which the
hea�venly �spheres ro�tated. As we have �learned more and more
about the uni�verse in the last forty years or so, how have our
feel�ings to�ward the earth �changed? They have be�come �fonder.
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
36
Con�trib�ut�ing to the �greater fond�ness is our aware�ness that
a �planet like ours, one that is ca�pable of sup�port�ing ad�vanced
life, is ex�tremely rare and may even be �unique. Ab�stract under�
stand�ing of this sort is, how�ever, un�likely to have a last�ing im�pact
un�less it is �backed by di�rect ex�pe�ri�ence. The di�rect ex�pe�ri�ence
ocÂ�curred when we acÂ�tuÂ�ally saw—not Â�merely conÂ�ceived—the
globe that is the earth. For this to have hap�pened, hu�man�kind
had to wait for the crea�tion of a �highly so�phis�ti�cated space
tech�nol�ogy. The mo�men�tous date of De�cem�ber 7, 1972, was the
first time human be�ings on a space�craft, the �Apollo 17, were able
to take a snap�shot of Earth from a �height of 28,000 miles. The
re�sult�ing image has since be�come �iconic, and is more �widely
dis�trib�uted than any other photo�graph in ex�is�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
loy�alty and love (Rich�ard II, Act II, Scene 1).
The astro�nauts �looked back�ward to a cozy and nur�tur�ing
Earth while head�ing to�ward cold, life�less im�men�sity. But even
this was only the be�gin�ning of the story. As space�crafts reach
far�ther and far�ther out, will even the solar �system be �viewed as
cozy and nur�tur�ing? On Feb�ru�ary 13, 1990, Voy�ager 1 left the
solar �system, and as it did so, it �looked over its shoul�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
snap�shot of the solar �system, re�pro�duced in Sci�ence mag�a�zine,
that I can cut out, frame, and hang on my bed�room wall.5 Now
comes the ul�ti�mate ques�tion, What about the uni�verse it�self?
Is it in any sense a home? Fran�cis Bacon was the first to say
that, diz�zy�ingly vast as the uni�verse is, it is just the right size to
be home for the human mind. To our body, the earth and its sub�
di�vi�sions are the right size, but to our mind and its in�com�par�able
reach, any�thing �smaller than the uni�verse would feel con�fin�ing.6
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
41
Moun�tains
In the me�di�eval cos�mic model, the cir�cle con�flicted with the
ver�ti�cal, as we have seen. The me�di�eval cos�mic model also gave
rise to con�flict�ing at�ti�tudes about the moun�tain, with the cir�cle
con�demn�ing it and the ver�ti�cal fa�vor�ing it. Take the cir�cle first.
Since God is a su�preme ar�ti�san, the earth God de�signed �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,
val�leys, jut�ting pe�nin�su�las, and �oceans? One an�swer, �bruited in
the seven�teenth cen�tury, was the Fall. The sin of our first par�ents
�caused the crust of the earth to col�lapse into the wa�tery abyss.
What we see are the ruins. Ruin was one fig�ure of �speech. An�other
was cor�rup�tion. Hav�ing lost its in�no�cence, the once �smooth face
of the earth was enÂ�crusted with “tuÂ�mors, blisÂ�ters, and warts.”7
The seven�teenth cen�tury �boasted gen�iuses of the cal�i�ber of
Kep�ler and New�ton. Yet, for all the bold�ness of their imag�i�na�tion,
which �ushered in the new astron�omy, they re�tained ves�ti�gial
theo�log�i�cal be�liefs. Aston�ish�ing as it must seem to us now,
New�ton was sym�pa�thetic to the the�ory of the Fall and the great
col�lapse that �brought about the ugly pro�tu�ber�ances and hol�lows.
On the other hand, the sci�ence of that time was also used to
de�fend God. Far from being a �clumsy ar�ti�san who �failed to make
the Â�earth’s surÂ�face Â�smooth, God put mounÂ�tains and hills there so
that water, as �streams and riv�ers, could �spread over as much land
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
42
as pos�sible, and land was, of �course, where hu�mans lived. As for
the size of the �oceans, it had to be im�mense so that it could
gen�er�ate �enough water vapor to pro�duce �clouds and the �clouds
�enough rain to water the earth.8
SciÂ�enÂ�tific atÂ�tempts at exÂ�onÂ�erÂ�atÂ�ing God Â�didn’t have much
in�flu�ence out�side a small �learned cir�cle. Moun�tains re�mained
much �feared until well into the eigh�teenth cen�tury in large part
be�cause they were so lit�tle known. Peo�ple �avoided them, not
be�cause they were ugly but be�cause they were be�lieved to be
in�fested by brig�ands. That �sounds rea�son�able to us now, but
moun�tains were also �thought to be the home of �witches, and as
ev�i�dence, peo�ple �pointed to the tur�bu�lent �weather, char�ac�ter�is�tic
of high �places. Great witch hunts were con�ducted in the Alps,
the Jura, the VosÂ�ges, and the PyÂ�reÂ�nees. In the Â�Basque Â�region’s
�wilder areas, peas�ants and shep�herds spoke of �witches rais�ing
�storms even in the early part of the twen�ti�eth cen�tury.9
If the cir�cle of per�fec�tion led to a re�pul�sive view of moun�tains,
what about the ver�ti�cal di�men�sion? It has gen�er�ated world�wide
a noÂ�tion of “high” and “low” such that posÂ�iÂ�tive valÂ�ues are Â�loaded
on the one, and neg�a�tive val�ues are �loaded on the other. A
moun�tain �wrapped in mist and dif�fi�cult of ac�cess sug�gests the
abode of the gods—one that not only Â�reaches to the sky but also
is cen�trally lo�cated; that is to say, it is the navel of the earth. Of
the many ex�am�ples, the bet�ter known in�clude Mount Meru of
In�dian my�thol�ogy. It was be�lieved to stand right below Po�la�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 be�lief archi�tec�tu�rally. Mount Meru ap�peared as the Kun�lun
on Chi�nese and Ko�rean cos�mo�graphic charts.
�
In ad�di�tion, early
Chi�nese leg�ends spoke of Five Sa�cred Peaks, the chief among
them being Tai Shan, which was con�sid�ered a di�vin�ity. The �Greeks
had Mount Olym�pus, the Jap�a�nese Mount Fuji, the Ger�manic
peoÂ�ples their HiÂ�mingbÂ�jörg (ceÂ�lesÂ�tial mounÂ�tain), and so on.
What about Chris�tian�ized Eu�rope? The New Tes�ta�ment gives
a mixed mes�sage: on the one hand, the devil �tempted Jesus on a
moun�tain; on the other hand, Jesus re�vealed his di�vine na�ture
on a moun�tain. West�ern Chris�ti�an�ity has its holy �places, but
their nu�mi�nous aura has lit�tle to do with being on a high peak.
East�ern (Or�tho�dox) Chris�ti�an�ity, by �contrast, does have a num�ber
of holy moun�tains, the most fa�mous of which is Mount Athos,
lo�cated at the end of a jut�ting Greek pe�nin�sula. For more than a
thou�sand years, Athos shel�tered mo�nas�tic com�mu�nities that
were and are famed for their aus�tere way of life and their spir�i�
tu�al�ity. Both the aus�ter�ity and the spir�i�tu�al�ity find ex�pres�sion
in their rigid ex�clu�sion of every�thing that is fe�male, in�clud�ing
fe�male an�i�mals. Was this at�ti�tude sim�ply the �age-old mis�og�yny
that iden�tified the spir�i�tual/in�tel�lec�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 dark�ness? It is hard to avoid this con�clu�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, sev�eral other �strains of �thought, prev�a�lent
at Athos, would seem to mud�dle and even re�verse the bi�po�lar
for�mula. First, Athos was ded�i�cated to the Vir�gin Mary. One
leg�end has it that Mary, on her way to Cy�prus, was di�verted to
Athos by a sud�den storm. While there, she was so over�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.
More�over, the mon�as�ter�ies them�selves do not by any means seek
the high�est el�e�va�tions. Sev�eral are lo�cated quite close to the
shore so that the merit of pil�grim�age lies in the tra�vail of get�ting
there by sea �rather than in as�cent. Third, in part be�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
spir�i�tual jour�ney on Athos fol�lows the three steps an�nounced by
Greg�ory of Nyssa: pur�ifi�ca�tion of the soul from ego�ism, en�light�en�
ment of the soul by the Holy �Spirit, and union with God. These
steps have their geo�graph�i�cal cor�rel�a�tives: entry into a moon�lit
�desert, as�cent to a �fog-covered moun�tain, and entry into a thick
dark cloud. The pil�grim�age, then, was not from dark�ness to light,
from val�ley to moun�tain�top, but �rather the re�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 ex�cep�tional case, worth men�tion�ing be�cause the
idea that moun�tains were holy lost �ground with the pass�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
pro�fane. From the seven�teenth cen�tury on�ward, how�ever, at�ti�
tudes about moun�tains began to shift for the bet�ter. They did so
for a num�ber of rea�sons, in�clud�ing the odd one, which I �broached
ear�lier, �namely that moun�tains were put there by God so that
water could be dis�trib�uted more �evenly. Of far �greater im�por�
tance than a mere theo�log�i�cal and �quasi-scientific ex�pla�na�tion
were such fac�tors as the in�crease in pop�u�la�tion dur�ing the eigh�
teenth cen�tury, forc�ing farm�ers to move up to the lower moun�tain
�slopes, mak�ing them seem less threat�en�ing; the im�prove�ment
of the road �system; the rise of sci�en�tific cu�ri�os�ity in re�gard to
gla�ciers; the idea that pure moun�tain air im�proved �health; and
the emer�gence of an aes�thetic of the sub�lime.
The last two fac�tors have been in�flu�enced by the bi�po�lar
val�ues of high and low, body and �spirit. Moun�tains have pure
air, low�lands air that is dense and less pure. At one level, this is
sim�ply a state�ment of fact: one can meas�ure the pres�sure of air
with a mer�cury col�umn, the col�umn drop�ping as one car�ries it
up. But a moral read�ing �quickly fol�lowed. Peo�ple of low�lands,
liv�ing in the �denser air, were be�lieved to grow slug�gish and le�thar�
gic as their blood ves�sels grew con�stricted under pres�sure.11 To
over�come this ef�fect, san�a�toria were built in Eu�ro�pean Alps and
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
46
�
American
Rock�ies from the 1850s to the early part of the
twen�ti�eth cen�tury. The �health to be �gained was phys�i�cal, yet the
more thought�ful pa�tients could also dis�cern a spir�i�tual di�men�
sion. They, after all, had to leave their busi�ness con�cerns be�hind
and could not in�dulge, even if they �wished, in the pas�sions of the
flesh. Their mind, still alert and ac�tive, could turn to �higher
�things. In time, they might even see their at�ten�u�ated life in the
moun�tain san�a�tor�ium as an aes�thetic and spir�i�tual gain.
�Thomas Mann, how�ever, re�verses these val�ues in his novel
The Magic Moun�tain (1924). As he sees it, the san�a�tor�ium in the
Swiss Alps, with its inter�na�tional clien�tele, is a model of a deca�
dent EuÂ�rope on the eve of World War I—a world that, for all its
af�flu�ence and so�phis�ti�ca�tion, is �drenched in the �sweet-sickly
odor of death. How can it be oth�er�wise, so far is it re�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
bod�ily and the ma�te�rial, yet a re�versed under�stand�ing is also pos�
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
eigh�teenth cen�tury of an aes�thetic con�cept �called the sub�lime, a
con�cept that the tow�er�ing Al�pine peaks gave vis�ual spec�i�fic�ity.
Moun�tain climb�ing be�came fash�ion�able. The early climb�ers were
aris�to�crats who �traveled in style, sup�ported by a large ret�i�nue of
ser�vants. Climb�ing was thus a �well-organized and �well-financed
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
47
group en�ter�prise. Later, in the course
�
of the nine�teenth cen�tury,
young men of an in�tel�lec�tual bent and good ed�u�ca�tion took on the
Alps. They �climbed for more per�sonal rea�sons, such as want�ing
to exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence the Â�mountains’ eerie Â�beauty, the Â�thrill of danÂ�ger,
and the prox�im�ity of death. They �climbed in small num�bers,
per�haps three or just two, for they also �sought to be �self-sufficient
and alone.12
Even if not con�fessed, moun�tain�eers, as they �paused among
the si�lent peaks, must have felt that they were some�how dif�fer�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
�climbed when�ever he could through�out his life, lik�ing it best
when he could do so as the sun rose. “Those were moÂ�ments of
ec�stasy. He would �record them in his �travel diary. Below, every�
thing would still be in dark�ness, �asleep, yet he would al�ready be
in the sun, in an in�ti�mate meet�ing with the cen�tral hea�venly
body, of which noth�ing was sus�pected yet down in the val�ley.
Here from his �height, he would also find pleas�ure in the uni�ver�sal.
He was Dio�ny�sus not from below, out�ward, but from above,
downÂ�ward.”13
Ris�ing to a chal�lenge, set�ting a �record, mas�ter�ing dan�ger,
enÂ�counÂ�terÂ�ing a Â�beauty not of this world, standÂ�ing above one’s
fel�lows bathed
�
in early sun�light while the rest of hu�man�kind
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
48
was still �asleep in the dark hol�lows were some of the rea�sons for
scal�ing moun�tains in the late nine�teenth and early twen�ti�eth
cen�tu�ries. They were in�no�cent �enough, ex�cept per�haps for the
last men�tioned. We may all har�bor a de�sire to sur�pass our fel�lows,
a de�sire en�cour�aged by the some�times os�ten�ta�tious re�wards of
achieve�ment. Achieve�ments may be chal�lenged, how�ever, for
who, after all, is the bet�ter cook or �scholar, gen�eral or pol�i�ti�cian?
Phys�i�cal prow�ess such as run�ning and jump�ing is dif�fer�ent, for
it can be meas�ured. Moun�tain climb�ing like�wise, but com�pared
with run�ning and jump�ing, its sym�bolic mean�ing is �weightier.
One who �reaches the top and �bestrides the peak tow�ers lit�er�ally
over his �weaker breth�ren.
Who is fit to rule? Who dem�on�strates the tri�umph of the
will more con�vinc�ingly than the dar�ing al�pin�ist? Ger�many in the
1920s, still re�cov�er�ing from the hu�mil�i�a�tions of mil�i�tary de�feat,
pi�o�neered not only moun�tain climb�ing but also its vis�ual dra�ma�
ti�za�tion. Acts of super�hu�man dar�ing and for�ti�tude were re�corded
in such mo�vies as Moun�tain of Des�tiny (1924), Sa�cred Moun�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
�showed a man stand�ing on a moun�tain, lit up by the sun, with
the �masses still �asleep below. Hit�ler was drawn to such films and
to Leni Rie�fen�stahl who first acted in and then di�rected them.
He per�suaded Rie�fen�stahl to �record the Nu�rem�berg party rally
in 1934. She com�plied and the re�sult is Tri�umph of the Will,
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
49
a clas�sic of Nazi prop�a�ganda. A com�mon image of this and
other �party-line films shows Hit�ler stand�ing on a �raised plat�form
and below him, in the �shadow of his spell�bind�ing rhet�o�ric, the
en�thralled �masses.14
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
53
�Oceans
On the third day, God gath�ered the wa�ters under the �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 le�vi�a�thans. �Clearly God fa�vored land, for it was where he
put the Gar�den of Eden, and in the Gar�den he made his fin�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�
na�tion, the sea has al�ways sym�bol�ized pri�mor�dial, un�dif�fer�en�
tiated flux, a state of bar�baric vague�ness and dis�or�der out of
which civ�il�iza�tion would �emerge but into which it could al�ways
re�turn. To the au�thor of the Book of Rev�e�la�tion, an ideal world at
the end of time is the fur�thest re�moved from any�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 eigh�teenth cen�tury, peo�ple did not ven�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 en�mity of Po�sei�don, the �father of the mon�ster
�Cyclops, Odys�seus would have ar�rived home much �sooner.
Sim�i�larly, Jason was no sea voy�ager: he sim�ply �sought the Golden
�
�Fleece, which hap�pened to be in a dis�tant coun�try. Later,
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
54
Chris�ti�an�ity made the jour�ney or pil�grim�age a nat�u�ral sym�bol of
the spir�i�tual life, but sal�va�tion never lay in cross�ing a body of
water as such, even �though it had to be done to reach the holy
site. Dante dis�ap�proved of Ulys�ses, whose sea voy�ages in �search
of vir�tue and knowl�edge made him a ma�rine hero, but a de�fec�
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 dis�tress to be en�dured, a death that could lead to re�birth,
a trial that could pre�pare one to build an abid�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 su�preme gods of the uni�verse. �Stripped of its anthro�po�mor�ph�
ism, it was the great river, never trou�bled by wind or storm, that
�flowed �around the land. The �Greeks were good sail�ors, at ease
with the seas that split the �disk-shaped land into two equal parts.
What lay be�yond the Pil�lars of Her�cules, that is to say, be�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 is�land city of At�lan�tis. In other words, one way to di�
min�ish awe of the ocean was to re�duce its size. Car�tog�ra�phers
con�sis�tently did so from the time of the an�cient �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 �sailed west�ward
was based on the car�tog�ra�phers under�es�ti�mat�ing the size of the
ocean to be �crossed.
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
55
Or, to put it an�other way, there was a ten�dency to ex�ag�ger�ate
the size of land. The fact that we hu�mans live on land con�trib�uted
to the ex�ag�ger�a�tion, but there was an�other rea�son, the human
par�tial�ity for sym�me�try. The �Greeks �clearly �showed this par�tial�ity
when they con�ceived of land as di�vided into two �halves by the
Med�i�ter�ra�nean Sea. In later ages, as Eu�ro�peans came to know
the size of land �masses in the north�ern hemi�sphere, they as�sumed
that land �masses of sim�i�lar size could be found below the equa�tor.
A major pur�pose in the ex�plo�ra�tions of �Louis-Antoine de Bour�
gain�ville and James Cook in the eigh�teenth cen�tury was to find
the south�ern con�ti�nent. They �failed, with only Aus�tra�lia as a
con�so�la�tion prize.
The Â�ocean’s exÂ�tent was Â�firmly esÂ�tabÂ�lished only toÂ�ward the
end of the eigh�teenth cen�tury. At a psycho�log�i�cal level, how�ever,
it al�ways in�voked vast�ness, and this de�spite the be�lief that it had
an edge, never far off as the per�ceived ho�ri�zon was never far off.
Con�trib�ut�ing to the sense of vast�ness was the un�known. That
which is un�known can seem un�bounded and threat�en�ing. True,
be�fore the mod�ern age, much of land was also un�known, hence
�thought to be vast and threat�en�ing too. Mit�i�gat�ing this im�pres�sion
is the fact that, for the most part, land has rec�og�niz�able and even
fa�mil�iar fea�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 sur�
face? It is a blank sheet to every�one who is not a sea�soned �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,
�whereas land holds him up. How deep is the ocean? Not until
the nine�teenth cen�tury were se�ri�ous at�tempts made at meas�ure�
ment. Mean�while, the imag�i�na�tion ran wild. Shake�speare
�showed the di�rec�tion it could take when in Rich�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! me�thought, what pain it was to drown!
What dread�ful noise of water in mine ears!
What ugly �sights of death �within my eyes!
Me�thought I saw a thou�sand fear�ful �wrecks;
Ten thouÂ�sand men that Â�fishes Â�gnaw’d upon;
�Wedges of gold, great an�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 in�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 an�i�mal. It can be pre�ter�nat�u�rally
calm. In the �mid-Atlantic Ocean, days and even weeks may go by
when the sur�face is �glass-smooth. Sail ships in the old days were
be�calmed. In the hope that even a light �breeze would set ships in
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
57
mo�tion if they were �lighter, car�gos of �horses and �slaves were
jet�ti�soned. Since �hardly any�thing �stirred on board, si�lence was
so total that ap�pre�hen�sive sail�ors could hear their own heart�
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 en�raged beast. The ocean can also seem cun�ning, lur�ing ships
into its �deadly vor�ti�ces known as mael�stroms. A mael�strom is a
nat�u�ral fea�ture that comes about when �strong cur�rents �backed
by �strong tide pro�duces a whirl�ing body of water. Its pow�er�ful
down�draft can en�gulf small �crafts and sink them. But in the
imag�i�na�tion, the whirl�pool has been trans�formed into a mon�ster.
AlÂ�ready in Â�Homer’s epic, OdysÂ�seus had to Â�choose Â�between sailÂ�ing
near the whirl�pool Cha�ryb�dis or the �six-headed mon�ster �Scylla.
On the Carta Ma�rina (1539), it is de�picted as a �coiled ser�pent off
the coast of Nor�way. But noth�ing quite �matches the imag�i�na�tion
of two �nineteenth-century writ�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 def�i�nite ex�is�tence, in a cir�cle of more than a mile in di�am�e�ter.
The edge of the whirl was rep�re�sented by a broad belt of
gleam�ing spray; but no par�ti�cle that �slipped into the mouth of
the ter�rific fun�nel, whose inter�ior, as far as the eye could �fathom
it, was a �smooth, shin�ing, and �jet-black wall of water, in�clined to
the ho�ri�zon at an angle of some �forty-five de�grees, speed�ing
diz�zily round and round with a sway�ing and swel�ter�ing mo�tion,
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
58
and send�ing forth to the winds an ap�pall�ing voice, half �shriek,
half roar, such as not even the �mighty cat�a�ract of Ni�ag�ara ever
lifts up in its agony to �Heaven.16
Poe �evoked a roar�ing, ocean fiend. To be �sucked into its
mouth was to dis�ap�pear for�ever, or to be �ground into splin�ters
and spat out. The ocean was it�self an om�i�nous im�men�sity that
in�vited the imag�i�na�tion to pop�u�late it with gro�tesque crea�tures.
An�cient �Greeks and Ro�mans (Homer, Ar�is�totle, Pliny the Elder)
con�trib�uted to the lore. Me�di�eval car�tog�ra�phers, as we well
know, put �strange �beasts at the edges of their known world.
Sur�pris�ingly, the imag�i�na�tion �worked truly over�time in the
nine�teenth cen�tury when the size of the ocean was es�tab�lished
and crude tech�nol�o�gies of �oceanic prob�ing were in�vented. One
might have �thought that, with �greater knowl�edge, the mys�tery
would di�min�ish. Not so, how�ever, per�haps be�cause the ocean
�proved to be even more alien in its depth, dark�ness, and cold�ness
than peo�ple �thought. Ac�counts of ocean and its den�i�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�
rar�ies �lapped up sto�ries of fan�tasy pro�vided they were inter�larded
with facts. Fas�ci�na�tion with the �oceanic deep con�tin�ued into our
time. In 1964, Walt DisÂ�ney made a film of Â�Verne’s novel. It was
one of his most am�bi�tious �live-action ad�ap�ta�tions, with a cast of
major stars and a �lushly fit�ted model of the sub�ma�rine Nau�ti�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
Dis�ney World. How�ever, the theme park, for all its in�ge�nu�ity,
could pro�duce only a �scaled-down, toy�like ver�sion. A sub�ma�rine
ride in the man�made pool is a trav�esty of the �thrills and hor�rors
en�vi�sioned of the pri�mor�dial abyss.
Â�Verne’s litÂ�erÂ�ary skill fared betÂ�ter. His monÂ�sters inÂ�clude “a
long ob�ject, �spindle-shaped, oc�ca�sion�ally phos�pho�res�cent, and
inÂ�fiÂ�nitely Â�larger and more rapid in its moveÂ�ments than a whale”
and the �seventy-five-foot-long cach�a�lot, whose enor�mous head
oc�cu�pies �one-third of its en�tire body and whose jaw is sup�plied
by �twenty-five large tusks. But the most hor�rible and dis�gust�ing
of all is the giant, car�niv�or�ous cut�tle�fish. It has eight ten�ta�cles
fit�ted with �suction-cups, and pro�pels it�self for�ward with jet
pro�pul�sion, for�cibly ex�pel�ling water �through a si�phon. To this
more or less ac�cu�rate de�scrip�tion, Verne added �touches of hor�ror:
[T]the Â�monster’s mouth, a Â�horned beak like a Â�parrot’s, Â�opened
and shut ver�ti�cally. Its �tongue, a �horned sub�stance, fur�nished
with sev�eral rows of �pointed teeth, came out quiv�er�ing from
this ver�i�ta�ble pair of �shears. Its spindle-like
�
body �formed a
�fleshy mass that might weigh 4,000 to 5,000 lbs; the color
chang�ing with great ra�pid�ity, ac�cord�ing to the ir�ri�ta�tion of the
an�i�mal, �passed suc�ces�sively from livid grey to red�dish brown.
The giant cut�tle�fish �sought to de�stroy Nau�ti�lus with its swing�ing
ten�ta�cles. As the sub�ma�rine rose to the sur�face,
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
60
One of the sail�ors un�screwed the bolt of the pan�els. But �hardly
were the �screws �loosed, when the panel rose with great vi�o�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 ser�pent down the open�ing.
The arms crept up the �flanks of the ship, and as the crew �fought
them with their axes, the an�i�mal �ejected a �stream of black liq�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 �electric light, a nov�elty of his time, a
crea�tion of rea�son that was also a sym�bol of rea�son. The Nau�ti�lus
had tech�ni�cal gad�gets ga�lore, but it also �boasted the �riches of
high Eu�ro�pean cul�ture. Cap�tain Nemo gave Pro�fes�sor Aron�nax a
tour, and AronÂ�nax reÂ�ported: “As soon as I had Â�passed the door, I
found my�self in a pas�sage �lighted by electric�ity. .€.€. I then en�tered
a din�ing room, [which had] oaken side�boards, in�laid with ebony.
Upon their �shelves glit�tered china, por�ce�lain, and glass of in�
esÂ�timÂ�able value.” The liÂ�brary had “a great numÂ�ber of books,
uni�formly bound. Its di�vans, cov�ered with brown �leather, were
Â�curved to afÂ�ford the greatÂ�est comÂ�fort.” In a picÂ�ture galÂ�lery, “sevÂ�eral
�schools of the old mas�ters were rep�re�sented by a Ma�donna of
Ra�phael, a Vir�gin of Le�o�nardo da Vinci, a nymph of Cor�reg�gio, a
woman of Ti�tian, an Ad�o�ra�tion of Ver�o�nese, an As�sump�tion of
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
61
Mu�rillo, a por�trait of Holb�ein, a monk of Ve�laz�quez. .€.€. Some
ad�mir�able stat�ues in mar�ble and �bronze, after the fin�est �antique
mod�els, stood upon ped�es�tals in the cor�ner of this mag�nif�i�cent
muÂ�seum.”18
At the end of the book, the Nau�ti�lus and its cap�tain were
�sucked into a vor�tex off the coast of Nor�way. Their fate was un�
known. But this is fic�tion, writ�ten to in�duce a plea�sur�able fris�son.
Re�al�ity more than �matches fic�tion in the fate of the Ti�tanic. True,
the TiÂ�tanic Â�wasn’t swalÂ�lowed by a vorÂ�tex; it Â�struck an iceÂ�berg off
the coast of New�found�land on April 15, 1912, and sank. How�
ever, from eye�wit�ness re�ports and from vis�ual dra�ma�ti�za�tion in
three major films, the ship, as it �tilted at a �forty-five de�gree angle
be�fore tak�ing a nose�dive into the black abyss, �looked as �though
it had been ma�li�ciously swal�lowed, thus prov�ing that in the
cease�less con�test �between man and na�ture, the man�made Titan
was no match for the ocean, a Titan in Greek myth. Some 1,500
pas�sen�gers �drowned, their bones, �trapped in the dis�in�te�grat�ing
steel cas�ket, lay two and a half miles below the ocean sur�face.
Jules Verne was enam�ored with the Nau�ti�lus as a human
crea�tion. He �boasted of its size (232 feet long and 26 feet broad)
and speed (50 knots) and that it was �driven by a pow�er�ful en�gine.
The own�ers of the Ti�tanic like�wise �boasted of its size (882.5 feet
long) and speed (24 to 25 knots), but above all, of its wa�ter�tight
conÂ�strucÂ�tion that made the ship “unÂ�sinkÂ�able.” TiÂ�tanic was then
the larg�est mov�ing ob�ject in human his�tory. It was also a float�ing
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
62
pal�ace, with no ex�pense �spared in its inter�ior dec�o�ra�tion and
fur�nish�ing. The large foyer on �A-Deck fea�tured a huge glass
dome, oak pan�el�ing, mag�nif�i�cent bal�us�trades with �wrought-iron
scrollÂ�work, and, “lookÂ�ing down on them all, an inÂ�credÂ�ible wall
clock �adorned with two �bronze �nymphs, some�how sym�bol�iz�ing
Honor and Glory crownÂ�ing Time.” A surÂ�viÂ�vor of the disÂ�asÂ�ter
en�thused over the din�ing room car�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 table�ware and cut�lery, the wine�glasses and de�cant�ers, the
bed �sheets and �quilts were all of the high�est qual�ity. More�over,
since the Ti�tanic was on its �maiden voy�age, no cup had been
used be�fore and no sheet had ever been slept on.
The fate of the Ti�tanic shows how eas�ily and �quickly order
be�comes chaos, as �though there is only a thin par�ti�tion �between
them. We are �prompted to ask: Where might one find the
thin�nest par�ti�tion, the sharp�est �contrast �between order and
chaos, civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion and primÂ�iÂ�tivÂ�ity, in Â�today’s world? BeÂ�cause
fly�ing has be�come com�mon�place, one might think it is �between
the inter�ior of an air�plane and the space out�side. In�side a plane I
can sit �calmly in a pad�ded seat and read a mag�a�zine while oc�ca�
sion�ally glanc�ing �through the win�dow at the splen�did sky�scape
of �fluffy �clouds, lit by the late after�noon sun. But out�side is in�stant
death, from which I am sep�ar�ated by a mere plate of glass. The
�slight anx�iety I feel is not ir�ra�tional, for if the air�plane ex�plodes
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
63
and I am flung into space, the in�tense air�less cold will kill me
inÂ�stantly—inÂ�tense cold, not a monÂ�ster, howÂ�ever, for air Â�travel
and space are not �freighted by myth.
Yet cross�ing the ocean on a great ship pro�vides an even
�higher order of �contrast. In�side the ship is civ�il�iza�tion, and one
might even say, �over-the-top civ�il�iza�tion, for more than on land,
so�ci�ety is �finely �graded, with the cap�tain serv�ing as �priest-king;
and, more than on land, peo�ple dress up for din�ner in a �tallceilinged room lit by chan�de�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 sur�face would, if he or she had any imag�i�na�tion, shud�der
at its hor�rify�ing depth and the weird forms of life that �surely
haunt it. Could any na�ture/cul�ture di�vi�sion be �greater than
�between, to one side of the prom�e�nade deck, a Vien�nese waltz
and so�cial chat�ter and, to the other side, the dark, cold, �clammy
un�known?20
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
67
For�ests
Our reÂ�mote anÂ�cesÂ�tors, the apes, lived in a tropÂ�iÂ�cal forÂ�est—a
clut�tered and multi�lay�ered en�vi�ron�ment. Sur�vi�val there re�quired
kin�es�thetic and per�cep�tual nim�ble�ness. Then some three mil�lion
years ago, their deÂ�scenÂ�dants—the protoÂ�huÂ�mans—moved out of
the for�est into an open, park�like set�ting of grass and scat�tered
trees. In this open set�ting, they ac�quired their up�right pos�ture,
bi�pedal�ism, and a large brain. Our an�ces�tors thus be�came human
by leav�ing the for�est. It was a for�tu�nate move from a bio�log�i�cal,
ev�o�lu�tion�ary point of view. How�ever, did the �change in hab�i�tat
lead to ad�di�tional �changes, with hu�mans be�com�ing sym�pa�thetic
to�ward the park�land and hos�tile to�ward the for�est, sym�pa�thetic
to�ward light and hos�tile to�ward dim�ness? I bring it up to sug�gest
that human hos�til�ity to�ward the for�est could be �deep-seated,
going all the way back to the tran�si�tion from ape (dense for�est),
to proto�hu�man (open for�est), to fully human (park�land).
In the his�tor�i�cal pe�riod of, say, the last five thou�sand
years, Â�humans’ atÂ�tiÂ�tude toÂ�ward the forÂ�est has been mixed. Those
hu�mans who at some stage �re-entered the for�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�
for�est sup�por�tive. The Mbuti Pyg�mies of the north�east�ern Congo
pro�vide a �well-documented case. Con�tact there with the rain�
for�est is in�ti�mate. In�fants are �bathed in water mixed with the
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
68
juice of for�est vine, and the for�est is �viewed as their pro�tec�tor
and �life-giver. With the onset of pu�berty, girls renew their tie to
the for�est by mak�ing sym�bolic con�tact with its vines and �leaves.
Love�mak�ing often takes place in the for�est, near a �stream, in a
�splash of sun�light or moon�light. When anthro�pol�o�gist Colin M.
Turn�bull asked one Mbuti why he was danc�ing alone, he re�plied
that he was not alone: he was danc�ing with the for�est and the
moon. When a cri�sis or a dis�as�ter oc�curs, as it must some�time,
the Mbuti re�spond by try�ing to wake up the be�nev�o�lent �spirit of
the for�est, who will see their �plight and come to their res�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 for�est Eden is thus pos�sible. But sup�pose peo�ple seek
to �change their en�vi�ron�ment and have the means to do so. To
�create a clear�ing, trees are re�moved, crops �planted, and huts
built. The for�est that sur�rounds the clear�ing will then take on a
very dif�fer�ent as�pect. Far from being pro�tec�tive and nur�tur�ing,
it is �filled with evil spir�its. Bantu farm�ers, neigh�bors of the Mbuti,
show this neg�a�tive re�sponse. The crops they grow are con�stantly
�raided by for�est an�i�mals. More�over, the clear�ing al�lows sun�light
to pen�e�trate, ena�bling for�est veg�e�ta�tion to in�vade, com�pete, and
over�whelm the crops. Na�ture, �friendly to �hunter-gatherers, can
be re�lent�less and hos�tile to �slash-and-burn farm�ers.22
What if the boun�dary �between for�est and grass�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 peo�ple who live on the grass�land will not
feel threat�ened by the for�est, even if its wild an�i�mals oc�ca�sion�ally
in�vade and cause havoc. The Lele of Kasai pro�vide an ex�am�ple.
They live on the grass�land near the edge of the Congo for�est
where it is �crossed by the Kasai River. There they have �created
a hu�man�ized world of sorts, but they take no pride in it. They
see that world as ex�posed to �bright sun�light, dry and bar�ren,
in�tensely hot, and suit�able only for the cul�ti�va�tion of �ground nuts.
As for the huts, they are �flimsy, sub�ject to in�va�sion by ver�min,
and in con�stant need of re�pair. By �contrast, the ad�join�ing for�est
is cool and in�vit�ing. The Lele feel re�laxed under the multi�lay�ered
can�opy. More�over, the for�est is rich in game and ed�ible �plants.
When the Lele speak of the womb�like for�est en�vi�ron�ment, they
do so in words of high �praise.23 And yet, they have not aban�
doned ag�ri�cul�ture, with all its hard�ships, for the easy life of the
for�est. His�tor�i�cally, the di�rec�tion of �change world�wide is counter�
in�tui�tive, with peo�ple mov�ing from a com�fort�able live�li�hood
de�pen�dent on the gen�e�ros�ity of na�ture to a more stren�u�ous and
anx�ious live�li�hood de�pen�dent on vig�i�lance and sweat.
Ag�ri�cul�ture was in�vented some 12,000 years ago. �Through
most of this pe�riod, farm�ers strug�gled to main�tain a �hard-earned
human world in the midst of for�est wild�er�ness.24 For thou�sands
of years, farm�ers have �viewed the for�est as a �threat. True, it
of�fered fire�wood, tim�ber, and game, but if one pen�e�trated be�yond
the �fringe, one en�tered the do�main of brig�ands, sav�ages, dan�ger�
ous an�i�mals, and evil spir�its. Cer�tain words en�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 eigh�teenth cen�tury, circum�vent�ing the for�est to visit
rel�a�tives or con�duct busi�ness would have been dif�fi�cult, for
for�ests still cov�ered much of the con�ti�nent.
A com�mon fear of child�hood is to be aban�doned. A num�ber
of fairy tales, dat�ing back to the eigh�teenth cen�tury but draw�ing
on older folkÂ�lore, tell of chilÂ�dren being left in the “dark wood” to
fend for them�selves. Trees, tall to �adults, are �giants to chil�dren,
tow�er�ing over them, �cutting off sun�light, plung�ing them into a
be�wil�der�ing world of un�friendly �beasts and spir�its. Chil�dren
who sur�vive the for�est and come out into a sun�lit land be�come
�adults. The for�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 en�coun�ter a �friendly giant and guide. The
fairy tale fur�ther re�as�sures chil�dren by tell�ing them that the for�est
has lim�its, that it is not end�less.26
If the tem�per�ate for�est can be daunt�ing, the trop�i�cal rain�for�est
is far more so—cerÂ�tainly to the outÂ�sider who Â�strays into it.
For�bid�ding is the super�abun�dance of life it�self. Trees of dif�fer�ent
spe�cies reach dif�fer�ent lev�els, creat�ing a �densely layered
�
can�opy.
Climb�ers cross from tree to tree. Human vi�sion is �blocked in all
di�rec�tions. To find one�self in this tan�gled bio�mass and know that
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
71
one is lost is a night�mare. Life so abun�dant and inter�twined can
seem to be one pal�pi�tat�ing whole, a mon�ster eager to ab�sorb and
evis�cer�ate any being that en�ters it. Add�ing to the vis�ual con�fu�sion
is the noise. The tomb�like si�lence of a rain�for�est can be shat�tered
with�out warn�ing and turn into a roar�ing, shriek�ing mad�house.
Alex Shou�mat�off vis�ited a vil�lage in the Am�a�zon in the 1970s.
Here is his ac�count of the noise:
A dense field of rhyth�mic �sounds sur�rounded the sleep�ing
vil�lage. Ka�ty�dids pro�duced a loud, �steady hum, while giant
cock�roaches �hissed, tree frogs rat�tled and other in�sects tire�
lessly re�peated �chk-chk-chk in al�ter�nat�ing oc�taves. Bats, as they
�echo located prey, emit�ted a ran�dom stac�cato of soft pings,
which �sounded like rain fall�ing on the roof. [And then came
the atÂ�tenÂ�tion grabÂ�ber—the Â�howler monÂ�key.] SomeÂ�time Â�around
mid�night I was awak�ened by an un�earthly sound from deep
Â�within the junÂ�gle—the casÂ�cadÂ�ing roar of Â�howler monÂ�keys. .€.€.
It �sounded like hun�dreds of them, �though there were prob�
ably far fewer. The long roars �blended into each other in a
har�row�ing con�tin�uum. I had never heard of any�thing so wild
and ter�rify�ing.27
To a Eu�ro�pean used to the quiet man�ners of his fel�low
coun�try�men, the na�tives of Af�rica can be in�suf�fer�ably noisy too.
As one man writÂ�ing in 1623 put it, “NeiÂ�ther are these drums
with�out daily em�ploy�ment, for this is their con�tin�ual cus�tom
every night to re�pair to the open yard, about which they do
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
72
con�tinue drum�ming, hoop�ing, sing�ing, and mak�ing a hea�then�
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,
�whether one is ill or well, it is ex�actly the same, noth�ing like
peace or quiet is any�where to be found. In ad�di�tion to the an�i�mal
�noises, we are still more se�ri�ously an�noyed by the in�ces�sant
clatÂ�ter of Â�women’s Â�tongues, which purÂ�sues us everyÂ�where, and
which I �really be�lieve noth�ing less than sick�ness or death on their
part can efÂ�fecÂ�tuÂ�ally siÂ�lence.”29 To the EuÂ�roÂ�pean who conÂ�sidÂ�ers
noise vul�gar, peo�ple who al�ways seek to be with oth�ers and who,
more�over, seek to drown their sense of self in a wash of un�ceas�ing
noise are un�couth, bar�baric, or sim�ply im�ma�ture.30
Odor is a char�ac�ter�is�tic of liv�ing �things. The more of them in
one place, the more pun�gent that place be�comes. With�out doubt,
trop�i�cal for�ests are among the most nat�u�rally odor�ous �places
on earth. Yet the peo�ple liv�ing in them are lit�tle aware of the
ar�o�matic as�sault. They may find the odors over�whelm�ing in�itially,
but it �quickly dis�si�pates. Do Eu�ro�peans find the �strong trop�i�cal
aro�mas pleas�ant? They may, if only in �contrast to the lack of
odor stim�u�la�tion in their home coun�try. On the other hand,
when un�well or dis�oriented, Eu�ro�peans may find that the odors
sig�nify not �growth and life but decay and cor�rup�tion. In the
nine�teenth cen�tury, Eu�ro�peans came to be�lieve in what they
Â�called “maÂ�lefic miÂ�asÂ�mas,” the Â�source of which lay in the upÂ�turned
soil and de�cay�ing veg�e�ta�tion. Wind car�ried and �spread the
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
73
em�a�na�tions. �Wherever they �landed, they �caused sick�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 what�ever di�rec�tion the wind pre�vails, the prod�ucts of rapid
trop�i�cal de�com�po�si�tion, aided as they are by the hygro�met�ric
state of the at�mos�phere, hang over par�tic�u�lar spots like �clouds,
and poi�son, like so much me�phitic gas, those who are ex�posed
to their in�flu�ence. So well under�stood is the poi�son�ous char�ac�ter
of those em�a�na�tions that res�i�dents close the doors and win�dows
�against the land �breeze, and usu�ally burn the air in their bed�
rooms by plac�ing in it a chauf�fer of �lighted char�coal at a safe
inter�val of time be�fore they re�tire for the night.31
Given these views, built on cen�tu�ries of ex�pe�ri�ence and
Â�backed by “civÂ�ilÂ�ized” man’s biÂ�poÂ�lar valÂ�ues, no wonÂ�der forÂ�ests are
seen as bar�riers to prog�ress. They are to be �cleared to let in light
and ra�tion�al�ity. In the West, this at�ti�tude has been per�va�sive
since at least Greek and Roman times, when peo�ple were �skyworshippers. For�est can�o�pies, by block�ing from view the sun
and the stars, �sources of clar�ity and order, were an abom�i�na�tion.32
All ad�vanced cul�tures (civ�il�iza�tions) draw in�spi�ra�tion from the
sky and so treat for�ests dis�mis�sively even when they de�pend on
them for tim�ber and game, and even when they sing their �praises
in re�li�gion and �poetry. China, for ex�am�ple, is one of the most
de�nuded coun�tries in the world, and this de�spite �Daoism, a
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
74
phi�lo�so�phy that urges re�spect for na�ture. How�ever, to Chi�nese
�Daoists, na�ture is more �likely to mean a sin�gle pic�tu�resque tree
or a small pine grove next to a tem�ple than the for�est, and cer�
tainly not the dense, tan�gled �growth that is the trop�i�cal for�est.
Peo�ple of the north�ern �plains began to mi�grate south in large
numÂ�bers durÂ�ing the Later Han DyÂ�nasty (25–220 CE). There they
en�coun�tered vast ex�panses of trop�i�cal veg�e�ta�tion for the first
time, and they Â�didn’t like what they saw. A poem of that peÂ�riod
ex�presses fear and dis�taste.
In the deep Â�forest’s tanÂ�gle
Ti�gers and leop�ard �spring
Tow�er�ing and �rugged,
The �craggy rocks, frown�ing.
�Crooked and inter�locked
The Â�forest’s Â�gnarled trees.33
How�ever, this was the past. By the end of the twen�ti�eth
cen�tury, en�light�ened peo�ple the world over saw for�ests in a
fa�vor�able light, re�gard�ing them as re�sources or �things of �beauty
to be pro�tected and, if pos�sible, re�stored. But res�to�ra�tion to what
pe�riod in the past and to what state of being? The two larg�est
rain�fo�rests in the world are the Congo and the Am�a�zon. The
as�sump�tion that prior to Eu�ro�pean ex�ploi�ta�tion they were un�
broken car�pets of green now seems in�cor�rect. Take, first, the
Congo. Some two to three thou�sand years ago �Bantu-speaking
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
75
peo�ples moved into the Congo from what is now east�ern Ni�ge�ria.
They were ag�ri�cul�tur�ists, �equipped with �iron-smelting �skills.
They cut trees to make way for �slash-and-burn ag�ri�cul�ture and
for iron smelt�ing. They sub�stan�tially al�tered the rain�for�est.34 As
for the Am�a�zon, the �change that took place one to two thou�sand
years ago was even �greater, for it would seem that a civ�il�ized way
of life flour�ished in the west�ern end of the Am�a�zon basin. By
civ�il�ized, I mean a value �system that fa�vored sim�plic�ity and
clar�ity, for dis�cov�ered in the dense rain�for�est were land carv�ings
in the shape of �squares, oc�ta�gons, cir�cles, rec�tan�gles, and ovals.
Since some of them were �twenty feet deep, an early hypoth�e�sis
has it that they were built for de�fense. But this is no �longer
ten�able, for no signs of human set�tle�ment and farm�ing have
been found. The geo�met�ric fig�ures might there�fore have �served
a re�li�gious pur�pose. If they did, the re�li�gion could only be some
form of solar wor�ship and not the wor�ship of �plants and an�i�mals,
typ�i�cal of hoe ag�ri�cul�tu�ral�ists strug�gling to sur�vive in later
times.
An�other strik�ing fea�ture of these ar�chae�o�log�i�cal find�ings in
the Am�a�zon is that de�forest�a�tion took place more than once. A
civ�il�iza�tion �emerged, de�clined, and was re�taken by the for�est
sev�eral times. The re�peated ef�fort at clear�ing sug�gests that the
an�cient Am�a�zo�nians �failed to learn the les�son of their pre�de�
ces�sors. Or can it be that they saw no al�ter�na�tive, that given the
�chance to re�start a pro�cess that led to civ�il�iza�tion, they could not
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
76
re�sist? Com�bat�ing the dense for�est, sub�sti�tut�ing sim�plic�ity for
com�plex�ity, bring�ing light into dark�ness, �proved com�pel�ling and
not just an ab�er�ra�tion of mod�ern times.35
Civ�il�iza�tion en�cour�ages in�di�vid�u�als to stand out, their �thoughts
and deeds to be rec�og�nized and re�corded. Writ�ing helps the
pro�cess along. At first used by re�li�gion to reg�u�late wor�ship, then
by ad�min�is�tra�tors of govern�ment and busi�ness to keep �records
and fa�cil�i�tate coop�er�a�tion, when writ�ing even�tu�ally came to be
used by pri�vate in�di�vid�u�als, it en�a�bled them to not only �record
but elab�orate on their ex�pe�ri�ences as well as those of oth�ers.
Trop�i�cal civ�il�iza�tions have not left be�hind a lit�er�a�ture of per�sonal
views and �thoughts. We do not know how in�di�vid�u�als in �preColumbian Am�a�zo�nian civ�il�iza�tion �viewed their life and world.
Could some have �yearned ro�man�ti�cally for prim�i�tiv�ity? The
ques�tion is not ab�surd, for it may be a law of human na�ture that
once civ�il�iza�tion �reaches a cer�tain level, nos�tal�gia sets in.
The Chi�nese �dreamed of a �Golden Age. That was their way
to roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cize the past. Under Â�Daoism’s inÂ�fluÂ�ence, they Â�sought
to re�turn to a life of rus�tic sim�plic�ity when being a Con�fu�cian
cour�tier, sur�rounded by im�pe�rial ri�gid�ities and splen�dor, began
to pall. What the ChiÂ�nese Â�didn’t do was to pine for someÂ�thing
ele�men�tal and prim�i�tive. They never ad�mired the bar�bar�ians for
their bio�log�i�cal vigor and an�i�mal grace.36 Eu�ro�pean writ�ers and
art�ists did. Bored with liv�ing a life of tink�ling tea�cups and white
par�a�sols, they �sought re�ju�ve�na�tion among prim�i�tive peo�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
ex�pe�ri�ence there was am�biv�a�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 de�scribed �African men made them seem like beau�ti�ful
an�i�mals, and he re�sented their ex�ploi�ta�tion by white plant�ers
and tradÂ�ers just as he would—I imÂ�aÂ�gine—abomÂ�iÂ�nate turnÂ�ing
Ara�bian pure�breds into draft �horses.
As for the �African land�scape, Gide found its vast�ness and
time�less�ness a �threat to his sense of self. He could ap�pre�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 dis�turb�ing. Cul�ture means dis�crim�i�na�tion. How is it that
�Africans do not put up signs that say, this is the tall�est moun�tain,
that is the swift�est river, or the most glo�ri�ous sun�set? Yet Gide
esÂ�caped to AfÂ�rica preÂ�cisely beÂ�cause he wearÂ�ied of Â�Europe’s
pen�chant for or�gan�iza�tion com�bined par�a�dox�i�cally with pride in
being �stand-alone in�di�vid�u�als.38
Of all the nov�els on the Congo, none is more read, stud�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 re�fers to Af�rica in gen�eral and the Congo rain�for�est in
par�tic�u�lar, if only fig�ura�tively. But no. The dark�ness is of the
human heart, in which case, why Af�rica and why the Congo?
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
78
There is, in fact, lit�tle geo�graph�i�cal de�scrip�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 an�swer is that much of the novel takes place along riv�ers and
river�fronts, and these lo�ca�tions, under the noon trop�i�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 mat�ter how civ�il�ized and white our out�ward ap�pear�ance. To
him, going up the Congo River is also to �travel back�ward in time
to find there not only in�no�cence but ug�li�ness and �frenzy.
The �steamer �toiled along �slowly on the edge of a black and
in�com�pre�hen�sible �frenzy. The pre�his�toric man was curs�ing us,
prayÂ�ing to us, welÂ�comÂ�ing us—who could tell? We were cut off
from the com�pre�hen�sion of our sur�round�ings; we �glided past
like phan�toms, won�der�ing and se�cretly ap�palled, as sane men
would be be�fore an en�thu�sias�tic out�break in a mad�house. We
could not re�mem�ber be�cause we were travel�ing in the night of
the first ages, of those ages that are gone, leav�ing �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 hor�rid faces; but what �thrilled you was just the
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
79
�
thought
of your re�mote kin�ship with this wild and pas�sion�ate
upÂ�roar. Ugly.”39
Heart of Dark�ness plays re�peat�edly with the �light-and-dark
po�la�rities, es�pe�cially in the clos�ing �scenes.40 What �things are
good? What fall under “light” and “reaÂ�son”? Kurtz himÂ�self is
pre�sented as good, a man of ex�cep�tional in�tel�li�gence who �wanted
to intro�duce sci�ence and prog�ress to the na�tives. True, he was
also a suc�cess�ful com�mer�cial agent, one who col�lected more
ivory than any�one else. Suc�cess in such an en�ter�prise could only
be �achieved with ruth�less ex�ploi�ta�tion, and ex�ploi�ta�tion, even if
begun mod�er�ately, could only end in moral decay and death. Or
is there someÂ�thing even more Â�deeply corÂ�ruptÂ�ing—Â�namely,
ab�stract, ty�ran�ni�cal rea�son it�self? In the jun�gle of the Inner
Sta�tion, Kurtz cuts him�self off from all com�mon de�cency and
truth. He col�lapses into the sort of evil that Con�rad be�lieves lies
�coiled like a hi�ber�nat�ing snake in the heart of us all.
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
83
Deserts
For�ests, for all the fear they once elic�ited, also stood for some�
thing good—life in all its abunÂ�dance and vaÂ�riety. Now that they
no �longer �elicit fear, we see them as a re�source that en�riches
our ma�te�rial life or as �things of �beauty that lift our �spirit. For�ests
are to be pro�tected, and we hu�mans feel sor�row when they are
di�min�ished. �Deserts are quite an�other mat�ter. They are on the
march, threat�en�ing farm�lands, and we want to do all we can to
stop them. No one �speaks of pre�serv�ing a �desert, un�less it be a
small patch of pure white sand (like White Sands Na�tional
Mon�u�ment in New Mex�ico) that at�tracts tour�ists.41
How were �deserts per�ceived and under�stood his�tor�i�cally?
West�ern civ�il�iza�tion began on the mar�gin of the great�est �desert
in the world. Yet the an�cient �Greeks, �well-known for their cu�ri�os�
ity about other �places and peo�ples and those Eu�ro�pean sa�vants
of later times who fol�lowed their lead, have per�sis�tently under�
esÂ�tiÂ�mated the Â�desert’s exÂ�tent. It was as Â�though they Â�wanted to
deny some�thing that threat�ened their live�li�hood. Libya, one of
the three fun�da�men�tal units of the earth, was an�other �source of
the error. Under Â�Homer’s inÂ�fluÂ�ence, Greek geogÂ�raÂ�phers from
He�rod�o�tus to �Strabo re�garded the �desert as fer�tile and far �smaller
than it is, a dou�ble error that fed on each other. An�other �source
of under�es�ti�ma�tion was the an�cient Greek con�cep�tion of cli�mate
zones. It was based on tem�per�a�ture, not on pre�cip�i�ta�tion; and
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
84
until the �mid-twentieth cen�tury, �whether �places were hot or cold
re�ceived far �greater sci�en�tific at�ten�tion than �whether they were
dry or wet.42
Dur�ing the Chris�tian cen�tu�ries, geog�ra�phers were under�
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
wis�dom. Even in the late eigh�teenth cen�tury, a sci�en�tist of the
stat�ure of James Hut�ton ad�mit�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,
trad�ers, and mis�sion�ar�ies for cen�tu�ries, had been con�sis�tently
overÂ�looked in the efÂ�fort to mainÂ�tain their beÂ�lief in God’s wise
de�sign.
Nat�u�ral theo�lo�gians were not alone in their cav�a�lier dis�re�gard
of ev�i�dence. Ex�plor�ers and early set�tlers of dry lands in North
Amer�ica and Aus�tra�lia �showed a sim�i�lar dis�po�si�tion. True, in
North Amer�ica the myth of the Great �American �Desert �emerged
to cap�ture for a time the imag�i�na�tion of cer�tain East�ern writ�ers.44
Nev�er�the�less, most �Americans in the lat�ter part of the nine�teenth
cen�tury were in�clined to see a po�ten�tial for ag�ri�cul�tu�ral �wealth
be�yond the hun�dredth me�rid�ian. As for Aus�tra�lia, the ex�is�tence
of a for�bid�ding dry core was de�nied for as long as pos�sible. �Rather
than ster�il�ity and in�ac�cess�ibil�ity, Aus�tra�lian ex�plor�ers held on to
the view that a great river �crossed the is�land con�ti�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 cul�ti�vated land and �gained from it a good liv�ing,
the �desert at their door�step could not help but be laden with
neg�a�tive im�ages. A du�al�ism of good and evil �emerged among the
ag�ri�cul�tu�ral�ists, and in none was it �sharper than in Zo�roas�trian�
ism, which �contrasted a set�tled life of ag�ri�cul�tu�ral �plenty with the
vi�o�lence and pre�da�tion of mi�grat�ing �desert �tribes, the fol�low�ers
of truth with the fol�low�ers of lie.46 In China, a re�cur�rent theme
in his�tor�i�cal writ�ing is the con�flict �between farm�ers and no�mads,
cul�ture and bar�bar�ism. Chi�nese �poetry, where it �touches the
�steppe and �desert, is �filled with des�o�la�tion, mel�an�choly, and
death. In �Hebraic-Christian �thought, the �desert is a howl�ing
waste Â�haunted by evil spirÂ�its and beÂ�yond God’s purÂ�view. One
ex�pla�na�tion of the �desert is that God �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
�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, Lieu�ten�ant J. H. Simp�son re�sorted to this ex�pla�na�tion.
While cross�ing north�west�ern New Mex�ico, he noted the bar�ren�
ness of the land and the many In�dian ruins on it. God, wrote
Simp�son, must have �cursed the land, mak�ing it ster�ile and so
forc�ing its in�hab�i�tants to mi�grate.48
Hu�mans can�not just want to chew the cud on fer�tile land and
live con�tent�edly. They are, after all, chil�dren of God, not cat�tle.
They have a �higher des�tiny. That, at least, is the bib�li�cal view,
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
86
and it shows in as�sign�ing �deserts a rad�i�cally dif�fer�ent pur�pose
and mean�ing. The Sinai �wastes stood not only for dis�or�der, dark�
ness, and death but also for transcen�dent power and re�demp�
tive love. The �pre-exilic proph�ets inter�preted the forty years of
wan�der�ing in the �desert to be a pe�riod when God was es�pe�cially
close to Is�rael. In the New Tes�ta�ment, �Christ was sent into the
wild�er�ness to be �tempted by Satan (Mat�thew 4:1), yet he also
with�drew into the wild�er�ness to be close to his �Father (Mark
1:35). Both the temp�ta�tion and the trans�fig�ura�tion oc�curred on a
mounÂ�tain (MatÂ�thew 17:1–3). ContraÂ�dicÂ�tory atÂ�tiÂ�tudes perÂ�sisted
into the early Chris�tian era. From the sec�ond to the �fourth
cen�tury, her�mits ven�tured into the Egyp�tian �desert as spir�i�tual
ath�letes who strength�ened their souls by doing bat�tle with Satan
and his min�ions, the wild �beasts. Yet her�mits also be�lieved that
they lived in an Eden of in�no�cence. The an�i�mals who vis�ited
them in their caves were an�i�mals be�fore the Fall, will�ing to sub�mit
to human do�min�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
�sought free�dom from en�tan�gle�ment with ma�te�rial �things and
human be�ings, since both could be a dis�trac�tion, mak�ing it dif�fi�
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 con�cerned. Move from multi�plic�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 eigh�teenth cen�tury on�ward, the re�li�gious mo�ti�
va�tion for seek�ing the �desert waned or dis�ap�peared. What took
its place? Mis�an�thropy, for one. A dis�taste for the petty needs,
�wishes, and af�fec�ta�tions of or�di�nary hu�mans led the mis�an�thrope
to find con�so�la�tion in the �life-denying �desert. Thus Nor�man
Doug�las, at his first view of the ster�ile salt de�pres�sion in Tu�ni�sia,
exÂ�pressed reÂ�lief “at the idea that this litÂ�tle speck of the globe, at
least, was ir�re�claim�able for all time; never to be con�verted into
ar�able land or even pas�ture, safe from the in�tru�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 ev�i�dent in such �well-known �adventurer-writers as �Charles
�Doughty, T. E. Law�rence, and Wil�fred The�si�ger. When The�si�ger
was given the op�por�tu�nity to tra�verse the Empty Quar�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 dis�ap�point�ment, he found that Bed�ouin camps and car�a�vans
were not only �crowded but ex�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
iso�la�tion are not nec�es�sar�ily �shared by the Arab, as The�si�ger
and, later, Law�rence were to dis�cover. How�ever, the de�lu�sion is
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
88
under�stand�able, for even a �crowded oasis is a tiny speck of
hu�man�ity �against the vast�ness of sky and �desert, and all the more
so when the Arabs moved out of the oasis into a waste that is as
de�void of the human im�print as the sea. In the nine�teenth and
early twen�ti�eth cen�tu�ries, Eu�ro�pean ad�ven�tur�ers also might be
con�sid�ered ro�man�tics on a quest, for they �sought per�sonal free�
dom and sal�va�tion. How�ever, what �started as a per�sonal quest
had a way of seÂ�guing into poÂ�litÂ�iÂ�cal amÂ�biÂ�tions for one’s naÂ�tion.
�Sooner or later, re�al�pol�i�tik �trumped ro�mance. T. E. Law�rence
might be con�sid�ered an ex�cep�tion, for even �though he was
�forced to see Arab gains whit�tled away at the con�fer�ence table,
he re�mained pas�sion�ate about their cause.
Of the many ro�manc�ers of the �desert, Law�rence is un�doubt�
edly the best known, if only Â�through David Â�Lean’s much acÂ�claimed
movie of his life, made in 1962. In hind�sight, even early in life,
Law�rence �showed three �traits that made him �iconic. They were
as�cet�i�cism, a lik�ing for open space, and a chiv�al�rous tem�per�a�ment.
As a teen�ager he was al�ready ex�cep�tion�ally de�mand�ing of him�
self, not only in�tel�lec�tu�ally but phys�i�cally, going to great �lengths
to �toughen the body and make it en�dure se�vere hard�ships. He
dis�liked the flesh, un�less it be mus�cle. Ma�te�rial �things had no
apÂ�peal; they were, Â�rather, an enÂ�cumÂ�brance to moveÂ�ment—to
free�dom. As to a lik�ing for open space, it �showed when he was
�barely �twenty, in a let�ter to his �mother who urged on him the
�beauty of moun�tains.
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
89
You are wrong, �Mother dear, a moun�tain may be a great thing, a
grand thing, “but if it is betÂ�ter to be peaceÂ�ful, and quiet, and
pure, pac�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
par�a�mount one in the plain, there one can sit down �quietly and
think, of any�thing, or noth�ing. .€.€. [There] one feels the lit�tle�ness
of �things, of de�tails, and the great and un�broken level of peace�
ful�ness of the whole: no give me a level plain, ex�tend�ing as far
as the eye can reach, and there I have �enough �beauty to �satisfy
me, and tran�quil�ity as well!54
Note the words “pure” and “purÂ�ifyÂ�ing.” The Â�desert purÂ�ified.
Law�rence abom�i�nated biol�ogy. Think how he would have
fared in a rain�for�est. It would have �seemed to him a caul�dron of
pu�trid life and cor�rup�tion, a dense pal�pi�tat�ing mass in which no
inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�ual—plant, anÂ�iÂ�mal, or human—stood out. ConÂ�tempt for
the body shows �clearly in his mas�ter�work the Seven Pil�lars of
WisÂ�dom. “The body,” he wrote, “was too Â�coarse to feel the utÂ�most
of our sor�rows and of our joys. There�fore we aban�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 ven�ture, Law�rence �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 Bed�ou�ins? He tem�pered his judg�ment if only
be�cause he could en�vis�age the lean bod�ies of his two boy ser�vants,
Far�raj and Daud, cop�u�lat�ing pas�sion�ately yet play�fully in clean
white sand. Law�rence paid Far�raj and Daud a com�pli�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
Law�rence �hardly loved hu�man�kind. He would not have been
�shocked by the Nietzs�chean idea of elim�i�nat�ing or�di�nary, un�
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
Law�rence liked the Arabs for their clean�ness and ad�mired them
for their gal�lantry, gen�e�ros�ity, and tol�er�ance for pain. He �wanted
to be one of them, yet he could write that “for an EnÂ�glishÂ�man
to put him�self at the dis�po�sal of a red race is to sell him�self to
a brute.”58 Why, then, deÂ�vote himÂ�self to the Arab cause? The
an�swer would seem to lie in his ideal�ism, his love of honor and
chiv�alry, his Chris�ti�an�ity, all of which in�clined him to�ward al�ly�ing
him�self with the weak. Even as a school�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 dis�il�lu�sion�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 ex�cep�tional in�di�vid�u�als find sol�ace and vir�tue in
bar�ren�ness? Did these in�di�vid�u�als in�flu�ence so�ci�ety at large in
any way? Was the in�flu�ence the other way �around? Or was it
mu�tual? In any case, the dry inter�i�ors of North Amer�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
cen�tu�ries. Fron�tier and out�back have been �turned into na�tional
sym�bols of hardy man�hood and in�di�vid�u�al�ism in Amer�ica and
into hardy man�hood and cam�a�rad�e�rie in Aus�tra�lia. Ei�ther way, a
clean and gen�u�ine way of life �emerged that �contrasted �sharply
with the com�mu�nal sticki�ness and un�as�sim�i�lated alien ways
of the �coastal cit�ies. In both na�tions the love of the inter�ior
waxed with misÂ�ogÂ�yny, a disÂ�taste for the “softÂ�ness” of culÂ�ture,
com�mer�cial�ism, and, more gen�er�ally, man�kind in its swarm�ing
num�bers.59
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
95
Ice
Few �deserts are �wholly bar�ren. By �contrast, the great ice floes
and in�land pla�teaus are im�pla�cably hos�tile to human life. They
are the great empty �spaces. Why would any�one want to go there?
His�to�ries of polar ex�plo�ra�tion and biog�ra�phies of ex�plor�ers show
how mixed the mo�tives can be. Be�fore the eigh�teenth cen�tury,
the chief driv�ing force ap�pears to have been eco�nomic. Ex�plor�ers
�wanted to find a way to the land of the �spices over the ceil�ing
of the world. The �long-held no�tion that there must be an open
pas�sage in the re�mote north to cor�re�spond with the one in
the re�mote south (the �Strait of Ma�gel�lan) made such re�peated
at�tempts seem rea�son�able. By the end of the eigh�teenth cen�tury,
how�ever, the idea had to be given up. Even if there were such a
North�west Pas�sage, it could not have any com�mer�cial value.60
From then on, the most fre�quently pro�claimed rea�son for trips
to Green�land, the Arc�tic, and Ant�arc�tica was sci�ence. Geog�ra�phy
must be �served. So long as there were un�re�corded �places, sci�en�
tists were ex�pected to risk their lives ex�plor�ing and re�cord�ing
them.
The eco�nomic rea�son jus�tifies it�self. Even so, one might
won�der why so much ef�fort was ex�pended to ac�quire some�thing
non�es�sen�tial, such as the �spices of India. As for rea�sons such as
pride, vain�glory, pa�tri�ot�ism, we ac�cept them only be�cause we are
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
96
part of West�ern civ�il�iza�tion. To some�one of an�other civ�il�iza�tion,
polar ad�ven�tures could seem pure mad�ness. Pow�er�ful �forces
must be at work to make peo�ple be�have so reck�lessly. Pow�er�ful,
yes, but “power” in what sense? We can underÂ�stand it if the
power in ques�tion is mil�i�tary, po�lit�i�cal, or eco�nomic, but can it be
just an aes�thetic idea? It ap�par�ently can, pro�vided the idea is in
tune with the pre�vail�ing Zeit�geist. In the eigh�teenth cen�tury, one
such idea is the sub�lime, ar�tic�u�lated by Ed�mund Burke in 1757,
but with roots in clas�si�cal an�tiq�uity. And what is the sub�lime? It
has some�thing in com�mon with the beau�ti�ful, but it is not order
and har�mony, and it does not nec�es�sar�ily give pleas�ure. In�deed,
it can in�voke the op�po�site sen�sa�tion of being over�whelmed by
the huge, the �chaotic, and even the ugly, mak�ing one feel ec�static
to the point of pain, in�tensely alive and yet yearn for death.
This state of being is �tailed by two oth�ers, Ro�man�tic and �Gothic,
the one ris�ing to prom�i�nence in the eigh�teenth cen�tury, the
other some�what later. Tales of polar ex�plo�ra�tions are like �Gothic
ro�mances in that they can end in mad�ness and can�ni�bal�ism.61
Of all the polar ex�plor�ers, the Nor�we�gian Fridt�jof Nan�sen
(1861–1930) and the Â�American RichÂ�ard E. Byrd (1888–1957) are
the most intro�spec�tive and phil�o�soph�i�cal. They have left be�hind
not only sci�en�tific ob�ser�va�tions and �records of great ad�ven�ture
and super�hu�man en�du�rance but also re�flec�tions on na�ture, the
cos�mos, and the mean�ing of life. Both ex�plor�ers ap�pear to be�lieve
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
97
that life is more �likely to yield its deep�est mean�ing when one is
sur�rounded by ice than by books.
Nan�sen was an ac�com�plished ma�rine biol�o�gist, dip�lo�mat, and
hu�man�i�tar�ian. His claim to en�dur�ing fame rests, how�ever, on his
achieve�ment as an ex�plorer. Two ex�pe�di�tions were es�pe�cially
not�able. In the first, under�taken in 1888 with five com�pan�ions,
he suc�cess�fully �crossed the ice pla�teau of Green�land. In the
sec�ond, far more am�bi�tious, he at�tempted to reach the North
Pole by drift�ing �across the polar basin in his ship the Fram.
When Nan�sen re�al�ized that the ice floes were not going to carry
Fram all the way to the Pole, he aban�doned the ship (March 14,
1895), and with only one com�pan�ion, F. H. Jo�han�sen, �sought to
walk to their desÂ�tiÂ�naÂ�tion. They Â�reached latÂ�iÂ�tude 86° 14´ North,
which was then the north�ern�most point at�tained by hu�mans,
but had to give up going far�ther be�cause of the �jagged, im�pass�
able con�di�tion of the ice. Their trip back to civ�il�iza�tion was a
saga in it�self, stunt�like in its bold�ness: they �walked south �across
the shift�ing ice, pad�dled in kay�aks over open �stretches of water,
and Â�reached Franz Josef Land, where they winÂ�tered (1895–96)
and were even�tu�ally �picked up by mem�bers of a Brit�ish team.62
De�spite his fail�ure to reach the North Pole, Nan�sen won inter�
na�tional ac�claim. The ex�pe�di�tion was �counted a suc�cess be�cause
no mem�ber of his team was lost (the Fram re�turned �safely under
the lead�er�ship of Otto Sver�drup) and be�cause the ven�ture
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
98
ob�tained vo�lu�mi�nous sci�en�tific data on all as�pects of Arc�tic
geog�ra�phy and ocean�og�ra�phy, in�clud�ing the fact that a thick
ice car�a�pace cov�ered the polar basin. Nan�sen had a tal�ent for
sci�ence and could have led a re�ward�ing sci�en�tific ca�reer. He must
have won�dered, �though, �whether sci�ence was the real drive
beÂ�hind his exÂ�peÂ�diÂ�tions. ConÂ�sider his crossÂ�ing of Â�Greenland’s ice
pla�teau on skis. Jour�nal�ists �tended to see it as a dar�ing feat or
even as a sport be�cause of his use of skis. Nan�sen pre�ferred to
jus�tify the ex�pe�di�tion by its re�sults, which were a con�tri�bu�tion to
sci�ence. He had some doubt, how�ever, as a �couple of �dreams
in�di�cate. While he was drift�ing on an ice floe off the coast of
GreenÂ�land in 1888, “he Â�dreamed that he had reÂ�turned home after
cross�ing the in�land ice, but he was �ashamed be�cause he could
tell nothÂ�ing of what they had seen on the way Â�across.” Again, on
Jan�u�ary 18, 1894, when the Fram was drift�ing to�ward the North
Pole, he �dreamed that he had re�turned to Nor�way after suc�cess�
fully com�plet�ing his trip, only to re�al�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 �spirit that pines for ex�treme ad�ven�ture can�not have much
feel�ing for home, so one might think. Yet, the two sen�ti�ments are
�linked. From one point of view, home is the nec�es�sary se�cure
base and point of de�par�ture for the ad�ven�turer; from an�other,
ven�tur�ing into the un�known tends to ex�ag�ger�ate the good�ness
of home. In any case, the sen�ti�ment for home is sur�pris�ingly
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
99
�
strong
in Â�Nansen’s writÂ�ings. They might even be conÂ�sidÂ�ered
maw�kish by com�par�i�son with the �hard-edged prose used to
de�scribe the ex�traor�di�nary hard�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
pit�i�lessly �awaited me. Be�hind me lay all I held dear in life. And
what hap�pens be�fore me? How many years would pass ere I
�should see it all again? What would I not have given at that
mo�ment to be able to turn back; but up at the win�dow lit�tle Liv
was sit�ting clap�ping her hand.64
Hi�ber�nat�ing with Jo�han�sen in their prim�i�tive hut on Franz Josef
Land, Nan�sen �thought of his wife and daugh�ter at home. He
wrote in his diary (De�cem�ber 19, 1895):
There she sits in the Â�winter’s eveÂ�ning, sewÂ�ing by lampÂ�light.
�Beside her �stands a young girl with blue eyes and �golden hair
play�ing with a doll. She looks ten�derly at the child and �strokes
her hair. Her eyes grow moist, and heavy tears fall on her
sew�ing. .€.€. Here �beside me lies Jo�han�sen �asleep. He is smil�ing
in his sleep. Poor boy, I ex�pect he is at home spend�ing Christ�mas
with those he loves.65
Camp is a �home-away-from-home, which can seem all the
more home�like in the sharp �contrast it of�fers �between, in�side,
fa�mil�iar�ity and com�fort and, out�side, the in�dif�fer�ence or hos�til�ity
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
100
of snow and ice. Of his do�mes�tic life on top of Green�land, Nan�sen
wrote:
How�ever hard the day had been, how�ever ex�hausted we were,
and how�ever �deadly the cold, all was for�got�ten as we sat �around
our �cooker, gaz�ing at the faint rays of light which shone from
the lamp, and wait�ing pa�tiently for our sup�per. In�deed I do not
know how many hours in my life on which I look back with
�greater pleas�ure than these. And when the soup, or stew, or what�
ever the prep�ar�a�tion might be, was �cooked, when the ra�tions
were �served round, and the lit�tle �candle-stump �lighted that we
might see to eat, then rose our hap�pi�ness to the ze�nith, and I am
sure all �agreed with me that life was more than worth liv�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 be�hind it could seem baf�fling, if not a lit�tle hypo�crit�i�cal.
The Â�launch that Â�awaited “pitÂ�iÂ�lessly” to take NanÂ�sen to his ship
was there in an�swer to his own de�sire and will: no ex�ter�nal
circum�stance dic�tated his de�par�ture. Shack�le�ton would seem to
have la�bored under the same am�biv�a�lence or false con�scious�ness.
When he left in 1907 for his Ant�arc�tic ex�plo�ra�tion, he wrote to
his wife, ex�press�ing his re�gret as �though he had no �choice.
My dar�ling wife, your dear brave face is be�fore me now and I
can see you just as you stand on the wharf and are smil�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 �wanted just to
come �ashore and clasp you in my arms and love and care for
you.67
Like Nan�sen, Shack�le�ton de�vel�oped a �strong at�tach�ment to his
tem�po�rary shel�ter. On Oc�to�ber 29, 1908, he wrote:
As we left the hut where we had spent so many �months in
com�fort, we had a feel�ing of real re�gret. .€.€. It was dark in�side,
the acet�y�lene was fee�ble in com�par�i�son with the sun out�side,
and it was small com�pared to an or�di�nary dwell�ing, yet we were
sad at leav�ing it. Last night as we were sit�ting at din�ner the
eve�ning sun en�tered �through the ven�ti�la�tor and a cir�cle of light
shone on the pic�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 gaz�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
him�self, strik�ing his might[y] sil�ver harp, so that the �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
tem�per�a�ment and love of na�ture oc�curs in those pas�sages in which
he does not try to de�scribe a land�scape but is sim�ply re�cord�ing
an event. Cross�ing the ice pla�teau of Green�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 ves�sels com�ing rush�ing along
be�hind me, with their �square �Viking-like sails show�ing dark
�against the white snow�field and the big round disc of the moon
beÂ�hind.”69
Nan�sen at one time �called him�self an athe�ist; later an ag�nos�
tic. He did not be�lieve in the ex�is�tence of God, nor in after�life. If
life had a purÂ�pose, it was to use one’s faÂ�culÂ�ties to benÂ�eÂ�fit fuÂ�ture
gen�er�a�tions. Not con�tent with just hold�ing a noble sen�ti�ment,
he re�peat�edly �sought to trans�late it into ef�fec�tive hu�man�i�tar�
ian ac�tion. Out�wardly suc�cess�ful in every way, he nev�er�the�less
suf�fered from de�pres�sion in those pe�ri�ods when he was not
en�gaged with stren�u�ous polar ex�pe�di�tion. Even when he was
en�gaged and saw the �beauty in the glit�ter�ing ice field, he also
saw death. Ice and death were cou�pled in his mind. The first
senÂ�tence of his Â�two-volume work FarÂ�thest North reads: “UnÂ�seen
and un�trod�den under their spot�less man�tle of ice the rigid polar
re�gions slept the pro�found sleep of death from the ear�li�est dawn
of time.” Time itÂ�self Â�seemed froÂ�zen. He goes on:
Years come and go un�no�ticed. In this si�lent na�ture no �events
ever hap�pen. There is noth�ing in view save the twink�ling stars,
im�mea�sur�ably far away in the freez�ing night, and the flick�er�ing
sheen of the au�rora bor�ealis. I can just dis�cern close by the
vague out�line of the Fram, dimly stand�ing out in the des�o�late
gloom. Like an in�fin�i�tes�i�mal speck, the ves�sel seems lost �amidst
the bound�less ex�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 Nan�sen win�tered in bore�dom and
dis�com�fort, his mor�bid �thoughts pro�duced im�ages of white�ness,
cold�ness, mar�ble, and si�lence. His jour�nal entry for De�cem�ber 1,
1895, reads:
A weird �beauty, with�out feel�ing, as �though of a dead �planet,
built of shin�ing white mar�ble. Just so must the moun�tains stand
there, fro�zen and icy cold; just so must the lakes lie con�gealed
be�neath their snow cov�er�ing; and now as ever the moon sails
si�lently and �slowly on her end�less �course �through life�less space.
And every�thing so still, so aw�fully still, with the si�lence that
shall one day reign when the earth again be�comes des�o�late and
empty.71
The year Rich�ard Byrd was born was the year Fridt�jof Nan�sen
�sailed �across the in�land ice of Green�land. The �American and the
Nor�we�gian are thus a gen�er�a�tion apart: the one rose to be an
ad�mi�ral, the other an am�bas�sa�dor and a states�man. Both were
suc�cess�ful men of the world as well as polar ex�plor�ers. What
dis�tin�guished them from early ex�plor�ers was the mod�ern de�sire
to make their voy�ages into the geo�graph�i�cal un�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
Ant�arc�tica has the time�less�ness of lit�er�a�ture. Why was he there?
What were the reaÂ�sons for winÂ�terÂ�ing at latÂ�iÂ�tude 80° 08´ South?
He had good sci�en�tific rea�sons for the mis�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 sol�i�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 �spread of ice fan�ning to meet
the hoÂ�riÂ�zon. The shack itÂ�self faced west for no parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar reaÂ�son.”
Har�row�ing ex�pe�ri�ence oc�curred. But the worst was an at�tack of
de�spair that fol�lowed a pe�riod of sick�ness. �Self-doubt as�sailed
him. “I had gone there lookÂ�ing for peace and enÂ�lightÂ�enÂ�ment, .€.€.
[and] I had also gone armed with the jus�tifi�ca�tion of a sci�en�tific
mis�sion. Now I saw both for what they �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 fam�ily, and he was led to con�clude that,
At the end only two �things �really mat�ter to a man, re�gard�less of
who he is; and they are the af�fec�tion and under�stand�ing of his
fam�ily. Any�thing and every�thing else he �creates are in�sub�stan�
tial; they are ships given over to the mercy of the winds and
tides of prej�u�dice. But the fam�ily is an ever�last�ing an�chor�age, a
quiet harÂ�bor where a man’s ship can be left to swing to the
moor�ings of pride and loy�alty.74
And so Byrd, like Nan�sen and Shack�le�ton, �turned to fam�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
an�chor�age, the �source of stabil�ity, for the more ab�stract,
earth a nd its natural envir o n m en t s
105
�
mind-directed,
�ethereal-aesthetic satis�fac�tions of ro�man�tic
�quests. Home �stands for life. Ro�man�tic quest? What�ever it is, it
is not rum�pled bed�sheets or the aroma of �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
mo�ments of de�spair or dan�ger but �rather in mo�ments when he
could pause and con�front the vast sheet of ice. Byrd was more
san�guine, �though even his prose can carry a fu�ne�real tone, as,
for ex�am�ple, when he de�scribed ice�bergs �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
an�other oc�ca�sion, he com�mented on the dis�ap�pear�ance of the
sun at AdÂ�vance Base as folÂ�lows: “Even at midÂ�day the sun is only
sev�eral times its di�am�e�ters above the ho�ri�zon. It is cold and dull.
At its bright�est it �scarcely gives light �enough to throw a �shadow.
A fu�ne�real gloom hangs in the twi�light sky. This is the pe�riod
�between life and death. This is the way the world will look to the
last man when it dies.” 75
For Nan�sen, polar �beauty did not nec�es�sar�ily con�sole; for
Byrd, by �contrast, it was the por�tal to one�ness with the cos�mos.
ReÂ�peatÂ�edly in Â�Byrd’s diary, the mesÂ�sage of peace and harÂ�mony
came �through.
The day was dying, the night being born—but with great peace.
Here were the im�pon�der�able pro�cesses and �forces of the cos�mos,
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
106
har�mo�ni�ous and sound�less. Har�mony, that was it! That was
what came out of the siÂ�lence—a genÂ�tle Â�rhythm, the Â�strain
of a per�fect �rhythm, mo�men�tar�ily to be my�self a part of it. In
that inÂ�stant I could feel no doubt of man’s oneÂ�ness with the
uni�verse.76
A dra�matic dem�on�stra�tion of this feel�ing of one�ness oc�curred at
midÂ�night on May 11. Byrd was playÂ�ing a reÂ�cordÂ�ing of Â�Beethoven’s
Fifth Sym�phony.
The night was calm and clear. I left the door to my shack open
and also my trap�door. I stood there in the dark�ness to look
�around at some of my fa�vor�ite con�stel�la�tions. Pres�ently I began
to have the il�lu�sion that what I was see�ing was also what I was
hear�ing, so per�fectly did the music seem to blend with what
was hap�pen�ing in the sky. As the notes �swelled, the dull au�rora
on the ho�ri�zon �pulsed and quick�ened and �draped it�self into
�arches and fan�ning beams which �reached �across the sky until at
my ze�nith the dis�play at�tained its cres�cendo. The music and the
night be�came one; and I told my�self that all �beauty was akin
and �sprang from the same sub�stance. I re�called a gal�lant, un�
self�ish act that was of the same es�sence as the music and the
au�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 com�mon? A major dif�fer�ence is that the
�desert has oases that lure peo�ple in. The ice pla�teau has no such
lure. The one is rich in his�tory, the other not. From the eigh�teenth
cen�tury on�ward, schol�ars have shown an inter�est in Egypt and
the Near East for their ruins, bur�ied ar�ti�facts, and re�corded
his�tory. The ice pla�teaus have, for the most part, at�tracted only
sci�en�tists and them only in the twen�ti�eth cen�tury. In tem�per�a�
ment, those who ven�ture into the �desert seem to dif�fer from
those who ven�ture into the ice field, the for�mer being more
�self-sufficient and �self-absorbed than the lat�ter. Ex�plor�ers such
as �Doughty, Law�rence, and The�si�ger dis�owned not only their
fer�tile na�tive land but also its peo�ple and cul�ture. For them,
home was not a fount of sen�ti�ment; pa�tri�ot�ism and the flag were
not a �source of in�spi�ra�tion. In �contrast, polar ex�plor�ers ven�tured
forth as �close-knit teams with the �strong moral, if not al�ways
fi�nan�cial, sup�port of their home base. True, Byrd was alone, but
only in the phys�i�cal sense, for through�out his so�journ at Ad�vance
Base, he main�tained radio con�tact with his team at Lit�tle Amer�ica.
Â�Lastly, note again the polar Â�explorers’ senÂ�tiÂ�menÂ�tal atÂ�tachÂ�ment to
home. For all their de�sire to be at the poles, they re�mained proud
of their na�tion and cul�ture.
Why this dif�fer�ence �between ex�plor�ers of �desert and ex�plor�ers
of ice? May it not be that the �desert, how�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 ma�te�rial and so�cial con�straints? The ice sheet is far less
eart h and its na tura l e nv iron m en t s
108
ac�com�mo�dat�ing. For all its vis�ual al�lure, it is im�pla�cably hos�tile
to any sort of per�ma�nent human hab�i�ta�tion. �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.
�Desert and ice are bar�ren, a fact that is often noted. Less often
noted are two other �shared fea�tures. One is the sharp�ness of the
cul�ture/na�ture boun�dary. In the �desert, green oases yield to brown
sand with �barely a tran�si�tion. On the ice sheet, the boun�dary is
even �sharper, for in�side the tent is cozy home, im�me�di�ately out�
side it is a world of ice that threat�ens death. The sec�ond trait in
com�mon is that both �desert and ice �satisfy a �thirst for spir�i�tual
el�e�va�tion. We know that monks of the sec�ond and third cen�tu�ries
went to the �desert for that pur�pose, but did peo�ple go to the
fro�zen world for a sim�i�lar pur�pose? A few monks in the �eighth
cen�tury ap�par�ently did, and they �reached as far north as Ice�land.
In the mod�ern sec�u�lar age, I have noted that Nan�sen and Byrd
had spir�i�tual/aes�thetic as�pi�ra�tions. Such as�pi�ra�tions re�quire a
loss of the sense of self, which the hos�tile im�men�sities of �desert
and ice en�cour�age. Ex�plor�ers �undergo great hard�ship. Why
sub�mit to it? In pub�lic they give eco�nomic or sci�en�tific rea�sons
�rather than one that can seem quite ir�ra�tional, which is that, for
all their vi�tal�ity, the ex�plor�ers are half in love with death. As the
sough�ing wind fades to total si�lence, do the �bone-tired ex�plor�ers
hear the dying notes of the Lieb�stod?
inter�lude:
whole�some but or�di�nary
In Gen�e�sis, God, after sep�ar�at�ing light from dark�ness, gath�ered
the wa�ters to�gether into one place and �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 pleas�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 �ground every beast of the field. Adam was �charged to
have doÂ�minÂ�ion over the Â�beasts and to “dress” and “keep” the
gar�den. There was work for Adam to do, but it was light work.
An air of in�for�mal�ity is pro�jected by hav�ing the Di�vine Gar�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 ex�cit�ing, but it is what peo�ple want. What did the
anÂ�cient SuÂ�merÂ�ians want? “Wealth and posÂ�sesÂ�sions, rich harÂ�vests,
�well-stocked gra�nar�ies, folds and �stalls �filled with cat�tle large and
small, suc�cess�ful hunt�ing on the plain and good fish�ing in the
sea.”1 The list is sigÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cant—inÂ�deed poigÂ�nant—preÂ�cisely beÂ�cause
it is so pre�dict�able, so or�di�nary. As to the an�cient �Greeks, they
were good sail�ors, but they much pre�ferred farms and or�chards
to the “wine-dark” sea, which the Â�Greeks Â�called a stepÂ�mother.
What were the re�wards of life on a farm? He�siod in Works and
Days (seventh cen�tury, BCE) put it as in�ti�macy with land and
soil, the sea�sonal cy�cles, con�ti�nu�ity and stabil�ity, the cam�a�rad�e�rie
of sow�ing and har�vest�ing to�gether, and, at a more con�crete level,
such sen�su�ous gifts of na�ture as chirp�ing crick�ets, sum�mer heat,
fresh Â�goat’s milk, cool Â�breezes, and tree shade, in which one
may rest after a good meal. Lit�tle has �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 �surely were, but their ex�is�tence be�came ev�i�dent
only in the mod�ern pe�riod. I offer two rebels,
�
both drawn from
lit�er�a�ture, and I draw from lit�er�a�ture be�cause it is there that the
pasÂ�sion is given the most vivid exÂ�presÂ�sion. In Jean Â�Anouilh’s
interlude
111
play Anti�gone (1944), Creon ad�vises his re�bel�lious niece as
folÂ�lows: “Life is a child playÂ�ing Â�around your feet, a tool you hold
�firmly in your grip, a bench you sit on in the eve�ning in the
gar�den. Be�lieve me, the only poor con�so�la�tion that we have in
our old age is to disÂ�cover that what I have said to you is true.”
�Sounds rea�son�able, for what else is there other than these sol�idly
real, en�dear�ing par�tic�u�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, Bea�tie, wants to find her roots, and
wants her fam�ily to help her in her �search. But what can she
mean by roots? She is not, after all, �adrift in face�less cit�ies; she
comes from a fam�ily of farm la�bor�ers who has main�tained its
ties to the farm and its folk�ways. In a quar�rel with her �mother,
Bea�tie �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 flow�ers and you �breathe fresh air and you got no ma�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?
�
Wesker’s
her�o�ine �gropes to�ward the idea that hav�ing roots is
not simÂ�ply a matÂ�ter of stayÂ�ing put and knowÂ�ing one’s linÂ�eÂ�age,
interlude
112
but �rather a mat�ter of ex�pand�ing aware�ness. Hav�ing roots means
being aware of not only what one’s famÂ�ily has done but what
hu�man�ity has done. To be among green �fields and �breathe fresh
air is �enough for cows but is not �enough for human be�ings, and
cer�tainly is not �enough for her. Bea�tie wants some�thing she calls
“maÂ�jesty”—a life that beÂ�fits her human Â�status.
3
The City
T
he city has ma�jesty, one that is �achieved by dis�tanc�ing it�self
as far as pos�sible from bond�age to earth. The city began as
an at�tempt to bring the order and ma�jesty of �heaven down to
earth, and it pro�ceeded from there by �cutting it�self from ag�ri�
cul�tu�ral roots, civ�il�iz�ing win�ter, turn�ing night into day, and dis�ci�
plin�ing the sen�su�ous human body in the inter�est of de�vel�op�ing
the mind. Hu�mans have done all these �things such that, in the
city, one can exÂ�peÂ�riÂ�ence the Â�heights and the Â�depths—in a word,
the sub�lime.
Bring�ing �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
king�ship, and with it, the rise of large rit�ual cen�ters. These cen�ters
were �oriented sky�ward, to the sun, moon, stars, and other hier�
oph�a�nies of the sky �rather than, as in Neo�lithic times, down�ward
to the spir�its of the earth. With the rit�ual cen�ter, and later the
city, human ho�ri�zons ex�panded be�yond the local and the fleet�ing
to the cos�mos and its or�derly cy�cles. Not only that, �priests and
kings be�lieved that they could me�di�ate �between �heaven and earth,
imÂ�pose the Â�former’s stabilÂ�ities on the Â�latter’s proÂ�penÂ�sity for chaos.
In form, these cit�ies were rec�tan�gu�lar, with the four cor�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 car�di�nal �points, as with the his�tor�i�cal cit�ies of China.
What does a cos�mic city look like and how does it �transcend
the lim�i�ta�tions of biol�ogy and earth? I offer the Chi�nese cos�mic
city as an ex�am�ple be�cause more is known about it than about
the cos�mic city in any other re�gion. Pre�served in the Zhou Li
(Book of Rites, sec�ond cen�tury BCE) is the �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 An�ces�tors is to the left [east],
and that of Earth, right [west]. Court life is con�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 po�si�tion in hor�i�zon�tal space but also one con�not�ing
�height. The em�peror faces south and looks down on the prin�ci�pal
�north-south av�e�nue (the axis mundi) to the human world.
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This was not just a uto�pian dream, for when China was re�
united in 589 CE, the �founder of the new (Sui) dy�nasty de�cided
to build his capÂ�iÂ�tal, Â�Ch’ang-an, in acÂ�corÂ�dance with the anÂ�cient
pre�scrip�tion. The ven�ture �called for a clean sheet, which meant
that hills had to be lev�eled, �streams di�verted, and vil�lages
reÂ�moved—an eraÂ�sure of all that sigÂ�nified the earth and its
hum�ble forms of life. Astron�o�mers meas�ured the �shadow of the
noon sun on suc�ces�sive days and ob�served the North Star by
night to ar�rive at ac�cu�rate align�ments of the city walls to the four
di�rec�tions. Each of the city walls had three gates, rep�re�sent�ing the
three �months of the year. The main south gate of the pal�ace and
ad�min�is�tra�tive city was �called Ver�mil�ion Bird, a yang sym�bol of
solar en�ergy. The prin�ci�pal gate along the east wall was �called
Bright�ness of �Spring, the di�rec�tion of sun�rise, the place where
the new �warmth of �spring �emerged after the dark�ness and cold
of win�ter. The prin�ci�pal gate along the south wall was �called Red
Phoe�nix, the red�ness of sum�mer and the noon sun. The prin�ci�pal
gate along the west wall was �called White Tiger, the lo�cal�ity of
the set�ting sun and of fall�ing �leaves, the au�tum�nal sea�son that
sig�nified the ap�proach of death. The prin�ci�pal gate along the
north wall was �called Hi�ber�nat�ing Snake, the place of dark�ness
and cold. The em�peror on his �throne faced, as noted ear�lier,
south and down�ward to the world of or�di�nary peo�ple. In an
im�pe�rial au�di�ence, civil of�fi�cials en�tered the court�yard from the
east, mil�i�tary of�fi�cials from the west. The em�peror had his back
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116
to the north, which was pro�fane space, and it was there that the
mar�ket �should be lo�cated.2
What might a vilÂ�lager see upon enÂ�terÂ�ing Â�Ch’ang-an? What
would he learn and how might his world�view be al�tered? I ask
be�cause if he were alert and �open-minded, his world would
open up in fun�da�men�tally the same way as an in�di�vid�ual from
any pre�mod�ern pe�riod of his�tory and had tran�si�tioned from
coun�try to city, from the small scale to the large, and from a life
that is rou�tine and re�as�sur�ing to one that is com�plex, shift�ing,
and in�tense.
For exÂ�amÂ�ple, a Â�traveler enÂ�terÂ�ing Â�Tang-dynasty Â�Ch’ang-an
�through its main gate would be over�come by the multi�tudes of
peo�ple, es�ti�mated to be �around one mil�lion, but, even more, by
the Â�population’s ethÂ�nic diÂ�verÂ�sity. ForeignÂ�ers inÂ�cluded not only
the Arabs, Per�sians, and Hin�dus who were com�monly found
in the South, but also those from the North and West—Turks,
Ui�ghurs, To�char�ians, Sog�dians, Syr�ians, Tar�tars, and Tibe�tans. At
its peak, no fewer than two thou�sand �foreign trad�ing firms did
busi�ness �within the city walls. Of �course, not all foreign�ers came
to trade: many were drawn to the Â�city’s culÂ�ture—to the NaÂ�tional
Acad�emy, for in�stance, which in the lat�ter part of the �seventh
cen�tury �boasted eight thou�sand stu�dents, of whom half were
Chi�nese and the other half Ko�re�ans, Jap�a�nese, Tibe�tans, and
stu�dents from Cen�tral Asia. In other words, the �traveler would
have found him�self in a cos�mo�pol�i�tan world.3
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Cos�mo�pol�i�tan�ism, as used here, has a mean�ing that is rad�i�cally
dif�fer�ent from the one I pro�posed ear�lier, which is an or�dered,
geo�met�ric re�al�ity mod�eled after the per�ceived order of the cos�mos.
Both mean�ings would have been new and mind open�ing for
some�one from the coun�try�side. The per�son would en�coun�ter, on
the one hand, the col�or�ful multi�tudes and, on the other hand, the
geo�met�ric and aus�tere urban plan, with its rec�ti�lin�ear �streets and
magÂ�nifÂ�iÂ�cent buildÂ�ings. In time, the Â�person’s sense of the superÂ�
nat�u�ral would have �changed too, from place to space, from a
feel�ing of the nu�mi�nous in par�tic�u�lar lo�cal�ities such as a tree, a
well, a par�tic�u�lar cor�ner of the �street, to a feel�ing of the nu�mi�nous
in space as de�fined by the car�di�nal �points and by the sea�sonal
cycle of �spring, sum�mer, au�tumn, and win�ter.
�Cutting Ag�ri�cul�tu�ral Ties
The ro�man�tic, I have �argued, is the urge to reach be�yond the
norm, be�yond what is nat�u�ral and nec�es�sary, and noth�ing is
more nat�u�ral and nec�es�sary to human be�ings than the ac�qui�si�tion
of food, a form of which is ag�ri�cul�ture. To the ex�tent that the city
dis�tances it�self from ag�ri�cul�ture, it is ro�man�tic, fool�ishly so
per�haps, but then ro�mance is never sen�sible. Below I �sketch the
hisÂ�tory of the Â�city’s sevÂ�erÂ�ance from agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, a proÂ�cess that
�barely began in an�cient Mesopo�ta�mia and China. But then, in
those days, cit�ies were not �thought of as �built-up areas of bus�tling
comÂ�merce; Â�rather they were Â�thought of as cosÂ�moses—the orÂ�dered
the c ity
118
to�tal�ity of �things that, of ne�ces�sity, in�cluded farms and vil�lages.
Su�mer�ian and Ak�ka�dian lan�guages did not even dis�tin�guish
�between vil�lage and city: both were �called uru in Su�mer�ian and
alu in Ak�ka�dian. And food sup�ply was a con�stant worry. For this
rea�son, in a typ�i�cal Su�mer�ian city, next to the �built-up core was
an en�closed area of farms, cat�tle folds, �fields, and gar�dens.4
The traÂ�diÂ�tional ChiÂ�nese city is surÂ�prisÂ�ingly rural. Â�Ch’ang-an,
the Han dy�nasty cap�i�tal, is a good ex�am�ple. It is sub�di�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 �within its walls were open coun�try. Hun�dreds of years
later, Â�Ch’ang-an reÂ�mained the capÂ�iÂ�tal city, this time of the Tang
em�pire. Its basic plan be�came even more geo�met�ric. Broad
�streets, form�ing a rec�ti�lin�ear grid, must have �looked im�pres�sive
and yet oc�cu�pied only 19 per�cent of the �walled com�pound, and
as much as a third of the south�ern part of the city was given over
to farm�ing and a park. It took time, of �course, for peo�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, es�pe�cially dur�ing times of cri�sis, an im�pe�rial de�cree of
932 CE for�bade con�struc�tion in cer�tain dis�tricts.5 What I have
de�scribed is true not just of the dis�tant past. Even in the 1920s,
any�one who en�tered a Chi�nese city �through the side gate might
see not only a busy �street lined with shops but also �fields, mar�ket
gar�dens, and duck ponds.
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119
As for cit�ies in me�di�eval Eu�rope, they were much �smaller
than those in con�tem�po�rary China. Their char�ac�ter�is�tic form
was also dif�fer�ent, being typ�i�cally that of a star�fish. From the
Â�town’s core of Â�church, town hall, and marÂ�ket Â�square raÂ�diÂ�ated
�streets lined with shops and �houses. The open tri�an�gu�lar �spaces
�between them were �filled with farms and or�chards. The star�fish
form was long en�dur�ing and could be found even in the mid�dle
of the nine�teenth cen�tury.6 As to the im�por�tance of ag�ri�cul�ture,
Co�blenz may be taken as an ex�am�ple.
At Co�blenz, in the sec�ond half of the thir�teenth cen�tury, work
on the city walls had to be given up dur�ing har�vest time, be�cause
of the lack of work�men; at Frank�fort in the year 1387 the city
em�ployed four herds�men and six �field-guards, and even in the
fif�teenth cen�tury a �strict law was en�acted �against al�low�ing
pigs to run about the city �streets. Even in the larg�est cit�ies there
are very many in�di�ca�tions of an ex�tended pop�u�la�tion en�gaged
in ag�ri�cul�ture. �Cattle-breeding and gar�den�ing were com�mon
ac�tiv�i�ties along with man�u�fac�tur�ing and trade; in fact, the
for�mer had their own lo�ca�tion in the coun�try be�fore the gates,
as well as in the parts of the city which lay near�est to the walls.7
�
Shakespeare’s
Lon�don oc�cu�pied one �square mile and �housed
some 100,000 peo�ple. It was a pleas�ant coun�try town with many
gar�dens and broad green �fields close to the �packed �streets. Even
in the mid�dle of the city, chat�ter�ing birds and wild flow�ers made
na�ture seem close to Lon�don�ers. �Across the Chan�nel, many
the c ity
120
Pa�ri�sians at the end of the eigh�teenth cen�tury were still en�gaged
in coun�try pur�suits such as mar�ket gar�den�ing and the breed�ing
of rabÂ�bits. “In revÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tionÂ�ary Paris,” wrote RichÂ�ard Cobb, “chickÂ�ens
were as much at home as ca�nar�ies in the upper �floors, �flower-pots
were fre�quently re�ported to the com�mis�saire as fall�ing from
at�tics, and the �streets them�selves �teemed with an�i�malia led by
rusÂ�tic types.”8
One ex�pects such in�tru�sions of the coun�try into the city be�fore
the In�dus�trial Rev�o�lu�tion, but what about in�dus�tri�al�ized cit�ies of
the nine�teenth cen�tury? From the writ�ings of En�glish re�form�ers
and nov�el�ists (par�tic�u�larly �Charles Dick�ens), one gains an image
of sprawl�ing, �crowded war�rens, �half-buried in in�dus�trial filth,
that bear no hint of rural ac�tiv�ity. The pop�u�lar image is mis�
lead�ing, for ac�cord�ing to H. J. Dyos and Mi�chael Wolff,
In the nine�teenth cen�tury no En�glish city had se�vered it�self
from rural con�nec�tions. The larg�est of them still con�ducted
ex�ten�sive back�yard ag�ri�cul�ture, not �merely �half-a-dozen hens in
a coop of soap boxes, but �cow-stalls, sheep folds, pig sties above
and below �ground, in and out of dwell�ings, on and off the
�streets, �wherever this ru�di�men�tary �factory-farming could be
made to work.9
As pop�u�la�tion con�tin�ued to swell and open space to �contract,
cit�ies �sought a so�lu�tion to crowd�ing in the form of al�lot�ments,
small plots of land both in�side and out�side city boun�dar�ies
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121
where in�hab�i�tants could grow veg�e�ta�bles and flow�ers on week�
ends. Birm�ing�ham had them early in the 1800s.10 Other cit�ies in
Brit�ain and Eu�rope fol�lowed suit. In Ger�many, as�sign�ing al�lot�
ments began in the 1870s and con�tin�ued for an�other cen�tury.
The move�ment was pop�u�lar, and it soon be�came a com�mon sight
to see mini�ature farms gird�ing Ger�man towns.11 As for North
Amer�ica, the down�town areas of its me�trop�ol�ises can �hardly
be more ar�ti�fac�tual. From a high point, one sees noth�ing but
build�ings, �streets, and park�ing lots. One �scholar, pub�lish�ing in
the �highly re�spected mag�a�zine Sci�ence, even sug�gested that in a
city whose cit�i�zens are as di�vorced from na�ture as those in Los
An�geles are, trees might as well be made of plas�tic.12
Yet the need for con�tact with na�ture has by no means
van�ished. A �stroll in the park is not quite the an�swer. Also �needed
is hard, di�rect con�tact of the sort that oc�curs when one prac�tices
ag�ri�cul�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 mini�ature rake and hoe to cul�ti�vate their sky�line plots.
The New York Times re�ported in 1958 that the most knowl�edge�
able �top-floor hus�band�man is a free�lance �writer on hor�ti�cul�ture.
“He has more than 2,000 plantÂ�ings on the Â�eleventh floor at 1394
Lex�ing�ton Av�e�nue, near �Ninety-second �Street. His crop in�cludes
figs, ba�na�nas, straw�ber�ries, �peaches, cher�ries. He main�tains a
rich comÂ�post heap of leaf mold and Â�kitchen leavÂ�ings.”13
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Those were the first stir�rings of urban ag�ri�cul�ture in our time,
�closely as�so�ciated with the cult of eat�ing lo�cally grown, safer, and
tas�tier food. The cult in turn grew out of the rise of ec�o�log�i�cal
and so�cial con�scious�ness, an aver�sion to �mass-produced, chem�i�
cally aided prod�ucts of a glo�bal econ�omy. Urban �elites of such
cit�ies as New York, Lon�don, Paris, Chi�cago, De�troit, Los An�geles,
and Mil�wau�kee led the move�ment. Their ex�peri�ments in urban
ag�ri�cul�ture were ec�o�log�i�cally and tech�ni�cally so�phis�ti�cated,
seekÂ�ing to take adÂ�vanÂ�tage of a Â�city’s microÂ�enÂ�viÂ�ronÂ�ments to proÂ�
duce, for ex�am�ple, honey and wine, intro�duc�ing such new tech�
nol�o�gies as aq�ua�pon�ics, and hap�pily re�tain�ing such tra�di�tional
meth�ods as ver�mi�cul�ture and the plant�ing of multi�ple, com�pat�ible
crops. 14 There is unÂ�doubtÂ�edly an eleÂ�ment of nosÂ�talÂ�gia in Â�today’s
urban farm�ing. Al�though pro�duc�ing food as such is not ro�man�tic,
that back�ward �glance to a more whole�some way of life is. Or�ganic
farm�ing, after all, can be back�break�ing and tough on peo�ple
with even mild arÂ�thritis. J. R. R. Â�Tolkien Â�doesn’t menÂ�tion eiÂ�ther
in the mel�low �Middle-earth of the hob�bits.
Civ�il�iz�ing Win�ter
The city proÂ�tects human beÂ�ings Â�against Â�nature’s vaÂ�garÂ�ies. In the
trop�ics the need for such pro�tec�tion is mini�mal; like�wise, in the
warm sea�son in the mid�dle lat�i�tudes. Sum�mer al�lows peo�ple to
be nat�u�ral: it is the time of the year when they can work or play
in the field. Win�ter re�turns them to urban so�ci�ety and the shel�ters
of arÂ�tiÂ�fice. The Â�city’s seaÂ�sons are thus the reÂ�verse of those in
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sum�mer. Pub�lic �squares and �streets come to their own in win�ter
when the coun�try�side lies dor�mant and bar�ren. In China dur�ing
the Zhou dyÂ�nasty (1027–256 BCE), famÂ�iÂ�lies were orÂ�gaÂ�nized into
�groups that left their for�tified town in early �spring, �worked and
lived on the land �through the sum�mer, and re�turned to the town
after harÂ�vest. WolÂ�fram EbeÂ�rhard wrote: “This type of setÂ�tleÂ�ment
im�plied a sharp di�vi�sion of the year into two parts: win�ter life in
the city, sum�mer life in the �fields. .€.€. The con�stant inter�play of
Ying and Yang in Chi�nese phi�lo�so�phy re�flected this du�a�lis�tic
way of life.” 15 Lewis MumÂ�ford reÂ�minded us that Greek citÂ�ies
in their for�ma�tive pe�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) inter�rupted this tidal move�ment. Many coun�try�men,
shut up �within the city walls, were home�sick for their farms and
com�plained bit�terly.16 In the first cen�tury CE, pub�lic func�tions
in Rome �slowed down dur�ing the sum�mer �months. �Courts were
�closed in July. �Wealthy Ro�mans aban�doned town house for
coun�try villa in �spring, and when sum�mer heat be�came un�bear�
able, they �sought the cool�ness of the sea�shore. They �stayed in
their villa �through the fall sea�son and re�turned to their town
house as win�ter ap�proached.17
Sea�sonal mi�gra�tion re�mained com�mon in Re�nais�sance cit�ies.
A �well-to-do cit�i�zen of Flor�ence owned a res�i�dence in town, a
shop where he �worked, and a villa or farm in the sub�urb. If he
were a mer�chant, he might have an es�tate be�yond the city walls
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that sup�plied him with veg�e�ta�bles, wine, oil, for�age, and wood.
Flo�ren�tines were city so�phis�ti�cates in win�ter and gen�tle�men
farm�ers in sum�mer. Win�ters, which could be cold and bleak
�between Christ�mas and Epiph�any, met with spir�ited cul�tural
reÂ�sponse in the form of reÂ�liÂ�gious acÂ�tivÂ�iÂ�ties. “ThouÂ�sands Â�flocked
into the ca�the�dral every eve�ning dur�ing Lent to hear the ser�mons
of fa�mous preach�ers. Each re�li�gious hol�i�day fea�tured a pub�lic
cerÂ�eÂ�mony in which both Â�clergy and laity parÂ�ticÂ�iÂ�pated.”18 Â�Spring
was the live�li�est time in Re�nais�sance Flor�ence as it is today:
mer�chants were eager to do busi�ness, pil�grims �poured in on their
way to Rome, and pick�pock�ets �worked the �crowds. Mid�sum�mer
was the dead sea�son. Flo�ren�tine pa�tri�cians left the city for their
coun�try vil�las and re�turned to the city in late Sep�tem�ber or early
Oc�to�ber.19
FerÂ�meÂ�ture anÂ�nuelle, or “anÂ�nual cloÂ�sure,” also ocÂ�curs in Â�France,
and for tour�ists who swarm over Paris in Au�gust, the signs are
ubiq�ui�tous and dis�pir�it�ing. Paris, like many other met�ro�pol�i�tan
cen�ters, is aban�doned by its na�tives in sum�mer. Cul�tural life
tends to offer light fare com�men�su�rate with the mood of the
sea�son and with the un�so�phis�ti�cated taste of gawk�ing vis�i�tors.
In a spe�cial issue of the Sat�ur�day Re�view, �within the intro�duc�tion
enÂ�tiÂ�tled “CitÂ�ies in WinÂ�ter,” edÂ�iÂ�tor HorÂ�ace SutÂ�ton inÂ�tones:
Cit�ies bloom with the first chill winds. Urban for�ests are the
in�verse phe�nom�e�non of trees and flow�ers. They �sprout with
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plum�age as the win�ter de�scends. For it is then, amid the �flakes
and the gusts, that shop�pers hus�tle, that �stores bur�geon into
�brightly lit ba�zaars. .€.€. The cit�ies in win�ter are nur�tured by the
Â�warmth of the café, nourÂ�ished by the exÂ�pecÂ�tant bubÂ�ble of
au�di�ences be�fore cur�tain rise. Mu�seums burst ef�fer�ves�cently
into �flower. An�cient civ�il�iza�tions creep from stor�ages and
as�sem�ble in gal�ler�ies like frag�ments of �far-flung clans �called to
con�ven�tion by tri�bal drums heard only by the mem�ber�ship.20
On iso�lated farms and in small towns, win�ter is a state of
siege from which peo�ple look for de�liver�ance in �spring. Not so in
a bus�tling me�trop�o�lis. In New York City, says Rich�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 �turned very clear, and sud�denly we smell
roastÂ�ing chestÂ�nuts just north of Saint Â�Patrick’s CaÂ�theÂ�dral. The
city lives at �cross-purposes with na�ture: cold, not heat, �brings it
to life. It is dur�ing the fall and win�ter that the sense of re�newal is
at its �height. Look what gets born in New York. SoHo, the loft
dis�trict below Green�wich Vil�lage, is a whole new cul�tural cen�ter,
with art gal�ler�ies, ex�peri�men�tal the�a�ters, and bars that serve up
ham�bur�gers and rough chic. The �once-depressing side �streets off
First and Sec�ond Av�e�nues are now among the most cheer�ful and
atÂ�tracÂ�tive in the city. Even Â�Hell’s Â�Kitchen, grim as it still looks,
be�gins to show signs of �polish here and there. New York keeps
re�gen�er�at�ing it�self.21
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These ob�ser�va�tions were made in the 1970s. �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 ex�pe�ri�ence for so long that we take it com�pletely
for �granted, for�get�ting how in�gen�u�ous and un�nat�u�ral such a step
is. But even more darÂ�ing—and far more reÂ�cent—is the conÂ�quest
of night.
Con�quer�ing Night
On earth, pri�mor�dial chaos is sym�bol�ized by waste�land, water,
and dark�ness. Of these three, the chal�lenge of im�pos�ing order on
waste�land was met when walls that de�fined hu�man�ized space
were built some eight or nine thou�sand years ago. The con�quest
of �marshes and �swamps (water) was more dif�fi�cult and suc�cess�ful
on a large scale only in the his�tor�i�cal pe�riod: think what a head�
ache the Pon�tine �Marshes gave the Etrus�cans and Ro�mans.
Dark�ness �proved to be the hard�est of the three to over�come.
Can�dles and �open-flame oil lamps, al�ready in use when the
Pyr�a�mids were built, re�mained the most com�mon form of il�lu�
mi�na�tion until the ap�proach of the nine�teenth cen�tury. These
de�vices made only the fee�blest in�roads on dark�ness. Large in�roads
be�came pos�sible with the intro�duc�tion of gas�light in the nine�
teenth cen�tury, but only in the twen�ti�eth cen�tury, with the wide
use of electric�ity, can we truly say of some cit�ies that human
beÂ�ings had alÂ�tered anÂ�other funÂ�daÂ�menÂ�tal Â�rhythm—the diurÂ�nal
Â�rhythm—of naÂ�ture.
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Today we measÂ�ure a Â�city’s soÂ�phisÂ�tiÂ�caÂ�tion by the qualÂ�ity of its
night�life, for�get�ting how re�cent night�life is. Im�pe�rial Rome, a
city of vast size and splen�dor, sub�mit�ted to the dic�tate of day and
night like any proÂ�vinÂ�cial town. Â�Jérôme CarÂ�coÂ�pino wrote:
When there was no moon its �streets were �plunged in im�pen�e�
tra�ble dark�ness. No oil lamps �lighted them, no can�dles were
af�fixed to the walls; no lan�terns were hung over the lin�tel of
the doors, save on fes�tive oc�ca�sions. .€.€. In nor�mal times night
fell over the city like the �shadow of a great dan�ger, dif�fused,
sin�is�ter, and men�ac�ing. Every�one fled to his home, shut him�self
in, and bar�ri�caded the en�trance. The shops fell si�lent, �safety
�chains were drawn �across be�hind the �leaves of the doors; the
shut�ters of the flats were �closed and the pots of flow�ers with�
drawn from the win�dows they had �adorned.22
In im�pe�rial China as in me�di�eval Eu�rope and early co�lo�nial
Amer�ica, cur�few was im�posed on towns after dark. Cur�few
pro�tected cit�i�zens from the �threats of fire and strang�ers. How�ever
im�pressed we are with im�ages of bus�tling life in a pre�in�dus�trial
city, we �should re�mem�ber that in many in�stances, all pub�lic and
out�door ac�tiv�i�ties �ceased with the toll of the cur�few bell. Night
be�longed to the bio�log�i�cal and pri�vate �sphere. It was the time for
re�cu�per�a�tion and en�ter�tain�ment in the pri�vacy of the house�hold.
This was true even of Re�nais�sance Flor�ence, a place of high art
and cul�ture. Only ex�cep�tional oc�ca�sions war�ranted light�ing after
dark. In China, these were the great cel�e�bra�tions of New Year
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and the Â�emperor’s birthÂ�day. In anÂ�cient Rome, the Feast of Flora
was a night�time ac�tiv�ity and �called for spec�tac�u�lar light�ing. In a
few cit�ies, such as Anti�och in the �fourth cen�tury, night il�lu�mi�na�
tion was stan�dard and a �source of pride to the lo�cals.23 In China,
Hang�zhou went dark after night�fall, ex�cept for the Im�pe�rial Way,
along which shops and �eat-places, lit by lan�terns, bus�tled with
ac�tiv�ity. The Mon�gols in�vaded the Song cap�i�tal in 1276 and put
an end to its night�life by im�pos�ing �strict cur�few.24
Few pre�mod�ern cit�ies at�tempted to ex�tend day into night.
The rule was to live by the sun. Paris in the six�teenth cen�tury
could not even dream of beÂ�comÂ�ing the “City of Â�Lights.” EfÂ�forts to
per�suade Pa�ri�sians liv�ing in the lower sto�ries of �houses to keep
can�dles in their win�dows dur�ing the early eve�ning hours met
with lit�tle suc�cess. The first im�pe�tus to�ward ef�fi�cient il�lu�mi�na�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
lan�terns to be �strung �across the �streets. By the end of the seven�
teenth cen�tury, can�dles il�lu�mi�nated some �sixty-five miles of city
�streets dur�ing the win�ter �months.25 As for Lon�don, in 1662 an
act of Par�lia�ment re�quired every house�hold whose house �fronted
a �street to hang out a can�dle tall �enough to burn from dusk to
nine Â�o’clock. In 1716 the hours were exÂ�tended to Â�eleven in the
eve�ning �between Mi�chael�mas and Lady Day. Light�ing had im�
proved, but Lon�don was still left with�out lamps or lan�terns for
247 �nights in the year. The lamps them�selves were too fee�ble to
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cast much light, and peo�ple who ven�tured out at night, �whether
on foot or in a car�riage, still had to be led by a link�boy.26
Au�thor�ities in such cit�ies as Paris, Am�ster�dam, Ham�burg, and
�Vienna re�garded the long dark �nights in win�ter as a �threat to
so�cial order. They �sought to dis�cou�rage thiev�ery and other petty
�crimes by pro�mot�ing the use of can�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 in�stal�la�tion of gas�lit lamps. Lon�don first ex�peri�
mented with them in 1807. They �spread �fairly �quickly in Eu�rope
and the �United �States, but not with�out �protest. One ar�gu�ment
�against them was that bet�ter light�ing ac�tu�ally �helped evil�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 �darker. In 1816 a Co�logne news�paper op�posed �gas-lighting
on the �ground that peo�ple were more �likely to go out, in�dulge in
drunk�en�ness, and com�mit mis�deeds as the fear of dark �nights
de�clined. More�over, gas�light trans�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 at�tempt to inter�fere with the di�vine plan of the world, which
has preÂ�orÂ�dained darkÂ�ness durÂ�ing the night.”27
The city of�fered en�ter�tain�ment. An�cient �Greeks loved the
the�a�ter, an�cient Ro�mans spec�ta�cles of all sorts. When did they
take place? With few ex�cep�tions, they took place in day�light
hours or on �bright, moon�lit �nights. Re�li�gious plays in me�di�eval
times might start as early as 4:30 in the morn�ing. Some were
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of such �length that they had to be pre�sented in a suc�ces�sion
of after�noons. In Spain dur�ing the six�teenth and seven�teenth
cen�tu�ries, per�for�mances were re�quired to end at least an hour
be�fore night�fall. This meant that in the fall and win�ter sea�sons,
plays could begin at two in the after�noon. In En�gland, how�ever,
start�ing time �showed a �steady pro�gres�sion to later hours. Dur�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; �between 1700 and 1710, the time var�ied
from 5 to 6; after 1710, the usual hour was 6; by the last quar�ter
of the eighÂ�teenth cenÂ�tury, it beÂ�came 6:16 or 6:30.”28
The ad�vent of �electric light�ing fi�nally made the con�quest of
night pos�sible. Pub�lic ac�tiv�i�ties no �longer de�pended on the sun.
Twi�light pres�aged not with�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�
pol�i�tan and glam�or�ous with�out a vig�or�ous night�life. There
could be no ro�mance when eye�lids �drooped with sun�set. Here is
ElizÂ�aÂ�beth Â�Hardwick’s view of BosÂ�ton in the 1950s.
In Bos�ton there is an utter ab�sence of that wild �electric �beauty
of New York, of the mar�ve�lous ex�cited rush of peo�ple in tax�i�cabs
at twi�light, of the great Av�e�nues and �Streets, the res�tau�rants,
the�a�ters, bars, �hotels, del�i�ca�tes�sens, shops. In Bos�ton the night
comes down with an in�cred�ible heavy, �small-town fi�nal�ity. The
cows come home; the chick�ens go to roost; the �meadow is dark.
Â�Nearly every BosÂ�tonÂ�ian is in his own house or in someÂ�one Â�else’s
house, din�ing at the home board, en�joy�ing do�mes�tic and so�cial
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priÂ�vacy. The “nice litÂ�tle dinÂ�ner party”—for this the BosÂ�tonÂ�ian
would sell his soul.29
Bos�ton in �mid-twentieth cen�tury �lacked �glamor, but what
is �glamor? The root mean�ing of the word is magic. A mod�ern
me�trop�o�lis, how�ever de�fi�cient in lus�ter dur�ing the day, is trans�
formed by the mere flip of �switches into a bra�zen world of
glit�ter�ing �lights after dark. Peo�ple, too, dis�carded their wor�ka�day
per�son�al�ities for fan�cier masks. In cin�e�mas and the�a�ters, the
in�choate�ness of or�di�nary liv�ing is for�saken for the mag�i�cal clar�ity
of the �screen and stage. Night�life is un�nat�u�ral, for as day�light
fades, so �should human con�scious�ness. What is �gained by this
ex�ten�sion and height�en�ing of con�scious�ness? 30 What is the
loss? Be�fore I ad�dress this ques�tion, I �should first con�sider the
underÂ�side—the dark world that both susÂ�tains and underÂ�mines
the �bright, bus�tling city above �ground. After all, the city is �hardly
fit to be Â�called “roÂ�manÂ�tic subÂ�lime” withÂ�out a thrillÂ�ing underÂ�side.
The Under�side
The under�side has a fig�ura�tive and a lit�eral mean�ing. The fig�ura�
tive mean�ing draws on an anal�ogy with the human body. As I
have noted ear�lier, since clas�si�cal an�tiq�uity the head of the
human body is con�sid�ered to be the �source of rea�son, the lower
part the �source of pas�sion. Rea�son �housed in the head can be
conÂ�tamÂ�iÂ�nated by “fumes” risÂ�ing from below, and yet reaÂ�son can
�hardly be ef�fec�tive with�out the en�ergy and pas�sion of the lower
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part. The human body is, after all, one. To re�main �healthy, the
body has to expel its waste prod�ucts and their nox�ious fumes.
AnalÂ�ogy with the city is obÂ�viÂ�ous. The Â�city’s swarmÂ�ing popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion
gen�er�ates a stag�ger�ing load of re�fuse that has to be re�moved if
the city is to re�main �healthy and liv�able. The pri�mary and ear�li�est
de�vice in�vented to do so on a large scale is the sewer.
A great achieve�ment of an�cient Rome was its net�work of
sew�ers, begun in the sixth cen�tury BCE and con�tin�u�ally ex�tended
and im�proved under, first, the re�pub�lic and, then, the em�pire.
The sew�ers (cloa�cae) were con�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 aque�duct into them so that one could �travel by boat �through
their en�tire �length. Con�struc�tion was so solid that the mouth of
the largÂ�est and oldÂ�est sewer, “the Â�Cloaca MaxÂ�ima, can still be
seen open�ing into the river at the level of the Ponte Rotto. Its
semi�cir�cu�lar arch, five me�ters in di�am�e�ter, and its pat�i�nated tufa
vous�soirs (cal�cified lime�stone �vaults) have �defied the pas�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 achieve�ment. Nev�er�the�less, it was in the nine�teenth cen�tury
that sub�ter�ra�nean tun�nels at�tained sub�lim�ity in geo�graph�i�cal
ex�tent and in filth, mag�nif�i�cence, and hor�ror. Vic�tor Hugo was so
im�pressed by those of Paris that he de�voted sev�eral de�tailed
chapÂ�ters of Les MisÂ�érÂ�ables to them. The downÂ�ward jourÂ�ney of
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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
mi�as�mas and pit�falls, the fetid odor, the ob�scur�ity, the heavy
burÂ�den, the omÂ�iÂ�nous shadÂ�ows of crimÂ�iÂ�nals and poÂ�liceÂ�men.”
Hor�ror �reached a cli�max when Jean Val�jean �stepped into a cre�vice
of mud and sank up to his arm�pits in slime and ex�cre�ment.32
The verÂ�tiÂ�cal axis loÂ�cates Â�heaven as “above” and hell as “below.”
Hugo ac�cepted this way of think�ing, but he was also in�flu�enced
by a new twist, al�most a re�ver�sal, that makes the under�world
seem im�pres�sive and if not ap�peal�ing, then nec�es�sary. Nec�es�sary
to what? Nec�es�sary to the main�te�nance of the world above.
DurÂ�ing the peÂ�riod from 1852 to 1870, Baron Â�Georges-Eugène
Hauss�mann, pre�fect of the Seine under Na�po�leon III, rad�i�cally
trans�formed Paris above �ground, open�ing it up so that it be�came
a sun�lit city of broad, ra�di�at�ing av�e�nues and boule�vards. But he
trans�formed sub�ter�ra�nean Paris as well, giv�ing �nearly every
�street a drain to carry waste�wa�ter into the Seine well below Paris.
But the under�ground was soon to con�tain far more than just
water and sew�age net�works; it also made room for util�ity lines,
tele�phone lines, and sub�ter�ra�nean train tun�nels and �trains. It
be�came a ca�pa�cious and �crowded world of its own, but not for its
own sake, �rather for the sake of the glit�ter�ing city above�ground.
Two �strains of �thought en�cour�aged this up�beat view of the
world below �ground. One was ro�man�tic fan�tasy, as cap�tured in
the nov�els of Jules Verne and Ed�ward �George �Bulwer-Lytton.
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Verne, in Jour�ney to the Cen�ter of the Earth (1864), en�vis�aged the
down�ward �plunge as a �plunge not into gloom but into �bright
light, a hint of his exÂ�traorÂ�diÂ�nary faith in Â�electricity’s power, once
fully de�vel�oped, to con�quer dark�ness. �Bulwer-Lytton, in The
Com�ing Race (1871), en�vis�aged an under�ground land�scape of
�strange veg�e�ta�tion, lakes, and �streams, bor�dered by ar�ti�fi�cial
banks, all under a dome that was sun�less but �bright. The other
�strain of �thought en�ter�tained the idea of a �lively sub�ter�ra�nean
world that ex�isted in its own right and not �merely as a sup�port
�system for the city above. It was also a fan�tasy, but one be�lieved
to be re�al�iz�able. Why? Be�cause plan�ners and en�gi�neers of the
time had faith in the tech�nol�o�gies at their dis�po�sal; more�over,
they be�lieved that the world they �wanted to build, being sub�ter�
ra�nean, would not have to meet such chal�lenges as the un�cer�tain�
ties and bat�ter�ings of na�ture. But what sus�tained their op�ti�mism
most was the fact that by the end of the nine�teenth cen�tury,
much had al�ready been ac�com�plished in Lon�don and Paris. Each
me�trop�o�lis could al�ready boast of a world below the sur�face
made up not only of sew�age and util�ity net�works but also of
train tun�nels, side coves for train re�pairs, and, above all, com�fort�
able and �well-lit sta�tions for �middle-class pas�sen�gers.33
Light—LitÂ�eral and FigÂ�uraÂ�tive
Light dis�pels dark�ness, ex�poses ig�nor�ance. Its mean�ing has al�ways
had an �intellectual-spiritual com�po�nent, as per�haps the word
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“ilÂ�luÂ�miÂ�naÂ�tion” more Â�clearly inÂ�diÂ�cates. MeanÂ�while, the city is a
place of il�lu�mi�na�tion, and it be�came that way long be�fore the
ar�ri�val of ar�ti�fi�cial light, or be�fore it lit�er�ally be�came il�lu�mi�nated.
Greek po�lit�i�cal think�ing, foun�da�tional to much of West�ern
think�ing, is cen�tered on the city or �city-state (polis). The city is
con�sid�ered the human ideal, the place where human ex�cel�
lence, moral and in�tel�lec�tual, is fully re�al�iz�able. Why the city?
Be�cause it is where �speech is max�i�mally con�cen�trated. Words
make us who we are. Our moral stand�ing rises and falls by what
we say or do not say. An inÂ�spired elÂ�oÂ�quence can lift a Â�people’s
�spirit, help a per�son be more cou�ra�geous, gen�er�ous, pious, or as
Â�Pericles’s oraÂ�tion demÂ�onÂ�strates, paÂ�triÂ�otic. Even comÂ�monÂ�place
words can have a pow�er�ful ef�fect when they are �spoken on the
right oc�ca�sion and in the right set�ting. The city, more than any
other mi�lieu, is rich in such oc�ca�sions and set�tings. �Speech se�ri�
ously and sen�si�tively en�gaged is the path to both moral pro�bity
and truth. No wonÂ�der SocÂ�raÂ�tes says he never Â�learns from “fields
and trees;” rather
�
he �learns in di�alogue with his fel�low hu�mans
in the �street, mar�ket�place, and gym�na�sium, or under the tem�ple
porch, of a city.34
And there is more. The city has mag�nif�i�cent build�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
re�li�gious one, was ac�com�pa�nied his�tor�i�cally by rit�u�al�ized words
and music; more�over, work�ers might sing as they �toiled. An
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even �closer re�la�tion�ship ex�isted in the West�ern world if we take
se�ri�ously the Greek my�thol�ogy that told of a �magus-poet who
recÂ�ogÂ�nized a parÂ�allel Â�between the “numÂ�bers” of music and Â�poetry
and the pro�por�tions and di�vi�sions of mat�ter and space and,
�thereby, could make �stones of music. To the �Greeks, more�over,
poem and city—in their proÂ�porÂ�tion, symÂ�meÂ�try, and balÂ�ance—
em�bod�ied rea�son.35 A fa�mous in�stance is the Parthe�non. Its bulk
and ma�te�ri�al�ity make it seem to weigh down on its rock ped�es�tal.
Coun�ter�ing this im�pres�sion and bal�anc�ing it are the beau�ti�ful
pro�por�tions that make the build�ing seem to rise up. �Goethe sees
archi�tec�ture as fro�zen music. May he not see the beau�ti�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 any�thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touch�ing in its ma�jesty:
The City now doth like a gar�ment wear
The �beauty of the morn�ing; si�lent, bare,
Ships, tow�ers, domes, thea�tres, and tem�ples lie
Open unto the �fields, and to the sky;
All �bright and glit�ter�ing in the smoke�less air.
Never did sun more beau�ti�fully steep
In his first splen�dour val�ley, rock, or hill;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!36
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Urban his�to�rians and geog�ra�phers are re�luc�tant to �praise a
city for fear of seem�ing naive, but also be�cause �praise, as dis�tinct
from crit�i�cism, re�quires a lit�er�ary flair that few have. Ada �Louise
Hux�table, an archi�tec�tu�ral �critic, is an ex�cep�tion. When she was
a stu�dent in Rome, she was taken to see a ba�roque �church and
plaza by moon�light. She wrote:
I had no idea at the time that cit�ies could be so dev�as�tat�ingly
beau�ti�ful, that stone could be so sen�su�ous, that archi�tects dealt
in such sub�lime stage sets for human drama, that space could
move one to such �strong emo�tions, that archi�tec�ture could make
men so much �larger than life.37
Even Man�hat�tan so�phis�ti�cates may be �deeply moved. Of
Fifth Av�e�nue at dusk, the ed�i�tors of the New �Yorker mag�a�zine
say:
We had the feel�ing that the �lights had gone up on a the�a�ter
set and that some�thing most sig�nif�i�cant was on the point of
hap�pen�ing. Gild�ing spar�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 bur�nish�ing. The poles of traf�fic �lights �glowed like
treasÂ�ure, and orÂ�diÂ�nary Â�shoe-store winÂ�dows Â�looked like Â�jewelers’
show�cases. The build�ings never ap�peared more in�tensely them�
selves. Pink�ness �soaked deep to play up tex�tures and �patches
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138
of light and �shadow, while dis�tinc�tive out�lines and ec�cen�tric
cren�el�la�tions stood �etched �against the vi�o�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 dark�ness and death. Words�worth
in�vited �Charles Lamb to visit him in the Lake Dis�trict. Lamb
�turned him down, an�swer�ing a lit�tle un�gra�ciously:
I have �passed all my days in Lon�don, until I have �formed as many
and in�tense local at�tach�ments as any of you moun�tain�eers can
have done with dead Na�ture. The �lighted shops of the �Strand and
Fleet �street; the in�nu�mer�able �trades, trades�men, and cus�tom�ers,
�coaches, wag�gons, play�houses; all the bus�tle and wick�ed�ness
round about Co�vent Gar�den; the very women of the Town; the
watch�men, �drunken �scenes, rat�tles; life awake, if you awake, at
all hours of the night; the im�pos�sibil�ity of being dull in Fleet
�Street; the �crowds, the very dirt and mud .€.€. all these �things
work them�selves into my mind, and feed me, with�out a power
of sa�ti�at�ing me. The won�der of these �sights im�pels me into
�night-walks about her �crowded �streets, and I often shed tears in
the mot�ley �Strand from full�ness of joy at so much life. .€.€. Have
I not �enough, with�out your moun�tains?39
An�thony Bur�gess, a man of our time and hence more jaded
than Lamb, de�scribes New York in �darker col�ors, �though he
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139
�
clearly
ad�mires it. He be�rates New York�ers for not ac�knowl�
edg�ing that their city is beau�ti�ful. He re�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
va�riety and dar�ing whose pro�pen�sity for vi�o�lence and death is
it�self �life-enhancing.
I often feel sui�ci�dal in Rome, Paris and Lon�don, and there is no
anti�dote there ex�cept drink or lit�er�a�ture. In New York, when
the des�per�ate mood comes on, all I have to do is de�scend to the
sub�way after mid�night and ob�serve the om�ni�pres�ent ev�i�dence
of vi�o�lence there, and then the urge to go on liv�ing rush�ing
in with the speed of a sub�ur�ban ex�press. New York is a place
where every taste is ca�tered to, the most rec�on�dite gus�ta�tory
urge, the most rar�e�fied form of art. It is also a jun�gle where
one has to keep alert .€.€. and walk on the balls of one’s feet. If
it col�lapses it will not be in a wel�ter of ef�fete mur�murs. This is a
big growl�ing human con�di�tion, com�plete with ba�roque music
and fifty va�rie�ties of sour cream. 40
New York is, to me, a �superb in�stance of the ro�man�tic sub�lime,
not a good place where chil�dren �squirt one an�other with water
pis�tols and grand�par�ents �snooze under the chest�nut tree, but
a junÂ�gle where one has to “walk on the balls of one’s feet,” not
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a com�mu�nity of good plain folks at�tend�ing the town �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
Al�though gas�light cit�ies were �brighter, they were fig�ura�tively
“darker” as popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion Â�swelled durÂ�ing the InÂ�dusÂ�trial RevÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tion,
and �masses of peo�ple, some �foreign, mi�grated there to fo�ment a
seeth�ing hu�man�ity that, to the mid�dle class, was as �strange and
inÂ�comÂ�preÂ�henÂ�sible as the denÂ�iÂ�zens of “darkÂ�est AfÂ�rica.” JourÂ�nalÂ�ists
like Henry May�hew and nov�el�ists like �Charles Dick�ens were
conÂ�sidÂ�ered brave men who dared to exÂ�plore Â�London’s mews and
al�leys, bring�ing back news that tit�il�lated and �shocked the read�ing
pub�lic. Both writ�ers fo�cused on the poor�est of the poor and
�thereby gave a pic�ture of the city that was un�duly de�press�ing.
Both also had a flair for dra�ma�ti�za�tion and, it must be said, �rather
in�dulged in it. May�hew �dwelled on the �filthy inter�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
�Charles Dick�ens is the pre�mier nov�el�ist of the in�dus�tri�al�iz�ing
En�glish city for the pe�riod from the 1830s to the 1860s. His
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Lon�don feels real in part be�cause he con�cen�trated on the odors.
He �smelled �things, even the dis�gust�ing. He �called this pro�pen�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
under�ground rail�ways that were built in the early 1860s, or even
the sub�ur�ban com�muter �trains. His char�ac�ters �mostly �traveled
on foot or by cab, and his Lon�don was cen�tral Lon�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 por�trayed their he�roes as lead�ing com�fort�able lives,
but in�stead the nov�els dwelt with rel�ish on the worst as�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 mar�ket (a re�it�er�ated topic for dis�gust in his fic�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 Pri�vate De�tec�tive
�Against im�ages of filth and deg�ra�da�tion were those of �wealth,
“the brilÂ�liant flood of light that Â�streamed from the winÂ�dows of
the shops, em�por�iums of splen�did �dresses, ves�sels of bur�nished
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gold and silÂ�ver.”43 In the inÂ�dusÂ�triÂ�alÂ�izÂ�ing citÂ�ies of the late VicÂ�toÂ�rian
era, is�lands of �wealth were �swamped by pov�erty and its most
conÂ�spicÂ�uÂ�ous prodÂ�uct—an alien and threatÂ�enÂ�ing popÂ�uÂ�laÂ�tion.
�Forces of �law-and-order were fee�ble �lights that �barely made any
dif�fer�ence on the dark�en�ing land�scape. What to do? Ig�nore the
�blight was the most com�mon so�lu�tion then as now. One might
think that writ�ers like May�hew and Dick�ens re�minded Lon�don�ers
of the hor�rors, but in�stead they of�fered es�cape in the form of
a lit�er�a�ture that could be read in the com�fort of an arm�chair.
An even more acÂ�cessÂ�ible means of esÂ�cape—deÂ�tecÂ�tive ficÂ�tion—Â�
emerged in the sec�ond half of the nine�teenth cen�tury. In de�tec�tive
fic�tion, the po�lice may be slow of wit but not the pri�vate �sleuth
who is in�var�i�ably bril�liant. More�over, he is re�spect�ful of his
Â�client’s priÂ�vacy, for unÂ�like the poÂ�lice ofÂ�fiÂ�cer, he is a genÂ�tleÂ�man,
al�beit one with un�con�ven�tional and even Bo�he�mian �tastes.
DeÂ�tecÂ�tive Â�fiction’s most faÂ�mous charÂ�acÂ�ter is Conan Â�Doyle’s
Sher�lock �Holmes. �Besides being a man of the sharp�est in�tel�lect,
he has other not�able qual�ities, among them being an ex�cep�tional
sense of di�rec�tion (he is never lost in the back al�leys of Lon�don
or the wilds of Tibet) and a so�cial ease in all ranks of so�ci�ety
(he could as eas�ily have of�fered tea to Lord St. Simon as have
hob�nobbed with �street ur�chins, box�ers in smoky base�ments, or
habÂ�iÂ�tués of opium dens). Â�Holmes is an inÂ�diÂ�vidÂ�uÂ�alÂ�ist, one who
might be ad�mired by cap�i�tal�ist en�tre�pren�eurs, but un�like them,
he has heart and be�lieves in no�blesse �oblige and will offer his
ser�vice to one who can�not pay.
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Yet, by the sec�ond half of the nine�teenth cen�tury, the more
as�tute Lon�don�ers, con�fronted by the swarm�ing multi�tudes,
might have wonÂ�dered, What pasÂ�sions lurk beÂ�hind these Â�people’s
im�pas�sive faces? What plots stew be�hind the fa�cades of their
ser�ried row �houses? And per�haps most dis�turb�ing of all, Can
viÂ�oÂ�lent crime be comÂ�mitÂ�ted by the Â�neighborhood’s Â�friendly
to�bac�con�ist or bespec�ta�cled li�brar�ian? Po�lice con�stables �lacked
the imag�i�na�tion to raise such ques�tions, hence their in�abil�ity to
solve many �crimes. At least, this was how fic�tion writ�ers liked to
see it. �Holmes did have the req�ui�site psycho�log�i�cal pen�e�tra�tion.
He could see be�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 ex�am�ple, and used psycho�log�i�cal cues alone to un�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
�sought his help. But there were other rea�sons as well. Un�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 sor�did
rev�e�la�tions of May�hew and Dick�ens, but they were not yet pre�
pared to con�front rev�e�la�tions, soon to be pro�claimed by Freud,
conÂ�cernÂ�ing the underÂ�side—the anÂ�iÂ�malÂ�ity and viÂ�oÂ�lence—of sex
in �four-poster beds.
An�other �source of anx�iety, more im�per�sonal and neb�u�
lous, had to do with the econÂ�omy—in parÂ�ticÂ�uÂ�lar, the capÂ�iÂ�talÂ�ist
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dis�tri�bu�tion of �wealth, the ex�treme in�equal�ity of which could
ig�nite so�cial un�rest. At one level, it is �strange that Vic�to�rians
�should have this nag�ging sense of un�ease when their em�pire
cov�ered much of the globe and their queen was �crowned Em�press
of India; more�over, many tech�ni�cal and so�cial im�prove�ments,
such as bet�ter light�ing, a more ef�fi�cient bu�reau�cracy, and a more
adÂ�eÂ�quate poÂ�lice force, culÂ�miÂ�nated in the peÂ�riod of Â�Holmes’s
as�cen�dancy �between 1880 and 1900. Even more sur�pris�ing is
that the Â�detective’s popÂ�uÂ�larÂ�ity exÂ�tended, unÂ�diÂ�minÂ�ished, into the
next cen�tury. The orig�i�nal �Holmes canon has been �vastly en�riched
by im�i�ta�tion, pas�tiche, and se�ri�ous writ�ing, as well as by movie
and tele�vi�sion. In a glo�bal econ�omy, a new �Holmes story or
movie is guar�an�teed com�mer�cial suc�cess not only in the West
but also in the newly rich Asian coun�tries.
The en�du�rance of �Holmes and other pri�vate �sleuths �raises
the ques�tion, What do the char�ac�ters �within this long, event�ful
pe�riod, from, say, 1850 to 2000, have in com�mon? One thing is
that they all have ex�pe�ri�enced the huge ex�pan�sion of com�mu�
ni�ca�tion, �thanks to the in�ven�tion and ap�pli�ca�tion of new tech�
nol�o�gies. The new tech�nol�ogy in the time of Dick�ens and Vic�toria
was the tele�graph, which �created vast so�cial net�works �across the
na�tion and be�yond. The new tech�nol�ogy in our time is of �course
the Inter�net, which has suc�ceeded in weav�ing peo�ple �within a
so�cial fab�ric that cov�ers our glo�bal so�ci�ety. But it is the com�mo�n�
al�ity, which on the down�side is �mostly of an eco�nomic and so�cial
na�ture, that has pro�vided fer�tile soil for pri�vate �sleuths to
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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 �around 80 banks fail�ing and al�most 500 com�pa�nies
going bank�rupt, and thir�teen years later the mem�ory was still
raw Â�enough to reÂ�surÂ�face in NichÂ�oÂ�las NickÂ�leby.” The rich beÂ�came
�richer and the poor �poorer. Kin�ship bond and pa�ter�na�lis�tic ob�li�
ga�tion waned; in con�se�quence, re�sent�ment rose among work�ers
and an�o�mie rose among the �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 met�ro�pol�i�tan pop�u�la�tion, �swelled by im�mi�grants from the
col�o�nies and �foreign coun�tries, some of whom were dis�si�dents
and rev�o�lu�tion�ar�ies, made so�ci�ety seem �barely govern�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 Rip�per ran rings round the po�lice and ex�posed the
terÂ�rifyÂ�ing vulÂ�nerÂ�abilÂ�ity of marÂ�giÂ�nal Â�groups.”46 These dysÂ�funcÂ�tions
of the Dick�ens/Vic�to�rian era re�mind us of the ills of our time.
By now Sher�lock �Holmes has been with us for 125 years.
�Besides solv�ing �crimes and right�ing in�di�vid�ual �wrongs, what
�broader and more last�ing so�lu�tion has �Holmes pro�posed? It
is edÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion—the power of knowlÂ�edge to disÂ�pel the murk of
ig�nor�ance and evil. For knowl�edge to be taken up se�ri�ously and
over the long haul, there has to be a large dose of opÂ�tiÂ�mism—
un�re�alis�tic, ro�man�tic op�ti�mism. �Holmes famed for his an�a�lyt�i�cal
pow�ers is none�the�less a ro�man�tic, by which I mean not only in
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his un�con�ven�tion�al�ity, his Bo�he�mian�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 Wat�son dis�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 �thought �Holmes was jok�ing, for the view was sor�did
�enough, but he soon ex�plained him�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
hun�dreds of �bright lit�tle seeds in each out of which will �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
Poi�rot, �twentieth-century crea�tions, much less the hard�nosed
de�tec�tives of the �American �writer Da�shiell Ham�mett, say�ing
that? If they ever offer a pan�a�cea for so�ci�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
iv�il�iza�tion has pro�duced three dis�tinc�tive human types:
aes�thete, hero, and saint. All three are in�clined to�ward a
be�hav�ior or quest that goes be�yond, or tres�passes, so�ci�etal norm.
The per�son �stands out from the group, even when, as in the case
of the saint, mod�esty and self�less�ness are the dis�tin�guish�ing
vir�tues. Aes�thete, hero, and saint are, in other words, in�di�vid�u�al�
ists. Why, one might ask, as�sign them a sep�ar�ate chap�ter in a
work enÂ�tiÂ�tled “roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy,” when geogÂ�raÂ�phy is, traÂ�diÂ�
tion�ally, con�cerned with the group, its �well-being and sur�vi�val?
My an�swer is that geog�ra�phy not only is a spa�tial sci�ence but
also is an en�quiry into na�ture and cul�ture, the tran�si�tion from
liv�ing close to na�ture to liv�ing in an ar�ti�fac�tual world, and, in the
case of the in�di�vid�ual, from bio�log�i�cal being to cul�tural being.
Geog�ra�phers study such tran�si�tions, but at a group level, they
147
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at�trib�ute the �changes al�most �solely to im�per�sonal �forces. I, by
�contrast, intro�duce in�di�vid�u�als. Their sto�ries are per�sonal, more
�driven by emo�tion and �ideals, more �likely to de�part from group
con�ven�tion, more ro�man�tic.
Aes�thetes
Peo�ples dif�fer in their ap�pre�ci�a�tion of the de�gree of clut�ter in
their nat�u�ral and built en�vi�ron�ments. Dwell�ers of trop�i�cal for�ests
know no other set�ting than trop�i�cal for�est and no doubt ap�pre�
ciate its clut�ter. �Desert dwell�ers, by �contrast, pre�fer sim�ple, open
space. As to the built en�vi�ron�ment, north Asian cul�ture has
opted for sweepÂ�ing simÂ�plicÂ�ity, Â�China’s ForÂ�bidÂ�den City being an
ex�am�ple. South and South�east Asian cul�tures, by �contrast, revel
in com�plex�ity, the in�tri�cately sculp�tured tem�ples of �Angkor Wat
being an ex�am�ple. In the West, mod�ern high art, under the in�flu�
ence of sleek ma�chines, fa�vors the sim�ple, or what looks sim�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
�spirit, from amor�phous crud�ity to ar�tic�u�lated el�e�gance.
Al�though com�plex�ity and sim�plic�ity may both be val�ued at
the same time, they also mark a pro�gres�sion, the de�sire to move
from one to the other. One such pro�gres�sion is from the bio�log�i�
cal needs of the body to the aes�thetic/cul�tural as�pi�ra�tions of the
�spirit. Ca�mille Pa�glia il�lus�trates it by com�par�ing two sculp�tures
of the fe�male human body: the Venus of Wil�len�dorf (30,000 BCE)
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and Queen Ne�fer�titi (1350 BCE). Venus of Wil�len�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
Apol�lo�nian image over the lumpi�ness and hor�ror of �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
slen�der that it seems on the point of snap�ping. Ne�fer�titi pro�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 quiv�er�ing �poached egg. Ne�fer�titi is fe�male�ness made
math�e�mat�i�cal, fe�male�ness sub�li�mated by be�com�ing �harder and
more conÂ�crete.”2 The one word for slim and Â�sharp-edged form is
el�e�gance.
“ElÂ�eÂ�gance” is of Â�course not conÂ�fined to feÂ�male form and
fash�ion; it may also de�scribe Dan�ish fur�ni�ture, aphor�ism, and
math�e�mat�ics. When the word is used, a cer�tain super�ior�ity is
im�plied. El�e�gance is of the aris�to�crats. Those who claim it de�spise
the in�co�her�ence, form�less�ness, clut�ter, and vis�cos�ity in the lives
of the “lower orÂ�ders,” be they primÂ�iÂ�tives or the workÂ�ing poor. But
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the �so-called lower or�ders enjoy the vi�tal�ity of un�in�hib�ited liv�ing
that the el�e�gant and the super�ior of mind do not have. More�over,
raw and gross vi�tal�ity may be a bul�wark and an anti�dote �against
the ar�ro�gance of the sim�plify�ing, re�duc�tive, and, ul�ti�mately,
dic�ta�to�rial mind. �George Or�well cer�tainly �thought so. In his
dys�to�pian fan�tasy 1984, noth�ing seems ca�pable of stand�ing up
to Big �Brother ex�cept, just pos�sibly, a life of gar�ish, mind�less
�strength. Wins�ton, the �besieged hero, glim�mered hope when he
�looked down and saw a woman who
had no mind, she had only �strong arms, a warm heart and a
fer�tile belly. He won�dered how many chil�dren she had given
birth to. It might eas�ily be fif�teen. She had had her mo�men�tary
flow�er�ing, a year, per�haps, of wild rose �beauty, and then she had
sud�denly swol�len like a fer�ti�lized fruit and grown hard and red
and �coarse, and then her life had been launder�ing, scrub�bing,
launder�ing, first for chil�dren, then for grand�chil�dren, over �thirty
un�broken years. At the end of it she was still sing�ing.3
Wins�ton �speaks con�des�cend�ingly but, it seems, also ad�mir�
ingly. One won�ders, �though, about the ad�mi�ra�tion. He does so
from a �height. He looks down and sees, but see�ing im�plies dis�
tance and is disÂ�tancÂ�ing. Could WinsÂ�ton—could Â�George OrÂ�well—
have tol�er�ated more in�ti�mate con�tact? A mem�ber of the lower
�upper-middle class, as Or�well him�self put it, and a grad�u�ate of
Eton, Or�well was con�vinced that �working-class peo�ple �smelled,
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and “the Â�thought made him sick.” Â�Rather than stay in a world of
clean laun�dry and tink�ling tea�cups that was his birth�right,
Or�well chose to lac�er�ate his sen�sibil�ity. One day, he �changed into
worn, dirty �clothes, set off for Lime�house, and there, shor�ing up
his cou�rage, en�tered the dark door�way of a com�mon lodg�ing
house that adÂ�verÂ�tised “good beds” for sinÂ�gle men. Going down
there, he con�fessed later, was like going down into some dread�ful
subÂ�terÂ�raÂ�nean place—“a sewer full of rats, for inÂ�stance.”4
Did Or�well think he could find an an�swer to life by going to
the slums, as Sher�lock �Holmes �thought he could find the so�lu�
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
ex�treme sen�sa�tions in ex�otic quar�ters?5 Ob�vi�ously the aes�thet�i�
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
vi�tal�ity into his own ane�mic ex�is�tence and be also a gen�eral
bul�wark �against emas�cu�la�tion by over�ween�ing rea�son in the
�larger so�ci�ety.
He�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
be�cause the in�stinct for sur�vi�val is �strong and �backed, more�over,
by the Â�group’s own cauÂ�tious, conÂ�serÂ�vaÂ�tive Â�stance, which is to
avoid any ac�tion that makes one stand out, an ex�cep�tion. On the
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other hand, “not all that unÂ�usual” is also a plauÂ�sible anÂ�swer, if
only be�cause the in�di�vid�ual has a �strong need for ap�plause. Again,
so�cial ap�proval comes into play, �though with a very dif�fer�ent
ef�fect on the in�di�vid�ual. A true hero is of �course nei�ther de�scrip�
tion com�pletely. His ac�tion may be long and �drawn-out and
me�tic�u�lously �planned, but it can also be in�tui�tive and im�pul�sive,
as the fol�low�ing ex�am�ple shows.
On the night of Oc�to�ber 10, 1975, 18�-�year-old Brad�ley T.
Van�Damme of Ful�ton, Il�li�nois, was in�volved in a se�ri�ous �onecar ac�ci�dent. As he lay un�con�scious in the front seat, the rear of
his ve�hi�cle burst into �flames. By the time by�stander Bil�lie Joe
McCul�lough �reached the car, the fire had �spread into the front
of the pas�sen�ger com�part�ment. McCul�lough �crawled into the
car and with great dif�fi�culty and at ob�vi�ous risk to his own life,
�pulled Van�Damme free. Mo�ments later the en�tire car ex�ploded
into �flames. Al�though Van�Damme suf�fered ex�ten�sive in�ju�ries
and was badly �burned, he even�tu�ally re�cov�ered.6
McCul�lough, a 22�-�year-old la�borer, was later �awarded the
Carne�gie Medal, an honor given for out�stand�ing acts of self�less
hero�ism per�formed in the �United �States and Can�ada. �Fifty-six
med�als were �awarded in 1977, eight of them post�hu�mously. To
re�ceive the Carne�gie Medal, the actor must be in dan�ger of los�ing
his or her own life, must not be di�rectly re�lated to the vic�tim,
and must not be in an oc�cu�pa�tional role, such as that of a po�lice
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of�fi�cer or a life�guard, in which duty would have re�quired the
act.
McCul�lough re�sponded with�out hes�i�ta�tion. How could a
young fel�low so read�ily re�press his bio�log�i�cal urge to live? His
task Â�wasn’t just a sinÂ�gle swift acÂ�tion. He had to crawl into the
�wrecked car and strug�gle to free the vic�tim. At any time he might
have had secÂ�ond Â�thoughts, but if he did, he Â�didn’t act on them.
What�ever the weak�nesses of his flesh and how�ever �strong the
temp�ta�tion was to give up, those im�pulses were �trumped by his
�spirit, and that un�doubt�edly made him a hero. But can he also be
�called a ro�man�tic? I think he can, as in�deed all true he�roes can,
in that their ac�tions belie what so�ci�ety ex�pects and are de�void of
cal�cu�la�tions of con�se�quence to self. In other words, their ac�tions
lack com�mon sense, which, how�ever com�mend�able in the �dayto-day con�duct of life, is not ro�man�tic. Nev�er�the�less, one ele�ment
was missÂ�ing from Â�McCullough’s acÂ�tion that makes for roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�
cism, �namely, the idea of a quest.
Ex�plor�ers who will�ingly suf�fered enor�mous hard�ship to
dis�cover the �source of the Nile or to do some�thing even more
quix�otic, such as dis�cover how em�peror pen�guins pro�tect their
eggs in Ant�arc�tic win�ter, were en�gaged in �quests, and so are in
my view ro�man�tic he�roes. To be dis�tin�guished from them are
other ex�plor�ers. �Though they too might suf�fer enor�mous hard�
ship, they were after such �worldly ends as find�ing gold, es�tab�
lish�ing com�merce, or ex�tend�ing im�pe�rial sway. Given the �widely
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ac�cepted view that the sec�ond half of the nine�teenth cen�tury
was a time of Eu�ro�pean ra�pa�cious greed, it is hard to see Rich�ard
Fran�cis Bur�ton, John Speke, Henry Mor�ton Stan�ley, and David
Liv�ing�stone as un�tainted. Of �course they all had human �faults,
egre�giously so, like van�ity and com�pet�i�tive�ness, but they were
not a part of the im�pe�rial grab that oc�curred later. In the 1850s
and 1860s, these Brit�ish ex�plor�ers were still able to re�tain a
cer�tain boy�ish in�no�cence and en�thu�siasm that could make their
�quests seem ro�man�tic.
Why Af�rica? There was the his�tor�i�cal con�nec�tion. Af�rica was
the “dark” conÂ�tiÂ�nent closÂ�est to the anÂ�cient Â�Greeks and RoÂ�mans,
whose cu�ri�os�ity �passed down fit�fully to their Eu�ro�pean suc�ces�
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,
He�rod�o�tus, Al�ex�an�der the Great, and Nero, as well as geog�ra�phers
of a later time, �wanted to know the an�swers, but none came close
to re�ceiv�ing them until the 1870s. �Nineteenth-century geog�ra�
phers ex�tended their cu�ri�os�ity be�yond the �source of the Nile to
the gen�eral lay of the land, de�pic�tion of which re�quired care�ful
map�ping. Under prim�i�tive con�di�tions, the task �called for the
pa�tience of Job. John Speke sat up all night in bad �weather
to cal�cu�late his lunar an�gles.
wait�ing for a break in the clouds
�
Henry Mor�ton Stan�ley �risked �health and life to make maps that
were ac�cu�rate.7
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As for phys�i�cal hard�ship, con�sider what �fifty-three-year-old
David Liv�ing�stone had to en�dure when he at�tempted to lo�cate
the �source of the Nile. In June 1870, he en�tered a coun�try that
was about 150 miles east of what is now Lake Tan�gan�yika. Of
the orig�i�nal �thirty-five port�ers who ac�com�pa�nied him, many died
or de�serted so that in the end he was left with only three. They
�crossed a val�ley so dense with palms of long, thick leaf�stalks
that they were �obliged to fol�low a track �created by el�e�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 Liv�ing�stone, a keen nat�u�ral�ist, was un�able to write de�scrip�
tions of the many birds and mon�keys he was see�ing for the first
time.” Rain came down heavÂ�ily. Each eveÂ�ning, he Â�stripped off his
�clothes and dried them by a smoky fire. Ma�laria pros�trated him;
acute in�di�ges�tion fol�lowed such that when�ever his food was
Â�coarse, his piles bled. “His damÂ�aged teeth made so litÂ�tle imÂ�presÂ�
sion on green maize and el�e�phant meat that his stom�ach was left
with too much to do. The re�sult was con�stant heart�burn. Many
of his mo�lars were so loose that he was �obliged to per�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
Phys�i�cal suf�fer�ing can be tol�er�ated if the re�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 an�ces�try and con�se�quence can in�spire an ex�pe�di�tion
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of epic hero�ism. Con�sider a jour�ney that Ap�sley �Cherry-Garrard
par�tic�i�pated in, one that he later de�scribed as the worst in the
world. Why was it under�taken? An�swer: To dis�cover how em�bryo
pen�guin eggs sur�vived ex�treme cold. With this sci�en�tific pur�pose
in mind—or, was it just an exÂ�cuse?—on June 22, 1911, in the
depth of Ant�arc�tic win�ter, three men from the Rob�ert Fal�con
Scott ex�pe�di�tion left their camp and set out for Cape Cro�zier. At
first, the cold Â�didn’t feel so terÂ�rible. The temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�ture was only
-47 de�grees Fah�ren�heit. �Cherry-Garrard took his hands out of his
mitts and alÂ�most inÂ�stantly “all ten finÂ�gers were Â�frost-bitten, and
�within a few hours there were two or three large blis�ters, up to
an inch long, on all of them. For many days those blis�ters hurt
frightÂ�fully.” As to how cold it could be, Â�Cherry-Garrard wrote that
he had just had his break�fast in the warm tent and, once out�side,
�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
sec�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 pull�ing
poÂ�siÂ�tion beÂ�fore being froÂ�zen in.”9 AlÂ�though the inÂ�tense cold
pun�ished �cruelly, it was the pitch dark�ness that made the jour�ney
hell.
I don’t beÂ�lieve minus Â�seventy temÂ�perÂ�aÂ�tures would be quite so
bad in day�light when you could see where you were going,
where you were step�ping, could see your foot�steps �lately trod�den
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into the soft snow that you might find your way back to the rest
of your load, could read a com�pass with�out strik�ing three or
four dif�fer�ent boxes to find one dry match.10
Even today, moun�tain�eers, polar ex�plor�ers, and �deep-sea
div�ers will�ingly sub�mit to dan�ger and hard�ship for goals that
have lit�tle eco�nomic or sci�en�tific value. Is there, then, a dif�fer�ence
in he�roic ad�ven�tur�ing �between then and now? I be�lieve there is.
Un�like mod�ern sec�u�lar�ist ex�plor�ers, those of the Vic�to�rian and
Ed�ward�ian pe�ri�ods em�barked on �quests that can now seem, in
�retrospect, more ro�man�tic be�cause they were �tinted by a me�di�eval
no�tion of chiv�alry and a Chris�tian be�lief in re�demp�tion �through
suf�fer�ing. To be on the moral high �ground was as im�por�tant to
peo�ple like David Liv�ing�stone and Sir Wal�ter Scott as to be the
first to dis�cover the �source of the Nile or the first to reach the
South Pole. Of �course, we mod�erns are skep�ti�cal, for we are in
the habit of look�ing for low mo�tives. But this habit of see�ing
�frailty �rather than �strength, self�ish�ness �rather than vir�tue in our
fel�low human is sim�ply an�other dif�fer�ence �between our time
and �theirs. While read�ing �Cherry-Garrard, I was �struck by the
re�spect and af�fec�tion that the ex�plor�ers had for one an�other. Of
Bill Wil�son, �Cherry-Garrard wrote:
I can�not do jus�tice to his value. If you knew him you could not
like him: you sim�ply had to love him. Bill was of the salt of the
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earth. If I were asked what qual�ity it was be�fore oth�ers that
made him so use�ful, so lov�able, I think I �should an�swer that it
was be�cause he never for one mo�ment �thought of him�self.11
We might gush in an obit�u�ary but not in a se�ri�ous nar�ra�tive
of a sci�en�tific ex�plo�ra�tion. More�over, the high �praise of Wil�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 oth�ers of al�most equal stat�ure. An�other dif�fer�ence was that
the ear�lier ex�plor�ers took for �granted that human be�ings had
�reached a moral �height un�known to other an�i�mals. We mod�erns
see �rather dif�fer�ently. Dis�il�lu�sioned with human ve�nal�ity and
wick�ed�ness, we are all too prone to find ex�em�plary moral be�hav�
ior in anÂ�iÂ�mals. Â�Cherry-Garrard Â�couldn’t disÂ�agree more. He would
have con�sid�ered our view hope�lessly sen�ti�men�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 suc�cess�ful in the world. The pen�guin which went for being
a true be�liever would never stand the ghost of a �chance. Watch
them go to bathe. Some fifty or sixty ag�i�tated birds are gath�ered
upon the �ice-foot, peer�ing over the edge, tell�ing one an�other
how nice it will be, and what a good din�ner they are going to
have. But this is all swank: they are �really wor�ried by a hor�rid
sus�pi�cion that a �sea-leopard is wait�ing to eat the first to dive.
The Â�really noble bird, acÂ�cordÂ�ing to our theÂ�oÂ�ries, would say, “I
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will go first and if I am �killed I shall at any rate have died un�
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 �really do is
to try and per�suade a com�pan�ion of �weaker mind to �plunge:
fail�ing this, they hast�ily pass a con�scrip�tion act and push him
over. And then—bang, Â�helter-skelter, in go all the rest.12
What then does learn�ing from an�i�mals mean for us? If their
goal is to sur�vive and prop�a�gate the spe�cies, �should sur�vi�val and
prop�a�gat�ing the spe�cies also be our goal? This is put�ting it too
�strongly, and so we might qual�ify it by say�ing that we have other
goals as well, one of which is ro�man�tic transcen�dence, the de�sire
to go be�yond sur�vi�val and the com�fort�able life. But for what? To
the hero and, more spe�cif�i�cally, to the �geographer-explorer hero,
it is to solve a geoÂ�graphÂ�iÂ�cal puzÂ�zle; to test the limÂ�its of one’s enÂ�
du�rance; to see �whether the �spirit can over�come the frail�ties of
the flesh; and to ex�pe�ri�ence, even at the risk of death, some�thing
vast and in�tox�i�cat�ing such as might be found at the North or
South Pole, the high�est moun�tain, the deep�est �trench, the dens�est
for�est, or the bleak�est �desert.
�Saints
If there is any doubt that the saint can be ro�man�tic, one has only
to point to Saint Fran�cis. He was ro�man�tic even in the child�ish
sense of see�ing him�self a �knight in shin�ing armor. He �boasted to
his Â�mother, “Don’t you know that I’ll be a great Â�knight, that I’ll
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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, how�ever, was in�grained in his per�son�al�ity and not a phase
that he could out�grow. It con�tin�ued to show in his at�ti�tude to�ward
women, which was in�flu�enced by the cult of Our Lady then at its
�height. Cour�tesy, to Fran�cis, was an at�trib�ute of God and hence
must also be in�nate in his crea�tures, how�ever �deeply bur�ied.
Fran�cis even �greeted sheep with a bow. When threat�ened with
the cau�ter�i�za�tion of his face to rem�edy his de�fec�tive eye�sight, he
�besought �Brother Fire to be cour�teous. One might think that the
snake, �cursed by God him�self, would fall out�side the de�mand for
good man�ners, but no, not even the snake or other rep�tiles. To
ap�pre�ciate how far Fran�cis went in ex�tend�ing cour�tesy, con�sider
the at�ti�tude of the �eighteenth-century Swede, Car�o�lus Lin�naeus.
One might think that as a sci�en�tist en�gaged in tax�on�omy, he
would avoid mak�ing value judg�ments. He did on the whole, but
he Â�couldn’t reÂ�sist conÂ�demnÂ�ing the repÂ�tiles. He found them “foul,
loath�some, and ab�hor�rent be�cause of their cold body, pale color,
car�ti�lag�i�nous skele�ton, �filthy skin, �fierce as�pect, cal�cu�lat�ing eye,
of�fen�sive smell, harsh voice, �squalid hab�i�ta�tion, and ter�rible
venom.”14
ReÂ�spect for all did not come easÂ�ily to FranÂ�cis—not even
re�spect to all human be�ings. If as a child, he as�pired to the noble
ideal of knight�hood, as a young man he was a dandy who loved
fine �clothes, and all �things beau�ti�ful. He �avoided the ugly, the
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sick, the lame, and the poor. He was fas�tid�i�ous. He took pride in
his own vi�tal�ity and charm, in the styl�ish�ness with which he
rode his pranc�ing horse, bath�ing in the ad�mi�ra�tion of his �friends.
Fran�cis was, how�ever, �enough �self-aware to de�spise him�self for
his world�li�ness, the cause of which he rec�og�nized as sin, and
noth�ing is ug�lier and more re�pel�lent than sin. When as a teen�ager
FranÂ�cis heard God’s voice, it was to reÂ�mind him of the Â�beauty of
crea�tion, which was �hardly nec�es�sary since Fran�cis had a nat�u�ral
bent to�ward it. One day, how�ever, the voice spoke dif�fer�ently. It
urged him to as�pire to spir�i�tual �heights. To at�tain it, he would
taste bit�ter�ness.
Bit�ter�ness? This lover of �beauty and bon vi�vant was to over�
come the re�vul�sion he once felt for the �stench of beg�gars, their
foul dis�eases, and the ver�min that �crawled under their �filthy
rags. A se�vere test came when rid�ing in the coun�try, Fran�cis
en�coun�tered a leper. What was he to do? �Rather than turn �around,
he �leaped down from his horse, ap�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 im�mense joy then swept over him.15
Fran�cis of As�sisi was a man of his time. Kiss�ing a leper is not
now con�sid�ered a test of saint�hood and can even seem �rather
showy. FranÂ�cis is also our conÂ�temÂ�poÂ�rary. Â�Today’s naÂ�ture lovÂ�ers
will find him a kin�dred �spirit. �Tree-hugging? I can im�a�gine
Fran�cis doing it. Sav�ing the ham�mer�head shark? Ditto. How�ever,
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for all the be�hav�ioral sim�i�lar�ity, the mo�ti�va�tion be�hind his
be�hav�ior is dif�fer�ent. Fran�cis cared for na�ture be�cause God did.
We care for na�ture be�cause we have come to re�al�ize that ec�o�log�i�
cal di�ver�sity is nec�es�sary to ec�o�log�i�cal �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 there�fore sen�sible �rather than ro�man�tic.
An�other dif�fer�ence �between Fran�cis and us is that we are
�steeped in is�sues of equal�ity and so�cial jus�tice, our lit�er�a�ture on
the sub�ject pack�ing many book�shelves. Fran�cis, by �contrast, never
�talked about ei�ther. His �showed his be�lief in human equal�ity by
kiss�ing a leper and his be�lief in an�i�mal equal�ity by ad�dress�ing a
sheep cour�teously. To Fran�cis, what one does and says in the
�street or mar�ket �square �counts far more than what one pro�fesses
in a holy place. This dif�fer�ence �between him and us rests on
anÂ�other tenet—faith. ModÂ�ern soÂ�cial reÂ�formÂ�ers and revÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tionÂ�
ar�ies �strive to right wrong, cor�rect in�jus�tice, with�out quite
knowÂ�ing why. In dark moÂ�ments, they may ask themÂ�selves, “Is
what I want so badly no more than a per�sonal pref�er�ence? Am I
simÂ�ply folÂ�lowÂ�ing the moral fashÂ�ion of my time?” FranÂ�cis and his
fol�low�ers were not so trou�bled, for to them jus�tice was �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 al�lur�ing but un�at�tain�able.
I now turn to a modÂ�ern Â�American saint, DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day (1897–
1980). Her per�son�al�ity and life story are quite un�like that of
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Fran�cis, a fact that sup�ports my be�lief that �saints are ex�cit�ingly
dif�fer�ent �whereas bad peo�ple are bor�ingly alike. As a teen�ager,
Day �joined so�cial�ist �causes; she was pas�sion�ate about im�prov�ing
the lives of the poor, but the poor were never just a so�cial cat�e�
gory: in�stead, she en�vis�aged what it was like to be this fe�male
beg�gar or that male tramp and won�dered how they could live
the way they did, for it �seemed to her to re�quire a level of en�du�r�
ance far be�yond her pow�ers. Day was in�tel�lec�tu�ally �gifted and
am�bi�tious. Friend�ship with New York in�tel�lec�tu�als en�cour�aged
her to take up the pen in a se�ri�ous way, and in time, she be�came
a suc�cess�ful jour�nal�ist and auto�biog�ra�pher. On top of these lit�er�
ary suc�cesses, tor�rid love af�fairs came her way. Even�tu�ally she
met a man named �Forster. They lived to�gether in mu�tual re�spect
and love. The daugh�ter they had gave great satis�fac�tion, es�pe�cially
to the �mother. All �seemed well. Nev�er�the�less, Day was �haunted
by some�thing above and be�yond, a re�al�ity that is re�mote, un�
grasp�able, and yet made every�thing else a lit�tle un�real. In 1927,
she �joined the Cath�o�lic �Church.
To the world, DorÂ�oÂ�thy Day’s most notÂ�able achieveÂ�ment was
the found�ing, in 1933, of The Cath�o�lic �Worker, a news�sheet that
by the 1940s �started to gain na�tion�wide in�flu�ence re�gard�ing how
to grow food for local con�sump�tion, �strengthen com�mu�nities,
and in�fuse moral sen�si�tiv�ity and se�ri�ous�ness into com�mu�nal life.
Note�worthy as these good works were, a ques�tion of �greater
�human-psychological inter�est was the fol�low�ing: Was Dor�o�thy
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Day a Â�really good perÂ�son—a saint? To me, the quesÂ�tion is
an�swered in an anec�dote that Rob�ert Coles told about her. In
1952, Coles was a med�i�cal stu�dent who �thought of aban�don�ing
medÂ�iÂ�cine—in other words, a young man Â�adrift. He Â�showed up at
the Cath�o�lic �Worker soup �kitchen in Man�hat�tan, think�ing that
he might do some vol�un�teer work there. He found Dor�o�thy Day,
then al�ready a �much-admired fig�ure in in�tel�lec�tual and re�li�gious
cir�cles, lis�ten�ing to a �middle-aged woman who was �clearly quite
drunk. From where Coles stood, he could see that the ex�changes
were not mak�ing much head�way. Still, Day lis�tened until she saw
Coles and asked the woman �whether she would mind an inter�
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 �rather re�luc�tantly kiss the slob�ber�ing mouth of an
in�ebri�ated �street woman be�cause it was de�manded of her. We
mod�erns are sus�pi�cious of such theat�ri�cal�ity. To us, good�ness is
more con�vinc�ingly dem�on�strated in small in�stan�ta�ne�ous acts.
“Do you want to speak with one of us?” is one such act. It is in
such mo�ments, so fleet�ing and seem�ingly com�mon�place, that
Dor�o�thy Day re�veals her�self a gen�u�ine saint.
But why call her a ro�man�tic? She may well deny the label, for
the word now car�ries mean�ings that de�cent peo�ple, much less
�saints, would have no truck with. Why? Well, one rea�son is the
conÂ�noÂ�taÂ�tion of Â�glamor: it is glamÂ�orÂ�ous—Â�movie-star
�
word’s
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glamÂ�orÂ�ous—to be roÂ�manÂ�tic. AnÂ�other reaÂ�son is the Â�word’s imÂ�plicit
claim of super�ior�ity, of liv�ing at a �higher level than do or�di�nary
peo�ple. Yet �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 fam�ily, a re�ward�ing job, rec�og�ni�tion, and such tan�gible
pleas�ures as good sex, a �stroll in the park, and a can�dle�light din�ner
with �canned music sere�nad�ing us. �Saints, being human, no
doubt ap�pre�ciate these �things too, but they dif�fer from us in
find�ing them ul�ti�mately un�ful�fill�ing and un�real. Dor�o�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 some�thing is the su�premely real, the ul�ti�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
im�pla�cable drive to�ward the transcen�dent that gives one a se�rene
disÂ�reÂ�gard of Â�worldly goods and soÂ�cial conÂ�venÂ�tions. It’s what
makes �saints ar�che�typal ro�man�tics.
coda
Let me re�ca�pit�ulate some of the key �points. Quest is at the heart
of ro�mance, but only if it is after some�thing truly �worthy. The
drive for money or rep�u�ta�tion, even if it re�quires heavy sac�ri�fice,
does not count. Nor is the drive to sur�vive, and since geog�ra�phy
and the so�cial sci�ences de�vote them�selves to the art of sur�vi�val,
they are not ro�man�tic. As a mat�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
pur�suit is of en�vi�ron�ments that are re�mote and in�ac�cess�ible. Their
ex�plor�ers (a few of the most dis�tin�guished) are sur�pris�ingly un�
worldly in that they de�sire nei�ther mon�e�tary re�ward nor pub�lic
rec�og�ni�tion, nor even pres�tige for their coun�try. When �pressed
167
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for a rea�son, the an�swers they give are ei�ther per�sonal or sci�en�
tific. At the per�sonal level, they want to feel what it is like to be
in�tox�i�cat�ingly alive in mo�ments of dan�ger. At the sci�en�tific level,
they seek to know na�ture at its harsh�est, be�liev�ing (mis�ta�kenly
as it turns out) that it is there that Â�nature’s deepÂ�est seÂ�crets lie.
What else im�pels them? A touch of mys�ti�cism? Why not? After
all, when �George Mal�lory was asked why he �climbed Mount
EverÂ�est, he ofÂ�fered the Â�Zen-like anÂ�swer, “BeÂ�cause it is there.”
In the nine�teenth cen�tury, geog�ra�phers were also ex�plor�ers.
Their ad�ven�tures in re�mote �places had the ex�cite�ment of geo�
graph�i�cal ro�mance. The pub�lic was keen to read what they wrote.
By the �mid-twentieth cen�tury, that keen�ness had �largely faded.
Ex�plor�ers still �sought ad�ven�ture in dif�fi�cult en�vi�ron�ments, and
they still �sought an�swers to sci�en�tific rid�dles, but the halo of
their work was �dimmed by eco�nomic con�sid�er�a�tions such as
find�ing coal, oil, and pre�cious min�er�als. In our post�re�lig�ious and
postÂ�roÂ�manÂ�tic age, Â�hardly any goal—even that of sciÂ�ence—is unÂ�
tar�nished by the sus�pi�cion that its real pur�pose is eco�nomic or
po�lit�i�cal. One ex�cep�tion is phys�i�cal sci�ence in its high�est �reaches.
Phys�i�cists who meas�ure the speed at which a neu�trino �travels,
cos�mol�o�gists who ask what was there be�fore the Big Bang,
astron�o�mers who spend weeks in re�mote ob�ser�va�to�ries gaz�ing
at stars that have long �ceased to exist, these sci�en�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
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lease of life to the Â�earth’s green manÂ�tle. Why, then, do they perÂ�sist,
and not only per�sist, but take de�light in what they do? Can the
an�swer lie in their genes, pa�ren�tal en�cour�age�ment, and in�spir�ing
ed�u�ca�tion? No one �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
in�quir�ing mind, �brings them hap�pi�ness and ful�fill�ment.
In sharp �contrast to �starry-eyed sci�en�tists, geog�ra�phers are
prac�ti�cal and �down-to-earth, their ob�ject of study being the earth
as human habÂ�iÂ�tat. A key conÂ�cept is home. “Home,” what a Â�lovely,
�heart-warming word! Who can be in�dif�fer�ent to home, �whether
it be house, town, or �planet? Yet, �strangely, geog�ra�phy does not
have much popÂ�uÂ�lar apÂ�peal. We don’t find geogÂ�raÂ�phy magÂ�aÂ�zines
on sale in super�mar�kets and air�ports. True, Na�tional Geo�graphic
is an ex�cep�tion. We do find it on the racks along�side Sci�en�tific
�American, �though both are �swamped by fash�ion and �peopleinterest mag�a�zines. But why Na�tional Geo�graphic? Why is it by
far the most pop�u�lar geo�graph�i�cal pub�li�ca�tion? An�swer: Be�cause
it conÂ�tinÂ�ues the roÂ�mance of exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion. When the Â�earth’s land
sur�face be�comes too fa�mil�iar, the mag�a�zine moves on to the
�oceans, and then be�yond earth it�self to other plan�ets, and �thence
to the stars.
How�ever, by so �vastly ex�tend�ing its cover�age, the mag�a�zine
glarÂ�ingly Â�abuses the meanÂ�ing of “geo” in geogÂ�raÂ�phy. NaÂ�tional
Geo�graphic is no �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
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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
con�sider our�selves to be �solely bio�log�i�cal crea�tures strug�gling to
sur�vive, then the an�swer has to be the earth. But if we in�clude
the mind and in�deed high�light the mind as the es�sence of what
it means to be human, then, as I be�lieve Fran�cis Bacon was the
first to point out, we hu�mans may need the whole uni�verse as
play�ground if we are not to feel claus�tro�pho�bic.
MakÂ�ing a case for roÂ�manÂ�tic geogÂ�raÂ�phy isn’t difÂ�fiÂ�cult when
the focus is on in�di�vid�u�als em�barked on some sort of quest. But
can a case for ro�man�tic geog�ra�phy also be made for a whole
com�mu�nity or so�ci�ety? The an�swer is yes. To ex�plain, I need to
go back to the bi�po�lar val�ues that I intro�duced ear�lier. An im�por�
tant dif�fer�ence �between small iso�lated com�mu�nities and large
com�plex so�ci�eties is this. In the for�mer, the bi�po�lar val�ues are
fixed, and fixed, more�over, at an at�tain�able level. Take body/mind
as a biÂ�poÂ�lar value: To, say, the HutÂ�terÂ�ites, body isn’t some imÂ�
pos�sible Gre�cian ideal, or mind a re�min�der of the at�tain�ment of
Leib�niz. This being the case, in�di�vid�u�als in a Hut�ter�ite com�mu�
nity are not chal�lenged to �stretch and ex�tend their ca�pa�bil�ities
be�yond their own cul�tu�rally de�fined lim�its. In large com�plex
so�ci�eties, the bi�po�lar val�ues are set much fur�ther apart; more�over,
they are not fixed and can ac�quire added mean�ings as time
�passes. Am�bi�tious in�di�vid�u�als in such so�ci�eties are chal�lenged to
move up from a lower to a �higher level, seek�ing as they do so
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sup�port from �like-minded peo�ple. Work�ing to�gether, they form
crea�tive cells, which are the yeast that can fer�ment an en�tire
so�ci�ety, ena�bling it to rise to new �heights of so�phis�ti�ca�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 per�son�al�ities whose striv�ing and pas�sion lit�ter the story
with in�ci�dents hu�mane and in�hu�mane, glo�ri�ous and in�glo�ri�ous.
AddÂ�ing to the drama is Â�society’s alÂ�most inÂ�evÂ�iÂ�taÂ�ble deÂ�cline from
its peak, the re�sult of a fate�ful com�bi�na�tion of inter�nal weak�ness
and ex�ter�nal �threat.
An out�stand�ing ac�com�plish�ment of large com�plex so�ci�eties
(civ�il�iza�tions) is system�atic knowl�edge. It can of �course be �rather
dry. More and more of geo�graph�i�cal knowl�edge today is �rather
dry. ReadÂ�ing it selÂ�dom exÂ�cites—even when it goes beÂ�yond
de�tail�ing re�sources and live�li�hoods to con�sid�er�a�tions of human
con�flict. The prob�lem there is that the con�flicts so con�sid�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
lit�tle too ac�a�demic, �inward-looking, and parti pris to the gen�eral
�reader, or they are the so�cial con�cerns and po�lit�i�cal bat�tles of the
day that are al�ready �widely re�ported in the news media and can
thereÂ�fore seem, to the genÂ�eral Â�reader, déjà vu.
If geo�graph�i�cal writ�ing com�manded more at�ten�tion in the
past, it can�not be be�cause geog�ra�phers were more �gifted then;
it can be only that geog�ra�phy was then less a pro�fes�sional and
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ac�a�demic fief, with its �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, �driven by the de�sire to know, free from pre�scribed re�search
agen�das and paths. The re�sult was that works were more lit�er�ary,
imag�i�na�tive, and di�rected at the gen�eral �reader, but on the neg�a�
tive side, they were also more prone to fac�tual error and hasty
gen�er�al�iza�tion, and more �likely to carry, sub�con�sciously, under�
cur�rents of mo�ral�ism and theol�ogy. The work of an adult am�a�teur
(from the Latin amaÂ�tor or “lover”) disÂ�plays at times an exÂ�uÂ�berÂ�ance
that re�sem�bles the sort of un�in�hib�it�ed�ness so often seen in the
work of a young child. Under�stand�ably so, for every young child
is a ro�man�tic, bold in imag�i�na�tive reach, a state that one be�gins
to lose at age seven or eight when he or she is so�cial�ized to con�
form to the Â�speech patÂ�tern and mores of one’s group.
An�other dif�fer�ence �between geo�graph�i�cal works of an older
gen�er�a�tion and ours is that the ear�lier works are more will�ing to
take on large units of the earth—the earth itÂ�self as well as its
major di�vi�sions. In chap�ter 2, I have given in cap�sule form a
sam�ple of what such �large-scale works might be like. I see them
as a type of ro�man�tic geog�ra�phy, one that holds a mir�ror to the
peo�ple of a par�tic�u�lar time and place, ex�pos�ing their as�pi�ra�tions
and fears, dar�ing and greed, of which the peo�ple them�selves are
lit�tle aware. As for mod�ern ac�a�demic writ�ing, it too holds a mir�ror
but to a much more re�stricted group and, in the ex�treme case,
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to a mere co�terie. Its mem�bers, for all their con�fi�dence in the
im�por�tance of their view and the de�sire to �spread it, frus�trate
that pur�pose by adopt�ing a vo�cab�u�lary ac�cess�ible only to them�
selves. For this reaÂ�son, such Â�writing’s imÂ�pact may well be more
inter�nal than ex�ter�nal: that is to say, it �serves to ce�ment �withingroup bond�ing.
Ro�man�tic geog�ra�phy, allow me to say again, fo�cuses on the
more ex�treme bi�po�lar val�ues and on large, chal�leng�ing en�vi�ron�
ments. The merit of doing so is that the exÂ�tremes reÂ�veal—as
mid�range val�ues and small ac�com�mo�dat�ing en�vi�ron�ments do
not—what human beÂ�ings truly fear and deÂ�sire. Take the tropÂ�iÂ�cal
rain�fo�rests. De�vel�oped na�tions now con�sider them a rich ec�o�
sys�tem and an in�val�u�able re�source to be pro�tected. To judge,
how�ever, by both past and �present ac�tion, peo�ple �driven by
ne�ces�sity or greed do not at all re�gard trop�i�cal for�ests as some�
thing won�der�ful to be pro�tected, but �rather as an ad�ver�sary to be
de�feated or a re�source to be used. The prob�lem goes �deeper
than that, for when�ever and �wherever human be�ings have the
tech�nique to ef�fect a �change in na�ture, they do so ir�re�spec�tive of
the pie�ties they utter; and in�deed the pie�ties can be a cover or
dis�trac�tion that en�ables them to do their worst in good con�science.
If this is true, then human be�ings are fun�da�men�tally at odds
with na�ture. They need to alter what�ever is of�fered them. The
meth�ods used to ef�fect �change began with just words (viz., gar�den
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of Eden), then with words and tools (viz., the farm), and as the
tools be�came in�creas�ingly pow�er�ful, they com�bined with words
to pro�duce, ul�ti�mately, the great city.
The great city is bla�tantly anti�na�ture. It im�poses geo�met�ric
form on topÂ�oÂ�graphic conÂ�fuÂ�sion and reÂ�verses Â�nature’s cyÂ�cles,
com�ing to life in win�ter �rather than in sum�mer, and turn�ing night
into day, dark�ness into light. And light? It is not just bright�ness
and glare; it also con�notes in�tel�lec�tual and spir�i�tual il�lu�mi�na�tion.
The story of the pas�sage from na�ture to glit�ter�ing city is a geo�
graph�i�cal ro�mance, made pos�sible by imag�i�na�tion and moral
ideal�ism, held back by stu�pid�ity and greed, and yet end�ing with
luck as the place most ca�pable of ful�fill�ing the human po�ten�tial.
The city �rather than the coun�try�side or na�ture has this ca�pa�bil�ity,
�firstly, be�cause we are fully human by vir�tue of �speech, and �speech
in all its va�riety, range, and depth is far more �likely to occur in an
urban set�ting than in the midst of hay�stacks or �beside bub�bling
�brooks; and, sec�ondly, in a �well-designed city, we can still get a
taste of na�ture in its parks and roof�top farms. Na�ture, how�ever,
is un�able to re�cip�ro�cate. In its var�ied yet fun�da�men�tally monot�o�
nous ex�panse, it pro�vides us with no re�lief in the form of a
mini�ature city.
Reach�ing to�ward ex�alted goals is not only �likely to be stress�
ful but also �likely to end in fail�ure. Re�main�ing at or re�turn�ing to
a lower, �less-demanding level can there�fore be wel�comed. One
lower level is the ideal�ized farm of a dis�tant past, one that of�fers
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such com�fort�ing im�ages as the �thatched-roofed cot�tage, the fire
in the �hearth, the fra�grance of �freshly baked bread, bed�time
sto�ries for chil�dren, and �good-humored gos�sip over jugs of cider
for Â�grown-ups. These cliÂ�chés of rural life give no hint of the hardÂ�
ship and suf�fer�ing that are an es�ca�pable part of liv�ing with�out
mod�ern amen�ities. It is easy to see, how�ever, why the ex�plorer of
bar�ren ice pla�teaus, or in�deed of any�one who risks death for a
quix�otic goal, may in mo�ments of weak�ness be�come sen�ti�men�tal
about lead�ing the sim�ple life at home or on a farm, giv�ing it a
ro�man�tic glow that in the ab�sence of �stress is del�u�sory.
For in�tel�lec�tu�als tired of dwell�ing in the thin air of mind and
�spirit, wal�low�ing in the �sweaty �charms of the body has dis�tinct
ap�peal. James Joyce cer�tainly �thinks so. His book Ulys�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,
dis�dains the yearn�ing for �height, and, above all, dis�dains the idea
of subÂ�liÂ�matÂ�ing the “low” to reach the “high,” a path comÂ�mended
by West�ern mor�al�ists since Plato. To the mod�ern so�phis�ti�cate
and cynic, raw bioÂ�logÂ�iÂ�cal life—the “low”—is all the true satisÂ�facÂ�
tion there is.1
Joyce and the mod�ern�ists have a point. Aim�ing too high is
hu�bris, as the �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 ex�cept that it eas�ily leads to con�tempt for peo�ple who
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176
are less reÂ�cherÂ�ché in taste. And even if a touch of hauÂ�teur is
ac�cept�able, the el�e�gant �should re�mem�ber that fi�nesse car�ried too
far sig�nifies a hor�ror of life, which is nat�u�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 en�du�rance in the midst of sub�lime �beauty, but it may
also be a pride�ful af�fir�ma�tion of super�ior�ity over the �masses,
who dwell in the shadÂ�ows out of Â�sunlight’s reach. At the group
level, ro�man�ti�cism can lead to nation�alis�tic ex�cess, as shown in
Â�Hitler’s GerÂ�many. Nazi ideoÂ�logues were Â�arch-romantics, longÂ�ing
si�mul�ta�ne�ously for �rooted com�mu�nities bound by blood and
soil and root�less glis�ten�ing white cit�ies of mon�u�men�tal archi�
tec�ture, �suited to lim�ber Ar�yans of the Thou�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
�quests em�braced by a whole peo�ple are �rightly sus�pect. Per�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 van�ity and de�lu�sion. On the other
hand, if one is ha�bit�u�ally care�ful, if one is for�ever count�ing cost,
one loses spon�ta�ne�ity and pas�sion, key �traits of being fully alive.
Ro�man�tic geog�ra�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
ex�plore, and be�yond earth are the other plan�ets and stars. They,
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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 eas�ily ac�com�mo�dated human body. On the other hand, if
“home” is taken in this Â�larger sense, then perÂ�haps what we study
is not geog�ra�phy but cos�mog�ra�phy. As a mat�ter of fact, any cul�ture
that has moved be�yond earth cults to an ap�pre�ci�a�tion of the sky,
sun, and stars—and all civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tions have made the tranÂ�siÂ�tion—
tac�itly ac�knowl�edges that our home is not sim�ply the earth but
also the cos�mos, and that to the bulk of hu�man�kind �through
most of human his�tory, geog�ra�phy is also cos�mog�ra�phy.
Fi�nally, there is the ques�tion of in�spi�ra�tion for the in�di�vid�ual
geog�ra�pher and sci�en�tist. Too much con�cern for the �nitty-gritty
deÂ�tails of houseÂ�keepÂ�ing—what I have Â�called “home ecoÂ�nomÂ�ics”—
can lead to a bu�reau�cratic frame of mind, turn�ing ac�a�demic geog�
ra�phy de�part�ments into of�fices for the col�lec�tion and anal�y�sis of
socio�economic data, or geog�ra�phers into pun�dits ar�guing in
favor of or �against the ideol�o�gies of the day. What is �needed to
sup�ple�ment the nec�es�sary house�keep�ing is a ro�man�tic, transcen�
denÂ�tal Â�source of inÂ�sights—Â�Wordsworth’s “inÂ�tiÂ�maÂ�tion of someÂ�
thing far more �deeply inter�fused, Whose dwell�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,
Ein�stein hints that with�out it, and with�out the ear for it, no �really
good sci�en�tific work can be done.
Notes
Over�ture
1. Don�ald E. Brown, Hier�ar�chy, His�tory, and Human Na�ture: The So�cial
Or�i�gins of His�tor�i�cal Con�scious�ness (Tuc�son: Uni�ver�sity of Ar�i�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.�Jacques Bar�zun, Clas�sic, Ro�man�tic, and Mod�ern (Gar�den City, NJ:
An�chor Books, 1961), 15; �Charles E. Lar�more, The Ro�man�tic Leg�acy (New York:
Co�lum�bia Uni�ver�sity Press, 1996); Jean Pier�rot, The Deca�dent Imag�i�na�tion,
1880–1900 (ChiÂ�cago: UniÂ�verÂ�sity of ChiÂ�cago Press, 1981).
3. Ar�nold J. Toyn�bee, Civ�il�iza�tion on Trial (New York: Ox�ford Uni�ver�sity
Press, 1948), 55; Ar�nold J. Toyn�bee, A Study in His�tory (New York: Ox�ford
UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1972), 70–72.
179
notes to pa ge s 11–22
180
Chap�ter 1.╇ Po�lar�ized Val�ues
1. Otto von Sim�son, The �Gothic Ca�the�dral: Or�i�gins of �Gothic Archi�tec�
ture and the Me�di�eval Con�cept of Order (New York: �Pantheon Books, 1962),
3–4.
2. Erwin Panof�sky, Abbot Suger on the Abbey �Church of St. Denis and Its
Art Treas�ures (Prince�ton: Prince�ton Uni�ver�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: Chel�sea House, 1996), 56.
6. Paul Wheat�ley, The Pivot of the Four Quar�ters (Chi�cago: Al�dine, 1971);
James Dou�gherty, The Fi�ves�quare City: The City in the Re�li�gious Imag�i�na�tion
(Notre Dame: Uni�ver�sity of Notre Dame Press, 1980).
7. Vin�cent �Scully, Jr., The Earth, the Tem�ple, and the Gods: Greek Sa�cred
Archi�tec�ture (New Haven: Yale Uni�ver�sity Press, 1962).
8.�George Or�well, Down and Out in Paris and Lon�don (Lon�don: �Secker &
War�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,
Au�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. Han�nah �Arendt, The Human Con�di�tion (Gar�den City, NY: Dou�ble�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,”
Re�ap�prai�sals in His�tory (Evans�ton: North�west�ern Uni�ver�sity Press, 1962).
15. John M. HoÂ�berÂ�man, Â�Darwin’s AthÂ�letes (BosÂ�ton: HoughÂ�ton MifÂ�flin, 1997).
Chap�ter 2.╇ Earth and Its Nat�u�ral En�vi�ron�ments
1. HenÂ�drik WilÂ�lem van Loon, Van Â�Loon’s GeogÂ�raÂ�phy (New York: Simon &
�Schuster, 1932), 3.
2. C. S. Lewis, The Dis�carded Image (Cam�bridge: Cam�bridge Uni�ver�sity
Press, 1964), 96–99.
3. OutÂ�standÂ�ingly, C. S. Â�Lewis’s Â�science-fictional trilÂ�ogy, Out of the SiÂ�lent
�Planet (Lon�don: Pan, 1938), Per�elan�dra (Lon�don: Pan, 1943), and That Hid�e�ous
�Strength (Lon�don: Pan, 1945).
4.Â�Blaise PasÂ�cal, PenÂ�sées, 206.
5. Sci�ence 248 (June 15, 1990): 1308.
6. Fran�cis Bacon, The Ad�vance�ment of Learn�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. Mar�jo�rie Hope Nic�ol�son, Moun�tain Gloom and Moun�tain Glory (New
York: Nor�ton, 1962).
8. Yi-Fu Tuan, The Hydro�log�i�cal Cycle and the Wis�dom of God (To�ronto:
Uni�ver�sity of To�ronto Press, 1968).
9. Julio Caro Ba�roja, The World of �Witches (Chi�cago: Uni�ver�sity of Chi�cago
Press, 1965), 238.
10. Ve�ron�ica Della Dora, Im�a�gin�ing Mount Athos (Char�lottes�ville: Uni�ver�
sity of Vir�ginia Press, 2011), 113.
11. Gavin Ry�lands de Beer, Early Travel�lers in the Alps (Lon�don: Sidg�wick &
JackÂ�son, 1930), 89–90.
notes to pa ge s 47–70
182
12. Jer�emy Bern�stein, As�cent: Of the In�ven�tion of Moun�tain Climb�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
Ro�man�tic �Spirit (New York: Vin�tage Books, 1967); �George Wil�son �Knight, The
Shake�spear�ian Tem�pest (Ox�ford: Ox�ford Uni�ver�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 & �Schuster, 1997), 233.
17. Jules Verne, �Twenty Thou�sand �Leagues under the Sea, �transl. H. Frith
(LonÂ�don: Dent; RutÂ�land, VT: C. E. TutÂ�tle, 1992), 1, 215, 258–60.
18. Ibid., 49–53.
19. Wal�ter Lord, A Night to Re�mem�ber (New York: Henry Holt, 1955),
24–25, 169.
20. James �Hamilton-Paterson, The Great Deep: The Sea and Its Thresh�olds
(New York: Ran�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. Turn�bull, Way�ward Ser�vants (Lon�don: Eyre & Spot�tis�woode,
1965), 19–21.
23. Mary DougÂ�las, “The Lele of the Kasai,” in DaÂ�ryll Forde, ed., Â�African
�Worlds: Stud�ies in the Cos�mo�log�i�cal Ideas and So�cial Val�ues of �African Peo�ples
(LonÂ�don: OxÂ�ford UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1963), 4–7.
24. Mi�chael �Williams, De�forest�ing the Earth: From Pre�his�tory to Glo�bal
Cri�sis (Chi�cago: Uni�ver�sity of Chi�cago Press, 2003).
25. Cited in Keith �Thomas, Man and the Nat�u�ral World: A His�tory of the
Mod�ern Sen�sibil�ity (New York: �Pantheon Books, 1983), 194.
notes to pa ge s 70–79
183
26. Bruno Bet�tel�heim, The Uses of En�chant�ment: The Mean�ing and Im�por�
tance of Fairy Tales (New York: Al�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. Har�old Evans, ed., Men in the Trop�ics: A Co�lo�nial An�thol�ogy (Lon�don:
�William Hodge, 1949), 28.
29. Ibid.
30. Rob�ert Pat�ti�son, The Tri�umph of Vul�gar�ity (New York: Ox�ford Uni�ver�sity
Press, 1987); Hil�lel �Schwartz, Mak�ing Noise: From Babel to the Big Bang and
Be�yond (Brook�lyn, NY: Zone Books, 2011).
31. Evans, Men in the TropÂ�ics, 17–18.
32. Rob�ert Pogue Har�ri�son, For�ests: The �Shadow of Civ�il�iza�tion (Chi�cago:
Uni�ver�sity of Chi�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, Jan�u�ary 15, 2012, 6.
36. Jo�seph R. Le�ven�son and Franz Schur�mann, China: An Inter�pre�tive
His�tory (Berke�ley: Uni�ver�sity of Cal�i�for�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.,
Land�scape, Nat�u�ral �Beauty, and the Arts (Cam�bridge: Cam�bridge Uni�ver�sity
Press, 1993), 139–57.
42. John Â�Leighly, “Dry CliÂ�mates: Their NaÂ�ture and DisÂ�triÂ�buÂ�tion,” Â�Desert
Re�search, Pro�ceed�ings Inter�na�tional Sym�po�sium, Re�search Coun�cil of Is�rael,
spe�cial pub�li�ca�tion no. 2 (Je�ru�sa�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. Cumps�ton, The In�land Sea and the Great River: The Story of
Aus�tra�lian Ex�plo�ra�tion (Syd�ney: Angus & Rob�ert�son, 1964).
46. R. C. Zaeh�ner, The Dawn and Twi�light of Zo�roas�trian�ism (New York:
PutÂ�nam, 1961), 36–40.
47.�George H. �Williams, Wild�er�ness and Par�a�dise in Chris�tian �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
Mex�ico, to the Na�vajo Coun�try (Phil�a�del�phia: Lip�pin�cott, 1852), 32.
49. W. H. Mack�ean, Chris�tian Mon�as�ti�cism in Egypt (Lon�don: SPCK, 1920),
135–37.
50. John Cas�sian, Con�fer�ences 9 and 19, trans. Edgar C. S. Gib�son, in
Ni�cene and �Post-Nicene �Fathers (2nd se�ries; New York, 1984), vol. 11.
51. Ray�mond B. Blak�ney, Meis�ter Eck�hart: A Mod�ern Trans�la�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. Rich�ard �Trench, Ara�bian Travel�lers: The Eu�ro�pean Dis�cov�ery of Ara�bia
(Tops�field, MA: Salem House, 1986), 213.
54. Rob�ert Payne, Law�rence of Ara�bia: A Tri�umph (Lon�don: Rob�ert Hale,
1966), 45.
55. T. E. Law�rence, Seven Pil�lars of Wis�dom (Gar�den City, NY: Dou�ble�day,
Doran & Co., 1935), 40.
56. Payne, Law�rence of Ara�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. Law�rence, by His �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 Re�view �Reader (Ann Arbor: Uni�ver�sity of Mich�i�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. Fran�cis Spuf�ford, I May Be Some Time: Ice and the En�glish Imag�i�na�
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 Vic�to�rian Imag�i�na�tion (Berke�ley: Uni�ver�sity of Cal�i�for�nia Press, 1977),
95–112.
62. Ed�ward Shack�le�ton, Nan�sen the Ex�plorer (Lon�don: With�erby, 1959).
63. Liv Nan�sen Hoyer, Nan�sen: A Fam�ily Por�trait (Lon�don: Long�mans,
1957), 48–49, 79.
64. Fridt�jof Nan�sen, Far�thest North: Being the �Record of a Voy�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. Chris�to�pher Rall�ing, Shack�le�ton: His Ant�arc�tic Writ�ings (Lon�don: Brit�ish
Broad�cast�ing Cor�po�ra�tion, 1983), 29.
68. Ibid., 79.
69. NanÂ�sen, FarÂ�thest North, vol. 2, 446–47; First CrossÂ�ing, 313.
70. Nan�sen, Far�thest North, vol. 2, 41.
71. Ibid., vol. 2, 440.
72. Rich�ard E. Byrd, Alone (first pub�lished in 1938; Los An�geles: �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.
Inter�lude:╇ Whole�some but Or�di�nary
1. S. N. �Kramer, The Su�mer�ians (Chi�cago: Uni�ver�sity of Chi�cago Press,
1963), 263.
2. For the idea of the norm of life in Shake�speare, see Li�o�nel Trill�ing,
Sin�cer�ity and Au�then�tic�ity (Cam�bridge: Har�vard Uni�ver�sity Press, 1972), 39.
Chap�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 �American Geo�graph�i�cal So�ci�ety for per�mis�sion to re�print this ma�te�rial.
1. EdÂ�ouard Biot, Le Â�Tcheou Li (Paris, 1851), vol. 2, 554–55.
2. Ar�thur F. �Wright, The Sui Dy�nasty: The Uni�fi�ca�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. Ed�ward H. �Schafer, The �Golden �Peaches of Sa�mar�kand (Berke�ley:
Uni�ver�sity of Cal�i�for�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.�Etienne Ba�lazs, Chi�nese Civ�il�iza�tion and Bu�reau�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 Carle�ton Munro and �George C. Sel�lery, Me�di�eval Civ�il�iza�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. Nor�man G. �Brett-James, The �Growth of Stu�art Lon�don (Lon�don: �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 Mi�chael Wolff, eds., The Vic�to�rian City: Im�ages and Re�al�ities (Lon�don:
RoutÂ�ledge & Kegan Paul, 1971), vol. 2, 893–907, refÂ�erÂ�ence on 899.
10. Con�rad Gill, His�tory of Birm�ing�ham (Lon�don: Ox�ford Uni�ver�sity Press,
1952), vol. 1, 123–24.
11. Rob�ert E. Dick�in�son, The West Eu�ro�pean City (Lon�don: Rout�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. �Strauss, The �American City: A Source�book of Urban Im�agery (Chi�cago:
AlÂ�dine, 1968), 385–86; David Owen, “Green ManÂ�hatÂ�tan,” New Â�Yorker, OcÂ�toÂ�ber
18, 2004, 111–23.
14. Jen�ni�fer �Cockrall-King, Food and the City: Urban Ag�ri�cul�ture and the
New Food Rev�o�lu�tion (Am�herst, MA: Pro�me�theus, 2012).
15. Wol�fram Ebe�rhard, Con�quer�ors and Rul�ers: So�cial �Forces in Me�di�eval
China (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1965), 35–36.
16. Lewis Mum�ford, The City in His�tory (New York: Har�court, Brace &
World, 1961), 128.
17. LudÂ�wig Â�Friedländer, Roman Life and ManÂ�ners under the Early EmÂ�pire
(New York: �Barnes & Noble, 1968), vol. 2, 193.
18. Gene A. �Brucker, Re�nais�sance Flor�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,
Jan�u�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
Uni�ver�sity Press, 1940), 47.
23.Â�Friedländer, Roman Life and ManÂ�ners under the Early EmÂ�pire, 13.
24.�Jacques Ger�net, Daily Life in China on the Eve of the Mon�gol In�va�sion,
1250–1276 (LonÂ�don: Â�George Allen & Unwin, 1962), 36.
25. Leon Ber�nard, The Emerg�ing City: Paris in the Age of Louis XIV
(DurÂ�ham: Duke UniÂ�verÂ�sity Press, 1970), 161–66.
26. Wal�ter �Besant, Lon�don in the Eigh�teenth Cen�tury (Lon�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, His�tory of Birm�ing�ham, 157; Mat�thew Luck�iesh,
Ar�ti�fi�cial Light: Its In�flu�ence upon Civ�il�iza�tion (New York: Cen�tury, 1920), 158.
note s to p ages 130–141
189
28. Oscar G. Brock�ett, His�tory of the Thea�tre (Bos�ton: Allyn & Bacon, 1977),
201, 297.
29. Eliz�a�beth Hard�wick, A View of My Own (New York: Noon�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
His�tory of the Night in Early Mod�ern Eu�rope (Cam�bridge: Cam�bridge Uni�ver�sity
Press, 2010).
31. CarÂ�coÂ�pino, Daily Life in AnÂ�cient Rome, 39–40.
32. Ros�a�lind H. �Williams, Notes on the Under�ground (Cam�bridge: MIT
Press, 1990), 82.
33. Ibid., 98–99.
34. Plato, Phae�drus 230d.
35.Â�George Â�Steiner, “The City under AtÂ�tack,” in RobÂ�ert BoyÂ�ers and Peggy
Boy�ers, eds., The Sal�ma�gundi �Reader (Bloom�ing�ton: In�di�ana Uni�ver�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 Com�ments, New �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. An�thony Bur�gess, New York Times Mag�a�zine, Oc�to�ber 29, 1972.
41. GerÂ�trude HimÂ�melÂ�farb, “The CulÂ�ture of PovÂ�erty,” in Dyos and Wolff, The
Vic�to�rian City, 725.
42.Â�Quoted in Â�Philip ColÂ�lins, “DickÂ�ens and LonÂ�don,” in Dyos and Wolff,
The Vic�to�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
Com�plete Sher�lock �Holmes (Gar�den City, NY.: Dou�ble�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.
Chap�ter 4.╇ The Human Being
1. Ca�mille Pa�glia, Sex�ual Per�sonae: Art and Deca�dence from Ne�fer�titi to
Emily DickÂ�inÂ�son (New York: VinÂ�tage Books, 1991), 55–57.
2. Ibid., 69.
3.�George Or�well, Nine�teen �Eighty-Four (first pub�lished in 1949; Lon�don:
ComÂ�pact Books, 1993), 228–29.
4.�George Or�well, The Road to Wigan Pier (New York: Berk�ley Edi�tion,
1961), 130.
5.�George Wood�stock, The Crys�tal �Spirit: A Study of �George Or�well (New
York: �Schocken Books, 1984), 110.
6. Rob�ert H. Frank, Pas�sions �within Rea�son: The Stra�te�gic Role of the
Emo�tions (New York: Nor�ton, 1988), 212.
7. Tim Jeal, Ex�plor�ers of the Nile: The Tri�umph and Trag�edy of a Great
Vic�to�rian Ad�ven�ture (New Haven: Yale Uni�ver�sity Press, 2011), 5.
8. Ibid., 18–19.
9. Ap�sley �Cherry-Garrard, The Worst Jour�ney in the World (New York:
Car�roll & Graf, 1989), 284, 286.
10. Ibid., 284–85.
note s to p ages 158–175
191
11. Ibid., 249.
12. Ibid., 626.
13. Chris�tian Bobin, The Se�cret of Fran�cis of As�sisi: A Med�i�ta�tion (Bos�ton:
Shamb�hala, 1997), 31.
14.�Q uoted in Ed�ward A. Arm�strong, Saint Fran�cis: Na�ture Mys�tic
(Berke�ley: Uni�ver�sity of Cal�i�for�nia Press, 1973), 170.
15. JuÂ�lien Green, God’s Fool: The Life and Times of FranÂ�cis of AsÂ�sisi (San
Fran�cisco: �Harper & Row, 1985), 74.
16. Rob�ert Coles, Dor�o�thy Day: A Rad�i�cal De�vo�tion (Read�ing, MA:
�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 �Search for Human Good�ness (Chi�cago: Uni�ver�sity of Chi�cago Press,
1996), 51–52.
Il�lus�tra�tion Cred�its
Page 31
“Primo MoÂ�bile (Prime Mover),” c. 1465, courÂ�tesy of the NaÂ�tional
Gal�lery of Art, Wash�ing�ton, DC.
Pages 38–39 “SplenÂ�did MounÂ�tain WaÂ�terÂ�color,” by John Â�Singer SarÂ�gent,
1870, the Met�ro�pol�i�tan Mu�seum of Art, Gift of Mrs. Fran�cis Or�mond, 1950
(50.130.146).
Pages 50–51 “Storm at Sea,” by CapÂ�tain Â�Thomas HasÂ�tings, Fine Arts MuÂ�seums
of San Fran�cisco.
Pages 64–65 “ForÂ�est Path,” by Carel NiÂ�coÂ�laas Storm van ’Â�s-Gravesande, c. 1885,
Ster�ling and Fran�cine Clark Art In�sti�tute, William�stown, Mas�sa�chu�setts
(1988.4); image © SterÂ�ling and FranÂ�cine Clark Art InÂ�stiÂ�tute, photo by
Mi�chael Agee.
Pages 80–81 “Desert MonÂ�uÂ�ments, ArÂ�iÂ�zona,” by Â�George ElÂ�bert Burr, c. 1930,
cour�tesy of the Ar�i�zona Cap�i�tol Mu�seum.
Pages 92–93 View in the ArcÂ�tic reÂ�gions, a ship probÂ�ably HMS TerÂ�ror, by
Ad�mi�ral Sir �George Back, Brit�ish Mu�seum (1891, 1031.307).
193
Index
Page ref�er�ences in ital�ics in�di�cate il�lus�tra�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. dark�ness, 13
agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, 69, 85, 117–22
�Agrippa, 132
air, moun�tain vs. low�land, 45
airÂ�plane Â�flight, 62–63
Ak�ka�dian lan�guage, 118
Al�ex�an�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
�Angkor Wat (Cam�bo�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
Anti�och, 128
An�tony and Cle�o�pa�tra (Shake�speare),
20–21
�Apollo 17, 36
195
inde x
196
arc�tic re�gions. See icy lands and re�gions
ArÂ�teÂ�midÂ�orus DalÂ�diÂ�aÂ�nus, 20–21
Asian cul�tures, 148
astron�o�mers, an�cient, 15
ath�letes (brawn) vs. pro�fes�sors (brain),
26–27
Athos, Mount (Greece), 43–45
At�lan�tis, 54
au�rora bor�ealis, 101
Aus�tra�lian �desert, 84
Bacon, Fran�cis, 37, 170
Bam�bara tribe (West Af�rica), 13
Bantu peo�ples (Af�rica), 68
BarÂ�zun, Â�Jacques, 5–6
Ber�nard of Clair�vaux, 12
bi�nar�ies. See po�lar�ized val�ues
Birm�ing�ham (En�gland), 121, 129
black�ness, pos�i�tive mean�ings of, 14
black vs. white, 13. See also dark�ness: vs.
light
Blake, �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
Bo�rob�u�dur tem�ple (In�do�ne�sia), 43
Bor�sippa (Sumer), 114
BosÂ�ton nightÂ�life, 130–31
Bour�gain�ville, �Louis-Antoine de, 55
Brah�man, mean�ing of, 18
brain vs. brawn, 25–28
�Bulwer-Lytton, Ed�ward �George: The Com�ing
Race, 133–34
bu�reau�cracy, 16, 25
BurÂ�gess, AnÂ�thony, 138–39
Burke, Ed�mund, 96
Bur�ton, Rich�ard Fran�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 Ma�rina, 57
caste �system, 24
CathÂ�oÂ�lic Â�Worker, 163–64
Â�Ch’ang-an (China), 115–16, 118
chaos vs. form/order, 14–17, 62
Cha�ryb�dis, 57
Cherry-Garrard,
�
ApÂ�sley, 156–59
chil�dren as ro�man�tics, 172
China: cosÂ�mic/traÂ�diÂ�tional citÂ�ies of, 114–17,
118, 148; farm�ers vs. no�mads in, 85;
forÂ�est clearÂ�ing in, 73–74; miÂ�graÂ�tion
in, 74, 123; night�time cel�e�bra�tions in,
127–28; rusÂ�tic simÂ�plicÂ�ity Â�sought in,
76; soÂ�cial stratÂ�ifiÂ�caÂ�tion in, 24–25
chiv�alry, 157
ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity: on Â�deserts, 84, 85–86; EastÂ�ern
(OrÂ�thoÂ�dox), 43–45; light in, 11; on
re�demp�tion �through suf�fer�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; dark�ness of, lit�eral and fig�ura�
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; ma�jesty of, 113; as male do�main,
22–23; meÂ�diÂ�eval EuÂ�roÂ�pean, 119–20;
vs. naÂ�ture, 174; nightÂ�life in, 126–31;
North �American, 121; or�i�gins as cos�
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; �speech con�cen�trated in, 135, 174;
�starfish-shaped, 119; the sub�lime ex�
pe�ri�enced in, 113; Su�mer�ian, 118; vs.
vilÂ�lages, 117–18; in winÂ�ter, 123–25
civÂ�ilÂ�izaÂ�tion: and forÂ�ests, 75–76; and
har�mony, 16; high vs. low, 18; and
writ�ing, 76
Â�classes, soÂ�cial, 24–25, 149–51
cliÂ�mate zones, 83–84
�Cloaca Max�ima (old�est sewer; Rome), 132
clut�ter, 148
Cobb, Rich�ard, 120
Co�blenz (Ger�many), 119
cold re�gions. See icy lands and re�gions
Coles, Rob�ert, 164
Co�lum�bus, Chris�to�pher, 54
The ComÂ�ing Race (Bulwer-Lytton), 133–34
com�mon man/peo�ple, 7, 17
com�mu�ni�ca�tion tech�nol�ogy, 144
com�plex�ity vs. sim�plic�ity, 148
Conan Doyle, Sir Ar�thur: Sher�lock �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
Co�per�ni�cus, Nic�o�laus, 32
cos�mic cit�ies, 15. See also under cit�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 in�fi�nite, 34
cosÂ�moÂ�polÂ�iÂ�tanÂ�ism, 116–17. See also citÂ�ies
cour�tesy, 160, 162
court�yard �houses, 22
cul�ture: Asian, 148; as dis�crim�i�na�tion, 77;
high vs. low, 17
The Cure, 34–35
Dante Al�i�ghieri, 11, 54
Â�Daoism, 73–74, 76
dark�ness: of cit�ies, lit�eral and fig�ura�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 deca�dent, 5
de�gree, mean�ing of, 18
Â�deserts, 80–81, 83–91, 106–8, 148
deÂ�tecÂ�tive ficÂ�tion, 141–46
Dick�ens, �Charles, 120, 140, 142; The Life
and Ad�ven�tures of Nich�o�las Nick�leby,
141, 145; Ol�i�ver Twist, 141; The Post�
hu�mous �Papers of the Pick�wick Club,
141
Dis�ney, Walt: �Twenty Thou�sand �Leagues
under the Sea, 58–59
�Doughty, �Charles, 87, 107
Doug�las, Nor�man, 87
Doug�lass, Frede�rick, 26
dream anal�y�sis, 21
Dur Shar�ru�kin (As�syria), 114
dy�na�mite, 145
Dyos, H. J., 120
earth and nat�u�ral en�vi�ron�ments: �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 cos�mol�ogy); space as in�fi�
nite, 34; unique�ness of the earth, 36;
in van Â�Loon’s GeogÂ�raÂ�phy, 29–30;
vast�ness of the uni�verse, 37. See also
for�ests; icy lands and re�gions
EastÂ�ern (OrÂ�thoÂ�dox) ChrisÂ�tiÂ�anÂ�ity, 43–45
Ebe�rhard, Wol�fram, 123
EckÂ�hart, MeisÂ�ter, 86–87
ecol�ogy, 6
eco�nomic col�lapse (1825), 145
Eder, Rich�ard, 125
edÂ�uÂ�caÂ�tion, 25–26, 145–46
ego, 21
Ein�stein, Al�bert, 177
�electric light�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
equal�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 (bib�li�cal), 41, 85
The Fall of the House of Usher (Poe), 21
farms, idealÂ�ized, 174–75
Far�thest North (Nan�sen), 102
Feast of Flora, 128
fem�i�nist move�ment, 23
fer�me�ture an�nuelle (an�nual clo�sure), 124
Five Sa�cred Peaks (China), 43
inde x
199
FlorÂ�ence, 123–24, 127
For�bid�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 aban�doned in, 70; vs. grass�
lands, 68–69; hosÂ�tilÂ�ity toÂ�ward, 67,
68; and human ev�o�lu�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, Sig�mund, 21, 143
Fuji, Mount, 43
GarÂ�den of Eden (bibÂ�liÂ�cal), 53, 109–10
gar�goyles, 12
gas�light, 126, 129, 140
Gen�e�sis (Bible), 10, 14, 109
geog�ra�phy: am�a�teur (early) vs. pro�fes�sional
(modÂ�ern) works of, 171–73; geogÂ�raÂ�
phers as ex�plor�ers, 3, 168, 169; geog�
ra�phers vs. sci�en�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; pop�u�lar�ity of, 169; ro�man�ti�cism
of, 3–4, 6, 172–73, 176–77 (see also
ro�man�ti�cism)
GeogÂ�raÂ�phy (van Loon), 29–30
Ger�many: al�lot�ments in, 121; moun�tain
climb�ing pi�o�neered/dra�ma�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 �created by, 53, 109; Gar�den of
Eden Â�created by, 109; as light, 10–11;
as Un�moved Mover, 33
�Goethe, Jo�hann Wolf�gang von, 136
good so�ci�ety, har�mony/dis�so�nance in,
16–17
the �Gothic: dark�ness and light in ca�the�drals,
11–12; and roÂ�manÂ�tiÂ�cism, 5, 96
Great �American �Desert, 84
�Greeks, an�cient: city (male) vs. coun�try
(fe�male) life of, 23, 123; on cli�mate
zones, 83–84; Â�deserts underÂ�esÂ�tiÂ�mated
by, 83–84; as farmÂ�ers, 110; on land
as di�vided into two �halves, 55; on
poem and city, 136; as sail�ors, 54,
110; the�a�ter en�joyed by, 129
GreenÂ�land ice plaÂ�teau, 97, 98, 101–2
Greg�ory of Nyssa, 44
Ham�mett, Da�shiell, 146
Han dy�nasty, 118
Hang�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
hea�venly bod�ies, 33
helio�cen�tric the�ory, 32
Â�Hell’s Â�Kitchen (New York City), 125
her�mits, 86
He�rod�o�tus, 83, 154
heÂ�roes, 147, 151–59
He�siod: Works and Days, 110
high vs. low, 17–18, 32, 42–45, 175–76
Â�Himinbjörg (myÂ�tholÂ�ogy), 43
his�tor�i�cal ro�mances, 4
his�tory vs. geog�ra�phy, 4
HitÂ�ler, Adolf, 48–49, 176
�Holmes, Sher�lock (fic�tional char�ac�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 eco�nom�ics, 6, 23, 177
Homer, 83, 154; The Odys�sey, 57
house�keep�ing/home eco�nom�ics move�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
Hut�ton, James, 84
Hux�table, Ada �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;
cul�ture/na�ture boun�dary in, 108; and
death, �thoughts of, 105; vs. �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;
North�west Pas�sage �through, 95; spir�i�
tual el�e�va�tion �sought in, 108; and the
sub�lime, 96
id, 21
Im�pe�rial Way (Hang�zhou, China), 128
Â�India’s caste Â�system, 24
InÂ�dusÂ�trial RevÂ�oÂ�luÂ�tion, 120, 140–42
Inter�net, 144
Jason (my�thol�ogy), 53
Je�rome, Saint, 86
Jesus, 43, 86
Jo�han�sen, F. H., 97
John, Saint, 10, 11
jourÂ�ney, spirÂ�iÂ�tual symÂ�bolÂ�ism of, 53–54
inde x
201
Jour�ney to the Cen�ter of the Earth (Verne),
133–34
Joyce, James: Ulys�ses, 175
Ju�pi�ter, 33
jus�tice, 162
Kep�ler, Jo�hannes, 41
knowlÂ�edge, 27–28, 171
Kun�lun (China), 43
Lamb, �Charles, 138
lampÂ�light, 126, 128–29
Later Han Dy�nasty, 74
LawÂ�rence, T. E. (“LawÂ�rence of AraÂ�bia”), 87–
91, 107; Seven Pil�lars of Wis�dom, 89
Lean, David: Law�rence of Ara�bia, 88
Lele peo�ple, 69
lep�ers, kiss�ing of, 161
Les MisÂ�érÂ�ables (Hugo), 132–33
Libya, 83
The Life and Ad�ven�tures of Nich�o�las
Nick�leby (Dick�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;
�intellectual-spiritual com�po�nent of,
134–35, 174
Lin�naeus, Car�o�lus, 160
Liv�ing�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; re�ces�sion in (1880s), 145;
sew�ers/sub�ter�ra�nean tun�nels of, 134
Los An�geles, 121
lowÂ�land peoÂ�ple, 45–46
mael�stroms, 57
The Magic Moun�tain (Mann), 46
Mal�a�gasy tribe (Mad�a�gas�car), 13
maÂ�lefic miÂ�asÂ�mas, 72–73
Mal�lory, �George, 168
Mann, �Thomas: The Magic Moun�tain, 46
Mars, 33
�marshes/�swamps, con�quest of, 126
MarÂ�vell, AnÂ�drew: “Upon ApÂ�pleÂ�ton House,”
21
Â�Mary’s asÂ�soÂ�ciÂ�aÂ�tion with Athos, 44
Mat�thew, Saint, 13
May�hew, Henry, 140, 142
Mbuti PygÂ�mies (Congo), 67–68
McCulÂ�lough, BilÂ�lie Joe, 152–53
men as ro�man�tic, 23
The Mer�chant of Ven�ice (Shake�speare),
33–34
Mer�cury, 33
Meru, Mount (India), 42–43
mind vs. body, 25–26, 32, 170, 175
mis�an�thropy, 87
Mon�gols, 128
monks as non�ro�man�tic, 27
inde x
202
Moon, 33
Moses, 85
mounÂ�tain climbÂ�ing, 46–49, 176
Moun�tain of Des�tiny, 48
mounÂ�tains, 38–39, 41–49
Mum�ford, Lewis, 123
music and archi�tec�ture, 136
music of the �spheres, 177
mys�ti�cism, 168
mysÂ�tique of the mind, 25–26
NanÂ�sen, FridtÂ�jof, 96–103, 105, 108; FarÂ�thest
North, 102
Na�tional Acad�emy (China), 116
NaÂ�tional GeoÂ�graphic, 169–70
naÂ�ture, 108, 173–74. See also earth and
nat�u�ral en�vi�ron�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 Tes�ta�ment, moun�tains in, 43
New�ton, Sir Isaac, 41
New York City: night�life of, 130; �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 il�lu�mi�na�tion. See under light
nightÂ�mares vs. dayÂ�dreams, 12–13
Nile, Â�source of, 154–55, 157
1984 (Or�well), 150
North Pole exÂ�ploÂ�raÂ�tion, 97–98
North Star, 15, 16
North�west Pas�sage, 95
Nupe tribe (Ni�ge�ria), 13
Ocean (my�thol�ogy), 54, 61
Â�oceans, 50–51, 53–63
Odys�seus (my�thol�ogy), 53
The Odys�sey (Homer), 57
Ol�i�ver Twist (Dick�ens), 141
Olym�pus, Mount, 43
or�ganic farm�ing, 122
Or�well, �George, 18, 151; 1984, 150
Our Lady, cult of, 160
PaÂ�glia, CaÂ�mille, 148–49
papal power, 25
Paris: night�life of, 128; �revolutionaryperiod, 120; sew�ers/sub�ter�ra�nean
tunÂ�nels of, 132–33, 134
Parthe�non, 136
Pas�cal, �Blaise, 34
pas�sion, 176
Pel�o�pon�ne�sian War, 123
Pil�lars of Her�cules, 54
Plato, 19–20, 54
Poe, Edgar Allan, 57–58; The Fall of the
House of Usher, 21; The Tell Tale
Heart, 21
�poetry, rea�son em�bod�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 iso�lated com�mu�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 re�gions. See icy lands and re�gions
Pon�tine �Marshes (Italy), 126
The Post�hu�mous �Papers of the Pick�wick
Club (Dick�ens), 141
Pound, Ezra, 139
Pri�mum Mo�bile (first ro�tat�ing �sphere), 33
proto�hu�mans, 67
�quests: for the Good, 176; for the Holy
Grail, 7, 10, 27; for jus�tice, 162; knowl�
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
re�ces�sion (1880s), 145
re�demp�tion �through suf�fer�ing, 157
reÂ�liÂ�gious plays, 129–30
Rev�e�la�tion (Bible), 53
rev�o�lu�tion�ar�ies, 162
Re�ynie, Ga�briel Ni�co�las de la, 128
Rich�ard II (Shake�speare), 36
Rich�ard III (Shake�speare), 56
Rie�fen�stahl, Leni: Tri�umph of the Will,
48–49
roads, 45
Rock�ies, �American, 46
ro�man�ti�cism: of chil�dren, 172; vs. com�
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 he�roes, 153; and na�tion�al�ism, 176;
per�sis�tence of, 7; as reach�ing be�yond
the norm, 117; roÂ�manÂ�tic Â�traits, 5–6;
of Â�saints, 159–60, 164–65; of the
sub�lime, 5, 6, 171; of world vs. home,
23. See also �quests
Rome, an�cient: city vs. coun�try life of, 123;
night�life of, 127, 128; sew�ers of, 132;
spec�ta�cles en�joyed in, 129
Roots (Wesker), 111–12
rural life, cliÂ�chés of, 174–75
Sa�cred Moun�tain, 48
Â�saints, 147, 159–65
Â�saints’ halos, 11
sanÂ�aÂ�toria, mounÂ�tain, 45–46
Sat�urn, 33
Scho�pen�hauer, Ar�thur, 47
Sci�en�tific �American, 169
sciÂ�enÂ�tists, goals/moÂ�tives of, 168–69. See
also ex�plor�ers
Scott, Rob�ert Fal�con, 156
inde x
204
Scott, Sir Wal�ter, 4, 157
�Scylla, 57
Seven Pil�lars of Wis�dom (Law�rence), 89
sewÂ�ers, 132–33
ShackÂ�leÂ�ton, ErÂ�nest, 3, 100–101
Shake�speare, �William, 54, 110; An�tony and
CleÂ�oÂ�paÂ�tra, 20–21; The MerÂ�chant of
VenÂ�ice, 33–34; RichÂ�ard II, 36; RichÂ�ard
III, 56
Shou�mat�off, Alex, 71
sim�plic�ity vs. com�plex�ity, 148
Simp�son, J. H., 85
Sinai �Desert, 86
so�cial re�form�ers, 162
soÂ�cial Â�status, 24–25
Soc�ra�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
�Spenser, Ed�mund, 20
spon�ta�ne�ity, 176
Stan�ley, Henry Mor�ton, 154
Stel�la�tum (re�gion of fixed stars), 33
�Strabo, 83
the sub�lime: def�i�ni�tion of, 96; moun�tain
climbÂ�ing, 46–49, 176; roÂ�manÂ�tic, 5, 6,
171
Suger of Â�Saint-Denis, 11–12
Sui dy�nasty, 115
Su�mer�ian lan�guage, 118
Su�mer�ians, an�cient, 109
Sun, 33
super�ego, 21
“superÂ�ior,” meanÂ�ing of, 18
sur�vi�val, 6, 67, 151, 159, 167
sus�tain�abil�ity, 6
SutÂ�ton, HorÂ�ace, 124–25
sym�me�try, human par�tial�ity for, 55
system�atic knowl�edge, 171
Tai Shan (China), 43
tele�graph, 144
The Tell Tale Heart (Poe), 21
ter�ror�ism, 145
theÂ�aÂ�ter, dayÂ�time, 129–30
The�si�ger, Wil�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
Turn�bull, Colin M., 68
�Twenty Thou�sand �Leagues under the Sea
(film; DisÂ�ney), 58–59
�Twenty Thou�sand �Leagues under the Sea
(novel; Verne), 58–61
�Twenty Thou�sand �Leagues under the Sea
(ride; Dis�ney World), 59
Ulys�ses (my�thol�ogy), 54
Ulys�ses (novel; Joyce), 175
inde x
205
un�em�ploy�ment, 145
uniÂ�verÂ�sities, 25–26
“Upon ApÂ�pleÂ�ton House” (MarÂ�vell), 21
urban agÂ�riÂ�culÂ�ture, 121–22
van Loon, Hen�drik Wil�lem: Geog�ra�phy,
29–30
Venus (planet), 33
Venus of WilÂ�lenÂ�dorf, 148–49
Verne, Jules: Jour�ney to the Cen�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 Sim�son, Otto, 11
VoyÂ�ager 1, 36–37
waste�land, con�quest of, 126
Â�Wesker, ArÂ�nold: Roots, 111–12
white, pos�i�tive/neg�a�tive mean�ings of,
13–14
The White Hell of Piz Palü, 48
white vs. black, 13. See also dark�ness: vs.
light
WilÂ�son, Bill, 157–58
Â�witches’ mounÂ�tain homes, 42
Wolff, Mi�chael, 120
women as un�ro�man�tic, 23
Words�worth, �William, 136, 138, 177
Â�working-class peoÂ�ple, 149–51
Works and Days (He�siod), 110
writ�ing and civ�il�iza�tion, 76
yang (light, day, sun), 13
Zhou dy�nasty, 123
Zhou Li (Book of Rites), 114
Zo�roas�trian�ism, 85