Book Report: Timefulness

50. Marcia Bjornerud, Timefulness: How Thinking Like a Geologist Can Help Save the World (2018) (1/28/19)

And with this book, I meet my goal of fifty since January 28 of last year! I even made an effort to finish with a non–picture book (because I am, most of the time, an adult), and one that might provoke some thoughtfulness on my part. This one proved perfect. I learned a lot about geology, climate, time, change, equilibrium, rocks, chemistry, glaciers, fossils, and so much more. Well, actually, I probably "learned" just a fraction of all the fascinating science that is packed into this relatively short book of six chapters plus prologue and epilogue. My mind is not especially scientific—i.e. read: analytic—and my grasp of chemistry, physics, and the like is approximately nil. But still, I enjoyed this broad look into deep time, including the philosophical ramifications of It All.

This is popular science at its best. Bjornerud does a good job of contextualizing geology by bringing it home to place. And her facility with similes and analogies is spot-on. For example, in discussing the use of lead isotopes to arrive at the age of the Earth (4.5 billion years), she likens two radiogenic lead isotopes (derived from radioactive decay of uranium) to the cumulative earnings from two savings accounts, one with a high interest rate that allows rapid withdrawals to be made, the other with a lower interest rate that is drawn down more slowly; while a third, nonradiogenic isotope (that is, it starts out as lead) is like money hidden under a mattress. The earth itself she likens to a peach: the pit is the core, the flesh is the mantle, the skin is the crust, and the fuzz is the atmosphere. Works for me!

The chapters that I found most compelling were 2, "An Atlas of Time," where she covers the discoveries and thinking of foundational scientists such as Hutton, Lyell, and Darwin in the 18th and 19th centuries, up to big theories as mind-blowingly recent as the 1960s (plate tectonics and understanding of midoceanic ridges) and 1980s (the precise dating of the end of the Cretaceous period via the Mayan Peninsula's Chicxulub Crater)—even as we continue (eternally, no doubt) to revise our set of knowledge about this planet; and 6, "Timefulness: Utopian and Scientific," where she argues that humankind seriously needs a much more profound grasp of and appreciation for time both past and future, not just present, which is what economic models of value would ask us to focus on. As she puts it, "Stranded in the island of now, we are lonely." Not just lonely, but headed down a treacherous path.

In chapter 6, Bjornerud references the works of various artists as a means of better appreciating time. One is a project by photographer Rachel Sussman, who traveled around the world taking formal portraits of living organisms older than 2,000 years: The Oldest Living Things in the World. "These Old Ones," Bjornerud writes," open our eyes to alternative relationships with time. They help us, vicariously, to see beyond the horizon of our own mortal limits."

Yes, my mind grasps art and philosophy better than science. But in fact, both are crucial to our fate on this planet, and to the fate of this planet. We need imagination and close observation; creative approaches that transcend fiscal cycles; appreciation of the vast complexity of this endlessly evolving miracle that we call home.

For me, geology points to a middle way between the sins of narcissistic pride in our importance and existential despair at our insignificance. It affirms a teaching attributed to the eighteenth-century Polish Rabbi Simcha Bunim that we should all carry two slips of paper in our pockets: one that says "I am ashes and dust," and one that reads "The world was made for me." . . . If widely adopted, an attitude of timefulness could transform our relationships with nature, our fellow humans, and ourselves. Recognizing that our personal and cultural stories have always been embedded in larger, longer—and still elapsing—Earth stories might save us from environmental hubris. We might learn to place less value on novelty and disruption, and develop respect for durability and resilience. . . . Understanding how things have come to be the way they are, what has perished and what has persisted, makes it easier to recognize the differences between the ephemeral and the eternal. Growing old requires one to shed the illusion that there is only one version of the world.

If you're interested in reading more about "timefulness," here is an op-ed that Bjornerud published recently in the Los Angeles Times. I find it a wise approach indeed.

Book Report: Norse Mythology

49. Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology (2017) (1/25/19)

It's hard to know what to say about this rich, suspenseful, sometimes funny retelling of Norse myths, featuring the usual suspects, known now so well from blockbuster movies like Thor: Ragnarok—Odin, the one-eyed all-father; his son, the slightly dim but very powerful Thor, with his magic hammer, Mjollnir; the sly, tricky, not-to-be-trusted, even at times quite evil shapeshifter Loki, Thor's blood brother. But beyond these three, this book features a full cast of characters: gods, giants, dwarves; mighty serpents, wolves, eagles; and more—so many that I was glad for the thorough glossary at the end.

I never learned about the Norse myths in school, so these were new to me: how Odin lost an eye in exchange for wisdom at the well of Mimir, the guardian of memory; how Thor got his hammer in the first place; the provenance of the Gjallerhorn, owned by the watchman of the gods, which, when blown once, will signal the end of time, Ragnarok.

Well, wait: that's not entirely true. I mentioned Thor: Ragnarok above. That, if anywhere, is where I've learned what little I know about the Norse myths. And some of these gods show up in Gaiman's own American Gods as well. But . . . those sources are hardly definitive. I'm not sure Gaiman's stories here are exactly definitive either, but I do feel better educated now. (Carolyne Larrington's The Norse Myths: A Guide to the Gods and Heroes [2017] might be a more rigorous, if less entertaining, reference.)

The tone of the stories is mostly serious, though in dialogue—especially when Loki is involved—things lighten up. As here, where a test of skill, arranged by Loki and pitting three master-crafstman dwarves against two others, Brokk and Eitri, is being discussed:

"Let's make this personal, Loki. Eh?"
 "What do you have in mind?" asked Loki.
 "Your head," said Brokk. "If we win this contest, we get your head, Loki. There's lots of things going on in that head of yours, and I have no doubt that Eitri could make a wonderful device out of it. A thinking machine, perhaps. Or an inkwell."
 Loki kept smiling, but he scowled on the inside. The day had started out so well. Still, he simply had to ensure that Eitri and Brokk lost the contest; the gods would still get six wonderful things from the dwarfs, and Sif [Thor's wife] would get her golden hair [which Loki had stolen]. He could do that. He was Loki.
 "Of course," he said. "My head. No problem."

In the end, Brokk and Eitri win the contest, but Loki barely escapes with his head thanks to . . . one of his many ruses. "That was the thing about Loki. You resented him even when you were at your most grateful, and you were grateful to him even when you hated him the most."

I couldn't help but think of Tom Hiddleston when it came to Loki, and so the lengths of Loki's pure evil surprised, even distressed me. You just can't trust Hollywood.

The book begins with set-up: "The Players," "Before the Beginning and After," "Yggdrasil [the tree of wisdom] and the Nine Worlds," "Mimir's Head and Odin's Eye"—and then we get into storytelling, with scene and dialogue. Eleven such stories follow, ending with "Ragnarok: The Final Destiny of the Gods." Yet all is not over. As the last page of the book puts it, hopefully: "And the game begins anew." The playing pieces will just be different.

Here is a NYT article, "Neil Gaiman on His 'Norse Mythology,' in Which Odin Wants a Wall." In it he is asked why Norse mythology, why not Greek. He was attracted, he said, "partly by their flawed protagonists and satisfyingly dark worldview. 'Greek myths are full of sex and peacocks. There’s lots of sitting outside and falling in love with your own reflection. No one’s doing that in Norse mythology. You sit outside in the winter, you’re dead."

But still he has lots of fun with the situations, the landscape, the personalities, who indeed are all too human in many ways, with their petty jealousies and lapses of logic.

In scanning the web for information on this book, I learned that there is an audio version, narrated by Gaiman himself. I'm not really an audiobook listener, but that one: I might just have to seek it out for a repeat treat.

And finally, I can't resist: here's Tom Hiddleston on "life as Loki." Because Tom Hiddleston.

Book Report: Wolf in the Snow

48. Matthew Cordell, author and illustrator, Wolf in the Snow (2018) (1/21/19)

This mostly wordless Caldecott Award winner tells a simple story of a girl walking home from school one very snowy day and encountering a lost wolf cub. But she can hear the cub's pack howling in the distance, and she sets off to reunite them. As the snow continues to fall, her own tracks vanish. Which way is home?

The story plays out successfully (dare I say of course?), and beautifully thanks to Cordell's rich ink-and-watercolor illustrations. The Caldecott judges had this to say in conferring the award: "Fairy tale elements in a strong sense of color and geometry offer an engrossing, emotionally charged story."

Although this story might have played on fear—will the wolves eat the little girl?—Cordell has a different objective. He wants to explore coexistence, and perhaps the emotions that we share with our fellow denizens of this earth, and the idea of safety and belonging. He acknowledges the help of a biologist from the Yellowstone Wolf Project who gave valuable input on wolf behavior—including, I surmise, wolf-human interactions. I like stories that are not just emotionally charged, but also try to teach us something about the world. Especially respect.

Here are a few illustrations from the book (click on them to view large on black). Notice the Red Riding Hood–like attire of the girl. And yet the message of the book is just the opposite of that tale.

The prolific author talks about his work in a series of YouTube interviews. Here is the first, thirty-second one, and it appears they just keep rolling one into the next. I'm going to make some time to watch them soon. The more time I spend with picture books, the more I appreciate the creativity and heart of their authors.

Book Report: How to Be a Good Creature

47. Sy Montgomery, How to Be a Good Creature: A Memoir in Thirteen Animals (2018) (1/21/19)

This is an enchanting book by a longtime natural history writer, for both adults and children (her The Soul of the Octopus is on my to-read shelf, and after reading this book, I think I'll move it higher in the stack). As the subtitle says, it's a memoir of sorts, taking us from Sy's childhood with her Scottish terrier Molly—who taught her, in no uncertain terms, that there's a lot more to the world than exists within ordinary human sensory range—to the present, represented by another dog, the border collie Thurber, who has taught her this: "You never know, even when life looks hopeless, what might happen next. It could be that something wonderful is right around the corner."

Other border collies, Tess and Sally; a pig named Chris; and a half dozen chickens figure in as well, each with their own lessons. But we also learn how more exotic animals have impacted Sy's life and career: three emu named Bald Throat, Black Head, and Knackered Leg, who usher her onto the naturalist path she would (and still does) follow for thirty-plus years; a tarantula known as Clarabelle, who teaches about the enchantment of even the smallest corners of the world; a weasel that kills one of Sy's first chickens—doing exactly what comes naturally and teaching the balm of forgiveness; and Octavia, the octopus, who showed Sy "that our world, and the worlds around and within it, is aflame with shades of brilliance we cannot fathom—and is far more vibrant, far more holy, than we could ever imagine."

Or maybe we can. Sy does a pretty good job of helping us in our imaginings.

As she mourns the deaths of Tess and Chris, she finds escape from a deep depression on an expedition to the cloud forest of New Guinea to seek out rare Matschie's tree kangaroos. Those they did find, and more—and here we get a sample of her more descriptive prose:

At every turn, it seemed, we encountered evidence of rare, unlikely animals with incredible bodies, fantastic abilities, and delightful names. Echidnas are egg-laying animals, one of only two kinds on Earth (the platypus is the other). Mountain cuscus are the largest possums in the world, weighing up to thirteen pounds, nocturnal and secretive. Other animals we didn't actually see, but we found their nests, hides, and holes. We encountered a mound where a chicken-size brush fowl had dug a nest as big as a Volkswagen in the dirt, using the heat generated by compost to incubate his eggs. (Yes, the male tends them, adjusting the temperature as needed, cooling by digging ventilation holes.) We found holes in the grassy areas near camp that had been dug by pademelons—fat, furry kangaroo-like characters with alert, swiveling ears and stubby tails. The tracker reported they spotted a dorcopsis, a tiny wallaby with the face of a gazelle, near camp.
  This cloud forest world was vividly alive in a way I had not observed in any other habitat. Unlike in the Amazon and other rainforests I had visited, there were no mosquitoes (too cold), no biting ants, no poisonous snakes, spiders, or scorpions. Though Wasaunon was teeming with lives, all of them seemed not only benign but benevolent. . . .
  [About two tree kangaroos she helps to radio-collar and examine—whom the researcher dubs Tess and Chris—she writes:] They were their own complex, individual selves, who loved their unique lives. But also, they were, to me, wildness itself. These two animals carried within them the wild heart that beats inside all creatures—the wildness we honor in our breath and our blood, that wildness that keeps us on this spinning planet. Here in the cloud forest, I found again the wildness that keeps us sane and whole, the wild, delicious hunger for life.

That is the spirit that buoys the whole book, whether she's writing about animals very different from us, like Clarabelle and Octavia, or about her beloved family pets. She is curious, and appreciative of the holiness that infuses all life.

Book Report: God Bless the Gargoyles

46. Dav Pilkey, story and paintings, God Bless the Gargoyles (1996) (1/19/19)

I mentioned to a friend the other day that I'm reading picture books to bring me within reach of my fifty-book goal for the year (which ends ten days from today: and I'm gettin' there!). She thought about it and mentioned a few of her favorites, which she enjoys reading to her grandchildren. God Bless the Gargoyles was one title that stuck in my head. So I ordered it. It arrived today.

The author is apparently best known for his Captain Underpants series, which I gather is silly. This book, however, is decidedly unsilly. Though for some reason I was surprised that it's a rhyming book. But indeed, the rhymes made it that much more enjoyable: they're fun and give the text a nice dancelike rhythm.

The story is simple: long ago, when huge cathedrals were first built, the craftsmen made stone creatures to "set . . .  on perches to guard and protect and watch over the churches." These gargoyles were loyal, watchful, courageous, and fearless. However, over the years, people forgot the magic, and began to curse them as demons, as grotesque and horrid. The gargoyles became very sad.

but as it so happened, some angels were near,
and heeding the grief of a gargoyle's tear,
they each fluttered down from the heavens on high
to sit with the gargoyles beneath thundering skies.

They whispered life back into the gargoyles, who accompanied the angels on a great nighttime flight, soaring through the clouds and over the land, where the angels blessed all the creatures of the earth—especially those who do not belong, and the ones who are grieving, and the dreamers and the lovers whose hearts have been broken:

god bless each soul that is tortured and taunted,
god bless all creatures alone and unwanted.
and the gargoyles beheld wherever they roamed
the that souls of the lost weren't really alone.
each one had an angel, each one was protected,
and each one was cherished and loved and respected.

It's a lovely message, one that reminds me of one of my favorite movies, Wim Wenders's Wings of Desire. And the illustrations, which are reminiscent of stained-glass windows, merely add to the feeling of benediction and celebration. Unfortunately, I found only a couple of them online, so . . . you'll just have to seek out the book for yourself to see what I mean.

Book Report: Where the Crawdads Sing

45. Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing (2018) (1/19/19)

This is a lovely book, a first novel by an established nonfiction writer from way back: I'm thinking of Cry of the Kalahari (1984), though she has written other natural history works as well.

I will always remember driving in a jeep through the Kalahari and our guide pointing to a lone acacia tree, saying, "That's where the Owenses had their camp for seven years." I am still a little in awe and envy of Delia's intrepidness and of her life as a field biologist.

This book, too, contains a lot of biology: the natural history of swamps and marshes, and of the seashore; the life cycles and mating rituals of numerous beasts, from fireflies to black-headed gulls to white-tail deer. The descriptive passages are poetic yet honed to the essential details.

The story, all in all, requires considerable suspension of disbelief, but the writing was inviting enough. It tells of a girl, Kya, who lives in a wild marshland with her family—all of whom, one by one, end up leaving her, until she is all alone by age ten. She has spent exactly one day in school by then, and never goes back, shamed by the children's taunting. But she does learn how to read, thanks to a boy from the nearby small town, Tate (her first "primer" is Aldo Leopold's Sand County Almanac). And she is able to provide for herself by trading harvested mussels and smoked fish with the black man, Jumpin', who owns the shoreside gas station just up the coast. Schooling herself with the books that Tate continues to bring over the years, she studies the heart of her beloved marshland, eventually publishing books of her paintings and observations. (Do you see why I said a suspension of disbelief is needed? I imagine the impatient cynic would just say, "Balderdash," and throw the book at the wall. I guess I was in the mood for some schlock.)

The book opens, though, with a death: a young man has fallen from a watchtower. The story then switches back and forth between Kya's ongoing tale, starting in 1952 when she is six, and then returning at intervals to the investigation of the death—which becomes a murder investigation, with Kya the only real suspect—in 1969. It's a reasonably clever structure and works to keep the reader's interest.

It is, in the end, part coming-of-age story, part love story, part murder mystery, part courtroom drama, part natural history lesson. Here's a snatch of the marsh, randomly selected:

A great blue heron is the color of gray mist reflecting in blue water. And like mist, she can fade into the backdrop, all of her disappearing except the concentric circles of her lock-and-load eyes. She is a patient, solitary hunter, standing alone as long as it takes to snatch her prey. Or, eyeing her catch, she will stride forward one slow step at a time, like a predacious bridesmaid. And yet, on rare occasions she hunts on the wing, darting and diving sharply, swordlike beak in the lead. 

Despite the often lyric writing, one rather prosaic paragraph in particular leapt out at me:

She handed Mrs. Hines, the librarian, a list of college textbooks. "Could you please help me find The Principles of Organic Chemistry by Geissman, Invertebrate Zoology of the Coastal Marsh by Jones, and Fundamentals of Ecology by Odum . . ." She'd seen these titles referenced in the last of the books Tate had given [her] before he left her for college.

It was quite a surprise to see my father's textbook referenced! I expect it's one that Owens herself studied (and perhaps suffered) from when she was in college. And yes, it made me enjoy the book that little smidgen bit more.

Book Report: The Arrival

44. Shaun Tan, The Arrival (2006) (1/15/19)

This exquisite, wordless graphic novel—six chapters and 128 pages long, each page consisting of from one to twelve sepia-toned drawings—tells the story of a nameless man who leaves his home and family to find a better life in a new land. It is the ageless story of the migrant, the refugee. In this case, sinister dragonlike tails wave over the city he is leaving behind, suggesting political oppression or some other danger. And the new land is full of strangeness: a strange language, strange architecture, strange food, strange pets even. We watch as he manages to find a place to sleep—where he meets his own friendly-creature pet—tries to find a job, learns how to feed himself on the bizarre fruits of the land, and meets others with tales of departure and arrival of their own, who help him along. Some of the drawings present intimate sequences of action; others portray overviews of this new place he finds himself in. They work together to convey the sense of disorientation and confusion that a newcomer feels in a strange land, but also the moments of comfort and homecoming.

Here is Tan, a native of Western Australia, talking about The Arrival on the occasion of it being set to music:

This book invites one to return again and again, to study the more elaborate, single-page or full-spread drawings for detail, or to stitch together the smaller drawings for story.

All ends well, with the family being reunited in their new home: the first and sixth chapters mirror each other both narratively and graphically. It's a flat-out beautiful book, and dare I say an important one as well.