Madison Grant, All-American white supremacist

Yesterday on FB I posted a quote from the biography of Theodore Roosevelt that I'm reading, to wit:

A NYC newspaper editor had this to say about a certain politician: "Stop [him] talking! Why, you would kill him. He has to talk. The peculiarity about him is that he has what is essentially a boy's mind. What he thinks he says at once, says aloud. It is his distinguishing characteristic, and I don't know as he will ever outgrow it." 

The editor then went on to say, "But with it he has great qualities which make him an invaluable public servant—inflexible honesty, absolute fearlessness, and devotion to good government which amounts to religion. We must let him work his way, for nobody can induce him to change it."

And I asked—the initial observation of course bringing to mind Trump, but the subsequent characterization reminding us of anyone but—whether any of my readers had a guess as to who was being described?

My friend the writer BK Loren got it right off, with the added comment that Roosevelt "also leaned heavily white supremacist." She wrote, "I wonder if most people know that about him? He and Madison Grant ☞ saved the redwoods at least partially because they thought they represented the superior white race. The book Madison wrote was used by Hitler and Anders Breivik to justify their heinous acts." And she referred me to an essay (from 2015) by Duke University law professor Jedidiah Purdy, "Environmentalism's Racist History," discussing Grant.

This particular Grant is not mentioned in either volume one or two of the book I'm reading; maybe he's in volume three, but maybe too he slipped under the biographer, Edmund Morris's radar. That series was published between 1979 and 2010, and Morris no doubt had to jettison just as much juicy material as he kept, TR being rather larger than life. But perhaps Morris didn't run into Grant, or didn't consider him worthy of mention? 

As Purdy puts it, Grant (1865–1937), "like many young men of his vintage, felt duty-bound to do more than enjoy his privilege. He made himself a credible wildlife zoologist, was instrumental in creating the Bronx Zoo, and founded the first organizations dedicated to preserving American bison and the California redwoods." But what he's better known for today is his 1915 book The Passing of the Great Race, or The Racial Basis of European History, in which he warns of the decline of the "Nordic" peoples, whom he considered "a natural aristocracy, marked by noble, generous instincts and a gift for political self-governance" (as Purdy paraphrases). This book was admired by Hitler, who called it his "Bible" (which, Purdy states, "has given it permanent status on the ultra-right"), and it influenced the U.S. Immigration Act of 1924, restricting immigration from Eastern and Southern Europe and Africa and outright banning migrants from the Middle East and Asia. 

In the FB discussion, herpetologist Harry Greene also cited a more recent (June 26 repost) profile of Grant, by Richard Conniff, "The All-American White Supremacist Role Model." 

I am posting all this because I want to read both those commentaries, and what better place to store the links—and potentially find them again!—than here.

I will also say that TR, at the very least (I have no opinion of Grant yet), was a man of his time and class. Which is not to excuse him for having entitled, no doubt racist beliefs. He was certainly a (white) American exceptionalist, yet his biography also shows ways in which his thoughts evolved and changed. And we do have to thank him for championing our environment, even if one reason for his doing so is anathema today. I would not go so far as to call him a white supremacist. 

As for Trump,  Conniff comments, "The difference between Madison Grant & Donald Trump? Grant at least accomplished some good in his life, as a wildlife conservationist, before turning utterly bad."

And . . . I'm glad now to have discovered Conniff's Substack. It looks like it has all sorts of interesting reads.

Not really a book report: Solar

12. Ian McEwan, Solar (2010) (6/28/26)

As I've mentioned before, I don't listen to books. But I have an Audible account (don't ask me why), and back in May a writer friend said she had enjoyed listening to Solar by Ian McEwan. I'd read Atonement by McEwan, and was impressed by it. So I loaded Solar into my queue, and one day when I couldn't find an appealing podcast to listen to on my more or less daily walk, I decided to give it a go.

I was not hooked, exactly—but once I'm walking, if I don't have to stop and fiddle with my phone (and as I said, I didn't have any immediate alternatives), I just keep listening. 

This occurred a few times, at intervals. So given the combination of me being a distracted listener—when I'm walking, I'm always visually engaged, looking for a photo of the day—and of having no real sense of the structure of the book—"chapters" were enumerated on my screen, but my ear couldn't really discern starting and stopping points for such, it all just seemed to flow like a braided stream—and of listening to it in maybe a half dozen sessions over the course of weeks . . . I'm afraid I have a very diaphanous impression of this book. 

But it all starts and ends with an overall antipathy toward the main character, physicist Michael Beard, Nobel Laureate—but also narcissist, stealer of ideas, framer-for-murder, womanizer, and generally unpleasant specimen of manhood. And he doesn't improve.

The story is also sort of about climate change, and trying to tackle the problem—but Beard doesn't really believe in climate change, he's just stumbled on someone else's attempt at a solution. And he decides to implement it. Why not? 

In the end, everything falls to bits. The final paragraph caught me by surprise (at least with a print book you can anticipate that you're coming to the end, but here: it just ended, what?). And I cared not a whit. The overall mood of the book is one of cynicism. And I don't need more cynicism in my life.

Perhaps the most interesting part of the book was the epilogue, the address at the Swedish Academy outlining Michael Beard's accomplishments in physics (with a dash of Richard Feynman) as he's awarded his Nobel Prize. And then there was an interview with McEwan, talking about the book—hearing about the writerly process was interesting. For example, that a somewhat random chapter about a visit to the far north of Norway to view climate change in action was based on a trip McEwan himself took, which in turn became the initial inspiration/instigation for the book—that was worth learning about. And it turned out the Swedish Academy address wasn't even written by McEwan, but by a physicist friend of his. Maybe that's why I liked it so much.

So far, listening to audiobooks, I've been really glad I took on Percival Everett's James—that book was, I think, enhanced by the reading voice. The Testament of Mary was wonderful as read by Meryl Streep, but I wonder if it might not have been a teeny bit better if I'd simply imagined my own voice of Mary as I read the words on the page. With Solar, I suspect I would have quit reading, turned off by the protagonist. So it's only the narrator who kept me going. Something to do while walking. But maybe simple silence, being with my own thoughts, would have been a better alternative. But no, I'm glad I listened to Solar. It at least made me consider how one might pull off an unsympathetic character, and make you care. It's possible, I know.

Travel again, 25 years on

In 2001 we traveled to southern Africa, the lure being a total eclipse (on June 21) in Zimbabwe. But while we were in the area, we figured we'd stick around. After two weeks on the eclipse tour, we spent another two weeks in Botswana on another tour that I booked through a South African company (in those days, the internet was still a place where you might be interacting with a dog, who knew? but in this case the random selection worked out just fine and we had a marvelous excursion through various national parks, including the exquisite Okavango Delta), and finally two weeks in Namibia with a South African climber I also rustled up on the internet, Richard Behne—in order to do some climbing. It was a trip of a lifetime. Here we are in Zimbabwe (note the elephants), then in Namibia atop Spitzkoppe, the highest mountain in the country, and on the Wattenberg plateau.

Back then, I was still using a film camera, so the photos I took were slides, some of which I digitized—but apparently didn't save at full resolution. They're blurry and grainy, but they give some idea of some of what captivated us. For the following photos, you can go here to see the images individually and for some description.

I would love to return to that part of the world—and next time, I'd like to go to the Garden Coast of South Africa, in springtime. Maybe it'll happen. Who knows?

Book Report: London Rules

11. Mick Herron, London Rules (2018)

Ha, I see that with the last Slow Horses report, I was also slogging my way through a long nonfiction book (which I also realize I never finished, uh oh). This time, it's a biography of Theodore Roosevelt. Which I am feeling quite happy to get back to now, after this retreat into fantastical fiction. I'm ready again for the real world—though not necessarily the real world I happen to live in. Then again, no, that's not true: the real world I live in is just fine. It's the real world of the headlines that I'd just as soon keep avoiding. (Though today does bring some reasonably good news as the Republicans begin to show a bit of spine. Let's see what happens tomorrow—or just later today . . .)

In any case, back to London Rules, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Mick Herron is a helluva writer, and storyteller. And once again, the TV series with Gary Oldman kept flashing through my head as I read, and once again, I enjoyed the difference between the story on the page and the dramatized screenplay. Also, it helps to be able to "see" the characters so well. 

The story here begins with a terrorist attack in a village in England, and then moves on to other seemingly random acts of violence (including the murder of 18 penguins and an accidental death by falling paint can), which the Slow Horses manage to make sense of—and which point to a leak within the Secret Service itself. Of course, it's not so simple as sabotage, nor is everything under any kind of control. Though things do work out in the end and Jackson Lamb keeps the upper hand. 

And now, back to Teddy, who is about to take a long break in the wilds of "Dakota."

My Colbert Questionnaire

Sure, I'll bite—because it's fun. And even though I didn't watch The Late Show (except randomly on FB shares), I will miss Stephen Colbert. I also fully anticipate that he has something up his sleeve that will delight us . . .  I would say all, but we know that a good 30 percent of this country does not begin to understand or even want to care about Colbert or his humor or those to whom his humor appeals. So anyway, here we go:

1. What is the best sandwich?

"Best" is difficult to define, but I do know that if I go to a restaurant and it's lunchtime and tuna melt is on the menu, that's what I order.

2. What was the first concert you attended?

Jethro Tull, with Steeleye Span as opener, 1973. SS's Gaudete knocked me for a loop. It was Tull's "Passion Play" tour. (And as a caveat, I should say that I attended plenty of classical music concerts, as well as music theater, growing up, with my mom. Here I'm singling out my first popular music concert with friends.)

3. What is the scariest animal?

I was not exactly attacked by a mama javelina in Arizona once, but man, yeah, she was scary.

4. Apples or oranges?

Apples. Crunch.

5. Have you ever asked someone for their autograph?

Jean-Claude Killy, the skier, at a restaurant in Beverly Hills. It would've been about 1969. I have seen a few other famous people (Ronald Reagan, Laurence Fishburne, Sean Penn, the Dalai Lama) at various venues, but I was no longer an autograph seeker. Not that I ever really was. I think my father was more interested in that autograph than I was . . .

6. What do you think happens when we die?

What Keanu Reaves said.

7. Favorite action movie?

Die Hard. (Me and George Clooney and Ethan Hawke, just sayin'.)

8. Window or aisle seat?

Window.

9. Favorite smell?

Petrichor.

10. Least favorite smell?

Oh please.

11. What is your earliest memory?

I'm afraid it was when in nursery school I peed my pants and had to be sent home. Though you know I'm sitting here searching for something better. Like, I really wish I remembered being terrorized by the emu at the Healesville Wildlife Sanctuary in Victoria, Australia, on my third birthday, when it did its best to pluck the red ribbon out of my hair, but all I have is stories to that effect. . . . (And I'm making up the red detail there, because the photographs-as-proof are all in b&w.)

12. Cats or dogs?

Both. We have (had: our beloved Milo, 15, died in January) both, and they both bring different joys. I'm not going to choose. Currently, the cats are trying to be dogs. Well, one of them is. Really hard.

13. If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what is it?

Mozart's 21st piano concerto. 

14. What number am I thinking of? (Often Colbert's number is 3)

18 (that's my number. I don't care what Colbert's is)

15. Describe the rest of your life in five words.

Curious, relaxed, exploring, appreciating, connecting. (At least, that's what I'd like to aspire to. To quote at rather more length from a blog post of March 2016,  I hope to "keep expanding, exploring, leaping, trusting, risking, trying, while always seeking my center." Yeah. All that.)

Still thinking about travel

We have some old friends visiting, from Denmark: Jan, a Dutch naval architect who works at the Mærsk Mc-Kinney Møller Center for Zero Carbon Shipping, and Catharina, who is communications officer for vaccine-preventable diseases at WHO (though both are about to retire, at the end of June). We met them at UC Berkeley in the 1980s, and Catharina grew up in California, so this place is well known to them, though they don't visit very often anymore. 

We've spent the past couple of days wandering our local habitat, yesterday through Monterey, along Cannery Row, and into Pacific Grove along the shore; today Elkhorn Slough, a tidal estuary just north of us, and neighboring Moss Landing, a little fishing harbor. To me these places are, well, just local places—not not special, but . . . well, they're not like wandering the Langelinie in Copenhagen and bumping into the Little Mermaid, which Jan and Catharina can do any day they feel like it (and I'm betting they very rarely do). 

And so it's been very heartening to me to experience their unbridled delight in the spots we've been encountering—it's like seeing my world through fresh eyes. Which is something I rather need, given how depressing my world has become. (Yes, that's a political comment.) They are so happy just with the weather! And yes, really, it's been perfect weather—not too hot, not too cold, some sun, not too much.

Today, at the slough, we lingered on a bench, and then on a pier, just watching the bird life—a greater yellow-legs, a long-legged shorebird, something I hadn't seen in a while; a whole herd of (Brandt's?) cormorants and brown pelicans and great egrets dashing back and forth in a watery inlet, probably after baitfish; acorn woodpeckers flitting in and out of a nesting hole in an acorn-studded dead pine. These birds are unusual for J&C, but even for us, having the chance—or rather, taking the time—to simply observe them in a leisurely fashion, what a treat. Then at Moss Landing, we stood for a good twenty, thirty minutes watching, mesmerized, as maybe seventy sea lions lounged and battled and bawled and shlumped right over one another in a sandy cove, all punctuated by the insistent cry of a seagull settled into the top of a piling, and by a circling ballet of more sea lions, fins and tails raised in a thermoregulating salute, in the water. It was quite the sight, and quite the cacophony. 

Yesterday, we ducked into a shop selling alebrijes, fanciful carved wooden animals intricately painted in bright colors, and later encountered a seventeen-year-old Sulcata, or African spurred, tortoise out for a stroll near the Pacific Grove bike path (her name is Sunny; her owner is Gary). 

Here are some pictures I've taken.

A porcupine alebrije

Gary and Sunny

A yucca flower with buzzing bees

Ed Ricketts on the rec trail

The slough—so peaceful

The mob of hunting waterfowl

A few of the sea lions (and that noisy seagull)

It's been a little bit like being on vacation—and is making me feel slightly less curmudgeonly about travel (see my last couple of posts). Because although I like being a "tourist" in my own neighborhood, I really love exploring new places, and feeling that fresh delight of strangeness and discovery—which I've also been getting a glimpse of from Jan and Catharina. Gotta find your teachers where they are.

Travel-bis

I said yesterday that my traveling days may be over, but of course I have a list of places I'd still like to visit. Starting with Dubrovnik, Croatia, which I've dreamed about ever since the Los Angeles Times Magazine featured it on the front page oh, fifty-five years ago (when Dubrovnik was still in Yugoslavia). I may still have that photo stuffed away in a file drawer. Yes, I would dearly love to see Dubrovnik.

Also:
Prague
Cape Town
Rio, with a hike up the hill to visit Christ the Redeemer
Angkor Wat
Barcelona
Tbilisi
Samarkand

I'd like to walk the Offa's Dike Path bordering Wales and England. 

I'd like to go back to Japan, which I last visited in 1982, and before that in 1965, and spend a few months wandering through all the islands. 

Oh, and yes: Namibia, where I have been, but I didn't get to the sand dunes. I'd love to see the dunes.

What's interesting, really, is thinking about what's influenced me—to want to go to some places, not others. Why aren't I eager to visit, say, Monterrey, Mexico, or Nairobi, Kenya? Mainly, maybe, because I don't have any pictures in my head of those places? 

Though yes, I'd love to go on a safari in Kenya. 

All this makes me wonder about my fellow Americans, more than half of whom don't even have a passport. 

To spend your entire life in just one place? (Because let me just project here: I doubt the people who don't have a passport have traveled very far even in their own country.)

Weird. Seriously.

Then again, the fact that so many of my fellow countrymen could vote for the current president is beyond weird. I'm pretty sure they (the billionaires excluded) don't have passports.

And there's my political rant for today.