Rachel Carson: Past, Present, and Future

One way to open your eyes is to ask yourself:
What if I had never seen this before?
What if I knew I would never see it again?

~Rachel Carson

 

 



This week I finished reading Rachel Carson's Silent Spring, the book that launched the modern environmental movement.

This classic has been on my TBR shelf forever and a day.  I don't know what it is about the classics; sometimes it's hard to sit down and get started on them when there is such a bottomless well of modern works to read.

What motivated me to at last read Silent Spring was the desire to explore Carson's life and work with an eye toward incorporating her as one of the case studies for our Avila University course Women and Science.  I won't be teaching Women and Science for at least another year and a half, but between the semesters in which we run the course, I am always looking for new material and new stories to add.

My own background in ecology has long made Rachel Carson an attractive option for this course.  Now I wish I had read her work sooner. 

I was prepared for Silent Spring to be an engaging account of the dangers of using pesticides with reckless abandon.  What I did not anticipate was the sheer volume of data Carson amassed. I had heard she was accused by the chemical companies of not backing up her arguments with data.  I mean, really.  Did they even bother to read the book?

Nor did I know just how gifted a writer Carson was; a master, really, of making complex scientific information readily accessible to the reader. Her prose is very reminiscent of E.O. Wilson; though perhaps it would be better to say that E.O. Wilson's prose is very reminiscent of hers.

Most of all, I expected Silent Spring to be a classic in the classic sense of the word: Outdated, for the most part, in the context of its field, a relic interesting for its historical significance but of little relevance for the modern world.  I couldn't have been more wrong on this account, and I found that realization rather depressing. 

Carson's landmark book led to the banning of DDT, dieldrin, and other problematic pesticides; as well as to a more balanced approach to how, when, and under what circumstances pesticides should be applied. 

Contrary to popular belief, Carson did not advocate abandoning pesticides altogether.  What her book urged us to do, and still urges us to do, is to tread lightly when introducing novel chemicals to the environment.  Chemical compounds new to nature should be used wisely, in targeted situations, and with a full understanding of their potential impacts. 

Rachel Carson passed away in 1964, but
her legacy and her message live on.

It seems a reasonable thing to ask, really, and yet still we struggle to rein in the profit-motivated agricultural and chemical industries. 

We may not spray indiscriminately anymore (though in some places we do), but now we have new inventions like genetically engineered plants that produce systemic pesticides, the full consequences of which are largely unknown.  We have extraction systems like fracking that inject a host of unrevealed chemicals deep into the earth, again with no attention to a full assessment of the impacts.  We have banana and pineapple plantations that jealously guard their pesticide recipes as "trade secrets", leaving laborers and consumers alike in the dark as to what degree of chemical exposure we are all dealing with.  

The list goes on and on, but I'm not really interested in recreating Carson's eloquent argument in a single blog post.  My reflection today centers on this compelling thought:

Some fifty years after her death, Rachel Carson has made it clear to me that the struggle to achieve a healthier planet is far from over. More importantly, she assures me it is a battle still worth fighting, because although sometimes it seems we are losing, it is also true that we have made many gains, precisely because people like Rachel Carson had the courage and tenacity to speak up. 

Such is the timeless power of the written word, the words of a woman and a scientist, the enduring words of Rachel Carson.  

Love and the Human Spirit

The season of love is upon us again!  Happy Valentine's Day.  I hope you are in for a week full of love and friendship, and most of all, lots of chocolate. 

I have some fun news to share.  Rumor has it Hadley Rille Books will be offering a special Valentine's Day Promotion starting on Wednesday.  I'll be sure to announce things on the right hand bar of this website as the sale becomes official.  You can also visit Eolyn on Facebook for the most up-to-date information. 

Over on Heroines of Fantasy, Mark Nelson has written a wonderful post about love in fantasy.  I don't agree with everything he has to say, but as usual, he got me thinking.  Mark is looking for fantasy fiction that celebrates long-term stable love.  If you know of a title or movie that will satisfy his craving, stop by Heroines of Fantasy and tell us about it.

I spend so much time reflecting on -- and writing about -- love, that I don't have anything new of my own to scribble on my blog this week.  But I did come across something very special that I can share:  Helen Fisher's Why We Love, Why We Cheat. 

Helen Fisher is an anthropologist, author, and (as you will see) a gifted speaker.  This brief presentation takes us on the incredible journey of human love, from the depths of prehistory to the present day, and beyond.

Fisher talks about how the brains of men and women differ, and she reveals the distinction between lust, romantic love, and attachment from neurophysiological and evolutionary standpoint.  Although her focus is the science of love, she never once abandons its poetry. 

This video has been around for a while, but I only came across it today -- right in time for the Week of Luv -- thanks to a recommendation from my good friend Suzanne Hunt.  Please watch and enjoy as Fisher paints a broad and beautiful canvass of love and the human spirit. 






For more videos of Helen Fisher and related topics, visit TED.

When truth is stranger than fiction

Joseph Banks recently returned from his
historic voyage on the Endeavour.


My winter reading this year includes The Age of Wonder, a chronicle of 18th century science and discovery by historian Richard Holmes. I've been working on this little beast for about a month and a half.  It is wonderfully written, and very entertaining, but it is also dense.  Packed full of charismatic people and interesting details that take some time to absorb, especially for someone like me who is new to this particular slice of history. 

The book begins with Joseph Banks, who spent his youth reveling in biological and sensual discovery during the journey of the HM Bark Endeavour to the island paradise of Tahiti.  Banks would return to England to eventually become President of the Royal Society, and as Holmes paints his story, one has the impression that the fate of every other scientist presented in the book somehow hinged on the judgement and support of this first ambitious explorer.

The brilliant and eccentric German immigrant William Herschel abandoned his career as a musician to explore the universe using the largest and finest telescopes yet made, and made by him. Herschel's introverted sister Caroline began her career as his assistant, but soon came into her own with the discovery of multiple comets and the distinction of being the first woman scientist ever to receive a professional salary in Britain. 

Together, Caroline and William Herschel
revealed a universe much larger and older
than had previously been imagined.

There were a series of crazy balloonists, few of whom were taken seriously by Banks, and whose greatest gift seemed to be surviving crash landings, for they were very adept at getting their balloons up, but not very able to control their descent, or the direction in which they floated.

Mungo Park, a sandy-haired young doctor from Scotland, caught Banks' bug for exploration and took it into the heart of Africa, where he disappeared on his second voyage. The precise circumstances of his death remain a mystery to this day.

Last but not least, Humphry Davy, whose story I'm in the midst of reading.  This young man from Cornwall began his illustrious career in chemistry with the discovery of the mind-altering effects of nitrous oxide (laughing gas).  Davy indulged in multiple experiments on himself and his friends, especially the ladies, during evening lab sessions that became famous during his time in Bristol.  No wonder he's smiling in all his portraits.



Humphry Davy, chemist and poet.

All in all, Holmes brings to life a fascinating period, one filled with drama and a sort of heady madness as an entire society rushed headlong, even recklessly, into a new era of discovery.  Scientists and explorers were the superstars of this time. People packed exhibition halls to view strange artifacts brought from distant lands; they filled plazas to see balloonists carried far afield on wayward winds, and crowded laboratories to witness explosive demonstrations of the latest discoveries in chemistry.  They peered at the moon and the stars through Herschel's telescopes and wondered, perhaps for the first time, whether other intelligent beings occupied the universe and were peering back at them. 

So many times while reading The Age of Wonder, I've found myself thinking, "You couldn't make this stuff up."  I love it when history does this; when the facts force you to stretch your imagination.  Richard Holmes' parade of crazy and wonderful scientists has me reflecting on my own characters, and wondering how I can make them less conventional, more colorful, more likely to violate the boundaries of the expected.  How to make them all of this, and yet keep them real in the reader's mind? 

Often I find my answers to these questions in the real personalities of history.  And when I'm done reading up on their amazing journeys, I can't wait to dive back into the making of fiction again.