Groundbreaking books on the invention of nature

I especially loved that this book has the ability to bring together elements as disparate as science, politics, and our common humanity. I repeatedly stopped reading to think about what was written: a depiction of our society and our place at the crossroads of possible futures that will depend on our attitudes to the plants and animals that make up the earth we share.

But the moral core at the center of this novel makes it more than just a good story. I kept thinking that it was easy to imagine Powers’s book as what many people believe is the “Great American Novel,” Moby-Dick, if we replace Melville’s whale with Powers’s trees and set it in the present instead of the 19th century. 

I loved this book for the way it explained things hiding in plain sight about the direction science took and the shape that America has today—doing so through the biography of Alexander von Humboldt.

Though I live near Humboldt Park in Chicago, I had no idea that he was so important in the Americas that the U.S. was going to name a state after him (it was instead named Nevada). I learned that he was the most important and famous scientist of the age for his attempt to unite all the sciences as different aspects of one cosmic whole: an approach that fell into obscurity after Darwin and the modern specialization that followed.

Humboldt and his approach to nature has since had a revival, but I believe this book to be the source of most books that followed.

Only separated by two years, I think Proulx’s Barkskins and Powers’s Overstory can be thought of as companions to one another. I like how the pun of Powers’s title refers to both the tree canopy that towers over the landscape and the overarching story that all of his sub-stories form as they come together, while I think of Proulx’s Barkskins as the meaty understory.

It opens in Canada’s colonial past when the continent was a vast carpet of old-growth forest. Explorers arrived, shortly followed by French settlers and indentured servants contracted into a kind of slavery to clear-cut the forests. I like how she leads us from this pristine beginning, through the exploitation of the forest and its indigenous dwellers, to the global distribution of lumber. In some ways Overstory picks up where the epic that is Barkskins leaves off.

I love this novel’s lush language, its wordplay, and the fun of the story. Pynchon’s descriptions of nature are reminiscent of Bierstadt’s paintings of nature as a sacred space. Combine this with the density of detail about science, cartography, and America in the late 1700s, and what results is a complex telling of the creation of a line with huge consequences, such as its use to define the North and the South during the Civil War.

Pynchon’s irony and satire imply more than what is said, using map-making, to cite just one example, as a way to talk about how the world is divided between classes, races, religions, and national identities.

I love how the book continually asks readers, How do we know what we think we know? And puts the lie to the simplistic stories about early America that most of us learned in school.

Usually, when I think of the Romantic Age, I think of the art and literature of the time. But I love how this book depicts its science as a wide-open activity, full of the wonder, false starts, pleasures, and pitfalls of any creative activity.

I think every scientist in this book also wrote poetry; the vast majority of them took as a given the fact that aliens lived on other planets; scientific lectures were a form of popular entertainment, as were many discoveries: e.g., laughing gas, the first anesthesia, was used at parties to get high before it was used in medicine.

I love to think of the discoveries of the past in the context of today, as when the race between England and France to develop a steerable hot-air balloon was, in effect, the first “space race.”