Bio(graphical) Diversity
2003; Wiley; Volume: 17; Issue: 4 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1046/j.1523-1739.2003.01741.x
ISSN1523-1739
Autores Tópico(s)Biomedical Text Mining and Ontologies
ResumoGeorge Perkins Marsh: Prophet of Conservation. Lowenthal, D. 2000 . University of Washington Press , Seattle . 632 pp. $40.00 (hardcover ). ISBN 0-295-97942-9 . $26.95 (paperback). ISBN 0-295-98315-9. So Great a Vision: the Conservation Writings of George Perkins Marsh. Trombulak, S., editor. 2001. Middlebury College Press, Middlebury, Vermont, and University Press of New England, Lebanon, New Hampshire. 248 pp. $50.00 (hardcover ). ISBN 1–58465–129–6. $21.95 ( paperback ). ISBN 1–58465–130–X. A River Running West: the Life of John Wesley Powell. Worster, D. 2001. Oxford University Press, Oxford, United Kingdom. 688 pp. $39.95 ( hardcover ). ISBN 0–19–509991–5. $18.95 ( paperback ). ISBN 0–19–51565–8. Seeing Things Whole: the Essential John Wesley Powell. DeBuys, W., editor. 2001. Island Press, Washington, D.C. 320 pp. $27.00. ISBN 1–55963–872–9. Theodore Rex. Morris, E. 2001. Random House, New York. 864 pp. $35.00 ( hardcover ). ISBN 0–394–55509–0. $16.95 ( 2002 paperback ). ISBN 0–8129–6600–7. Gifford Pinchot and the Making of Modern Environmentalism. Miller, C. 2001. Island Press, Washington, D.C. 384 pp. $28.00. ISBN 1–55963–822–2. The Conservation Diaries of Gifford Pinchot. Steen, H. K., editor. 2001. Forest History Society and the Pinchot Institute for Conservation, Durham, North Carolina. 240 pp. $29.00 ( hardcover ). ISBN 0–89030–059–3. $19.00 (paperback). ISBN 0–89030–060–7. In 1841 Scottish essayist Thomas Carlyle famously suggested that “the history of the world is but the biography of great men.” But history, one might say, has shown Carlyle's view to be inadequate. Subsequent generations of historians have expanded history's purview, interpreting the past through the study not just of “great men,” but of people–women, working people, the obscure and exploited, the local and indigenous, the eccentric and the special. Entire schools of history have emerged to examine the social, political, economic, cultural, and intellectual forces that give context to individual lives. Since the late 1970s, historians have even broken through what we might call the “people barrier.” Environmental history now offers a view of the past that puts people in their place, expressly exploring human interactions with climate, geology, soils, waters, plants, and animals over time. It tries to understand how the complex dance of the human and nonhuman has made the world we share. In recent years, environmental history has itself fed back into the writing of biography. “Environmental biography” has emerged as something of a subgenre, exploring individual human lives in the context of landscapes and ecosystems, seeking insight from the connections between personality and place ( Meine 1998; Holmes 1999; Miller 2001 ). Although history cannot be reduced to the biography of great men, or to biography in general, Thomas Carlyle was still on to something. As a narrative form, biography has special strengths. The best biographies illuminate not only their subject but also the historical circumstances that shape, and are shaped by, their subjects. By its nature, biography integrates the worlds of knowledge, belief, and experience that we inhabit. It tells the story of a fellow human being, confronting human challenges, developing human talents, fulfilling human needs. Biography allows the reader to live in another's space for a time. It personalizes the spiritual, the philosophical, and the political. It reveals the inner landscape. Until recently, conservation figures received relatively scant attention from biographers. The subjects, mostly “great men” ( and mostly men from the United States at that ), were familiar figures from conservation's pantheon—Marsh, Thoreau, Audubon, Powell, Muir, Theodore Roosevelt, Pinchot—who had achieved recognition primarily as scientists, explorers, literary naturalists, or political leaders. But changes in environmental science, policy, and philosophy altered the historical lens. Early works in environmental history, such as Susan Flader's Thinking Like a Mountain: Aldo Leopold and the Evolution of an Ecological Attitude toward Deer, Wolves, and Forests ( 1974 ), Donald Worster's Nature's Economy: A History of Ecological Ideas ( 1977 ), and Stephen Fox's John Muir and His Legacy: The American Conservation Movement ( 1981 ), provided a new narrative backdrop against which to interpret the lives of key individuals. These and other histories provided a broader context in which to understand conservation-cum-environmentalism as an evolving social, intellectual, moral, and political movement. The reading, and writing, of lives was bound to change accordingly. Since the mid-1980s ( coincident, in fact, with the emergence of conservation biology ) the bookshelf of conservation biographies has lengthened considerably. A list of recent biographies, autobiographies, memoirs, and biographical studies of special interest to conservation biologists includes such subjects as John and William Bartram, Black Elk, John Muir, Victor Shelford, Lewis Mumford, Jens Jensen, Benton MacKaye, Aldo Leopold, Rachel Carson, Sigurd Olson, Wallace Stegner, Ian McHarg, Frederick and Frances Hamerstrom, Ray Dasmann, David Brower, Mardy Murie, Edward Abbey, and E. O. Wilson ( see Bibliography ). And this list includes only North Americans. The doors to the pantheon have been flung open. It turns out to have many rooms, with space for the full richness and diversity of the human story of conservation. This windfall has brought with it, just in the last few years, a fascinating byproduct. Even as the scope of conservation-related biographies has expanded, writers and scholars have returned to the original occupants of the pantheon with different questions and new archival resources. The conservation movement in the United States still stands on the ground prepared by Marsh, Powell, Roosevelt, and Pinchot. As biographers have revisited their lives, our opportunities to reexamine and reinterpret conservation's foundations have radically increased. David Lowenthal's George Perkins Marsh: Prophet of Conservation exemplifies this phenomenon. Marsh ( 1801–1882 ), the remarkable New England polymath, was overdue for a dusting off. Marsh's 1864 book Man and Nature ( revised and reissued in 1874 as The Earth as Modified by Human Action ) was, in Lewis Mumford's estimable estimation, “the fountainhead of the conservation movement” ( Mumford 1931 ). Yet, within a few decades, time's sediment load had nearly buried the fountainhead and its author. Through the early and mid-1900s, only the conviction of such sage thinkers as Mumford, geographer Carl Sauer, and historian Merle Curti kept alive awareness of Marsh's essential contributions. And only in 1958 did a student of Sauer and Curti finally produce a biography. That book was George Perkins Marsh: Versatile Vermonter, and its author was David Lowenthal. Four decades later, Lowenthal himself decided to brush the cobwebs off Marsh. As modestly stated on its copyright page, the new volume “has its roots in but wholly supercedes the author's earlier biography.” In his preface, Lowenthal explains why he decided to produce more than a mere reprint or revision. Additional primary sources have become available. Varied historical studies have enriched our understanding of the forces shaping Marsh's life. Expectations of biographies had changed. Lowenthal himself changed: “… As I went on, more and more of the original [text] seemed not just outdated but deeply flawed … I had to reconsider histories, reassess motives and outcomes, revise and reverse judgments” ( p. xx ). Meanwhile, our understanding of the natural world and of human environmental impacts has shifted as well. Lowenthal's first Marsh ( 1958) appeared in the predawn of modern environmentalism; his second Marsh appears as the ground beneath modern environmentalism rumbles. Lowenthal's resurvey of Marsh, through the connecting line of conservation, thus becomes invaluable. He has not only provided a greatly enhanced account of Marsh's life but in the process has taken the measure of changes in conservation science, environmental policy, and environmental history since the 1950s. Marsh led an unusually rich life, with experience as a lawyer, farmer, linguist, congressman, and diplomat, including lengthy service as U.S. envoy in Turkey and Italy. He was conversant in 20 languages and a dozen fields, from animal husbandry and architecture to history and philology. Had Marsh never turned his omnivorous intellect to the study of Man and Nature, his story would still merit careful treatment. Yet it is Marsh's impact as a protoconservationist that later generations continue to find so compelling. Without slighting in the least Marsh's other fields of interest and experience, Lowenthal keeps conservation at the core of his reworking. It grounds a book that is necessarily vast in its intellectual and geographic scope. Lowenthal's account takes us from Vermont and Washington to Constantinople and the Mediterranean, to Egypt and Palestine, to Turin, Florence, and Rome, with careful attention to the impact of these varied natural, cultural, and political landscapes on Marsh's worldview. “Marsh's greatest contribution to nascent ecological awareness,” Lowenthal writes, “was to include human impacts in the dynamics of nature” ( p. 284 ). The biography as a whole is a comprehensive, multilayered assay of all that shaped, and all that has issued from, that fundamental contribution. Lowenthal is especially deft in placing Marsh's emerging conservation consciousness in the context of his times and ours. He succinctly contrasts Marsh's understanding of the human role in nature with that of such contemporaries as Emerson, Thoreau, and Darwin. The final chapter, “Prospect: Reforming Nature,” is a careful and tightly nuanced discussion of the relevance of Marsh's work in the light of recent environmental and intellectual trends. The language of contemporary conservation is different from that which Marsh used a century and a half ago. Where we speak of ecology and evolution, Marsh wrote of nature bound by “mutual relations and adaptations.” Where we see ecosystem function, Marsh saw in nature “proportions and accommodations which ensured the stability of existing arrangements.” But there is no mistaking—and Lowenthal clearly demonstrates—the essential currency of Marsh's work. Marsh's Man and Nature, he writes, “marked the inception of a truly modern way of looking at the world, of thinking about how people live in and react on the fabric of landscape they inhabit” ( p. 429 ). Lowenthal's reportrayal of Marsh is required reading for conservationists who want to understand the deep roots of their work. Those unfamiliar with Marsh, except as an obligatory footnote in histories of conservation, may want to begin with primary sources. Marsh's prose in Man and Nature, dense even by nineteenth-century standards, has long impeded broader appreciation of his work. Marsh's other writings on conservation themes have been all but unavailable. Stephen Trombulak has addressed these difficulties in So Great a Vision, a much-needed edited collection of Marsh's conservation writings. The volume includes key selections from Man and Nature as well as six essential reports and lectures, introduced by Trombulak with a view toward their contemporary conservation application. With Lowenthal's biography and Trombulak's collection, readers can finally appreciate the epic significance of Marsh's achievement, the evolution of basic concepts in conservation since Marsh first tried to frame them, and the depth of our indebtedness to “the broadest scholar of his day” ( Lowenthal, p. xv ). In 1874, while at his diplomatic post in Italy, Marsh was asked by the U.S. Commissioner of Agriculture to prepare a report on the role of irrigation in the development of the nation's lands. Human uses of, and impacts on, hydrologic systems were at the heart of Marsh's critique in Man and Nature. Meanwhile, the postbellum rush to the arid and semiarid territories of the American West was in high fever. The commissioner's request allowed Marsh to apply the lessons from his historical analysis to contemporary America. Marsh's report ( “Irrigation, Its Evils, the Remedies and the Compensations” ) recognized the potential benefits of extensive irrigation; outlined the attendant social, economic, political, and environmental costs; warned against headlong expansion of irrigation in the western United States, especially in the absence of basic hydrologic information; and recommended a series of governmental actions to protect the public interest in water. Just 4 years later, many of the points expressed by Marsh in his report were more fully developed by John Wesley Powell ( 1834–1902 ) in the landmark Report on the Lands of the Arid Region of the United States (1879). Powell's treatise was, in T. H. Watkins's words, “quite possibly the most revolutionary document ever to tumble off the presses of the Government Printing Office” ( p. xi ). Its incendiary quality lay in Powell's view that settlement of the arid lands could ultimately succeed only if it respected the conditions of the landscape itself and ought to proceed only on the basis of thorough scientific understanding and due consideration of long-term social, economic, and political impacts. Such notions were, of course, anathema as honest settlers and dishonest speculators alike fanned out across the West in hot pursuit of land and profit. American enterprise would brook no such pause. There is no indication in these new biographies that Marsh and Powell ever met, but they were certainly kindred spirits. Major Powell—naturalist and teacher, one-armed veteran of the Civil War, intrepid explorer of the Grand Canyon, surveyor of the Colorado Plateau country, ethnographer and anthropologist, founder of bureaus and champion of science in government—shared with Marsh a roving intellect, an innate ability to perceive landscape change on a vast scale, and a passionate commitment to informed public resource policy. And like Marsh, Powell was nearly forgotten, until Bernard DeVoto and Wallace Stegner rescued him from obscurity in the mid-1900s. In particular, Stegner's classic Beyond the Hundredth Meridian: John Wesley Powell and the Second Opening of the American West ( 1954 ) resurrected Powell, making the most of the dramatic scenes, expansive landscapes, far-reaching proposals, and intense intellectual and political struggles that marked Powell's life. Stegner's book has since become an essential text, a base stratum upon which has come to rest much subsequent thought, study, criticism, and advocacy in the American West. “Yet,” writes Donald Worster, “Stegner's biography was based on limited research into its subject or the nation's development. And it laid such strong claim to Powell as Man of the West, a prophet for the arid region, that it obscured the fact that he was, above all, an intensely nationalistic American” ( p. xii ). Worster, one of the deans of American western and environmental history (and a recipient of the SCB's distinguished service award ), has given us a wholly new and fully fleshed-out portrait of Powell. For the first time we have access to the story of Powell's early years. Worster is particularly effective in sketching the religious, cultural, and educational milieu of Powell's midwestern upbringing. Worster is likewise deeply attuned to Powell's intellectual context and connections and uses Powell's experience to demonstrate the emergence of the natural sciences as an important influence on the public mind and, increasingly, public policy. Powell's sustained interest in the languages, culture, and circumstances of American Indians plays a stronger central role than in any previous commentary. Like Lowenthal, Worster had the challenge of taking stock of an expansive character. And like Lowenthal, Worster succeeds in part by keeping the nation's growing conservation consciousness at the core of his narrative. In his prologue Worster writes, “Powell's story is finally one of Americans confronting and learning to live with the land they came to possess” ( p. xiii ). And in his conclusion Worster reiterates, “[Powell] stood … at the center of a change that began late in the last century and is still inching forward today, away from a careless, unplanned exploitation of nature and toward a more thoughtful, scientifically informed ethic of conservation” ( p. 573 ). For all of Powell's contributions to American science, government, and culture, he will likely be remembered most vividly for advancing that change, focusing Americans on the links between our understanding of landscapes and our commitments to democracy. Readers have more of Powell to take in. William deBuys has done for Powell what Trombulak has done for Marsh. Seeing Things Whole: the Essential John Wesley Powell is a long overdue edited collection of Powell's writings on his explorations of the Colorado River and Plateau, the arid lands and their settlement, irrigation and institutions in the American West, and the evolution of human societies. DeBuys's introductions and annotations are evenhanded and insightful, and the volume makes a superb companion to Worster's masterful biography. There has never been, since the day he died, any threat whatsoever that history would forget Theodore Roosevelt ( 1858–1919 ). For conservationists and political progressives, in fact, Roosevelt may be working harder now than he ever did in life, desperately seeking to remind U.S. conservatives and Republican ideologues of their once strong conservation ethic. Understanding the arc of history that has brought us from T. R. to George W. Bush is one of the great incomplete tasks of this generation of environmental historians. The entire suite of new biographies (and a few others besides ) will need to be brought to that task. Edmund Morris first came upon Roosevelt in the mid 1970s. Taken with the “cinematic quality” of Roosevelt's life and personality, Morris grabbed hold of his subject, and vice versa. Starting out to write a short biography, Morris soon found that no one book could hope to contain the Roosevelt he envisioned. Morris opted to focus first on the prepresidential years. The result, The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt (1979), was an almost criminally readable tour de force. It became a bestseller and garnered Morris a Pulitzer Prize and an American Book Award. Invited to be Ronald Reagan's authorized biographer, Morris produced Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan ( 1999 ), a volume whose postmodern stylistic inventions—Morris inserted a fictional version of himself into the narrative—confused more than a few readers and brought upon him the wrath of Reagan's flame-keepers. He has not been forgiven. With Theodore Rex, Morris has returned to his forte. He seems almost palpably relieved at reentering a guile-free zone. Theodore Rex begins in the predawn hours of 14 September 1901, with Roosevelt's ride down from Mount Marcy in the Adirondacks to his appointment with destiny in Buffalo, New York. William McKinley died in the night, and Roosevelt assumed the presidency that afternoon. Theodore Rex ends on 4 March 1909, with Roosevelt turning the presidential reins over to William Howard Taft. Conservation was only one of many new channels of change carved out in the intense interim. These were the years when conservation became, for the first time, a national crusade and an effective political movement. Theodore Rex is not, and was not intended to be, a conservation-grounded biography in the same sense as Lowenthal's Marsh and Worster's Powell. Yet Morris's book is every bit as essential to understanding the origins and development of the conservation movement. Morris's packed narrative implicitly reminds us that the seeds of conservation did not sprout in a gentle medium, but were cast amid churning political circumstances. The reader is struck how Roosevelt's scientific credentials and conservation instincts provided necessary cover for his innovative policies during such volatile times. Although matters involving the early conservation movement must vie in Theodore Rex with a hundred other storylines, Morris plainly reserves special sympathy for T. R.'s conservation accomplishments. Perhaps 15 pages ( out of 550 ) focus on conservation topics: forestry; reclamation; Roosevelt's 1903 western tour (including stops at Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, and California's redwood country, and at Yosemite with John Muir); Roosevelt's relationship to Gifford Pinchot; the declaration of the “midnight reserves;” the May 1908 governor's conference on conservation. These familiar themes and scenes gain fresh poignancy when placed in the hurly-burly of Roosevelt's daily presidential schedule. Morris picks up on the “new protective sensibility” that comes over Roosevelt as he returns to the Yellowstone country he first saw in 1886. It inspired Roosevelt to describe the effort to protect “wild life” and wilderness as “essentially a democratic movement” ( p. 221 ). When Roosevelt stands for the first time, with full entourage, at the lip of the Grand Canyon, he was, in Morris' words, “powerfully affected”: “I don't know exactly what words to use in describing it. It is beautiful and terrible and unearthly” ( p. 225 ). In his penultimate paragraph Morris surmises that, while formal memorials were being planned even as Roosevelt left the presidency, for millions of his fellow citizens Roosevelt was “already memorialized” in the native landscapes, natural wonders, and wild creatures he had safeguarded through his actions as chief executive ( p. 554 ). In interviews, Morris has allowed that he has difficulty reconciling Roosevelt's lusty hunting exploits with his conservation passions—a difficulty he shares with many who, in working their way back to Roosevelt, have to break through the time horizon of latter-day environmentalism. How Morris finally deals with this will have to wait for the third volume of his trilogy, which will begin with Teddy heading off to Africa on safari. Even more important, however, will be how Morris walks us through the tumultuous Pinchot-Ballinger battle and the momentous split it precipitated in the ranks of the Republican Party in 1912. In the telling of that story we may finally begin to understand more clearly just how, when, and why the chasm between conservationists and conservatives began to open. One episode that did not make it into Theodore Rex was the early wrangling during Roosevelt's administration over the fate of the proposed dam at Hetch Hetchy Valley in Yosemite National Park. The story of the Hetch Hetchy conflict has long been a staple of environmental history. It has come to signify the first great battle of the conservation paradigms, with the two main protagonists—arch-preservationist John Muir and arch-utilitarian Gifford Pinchot—wrestling for the soul of the movement and T. R.'s conservation conscience. The eventual construction of the dam has come to represent the initial triumph of utilitarian conservation, with Pinchot assuming the role, not so much of chief forester to President Roosevelt, but chief pragmatist among the progressives. It is a characterization—a caricature—that Char Miller rejects and seeks to correct in Gifford Pinchot and the Making of Modern Environmentalism. Pinchot (1865–1946), like Marsh and Powell, has long been in need of more careful scholarly attention. Pinchot's own autobiography, Breaking New Ground, published in 1947, is of the must-read-but-keep-your-grains-of-salt-handy variety. Two biographies, published in 1960 ( McGeary ) and 1970 ( Pinkett ), broke little new ground themselves in reinterpreting Pinchot. Meanwhile, Miller argues, Pinchot's legacy has been simplified, disparaged, and frozen in time by environmental scholars, historians, and advocates too much in the thrall of Muir's wilderness preservation ethic. Miller's biography is a forthright effort to amend this view of Pinchot. In place of the environmentalists' straw man (and, one might add, the Wise Use movement's misappropriation), Miller offers a life of Pinchot that “demonstrates the evolution of a complicated set of perspectives” (p. 8). Many of these perspectives, Miller suggests, find clear resonance in modern environmentalism. Miller makes his case along several lines. He asks readers to consider the entirety of Pinchot's career, not just the few short years he served as Roosevelt's chief forester and conservation advisor. He draws the reader's attention to Pinchot's two terms as a progressive governor of Pennsylvania, during which he fought on behalf of workers, rural voters, women, and children against the “gang politicians” in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. Far from separating his politics from his forestry, Pinchot “early on recognized that the conservationist ethos must oppose social discrimination and economic inequality,” a conviction shared by his dynamic wife, Cornelia Bryce Pinchot ( p. 8 ). Throughout his career, Pinchot also called attention to the worldwide scope of conservation. At a time when few others were thinking globally, Pinchot sought international agreements to promote improved resource stewardship. In this confluence of interests, he closely anticipated the modern thrust toward sustainable development. Miller gives special consideration to the evolution of Pinchot's approach to forestry. He shows that, to at least some degree, Pinchot's view of forestry changed between his heyday in the U.S. Forest Service and the 1940s; that it became more inclusive of ecological principles and values that, in Pinchot's own words, “cannot be measured in board feet and cords, in dollars and cents” ( p. 338 ). As governor, Pinchot established one of the nation's first state pollution control agencies, revitalized Pennsylvania's forestry program with a focus on restoration, raised his voice against the devastation of private forest lands, and acted to protect Pennsylvania's old-growth remnants. If Pinchot never quite fully embraced a biocentric forestry—in Breaking New Ground he was still speaking of forestry as “tree farming” and forests as “the most useful servant of man” ( pp. 31, 32 )—he was nonetheless moving toward a more holistic and integrated view of forests. These changes, Miller contends, reflect a much broader sympathy with the natural world than Pinchot is normally credited with or than historians have cared to look for. Far from being immune to awe, Pinchot could be deeply moved by the power of wildness and was willing to be an advocate on its behalf. Miller recounts, for example, Pinchot's 1929 visit to the Galapagos Islands, where destruction of the islands' fauna was proceeding rapidly. In his book To the South Seas (1930), Pinchot recommended the “setting aside of several islands as wild life refuges, just as we have done so successfully in the Yellowstone National Park and elsewhere at home.” Although there was no clear mechanism to achieve such a nakedly preservationist goal, Pinchot firmly asserted that “somehow it ought to be done” ( p. 302 ). Charles Darwin and John Muir would no doubt have signed the petition. Miller's biography is less sweeping than the others, more narrowly focused on the author's goal of encouraging readers to reconsider the Pinchot they thought they knew. As such, it invites greater attention to a relatively neglected period in conservation history, the interwar years, when ecological science first began to modify the economic basis of conservation, when political leadership in conservation shifted from progressive Republicans to New Deal Democrats, when conservation took its first tentative steps onto the international stage. Miller does not claim that Pinchot could be called a modern environmentalist or that Pinchot finally arrived at a happy reconciliation of conservation's sometimes conflicting goals and motives. Miller nicely summarizes his thesis: “[Pinchot's] legacy lies in his greening, in his deliberate effort to reach an ever more complete understanding of the tangled interactions between the civilized and the wild. In this, he represents nothing less than the ever-widening range of strategies available to Americans, from the nineteenth century to the present, who were and are concerned with the maintenance of a healthy and peaceful world, and who have sought and continue to seek ways to bring that more benign state to life” ( p. 376 ). Miller may not convince all environmentalists with this thesis, but he has restored to Pinchot the dimensionality that environmentalism has deprived him of for too long. Harold Steen, the Pinchot Institute for Conservation, and the Forest History Society have also produced The Conservation Diaries of Gifford Pinchot, a compilation of selected diary entries stretching across much of Pinchot's adult life. Organized around key episodes involving forestry and conservation, these short entries provide further insight into Pinchot's persona and his effectiveness. Pinchot was not an introspective diarist, and these passages do not serve as revealing windows into his inner life. What they do offer, however, is a direct view of Pinchot's work, a sense of his broad political connections, and nuggets of new and valuable information. From the entry for 5 November 1906: “T. R. said, among other things, that if I had been from a Rocky Mountain state he would have put me in as Secretary of the Interior long ago” (p. 140 ). ( And had T. R. done so, conservation history would have looked very different ). This is inside baseball, but for baseball fans that's the best part of the game. The lives featured in these biographies and revealed in these writings lay like dominoes
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