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400 pages, Hardcover
First published August 26, 2021
We think of wilderness as an absence of sound, movement and event. We rent our rural cottages ‘for a bit of peace and quiet.’ That shows how switched off we are. A country walk should be a deafening, threatening, frantic, exhausting cacophony.--------------------------------------
If today’s shorn, burned, poisoned apology for wilderness should do that to us, just think what the real wild, if it still existed, would do. It’d be like taking an industrial cocktail of speed, heroin and LSD and dancing through a club that’s playing the Mozart Requiem to the beat of the Grateful Dead, expecting every moment to have your belly unzipped by a cave bear.
All humans are Sheherazades: we die each morning if we don’t have a good story to tell, and the good ones are all old.Up for a bit of time travel? No, no, no, not in the sci-fi sense of physically transporting to another era. But in the mostly imaginary sense of picturing oneself in a prior age. Well, maybe more than just picturing, maybe picturing with the addition of some visceral experience. Charles Foster has written about what life is like for otters, badgers, foxes, deer and swifts, by living like them for a time. He wrote about those experiences in his book, Being a Beast. He wonders, here, how experiencing life as a Paleolithic and a Neolithic person can inform our current understanding of ourselves.
I thought that, if I knew where I came from, that might shed some light on what I am…It’s a prolonged thought experiment and non-thought experiment, set in woods, waves, moorlands, schools, abattoirs, wattle-and-daub huts, hospitals, rivers, cemeteries, caves, farms, kitchens, the bodies of crows, museums, breaches, laboratories, medieval dining halls, Basque eating houses, fox-hunts, temples, deserted Middle Eastern cities and shaman’s caravans.
We’re not making the wood into our image: projecting ourselves onto it. It’s making us. If we let it.In one stretch Foster fasts for eight days, which helps bring on a hallucinatory state (intentionally). Shamanism is a major cultural element in the U-P portrait he paints. It is clearly not his first trip. He recalls an out-of-body experience he had while in hospital, the sort where one is looking down from the ceiling at one’s physical body, seeing this as of a cloth with a broader capacity for human experience. He relates this also to the cave paintings of the era, seeing them, possibly, as the end-product of shamanic tripping. This section of the book transported me back to the 1960s and the probably apocryphal books of Carlos Castaneda.
To maintain a group that size strictly by grooming, we’d have to groom for about 43% percent of our time, which would be deadly. Something else had to make up for the shortfall, and other things have. We have developed a number of other endorphin-releasing, bond-forming strategies that don’t involve touching [social distancing?]. They are…laughter, wordless singing/dancing, language and ritual/religion/story.It sure gives the expression rubbed me the wrong way some added heft.
…the first evidence of sedentary communities comes from around 11,000 years ago. We see the first evidence of domesticated plants and animals at about the same time. Yet, it is not for another 7,000 years that there are settled villages, relying on domesticated plants or fixed fields. For 7,000 years, that is, our own model of human life, which we like to assume would have been irresistibly attractive to the poor benighted caveman, was resisted or ignored, just as it is by more modern hunter-gatherers. Hunter-gatherers only become like us at the end of a whip. Our life is a last resort for the creatures that we really are.He notes that even when farming took root, many of those newly minted farmers continued living as hunter-gatherers for part of the year.
I’ve come to wonder whether symbolism is all it’s cracked up to be, and in particular whether its use really is the great watershed separating us from everything else that had gone before.He argues that trackers, for example, can abstract from natural clues the stories behind them, and those existed long before so-called “modern man.”
Later I wrote in panic to biologist David Haskell, an expert on birdsong, begging him to reassure me that music is ‘chronologically and neurologically prior to language.’ It surely is, he replied. ‘It seems that preceding both is bodily motion: the sound-controlling centers of the brain are derived from the same parts of the embryo as the limb motor system, so all vocal expression grows from the roots that might be called dance or, less loftily, shuffling about.Foster is that most common of writers, a veterinarian and a lawyer. Wait, what? Sadly, there is no telling in here (it is present in his Wiki page, though) of how he managed to train for these seemingly unrelated careers. (I can certainly envision a scenario, though, in which we hear lawyer Foster proclaiming to the court, “My client could not possibly be guilty of this crime, your honor. The forensic evidence at the scene clearly shows that the act was committed by an American badger, while my client, as anyone can see, is a Eurasian badger.”) It certainly seems clear, though, from his diatribes against modernity, where his heart is. In the visceral, physical work of dealing with animals, which lends itself to the intellectual stimulation of a truer, and deeper connection with nature.
The first time (and one of the only times) I felt useful was shoveling cow shit in a Peak District farm when I was ten. It had a dignity that piano lessons, cub scouts, arithmetic and even amateur taxidermy did not. What I was detecting was that humans acquire their significance from relationship, that relationships with non-humans were vital and that clearing up someone’s dung is a good way of establishing relationships.In that case, I am far more useful in the world than I ever dreamed.
The last thing I ate was a hedgehog. That was nine days ago. From the taste of them, hedgehogs must start decomposing even when they’re alive and in their prime. This one’s still down there somewhere, and my burps smell like a maggot farm. I regret it’s death under the wheels of a cattle truck far more than its parents or children possibly do.I doubt it.
We try to learn the liturgy: the way to do things properly; the way to avoid offending the fastidious, prescriptive and vengeful guardians of the place. Everything matters. We watch the rain fall on one leaf, trace the course of the water under a stone, and then we go back to the leaf and watch the next drop. We try to know the stamens with the visual resolution of a bumblebee and the snail slime with the nose of a bankvole and the leaf pennants on the tree masts with the cold eyes of kites.
Charles Foster (born 1962) is an English writer, traveller, veterinarian, taxidermist, barrister and philosopher. He is known for his books and articles on Natural History, travel (particularly in Africa and the Middle East), theology, law and medical ethics. He is a Fellow of Green Templeton College, Oxford. He says of his own books: 'Ultimately they are all presumptuous and unsuccessful attempts to answer the questions 'who or what are we?', and 'what on earth are we doing here?'Interviews
We are materially richer than ever before. We have abolished many material ills. And yet we are ontologically queasy. We feel that we're significant creatures, but have no way of describing that significance. Most of us abjure the crass fundamentalisms - both religious and secular - that give us cheap and easy answers to the question 'Why am I alive?' No Upper Palaeolithic hunter, looking up at the sky, would demean the gods by thinking that they could be constrained within the terse formulae of conservative Protestantism.And a sample from the content, part of his reflection in response to joining some friends for an autumn equinox celebration:
We are laughably maladapted to our current lives. We eat in a single breakfast the sugar that an Upper Palaeolithic man might eat in a year, and wonder why we're diabetic, why our coronary arteries sludge up and why we're tense with unexpended energy. We walk in a year what an Upper Palaeolithic hunter would walk in a day, and wonder why our bodies are like putty. We devote to TV brains designed for constant alertness against wolves, and wonder why there's a nagging sense of dissatisfaction. We agree to be led by self-serving sociopaths who wouldn't survive a day in the forest, and wonder why our societies are wretched and our self-esteem low. We, who work best in families and communities of up to 150, elect to live in vast conglomerations, and wonder why we feel alienated. We have guts built for organic berries, organic elk and organic mushrooms, and we wonder why those guts rebel at organophosphates and herbicides. We're homeotherms, and wonder why our whole metabolism goes haywire when we delegate our thermoregulation to buildings. We're wild creatures, designed for constant ecstatic contact with earth, heaven, trees and gods, and wonder why lives built on the premise that we are mere machines, and spent in centrally heated, electronically lit greenhouses, seem sub-optimal. We have brains shaped and expanded, very expensively, for relationality, and wonder why we're unhappy in an economic structure built on the assumption that we're walled islands who do not and should not bleed into one another. We are people who need stories as we need air, and whose only available story is the dreary, demeaning dialectic of the free market.
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I don't explore here what is to be done. I am no seer, sage, shrink or sociologist. But it will involve radical kindness, waking up, and old stories. All humans are Scheherazades: we die each morning if we don't have a good story to tell, and the good ones are all old.
In the hunter-gatherer world the dark inched in; no day was much shorter or longer than its neighbours; each season gave enough, in many different ways, and it was the daily enough that was daily celebrated, not the filling of barns.
In the modern West we have barn-filling celebrations: harvest festivals. We love them. It's good for us to be grateful, even if we can't coherently say to whom the gratitude is due. Harvest festivals seem appropriate. I wonder.
'We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land,' sing the children at squirrelling time. (Well, no they didn't, but let's let that point go.) The hymn is rather self congratulatory. We made the right agricultural choices, we put in the graft and so we're going to have a full belly this winter, and a great knees-up in the village hall next week.
There's a show of humility in the next line: 'But it is fed and watered,' we inform God, 'By thine almighty hand'. It doesn't wash. God is simply a partner in the project that we have conceived and, in the traditional economy, he and his priests might be entitled to a small cut - say 10 per cent, the tithe - for his pains. We're to be clapped on the back, too, for backing the right God, and for having appeased him in a way that's evidently worked. It's very Neolithic, and very un-Palaeolithic. Upper Palaeolithic thanks are constant, trembling and directed towards the animal or plant that's given itself up. And they can't, unlike Neolithic thanks, be redirected sycophantically to the earthly ruler who is God's deputy, who has directed that the seed be sown, on whose beneficence you depend and who is sitting in the padded pew in his best suit, ready to receive with an avuncular smile the grateful tugging of your forelock as you file out of church.
Codification and constriction strangle the mind... In the Neolithic we started to get boring and miserable.
We're wild creatures, designed for constant ecstatic contact with earth, heaven, trees and gods.