The March of Science and its detours...

This weekend, I had a horrifying allergic reaction to some unidentified substance that resulted in my being covered literally from head to toe in hives that multiplied until they just ran together into one body-sized megahive. I considered and rejected the possibility of going to a doctor--my student "insurance" doesn't cover much, and I decided $400 tests would hurt me more than the hives. (Let me put in my word here for real health care reform--I'm not missing any limbs or dying of cancer, but it would be nice not to have to consider whether I'll make rent when the least kind of health problem pops up.) So, I stayed in bed and popped anti-histamines until the hive shrunk enough for me not to want to rip my skin off.

I didn't have the heart for real work, so I just read a couple of history of botany books meant for the masses (if there are indeed masses of people wanting to know about botany).

The first was Flower Hunters, by Mary and John Gribbin. It had the familiar cast of characters (Linnaeus, Joseph Banks, Joseph Dalton Hooker) and some I wasn't so familiar with (including Marianne North, a respected flower painter who managed to do some real travelling). Because it's about botanizing expeditions, I knew it would have to deal with the British imperial project. I was curious how the authors would deal with the ugly side of that. Turns out, the botanists were all tough, intrepid heroes. And the people who lived in the various places in South America, Africa, India, and Nepal who clearly saw that these botanical expeditions were part and parcel of British rule and didn't much want to cooperate were just unreasonable villains standing in the way of scientific progress and the great men who were leading the way. Occasionally, the reader is invited to laugh along with the botanist who puts one over on the silly native or at the stupidity or savagery of their customs. Neat. Women botanists who helped the various great men were patronizingly called "interesting in their own right," and then not much attended to, except if they were pretty or rich or married to some other great man. (Except for Marianne North. Somehow she got mentioned as "interesting in her own right," too. Jeebus. I hope so, since you've got a whole chapter on her.) Double neat. And then to add insult to injury, the whole book read like a mediocre senior thesis, replete with awkward transitions, rampant cliches, and unexplained assumptions. Dude, how can you pass over a sea captain locking up a botanist in his cabin and letting all his plants die as "that's just the way things go"? I think they were aiming for "folksy" and accessible, but they just came off as careless and trite. I suppose it makes botany seem a lot more adventurous, but aren't pirates, kidnappers, and high-risk exploits enough--do you really need the "imperialism is peachy" line to make it even better? And I think most people who would bother with a book about botany are sophisticated enough for the "these people did some good things, but there were some flaws and negative consequences" approach.

The other book, The Naming of Names by Anna Pavord, I haven't finished yet, but I already like it better. For one, it expects a lot more out of the reader--i.e. doesn't patronize the reader by assuming he or she can only be spoken to via aphorism and lame metaphors. It's not like early botany is difficult for a modern reader to grasp--this isn't high physics or chemistry. For another, it tells a story of advances balanced by repeated failure--decent ideas being smothered by burned libraries, religious fundamentalism, accidents of translation, and the vagaries of personal lives, only to be picked up at new places and times. Its first botanist, Theophrastus (coming out of the Peripatetic School), asks some very smart questions about plants, but they don't get a lot of traction because they literally get buried by the family that inherits his books. Like, in the ground. They might have been dug up and sent to the library at Alexandria, but that, of course, is burnt up. Copies turn up in the middle east, sparking an interest in botany--but not being able to draw plants with realism compounds problems with translation into Arabic. So who knows which plant anyone is talking about? Meanwhile, Europeans are drawing copies of copies of copies of copies--and not bothering to look at actual plants or ask any questions. And that's about where I am. I'm sure a light will spring soon in this narrative--the Renaissance is nigh.

Perhaps the book bites off much more than it can chew--2,000 years of botanic history. But the story it tells about simultaneous fragility and resilience of knowledge seems to be a worthwhile one. It's rather depressing how fast a good idea can be squashed when it doesn't jive with the prevailing political/religious agenda. Not to mention how much traction a bad idea can get just by dint of repetition. I don't know--I always like a book that leaves room for both pride and humility about what we do and can know.