If you asked ten scientists what made them choose their profession, would you get ten different answers? My instinct tells me that curiosity is an overriding factor for many. It certainly was for palaeontologist Richard Fortey. Published just days after his 75th birthday, A Curious Boy reflects on his earliest years and was such a disarming and enjoyable memoir that I finished it in a single day.
A Curious Boy: The Making of a Scientist, written by Richard Fortey, published by William Collins (a HarperCollins imprint) in February 2021 (hardback, 338 pages)
Many people reading this might already know who Fortey is and can skip this brief introduction. Born in 1946, Richard Alan Fortey retired from the London Natural History Museum in 2006 after a lifelong career as a palaeontologist specialising in trilobites. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society and the Royal Society of Literature and was elected President of the Geological Society of London in 2007. He has written eight previous books and has presented television programmes on the BBC and other channels, racking up various prizes and medals along the way for his science communication. His curiosity has propelled him far.
Fortey the boy was possessed by an insatiable curiosity that encompassed almost everything: natural history, chemistry, geology, botany, mycology, palaeontology, biology, art, poetry, music, literature… his was “a sponge-like mind in a world pregnant with possibilities and discoveries” (p. 33). He refused to recognise the division between art and science, and throughout his early years, “a growing cultural life ran in parallel with my natural-history enthusiasms” (p. 160). A not-so-subtle nudge by his grammar school headmaster send him down the path scientific, but it was not until he was headed for Cambridge University to read natural sciences that he decided that this “should be an end to the intellectual blunderbuss. Time to buckle down and find a single target” (p. 226).
More than once, his curiosity became a reprieve from life’s cruel twists and turns. Without wanting to spoil it, there are two particularly painful episodes delivered here with such raw intensity that they will leave the reader stunned. His study and work became all-absorbing and bore him through these tragedies. There is also a more subtle motif of loss running through this memoir. Innocence is lost when several revelations force him to see his father in a new light. Recollections of the natural world lay bare the loss of once common birds, plants, and mammals. An old botanical field guide becomes “a record of how the environment has changed during my lifetime” (p. 200–201). Like many others, Fortey, too, has noticed today’s clean windscreens after a drive through the countryside, a portent of the insidious loss of insects. “Sometimes, a longer memory is a recipe for gloom” (p. 11).
“There is also a more subtle motif of loss running through this memoir. […] “Sometimes, a longer memory is a recipe for gloom”“
Curiosity serves as a source of embarrassment and guilt, if only in hindsight. He reflects with some remorse on typical boyhood activities of the time, collecting birds eggs and killing butterflies to pin them in collections. Others verge more on guilty pleasures and pranks. An early fascination with chemistry drives him to synthesize and deploy ethyl isocyanide stink bombs, the “Mount Everest of the malodorous” (p. 85). A particularly disarming quality of this memoir is its unabashed honesty. Fortey observes this unusual child gorging himself on the arts and sciences, and wonders: “If I could meet my teenage intellectual apogee now I don’t know whether I would admire him or feel sorry for him” (p. 180). He then deflates himself further when a chance encounter with the polymath George Steiner made him realise that “I was as short of true omniscience in the same proportion as I fell short as a poet” (p. 181).
In that sense, I felt the book’s title hid a double entendre. He remarks that his mother must have thought him a curious boy for being the only child to roam the Geological Museum in London while his peers were playing football on Saturdays. Did she mean to suggest that he was possessed of a certain queerness, in the original sense of the word? In that light, the book’s cover strikes me as one of the most appropriate I have seen in a long time: a horn of plenty overflowing with the subjects of his interest, drawn in a style that reminded me of Terry Gilliam’s absurd animations for Monty Python.
But Fortey’s curiosity also fuels defiance. For all the guilt over his childhood collections, he doubts that such activities have been the driving force in the population declines of animals and plants. Rather, collections are important as they “[…] are archives of what was there, regardless of moral judgements about the way the specimens were collected” (p. 44) and “claims without documentary support about how things used to be might well be treated with suspicion by the next generation” (p. 207). Similarly, taxonomy matters to him. Without names, “humans wander blindly in an unstructured wilderness” (p. 29), while “to fail to recognise species is like being unaware of words that are essential to cogent speech” (p. 210). These are sentiments that have been expressed by other authors and resonate deeply with me.
“Fortey mentions that […] he “acquired an armoury of words that served his older version well” […] There is depth and beauty to his writing and its cadence is bewitching”
Those interested in the science are served as well. There are some interludes here about graptolites, colonial plankton that does not really resemble anything alive today. Initially he collects their fossils at Abereiddy Bay in Wales as a boy, while a later discovery described here proofs worthy of publication before he has even written up anything about trilobites. The first trilobite collections he makes in Svalbard suggest three distinct communities, corresponding to an onshore-to-offshore depth gradient. When similar communities are retrieved in Nevada, this aligns perfectly with the then-novel theory of plate tectonics. The start of Fortey’s career coincided with this idea finally finding wider acceptance in the geological community.
Given that he has written about his work on trilobites elsewhere, they remain bit players in this book. A Curious Boy only tells the start of their story, ending with Fortey attending his first major geology conference in 1972. Some of his personal and professional adventures later in life, working at the London Natural History Museum, have been told in Dry Store Room No. 1. However, my feeling is that there is enough material for a second memoir, not unlike Dawkins did with his recent double act An Appetite for Wonder and Brief Candle in the Dark. I would happily make time to hear more of Fortey’s remarkable life story.
At some point, Fortey mentions that one perk of his eclectic teenage interests is that he “acquired an armoury of words that served his older version well” (p. 180), as I hope the various quotes above have revealed. There is depth and beauty to his writing and its cadence is bewitching; I read A Curious Boy in a single day. This was, shamefully, my introduction to Fortey, and I enjoyed it so much that I immediately went ahead and bought five of his previous books after finishing it.
Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.
Other recommended books mentioned in this review:
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“The Frayed Atlantic Edge: A Historian’s Journey from Shetland to the Channel“, written by David Gange, published by William Collins (a HarperCollins imprint) in July 2019 (hardback, 404 pages)
If Gange’s aim is praiseworthy, his approach has been nothing less than audacious. He admits that the sensible thing would be to kayak south to north with the prevailing winds at his back. Instead, he chose for disorientation by total immersion, jumping into an alien ocean world like “the hare-brained, ill-prepared flop” of a guga (a gannet chick). Starting from the northernmost tip of Shetland in July 2016, he paddled south, passing Orkney, the Outer Hebrides, the whole western coast of Scotland (just for good measure), the Atlantic seaboard of Ireland, and, finally, the coasts of Wales and Cornwall. Nicely prepared maps of the route open each chapter.
Tackling the journey over the course of a year in two-week intervals, Gange wrote up the book in the two weeks between each period at sea. As a consequence, The Frayed Atlantic Edge starts off as a travel narrative, but the sights, sounds, and smells of the sea soon take a backseat to historical research and arguments, as well as critical analysis of literature and poetry. During landings and short trips inland he talks to village elders, poets, artists, farmers, historians, archaeologists, naturalists, etc. and scours local archives, picking the brains of archivists.
Gange channels his trip in evocative prose. On launching from the Shetland Islands, he is accompanied by “flocks of gannets [that] form like cyclones overhead.” Battling around the northernmost headland of the Orkneys he reflects on the changing coastlines, musing that “if timelessness exists anywhere on earth, it is not in sight of the sea”. The Scottish mountains on Skye, Rum, and Mull are “young rock cascades suspended in motionless pouring”. Off the coast of Ireland “horizons bright with golden light spilled between pewter sky and iron ocean”. While off the coast of Munster sits the stupendous skerry (a small, rocky island) of Skellig Michael. Home to a tiny 6th-century monastery, it is so jagged that only small boats can land here, “all pilgrims sit small and low in the water as if in supplication at these immense altars in the ocean”.
“Gange channels his trip in evocative prose; reflecting on changing coastlines, he muses that “if timelessness exists anywhere on earth, it is not in sight of the sea””
There is plenty here for readers of nature writing to enjoy, and Gange’s trip is studded with wildlife encounters; curious sea-otters, seals, dolphins and whales aplenty. Two colour plate sections contain breathtaking photographs, while the accompanying website contains hundreds more and has other interesting background material. Though the natural beauty and the battle with the elements is a continuous backdrop, this is no mere adventure story. His mission as historian quickly takes over but is no less fascinating.
The big theme of this book is the marginalisation of coastal communities in historical narratives. Obviously, fishing has always been an important activity (see also my review of Fishing: How the Sea Fed Civilization), as have other subsistence activities such as collecting of bird’s eggs and feathers, hunting of seals and cetaceans, and harvesting of seaweed. But, often overlooked, the Atlantic coast has long been an international trade hub, and Gange traces threads to Iceland, the Americas, Scandinavia, and Africa. Historian Barry Cunliffe has done much to highlight this in his book Facing the Ocean: The Atlantic and Its Peoples, 8000 BC to AD 1500, and Gange mentions recent works such as Vast Expanses: A History of the Oceans as a sign that the tide for oceanic histories is turning.
According to Gange, the period leading up to the 19th century marked a sea change. He scoffs at terms such as “the Enlightenment” and “Renaissance” as “an identity politics that values the rich alone”: while big cities such as London and Edinburgh flourished, coastal communities went into near-terminal decline. The modernisation of this era affected numerous aspects, customs, and habits. Modern agricultural methods led to the decline of old farming practices, often degrading the land. Only in the last decade has there been a recognition that traditional crofting practices are the only sustainable form of agriculture in this kind of marginal landscape.
“[…] while big cities such as London and Edinburgh flourished, coastal communities went into near-terminal decline”
Many historic episodes Gange touched on were new for me. I was particularly shocked reading the effect of the Education Acts in the 1870s which sought to standardise education across the British Isles and went hand-in-hand with anti-Gaelic propaganda. It resulted in children who were ill-prepared to value or comprehend local life and who, in the words of an embittered older generation, were educated for one purpose only: to leave their communities to work in the cities.
More recently, Ireland joining the European Economic Zone opened up its waters to international fishing fleets, resulting in “resource-raids inspired by short-term profit in contrast to the long-term custodianship” by local communities. Gange is level-headed enough to not lay the blame with European administrators, but with Irish regulators, insensitive to the needs of their islanders. Similarly, plans by multinationals such as Shell to drill for oil off the Irish coast have met with fierce resistance.
“I was particularly shocked reading the effect of the Education Acts in the 1870s which sought to standardise education across the British Isles and went hand-in-hand with anti-Gaelic propaganda”
Besides the geopolitics, Gange explores the legacy of literature, art, poetry, and (particularly overlooked) oral history. Obviously, they offer a window onto a different era, but recently they have become a vehicle for a renewed interest in local languages. Local archives and historical societies are seeing much footfall, and the opening of local universities means there is a renewed interest in local cultural heritage. I admit that I found some of these sections a bit abstruse, although that reflects on me not being much of an arts and literature buff, rather than on Gange’s writing.
English kayaking literature has a long history, going back to Dunnett & Adam’s exploration of the Highlands in 1934, immortalised in their book The Canoe Boys: The First Epic Scottish Sea Journey by Kayak. Since then, plenty of people have taken to Scottish waters (see the classic Blazing Paddles: A Scottish Coastal Odyssey) or paddled around Ireland (see On Celtic Tides: One Man’s Journey Around Ireland by Sea Kayak, Dances with Waves: Around Ireland by Kayak, or Paddle: A Long Way Around Ireland). Although all of these contain some of it, The Frayed Atlantic Edge stands out for its focus on history over adventure. I expect that those with an interest in the local communities at the margins of the British Isles will devour this book, and it powerfully argues its central message for a rereading of history. But thanks to its evocative writing, it succeeds both as a history book and a travel narrative.
Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.
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“Evolutions: Fifteen Myths That Explain Our World“, written by Oren Harman, published in Europe by Head of Zeus in November 2018 (hardback, 242 pages)
Before I heap praise on this book, allow me a short whinge, for I was not quite sure what to make of the book’s brief. “For all its astounding achievements, has science provided protection from jealousy or love?” asks the dust jacket. This smacks of a caricature – what kind of a question is that? In his introduction, Harman mentions how we worship atheist horsemen, i.e. the likes of Dawkins (see The Four Horsemen: The Discussion that Sparked an Atheist Revolution). But they are a vocal minority – plenty of moderate voices warn of the dangers of scientism (see my review of Science Unlimited? The Challenges of Scientism). Others will affirm that whole fields of enquiry such as morality simply fall outside of the remit of scientific endeavour. To ask the above question and expect science to provide a sensible answer is, in my opinion, to misunderstand its limitations. I think you will find very few scientists, not even these horsemen, willing to argue that science negates more subjective experiences such as storytelling, music, art, or the human craving for these.
But enough already. Harman quoting Hubble as saying that: “the scientist explains the world by successive approximations”, and describing science as “the most honest attempt of our age to explain our greatest mysteries” makes it clear we are on the same page. Driven by a childhood fascination with Greek myths, Harman here uses the narrative structure of the epic poem to tell of our current scientific understanding of the history of life. A sort of “evolution’s greatest hits”, if you will, not unlike Nick Lane’s Life Ascending: The Ten Great Inventions of Evolution or Matt Wilkinson’s Restless Creatures: The Story of Life in Ten Movements.
Thus, the opening chapter Fate, chronicling the birth of the universe, dark energy, string theory, and the idea of the multiverse, ponders and concludes that our universe is
“just one of infinite possibilities, necessary to no one but us“.
The hypothesis that Earth’s moon formed following a huge impact (see The Big Splat: Or How Our Moon Came to Be) becomes a parable for motherhood and the inexorable loss that comes as children grow up. The moon’s slow drift away from our planet
“not a child’s rebellion. But then again maybe it is your dark side, opaque to me. I am too young to know, and too old to find out.“
The chapter on love portrays our thinking on the origin of life, the idea of an RNA world and ribozymes (see Life from an RNA World: The Ancestor within) where
“lovers were those who exchanged genetic materials […] there were no scorned lovers, only lovers who had never met“.
Similarly, the rise of DNA changed the world order:
“With permission from Chemistry, the zippered potentate seized control of heredity.”
The rise of multicellularity and sex gave new meaning to Death, introducing
“a two-tier economy: like the flesh surrounding the seeds of fruit, bodies became shells, protecting the gametes. And when the seeds are planted the fruits can rot.“
An embittered trilobite speaks to us of the evolution of the eye and the Cambrian Explosion (see Andrew Parker’s argument in In the Blink of an Eye: How Vision Kick-Started the Big Bang of Evolution), and curses his vision, for it introduced the concepts of jealousy and unrequited love.
Endosymbiosis (see One Plus One Equals One: Symbiosis and the Evolution of Complex Life), the first animals to appear on land (see Your Inner Fish: The Amazing Discovery of Our 375-Million-Year-Old Ancestor), the evolution of whales (see The Walking Whales: From Land to Water in Eight Million Years), the otherworldly intelligence of the octopus (see my review of Other Minds: The Octopus and the Evolution of Intelligent Life), and, of course, the evolution of man – Wrangham’s argument in Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human is beautifully paraphrased:
“as the unruly flames were turned into a hissing, purring pet, so was the brute himself domesticated, in a feedback loop of momentous occasion.“
These and other important chapters in evolutionary history are retold through the lens of mythology. At the end of the book, in a section called “Illuminations”, Harman provides context and explanation, as well as plenty of recommended reading, both popular accounts and classic papers.
The idea to write an epic poem on evolution’s milestones could have easily ended up a forced, cringe-worthy exercise. Instead, as I hope my liberal quoting above has convinced you, this book is anything but that. Evolutions stands out on account of its unusual take on the subject matter. I do slightly worry that, because of this, it runs the risk of being overlooked amidst the maelstrom of other good pop-science books that are being published. For anyone who enjoys the intersection of art and science, this unique and imaginative book is one to treasure.
Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.
Other recommended books mentioned in this review:
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