Can the environmental and wildlife conservation movements learn from the (distant) past? This turns out to be a fraught question, with many practitioners preferring to preach pragmatism over nostalgia. Journalist and writer Sophie Yeo agrees that there is no turning back time, but this is no reason to ignore history. In Nature’s Ghosts, she mixes several parts reportage with one part nature writing to both criticize different conservation approaches and showcase some really interesting research. Though centred on the UK, she also discusses projects and problems in Europe and the USA, and the book was deservedly shortlisted for the 2024 Wainwright Prize for Writing on Global Conservation^[1].

Nature’s Ghosts: The World We Lost and How to Bring It Back, written by Sophie Yeo, published by HarperNorth (a HarperCollins imprint) in May 2024 (hardback, 327 pages)

What unites Yeo’s criticism of current conservation practices is how they ignore the past. For example, the British approach of designating areas with particularly valuable habitat, flora, or fauna as sites of special scientific interest (SSSIs) aims to keep these frozen in time. Yeo counters that by resisting the natural dynamism of ecosystems, “these sites, like Peter Pan, may never grow up” (p. 64). EU subsidies as part of the Common Agricultural Policy aimed at enhancing biodiversity in practice have had the opposite effect, as discussed for Romania. They are disbursed on the condition that farmers abandon traditional practices, even though these are far more interwoven with the natural world than the centralised rules imposed by the EU. Fortress conservation, the designation of areas as nature preserves or national parks, has been frequently combined with the forced eviction of Indigenous people from their lands. A recent searing critique exposed its colonialist roots as it pertains especially (though not exclusively) to Africa. It replaces the actual past with a mythical past of virgin wilderness that never existed in the first place. Yeo adds that: “conservation should have never become about displacing people from the land. The wilderness is not a blank slate: until recently, it was our home, our larder, our library” (p. 150).

Yeo is more positive about the track record of rewilding though here the problem of baselines crops up. “The natural world has never experienced one perfect moment of Eden: it has always been a series of novel ecosystems” (p. 66). With nature forever in flux, where do you plant your yardstick? She is critical of the feted Knepp Estate: “whether the land amounts to a genuine approximation of wilderness or a glorified farm remains hotly debated” (pp. 54-55). She feels conflicted by the Carrifran Wildwood project in Scotland that has accelerated its rewilding goals by gathering tree seeds from all over Scotland and Northern England. She likes what she sees but also considers it an example of intense micromanagement: “In many ways, it couldn’t have been a grander monument to human intervention” (p. 72). The Finnish Snowchange Project has the more nuanced aim of integrating humans into the landscape, in this case by supporting traditional small-scale ice fishing. Project leader Tero Mustonen argues that rewilding becomes powerful once you integrate cultural knowledge into it.

Of course, Yeo acknowledges more than once, we cannot turn back time. There are good practical and philosophical reasons for conservationists to be pragmatic and future-oriented. However, “that does not mean that we should treat the past as irrelevant” (p. 5). So, how is the past relevant to conservation today? The second half of Nature’s Ghosts features fascinating research of which I can only discuss a few examples.

“Yeo is more positive about […] rewilding though here the problem of baselines crops up. “The natural world has never experienced one perfect moment of Eden: it has always been a series of novel ecosystems” (p. 66).”

First, the extinction of Pleistocene megafauna. To me, it has become uncontroversial middle ground in this ongoing debate to implicate both climate change and humans. Novel is the notion that humans effectively replaced megafauna as a keystone species, with a new suite of plants and animals becoming dependent on our role in ecosystems (think of the archaeological evidence for forest gardens). The displacement of traditional societies through colonialism has disrupted such relationships, such that rewilding should “reinstate not only the lost ecological functions of megafauna but also people” (p. 136). This is what Mustonen’s Snowchange Project aims for.

Second, shifting baseline syndrome. Originally developed by Daniel Pauly in the context of fisheries, this has become another staple when talking about lessons from the past. Novel is the idea that, with each passing generation, we have not just collectively forgotten how abundant the natural world was, but also how animals used to behave. Ecologists mistakenly assume that an animal’s current habitat is both its preferred habitat and the limits of its tolerance, with conservation boiling down to “wherever an animal lives now, we need more of that habitat”. One example given here is the wild bison in Poland’s Bialowieza Forest. These are not a relic species but refugees: “survivors that have been backed into a corner, making do with what little remains” (p. 170). Indeed, one South African ecologist studying them was puzzled as to “why these European people have cows in the forest” (p. 174). The fact that many plants and animals are more tolerant than we give them credit for is a feeble ray of hope in the ongoing maelstrom of extinction.

Third is how time matters both more and less than we think. On the one hand is the long shadow cast by past human activities. The advent of remote sensing technology in archaeology has e.g. revealed how presumed old-growth forest in France hides the ruins of Roman farms. Amazingly, the soil and plant communities still differ as a result of fertilizer application two millennia ago. One shudders to think what that means for the future legacy of today’s environmental footprint. Will future fossils indeed be technofossils? On the other hand is temporal dispersal. Yeo discusses the many ponds, pools, and puddles that once dotted Britain’s landscape but were backfilled over time. When such ghost ponds are excavated again, their old bottoms contain spores, eggs, and seeds that remain viable centuries later. Many plants and invertebrates can rely on dormancy as a survival strategy to bridge time. Step aside deextinction! This “is scratching back the surface to reveal the real thing” (p. 230).

“we have not just collectively forgotten how abundant the natural world was, but also how animals used to behave.”

Nature’s Ghosts flows over with thought-provoking ideas and Yeo is quick to step in and prevent them from being misinterpreted or hijacked. No, the traditional agricultural practices in Romania or Wales are not blueprints for feeding the world. No, the Finnish Snowchange Project is not “arguing for the revival of a Stone Age lifestyle in North Karelia” (p. 138). No, discussing traditional foraging is “not advocating for the return of a pre-agrarian society” (p. 144), etc. She is well aware that conservation debates have been toxic at times. But it does beg the question, if these are not solutions, then what is?

I have two minor frustrations with Nature’s Ghosts. First, Yeo is reluctant to name the elephant in the room, even if she comes close. When discussing traditional farming methods, she remarks how “fossil fuels enabled us to exceed earth’s natural carrying capacity” (p. 104). When discussing biodiversity loss, she concludes that “so long as humans remain dominant, nature can never return to its primeval abundance” (p. 181) and that “wildlife cannot be restored to prehistoric levels without massive reductions in the human population: the earth will only support so much life” (p. 169). The dreaded O-word is studiously avoided, possibly for fear of getting tarred and feathered. Second, her solution. By no longer seeing landscapes as something sacred (for which she thanks Christianity) we paved the way for today’s relentless extraction. “The trouble is not that the old stories have faded. It is that no new magic has emerged to take their place” (p. 255). Rather than revitalising old beliefs or rituals whose meaning has been lost, she thinks we each need to rewild ourselves and find new symbolic connections with the natural world. If you are of the pragmatic bend that might sound a bit wishy-washy. To my surprise, I actually agree with her. Somewhat. I agree that we are not moved by facts but by stories, so, yes, we do need a new narrative. However, I am rather thinking along the lines of Eileen Crist’s call for an ecological civilization that does not see nature as a mere larder, or Carl Safina’s call to abandon the Platonic dualism that has allowed us to think of ourselves as apart from nature. Abandoning the currently dominant fairytale of endless economic growth will mean a wholesale revision of our socio-economic system, likely involving a period of degrowth towards a steady-state economy. Tall order? Absolutely. Do I expect Yeo to here write the book-length treatment that such big topics need? No, but acknowledging them would have been nice.

Those niggles notwithstanding, Nature’s Ghosts is intriguing, discussing some of the fascinating insights gleaned from studying the past. Yeo has read up on the literature and gone to great lengths to speak to researchers and conservationists first-hand. Given how she combines journalistic flair and evocative writing to explain the relevance of this research, it is easy to see why the Wainwright Prize jury was impressed.

1. ↑ For all my fellow non-UK readers, the Wainwright Prize is an annual UK literary prize that is named in honour of British author, illustrator, and hillwalker Alfred Wainwright (1907–1991). It was first awarded in 2014, split into two categories (UK nature writing and writing on global conservation) in 2020, and saw a third category for children’s books added in 2022. Various sponsors have affixed their names to the prize over the years, resulting most recently in the James Cropper Wainwright Prize.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

Nature’s Ghosts

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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Italian plant neurobiologist (yes, this is a thing) Stefano Mancuso previously impressed me with The Revolutionary Genius of Plants. With The Incredible Journey of Plants, he has written a captivating collection of vignettes around the subject of plant migration. We tend not to think of plants as moving creatures because they are rooted to the ground. But this, as Mancuso shows, is where we are mistaken.

The Incredible Journey of Plants, written by Stefano Mancuso, published by Other Press in March 2020 (hardback, 158 pages)

This book was originally published in Italian in 2018 as L’Incredibile Viaggio delle Piante by Editori Laterza. The English version, courtesy of translator Gregory Conti, has been released by US publisher Other Press. Right at the start, Mancuso recaps the main (and for me most memorable) point of The Revolutionary Genius of Plants: plants are so very different from us because their body plan is the inverse of ours. Animals concentrate functionality in specialised organs while plants distribute these throughout their body in a diffuse fashion. Mancuso immediately demonstrates his deft pen when to this he adds: “We will never be able to understand plants if we look at them as if they were impaired animals” (p. xiv).

To put that into the context of this book, it is incorrect to say that plants do not move—the time-lapse footage showing otherwise will be familiar to many. We need to be more precise. “What plants are unable to do is locomote, or move from place to place, at least not in the course of their lifetime” (p. xiii). If the idea of plants moving through space in slow-motion, generation by generation, sounds familiar, that is because you remember my review of the amazing The Journeys of Trees. Though Mancuso explores the same principle, there is, remarkably, almost no duplication between these two books.

“[…] it is incorrect to say that plants do not move—the time-lapse footage showing otherwise will be familiar to many. We need to be more precise.”

What follows are six chapters that look at plant migration from different angles, each chapter written as a collection of two or three vignettes that tell the story of certain plant species. Thus, we meet the pioneering plants that colonize volcanic wasteland or that, like an unstoppable tide, move in as soon as humans abandon a place, such as the Chernobyl exclusion zone. We meet the invasive species that have spread around the world. And the rare species whose seeds can survive long oceanic voyages (Darwin wasted a lot of time testing many of them). We encounter the time-travellers, the ancient beings who have outlived us many times over, or the seeds that have bridged time in dormancy, only to be revived decades, centuries, sometimes millennia later.

There are the paradoxical lonely trees and the stories of how they ended up in some of the most remote and inhospitable places on the planet. And we meet the unlikely evolutionary anachronisms: those plants who rely on a few or only one animal species to transport their seeds. They have tied their fate to their disperser, and extinction of the latter often means extinction of the former. Occasionally, such plants survive by latching on to a new seed disperser “while maintaining […] as a souvenir of these “dangerous liaisons,” some bizarre characteristics, reasonable only in light of their original partnership with now-extinct animals and today completely out of place” (p. 133).

What makes this collection of stories irresistible is how Mancuso combines science and history. I found the research explaining why the seed of the coco de mer palm is so huge just as captivating as the history of the Roman siege of the Israeli fortress–palace of Masada. Its archaeological remains have yielded seeds of date palms that could be revived 2000 years later. Mancuso’s writing is superb, whether relating the emotive story of the plants and humans that survived the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima, or giving you a deft two-sentence explanation of the difficulties faced by stratigraphers trying to define new geological epochs such as the Anthropocene.

“What makes this collection of stories irresistible is how Mancuso combines science and history. I found the research on the size of the coco de mer palm seeds just as captivating as the history of the siege of Masada.”

Through it all runs Mancuso’s rebellious streak. When it comes to invasive species, he echoes Chris D. Thomas’s sentiment expressed in Inheritors of the Earth. “Plants that are now perceived as part of our cultural heritage are merely well-assimilated foreigners” (p. 26), as shown by the story of Oxford ragwort, an invader from Sicily. Similarly, “the species that we consider invasive today are the natives of tomorrow” (p. 27). And when discussing evolutionary anachronisms, he admonishes our species. “In nature everything is connected. This simple law that humans don’t seem to understand has a corollary: the extinction of a species […] has unforeseeable consequences” (p. 135).

The book is accompanied by watercolour drawings by Grisha Fischer. However, these do not show the plants or plant structures described in the text, some of which, such as the voluptuously shaped coco de mer, are better pictured than described. Instead, it seems that the illustrator was given carte blanche to interpret the theme of “plant migration”. She has drawn imaginary maps composed of leaves and other plant parts that, though atmospheric, seem in no way connected to what the text is describing. At least, not as far as I could discern.

The Incredible Journey of Plants is a delightful book that is nicely paced and full of fascinating science told in a captivating manner. I found it impossible to put down, though you can easily dip in and out of this book if you are pressed for time. If plants do not normally excite you, think again. This is a little gem that you do not want to miss.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

The Incredible Journey of Plants

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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I will make no secret of my love of J.R.R. Tolkien’s works. Equally, I am always entertained by books looking at the science behind fictional worlds depicted in books, movies, and TV series. The Science of Middle Earth is a remarkable undertaking, with three editors bringing together contributions on a wide range of topics, from humanities such as sociology and philosophy, to natural sciences such as geomorphology, chemistry, and evolutionary biology. Tying it together are Arnaud Rafaelian’s beautiful drawings that immediately draw your attention. Both a serious appreciation of Tolkien’s world and an entertaining work of popular science, this book hit the sweet spot.

The Science of Middle-Earth: A New Understanding of Tolkien and His World, edited by Roland Lehoucq, Loic Mangin, and Jean-Sébastien Steyer, illustrated by Arnaud Rafaelian, published by Pegasus Books in June 2021 (hardback, 432 pages)

Before I delve in, a couple of things to note. First, virtually all contributors to this book are French because this is a translation (courtesy of Tina Kover) of the French book Tolkien et les Sciences, published in 2019 by Belin Éditeur. Second, this is not the first book by this title. Some of you might be familiar with Henry Gee’s two editions of The Science of Middle Earth and wonder how the two compare. Unfortunately, I do not actually have this book, and my impression is that it has flown under many people’s radar. However, looking at some previews suggests that its tone is similar (popular science rather than scholarly analysis) and that there is some overlap in topics (mithril, spiders, and oliphaunts immediately caught my eye). You will certainly want to read this book if you have Gee’s book, and conversely, even after reviewing this book, I still want to read his take on the subject.

For this book, astrophysicist Roland Lehoucq, science magazine editor Loïc Mangin, and palaeontologist Jean-Sébastien Steyer have brought together no fewer than 37 contributors from a wide range of academic disciplines to contribute 40 chapters under six thematic headings. The sheer breadth of topics is quite astonishing. The book opens with the humanities: the sociological character of certain races and alliances, the relatedness of the many fictional languages Tolkien created, the depiction of philosophy in the books, or the historiography that characterises his work. Tolkien spent an inordinate amount of effort on describing how myths and legends had been passed down the ages, all the way from the god-like Ainur and Valar, through the Elves, to the men and Hobbits in the Third Age. He even blurred the lines between fiction and reality, fashioning himself a chronicler rather than a creator, supposedly translating texts that had come to him from Ælfwine, an Anglo-Saxon mariner.

Most of the book, though, deals with the natural sciences, with chapters covering e.g. the geomorphology and climate of Middle-Earth, the chemistry of the One Ring, the anatomy of Hobbit feet, the possible link between oliphaunts and extinct and extant proboscideans, the birds observed in Middle-Earth, the biology of dragons such as Smaug and Glaurung (and the question of whether they could fly), or the nature of the tentacled Watcher in the Water that guards the entrance to the mines of Moria. And that is to name but a few! The one notable topic absent here, other than a chapter on vegetation zones, is botany. However, seeing how thoroughly this was covered in Flora of Middle-Earth, this is quite understandable.

“Could Ents exist? There are real-world examples of animals resembling plants, and Ents could be imagined as chimaeras of giant, photosynthetic stick insects capable of sessile periods.”

Most of these chapters take one of two approaches. First, several authors examine where Tolkien could have gotten his inspiration from, turning to history and mythology. Luc Vivès and Christine Argot remark that “Tolkien’s work is unique in that it forms the first interface between cycles, sagas, and epics on one hand, and nomenclatures, dictionaries, and encyclopedias on the other […] coming as close as possible to being a study of the natural world perceived mythologically, and mythology perceived as natural” (p. 277). They call his world a “cosmogenic melting-pot” with traces of biblical texts, Celtic legends, Welsh folklore, Norse fairy tales, Scandinavian Eddas, Icelandic sagas and the Kalevala, Finland’s epic poem. Other authors comment on the places that inspired Middle-Earth, examine the sources of Tolkien’s dragons, or ask how much of the character of Beorn the man-bear draws on the legendary Viking berserker warriors.

The second approach many chapters take is to probe the realism of Middle-Earth. Though Tolkien openly denounced scientific materialism and the technological totalitarianism it fostered, he was at the same time a rigorous scholar who strived for internal consistency in his fiction and spent a lifetime creating a highly detailed and believable world. Some of his ideas violate laws of nature: scaling relationships make the flight of dragons and giant eagles highly improbable. Other ideas are reasonably plausible: one chapter discusses the possible properties explaining the excellent eyesight of Elves. Some are even close to realistic: could Ents exist? There are real-world examples of animals resembling plants, and Ents could be imagined as chimaeras of giant, photosynthetic stick insects capable of sessile periods, rooted on the spot like corals.

Some chapters reflect on the state of science in his time—volcanology in the 1930–50s was not what it is today and the theory of plate tectonics only became accepted decades after his works had been published. Others consider how Tolkien’s work shows his interest in, and knowledge of, disciplines such as speleology, mining, and metallurgy. Yet others are a springboard for expositions on e.g. materials science (how would you make an invisibility cloak or a metal such as mithril?) or are entertaining thought experiments. Can we run a climatological model for Middle-Earth or draw up a phylogenetic tree for the humanoids populating it? Yes we can, and this is what it would look like.

“The editors have done a formidable job reigning in all contributors, as I am sure they could have written a great deal more about their respective topics.”

This book is squarely for the Tolkien fan. Now, some people in the fandom take his work very seriously. Those who have delved into the 3-volume Tolkien Companion or the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia, or read publications by professional Tolkien scholars such as Christina Scull, Wayne G. Hammond, or Verlyn Flieger might find this book lacking in depth. My impression is that they are not the primary audience—this is popular science rather than scholarly treatise. I would actually argue that the brevity of these chapters, the vast majority of which run 7–10 pages only, is admirable. The editors have done a formidable job reigning in all contributors, as I am sure they could have written a great deal more about their respective topics. Nevertheless, they all approach their subject thoroughly and seriously, going well beyond Middle-Earth as described in The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Many authors consider details from The Silmarillion, the 12-volume History of Middle Earth, Tolkien’s letters, and other writings on and by him, as well as, occasionally, Peter Jackson’s movies.

Finally, I have to commend Arnaud Rafaelian‘s beautiful and tastefully executed drawings. As much as I worship Alan Lee (his pictures grace my walls), it is refreshing to see Tolkien’s world depicted by a new illustrator. Also worth mentioning are the infographics, most of which are drawn by Dianne Rottner whose style meshes perfectly with Rafaelian’s. Add illustrated endpapers and decorated initials opening each chapter and this book is, in one word, sumptuous in its presentation.

Unbeknownst to me, there is a thriving Francophone Tolkien community out there. I think that Pegasus Books did very well in picking up this book for translation—this was very much worth the effort. The Science of Middle Earth comes warmly recommended for Tolkien fans and is already a precious addition to my collection.

Edit: Since publishing this review several people have pointed out that, unfortunately, this book contains various factual errors, which has disappointed serious fans. Others have pointed out that many contributors lack relevant in-depth knowledge and argue oversights could have been addressed had the book been proofread by one or more Tolkien scholars. I normally steer clear of reading other reviews when preparing mine, so as not to be influenced by other people’s words and ideas too much, but in this case that bit me in the behind—and is, yes, a bit embarrassing. I still think that overall this is an entertaining pop-science book that is beautifully presented, but serious Tolkien fans might also want to have a look at Kristine Larsen’s extended review in the Journal of Tolkien Research, volume 12(2) to make up their mind.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

The Science of Middle-Earth

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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You would think that science and monsters are strange bedfellows. And yet, there are plenty of science geeks, myself included, who get a good giggle out of pondering the science behind mythical beings and worlds. Clearly, somebody at the Royal Society of Chemistry has a similar sense of humour, for they have just published Vampirology. Here, chemist and science communicator Kathryn Harkup trains a scientific lens on the fanged fiend—not so much to ask whether vampires do or do not exist, but whether they could exist given our scientific understanding today.

Vampirology: The Science of Horror’s Most Famous Fiend, written by Kathryn Harkup, published by the Royal Society of Chemistry in June 2021 (paperback, 262 pages)

In ten chapters, Harkup investigates a diverse range of vampiric traits or facts associated with vampire lore. For some, she does not necessarily provide a scientific blueprint for how vampires would achieve what are obviously supernatural feats but looks at how other animals achieve something comparable. Could you actually live on a diet of blood? Vampire bats can, but they have had to make all sorts of compromises to manage it. If vampire metabolism is anything like a human’s this presents problems: blood is not very energy-rich, it is poor in the needed minerals and vitamins, and it is far too salty and iron-rich. Or what of Dracula’s ability to transform himself into other animals? Given the relationship between mass and energy, Dracula would not be able to rapidly transform into a much smaller bat, which “would release the sort of energy seen in atomic explosions [which] would result in the total destruction of [London]” (p. 130). But some animals are capable of extreme feats of camouflage or mimicry of objects. Octopuses can squeeze themselves through very small openings, as long as their hard beak can fit, so that is the kind of flexibility Dracula would need to squeeze himself through small cracks. And the question of how Dracula might crawl up and down vertical walls naturally leads to a piece on the way geckos adhere to surfaces.

Equally often Harkup will use vampires as a springboard to marvel at the natural world inside and outside of us. There is, for example, an extended section on how blood works and the hit-and-miss character of early blood transfusions when blood compatibility was not yet understood. And the question of whether vampires might exist alongside us as another species of Homo leads into a discussion on human evolution and the revelations of ancient DNA, how large a viable population would need to be, and what genetic changes would have to evolve to, for instance, ensure extreme longevity.

“Our limited understanding at the time of how the human body decomposes led people to take anything out of the ordinary as evidence of a vampire [alllowing] Harkup to discuss all sorts of delectable details of decay”

Another approach Harkup employs is to try and find rational explanations for historical reports on vampirism. Several researchers have suggested that the symptoms of diseases such as tuberculosis and cholera fed into vampire lore, while the Spanish neurologist Juan Gómez-Alonso theorised the same for rabies. As Harkup discusses here, not all of these claims can stand the light of day. Other powers, especially psychic ones, are harder to explain. Dracula’s mastery of the weather? This is something we are not capable of even today. The psychic connection that Dracula formed with Mina? Equally unlikely, though it could well reflect the Victorian craze for mesmerism and spiritualism at the time that Bram Stoker wrote his famous book.

The state of human knowledge, or lack thereof, is particularly useful when it comes to explaining the eyewitness testimony of people exhuming the corpses of suspected vampires. Our limited understanding at the time of how the human body decomposes led people to take anything out of the ordinary as evidence of a vampire. This allows Harkup to discuss all sorts of delectable details of decay, such as the suspiciously ruddy complexion of some corpses (due to blood vessel and tissue breakdown), the blood-stained lips (so-called purge fluid being forced out of the mouth), and their occasional well-preserved appearance (due to the formation of grave wax or adipocere on the skin when fatty tissues are broken down). There is a range of environmental factors that influence how decomposition proceeds and death can be a restless respite: corpses move.

“One particular challenge in writing a book like this is that our conception of what a vampire is has changed through time: from sinister fiend to seductive villain”

From the above, it is clear that Harkup takes stabs at her topic from many angles. One particular challenge in writing a book like this is that our conception of what a vampire is has changed through time: from sinister fiend to seductive villain. As the introduction explains, they have a surprisingly long lineage in history and folklore. Our picture today, however, is still strongly influenced by Stoker’s Dracula, with subsequent theatre plays and the 1931 movie starring Bela Lugosi adding certain tropes such as the opera cape. Even Nick Groom, who charted the history of the vampire before Dracula in his well-received book The Vampire, could not get away from him, writing that: “all the paths of the (un)dead lead to Dracula, just as they all lead away from it” (p. xv). Stoker, for example, introduced the association with bats. An interesting tidbit Harkup reveals here is that the sensitivity to sunlight was, however, an invention of F.W. Murnau’s 1922 movie Nosferatu—Dracula walked the streets of London in broad daylight. That knowledge makes attempts at explaining this particular vampiric trait by retrofitting medical conditions look a bit silly. This has been attempted for pellagra and porphyria where patients are very sensitive to sunlight.

Although I do not have it at hand, a quick comparison with Ramsland’s book The Science of Vampires suggests that, despite some inevitable overlap, the two authors have different takes on the subject. Ramsland comes at it as a forensic psychologist. Vampirology is entirely in keeping with Harkup’s previous macabre trio of books with Bloomsbury on the science of Frankenstein and how Shakespeare and Agatha Christie shoved their characters off this mortal coil. I expect that any negative reviews will probably come from the small contingent of people who take vampires and vampirism extremely seriously. For the vast majority of us mere mortals there is less at stake here. Vampirology is a fine piece of popular science that has its tongue firmly planted in its ruddy cheek and comes recommended if you enjoyed e.g. Kaplan’s book The Science of Monsters.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

Vampirology

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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What is the price of humanity’s progress? The cover of this book, featuring a dusty landscape of tree stumps, leaves little to the imagination. In the eyes of French journalist and historian Laurent Testot it has been nothing short of cataclysmic. Originally published in French in 2017, The University of Chicago Press published the English translation at the tail-end of 2020.

Early on, Testot makes clear that environmental history as a discipline can take several forms: studying both the impact of humans on the environment, and of the environment on human affairs, as well as putting nature in a historical context. Testot does all of this in this ambitious book as he charts the exploits of Monkey—his metaphor for humanity—through seven revolutions and three million years.

Cataclysms: An Environmental History of Humanity, written by Laurent Testot, published by The University of Chicago Press in November 2020 (hardback, 452 pages)

To be frank, Testot deals with the first 2,988,000 years in the first two chapters. Understandably, as the pace of progress was initially slow, and comparatively little information is available to us from the palaeontological and archaeological records. Thus, he starts his history proper with the agricultural revolution ~12,000 years ago. Given the synthesizing nature of this book, Cataclysms will be a feast of recognition for readers that are familiar with the literature.

Some examples include the near-simultaneous rise of agriculture in several places, with geography playing an important role in which plants and animals were available to domesticate, or the fall of the Late-Bronze Age civilizations in the 12th century BCE. The myth of virgin rainforests and the long history of agriculture practised in the jungle. The microbiological onslaught that accompanied the Columbian exchange when Christopher Columbus and other explorers brought new epidemics to the Americas, or the scourge of mosquito-borne diseases that later decimated European colonialists overseas. The medieval Little Ice Age and the global crises it precipitated, or the worldwide impact of the Tambora volcanic eruption. The Great Acceleration in the 20th century and the recognition of the Anthropocene. All of these have been chronicled at length in books and other publications.

“Given the synthesizing nature of this book, Cataclysms will be a feast of recognition for readers that are familiar with the literature.”

Testot also mentions episodes that I was barely familiar with; partially, I suspect, because he can draw on the French history literature. For example the eruption of the Samalas volcano that seems to have served as a transition between the Medieval Warm Period and the Little Ice Age. Or the 15th-century mining for silver in the Andes and the immense pollution that caused. Or the environmental roots of the expression “mad as a hatter” (it involves the 17th-century beaver trade). Cataclysms sometimes seems to forget it is an environmental history book. Thus, the environment takes a backseat when he describes the Axial Age, the period between 800 and 300 BCE that saw the birth of universal religions and philosophies in both Asia and Europe that are still with us today. Similarly, the chapter charting the rise of money, empires, and trade in Europe and Asia before the Common Era only at the very end examines the environmental impact of it all.

The book’s style might divide opinions. Testot throws all his eggs in the proverbial narrative basket. The book is clearly deeply researched, but the notes section at the end encompasses a mere 16 pages. Testot must have decided that supporting every claim and fact with a footnote would have distracted from the story he tells. Although the references contain many interesting books and publications, those wishing to check up on certain claims will have to do their own research. Furthermore, the book is strikingly devoid of photos, maps, graphs, and tables, bar a single chart of the human world population through time in the appendix. As such, I felt Cataclysms did not deliver on the dustjacket’s promise of providing “the full tally” the way e.g. Vaclav Smil did in Harvesting the Biosphere. Those wanting a more data-driven overview will probably want to check out Cataclysms‘s big contender for 2020, Daniel R. Headrick’s Humans versus Nature. I had the chance to rifle through a copy, though not yet read it in full. At 604 pages with a 100-page notes section (and some illustrations), it promises to be a denser read.

“[The book] will undoubtedly charm newcomers to the field with its narrative style and ambitious scope […] but I suspect that seasoned readers will crave something more dense and data-heavy.”

Testot’s outlook for the future is bleak, though his concluding chapter wanders somewhat aimlessly. Rather than offering an overview of which planetary boundaries we have breached and how far in overshoot we are, Testot focuses on what he calls the upcoming Evolutive Revolution before turning to some likely consequences of climate change. This final revolution could either pan out as the pipe-dream of transhumanism where nano-, bio-, and information technologies converge into the singularity that would make humans immortal / obsolete as Artificial Intelligence takes over (something Testot is critical of), or we may end up as mutants in the chemical cesspit that we are making of our planet. Throw in a conclusion and an epilogue to the English edition that both reiterate main points from the book, and it starts to feel a little bit like Tolkien’s struggle to let the reader go in the last book of The Lord of the Rings.

Environmental history has become a rather crowded subject and opinions will probably be divided on whether Cataclysms stands out from the crowd sufficiently. It will undoubtedly charm newcomers to the field with its narrative style and ambitious scope—Testot knows how to spin a fine yarn and provides an entry point to many fascinating chapters in world history that readers will want to explore further. I certainly enjoyed reading it, but I suspect that seasoned readers will crave something more dense and data-heavy.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

Cataclysms

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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Whatever mental image you have of our close evolutionary cousins, the Neanderthals, it is bound to be incomplete. Kindred is an ambitious book that takes in the full sweep of 150 years of scientific discovery and covers virtually every facet of their biology and culture. Archaeologist Rebecca Wragg Sykes has drawn on her extensive experience communicating science outside of the narrow confines of academia to write a book that is as accessible as it is informative, and that stands out for its nuance and progressive outlook. Is this a new popular science benchmark?

Kindred: Neanderthal Life, Love, Death and Art, written by Rebecca Wragg Sykes, published by Bloomsbury Sigma in August 2020 (hardback, 408 pages)

Two things immediately struck me when I received this book. First, a personal favourite, illustrated end plates! Since Kindred discusses discoveries made at numerous dig sites, there is a map of Europe and part of Asia with their locations. At the back, there is a family tree showing the complex interrelatedness between early Homo sapiens, Neanderthals, and Denisovans. Second, at just shy of 400 pages with the bibliography online (more on that later) and having a larger trim size than usual for a Bloomsbury Sigma title, this is a chunky book

The reason soon becomes apparent: Sykes covers a lot of ground in this book. The deeper evolutionary history of our family tree, the history of Neanderthal discovery, their skeletal morphology, the traces and injuries that reveal their hardships in life, the climatological fluctuations during the 350,000 years of their existence on this planet, the stone, wood, and bone tools they produced and left behind, their diet, the temporary nature of their home sites as deduced from traces of fireplaces, their migrations and mobility in the landscape, the material traces hinting at a sense of aesthetics, the educated guesses we can make about their social and emotional lives, their funerary practices, the ancient DNA revolution, and, finally, the various explanations given for their disappearance. The scope of Kindred is nothing short of breathtaking. Her acknowledgements mention that the eight years it took to write this book were as daunting and as difficult as she had feared they would be, and the enormity of the task is clear.

“[…] the tools now at the disposal of archaeologists border on science fiction. Most certainly quite beyond the imagination of the pioneers, but even a formidable task for current scientists to keep on top of.”

Part of the reason is that technological advances have led to a veritable explosion in new methods to apply and new kinds of questions to ask. I was familiar with some of these, such as ancient DNA and the microscopic patterns of wear and tear left on teeth, but many were entirely new to me. The use of computers to fit stone flakes and fragments back together to reconstruct how a piece of stone was chipped and shaped into a tool? The use of laser scanners to document dig sites in exquisite three-dimensional detail? The analysis of the microscopic stratigraphy in soot layers, known as fuliginochronology? The use of isotopes to study where individuals were born and then moved to during their lives? As Sykes remarks, the tools now at the disposal of archaeologists border on science fiction. Most certainly quite beyond the imagination of the pioneers, but even a formidable task for current scientists to keep on top of.

This avalanche of information and techno-wizardry could have resulted in an inaccessible monolith of a book. There were a (very) few places where I felt Sykes careened into a dense thicket of details, such as when discussing the different lithic techno-complexes (for us mortals, the different styles of stone tools). And she does not always explain technologies. I assume most people will not know what the deal is with ancient DNA or what mtDNA even stands for. By and large, however, this book stands out for being fascinating, accessible, and terribly exciting. This is a golden age for archaeology! Most chapters are just the right length to avoid information overload, while a handful of drawings illustrate tricky concepts.

The picture that emerges of Neanderthals is that of hominins who are increasingly indistinguishable from early Homo sapiens; inventive, smart, social creatures, likely capable of spoken language, that survived for a very long time while weathering ice ages and warm periods. This picture is delivered in vivid writing that sometimes borders on lyrical—there were passages where I felt Sykes channelled the voice of deep time:

“Amid ancient surfaces densely spangled with myriad artefacts, fireplaces are like archaeological wormholes, bridging the impossible chasms of time separating us from long-vanished dwellers.”

But there is much else in her writing to admire. There are fascinating histories: how some skeletons ended up scattered over different countries, surviving multiple wars before the different body parts were reunited decades later. She reveals how archaeologists used to work and think, and how that has changed. For example, early excavators could not tell the difference between naturally shattered versus intentionally knapped rocks, thus discarding vast bodies of evidence at dig sites without recording them. In some cases, these are now being re-excavated for renewed examination. She repeatedly warns of simplistic interpretations and sexed-up headlines that dominate the news, instead stressing the far more interesting nuances, such as the fantastically complex patterns of population dispersals, influxes, turnovers, and interbreeding revealed by ancient DNA.

One of Sykes’s side projects is co-curating the website TrowelBlazers which celebrates the achievements of women in archaeology, geology, and palaeontology. Thus, I expected a certain progressive outlook. Indeed, why should the evidence for interbreeding always be interpreted as rape? Why is “desire and even emotional attachment […] regarded as more of a fairy tale than other explanations”? But she goes well beyond that, positively surprising me. Such as when parsing the complex and incomplete evidence for cannibalism in Neanderthals. She challenges the reader to consider different ways of interpreting this behaviour. Or by highlighting how Indigenous knowledge from hunter-gatherer communities can offer completely fresh perspectives on the archaeological record. This can illuminate blind spots of Western scientists, whether practical (the identification of tracks in the physical record) or more fundamental (challenging our ingrained tendency to see everything through a lens of dominance, exploitation, and conflict).

“[…] this book stands out for being fascinating, accessible, and terribly exciting. This is a golden age for archaeology!”

Finally, one decision that might divide opinions. Sykes opens the book explaining why, after careful thought, she did not include citations for claims and statements, focusing instead on the narrative. She has provided a 122-page bibliography online, but unfortunately, there is no link between references and what part of the text they are relevant to. Although I understand her reasoning, I have always found the use of superscripted numbers leading to individual notes and references to be a minimally intrusive middle road.

Though Kindred is not the first book to point towards a certain Neanderthal renaissance, its scope and authoritativeness eclipse what has come before. Whether you wonder what book to start with when new to the topic, or which book to pick if you only have time for one, Kindred is without a doubt the go-to book for a nuanced and current picture of Neanderthals.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

Kindred

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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To figure out how old a tree is, all you have to do is count its rings, and some truly ancient trees grace the pages of this book. But, as tree-ring researcher Valerie Trouet shows, that is the least fascinating thing you can derive from wood. Revealing the inner workings of the academic field formally known as dendrochronology, Tree Story is an immersive jaunt through archaeology, palaeoclimatology, and environmental history. A beautifully written and designed book, it highlights the importance and usefulness of tree rings in reconstructing past climate and linking it to human history.

Tree Story: The History of the World Written in Rings, written by Valerie Trouet, published by Johns Hopkins University Press in May 2020 (hardback, 246 pages)

The first things that struck me when opening Tree Story were the beautifully designed endpapers (more on the illustrations later). At the front of the book is a world map with thumbnails of important trees and sites, and what chapters they feature in. At the back is a timeline of key historical periods and events, both human and climatological. Too few publishers make use of this, so we are off to a great start.

The first few chapters of Tree Story provide an excellent introduction. Trouet traces the history of dendrochronology to its unlikely birthplace in the Arizona desert, explains how tree rings are actually formed in living trees, and how, based on fluctuating climatic conditions, their appearance changes. Years with good growing conditions result in wider rings, while challenging years with droughts, storms, or other climatic upheavals result in narrower rings. That last factor is key when it comes to dating (in the chronological sense): the unique pattern of wider and narrower rings acts as a barcode. By looking at many trees in different parts of the world, researchers have constructed large databases of overlapping tree ring patterns that go back millennia. Using these can tell you how long ago a certain tree died, and therefore how old a wooden object or building is.

Having covered these basics, the bulk of Tree Story consists of a series of immersive chapters that look at some of the most interesting studies done using tree rings. For one, they play an important role in palaeoclimatology. The historical record of weather stations only extends back a few centuries, so to reconstruct past climates, palaeoclimatologists use proxies: indirect traces that correlate with climate. These have been collected from ice cores, lake sediments, stalagmites, and, of course, tree rings. But the pattern of rings only reveals so much. The width of rings will not tell you if a tree was stressed because of drought or cold, for example. By looking closer with lab instruments you can measure the wood density in individual rings, and that is primarily determined by temperature. It was one of the many proxies used by climate scientists to reconstruct the famous hockey-stick graph of past temperatures.

“harvest dates […] of trees used in the construction of historical buildings […] has revealed phases where building activity peaked, alternating with periods where plagues or the collapse of empires saw construction grind to a halt.”

Researchers have also compared harvest dates of thousands of trees used in the construction of historical buildings. This has revealed phases where building activity peaked, alternating with periods where plagues or the collapse of empires saw construction grind to a halt. One prominent example is the complex decline of the Roman Empire, which was illuminated (as Trouet gracefully acknowledges here) in Kyle Harper’s excellent book The Fate of Rome. Wood in historical buildings or archaeological dig sites can also cast a light on the history of regional deforestation and the ensuing timber trade as people started importing wood from forests further away from major population centres. This is the subtle art of dendroprovenancing.

Even more jaw-dropping is the link Trouet has drawn between tree rings, shipwrecks, and pirates. Hurricanes that rip leaves and branches off trees result in years of poor growth, leaving a visible mark in the tree-ring record. But hurricanes also sink ships. And when she compared the historical record of shipwrecks with that of hurricanes captured in tree rings, the two matched beautifully. At the same time, an extended period of reduced sunspot activity known as the Maunder Minimum reduced temperatures and, with it, storm activity, coinciding with the Golden Age of Piracy from approximately 1650–1720.

“Even more jaw-dropping is the link Trouet has drawn between tree rings, shipwrecks, and pirates. […] As you keep reading, the exciting examples of cross-disciplinary science underpinned by tree rings just keep coming, right up to the final chapter.”

As you keep reading, the exciting examples of cross-disciplinary science underpinned by tree rings just keep coming, right up to the final chapter. The impact of past volcanic eruptions such as Tambora. The fluctuations of the jet stream blowing high up in the atmosphere that shows in tree rings at ground level. The amazing story of how a suspected large earthquake in the Pacific Northwest was confirmed by historical records of a tsunami of unknown origin in Japan.  The history of forest fires and different fire regimes read from tree scars. The Little Ice Age in Europe and how it was cleverly exploited by the Dutch. Some authors, notably archaeologist Brian Fagan, have build careers on investigating the link between climate and the rise and fall of nations, although Trouet is quick to point out that it is an oversimplification to think that climatic changes alone topple civilizations. Other factors are just as important in determining the resilience of societies.

The clarity of Trouet’s explanations stands out, as does the book’s pacing: chapters are just the right length and never outstay their welcome. Thoughtful little extras are the glossary, the list of tree species, and separate lists with references and recommended reading. Add to this her personal stories and anecdotes based on a twenty-year career. She strikes the right balance between entertaining the reader without overshadowing the scientific narrative. And she moves you: these stories will make you laugh, cringe, or (in the case of the relentless persecution that followed the publication of the hockey-stick graph) anger you.

“A massive shout-out to the illustrator, Oliver Uberti. […] His [infographics] are uniform, clean, crisp, legible, clearly labelled, and (importantly) designed to be printed in grayscale—and those lovely endpapers really turn the book into a keepsake.”

Without wanting to take your attention away from the wonderful book that Trouet has written here, I want to give a massive shout-out to the illustrator, Oliver Uberti. His style looked familiar and I realise I have previously heaped praise on his infographics when reviewing Who We Are and How We Got Here. His illustrations give the book a certain cachet and are uniform, clean, crisp, legible, clearly labelled, and (importantly) designed to be printed in grayscale—and those lovely endpapers really turn the book into a keepsake. Publishers and authors should pay close attention and be lining up to commission him.

Tree Story is a sublime example of what booksellers have lately started calling smart non-fiction: sophisticated academic books for a broad audience (often published by American university presses) that are just a few notches above the yuck or wow-factor of more generic popular science. The excellent clarity and pacing that Trouet brings to this fascinating topic meant I that tore through Tree Story in a day. If I added ratings to my reviews, this book would be a ten out of ten. Already, this is a very strong contender for my book of the year.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

Tree Story

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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Since it was coined in the year 2000 by Paul Crutzen and Eugene Stoermer, the term “Anthropocene” has taken the world by storm – pretty much in the same way as the phenomenon it describes. Humanity’s impact on the planet has become so all-encompassing that it warrants giving this period a new name. As a colloquial term that is all snazzy, but are we actually leaving a tangible trace in the rock record to signal a transition to a new period?

The Anthropocene as a Geological Time Unit: A Guide to the Scientific Evidence and Current Debate, edited by Jan Zalasiewicz, Colin N Waters, Mark Williams, and Colin Peter Summerhayes, published by Cambridge University Press in March 2019 (hardback, 361 pages)

Several authors have already written thought experiments to try and answer this question. But the real answer lies in the realm of stratigraphy, the geological subdiscipline that studies rock layers. As with many other conventions, to ensure scientists around the globe all talk about the same thing and use the same names, there is an official body for that. The International Commission on Stratigraphy (ICS) formally decides on naming and dating of geological periods and maintains the International Chronostratigraphic Chart, better known as the Geological Time Scale (find a PDF here).

Formal acceptance of a new name means clearing a raft of bureaucratic and academic hurdles first. So, in 2009, the editors of the current book got together to form the Anthropocene Working Group to start preparing a formal submission to, ultimately, the ICS. Two large publications, a special issue of The Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society A and A Stratigraphical Basis for the Anthropocene, came first. Now this edited collection does what it says on the tin, providing the latest update on the evidence and the debate by summarizing a huge body of work.

The first chapter provides a short history of what I have sketched above and, for the reader not versed in stratigraphy, useful basic information on how stratigraphy works, past decisions on defining and naming geological periods, plus a very interesting and relevant section outlining why formal acceptance and definition of the Anthropocene matters. The bulk of the book consists of five chapters examining how humans have tangibly modified our planet, and whether this leaves stratigraphically suitable markers. Depending on your viewpoint, this could be taken as a catalogue of our atrocities or a celebration of our achievements.

“The bulk of the book […] examines how humans have tangibly modified our planet, and whether this leaves stratigraphically suitable markers. Depending on your viewpoint, this could be taken as a catalogue of our atrocities or a celebration of our achievements.”

The range of impacts covered is comprehensive and includes some eye-opening facts and frighteningly large numbers. We are leaving a stratigraphical legacy by changing natural patterns of sedimentation via erosion and river damming. We construct infrastructure and buildings above and below ground and create many novel types of “rocks” such as cement, asphalt, and concrete (so much so that we risk running out of suitable sand). But we also enrich soils and sediments with fly-ash and soot from burning fossil fuels. And this is before we even talk of the insane amounts of plastics that end up in our environment, now degrading into micro- and nanoplastics that are found everywhere. And then there are what Zalaziewicz and others have dubbed “technofossils”: all the objects that we discard in refuse tips, revealing a stratigraphy all of their own.

Less visible but no less influential are chemostratigraphical changes. That is to say, the release of carbon and methane from (again) fossil fuel burning, nitrogen and phosphorus from synthetic fertilisers, sulfur compounds, metals, organic (in the chemical sense) compounds such as pesticides and fire retardants (your POPs, PAHs, PCBs, PBDEs, etc.) and, lest we forget, radionuclides from atomic and hydrogen bombs. All these have left detectable accumulations in air, water (including ice), and soil. A biostratigraphical signature is detectable as both recent and ongoing extinctions (particularly the extinction of the Quaternary megafauna, though see my review of End of the Megafauna), the rapid spread of invasive species and domestic animals (with broiler chickens being one example of an expected future signal in the fossil record), and the fate of coral reefs. Finally, there is climate change, made visible in changes to ice cover and sea level.

“And then there are […] “technofossils”: all the objects that we discard in refuse tips, revealing a stratigraphy all of their own.”

What I casually summarise here in two paragraphs is presented in-depth, providing an overview of a huge body of research. And despite subchapters being contributed by many different authors, the overall flow and coherence of the text are good. Although not the first book to detail humanity’s planetary impact, the question of interest here is which of these would make suitable stratigraphic markers.

So what makes a good marker? Ideally one that is global in extent and that was laid down synchronously, i.e. very rapidly, so that the age of the marker is the same wherever measured. A volcanic ash layer is a good example, and so, of course, is the iridium spike signalling the meteorite impact at the K-Pg boundary.

Not all of the potential markers discussed in this book meet these criteria, even though they reveal humanity’s impact. So, the sudden appearance of so many new long-lasting rock-like compounds and plastics is a good marker. Another one is lead released during the burning of fossil fuels, which shows up in natural archives such as sediments, peat mires, and ice cores. (Plus, there is a precedent here: Greenland ice cores show a lead spike at the height of Greek-Phoenician and Roman mining). But the appearance of soils modified by human agriculture is an example of a signal that is too localised and too diachronous (the opposite of synchronous) to be of use. The same is true for the occurrence of stone tools, though modern technofossils such as broken iPhones could be useful.

“When did the Anthropocene start? A consensus is forming on the 1950s. This is when human population size boomed and many things basically went into overdrive “

A similar question is the when. Though some scientists favour the rise of agriculture ~10,000 years ago or the beginning of the Industrial Revolution in the late 1700s as the start of the Anthropocene, the editors here outline how a consensus is forming on the 1950s. This is when human population size boomed and many things basically went into overdrive. When plotted on graphs, many indicators considered here show a sharp upward inflexion right around this time.

As with other periods, it is highly likely that a combination of proxy signals will have to be used to define the Anthropocene – many natural archives are either sensitive to disturbance (lake sediments vs. burrowing animals), or record signals with a delay (e.g. isotope signals in stalagmites). For the moment this is all work in progress, and a formal submission to the ICS is still being prepared by the Anthropocene Working Group. Much like the closely-allied Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change reports are the go-to books on climate change (also published by Cambridge University Press), this book is the most definitive and up-to-date reference work for anyone working on or interested in the geological case for the Anthropocene.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

The Anthropocene as a Geological Time Unit hardback or ebook

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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One look at the title and you might be forgiven for quoting John Cleese. But rather than asking what the Romans can do for us, this book asks what we can do for the Romans. Walter Scheidel, who is a professor of humanities as well as classics and history, and a fellow in human biology, brings together a diverse cast of scientists. Their aim? To discuss what relatively young bioscientific disciplines can add to our picture of life in Ancient Rome as revealed so far by the more mature disciplines of history and archaeology. Which disciplines might these be? Prepare yourself for several mouthfuls as this book covers palaeoclimatology, archaeobotany, zooarchaeology, palaeopathology, population genetics, and the study of ancient DNA.

The Science of Roman History: Biology, Climate, and the Future of the Past, edited by Walter Scheidel, published by Princeton University Press in April 2018 (hardback, 259 pages)

This book poses a challenge to its editor as above-mentioned fields are rapidly developing, relatively young, and, as typical with new disciplines, prone to hyperbole. Initial findings run the risk of being oversold before expectations are reined in, often causing scientists in other, more established disciplines to eye them up suspiciously. As such, the seven chapters in this book primarily discuss methodology, highlighting both potentials and pitfalls.

Perhaps appropriately Kyle Harper and Michael McCormick open the book with a chapter on palaeoclimatology: the reconstruction of past climates. I say appropriately as it was while reviewing Harper’s wonderful book The Fate of Rome that I first learned that this book was being written. The authors here give a crash course on the various proxies that are being used to reconstructing past climates, and what their shortcomings and limitations are. This includes data obtained from tree rings, ice cores, mineral deposits in caves, and sediment records in lakes. A tentative reconstruction of the Mediterranean climate for the period 200 BCE to 600 CE is given, though the authors are careful in their speculation as to what the human response might have been. Harper has developed his own ideas more fully in The Fate of Rome.

“[The archaeobotanical] record can tell us how food went from farm to fork”

The next two chapters focus on the plants and animals with which the Romans surrounded themselves, touching on the disciplines of archaeobotany and zooarchaeology. Marijke van der Veen focuses on food plants, as archaeological dig sites are often rich in plant remains. This record can tell us how food went from farm to fork and, importantly, provides details of the mundane but important daily chores of food production, preparation, and consumption. Something which written sources are often mute about. Michael MacKinnon similarly looks at animal remains in the archaeological record and how these can answer questions such as: Where did animals originate and end up? What did they eat? What animals do these bones even belong to? (Fragmentary bones alone are not always enough to determine identity, DNA analysis might be needed.) And animal remains can be used to buttress the chronology of other events.

The last four chapters, then, deal with human skeletal remains. From my reviews of Evolution’s Bite and The Tales Teeth Tell I have learned what teeth can reveal about diet and disease, but bones, too, can be used to answer many questions. Determining sex and age-at-death are two basic questions you would like to see answered when finding skeletal remains but are not straightforward, as a team of five authors here explains. Bones can furthermore reveal signs of disease (abovementioned palaeopathology), overall health and condition, diet, and workload or occupational tasks. The chapter on human growth and stature is possibly the only one that reports an analysis as the authors compare two different methods of determining a person’s stature from skeletal remains.

“Hopefully, even obstinate classicists and historians who […] sometimes distrust these novel methods might find this book an eye-opener.”

Spectacularly, old bones can also yield DNA (so-called ancient DNA). Pioneer Svante Pääbo wrote of this in his book Neanderthal Man, but see also my reviews of Ancestors in Our Genome and the fantastic Who We Are and How We Got Here which look at human evolution and population genetics in the light of ancient DNA. This chapter is surprisingly brief, giving a canned history and some examples of how ancient DNA can be used in only ten pages. It also sounds cautionary notes throughout.

A final chapter looks at population genetics, which studies the genetic material of people alive today to see what it reveals about our recent evolutionary history and migration across the globe. Specific attention is given to mitochondrial and Y-chromosomal DNA as these escape recombination at every generation and thus retain a record of their genetic ancestry for longer*.

“these disciplines can reveal much about the 99%, the silent majority of people not part of the rich and famous, for whom no other records survive.”

Although the various contributions in The Science of Roman History make for interesting reading and are accessible given the technical nature of the topics covered, I could not help but wonder who the intended audience is for this book. For the general reader, I worry that the methodological discussions might be too abstract. A synthesis of their respective fields is outside of the scope of this book, and though there are numerous references to primary literature, studies are often only mentioned. Killgrove’s upcoming book (under contract at the moment of writing this review) These Old Roman Bones: What Bioarchaeology Tells Us About Life in the Roman Empire might provide more narrative. For the specialist, on the other hand, this book might quickly become outdated as the pace of progress in these disciplines is astonishing. Scheidel acknowledges as much in his introduction, writing that we are “pushing against the limits of conventional formats of dissemination”, and suggesting a continuously updated electronic publication might be a better format than the printed book.

Ultimately, then, I think this book offers an academic snapshot in time that will be of interest to archaeologists, anthropologists, and geneticists eager to take a peek over the fence at how neighbouring disciplines are coming along. Hopefully, even obstinate classicists and historians who (or so this book makes it seem) sometimes distrust these novel methods might find this book an eye-opener. They will be pleased with the overall cautious tone and tempered expectations. One thing The Science of Roman History does convince you of is that these disciplines can reveal much about the 99%, the silent majority of people not part of the rich and famous, for whom no other records survive.

* If this sentence did not make sense – genetic recombination is the reason siblings are not facsimiles of each other. Both father and mother mix up their genetic material when they prepare sperm and egg cells so that each contains a unique mixture. This mixing process is great for producing genetically variable offspring, but it quickly erases information on ancestry. Mitochondrial and Y-chromosomal DNA are excluded from this process.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

The Science of Roman History paperback, hardback or ebook

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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