Upon hearing of my then recent bug obsession, a former co-worker and current friend loaned me a small paper back titled "Fabre's Book of Insects". The front sported a watercolor-like illustration of two crickets on a hill, so between the simplistic cover and the brevity of the book, I confess I didn't pay it the respect it duly deserved, and filed it away in the ever-growing insect section (say that ten times fast) of my library. Over a year later, we chatted about an upcoming film, and he casually mentioned wanting to dip into aforementioned book, which I claimed to be almost done with, and I then promised a prompt return. Of course, I started reading it that evening.
Well, I couldn't even get through the first chapter... without pausing to take copious notes! I didn't know much of Fabre, or his publication so I started reading with no preconceived notions or expectations. And am glad I didn't, because it made for some of the most entertaining educational text I have ever come across. When's the last time you laughed out loud during a science lesson?
Albeit I am unusually smitten over insects, but I truly think the general population of nature lovers would appreciate this book. And any NRA member. I kid you not, I was only on the fourth species/chapter and already there had been two references to the unconventional use of a gun during his experimentations- once to test the hearing of a Cicada, the other to test the excitability and brightness of a female glow worm. Fear not, I will not reveal the results.
I think the singular most valuable lesson I culled from Fabre's observations was that anthropomorphism is not only acceptable, but amusing. What an effective way to try and make these insects more relatable and worthwhile of such scrutiny. His empathetic manner made for such great lines as "The Mantis, I fear, has no heart. She eats her husband and deserts her children." How succinct a summary can you get?! Other times he is simply poetically profound: "Four years of hard work in the darkness and a month of delight in the sun- such is the Cicada's life. We must not blame him the noisy triumph of his song. For four years he has dug the earth with his feet, and then suddenly he is dressed in exquisite raiment, provided with wings that can rival the bird's, and bathed in heat and light! What cymbals can be loud enough to celebrate his happiness, so hardly earned, and so very, very short?"
Not to say he glorified every species he came across. For example, I laughed the most at the following passage regarding a certain moth: "For the appearance of the female Psyche, however, little can be said. Some days later than the others she comes out of her sheath, and shows herself in all her wretchedness. Call that little fright a Moth! One cannot easily get used to the idea of so miserable a sight: as a Caterpillar she was no worse to look at...The mother Psyche renounces all the beauty which her name of Moth seems to promise." In other instances he is downright exasperated by them, as illustrated by his outcry to some particularly perplexing grubs: "I have offered you larvae, cells, honey", I cry in despair. "Then what do you want you fiendish creatures?"
Beyond our avid interest in insects, I feel I have found a soul mate on the following viewpoint of and on nature as well. He states "Infinitesimal life telling its joys makes me forget the pageant of the stars. Those celestial eyes look down upon me, placid and cold. But do not stir a fibre in me. Why? They lack the great secret- life…. In your company, on the contrary, O my cricket, I feel the throbbing of life which is the soul of our lump of clay; and that is why, under my rosemary-hedge, I give but an absent glance at the constellation of the Swan and devote all my attention to your serenade! A living speck- the merest dab of life- capable of pleasure and pain, is far more interesting to me than all the immensities of mere matter."
After reading that passage, I had that "whoah, I totally get it" moment. My outings in nature tend to be more nose to the ground than eyes to the skies, and many a time have I griped about the money and resources spent on researching planets and stars when we have yet to uncover the countless wonders awaiting discoery on earth and in the oceans. I recently attended a lecture at the Explorer's Club, where the speaker was Emory Kristof, a seasoned underwater photographer for National Geographic. His discussion included the constant challenge of finding funding for deep water exploration dives and equipment. One of his most publicized and hailed expeditions revealed new species, new behaviors, global warming implications and of course more mysteries- all of which cost one half of one season of the TV series Friends!!
But I digress, I did not mean this to be a didactic rant but rather, tribute to a man that makes me wish they invented a time machine already. I would have happily followed in his trail, trials, and travails during his self-propapageted study of the most populous species on earth. Another trait we share: being autodidacts- "a mostly self-taught person, as opposed to learning in a school setting or from a full-time tutor or mentor" (per Wikipedia's definition). I admire and often envy those armed with degrees and schooling on subjects I wish I knew more about, but am happy to still have the curiosity bug later in life, and the freedom to pursue such interests on my own. I know it can't last forever, especially since my unemployment insurance will run out in the fall, but for now, I am sure Frenchman Jean Henri Fabre would agree with me, ain't this some "joie de vivre".
Images "borrowed" from here, who apparently borrowed them in turn, sorry for lack of photo credits!