Nature’s Mutiny

 Nature’s Mutiny: How the Little Ice Age of the Long Seventeenth Century Transformed the West and Shaped the Present

Philipp Blom (German original, 2017; English translation by the author, Liveright, 2019)

     “A two-degree [Celsius] drop in annual mean temperature translates into almost three weeks of lost growing time, meaning that crops were very much slower to ripen, and sometimes failed to ripen at all.” From the 1560’s until the end of the following century, a period known as the Little Ice Age, unusual weather disrupted the patterns of agricultural and economic life that had obtained in Europe for the preceding thousand years. Some summers were hot and dry, while others seemed to barely come at all. Some winters were so frigid that the Thames bore thick enough ice to be used as a sort of fairground.

 

      This was a worldwide phenomenon. “There were reports of population collapse due to famine in Ming-period China, as well as murderous winters in North America and paltry harvests in India…” Philipp Blom concentrates on Europe’s history for a few obvious reasons. For one thing, we have the most complete records there, not only from individual diarists, but from business records, like those from vineyards that recorded the dates of the harvests and the amounts of the yields. Second, Blom is at home in German and English, but the contemporary Chinese or South American records would have come to him only heavily mediated.

 

     There’s certainly more than enough to say about Europe! The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in Europe saw profound changes in how people lived. Recurrent crop failures strained local economies, both at the level of the hand-to-mouth peasant, and up the ladder, where the landowner couldn’t raise enough surplus from his tenants to pay his own obligations to the central government. At the same time, the local common space in which a peasant family could keep a cow or pig began to be seized by landowners, who found sheep or cattle easier and more profitable to manage than human beings. The feudal system, in which people were tied to a small geographic area and the social station they were born into, gave way to life in industrial towns or flourishing cities.

 

      To that broadly well-known story, Blom adds some captivating details. You may recall that the Spanish Armada of 1588 failed to invade and conquer Elizabethan England, despite mustering 130 ships and over ten thousand sailors and soldiers. In the English Channel, the Spanish ships were harassed and damaged by the English fleet, and threatened by its fireships, to avoid which many cut their anchors and fled. At last, they headed north, sailing the long way around the British Isles–only to encounter an arctic storm, with hurricane-force winds, on the Atlantic coast of Ireland. Only half of the ships limped back to Spain; the soldiers and crews were weak with illness and starvation.

   

       That military force was the largest seen in centuries, but it would not remain so. Modern weapons and modern tactics were developed together. “A victorious campaign, or even the capacity to deter potential invaders, required not only vast armies and fleets but also experts trained to control the complex logistics, constructions, tactics, supplies, and accounts, as well as vast amounts of treasure. Perhaps war really is the father of all things.” That is, modern warfare necessitated modern economics, in the form of mercantilism: an emerging middle class learned to manage tariffs, trade balances, and colonial administration.

 

     In the late sixteenth century, the Little Ice Age was seen as a religious problem, to be met with prayer, and desperate measures like witch-burning. Voltaire, Descartes, and their contemporaries would turn Europe toward rationality and the Enlightenment; Blom also introduces some other thinkers, largely written out of Enlightenment history, who might offer us alternatives to materialism and mercantilism, in case our current attempts attempts at dominating nature don’t work out so well.

 

    I recommend Nature’s Mutiny, though perhaps not as beach or casual reading; the writing is rich and dense, befitting its origin in German. Even if I don’t start ordering books from the twenty-page bibliography, I think I’ll be chewing on it for a while.

 

Any Good Books, January 2025 by email

 

The Barn: The Secret History of a Murder in Mississippi

 The Barn: The Secret History of a Murder in Mississippi

Wright Thompson (Penguin Press, 2024)

Journalist Wright Thompson hails from the Mississippi Delta, from the privileged land-owning class. In the early days of the Covid pandemic, he went home to live for a while, and found his next subject, indeed, his next obsession: the barn where Emmett Till was tortured and killed on the morning of August 28, 1955. Thompson didn’t grow up hearing anything about that event, though it happened twenty-three miles from his boyhood home. But then, he didn’t encounter the concept of lynching till he was seventeen.

The Barn is partly about maps. “The barn sits on the southwest quarter of Section 2, Township 22 North, Range 4 West, measured from the Choctaw Meridian.” This numbering comes from a scheme of Thomas Jefferson’s, to lay a grid across the whole country. This particular six by six mile township was home to one of the fathers of Jim Crow, and to Fannie Lou Hamer, who later worked to overthrow it. Confederate guerrilla chief Nathan Bedford Forrest traversed it while it was still thick with woods, the rich topsoil not yet put to commercial use. The mapping scheme enabled the acreage to be a commodity traded in Chicago and New York, somewhat in the manner of swampland in Florida. Wright follows the ownership of the land through various corporations, reaching all the way to Manchester, England, a global capital of textile production.

Wright deals in timelines, too. One reason the barn is important is that the narrative of Emmett Till’s last few days had a great gap in it. On Wednesday, August 24^th, Emmett and his cousins visited the Bryants' store in Money, where Emmett had fatefully whistled at Carolyn Bryant, who was working behind the counter; he was in the store with her for barely a minute, so some of the story she later told was clearly a lie. In the early hours of Sunday morning, Roy Bryant and his half-brother, J.W. Milam, entered the home of Till’s great-uncle and made off with him, but what happened next disappeared from the record. The barn on the Drew-Ruleville Road was then in the possession of another Milam brother; witnesses saw a green and white truck arrive, full of men, and heard Till’s cries of anguish.

Wright’s timeline extends forward: “The police arrested J.W. Milam and Roy Bryant for the kidnapping and murder of Emmett Till. For a few news cycles the story got presented, even locally, as a pretty clear case of good versus evil, until the partisan political machine recast it as a battle between the NAACP and Mississippi white people.” Witnesses were intimidated, or taken offstage by putting them in jail under other names; those who did show up to say what they saw could never live in Mississippi again. After their acquittal, Milam and Bryant sold their story to Look magazine, in a version heavily influenced by the language of the defense lawyers.

Some of Wright’s companions in his research are activists who have been working to make the barn a place of memory. “The barn will not allow you to live free of the image of a tortured child. That, it turns out, is its curse but also its blessing. It will not let you go. Why was Emmett Till murdered? One cannot see the barn without being faced with that question.”

The last surviving people who knew him also want us to remember their friend Bobo, a funny, lively boy on the verge of manhood, who loved his mother. Mamie Till Mobley’s anger at his loss lit a fire under the civil rights movement, in ways that would not be stopped.

The Barn is a very fine piece of narrative journalism, and an even finer work of history. Wait for the paperback if you must, but read it.

 

Any Good Books, 

2 December 2024

 

This is your mind on Plants

This is Your Mind on Plants

Michael Pollan (Penguin Books, 2021)

       “The drug war’s simplistic account of what drugs do and are, as well as its insistence on lumping them all together under a single meaningless rubric, has for too long prevented us from thinking clearly about the meaning and potential of these very different substances. The legal status of this or that molecule is one of the least interesting thing about it.” Michael Pollan gives us a book in three essays about psychoactive substances, and our biological, social, historical, and legal relationships with them.

 

        The first essay is about opium. I clearly remember reading the original in Harper’s Magazine, more than 25 years ago. I’m glad to see it again, in a more complete form; in the1997 publication, Pollan censored his account of actually trying a tea made from the pods. The essay is partly about the determination of the US Drug Enforcement Agency to prevent citizens from discovering how easy it would be to obtain household supplies of opioids; in fact, the flowering plants found in our gardens are not botanically different from the dreaded opium poppies of Afghanistan and Turkey. 

 

         It’s also about Pollan’s awareness of the DEA, and the potentially serious consequences that could have befallen him. Those hinged on some constitutionally and philosophically knotty questions. How would the DEA determine that he had ‘knowingly’ or ‘intentionally’ planted the flowers to use them as drugs? Of course, confessing in a nationally published magazine might be considered something of a dead giveaway; but by now, the statute has run. As it turns out, of course, the opiates that were really destroying American lives were the pharmaceutically enhanced plagues of OxyContin and its ilk.

 

          The third essay concerns other mind-altering substances: those derived from cactus plants, such as peyote and mescaline. Pollan’s quest for information and experience was seriously disrupted by the start of the pandemic in the spring of 2020. It’s not impossible to use psychedelics alone, but the story he was after had more to do with the way indigenous people use them, at the intersection of religion and psychology. There’s politics, too; should the use of peyote be restricted to religious observances, and hence to indigenous people? Can white people use it without wrecking it, ecologically or socially?

 

           The middle essay is not about use of a drug, but about abstention: caffeine is one of the most widely used psychoactive materials, though one of the latest to come along. Coffee and tea reached London in the 1650s. “It is hardly an exaggeration to say that the arrival of caffeine in Europe changed...everything.” However hyperbolic that sounds, Pollan makes his case: “Coffee and tea ushered in a shift in the mental weather, sharpening minds that had been fogged by alcohol, freeing people from the natural rhythms of the body and the sun, thus making possible whole new kinds of work and, arguably, new kinds of thought, too.” 

 

          This was the chapter in which I took the most interest, since I’m as implicated as the 90% of adults who use at least some caffeine; we always know when the next dose is due, and where we’re going to get it. How much of my brain power is owed to the magic stuff, and what would happen if the sleep deficit ever came due?

 

         Be that as it may, it’s always a pleasure to linger with Michael Pollan over a cup of tea, both for the sharp writing and for the wide-ranging view. 

 

 

Any Good Books, November 2024

 

A Stranger in the Kingdom

 

A Stranger in the Kingdom

Howard Frank Mosher (1989, Mariner edition 2002)

The late Howard Frank Mosher had a fine long career as chronicler of a fictionalized Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. You may think of downstate Vermont as rural and remote already, but the upper corner tucked between the White Mountains of New Hampshire and the Green Mountains of Vermont is significantly more so. Mosher populates his background history with indigenous people, escaped survivors of the Underground Railroad, the occasional Gypsy, and six or so generations of the Kinneson family. 

 

Kingdom County would be renowned, if anyone had ever heard of it, for deer hunting and fly fishing. In spring, when the mayflies hatch, the county judge “had been observed wearing waders in court under his judicial robes in order not to waste precious seconds getting onto his beloved river.” Mosher has a tender appreciation for such seasonal details; his meadows bloom with the flowers in their turn.

 

For this book, our narrator is thirteen-year-old James Kinneson. His father, Charles, is owner and editor of the local weekly paper; his brother, Charlie, is a feisty young lawyer in town. The Charleses are hard-headed and prone to argument “...over history and literature, politics and religion, current events and what they were pleased to call ‘the King’s English...” It’s their habit to put young Jimmy in the middle, yelling their points at him for the other’s benefit. Since Jimmy adores them both, it’s vexing, but it’s an amusing narrative device.

 

Into this bucolic backcountry comes the church’s new minister for the United Protestant Church of Kingdom Common, “one Walter Andrews from Montreal, Canada, a former chaplain in the Royal Canadian Air Force.” The Rev. Mr. Andrews is the first minister the church has contrived to call in two years, since the previous incumbent’s unfortunate experience at the local cock fights. Mr. Andrews is extremely well educated and well spoken; he’s also black, which is a subject of considerable interest around Kingdom Common. He brings his son, Nathan, who’s a few years ahead of Jimmy in school. They form a friendship of sorts, but Jimmy knows that Nathan would rather be back in Montreal, even if it meant moving back in with his grandmother. He’s not destined to fall in love with trout fishing.

 

The other new face in town that summer is Claire LaRiviere, a young woman who left Montreal after answering an ad for a housekeeper, placed by the senior Charles Kinneson’s disreputable cousins. Such a position is not a workable plan in any way, and Claire doesn’t have the money to get to Hollywood, which is her dream, so she winds up taking refuge in the minister’s house. That’s a touchy situation, and meat and drink for every gossip in town (none of whom, naturally, offer to take Claire in.)

 

She comes to a tragic end, and Walter Andrews is accused of killing her. Charles, Jr., puts on his best Perry Mason defense, including a large dash of good luck in his witnesses. Walter and Nathan leave town, leaving young James with a story for the ages. He will grow up to take over the newspaper, but he’s a novelist at heart.

 

This is a magnificently old-fashioned book, which tells of a time we can never otherwise come back to. The people are the ordinary run of scoundrels and saints, in interesting ways. I’m glad I’ll have a few more chances to visit Kingdom Common, if Thriftbooks doesn’t let me down.

Any Good Books, October 2024 by email

Tabula Rasa

 

Any Good Books, September 2024

Tabula Rasa

John McPhee (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2023)

        If you (somehow) don't already know John McPhee's work, this is perhaps not the book to start with. If you do, consider it a tasty lagniappe to his very substantial career. Some of his thirty-odd books are on single subjects (Oranges!) that outgrew their origins as New Yorker pieces; others are collections of such pieces. Tabula Rasa could be thought of as a collection of bits and bobs swept up from the cutting room floor, but if a man who was born in 1931 wants an ‘old people project’ to help him live a while longer, I say he's entitled. The stories about why certain stories didn’t pan out are pretty interesting in themselves. And lest it sound too valedictory, a friend advised him, "just call it 'Volume One.'"

 

        One thing McPhee is well known for is writing about science, making the intersection of geography and geology more interesting than I’d ever have thought possible. There’s method in it: “In writing about science, one is always aware that the reader may know a good deal more about the science than the writer does, or a good deal less, and that both categories of reader are always going to be there, in some ratio or other. So, as I’m suggesting, you look for ways to put things that would inform the unknowledgeable while not irritating the knowledgeable.”

 

         Another favorite subject is Princeton, the University and the town. He spent a cheerful childhood there; his father was a staff doctor, so he and his friends made the whole college their playhouse. Looking back even farther, he revisits the history of a squabble between Woodrow Wilson, in his role as President of the University, and one Andrew Fleming West, Dean of the Graduate School. “The basic issue had to do with the construction of residential quarters for graduate students...People took sides, thought became anger, and bitterness developed that went much deeper than the question that began it.” In the 1950s, when McPhee was an undergraduate, there were still people who could give him a first-hand account, though it sounds like he never found an unbiased one. In 1910, Wilson lost the battle to a timely bequest that favored West’s position; he resigned his office and went into politics, and the rest is history. 

          McPhee has now taught writing at Princeton since 1975, two spring semesters out of three. “In the teaching semesters, I wrote nothing of my own. It was like crop rotation. I was fallow.” He teaches a small group, including a good deal of individual instruction: “We sit side by side looking down at printouts, which are covered with notes, marginalia, transpositions, nouveau commas, purged commas, structural revolutions, and low hanging redundancies that I, pretending to be an editor, am offering in the spirit of suggestion.” He forebears, in general, to write about his students and their work, but he makes an exception for the spring of 2020, when the university closed, on the third Wednesday of March. He had to figure out Zoom and .pdfs, which not every eighty-nine-year-old would have attempted. But since the sophomore students suddenly had nothing but time, the results are dazzling.

 

         Some subjects seem to come out of nowhere. McPhee couldn’t pull together an article about Meredith Willson, the Music Man man, but the residue is this gorgeous sentence: “As a composer, Willson was so prestidigitational that the trombone march and one of the love songs (“Goodnight My Someone”) were so different in texture and tempo that you blinked once or twice before realizing that they were the same tune.” Nice! And I bet it has you humming.