Yesterday, I was downtown at the library looking for a book I had just read a review of, Spider Silk, and glancing around the shelves, as I tend to do in libraries, I saw several volumes by Jean-Henri Fabre; I immediately had a flash back to the past. Somehow, in elementary school I first ran across the works of this great French naturalist, and fell in love with his writing--enough that I decided to become a naturalist. That didn’t happen, for reasons I’ll leave for another blog, but I was totally captivated by his books and read all I could find. So yesterday I pulled one of Fabre’s books from the stacks, a dusty, rebound volume called Fabre’s Book of Insects, translated and published after his death in 1915. From the look of the pages, I suspect this book has been in the library from its beginning. I decided, with some hesitation, to check it out.
The hesitation comes from the few times I have tried to read books from my early youth: I have inevitably been disappointed, both with the quality of the writing and my lack of enthusiasm. There has been, I fear, too many books under the bridge, to wildly mix my metaphors. I tried The Wind in the Willows, and couldn’t get through it. Some of the SF novels I devoured in those days have held up better, but many have not.
And some I have been too afraid to try. If I had to pick the most influential author of those very early years it would without a doubt be Richard Halliburton. I poured over the works of this mostly forgotten adventurer and writer, reading each volume multiple times. I wanted to be him and follow him on his travels and, no doubt about it, I was more than a little bit in love with him, too. So a few years ago I had a chance to purchase an autographed copy of The Royal Road to Romance. But I’ve never had the courage to reread it. My memories of these books are . . . well, sacred, in a way, and I can’t bear the thought of reading them again after all these years and finding, perhaps, that he wasn’t as good a writer as I remember, or the adventures are not as exciting. I like to think I’m not hooked on the past, but in this case, at least, I want the past to remain unsullied. I don’t see myself reading The Royal Road to Romance any time soon.
Thus I picked up the Fabre with great misgivings. And I am delighted to report that the book is just as wonderful as I remember! Fabre was a self-taught naturalist, and he always wrote from an autobiographical point of view--he is always a part of his reporting with no attempt at objectivity. And his writing is as rich and personal and inventive as any modern naturalist. What a pleasure to read this book again and be delighted just as much as I was 60 years ago.
Here’s a quote from Fabre’s Book of Insects, one that captures what I’m talking about; this is the closing of the chapter on cicadas: “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 for 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 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?” Wow!
So, maybe I’ll open up The Royal Road to Romance soon. Or maybe not. I want Richard Halliburton enshrined in my memory as he was then, untarnished by the passage of my time.
The hesitation comes from the few times I have tried to read books from my early youth: I have inevitably been disappointed, both with the quality of the writing and my lack of enthusiasm. There has been, I fear, too many books under the bridge, to wildly mix my metaphors. I tried The Wind in the Willows, and couldn’t get through it. Some of the SF novels I devoured in those days have held up better, but many have not.
And some I have been too afraid to try. If I had to pick the most influential author of those very early years it would without a doubt be Richard Halliburton. I poured over the works of this mostly forgotten adventurer and writer, reading each volume multiple times. I wanted to be him and follow him on his travels and, no doubt about it, I was more than a little bit in love with him, too. So a few years ago I had a chance to purchase an autographed copy of The Royal Road to Romance. But I’ve never had the courage to reread it. My memories of these books are . . . well, sacred, in a way, and I can’t bear the thought of reading them again after all these years and finding, perhaps, that he wasn’t as good a writer as I remember, or the adventures are not as exciting. I like to think I’m not hooked on the past, but in this case, at least, I want the past to remain unsullied. I don’t see myself reading The Royal Road to Romance any time soon.
Thus I picked up the Fabre with great misgivings. And I am delighted to report that the book is just as wonderful as I remember! Fabre was a self-taught naturalist, and he always wrote from an autobiographical point of view--he is always a part of his reporting with no attempt at objectivity. And his writing is as rich and personal and inventive as any modern naturalist. What a pleasure to read this book again and be delighted just as much as I was 60 years ago.
Here’s a quote from Fabre’s Book of Insects, one that captures what I’m talking about; this is the closing of the chapter on cicadas: “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 for 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 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?” Wow!
So, maybe I’ll open up The Royal Road to Romance soon. Or maybe not. I want Richard Halliburton enshrined in my memory as he was then, untarnished by the passage of my time.
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