Collected here are 44 trenchant essays written for various publications over the past 25 years by an astute observer of contemporary life and the environment. In some, McKibben reflects on personal experiences; in others, he discusses the sources of his environmental activism. Many of the pieces deal with global warming-the subject of McKibben's first book, The End of Nature, and the folly of endless growth-the theme of his more recent Deep Economy.All have something to say that is worth hearing, but it is the collection's pervasive sense of hope for the world that sets apart these provocative, beautifully written essays. Though McKibben worries about consumerism and the environment, he sees reason for optimism, too, rejoicing in the simple spirituality he finds in his hometown church, the popularity of old-fashioned state fairs, the return of forests to the eastern United States, the transformation of a town in Brazil into a haven for pedestrians, the success of sustainable farming in Cuba and the recent involvement of evangelicals in the environmental movement. "There are all sorts of sweet things in this world," McKibben writes, "many of which are us, and many of which are not." Thankfully, McKibben has borne witness to them with grace and style. (Mar. 4)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
The Bill McKibben Reader: Pieces from an Active Lifeby Bill McKibben
Powerful, impassioned essays on living and being in the world, from the bestselling author of The End of Nature and Deep Economy
For a generation, Bill McKibben has been among America's most impassioned and beloved writers on our relationship to our world and our environment. His groundbreaking book on climate change, The End of Nature/p>/b>/i>/i>
Powerful, impassioned essays on living and being in the world, from the bestselling author of The End of Nature and Deep Economy
For a generation, Bill McKibben has been among America's most impassioned and beloved writers on our relationship to our world and our environment. His groundbreaking book on climate change, The End of Nature, is considered "as important as Rachel Carson's classic Silent Spring"* and Deep Economy, his "deeply thoughtful and mind-expanding"** exploration of globalization, helped awaken and fuel a movement to restore local economies.
Now, for the first time, the best of McKibben's essays—fiery, magical, and infused with his uniquely soulful investigations of modern life—are collected in a single volume. Whether meditating on today's golden age in radio, the natural place of biting black flies in our lives, or the patriotism of a grandmother fighting to get corporate money out of politics, McKibben inspires us to become better caretakers of the Earth—and of one another.
*The Plain Dealer (Cleveland )
Readers familiar with McKibben's work won't want to miss this eclectic collection of essays gleaned from books and periodicals published between 1982 and 2007. Most of the 44 essays come from a diverse array of magazines, including The New Yorker, Mother Jones, Outside, Gourmet , and Christian Century . One of the first to sound the alarm on global warming in his 1989 book, The End of Nature , McKibben continues his crusade against a consumerist society more concerned with individual desires than community good. Essays are loosely divided into categories that include consumerism, activism, the changing planet, the meaning of community, and the sufficiency of nature. In a poignant essay about his grueling year of Nordic ski training, McKibben describes learning the meaning of endurance as he witnesses the graceful decline of his father to cancer, while his own body turns into a racing machine. Readers new to McKibben will be entertained, informed, and perhaps even inspired to make the positive changes that McKibben desires for the world. Highly recommended for both public and academic libraries.-Maureen J. Delaney-Lehman, Lake Superior State Univ., Sault Ste. Marie, MICopyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
“McKibben has just edited The Bill McKibben Reader, an anthology of forty-four essays on topics as diverse as being arrested at a demonstration, spending time with writer Wendell Berry and putting his Christian faith into action.” Susan Larson, The Times Picayune (New Orleans)
“Those who think in shades of green shouldn't miss The Bill McKibben Reader: Pieces from an Active Life, a compilation of 44 previously published works from the author of The End of Nature. The essays, collected over two and a half decades, contain surprising turns of logic--in one McKibben argues for the reintroduction of wolves to the Adirondacks while comparing the embattled animals to SUV's--as well as humor and a refreshing pragmatism.” Adirondack Life
“Collected here are 44 trenchant essays written for various publications over the past 25 years by an astute observer of contemporary life and the environment. . . . All have something to say that is worth hearing, but it is the collection's pervasive sense of hope for the world that sets apart these provocative, beautifully written essays.” Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A welcome anthology whose constituent pieces, all well written, retain every bit of their urgency.” Kirkus Reviews
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The Bill McKibben Reader
Pieces from an Active Life
By Bill McKibben
Henry Holt and CompanyCopyright © 2008 Bill McKibben
All rights reserved.
A Carefully Controlled Experiment
— The Nature of Nature] (Harcourt, Inc.), 1994
June 29 — It is a warm, close afternoon, and I am stringing twine around a small patch of the forest behind my home.
Why am I stringing twine around a small patch of forest? Because, by God, I am through with being a dilettante. This morning I finished writing a magazine article on the oldest trees in the eastern United States — seventeen-hundred-year-old bald cypresses in North Carolina swamps, Massachusetts hemlocks nearly half a millennium old, the magnificent tulip poplars of the Smokies. I spent most of my time in these groves peering up slack-jawed and thinking my usual liberal-arts-type thoughts: "Cathedral grandeur," say, or "That's tall," or "Whoa!"
As I wrote the article, however, I noticed, and not for the first time, that the best interviews I conducted were with the field biologists, the people who were down on the ground carefully studying the life of these places, finding reasons to save them. A Mr. Duffy had demonstrated that even after a century clear-cut areas lacked the wildflowers of the ancient forest; a Mr. Petranka had patiently proved that large-scale logging could cut salamander populations 8o percent. And Stephen Selva, a biologist I met in Maine whose license plate read "LICHEN," had discovered a species that seemed to exist in only two places in the world: eastern old-growth forests and someplace in New Zealand. "It's sort of the spotted owl of the East," he explained. "Unfortunately, it's a lichen."
Thus the string. Because of my admiration for these people, I have pledged to be more systematic in my study of the natural world. No longer will I indulge in those daily hikes where I stride as quickly as possible to the top of something in order to gaze out enraptured on an Adirondack vista. Instead I will study my backyard plot. The time has come to develop the left — or is it the right? — side of my brain, whichever one it is that science lives in.
I intended to build a ten-foot-square research plot, but an old white pine has turned it into a slight rhomboid. First observation: my plot has a lot of mosquitoes today. I estimated density: thick. Question for further research: what brand of mosquito repellent do real biologists use? Tomorrow will be a good time to actually start an inventory of the flora and fauna of my stand.
July 5 — The mosquitoes have been joined by the most intense heat wave since the 1940s. Day after day it tops ninety degrees, even here at fifteen hundred feet. My plot is within sight of my pond, a flawed research design.
July 9 — There's a maple tree on one corner of this plot. It's fourteen and a half inches around at breast height. Its leaves appear healthy.
About six feet up the trunk, however, a piece of rusting fence wire sticks jaggedly out. The rest of the fence has disappeared. Here is a puzzle common in the eastern forest. What can be logically deduced from this rusting piece of wire?
What can be deduced is pasture. It is easy enough to imagine the man who strung the fence. He must have arrived here late in the nineteenth century and cut down the big hemlocks so their bark could be used by the local tannery. Perhaps he found enough spruce to justify borrowing a team of horses and hauling it out. And then he decided to farm, as his parents had farmed in Massachusetts or in Ireland, not completely aware of how thin the soil was, perhaps hoping that the first ninety-day growing season was a fluke. But the second? And the third? Day after day, pulling stones from the field — the biggest heap is ten yards east of my plot — all the time wondering if he was throwing good labor after bad.
I can see that farmer's son deciding to leave, to take his chances in the cities to the south or the fields to the west, and the farmer growing older, unable to maintain his spread. The forest sidling back in on his field — the pines daring to rise a few inches and then exulting in their sunny freedom and shooting up with the spreading shape of a field tree. Is this a hard thing or a sweet one?
A woman grew up in this tiny valley in those days. Jeanne Robert Foster was so beautiful that she managed to get to New York City, where she became a Gibson girl, and then a poet, a friend of Pound and Picasso and Joyce. She wrote about the mountain poverty of those farms where she had grown up, places redeemed only by hardscrabble religion and the beauty of the hills. One poem tells of walking such a field, three miles from my plot, with an old farmer who had grown desperate at the decay. "I must find a man who still loves the soil," he says,
Walk by his side unseen, put in his mind
What I loved when I lived until he builds
Sows, reaps, and covers these hill pastures here
With sheep and cattle, mows the meadowland
Grafts the old orchard again, makes it bear again
Knowing that we are lost if the land does not yield.
There is true human sadness at the work of a generation dissolving. I know old men in my town who will not drive out this way; it pains them too much to see the fields they cleared grown back in. Yet there is, at my feet, the remains of a trillium that bloomed a month ago, nourished by the sun that filters into this woods before summer closes the canopy, an old occupant who has reclaimed her home.
The fence has rusted away, leaving this one small strand of wire as a memorial to the momentary and (in the larger scheme of things) gentle touch of a particular human being on this particular landscape. A testimony to the recuperative power of any spot where it rains. This quadrant of mine has sojourned briefly in civilization, but it has not been civilized.
July 14 — I am tired, and in sitting down to rest against the maple tree on the southeast corner of my plot I fear I have crushed several maple saplings. There are twenty-three of them spread around me, and a couple of hemlocks that have been browsed so thoroughly by white-tailed deer that they have pretty much given up. Is the destruction caused by my rear end on the maple saplings philosophically comparable to the damage done by hungry deer?
I have pretty much given up on the word "wild." Here in this one small place, the quality of the sunlight is affected by the thinning ozone, the temperature reflects our industrial society's emissions of carbon dioxide, the rain falls with a noticeably acid taint. And the deer — they've been nurtured for years by a state conservation department eager to please hunters, their predators largely exterminated save for the rifle and the Ford. Are they wild anymore, or are they a human creation? We need a more honest word to describe places where people are not in total control yet have their thumb on the scale.
July 20 — Still, the idea of "wild" haunts this place. Due east of my plot, clearly visible today through the leaves, is a small mountain — not one of the hundred highest even in New York State, but the dominant peak in this area, a mountain that I love. And I am not alone in that love. A man whose name should be more widely known, Howard Zahniser, had a summer cabin not far from here, with a view of the same angle of this mountain as my plot affords. From there, he wrote many of his telling speeches on behalf of wilderness, and planned the two decades of lobbying that culminated in the federal wilderness statute finally enacted in 1964. The law — the most progressive and the most philosophical that Congress has ever passed — sets aside "untrammeled" land where man is "only a visitor." His son, Ed, maintains that the choice of words was careful, and paid off in the 1970s, when eastern lands were added to the national wilderness system. "Most of those lands were not pristine, but had recovered from human use to the extent that Congress found them now untrammeled," he writes.
So it is with my study site. There is no denying that most of the Nikon-triggering grandeur in this country is west of the Mississippi, in tracts more nearly virgin than these Adirondacks. But there is something about this plot, standing for all the other recovering places, that speaks well for human humility. People have taken a step back here, and the land has responded.
August 8 — Some unscientific animal has stolen the string demarcating my research area. By now, however, I know it well enough not to mind.
Any one piece of ground exists in many different dimensions. When my dog visits me here, she concentrates on the dimension of smell, and doubtless has made many valuable observations to which I am not privy. I am working today on sound, trying to separate the noises that filter back to this spot. There is the sound of Mill Creek falling over the lip of a beaver dam, a spectacular piece of engineering that has built for us a new wetland in recent years. An occasional fish jumps in that swampy pond, slipping back into the water with a gurgle. Once, in response to some alarm, a beaver slaps hard, and the sound echoes lazily; only once, on this humid afternoon, does some bird let go a snatch of song.
Most of the sound is constant, more flowing — a ceaseless pulse of insect warble that I normally tune out with ease, but now, listening hard, find deeply reassuring. Trills, occasional tiny buzz-saw riffs, oscillating chirps blended together into high-pitched waves. It is life, pure and simple — life without the stories that come attached to the beaver slap or the birdcall or the gears grinding every so often on the nearest road. It is life on automatic, the deep life that our lives emerge from and skate across and subside back into.
August 26 — The moon is working back toward full tonight, bleaching my study site in its soft wash of light. There's an old birch tree here, and I like to rub its trunk — the smoothness of the paper, the random weave of bumps and gashes, the peelings that it sheds as it grows. It is like holding a cast-off snakeskin — like holding time.
September 5 — Most of the leaves in my plot are still green, the deep leathery green of old age. A few have turned, scarlet premonitions of the approaching explosion. It's still summer, but it feels like 3:00 A.M. in the city, the last moment when it's still night, when it's maybe fifteen minutes from becoming morning, right at the point where "out late" turns into "up early." Everything inside this plot — and all that I can see outside it — has moved further along on its journey these past couple of months. The saplings are a little taller, the birch somewhat shaggier, the dead maple a bit more rotted, the old rot a little more like dirt and nearly ready to nurse the next round of seeds.
This morning over breakfast, I read an article in the paper about an economist who figures that most Americans will change careers eight times in their lives to keep up with the rapid pace of technology. And they may move to new towns or new parts of the country that often, probably trading in a husband or wife along the way. The last century has been an experiment in how much we can speed up society before the strains prove unbearable. The next century, if the scientists are right about phenomena like climate change, will test whether nature can manage a similar acceleration, whether systems geared toward repetition can handle enormous variability. Will beech trees still survive on this spot if the temperature increases three or four degrees? Probably not. Autumn starts to take on a different meaning — not just one spot along the endless cycle of natural time; but perhaps a metaphor for the slow expiration of the natural when it is forced into linear, human time. Autumn, implying May, is bittersweet; this new fall would be simply bitter.
September 12 — A chipmunk, working without visible grant support on a careful study of nut production, has taken over my quadrant and is angered when I come to visit. Time for me to leave, to take down my corner posts and resume my meandering — I'm not cut out for the cutthroat world of science.
Without the string, with the poles gone, my study site blends back into the anonymous woods. But the scientific method has appealed to me greatly. Look low, look carefully. And know globally — the small and the subtle refer constantly to the overarching, the huge issues of the moment are reflected in the duff and the mushroom and the sapling. The war (and the courtship) between humans and the land can be read on this ten-foot-by-ten-foot (give or take) patch of grown-in pasture, and the chances for truce (or for marriage) assessed. I should close, I know, with questions for future research, suggestions for these scientists who will probe more deeply. How do we want to live? What matters to us? What does a tree say as it stands in the forest?CHAPTER 2
— [Consuming Desires] (Island Press), 1999
To be under siege from a cloud of blackflies is to feel your sanity threatened. In and out of your ears they crawl, biting as they go; in and out of your nose, your mouth, the corners of your eyes. If you've covered up everything but your hands, they will start there and crawl to your wrists, leaving welts wherever they feed. I went out to the garden one spring evening without my shirt tucked in tight enough, and when I came in five minutes later my wife described to me the perfect row of bites, twenty or thirty of them, that ran along the narrow gap of skin that had winked open when I stooped to weed.
Blackflies hover in a cloud about your face and move with you for miles, so great is their need for your warmth and company and blood. Every writer of the mountainous North has tried to describe their voraciousness — "winged assassins," "lynch mobs," "jaws on wings." Here in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York they constitute their own season, one that lasts as long as spring or high summer or fall color (though not as long as winter). For six or seven weeks, from before Memorial Day to after the Glorious Fourth, the paradise of a town where I live, an enormous expanse of mountain and river and stream and lake and pond, is a paradise flawed. Most of the land here is protected by the state constitution, proclaimed "forever wild," but the legislature has never managed to resolve away the blackflies.
It's not that no one's tried. As early as 1948, local towns seeking to extend the tourist season were spraying DDT from helicopters and tossing chunks of it into the streams. Rachel Carson put an end to that by 1965 (and by the early 1990s the first eagles were finally returning to the Adirondacks to nest, their eggs' shells again thick enough to allow them to hatch). In subsequent years, some towns used malathion or methoxychlor, sprayed usually from the air but always in the face of opposition. Then, more recently, some scientists began experimenting with a more natural method of control, a naturally occurring bacteria called Bacillus thuringinsis, which had been used for many years for organic control of garden pests. The israelensis subspecies, from the deserts of the Middle East, is highly specific for mosquitoes and blackflies. And so there was soon a small Adirondack industry of private contractors who would bid for the right to treat streams each spring, killing off the blackfly larvae in ways that appealed to both environmentalists and tourist-seeking local businesses.
Excerpted from The Bill McKibben Reader by Bill McKibben. Copyright © 2008 Bill McKibben. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Meet the Author
Bill McKibben is the author of a dozen books, including The End of Nature, Enough: Staying Human in an Engineered Age, and Deep Economy. A former staff writer for The New Yorker, he writes regularly for Harper's, The Atlantic Monthly, and The New York Review of Books, among other publications. He is a scholar in residence at Middlebury College and lives in Vermont with his wife, the writer Sue Halpern, and their daughter.
Bill McKibben is the author of more than a dozen books, including The End of Nature, Eaarth, and Deep Economy. He is the founder of the environmental organization 350.org and was among the first to warn of the dangers of global warming. He is the Schumann Distinguished Scholar at Middlebury College, a fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and the 2013 winner of the Gandhi Peace Award.
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