Novelist (and birder) Jonathan Franzen has weighed in on what he believes is the mission for those of us who engage in nature writing and how best to fulfill (or, at least, serve) that mission. (The Problem of Nature Writing, August 12, 2023.) The mission, he claims, is “to interest nonbelievers in nature.” By nonbelievers, Franzen means “readers who are wholly wrapped up in their humanness, unawakened to the natural world.” Too much of nature writing, he concludes, simply exposes readers to an evangelical fervor about nature in the expectation that that alone will generate converts. Nature writing, he argues, must take a different approach to be effective.
He suggests that there are three effective avenues available to a nature writer seeking converts.
(1) Center the piece around a strong argument presented provocatively or counterintuitively, opening with a compelling flourish. Franzen posits, “Speaking for myself, I’m a lot more likely to read an essay that begins ‘I hate nature’ than one that begins ‘I love nature.’” Once the reader is drawn in, the author can present their “argument for nature,” and the striking opening will, Franzen, believes guarantee that the text will move forcefully to an ending not obvious in the opening.
I am not fond of this approach and liken it to “bait and switch.”
(2) Focus on the science that turns common perceptions on their head. As a primary example of this kind of nature writing, Franzen cites Tropical Nature by Adrian Forsyth and Ken Miyata (“an essay collection that’s dear to me”).
He writes that the book “begins by serving up a set of facts about tropical rain forests. The facts are seemingly neutral, but they add up to a proposition: the rain forest is more varied, less fertile, less consistently rainy, more insidiously hostile, than the drenched and teeming ‘jungle’ of popular imagination.” “Wedded to an argument, the scientific facts speak far more compellingly to the glory of tropical nature than lyrical impressionism . . . .”
I endorse this approach most fully. I am reading Tropical Nature (1987) and consider it a superlative example of what I believe natural history writing should be.
(3) Tell a story about a person and offer the reader “the intensity of a personal relationship.” “For the nature writer who isn’t a polemicist or a scientist, a third avenue to intensity is to tell a story in which the focus on on nature but the dramatic stakes are emphatically human.” Franzen offers Kenn Kaufman’s Kingbird Highway: The Story of a Natural Obsession That Got a Little Out of Hand (1997) as a prime example of this approach. The book describes Kaufman’s effort over the course of 1973 to break the record for the most birds seen (or whose calls were heard) by an individual in a year in North America. I mentioned the book in a post, describing it as “an engrossing and wild book.” For Franzen, the beauty of the book is that it is a “classic road adventure” of a person in hot pursuit of a goal, the personal drama is a scaffolding for natural history (in this case, birds). By erecting that personal framework, the writer has a story that will take the reader from a point of origin to a climax. He argues that only a story focused on a human being (rather than some “wild animal”) can offer the narrative flow and pull that will engage the “unawakened” reader.
Though he identifies fine examples of nature writing that follow the first two paths described above in the quest for conversion, it’s that last that Franzen seems to hold near and dear to his heart, the one that will produce the quintessentially excellent piece of text and awaken us to nature. He concludes his essay:
We can’t make a reader care about nature. All we can do is tell strong stories of people who do care, and hope that the caring contagious.
I have inveighed in this blog several times against the approach that Franzen most fully endorses. In my opinion, the story telling path as he would have it is likely to result in the author cast as the hero of the piece and the relegation of the natural world to mere (forgettable?) backdrop. The right balance between the personal world and natural world often eludes such a writer. For instance, do readers of Kaufman’s book come away with some new appreciation of nature or just the thrill of a good story? It might be the latter.
There is another risk. The central character might be someone to whom the reader can relate or is attracted to, but, if not, then all bets are off in the conversion sweepstakes. (I wonder if Franzen is actually endorsing a different genre: biography. That is worth pondering, although a biography of someone immersed in the natural world may still suffer from an unattractive lead actor and subordinate nature in the story telling. Franzen may well believe any exposure to nature is better than none.)
Let me elaborate a bit on the risks I see in the personal story approach. In preparing to write on ospreys (the previous post), I read David Gessner’s Return of the Osprey: A Season of Flight and Wonder (2001). It’s an account of a spring and summer on Cape Cod that Gessner spent observing, researching, and trying to become one with ospreys. I make no reference to the book in that prior post because, although Gessner is a keen observer of this majestic raptor and writes well, his account is marred by his story telling. Among his transgressions are these: he indulges in far too many internal monologues wrestling with personal issues of little interest to this reader, he believes (erroneously) the reader will appreciate his efforts to mimic the osprey’s dive into the water to snare a fish, he recounts swimming naked (why?) on various occasions (once was more than enough) in marshy streams, and he drags the readers through his many and embarrassing impositions on the ornithologist and osprey expert Alan Poole (see prior post). In the end, Gessner as he depicts himself in this book is not an appealing character.
I don’t deny that having a good personal story to tell can be quite helpful - I do like a good story - but it’s not required. And some appearance of the author in the flow of the text isn’t anathema to me. It’s the subordination of the natural world to an account of the author’s adventures in exploring the subject that I object to. In fact, I consider some works in which the author clearly figures as among the best contemporary nature writing out there. I have in mind such books with an evident authorial presence as The Trees in My Forest (1997) by Bernd Heinrich, the exquisite Ecology of a Summer House (1984) by Vincent Dethier, and Basin and Range (1981) by John McPhee. The authors aren’t hidden in these works, rather they are sharing (but not dominating) the stage with nature. Significantly, it certainly helps that I find each of these writers an amiable companion in the exploration of whatever topic, there’s no grasping for the spotlight.
One final, very personal observation. I am quite dismayed at how dismissive Franzen is of J.A. Baker’s The Peregrine (1967), describing it (with a sneer?) as an example of “ornithological lyricism,” seemingly lumping it in with nature writing that depends solely on the writer’s evangelical fervor and is without a narrative hook. Franzen characterizes parts as unreadable and derides Baker’s effort to enter the mindset of this raptor.
I, on the other hand, love the book, partly for the human element in it.
Baker’s mastery of words is coupled with his very engaging presence in the effort to understand the peregrine. I wrote about the book in a post in 2018, describing how Baker distilled a decade of observation into what purports to be the diary of single year of stalking the peregrine which, at the time, was in serious decline. The poetry of Baker’s writing and his insights into the bird are a powerful combination, with personal narrative and nature sharing the stage. (I am puzzled that Franzen didn’t appreciate the personal narrative that the diary format presents.) And, yes, I do enjoy Baker as a person (at least as revealed in the text).
Ultimately, though I do disagree with aspects of Jonathan Franzen’s critique of nature writing, it's really a matter of degree and emphasis. The field with its diverse audience is much too broad and eclectic to be shaped by his preferences (or mine).
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