Return to nature?: an ecological counterhistory

          Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Goodbody,  Axel,  Kate  Rigby,  eds.  Ecocritical  Theory:  New  European  Approaches.   Charlottesville  and  London:  University  of  Virginia  Press,  2011.     Ecocritical   theory   is   in   the   early   stages   of   self-­‐creation   and   self-­‐definition.   Such   theory,   the   editors   remind   us   in   their   introduction,   must   include   a   recognition   of   the   fact   that   ecological   thought   is   a   made   up  of  disparate  elements  rather  than  being  a  single  system  with  clear  borders.  They  further  assert  that   theory   about   such   theories   includes   a   number   of   assumptions,   including   that   there   is   an   ecocritical   theory-­‐phobia,  and  that  such  theory  will  differ  from  continent  to  continent,  even  from  one  geographical   area  to  the  next.       This   look   into   theoretical   approaches   now   being   developed   in   Europe   specifically   highlights   both   transatlantic   and   European   regional   differences.   The   long-­‐time   domination   of   American   philosophy   departments   by   French   thought   that,   as   the   editors   note,   “seemed   to   offer   no   point   of   entry   for   ecological   concerns,”   [2]   has   made   Americans   skittish   about   adopting   such   ideas   for   the   creation   of   a   theory   meant   to   address   “Nature”—an   example   of   the   theory-­‐phobia   to   which   they   refer.   Europeans,   for  their  part,  have  concerns  and  assumptions  that  divide  them  from  some  basic  American  beliefs,  such   as   the   identification   of   Nature   with   national   identity.   The   heterogeneous   landscape   of   Europe   has   “prompted  awareness  of  the  relativity  of  cultural  values  and  understandings  of  human  interaction  with   the  natural  environment.”  [3]     The  sum  of  these  differences,  we  are  told,  is  that  in  America  we  tend  to  think  of  Nature  and  ecology  as   referring   to   the   whole   of   the   interconnections   of   the   world   around   us,   while   in   Europe   there   is   more   reflection  on  how  the  constituent  parts  can  be  understood  to  interlock.  The  editors  have  selected  and   arranged  the  twenty  essays  here  to  highlight  and  to  clarify  these  differences.       Some   of   the   analyses   and   proposals   in   the   essays   are   quite   unexpected,   and   the   proposals   for   new   approaches   to   ecological   theory   involve   overlooked   resources.   The   first   essay   here,   for   example,   Kate   Soper’s   “Passing   Glories   and   Romantic   Retrievals:   Avant-­‐garde   Nostalgia   and   Hedonist   Renewal,”   sets   aside   the   usual   view   of   Romantic   writing   as   gloomy   and   elegiac,   and   finds   in   it   the   potential   for   a   revolution  in  our  received  notions  of  success  and  pleasure.  She  considers  the  possible  uses  of  Romantic   thinking  and  English  Romantic  poetry  to  help  mitigate  the  rush  to  adopt  a  “’work  and  spend’  economy   and  its  consumerist  dynamic”  by  all  “affluent  societies,  and  those  aspiring  to  emulate  them,  in  the  era  of   globalization.”   A   reinvigoration   of   Romanticism,   Soper   suggests,   could   create   a   new   attitude   toward   consumption,  “organized  around  more  sensually  rewarding  and  ecologically  progressive  conceptions  of   pleasure  and  fulfillment.”  [17]     Anne   Elvey’s   “The   Matter   of   Texts:   A   Material   Intertextuality   and   Ecocritical   Engagements   with   the   Bible,”  illustrates  once  again  how  the  use  of  the  Bible  as  a  resource  tends  to  bring  out  the  extremes  in   writers.  The  essay  includes  some  very  interesting  linguistic  angles  for  illumination  of  the  Parable  of  the   Sower,  offered  by  Elvey,  but  also  quotes  a  pun-­‐driven  analysis  by  Stephen  Moore  of  the  crucifixion  as   paralleling   the   creation   of   the   Bible   as   a   material   object   that   comes   across   as   such   a   strained   method   as   to  approach  a  parody  of  theory:       Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             72              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       [Jesus]   is   in   the   process   of   becoming   book.   .   .   .   His   flesh,   torn   and   beaten   to   a   pulp,   joined   by   violence   to   the   wood,   is   being   transformed   into   processed   wood-­‐pulp,   into   paper,  as  the  centurion  looks  on.  As  tree  and  budding  book,  Jesus  is  putting  forth  leaves,   the  leaves  of  a  gospel  book.  .  .  .  [191]       Likely   without   meaning   to,   this   essay   illustrates   both   the   most   interesting   and   most   over-­‐ wrought  kinds  of  writing  that  theories  can  produce.     On  the  high  side  is  “From  the  Modern  to  the  Ecological:  Latour  on  Walden  Pond,”  Laura  Dassow  Walls’   succinct   capture   of   Emerson   and   Thoreau   as   they   laid   the   keel   of   the   dialectical   American   view   of   Nature.   Emerson,   she   writes,   created   “nature   as   a   bottomless   resource   for   the   human   imagination,”   while   Thoreau   found   “not   objects   apart   from   subjects   but   networks,   agents,   and   a   succession   of   temporal   frames.”   [99]   She   brings   in   Bruno   Latour   as   a   way   of   looking   at   how   this   gap   and   others   in   our   modern   world   might   be   better   mediated.   Here   Continental   Philosophy   seems   a   natural   partner   to   American   ecological   theory   rather   than   its   bugaboo.   The   partnering   of   two   writers   in   Trevor   Norris’   “Martin  Heidegger,  D.  H.  Lawrence,  and  Poetic  Attention  to  Being,”  is  bumpier  and  much  less  fruitful.     The  entire  last  section  of  this  anthology,  “Models  from  Physics  and  Biology,”  shows  the  meta-­‐efforts  of   thinkers   who   are   trying   to   place   ecocritical   theory   within   a   greater   ecology   of   science   and   literature.   For   all   the   arcane   ideas   presented   here   in   passages   seeking   metaphors   within   and   connections   with   such   specialized  disciplines  as  cybernetics,  biosemiotics,  quantum  theory  and  more,  these  approaches  strike   us   as   less   foreign   seeming   and   more   sensible   than   Soper   on   Romanticism,   where   the   emphasis   is   on   passion  and  language.  This  serves  to  remind  us  just  how  one-­‐sided  our  approaches  to  ecological  theory   have  become.       -­‐-­‐W.  C.  Bamberger,  [email protected]           Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             73              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Lynch,  Tom,  Cheryll  Glotfelty,  and  Karla  Ambruster,  eds.    The  Bioregional   Imagination:    Literature,  Ecology,  and  Place.  Univ.  Georgia  Press,  2011.     The  recent  publication  of  The  Bioregional  Imagination  by  the  University  of  Georgia  Press  marks  a  new   threshold   of   attention   gained   by   a   central   concept   in   ecocritical   thought   and   practice.     Well   edited   by   longtime   ASLE   members   Tom   Lynch,   Cheryll   Glotfelty,   and   Karla   Armbruster,   this   big   anthology   showcases  an  idea  that  first  received  substantial  recognition  more  than  a  generation  ago.    It  concludes   with  Kyle  Bladow’s  “Bioregional  Checklist,”  and  of  this  core  list  of  seventeen  books  plus  one  article,  just   half   were   published   more   than   a   decade   ago.     The   increasing   focus   upon   bioregionalism   in   the   new   century’s  first  decade  or  so  marks  its  coming  of  age,  as  it  has  clearly  gained  critical  mass  in  scholarship   and  popular  consensus.    This  timely  anthology  salutes  that  fact.       Both  in  the  Introduction  and  in  many  essays,  generous  homage  is  paid  to  Peter  Berg,  Gary  Snyder,  and   Kirkpatrick  Sale  as  godfathers  of  bioregional  thinking.    The  Bioregional  Imagination  provides  an  excellent   primer   and   forecast   for   ways   in   which   bioregionalism   could   and   should   dominate   our   personal   and   professional  lives  in  this  century.    In  particular,  the  anthology  negotiates  the  sometimes  tricky  passages   between   localism,   apart   from   which   bioregionalism   is   inconceivable,   and   globalism   and   its   attendant   emphases   upon   environmental   and   social   justice.     Many   of   those   passages   are   delineated   in   Ursula   Heise’s  Sense  of  Place  and  Sense  of  Planet  (2008).    The  Bioregional  Imagination,   in  many  of  its  essays,   affirms   in   many   new   ways   a   familiar   truism:     that   the   local   remains   the   best   path   to   the   global.     Additionally,   several   of   its   twenty-­‐four   essays   are   set   outside   North   America,   directly   attesting   to   bioregionalism  as  an  international  habit  of  mind  and  ground  practice.     In   their   Introduction   the   editors   review   bioregionalism’s   recent   history   within   and   alongside   American   environmentalism.     They   contend   it   emerged   “to   address   matters   of   pressing   environmental   concern   through  a  politics  derived  from  a  local  sense  of  place.”  (p.  2)  They  define  bioregionalism  as  “a  political   and   cultural   practice   that   manifests   as   an   environmental   ethic   in   the   day-­‐to-­‐day   activities   of   ordinary   residents”   (p.   3),   recognizing   that   it   includes   the   core   concepts   of   “dwelling,   sustainability,   and   reinhabitation.”   (p.   4,   italics   original)     Unsurprisingly,   bioregionalism   is   conceived   as   fundamentally   home-­‐grown,   grassroots,   local:     it   revises   even   as   it   depends   upon   an   acute   sense   of   place   and   the   literature   of   place   that   reflects   and   celebrates   that   sense.     In   both   theory   and   praxis,   bioregionalism   privileges   watershed   boundaries   over   arbitrary   political   boundaries   and   includes,   among   its   basic   content,  local  interdisciplinary  knowledge  as  reflected  in  the  “Where  You  At?”  quiz  first  promulgated  in   CoEvolution   Quarterly   over   three   decades   ago   (p.   8)   For   at   least   the   past   generation,   for   example,   a   range   of   writers   in   my   native   region,   the   U.S.   Pacific   Northwest,   have   ignored   the   Medicine   Line   in   their   detailed  botanic,  climatic,  and  literary  evocations  of  Cascadia.       Lynch,   Glotfelty,   and   Armsbruster   contend   that   “it   is   exactly   the   cultural   dimension   of   bioregionalism   that  has  been  undertheorized  and  only  minimally  explored”  (p.  11),  and  their  anthology  happily  fills  that   void.     This   foregrounding   of   bioregionalism’s   cultural   dimension   nicely   negotiates   the   profound   nexus   between   localism   and   globalism.     Many   essays   demonstrate   the   value   of   Ursula   Heise’s   advocacy   of   “ecocosmopolitanism”   (p.   9)   and   Bill   McKibben’s   call   for   “increased   engagement.”   (p.   10)   The   three   Editors   organized   the   collection   into   four   sections—Reinhabiting,   Rereading,   Reimagining,   and     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             74              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Renewal—cleverly   arguing   that   the   prefix   “re   envisions   not   a   simple   return   to   the   past   but,   rather,   a   creative   salvaging,   a   new-­‐old   process   that   reorients   us   toward   elegant   adaptation.”   (p.   18)     These   categories  semantically  overlap,  and  in  fact  some  essays  could  switch  places  without  too  much  notice,   but  that  condition  in  no  way  diminishes  the  work.    Those  four  “R”  words  do  overlap,  in  some  contexts,   considerably.     As   part   of   bioregionalism’s   dependency   on   localism,   each   essay   features,   near   its   beginning,   a   map   of   the  area  or  region  scrutinized  by  that  particular  essay,  and  for  anyone  loving  maps  as  this  reviewer  does,   this  graphic  feature  easily  pulls  readers  into  each  place  and  enhances  our  local  geographical  knowledge.     The   Bioregional   Imagination   opens   with   Glotfelty’s   “Conversation   with   David   Robertson   and   Robert   L.   Thayer,   Jr.,”   and   highlights   their   profoundly   interdisciplinary   work   at   UC   Davis   with   the   Putah-­‐Cache   Bioregional  Project  (1993-­‐2001)  immediately  west  and  northwest  of  Davis.    Many  essayists  subsequently   cite   Thayer’s   LifePlace:     Bioregional   Thought   and   Practice   (2003),   which   distills   their   Project   and   is   included  in  Bladow’s  “Bioregional  List.”    Inevitably  in  such  a  big  anthology,  occasional  redundancy  occurs   (e.g.  in  literature  review  and  citations),  but  that  proves  only  a  minor  annoyance.    Through  these  essays   the  reader  travels  to  Italy’s  polluted  Po  River  Valley,  Ireland’s  Aran  Islands,  Australia’s  southwest  Victoria   and  vast  deserts,  southwest  Nigeria,  northern  Lapland,  as  well  as  central  British  Columbia  and  the  Bow   River  drainage  on  Alberta’s  Rocky  Mountain  front.     Most   essays   constitute   literary   criticism,   thus   underlining   literature’s   crucial   place   in   the   “cultural   dimension  of  bioregionalism.”    Others  focus  more  directly  upon  particularly  enviro-­‐social  justice  issues,   or   current   manifestations   of   global   climate   change   that   rudely   revise   the   lifeways   of   indigenes.     Only   three   or   four   essays   depend   too   much   upon   a   particular   set   of   current   academic   jargon,   which   clogs   their   respective   arguments.   The   final   section,   “Renewal,”   focuses   squarely   upon   pedagogy,   and   this   quartet   of   essays   demonstrates   some   of   the   range   of   smart   ideas   and   topics   that   inculcate   bioregionalism  and  change  students’  lives.    It  provides  an  optimistic  closing  to  a  big,  strong  book.    I  can   hardly  wait  to  try  some  of  these  in  my  classes.                         -­‐-­‐O.  Alan  Weltzien,  English,  The  University  of  Montana  Western,  [email protected]             Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             75              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012         Babcock,   Matthew   James.   Private   Fire:   Robert   Francis’s   Ecopoetry   and   Prose.   Newark:  University  of  Delaware  Press,  2011.     The  frontispiece  of  Matthew  James  Babcock’s  Private  Fire:  Robert  Francis’s  Ecopoetry  and  Prose  shows   the   Amherst   Community   History   Mural   by   David   Fichter.     In   the   black   and   white   view,   Robert   Francis,   who  died  in  1987  at  the  age  of  85,  stares  toward  but  beyond  the  viewer,  with  his  right  hand  against  a   tree  trunk  and  his  left  hand  on  his  hip.  He  looks  out  of  the  mural,  engaging  with  the  world,  but  not  quite   making  eye  contact.  Fichter’s  imaginative  rendering  of  Francis  serves  as  visual  shorthand  for  Babcock’s   critical   analysis   of   Francis’s   large   but   neglected   body   of   writing.   In   the   mural,   the   hermit   writer   supported  by  the  tree  lifts  his  eyes  to  the  world—and  the  world  beyond.     Babcock’s   analysis   covers   Francis’s   published   and   unpublished   works   in   a   wide   variety   of   genres   and   considers  Francis’s  “distinctly  multifarious  and  sometimes  unstable  views  concerning  the  influence  of  his   poetic  predecessors,  sexuality,  environmentalism,  conservation,  spirituality,  politics  and  pacifism”  (11).     Having   established   in   the   Preface   that   Francis   was   a   complex   man   with   kaleidoscopic   ideas   and   condemning   “decades   of   prejudice   and   protean   scholarly   pigeonholes,”   Babcock   settles   on   his   own   category   in   the   Introduction:   “It   is   time   to   uproot   Francis   from   the   obscurity   of   the   green   margin   and   to   plant  him  where  he  belongs:  in  the  expanding  canon  of  twentieth-­‐century  American  ecopoets”  (36,  37).       Babcock’s   horticultural   metaphor   is   an   example   of   how   his   admiration   for   Francis   sometimes   leads   to   what  seems  like  exuberant  excess  in  his  own  writing;  he  calls  Francis  “a  master  of  the  quip  pro  quo,”  and   says   he   wishes   to   avoid   comparing   Francis   and   Robert   Frost   by   “following   Francis   down   a   road   less   traveled”   (34,   35).     On   the   other   hand,   Francis   himself,   “fueled   on   playful   postmodernist   paradox,”   invented  new  forms  for  his  environmental  poetry,  “’mono-­‐rhyme,’  ‘word  count,’  ‘fragmented  surface,’   and   ‘silent   poetry’,”   so   Babcock’s   own   playfulness   is   a   relief   during   his   serious   effort   to   canonize   Francis   in  the  “present  eco-­‐catastrophic  moment”  (152,  149,  13).     Private   Fire   is   arranged   in   “nine   loosely   related   chapters   on   a   smattering   of   topics,”   all   passionately   devoted   to   recovering   Francis   from   unjust   marginalization   (10).     Babcock   follows   his   Introduction   with   a   chapter   on   “The   Influence   of   Dickinson   and   Frost.”   Chapter   2   grounds   and   contextualizes   Francis,   reading  Dickinson’s  “eco-­‐influence”  on  Francis  as  a  sacred  inheritance  from  both  Dickinson  and  Amherst   (44).    Where  Frost  is  concerned,  Babcock  goes  out  on  a  limb  and  says,  “[I]t  is  perhaps  more  interesting  at   this   historical   juncture   to   consider   how   Francis   influenced   Frost   and   how   he   may   re-­‐shape   Frost   studies,”  anticipating  that  Francis  will  be  retrieved  from  the  margin  and  brought  into  the  academy  as  a   major  poet  (55).    This  is  one  of  Babcock’s  stated  goals  for  his  book,  as  he  says,  “In  arranging  my  material,   I  sought  [.  .  .]  to  be  accessible  to  academic  audiences  as  well  as  general  readers,”  a  paradoxical  ordering,   given  that  Francis’s  own  journals  “plot  his  slow  pilgrimage  away  from  institutionalized  education  toward   individualistic  geocentric  enlightenment”  (10,  24).       According   to   Babcock   in   the   chapter   “Sex,   Gender,   and   the   Rural   Erotic,”   Francis’s   geocentric   view   undercuts  egocentric  and  divisive  cultural  categories,  demonstrating  “that  Francis’s  brand  of  American   ecopoetics   sought   for   unification,   rather   than   division,   and   that   he   wrote   in   order   to   strengthen   the     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             76              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       natural   affinities   between   sexuality,   literary   genre,   and   environmental   preservation”   (62).     In   another   example  of  his  own  wordplay,  Babcock  writes,  “In  the  same  way  that  Francis’s  rural  sketches,  portraits,   and   lyrics   locate   the   orgasmic   in   the   organic,   they   seek   to   map   the   certain   and   sometimes   uncertain   distance  between  the  erotic  and  the  biotic”  (76).    Babcock  refers  to  Francis,  who  was  gay,  as  a  nature   writer  who  challenged  literary  genre  and  gender  definitions  and  calls  him  “a  boundary  creature”  and  “a   unique  breed  of  writer,  perhaps  one  of  a  kind”  (77).     While   reveling   in   Francis’s   uniqueness,   Babcock   insists   that   Francis   himself   was   distressed   by   being   a   writer  without  a  genre,  “torn  between  identifying  himself  as  either  a  poet  or  a  writer  of  prose”  (80).    In   Chapter  4,  “Fiction  and  Non-­‐Fiction,”  Babcock  explores  Francis’s  literary  content  and  forms,  including  his   bioregional  narrative,  We  Fly  Away,  published  in  1948.      This  work,  in  keeping  with  Francis’s  tendency  to   blur   boundaries,   “ceases   to   differentiate   between   fact   and   fiction,   between   bioregion   and   biography”   (92).     In   reviewing   Francis’s   essays,   Babcock   finds   that   Francis   describes   himself   as   a   “wordman”   who   “wrote  and  was  changed.”    Further,  Babcock  insists  that  Francis’s  readers  want  to  change  as  a  result  of   Francis’s   work:   “In   the   reader’s   consciousness,   a   nagging   dissatisfaction   with   the   wastefulness   of   the   contemporary  world  summons  a  desire  to  live  more  conscientiously,  to  consume  less,  and  to  generate   more   positive   energy”   (95).     Babcock   himself   was   moved   in   this   way,   as   he   notes   in   the   book’s   Conclusion:   “The   more   I   wrote   about   Francis,   the   more   I   became   dissatisfied   with   the   wasteful,   consumerist  aspects  of  my  life,  the  habits  of  excess  and   insensitivity  toward  the  natural  world  that  I  had   accepted  as  normal”  (186).       “Positive   energy”   could   describe   the   coupling   of   Francis’s   spiritual   views   with   his   political   ones,   which   Babcock  explores  in  Chapter  5,  “Ecospirituality  and  Ecopolitics.”    Francis  writes  to  find  “footholds  in  the   shifting   sands   of   modernism,”   pairing   “an   ‘open’   spirituality   (a   curious   pastiche   of   Christianity,   nature   worship,   Buddhism,   Hinduism,   and   other   Eastern   world   views)   with   a   committed,   more   ‘closed’   political   stance   (pacifism,   non-­‐violence,   conscientious   objection,   activism,   and   dissidence)”   (110).     Francis’s   writings   on   war   sometimes   address   its   violence   with   jarring   syntax,   and   Babcock   himself   uses   metaphorical   bellicosity   to   describe   Francis’s   life   away   from   and   protest   against   military-­‐materialist   culture:   “With   blitzkrieg   bluntness,   Francis   dug   in   at   Fort   Juniper   [Francis’s   home   in   the   woods   of   Amherst]   for   over   four   decades   and   from   his   biocentrist   bivouac   launched   a   full-­‐frontal   assault   at   international   conflict”   (125).     Francis’s   anti-­‐war   stance   was   solid,   but   his   spiritual   perspective   was   skeptical,  “adopt[ing]  a  multiplicity  of  stances,  as  if  exploring  the  infinite  degrees  of  doubt”  (116).    Again,   Francis   defies   categorization,   using   ecopoetry   to   move   “toward   the   salvation   of   remaining   undecided   and  uncommitted”  to  a  single  spiritual  definition.     Nevertheless,   Francis   was   an   ascetic   committed   to   living   simply,   in   material   poverty,   described   in   “Economy,  Place,  and  Space.”    Babcock  sees  Francis’s  economic  activism  reflected  in  his  writing  style:  “In   material   terms,   he   consumed   very   little   energy,   natural   resources,   and   food—just   enough,   and   sometimes   not   nearly   enough,   to   live   on.     As   a   result,   he   authored   a   slim   body   of   prose   and   poetry   whose  chief  characteristic  is  its  sparing  use  of  language”  (130).    In  closely  reading  Francis’s  experimental   poetry  in  chapter  7,  Babcock  returns  to  the  language  of  violence,  claiming,  “Francis  snapped  sentences   across  his  knees  like  kindling,  peeled  the  bark  from  each  word,  and  crumbled  the  fragments  on  the  page   [.   .   .]   In   order   to   engender   healing   and   change,   Francis   used   his   fragmented   surface   poetry   to   penetrate     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             77              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       the   surface   relationships   of   a   broken   society   on   a   broken   earth”   (159).     Once   again,   Francis   is   shape   shifting,   this   time   between   destroyer   and   creator.     Babcock   concludes   his   reading   of   Francis   with   Valhalla,   a   long   narrative   poem   of   “environmental   apocalyptics,”   in   which   Francis   questions   why   “cultures   have   thought   it   necessary   to   divide   a   whole   entity   into   two   concepts”   (166,   175).     Francis’s   end-­‐time  vision  is  not  annihilation,  but  reunification,  erasure  of  categorization  and  classification.         In   “Conclusion,”   Babcock   writes,   “[T]o   Francis,   lifestyle   and   poetic   stylistics   sprouted   from   the   same   taproot”;   life   and   art,   the   natural   world   and   the   human-­‐made   were   not   separate   for   Robert   Francis   (184).    Babcock’s  last  chapter  is  as  autobiographical  as  it  is  analytical,  remarking  on  the  changes  he  has   undergone  while  reading  Francis’s  work  and  suggesting  that  reading  Francis  is  to  transcend  boundaries:   “His   writing   acts   as   a   portal   for   what   is   geologically   and   geographically   analogous,   or   ‘geologous,’   between   cultures,   species,   populations,   and   landforms   across   time   and   space”   (189).     Matthew   James   Babcock  has  written  a  scholarly  and  poetic  green  reading  of  Francis,  a  “quest-­‐like  narrative”  that  burns   with  devotion  for  his  subject,  who  “demonstrated  that  to  be  an  ecopoet  meant  to  be  not  one  thing  but   many”  (13,  21).         -­‐-­‐Elizabeth  Bernstein,  Director,  Athletic  Association  Writing  Center,  The  University  of  Georgia,  Athens.                 Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             78              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012         Ryan,  Terre.  This  Ecstatic  Nation:  The  American  Landscape  and  the  Aesthetics  of   Patriotism.  Amherst:  U  of  Mass.  Press,  2011.       Terre   Ryan's   book   This   Ecstatic   Nation:   The   American   Landscape   and   the   Aesthetics   of   Patriotism   synthesizes  an  assortment  of  writing  styles  while  arguing  that  the  landscape  aesthetics  of  19th  century   America   have   persisted   into   the   present   day,   perpetuating   the   unsustainable,   Frontier-­‐era   paradox   of   nature   as   both   secular   cathedral   and   consumable   resource.   Central   to   Ryan's   work   is   what   she   terms   “Manifest  Destiny  aesthetics,”  an  amalgam  of  aesthetic  tropes  –  including  the  pastoral,  the  picturesque,   the  beautiful,  and  the  sublime  –  that  she  believes  functions  on  visual,  political,  and  cultural  levels.  Ryan   illustrates   the   pervasiveness   of   Manifest   Destiny   aesthetics   throughout   the   last   two   hundred   years   of   American  history  using  critical  readings  of  others'  texts  as  well  as  her  own  on-­‐the-­‐ground  reporting  and   narrative-­‐style  vignettes.     Overall,   This   Ecstatic   Nation   successfully   distills   its   broad   subject   matter   into   an   informative   and   wonderfully   readable   introduction   to   how   outdated   aesthetic   values   continue   to   dominate   our   culture's   perception   of   the   natural   environment   and   our   place   in   it.   However,   at   some   points   the   scope   of   Ryan's   work   begs   for   a   longer   treatment   than   the   book's   138   pages   can   provide.   Most   noticeably,   her   theoretical   explorations   are   neither   as   involved   nor   as   convincing   as   her   reportage   or   her   narrative.   The   result   of   this   imbalance   is   that   a   book   that   seems   confused   as   to   whether   it   is   a   meditation   or   an   argument  ultimately  works  much  better  as  the  former  than  as  the  latter.       The  book's  first  chapter  functions  as  an  extension  of  its  brief  introduction,  continuing  to  lay  theoretical,   factual,  and  personal  groundwork.  Here,  Ryan  is  excellent  at  synthesizing  her  various  writing  voices  to   provide   a   historiocultural   context   for   the   reader   while,   refreshingly,   not   remaining   an   emotionless   dictator   of   sources   and   statistics.   For   example,   she   is   careful   to   admit   her   own   complicity   in   the   environmental  destruction  brought  about  by  Americans'  upholding  of  Manifest  Destiny  aesthetics  while   still   convincingly   suggesting   that   awareness   of   such   complicity   can   be   the   first   step   in   building   a   new,   more  constructive  paradigm.  Her  writing  is  at  its  strongest  when  she  combines  personal  narrative  with   reportage,  as  she  does  when  she  uses  this  chapter's  anchoring  image  of  an  enormous  Pabst  beer  bottle   that  hovers  above  the  Holy  Sepulchre  Cemetery  as  viewed  from  New  Jersey's  Garden  State  Parkway  as  a   lesson  in  how  landscapes  aesthetics  reflect  cultural  values.         When  Ryan  moves  into  more  abstract  territory,  though,  things  become  muddled.  As  mentioned  above,   she   rolls   assorted   visual   tropes   into   her   idea   of   Manifest   Destiny   aesthetics;   however,   with   only   very   minimal  theoretical  justification  for  such  a  move,  the  result  is  an  implicit  suggestion  that  there  is  little  to   no  difference  between,  say,  the  pastoral  and  the  picturesque.  Burke's  sublime,  in  particular,  is  scarcely   defined  but  then  wielded  enthusiastically  throughout  the  rest  of  the  book  in  various  guises.  In  the  first   chapter   alone   “technological   sublime”   and   “virtual   sublime”   are   introduced,   and   later   we   get   “postmodern   sublime,”   “military   sublime,”   and   “digital   sublime,”   but   it   never   becomes   satisfyingly   clear   what  Ryan  means  by  any  of  these  terms,  and  ultimately  their  usage  does  not  give  any  coherent  sense  of   a   21st   century   evolution   of   a   19th   century   trope.   A   number   of   other   concepts   –   including   Cheryll   Glotfelty's  “placism”  –  are  also  introduced  near  the  end  of  the  first  chapter,  but  likewise  serve  no  lasting     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             79              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       rhetorical  purpose  and  seem  to  exist  only  as  discussion  starters  for  discussions  that,  unfortunately,  do   not  continue  throughout  the  rest  of  the  book.     Each  of  This  Ecstatic  Nation's  three  remaining  chapters  are  explorations  of  Manifest  Destiny  aesthetics'   effects   on   particular   locations   as   observed   by   Ryan   herself.   In   these   later   chapters,   her   narrative   and   reporting   voices   truly   shine,   especially   in   the   second   chapter,   where   she   discusses   how   the   American   southwest  became  the  major  testing  site  for  the  atomic  bomb  by  virtue  of  the  desert  failing  to  meet  the   standard  of  beauty  we  expect  from  our  natural  landscapes.  The  trajectories  of  the  final  two  chapters  –   which   deal   with   clearcutting   in   Oregon   and   the   natural   gas   industry   in   Wyoming,   respectively   –   are   a   bit   less   clear,   but   amid   numerous   one-­‐   and   two-­‐page   digressions,   the   strength   of   Ryan's   nonfiction   prose   keeps  the  reader  engaged  in  her  pilgrimages  to  these  places.       Much   like   its   introduction,   the   book's   conclusion   raises   many   fascinating   possibilities   that   are   unfortunately   given   short   shrift.   Ryan's   linking   of   Manifest   Destiny   aesthetics   to   patriotism   and   her   subsequent   exploration   of   “green   patriotism”   is   perhaps   the   most   interesting   part   of   the   entire   text,   despite  coming  at  the  very  end.  Aside  from  this  suggestion  of  a  new  theoretical  direction,  though,  This   Ecstatic  Nation  provides  few  if  any  answers  for  the  questions  it  raises.  Though  highly  readable,  Ryan's   book   doesn't   accomplish   anything   from   a   theoretical   perspective   that   others   –   Slotkin,   Cronon,   Morton,   Kittredge,  Solnit,  etc.  –  haven't  already  accomplished.  That  said,  however,  Ryan's  work  does  stand  out  in   the   ways   that   her   reflections   and   investigative   work   personalize   grand   historiocultural   concerns   by   showing   how   the   perpetuation   of   Frontier-­‐era   environmental   aesthetics   still   deeply   affects   small   communities   and   individuals   across   the   American   west.   Though   it   may   not   provide   many   answers   in   the   end,  This  Ecstatic  Nation  finds  new  ways  to  pose  old  questions,  making  them  impossible  to  ignore  any   longer.           -­‐-­‐  Ben  S.  Bunting,  Jr.  Washington  State  University           Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             80              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012         Nixon,   Rob.   Slow   Violence   and   the   Environmentalism   of   the   Poor.   Cambridge:   Harvard  University  Press,  2011.  Print.       Rob   Nixon’s   Slow   Violence   and   the   Environmentalism   of   the   Poor   is   a   reminder   that   in   each   moment   there  is  a  pressing  and  long-­‐term  environmental  crisis  too  often  left  undetected  by  the  spectacular  and   immediate  eyes  of  society.  By  coalescing  the  words  slow  and  violence,  Nixon  cogently  engineers  a  way   in  which  to  discuss  the  accretion  of  acts  that  birth  catastrophic  effects  that  are  delayed  or  made  invisible   by   the   passing   of   years,   if   not   centuries.   More   than   a   way   to   define   the   long-­‐term   effects   of   environmental   "slow   violence,"   Nixon   also   stages   a   method   to   better   perceive   these   events   so   that   agents  can  respond  accordingly.       One  agent  of  particular  interest  is  the  "writer-­‐activist"  who  Nixon  puts  forth  as  a  wielder  of  literary  and   imaginative   tools.   The   writer-­‐activist   is   not   underestimated   in   his   or   her   ability   to   respond   alongside   the   indigenous  and  underrepresented  poor  that  have  had  their  lands  and  their  way  of  life  most  effected  by   slow  violence.  Nixon's  work  largely  focuses  on  such  agents  who  might  help  readers  to  better  understand   and   articulate   resistance   from   a   transnationally   informed   perspective.   Moreover,   environmental   and   postcolonial   studies   combine   to   effectively   imbue   an   understanding   of   how   language   and   representational   strategies   are   crafted   in   order   to   strengthen   widespread   struggles   against   slow   violence.       By   identifying   slow   violence   as   a   distinct   brand   of   temporal   violence,   Nixon   provides   a   means   to   overcome   the   representational   obstacles   that   undermine   efforts   to   mobilize   change.   In   order   to   accomplish  this  objective,  Nixon  highlights  the  work  of  writer-­‐activists  who  have  successfully  channeled   their   voice   through   environmental   causes.   One   example   of   such   a   writer-­‐activist   is   Ken   Saro-­‐Wiwa,   a   member  of  the  Ogoni  people,  which  is  an  ethnic  minority  in  Nigeria.  Saro-­‐Wiwa  was  a  prolific  writer  who   was   eventually   executed   as   a   result   of   his   non-­‐violent   protests   aimed   at   protecting   his   homeland,   Ogoniland,   in   the   Niger   Delta.   While   the   charges   that   led   to   his   execution   have   been   internationally   questioned,   he   "believed   to   the   last   that   his   writing   would   return   to   haunt   his   tormenters"   (104).   These   "tormenters"  include  those  protecting  crude  oil  extraction,  which  has  caused  long-­‐lasting  environmental   damage  due  to  indiscriminate  petroleum  waste  dumping  in  his  homeland.     With  this  in  mind,  what  Nixon  provides  is  not  only  the  context  surrounding  the  struggles  of  Saro-­‐Wiwa,   but   also   his   textual   strategies.   In   particular,   these   include   his   alertness   to   "shifts   in   audience   and   occasion,"   flexibility   in   "register   and   focus,"   his   ability   to   articulate   "the   literature   of   commitment   in   expressively   environmental   terms,"   the   unique   "combined   appeal   to   minority   and   environmental   rights,"   (109)   and   ultimately   the   resistance   he   crafts   "in   a   language   that   melded   new   modes   of   environmental   defiance   with   a   more   traditional   reverence   for   the   land"   (118).   Despite   many   Americans’   ignorance  of  Saro-­‐Wiwa  or  his  people's  cause,  he  represents  a  passionate  embodiment  of  the  freedom   of  speech,  democracy,  nonviolence,  and  anti-­‐censorship.  In  fact,  Nixon  claims  that  Saro-­‐Wiwa  presents   "the   most   vocal   literary   protest   since   the   [Salman]   Rushdie   affair"   (122).   While   this   awareness   is   enlightening   in   its   own   right,   Nixon   immediately   throws   into   relief   Saro-­‐Wiwa   as   a   writer-­‐activist   with     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             81              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       the   equally   revealing   writings   of   his   son.   This   juxtaposition   provides   further   evidence   of   Nixon's   awareness  of  the  complexity  that  slow  violence  presents  in  relation  to  the  writer-­‐activist.     This  example  is  synecdochic  of  the  invisible  and  incongruent  state  of  human  and  environmental  injustice   that  is  chronicled  as  a  representational  concern  in  the  text.  Such  concerns  span  from  "Climate  change,   the  thawing  cryosphere,  toxic  drift,  biomagnification,  deforestation,  the  radioactive  aftermaths  of  wars,   acidifying   oceans,   and   a   host   of   other   slowly   unfolding   environmental   catastrophes"   (2).   The   array   of   possible   concerns   that   the   concept   of   slow   violence   encompasses   is   at   minimum   eye   opening,   and   at   most   ubiquitous   in   its   perpetual   unfolding.   It   is   not   merely   the   fractured   violence   of   political   histories   that  is  conjured,  but  violence  that  is  marked  as  a  text  that  requires  the  work  of  scholars  like  Nixon  to   revisit,  negotiate,  and  interpret.     The  context  surrounding  Saro-­‐Wiwa  is  one  of  the  many  potential  examples  supporting  Nixon's  argument   that   European   and   American   leaders   are   largely   responsible   for   implementing   neoliberal   policies   that   have   exacerbated   the   effects   of   slow   violence   on   the   global   South.   The   idea   is   that   by   centering   on   frequently   discounted   casualties,   often   left   strategically   absent   from   the   public's   collective   memory,   Nixon   might   also   provide   the   writer-­‐activist   a   means   to   counter   or   more   simply   to   understand   the   bloodless   and   unspectacular   tragedies   that   are   just   as   real   as   more   visible   and   media-­‐ready   natural   disasters.   By   continuing   to   ignore   catastrophes   that   emanate   from   both   temporal   and   geographical   outsourcing,  the  veiled  matrix  of  racial  and  political-­‐economic  inequality  will  continue  to  surface.       On  its  own,  Nixon's  critique  of  neoliberalism,  imperialism,  and  to  some  extent  capitalism  is  nothing  new.   However,   his   updated   vision   brings   together   a   tradition   of   critiques—going   back   to   Robert   Bullard,   Rachel  Carson,  and  many  others—in  a  way  that  uniquely  focuses  on  aesthetics,  genre  (fiction  and  non-­‐ fiction),   media,   and   the   representational   obstacles   that   environmental   justice   movements   have   faced   over  the  past  thirty  years.  Moreover,  it  is  Nixon  ability  to  employ  postcolonial  and  environmental  studies   as   lenses   to   reveal   slow   violence,   the   writer-­‐activist,   and   the   climate   of   neoliberalism   that   deserves   attention,  particularly  from  literary  scholars  who  might  desire  to  view  their  own  contribution  to  these   issues  in  a  new  light.         -­‐-­‐Pearce  Durst,  University  of  Montevallo           Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             82              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Dallmayr,  Fred.  Return  to  Nature?  An  Ecological  Counterhistory.  Lexington:  U  of   Kentucky  P,  2011.     There   are   a   few   widely   held   theories   as   to   the   origins   of   our   problematic   relationship   to   the   natural   world  and  its  manifestation  in  environmental  crises.  Some  see  our  alienation  from  non-­‐human  nature  as   the   inevitable   consequence   of   the   otherworldly   promise   of   the   Abrahamic   religions;   others   trace   the   split  all  the  way  back  to  the  invention  of  agriculture.  As  a  philosopher,  Fred  Dallmayr  naturally  looks  for   the   origins   of   the   problem   in   our   philosophical   tradition,   and   he   finds   it   in   the   mind-­‐world   dualism   of   Rene   Descartes.   Though   he   acknowledges   the   roles   science,   technology,   and   spirituality   might   play   in   solving   environmental   problems   and   rehabilitating   our   utilitarian   and   anthropocentric   perspective   on   the   natural   world,   Dallmayr   posits   that   this   is   fundamentally   a   philosophic   problem   in   need   of   a   philosophic   solution.   He   believes   that   “the   model   of   mastery   over   nature   can   be   traced   back   to   the   onset   of   modern   Western   philosophy,   when   the   human   ‘mind’   was   separated   rigidly   from   ‘extended   matter’”;  one  important  way  to  solve  the  problem  then  is  to  unify  this  dualism  (155).       His   aim   here   is   to   trace   the   history   of   philosophy’s   attempt   to   heal   the   rift   of   Cartesian   dualism.   Balancing  summary,  history,  synthesis,  and  analysis,  Dallmayr  traces  the  strains  of  Western  thought  that   run   counter   to   the   dominant   Cartesian,   scientific-­‐rationalistic   current   that   supports   the   dualism   of   man-­‐ nature  and/or  mind-­‐body.  This  history  begins  right  at  the  time  of  Descartes  by  examining  how  Spinoza   opposed   this   dualism   almost   immediately.   A   near-­‐contemporary   of   Descartes,   Spinoza   sought   to   “remedy  the  fissures  or  splits  to  which  modern  reason  gives  rise:  the  splits  between  thought  and  action,   between   self   and   other,   between   reason   and   faith,   and   between   God   and   nature”   (11).   Subsequent   chapters   examine   this   move   towards   unifying   such   dualisms   in   Schelling   and   German   Idealism,   Romanticism   (as   manifest   in   Germany,   England,   and   America),   Dewey,   Merleau-­‐Ponty,   and   Heidegger.   Though  these  figures  are  the  focal  points,  many  others  receive  significant  attention:  Leibniz,  Hegel,  Kant,   Fichte,  and  others.  Finally,  since  the  focus  has  been  squarely  on  the  Western  tradition,  the  last  chapter  is   dedicated  to  acknowledging  the  ways  in  which  Indian,  Buddhist,  and  Chinese  thought  is  congruent  with   the   aims   of   the   counterhistory   he   has   been   presenting.   Two   appendices   add   significant   content:   one   summarizes   the   contributions   of   Thomas   Berry   to   environmental   philosophy;   the   other   contemplates   the  fall  and  potential  revival  of  the  now-­‐neglected  field  of  philosophical  anthropology.       Dallmayr’s   book   is   broadly   useful.   Though   he   explicitly   situates   his   work   as   philosophical   inquiry,   his   breadth   of   scope   and   straightforward,   readable   prose   contributes   to   its   accessibility   and   wide   applicability.  Students  and  scholars  of  Romantic  literature,  for  instance,  will  find  much  to  engage  with  in   his   analysis   of   Wordsworth,   Coleridge,   Emerson,   and   Thoreau.   But   even   beyond   that   clear   interdisciplinary  appeal,  only  a  basic  understanding  of  the  Western  philosophic  tradition  is  necessary  to   be  able  to  digest  Dallmayr’s  account  of  the  thread  of  anti-­‐Cartesian-­‐dualism  that  runs  through  Western   philosophy.   Anyone   who   deals   with   ecological   issues   in   whatever   field   –   literature,   philosophy,   the   sciences,   or   the   humanities   –   should   find   valuable   perspective   here   on   the   origins   and   essence   of   the   human-­‐nature  problem.  At  the  same  time,  there  is  enough  close  and  detailed  analysis  to  satisfy  students   of   philosophy   –   such   as   his   explication   of   the   divergence   of   Leibniz   from   Spinoza   via   the   former’s     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             83              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       concept  of  monads.  But  even  the  most  esoteric  concepts  are  explained  plainly  and  clearly,  making  this   book  useful  to  anyone  whose  research  is  concerned  with  the  origins  of  ecological  problems.           -­‐-­‐David  Tagnani,  Washington  State  University         Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             84              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Fiege,   Mark.   The   Republic   of   Nature:   An   Environmental   History   of   the   United   States.  Seattle,  London:  University  of  Washington  Press.  2012.  Print.     The   Republic   of   Nature:   An   Environmental   History   of   the   United   States   by   Mark   Fiege   looks   at   iconic   events  in  American  history  through  the  lens  of  nature  to  determine  nature’s  or  the  environment’s  role  in   the   shaping   of   the   events.   This   undertaking   involves   looking   at   the   “…   form,   function   and   meaning   of   nature”  (7).  In  addition,  the  book  is  peppered  with  photographs,  cartoons  and  illustrations,  all  of  which   contribute   to   the   enhancement   of   the   project.   However,       the   second   part   of   the   book’s   title   “An   Environmental  History  of  the  United  States”  is  problematic  or  perhaps  misleading  because  the  book  is   not   an   environmental   history   of   America,   nor   does   it   trace   the   history   of   the   awareness   of   the   environment’s   importance   on   the   American   consciousness.   Books   that   do   attempt   to   provide   such   comprehensive  guides  to  American  environmental  history  are  Ted  Steinberg’s  Down  to  Earth:  Nature’s   Role   in   American   History   (2002)   and   Douglas   Sackman’s   A   Companion   to   American   Environmental   History  (2010).     Starting   with   the   premise   that,   “nature   is   central   to   the   human   experience”   (9)   because   it   is   “the   omnipresent  substance  of  reality,”  Fiege  reminds  us  that  this  “omnipresence  often  dulls  our  awareness   of   its   significance”   (131).     He   then   proceeds   to   define   key   terms   such   as   “nature,”   “environment,”   “natural  law”  and  others,  and  this  is  where  Fiege  is  at  his  best,  in  defining,  clarifying  and  expanding  the   boundaries  of  terms.    For  example,  nature  is  defined  as  “matter,  energy  and  forces  that  constitute  the   universe   and   compose   all   life”   (10).     Since   Fiege’s   purpose   is   not   to   assess   the   effects   of   the   chosen   iconic  events  on  the  environment,  as  a  historian  he  proceeds  to  include  the  neglected  element  of  nature   into   the   equation   of   the   event.   Yet   at   the   same   time   he   warns   us   not   to   over-­‐emphasize   the   role   of   nature   in   the   chosen   event   because   nature   “shapes   events   only   within   a   range   of   what   is   possible”   (11).     Finally,    Fiege    explains  why  this  study  is    so  important:  because  American  history    was  defined  by    its   early  colonists’  struggle  “to  shape  themselves  and  their  new    land    according  to  their  faith,”    and  since     the   republic   was   made   possible   by   a   large   expanse   of   land,   its   ideology   was     shaped   by   the   notion   of     “nature  and  nature’s  god  [who]  deposited  in  every  person  a  capacity  for  reason,  the  exercise  of  which   would  lead  to  human  betterment”  (11-­‐12).     Fiege  selects  nine  iconic  moments  of  American  history  and  adds  to  them  the  component  of  nature  that   had  been  previously  missing.  These  selected  moments  in  chronological  order  are:    the  role  of  nature  in   the  Salem  Witch  Trials;  the  role  of  the  theory  of    “natural  law”    in  the  creation  of  the  American  republic;   the   role   of   the   cotton   industry   in   the   South   and   concurrent       issues   of   slavery;   the   significant   role   of   nature   in   the   formation   of   “Nature’s   Nobleman,”   Abraham   Lincoln;   the   role   of   nature   in   the   Battle   of   Gettysburg;   the   manipulation   of   nature   in   the   building   of   the   transcontinental   railroad;   the   contradictions  between  scientists’  fascination  with  nature  and  the  building  of  the  atomic  bomb;  the  role   of   nature   in   Brown   v.   Board   of   Education;     and   nature   and   the   oil  crisis.   Although   each   chapter   on   these   issues   is   a   complete   unit   by   itself,   the   chronology   of   chapters   does   provide   a   narrative   of   important   events  of  American  history.           Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             85              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       The  book  is  an  absorbing  narrative  and  chockfull  of  interesting  information  such  as  Mici  Teller’s  single-­‐ handed,   successful   campaign   to   stop   of   the   Army   Corp   of   Engineers   from   bulldozing   a   patch   of   pine   trees  even  as  her  husband,  the  scientist  Edward  Teller,  was  busy  building  the  hydrogen  bomb  and  she   was   doing   consulting   work   for   the   Manhattan   Project.   Such   contradictions     revealed   by   scientists’   sense   of  love  and  wonder  for  nature  and  their  creation  of  the  most  lethal  weapon  against  nature  is  explained   as  a  compartmentalization  process  where  each  part  is  kept  separate  from  the  other.       Since   Fiege   is   a   historian   the   book   is   written   from   the   perspective   of   the   historian,   not   the   environmentalist,   and   that   is   where   the   book   falls   short   in   not   providing   enough   information   on   the   nature  component.  Nonetheless,  it  is  a  good  read  and  meaningful  addition  to  the  field  of  environmental   studies  because  of  its  specificity  and  focus  on  American  history.           -­‐-­‐Su  Senapati,  Professor  of  English,  Abraham  Baldwin  Ag.  College,  Tifton,  GA,  [email protected]                 Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             86              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Newman,   Lance,   ed.   The   Grand   Canyon   Reader.   Berkeley:   U   of   California   P,   2011.  Print.     The  Grand  Canyon  Reader,  a  new  collection  of  essays  edited  by  Lance  Newman,  revitalizes  images  of  the   Grand  Canyon  based  on  personal  narratives  of  the  place.  With  stories  from  twenty-­‐seven  contributors   ranging   across   generations,   the   text   constructs   a   collage   of   this   famous   national   landmark   by   incorporating   the   perspectives   of   previously   under-­‐represented   groups,   including   women   and   Native   Americans.   Unlike   previous   books   that   seek   to   represent   the   cultural   history   of   the   Grand   Canyon   region,  including  Michael  Anderson’s  Living  at  the  Edge:  Explorers,  Exploiters,  and  Settlers  of  the  Grand   Canyon   (1998),   Todd   Berger’s   It   Happened   at   Grand   Canyon   (2007),   and   Robert   C.   Euler   and   Frank   Tikalsky’s  The  Grand  Canyon:  Intimate  Views  (1992),  Newman’s  book  not  only  documents  the  physical   and   cultural   realities   of   the   place   but   also   tells   stories   that   are   inspired   by   it.   This   is   clear   in   Terry   Tempest   Williams’s   story,   “Stone   Creek   Woman,”   which   appears   in   Newman’s   collection   as   a   representative   of   how   reporting   a   subjective   experience   rather   than   attempting   to   represent   an   objective   encounter   in   the   Grand   Canyon   environment   can   successfully   foreground   space   while   emphasizing   the   cultural   significance   of   that   particular   environment.   The   Grand   Canyon   Reader   contributes  to  the  well-­‐established  body  of  literature  on  this  region,  but  adds  a  rich  vein  of  subjectivity   through  reflective  creative  writing.     Newman  divides  the  book  into  three  distinct  sections:  “The  Rim,”  “The  River,”  and  “The  People.”  Each  of   these   covers   one   perspective   on   the   canyon   and   progresses   from   contemporary   narratives   to   Native   American  oral  histories,  an  unusual  reverse  chronology,  which  the  author  explains  is  intended  to  meet   “readers   on   the   common   ground   of   the   present   moment”   (2).   Indeed,   the   reverse   chronological   structure   allows   an   entry   point   for   contemporary   readers,   but   it   also   foregrounds   the   continued   importance   of   this   region   in   the   lives   of   people   living   today.   Through   this   inclusiveness   of   the   contemporary  reader  and  diversity  of  perspectives  represented  in  the  book,  The  Grand  Canyon  Reader   appeals   to   a   general   audience.   It   is   in   this   that   the   book   achieves   its   primary   purpose   of   inspiring   environmental   stewardship   through   exhilarating   stories,   artful   narratives,   and   diverse   perspectives.   Newman   argues   that   by   reading   the   stories   in   these   three   sections—or,   as   he   calls   them,   “three   journeys”—readers   experience   the   canyon   itself   and   “will   be   changed   by   their   experiences”   (3).   Indeed,   the  collection’s  vivid  depictions  of  the  place  encourage  the  reader  to  see  what  his  or  her  own  experience   in   the   canyon   will   bring.   In   this   way,   the   stories   inspire   a   desire   for   experience   that   ultimately   leads   to   a   sense   of   connection   and   even   protection   of   the   place.   As   we   realize   that   this   enduring   place   has   been   a   part  of  human  lives  for  as  far  back  as  our  literature  takes  us,  we  begin  “to  work  for  the  preservation  of   the  beautiful  and  sustaining  home  given  to  us  by  time”  (6).       The  intention  of  this  book,  then,  is  to  promote  a  deeper  understanding  of  the  Grand  Canyon  and  thus  to   increase   the   reader’s   desire   to   protect   both   it   and   other   wild   spaces   like   it   through   a   telling   of   individuals’   unique   experiences   at   the   site.   As   such,   the   various   encounters   of   the   contributors,   while   often   focused   around   sublime   experiences,   demonstrate   to   the   general   reading   audience   that   the   wonder   of   experiencing   this   place,   like   the   variable   landscape   itself,   is   not   prescribed   or   predetermined.   It   should   be   noted,   though,   that   the   first   section   is   front-­‐loaded   with   stories   by   Craig   Childs   and   Edward     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             87              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Abbey   that   depict   contemporary   associations   with   the   canyon   as   adventure   stories   in   which   white   male   writers   retreat   into   the   wilderness   and   intentionally   undertake   risks   solely   for   the   exhilaration   and   sublimity   of   the   experience.   For   some   ecocritics,   such   retreat   narratives   raise   problematic   questions   about  this  collection’s  suitability  to  the  increasingly  third-­‐wave  ecocritical  environment  in  which  issues   of  privilege,  race,  gender,  and  globalization,  as  Lawrence  Buell  explains  in  The  Future  of  Environmental   Criticism,   problematize   first-­‐wave   favoring   of   the   retreat   into   the   wilderness—a   concern   that   Newman’s   other   work,   which   often   engages   in   Marxist   ecocriticism,   shares.   Although   the   collection   is   saved   by   other  contributors,  namely  Patricia  McCairen  and  Terry  Tempest  Williams,  who  add  gender  diversity  to   such   wilderness   escapes,   I   find   that   the   collection’s   depiction   of   environmental   experience   as   demanding  escape  into  the  wild  exposes  it  to  common  critiques  of  first-­‐wave  ecocriticism.       Despite   this   objection,   the   collection’s   inclusion   of   women   and   Native   American   narratives   is   perhaps   its   greatest   strength.   Patricia   McCairen’s   “Canyon   Solitude,”   which   depicts   a   woman   rafting   alone  down  the  Colorado  River,  deals  with  problematic  gender  stereotypes  in  which  women  are  advised   not  to  run  the  river  alone.  Similarly,  Terry  Tempest  Williams’s  “Stone  Creek  Woman”  employs  a  poetic   style  to  creatively  depict  a  woman’s  enlightening  experience  in  the  wilderness.  These  stories  of  female   encounters   with   the   canyon   are   a   testament   to   the   collection’s   intention   to   be   inclusive,   but   this   intention   is   even   more   profoundly   apparent   in   the   final   section,   “The   People,”   which   “places   both   contemporary  and  traditional  Native  American  stories  alongside  journal  entries  and  reports   written  by   the  conquistadors  and  explorers  who  ‘discovered’  the  canyon  and  the  people  who  had  always  called  it   home”   (3).   As   Newman   explains,   the   presence   of   Native   American   voices   reconstructs   images   of   the   Grand   Canyon   by   giving   it   life   before   its   discovery   by   white   men   or,   conversely,   demonstrates   the   ongoing   relevance   and   vitality   of   such   traditional   stories   rather   than   the   extinction   of   those   cultures.   By   concluding   the   book   with   the   Native   American   creation   story   “Tudjupa   Creates   the   People,”   Newman   illustrates  the  deep  roots  of  this  place  and  reveals  not  only  its  personal  significance  to  writers  like  Childs   and  Abbey,  but  also  its  cultural  significance  to  the  indigenous  people  of  Northern  Arizona.         -­‐Sarah  Nolan,  University  of  Nevada,  Reno           Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             88              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012         McMillin,   T.S.   The   Meaning   of   Rivers:     Flow   and   Reflection   in   American   Literature.  Ames:  University  of  Iowa  Press.  2011.     By  T.S.  McMillin’s  own  admission,  The  Meaning  of  Rivers  is  not  a  comprehensive  account  of  rivers  and   their   meaning,   but   “an   associative   field  guide”  (xv).  Read  in  this  way,  the  text  does  much  to  explore  the   meanings   that   a   limited   number   of   writers   have   given   rivers,   as   it   tends   to   focus   on   the   white   male   experience   of   rivers.     McMillin   is   himself   an   Emerson   scholar,   but   seeks   to   expand   his   research— including  a  good  deal  of  field  work  outside  of  Transcendental  writers—in  an  attempt  to  understand  the   ways  we  overlook,  remain  by,  go  up  and  down,  and  cross  rivers.     American   upriver   narratives,   McMillin   points   out   in   one   chapter,   were   nearly   all   commissioned   journeys   where   the   explorer   went   looking   for   something   worth   exploiting.     The   struggle   was   not   just   with   the   formidable   current   and   elements,   but   with   the   strange   surroundings:   game   they’ve   never   tasted,   “Native  peoples  whom  they  fear,  whom  they  are  charged  to  convert”  (63).    As  such,  upriver  narratives   emphasize   struggle.     Even   when   the   elements   overwhelm   the   river-­‐goer—as   when   Ralph   Lane   essentially  failed  in  1586  to  make  it  up  the  Roanoke—McMillin  points  out  that  the  story  that  gets  told   afterward   is   of   courage   and   the   promise   of   future   voyages,   not   of   failure.     This   seems   a   particularly   American   response   to   against-­‐the-­‐current   struggles.     The   upriver   struggle,   he   says,   is   also   uniquely   American  (or  Colonial)  in  its  push  to  bring  “civilization”  up  to  the  source  of  the  wild,  wild  river.       In   contrast   to   upriver   stories,   downriver   narratives   raise   questions   of   “truth,   fiction,   and   their   correlatives”   (88).     McMillin   acknowledges   how   downriver   travel   also   sometimes   portrays   progress   (and   Manifest  Destiny,  specifically)  as  unproblematic  and  the  natural  way  of  things.    Downstream  river-­‐goers,   he  notes,  have  the  reflection  time  to  play  with  truth  and  fiction  and  retell  stories  in  a  variety  of  ways.     This   is   especially   apparent   in   Major   John   Wesley   Powell’s   1869   expedition   on   the   Colorado.     His   downriver   journey,   McMillin   points   out,   has   been   told   and   re-­‐told   many   times   including   a   Scribner’s   Monthly   series   of   articles   six   years   after   the   expedition,   a   scientific   and   popular   account,   and   even   a   Disney   movie.   Ultimately,   all   accounts   penned   by   Powell,   McMillin   argues,   match   the   unconformity   of   the  Colorado  River  itself—“part  scientific  report,  part  literary  narrative”  (106).       Perhaps   because   there   are   so   few   river   narratives   written   by   women,   McMillin   spends   little   time   on   them   and   it   does   seem   like   a   void.     He   uses   Ann   Zwinger’s   Downcanon:   A   Naturalist   Explores   the   Colorado  River  through  the  Grand  Canyon,  but  primarily  to  contrast  it  with  Edward  Abbey’s  “Down  the   River”  (from  Desert  Solitaire).    And  he  takes  up  Akiko  Busch’s  Nine  Ways  to  Cross  a  River  as  well  as  Gloria   Anzaldua’s   poetry.     But   these   non-­‐phallocentric   narratives   take   up   far   less   real   estate   than   say,   the   chapter  dedicated  to  Mark  Twain’s  Life  on  the  Mississippi.     McMillin  lends  a  wonderful  sense  of  humor  to  his  reflections  on  American  rivers  and  our  struggles  with   them.     In   order   to   better   understand   Emanuel   Gottlieb   Leutze’s   painting   George   Washington   Crossing   the   Delaware,   for   example,   he   not   only   contextualizes   the   painting   historically,   but   also   crosses   the   Delaware   himself,   in   a   canoe   in   summer,   which   he   says,   “gave   him   a   sense   of   what   Washington     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             89              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       experienced  not  at  all,  since  [for  Washington]  it  was  frozen  and  in  the  middle  of  the  night”  (McMillin,   T.S.-­‐  “Friends  Book  Talk”).     For   the   reader   seeking   a   more   comprehensive   meditation   on   rivers   in   American   literature,   The   Meaning   of   Rivers   might   be   read   alongside   Anissa   J.   Wardi’s   recent   Water   and   African   American   Memory:   An   Ecocritical   Perspective,   which   considers   waterways   as   a   form   of   resistance   and   redemption.     Similarly,   Tom  Lynch  and  Cheryll  Glotfelty  consider  the  reclamation  of  creeks  and  river  basins  in  one  section  of  The   Bioregional  Imagination:  Literature,  Ecology,  and  Place.           -­‐-­‐Heather  Springer,  Washington  State  University         Works  Cited   McMillin,   T.S.     “Friends   Book   Talk.”     Oberlin   College.     Oberlin   College   Library.     16   November   2011.     Online  video.   McMillin,  T.S.  The  Meaning  of  Rivers:  Flow  and  Reflection  in  American  Literature.    Iowa  City:  University   of  Iowa  Press,  2011.    Print.         Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             90              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Taylor,  Bron.  Dark  Green  Religion:  Nature  Spirituality  and  the  Planetary  Future.   Berkeley:  U  of  California  P.  2010.       In  his  latest  work  on  the  conjunction  of  religion  and  nature,  Bron  Taylor  explores  the  ways  in  which  a   world  left  bereft  of  traditional  supernatural  religion  after  the  Darwinian  bombshell  has  groped  for  ways   to  fill  the  void  with  the  spiritual  innovations  that  he  calls  the  “dark  green  religion.”  With  the  explicit  goal   of  appealing  to  a  wide  audience  of  both  scholarly  and  general  readers,  Taylor’s  prose  is  highly  readable   and  his  methods  intuitive  and  logical.  His  primary  mode  of  analysis  is  classification  and  division:  he  first   distinguishes   between   nature   religion,   green   religion,   and   dark   green   religion   before   dividing   the   last   classification  into  four  sub-­‐species:  supernatural  animism,  natural  animism,  Gaian  supernaturalism,  and   Gaian   naturalism.   He   spends   the   second   chapter   working   through   this   four-­‐fold   typology,   providing   illustrations   by   examining   significant   figures   in   environmental   thinking,   such   as   Gary   Snyder,   Jane   Goodall,  James  Lovelock,  and  Aldo  Leopold,  and  dissecting  their  words  to  determine  their  classification.   This  methodology  is  representative  of  the  book  as  a  whole,  as  the  bulk  of  the  text  consists  of  identifying   the   ways   in   which   these   strains   of   dark   green   religion   have   permeated   every   aspect   of   Western   civilization.       Subsequent   chapters   examine   the   emergence   of   dark   green   religion   in   various   manifestations   in   Europe   and   North   America.   First,   a   brief   recapitulation   of   the   influence   of   British   Romanticism   –   particularly   the   role   of   the   sublime   –   leads   into   an   examination   of   the   evidence   of   animistic   and   Gaian   thinking   in   Emerson,   Thoreau,   and   Muir.   Then   Taylor   moves   into   an   examination   of   the   dark   green   religious   foundation  of  much  environmental  activism  in  North  America  by  examining  the  rhetoric  utilized  by  Earth   First!,   the   Earth   Liberation   Front,   Dave   Foremen,   Ed   Abbey,   and   others.   Themes   of   millennialism   and   apocalypticism  are  emphasized  here  in  an  especially  convincing  argument  for  the  religious  aspects  of  the   green  movement.  Another  chapter  explores  how  surfing  is  an  expression  of  dark  green  religion  in  both   its   origins   and   contemporary   practice.   A   fascinating   chapter   follows   on   visual   representations   of   dark   green  religion  on  television,  in  nature  documentaries  by  Suzuki,  Cousteau,  and  Attenborough,  and  even   in   Disney   movies.   Perhaps   most   surprising,   Taylor   dedicates   a   chapter   to   how   even   scientists   have   become  infused  with  the  sentiment  of  the  dark  green  religion.  Finally,  the  penultimate  chapter  looks  at   its  incursion  into  politics.         Perhaps  it  is  a  clue  as  to  the  dominant  mode  of  Taylor’s  approach  that  he  chooses  to  take  his  analytic   cues   from   anthropologist   Benson   Saler:   Taylor   cites   Saler’s   “polyfocal”   approach   to   the   study   of   religion   as   a   guiding   principle   in   defining   the   term   for   his   purposes   here.   Taylor   explains   that   to   anthropologists,   religion   and   spirituality   are   practically   interchangeable   terms,   and   that   is   pretty   much   the   working   definition  here.  Religion  denotes  neither  supernaturalism  nor  an  organized,  homogenous  set  of  beliefs   or  believers.  It  simply  means  that  which  connects  us  to  what  we  value.  In  this  way,  Taylor  is  deviating   from   the   more   popular   definition   of   religion   as   connoting   the   supernatural.   But   in   relying   upon   anthropology   to   define   his   parameters   –   something   he   does   again   later   on   with   Jonathan   Benthall’s   term   parareligion   –   Taylor   positions   himself   in   this   study   as   dispassionate   observer,   as   the   social   scientist   who   records   and   classifies,   but   does   not   judge.   But   as   I   hinted   above,   there   is   an   implicit   argument   here:   namely,   that   these   ideas   are   indeed   religious   in   nature.   Taylor   tries   to   downplay   this     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             91              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       implication,  as  he  claims  to  not  be  concerned  with  patrolling  the  boundary  between  what  is  considered   religious  and  what  is  not:    “I  have  opted  for  a  descriptive  and  analytic  strategy  that  looks  for  patterns   and   resemblances  without   laboring   obsessively   to   demarcate   boundaries”   (42).   However,   this   concern   inevitably   surfaces.   For   example,   when   Taylor   examines   the   apocalyptic   rhetoric   that  inheres  in  much  of   the  writing  of  environmentalists,  he  is  making  an  explicit  connection  to  the  Abrahamic  tradition.  But  he   also  acknowledges  that  this  “apocalypticism”  is  actually  based  on  science,  not  scripture.  What,  then,  is   the   significance   of   this?   Is   it   mere   coincidence,   or   is   there   some   greater   affinity   between   these   seemingly   conflicting   ideologies?   This   would   appear   to   be   an   area   ripe   for   analysis,   but   it   is   scarcely   commented  upon  as  it  does  not  quite  fit  with  Taylor’s  goal  of  identifying  when  and  where  dark  green   religion  manifests.  And  if  there  is  one  flaw  in  the  book,  it  is  this  strict  adherence  to  identification  as  not   only   the   primary   mode   of   analysis,   but   sometimes   the   only   mode.   But   one   must   maintain   focus,   and   Taylor  certainly  adheres  to  his  stated  intention.     Perhaps   the   most   intriguing   aspect   of   the   book   is   Taylor   himself.   His   long   and   extensive   field   experience   often   comes   to   the   fore   in   personal   interviews   with   poets   and   activists,   in   his   narration   of   an   evening   in   the   African   bush,   or   in   his   recounting   of   how   he   earned   the   trust   of   activist   William   C.   Rogers   in   the   wilderness   of   Idaho.   His   first-­‐person   experience   is   something   that   sets   this   study   apart   from   other   scholarly  treatments  of  similar  topics.  He  has  personally  spoken  to  many  of  the  figures  he  classifies  as   adherents  of  the  dark  green  religion,  and  this  immediacy  lends  the  text  a  credibility  different  from  the   rationalistic   justifications   that   are   typically   the   primary   support   for   scholarship.   For   example,   Taylor’s   brief   recapitulation   of   Snyder’s   life   and   philosophy   might   be   helpful   context   or   unhelpful   generalization,   depending   on   the   reader’s   area   of   expertise.   But   that   soon   gives   way   to   fascinating   discussion   –   an   actual   discussion   that   Taylor   himself   had   with   Snyder   –   of   Snyder’s   thoughts   regarding   interspecies   communication,   including   the   poet’s   recounting   of   a   walk   through   the   redwoods   with   a   mystic   companion  in  the  1950s  (19).  Fascinating  stuff.  In  this  way,  Taylor’s  work  is  more  akin  to  the  field  work   of  the  scientist  than  the  logical  deductions  of  the  scholar.  Though  the  scholar  in  me  sometimes  longed   for  deeper,  more  sustained  analysis,  this  type  of  immediacy  was  ample  recompense.             -­‐-­‐David  Tagnani,  Washington  State  University           Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             92              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012         Kerber,  Jenny.  Writing  in  Dust:  Reading  the  Prairie  Environmentally.  Waterloo:   Wilfrid  Laurier  UP,  2010.     Using   an   ecocritical   approach,   Jenny   Kerber   examines   Canadian   prairie   literature   and   its   history,   narrative   structures,   and   political   groundings.   The   result   is   Writing   in   Dust,   a   well-­‐researched   study   that   places  the  Canadian  prairie  in  a  complexly  mediated  global  context  while  maintaining  regional  concerns.   Kerber’s   consideration   of   history,   economics,   colonialism,   myth,   and   environmental   rhetoric   demonstrate  not  only  the  usefulness  of  her  study  but  also  the  offerings  of  ecocriticism  as  a  whole.     Kerber  begins  her  study  by  revisiting  prairie  history.  She  examines  the  effects  of  World  War  I,  changes  in   agricultural  production,  and  cultural  tensions  through  the  works  of  Edward  McCourt,  Robert  Stead,  and   W.O.   Mitchell.   One   point   Kerber   makes   is   that   environmental   prairie   issues   are   not   recent   developments.   Rather,   the   prairie   has   always   been   a   site   of   change   and   conflict   in   spite   of   certain   narratives   that   touted   it   as   a   fixed,   eternal   space.   Kerber   asserts   that   exploring   these   writers’   works   shows  how  “the  prairie  elicits  no  single,  natural  response”  (64).     In  the  next  section,  Kerber  convincingly  demonstrates  how  power,  nativity,  race,  and  history  all  play  a   role   in   the   nature   memoir   through   her   exploration   of   the   writings   of   Frederick   Philip   Grove,   Wallace   Stegner,  and  Trevor  Herriot.  She  argues  that  “the  nature  memoir  is  everywhere  infused  with  a  host  of   mediating   and   sometimes   contradictory   forces”   (107).   In   other   words,   memoirs   are   influenced   by   memory,   by   meaning,   by   politics,   and   by   intention,   which   means   nature   writing   is   not   free   from   politics.   Kerber’s  argument  does  not  reject  the  genre  –  rather  she  refutes  depictions  of  nature  as  a  space  free   from   social   ills,   placing   her   amongst   third-­‐wave   ecocritics   who   were   troubled   by   earlier   studies   that   privileged   realism   and   environmental   aesthetics.   Her   belief   that   “the   memoir’s   presentation   of   prairie   nature   is   never   as   transparent   as   it   initially   seems”   moves   the   Canadian   prairie   from   the   local   into   a   transnational  discussion  (80).     Through   her   exploration   of   poetry   by   Tim   Lilburn,   Louise   Halfe,   and   Madeline   Coopsammy,   Kerber   examines  concepts  and  definitions  of  home  as  they  relate  to  the  prairie.  She  contests  narrow  definitions   of   prairie   as   rural,   white,   and   male   and   pushes   for   more   flexible   understandings   that   encompass   multiple  identities  and  backgrounds.  The  prairie  is  not  a  static  space  –  rather,  it  is  “in  a  perpetual  state   of  becoming”  (148).  Since  there  is  no  one  or  right  way  of  viewing/defining  the  prairie,  Kerber  looks  at   how   each   poet   does   something   different   with   writing.     Lilburn   aims   to   “unwrite”   the   prairie   in   response   to   colonialism   and   industrialism,   Halfe   seeks   to   restore   previously   silenced   voices,   Herriot   looks   to   recreate  and  rebuild  the  prairie  through  poetry  as  a  means  to  reject  ideas  of  the  prairie’s  disappearance,   and   Coopsammy   creates   a   community   that   transcends   borders.   Ultimately,   Kerber   manages   to   still   consider  the  local  as  well  as  the  “global  socio-­‐environmental  struggles”  when  analyzing  Canadian  prairie   poetry   (120).   She   writes   “to   be   a   citizen   of   prairie   place   involves   thinking   through   the   connections   of   one’s  immediate  place  to  other  places  and  times,  recognizing  that  no  region  or  regional  consciousness   functions  in  isolation”  (148).  So  considering  the  global  does  not  reject  or  neglect  the  local  for  the  two   are  not  mutually  exclusive.     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             93              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012         In   the   final   chapter,   Kerber   deconstructs   the   environmental   binary   of   Eden/wasteland   through   an   investigation   of   various   myths.   She   argues   that   “the   works   of   an   increasing   diverse   group   of   prairie   writers   shows   just   how   limited   some   of   the   dominant   scripts   have   been   in   terms   of   imagining   and   describing  the  prairie  environment”  (201).  No  one  story  is  adequate  –  to  understand  a  place  means  to   look  at  it  from  many  angles  and  possibilities.  By  considering  multiple  “origin”  stories  by  writers  such  as   Thomas  King  and  Rudy  Wiebe,  readers  are  led  to  a  better  understanding  of  the  prairie  as  a  diverse  and   multifaceted  space.     Writing  in  the  Dust  is  a  useful  addition  to  the  rapidly  evolving  field  of  ecocriticism  through  its  review  of   history   and   connections   to   present-­‐day   environmental   views   and   issues.   Kerber   includes   multiple   points   of   view   and   offers   complex   and   nuanced   readings   of   prairie   literature   that   pushes   the   field   of   ecocriticism   beyond   its   previous   boundaries.   Her   awareness   of   various   pitfalls   that   have   trapped   past   ecocritics  makes  the  study  timely  and  carefully  considered.             -­‐-­‐Andrea  Campbell,  Washington  State  University,  Tri-­‐Cities                   Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             94              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       Cenkl,   Pavel,   ed.   Nature   and   Culture   in   the   Northern   Forest:   Region,   Heritage,   and  Environment  in  the  Rural  Northeast.  Iowa  City:  U  of  Iowa  P,  2010.     The   thirty   million   acres   of   the   Northern   Forest   form   a   diverse   yet   coherent   landscape,   marked   by   its   unique—but   dynamic—mixture   of   geologic   traits,   flora   and   fauna,   histories,   and   cultures.   Nature   and   Culture  in  the  Northern  Forest,  published  as  a  part  of  Iowa’s  American  Land  and  Life  Series,  introduces  its   readers  to  this  beautifully  complex  region  through  fourteen  interdisciplinary  essays,  each  exploring  the   affinities  between  the  land  and  its  culture.     The   collection   is   divided   into   four   sections:   “Encounters,”   which   includes   essays   on   personal   encounters   with   the   plant   and   animal   life   of   the   region;   “Teaching   and   Learning,”   in   which   essayists   discuss   pedagogical  approaches  to  the  region;  “Rethinking  Place,”  focused  on  specific  figures;  and  “Nature  and   Commodity,”   which   considers   commercial   interests   in   its   examination   of   the   regional   culture.   The   overall  structure  reflects  the  concerns  of  many  of  the  individual  essays,  in  that  it  prioritizes  inter-­‐  and   multidisciplinary   approaches   to   the   study   of   the   region   and   emphasizes   the   continuity   of   specific   threads,   which   wind   their   way   through   the   sections,   turning   up   in   diverse   essays.   The   commonalities   themselves   are   unsurprising:   Henry   David   Thoreau,   Robert   Frost,   and   birches,   for   example,   make   multiple   appearances   throughout   the   collection.   As   these   subjects   reappear   through   multiple   essays,   though,   each   new   perspective   adds   a   layer   of   complexity   to   readers’   understanding   of   their   place   in   this   region.     While   all   of   the   essays   are   very   much   grounded   in   the   specificities   of   the   Northern   Forest   region,   the   collection’s  practical  and  theoretical  approach  to  fully  interdisciplinary  study  of  place  is  informative  for   scholars   and   teachers   in   all   of   regional   studies.   The   essays   in   “Teaching   and   Learning,”   especially,   articulate  some  of  the  advantages  and  difficulties  of  studying  and  teaching  place  from  interdisciplinary   perspectives.  Catherine  Owen  Koning,  Robert  G.  Goodby,  and  John  R.  Harris’s  contribution,  “Place  as  a   Catalyst   for   Engaged   Learning   at   Franklin   Pierce   University”   summarizes   the   authors’   experiences   leading  courses  on  the  Monadnock  region  of  New  Hampshire  in  ecology  (Koning),  archaeology  (Goodby),   and   American   studies   (Harris).   Each   course   approaches   the   region   from   a   different   disciplinary   perspective,  but  as  the  essayists  make  clear,  the  students’  ultimate  understanding  of  and  connection  to   the  specific  place  depends  on  practical  cross-­‐disciplinary  inquiry.       Also  in  this  section  is  “Interdisciplinary  Teaching  about  the  Adirondacks,”  written  by  Ernest  H.  Williams,   Patrick   D.   Reynolds,   and   Onno   Oerlemans   of   Hamilton   College.   The   Adirondacks   course   discussed   in   this   essay   is   team   taught,   and   as   Williams   discusses   in   some   detail,   the   essayists   describe   it   as   both   multidisciplinary   and   interdisciplinary,   striving   not   only   to   examine   the   region   from   multiple   perspectives   but   also   to   bridge   those   perspectives   in   order   to   reach   a   more   complete   and   complex   understanding  of  the  region.  As  do  the  Franklin  Pierce  essayists,  the  authors  of  this  essay  write  frankly   about   the   obstacles   to   and   in   some   cases   undesirability   of   fully   interdisciplinary   study,   and   Williams’   section  includes  a  concise  but  detailed  discourse  on  how  the  authors  imagine  interdisciplinarity  and  how   they  seek  to  achieve  it.  The  course,  as  they  describe  it,  can  be  read  as  a  metaphor  for  Nature  and  Culture   in   the   Northern   Forest   as   a   whole.   Oerlemans,   a   literature   professor,   writes   that   the   Blue   Line,     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             95              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       delineating   the   boundary   of   Adirondack   Park   is   “an   arbitrary,   entirely   human   construction.   Its   only   reality  is  on  maps,  a  clearly  insipid  attempt  to  frame  and  overlay  an  entirely  imagined  and  necessarily   fractured   idea   onto   something   itself   inaccessible   and   probably   unknowable….   And   yet   it   does   vaguely   outline   a   place   that   possesses   a   distinct   physical   reality”   (91),   comprising   a   very   specific   and   visible   ecology.   Students   of   the   Adirondacks,   then,   must   navigate   between   sometimes   sweeping   and   vague   cultural   constructs   of   place   on   the   one   hand   and   very   focused   natural   markers   on   the   other—pulling   them  together,  one  hopes,  into  a  coherent  understanding  of  the  region.     Navigating  successfully  between  specific  and  general  is  in  fact  the  greatest  strength  of  the  collection  as  a   whole.   The   essays   in   “Teaching   and   Learning”   consciously   address   means   of   relating   the   specific   (the   Northeast  Forest  region)  to  the  general  (nation;  world;  wider  disciplinary  concerns).  In  addition  to  the   two   essays   already   discussed,   Jill   Mudgett   examines   the   history   of   how   young   people   were   taught   to   think   about   rural   New   England,   and   Kathleen   Osgood   Dana   discusses   the   specificity   of   place   in   the   poetry   of   Frost   and   the   Sámi   poet   Nils-­‐Aslak   Valkeapää.   In   doing   so,   Dana   argues   explicitly   for   the   grounding   of   the   poetry   in   the   poet’s   “everyday   reality,”   rather   than   leaping   straight   to   the   universal   symbols.   Of   Frost’s   poetry,   she   writes,   “while   the   basic   symbolic   meaning   of   the   poem   seems   accessible   to   even   the   novice   literary   scholar,   the   actual   physical   and   experiential   sensation   of   open   land   and   slow   wheel  …  are  absent  from  their  catalogue  of  experience  and  understanding”  (62).  In  this  essay,  Dana  uses   that   same   emphasis   on   specificity   of   place   in   a   comparative   study   of   Valkeapää’s   poetry,   finding   similarities  in  seemingly  disparate  poetries  and  places.  Most  importantly,  she  writes,  both  poets  are  fully   grounded   in   their   own   particulars   of   place,   such   that   a   complete   understanding   of   their   poems   requires   a  complete  understanding  of  the  place.     Much  of  the  remainder  of  the  collection  turns  to  particularities  of  the  landscape  in  order  to  develop  that   more   complete   understanding   of   the   place.   The   “Encounters”   section,   which   begins   the   volume,   represents  individuals’  forays  into  the  forest  itself,  focusing  on  specific  flora  and  fauna  they  find  there.   Terence  D.  Mosher,  like  Dana,  connects  Frost  to  his  landscape,  in  this  case  through  birdsong.  Natalie  Coe   describes   the   devastating   spread   of   Beech   Bark   Disease,   situating   in   a   sweep   of   history   and   geography   a   phenomenon  that  can  only  be  understood  by  getting  out  into  the  woods.  Timothy  Stetter,  in  “Meeting   the  Twinflower,”  most  explicitly  imagines  his  particular  encounter  as  connecting  to  places  beyond  this   region,  writing  “[p]erhaps  the  experience  of  twinflower  cannot  be  separated  from  the  experience  of  its   place,”  while  also  noting  that  when  he  first  encountered  it,  he  “made  a  connection  to  Thoreau,  [John]   Burroughs,  and  the  other  people,  places,  and  stories  that  touch  this  miraculous  plant”  (25).       Similarly,  the  “Rethinking  Place”  essays  connect  specific  figures  or  institutions  of  importance  within  the   Northern   Forest   region   to   strands   of   thought   and   histories   outside   the   region.   Larry   Anderson   revisits   Benton  MacKaye’s  early  twentieth  century  “camp  ethics,”  an  ideal  rooted  in  the  New  England  landscape   but   explicitly   connected   to   patriotism   and   influential   in   national   conservation   movements.   Daniel   S.   Malachuk   argues   for   the   recognition   of   the   Northern   Forest’s   influence   on   William   James,   a   philosopher   whose  grounding  in  this  place  is  not  generally  acknowledged.  Richard  Paradis  connects  the  Appalachian   Mountain   Club   huts   with   alpine   hiking   huts   in   Scotland.   Jim   Warren,   in   “Living   with   the   Woods,”   uses   Tom  Wessels’  disturbance  histories  not  to  analyze  the  Northern  Forest  landscape,  but  turning  it  instead   on   the   nature   writers   who   interpreted   it,   specifically   Thoreau   and   Burroughs.   Each   of   these   essays,   in     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             96              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       their   own   ways,   encourages   us   to   rethink   how   we   theorize   this   specific   region   and   especially   how   we   connect  it  to  our  ways  of  understanding  region  and  nation  more  generally.     The  final  section  returns  to  objects  in  nature.  Like  the  essays  in  “Encounters,”  the  essays  in  “Nature  as   Commodity”   focus   on   direct   relationships   between   people   and   the   landscape,   though   here   the   encounters   do   not   come   from   trekking   out   into   the   woods,   necessarily,   but   instead   are   mediated   through  products.  Priscilla  Paton  leads  off  this  section  with  “In  Awe  of  the  Body,”  which  reminds  readers   that   though   literature   may   call   for   bodily   contact,   such   experiences   are   increasingly   commodified   and   filtered,  and  the  same  efforts  that  seek  to  increase  forays  into  the  woods—here  she  mentions  not  only   the   camp   roads   but   also   the   L.   L.   Bean   catalog—quite   often   contribute   to   their   destruction.   “Claiming   Maine,”   by   Lorianne   DiSabato,   picks   up   this   thread   in   exploring   Thoreau’s   acquisitive,   commodifying   attitude   in   The   Maine   Woods,   reminding   readers   that   a   writer   so   often   considered   “at   home”   in   the   wilderness   approached   it   as   a   consumer.   Matthew   Bolinder   turns   to   the   contemporary   consuming   of   Maine  in  “So  Much  Beauty  Locked  Up  in  It:  Of  Ecocriticism  and  Axe-­‐Murder,”  an  essay  that  opens  with   an   advertisement   offering   attractively   hewn   birch   logs   for   sale   as   firewood,   at   a   premium,   with   “   a   portion  of  the  proceeds  [going]  toward  the  protection  of  Maine  forestland”  (262).  From  here,  Bolinder   considers  the  ideology  of  utility  in  our  understanding  of  the  objects  of  a  place.  Nature  and  Culture  in  the   Northern  Forest  culminates,  then,  with  a  reflection  on  ecocriticism  itself—and  the  problems  of  ignoring   the  complexities  of  the  construction  of  a  place.     Pavel   Cenkl   has   put   together   a   volume   of   engaging   and   insightful   essays   that   convey   both   a   distinct   sense  of  the  specificities  of  the  Northern  Forest  and  an  understanding  of  how  the  Northern  Forest  and   the   specific   places   within   its   boundaries   connect   to   the   larger   world.   The   deftness   with   which   the   individual   authors   bridge   multiple   disciplines   and   connect   local   specifics   to   national   or   global   histories   and  ideas  is  echoed  in  the  structure  of  the  collection  as  a  whole.  So  many  of  these  essays  seek  to  focus   on   a   specific   trait   or   object,   grounding   their   subject   in   this   particular   place,   while   making   connections   across  space  and  disciplinary  perspectives.  Their  successes  in  doing  so  are  reinforced  when  the  essays   are  read  side  by  side,  and  readers  can  see  those  traits  recurring  through  half  a  dozen  specific,  diverse   lenses.   Nature   and   Culture   in   the   Northern   Forest   succeeds   in   clarifying   readers’   understanding   of   this   one  region,  as  well  as  our  understanding  of  this  region’s  significance  to  regional  studies  as  a  whole.  It   joins  a  small  but  growing  body  of  recent  books  that  are  bringing  Northeastern  ecocriticism  back  to  the   forefront  of  regional  studies.           -­‐-­‐Rhonda  Jenkins  Armstrong,  Augusta  State  University         Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             97              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       White,  Damian  F.,  and  Chris  Wilbert,  eds.  Technonatures:  Environments,  Spaces,   and   Places   in   the   Twenty-­‐first   Century.   Waterloo:   Wilfrid   Laurier   University   Press,  2009.     Many  postmodern  theories  see  the  self  as  "‘fluid,  emergent,  decentralized,  multiplicitous,  flexible,  and   ever  in  process’”  (Zuern  vi).  Postmodernism  asks  us  to  consider  how  we  experience  "being  in  the  world"   and  to  consider  new  ways  of  shaping  that  ever-­‐in-­‐process   experience.   Where   modernism   posited   that   the  self  remained  stable  and  separate,  postmodernism  contends  that  the  self  cannot  be  constructed  in   isolation;  in  fact,  there  is  no  way  to  isolate  ourselves  from  the  world:  we  are  always  in,  constructing,  and   being   constructed   by   our   environment.   It   is   this   postmodern   sense   of   the   world   that   the   edited   collection  Technonatures:  Environments,  Technologies,  Spaces,  and  Places  in  the  21st  Century  utilizes  to   expose  the  complexity  of  sociopolitical  relationships  in  environmental  politics.  It  begins  with  the  premise   that   the   current   environmental   movement   is   not   having   a   great   impact   on   our   society   because   of   a   fundamental   flaw   at   its   core:   our   definition   of   “nature”   remains   a   static   and   pastoral   one,   leading   to   what   editors   Damian   F.   White   and   Chris   Wilbert   term   a   “politics   of   limits”   that   “has   significantly   constrained  the  imaginative  capacities  to  rethink  a  productive,  progressive  politics  of  the  environment”   (3).     Drawing   primarily   on   Haraway,   Latour,   LeFebvre,   and   Marx,   Technonatures   seeks   to   redefine   our   understanding  of  nature  and  ecocritical  practice  by  looking  at  how  they  function  in  a  capitalistic  political   economy.       In   the   introduction,   “technonatures”   are   defined   as   worlds   that   are   “technologically   mediated,   produced,  enacted,  and  contested,  and  furthermore,  that  diverse  peoples  find  themselves,  or  perceive   themselves,   as   ever   more   entangled   with   things   –   that   is,   with   technological,   ecological,   cultural,   urban,   and   ecological   networks   and   diverse   hybrid   materialities   and   non-­‐human   agencies”   (6).   White   and   Wilbert  discuss  the  necessity  of  understanding  political  economy  in  order  to  formulate  new  theories  of   political   ecology.   They   outline   the   basics   of   capitalism   in   the   environmental   movement,   focusing   on   manufacturing,   the   development   of   the   urban   and   the   suburban,   and   how   the   “nature   of   the   ‘environment’   is   being   contested,   expanded,   and   rendered   plural”   (13).   The   implication   is   that   technology  has  permeated  the  “natural”  and  that  without  new,  more  flexible  definitions  of  nature  and   the   environment,   we   will   not   make   any   progress   towards   reconciling   the   green   left   with   the   conservative,  production/consumption-­‐focused  right.       Technonatures  covers  a  wide  variety  of  topics,  from  global  systems  of  consumption,  new  ways  in  which   to   view   cities   and   suburbs   as   living   beings,   how   cell   phone   usage   in   the   countryside   changes   our   experience  of  “nature,”  to  issues  of  agriculture  and  medical  technology.  Each  author  shows  us  different   aspects   of   how   technology   creates,   mediates,   and   enacts   our   understanding   of   the   world.   Timothy   Luke   coins   the   term   “urbanatura”   to   describe   the   modern   world,   since   he   sees   no   clear   boundary   between   “society”  and  “nature,”  and  Erik  Swyngedouw  argues  that  because  humans  are  a  part  of  nature,  there  is   absolutely   nothing   “unnatural”   about   manmade   creations.   One   of   the   most   interesting   chapters   was   Julie   Sze’s   “Boundaries   and   Border   Wars:   DES,   Technology,   and   Environmental   Justice.”   Sze   expertly   applies   Haraway’s   cyborg   metaphor   to   her   analysis   of   DES   (diethylstilbestrol),   a   man-­‐made   estrogen     Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             98              Journal  of  Ecocriticism  4(2)  2012       that,  for  nearly  forty  years,  was  hailed  as  the  solution  for  treating  menopause,  used  as  a  “morning  after”   contraceptive,   and   given   to   livestock   and   chickens   to   fatten   them   and   create   more   tender   meat.   In   actuality,   however,   it   was   extremely   toxic   and   caused   multiple   cancers   and   genital   abnormalities.   Sze   takes   an   in-­‐depth   look   at   the   “feedback   loop”   of   DES,   showing   how   technology,   people,   and   the   environment   are   intricately   linked,   and   how   “female   identity   itself   was   defined   medically   and   socially   through  hormones”  (131).  As  with  the  other  authors,  she  warns  us  that  boundaries  are  porous,  and  that   new  definitions  are  needed  to  understand  these  interconnected  relationships.  In  the  final  chapter,  Brian   Milani  proposes  that  the  only  way  to  regenerate  “the  natural  earth”  is  through  a  major  overhaul  of  both   economic   and   social   systems,   and   that   the   development   of   measures   of   qualitative   value,   rather   than   quantitative,  is  absolutely  necessary  in  these  post-­‐industrial  times.     While  the  collection  does  provide  a  excellent  understanding  of  the  complexity  of  political  ecology,  one   fault  might  be  that  the  message  is  the  same  from  each  of  the  authors,  and  there  is  quite  a  bit  of  overlap   when  discussing  new  ways  in  which  to  view  urban  and  suburban  areas.  And  while  Haraway  and  Latour   figure  prominently  in  the  collection,  at  times  I  felt  like  some  of  the  authors  didn’t  fully  understand  the   theories  they  were  seeking  to  apply.  Swyngedouw  proposes  that  we  view  the  city  as  a  cyborg,  and  uses   the   metaphors   of   “circulation”   and   “metabolism”   to   describe   the   functions   that   take   place   within   a   city;   however,   he   never   moves   beyond   Haraway’s   cyborg,   so   his   conclusion   is   simply   a   restating   of   her   theory.     The   other   possible   flaw   is   that   the   collection   is   very   theory-­‐heavy,   and   in   several   instances,   a   familiarity  with  the  theorists  cited  is  assumed,  so  while  the  text  is  advertised  as  being  suitable  for  a  wide   audience,   in   actuality   it   is   more   appropriate   for   a   graduate   or   upper-­‐division   undergraduate   course   in   ecocriticism.     In  a  global  environment,  the  flow  of  products,  information,  and  interactions  between  people  and  objects   is   one   that   takes   place   across   multiple   spaces   and   times,   and   Technonatures   really   highlights   the   complexity   of   the   relationships   involved   in   that   flow.   While   its   overall   message   is   not   new   to   ecocriticism,  its  focus  on  political  economy  helps  the  reader  understand  the  complexity  of  our  social  and   economic   structures,   and   why   those   structures   must   be   taken   into   account   in   any   politics   of   the   environment.               -­‐-­‐  Pamela  Chisum,  Washington  State  University     Works  Cited   Zuern,  John.    “Online  Lives:    Introduction.”  Biography  26.1  (Winter  2003):  v-­‐xxv.           Book  Reviews  (72-­‐98)             99