Lost Woods

by Rachel Carson

  In the serene music of the first movement there is all the evanescent beauty of the first coming of light across the sea, the tenuous, pure airs of dawn moving over the water when the east turns grey and the black wave shapes come ashimmer with silver light. The face of the sea is mobile, sensitive, always changing. As the hours advance, changing lights and colors and the shifting shadows of the clouds move across its surface. More deliberate and subtle is the descent of dawn into deeper waters. Fathom by fathom the light steals down toward the threshold of the deep sea, a thousand feet or more below the surface. Only the noonday sun, with its long, straight rays, has power to penetrate to that transition zone between the surface waters and the eternal night of the abyss; so in these deep waters, the brief hour of dawn passes quickly into the hour of twilight, and the blue light fades away into the long night.

  The sea is never at rest. The thin interface between air and water is exquisitely sensitive to the slightest disturbance. A drop of rain, a seabird coming down to alight on the water, a fish cutting the surface with its fin, set spreading ripples in motion. And always the winds, blowing over the face of the globe, are pushing up the water into the moving ridges of waves. The open sea is a playground of waves created by many different winds, rolling on diverse paths, intermingling, overtaking, passing, or sometimes engulfing one another. Born of wind and water, each young wave takes its place in the confused pattern of the open sea. Drawing energy from the winds that created them, the waves respond to the fury of the storm, trailing white streamers of foam, leaping up into steep, peaked shapes, crowding upon their fellows in a wild, abandoned play. In the wide immensity of the open sea, a wave knows no restraint; were it not for the intercepting masses of the continents it might roll on and on around the earth. But nearing shore, it feels the alien land beneath it. Against the drag of shoaling bottom its speed slackens. Within the surf zone it suddenly rears high, as though gathering strength against an unknown adversary. A white, foaming crest begins to form along its advancing front, and suddenly this shining creation of the open sea plunges forward and dissolves in thunder.

  The third movement of La Mer introduces a sterner mood in this ancient dialogue of the wind and the waters. Hearing it, we think of the great wind belts where the westerly winds blow across thousands of miles of open sea and the most majestic of all waves march with them around the globe. Of such winds and such waves are born the terrible surf of Tierra del Fuego, or the violent seas that burst upon the shores of the Orkneys, when air and sea and land are blended in a thick obscurity of spray and leaping foam and beating waves.

  The waves are the most eloquent of the sea’s voices. In their wordless language they speak of the shrieking gales of the southern ocean, of the great anticyclonic winds sweeping around the Icelandic low, or they run directly ahead of an approaching storm, crying a warning. As they roll majestically in open ocean or as they break and surge at the edge of land, their voices are the voice of the sea.

  What is this sea, and wherein lies its power so greatly to stir the minds of men? What is the mystery of it, intangible, yet inseparably its own? Perhaps part of the mystery resides in its hoary antiquity, for the sea is almost as old as earthly time. Its shadowy beginnings lie somewhere in that dim period when the earth was forming out of chaos, when deep basins were hollowed out of the cooling rocks and the rains began to fall from the thick cloud blanket that enveloped the earth. The rains poured upon the waiting basins, or falling upon the continents, drained away to become sea. And there began at once that slow erosion by which the continents are giving up their substance to the sea, by which the minerals are passing from earth to sea, and the sea is becoming ever more briny with the passing eons.

  Or perhaps the spirit of the sea resides in the implacable, inexorable power by which it draws all things to it, by which it overwhelms and devours and destroys. The rivers run to it; the rains that rose from it return. For more than two billion years this sea has endured, changing yet seemingly changeless, while mountains have risen and been worn away, while islands have grown up from its floor, only to dissolve under the attack of rain and waves, and while the continents themselves have known the slow advance of engulfing seas, and again their slow retreat.

  Or perhaps the mystery is the mystery of life itself – of life that began as a primordial bit of protoplasm adrift in the surface waters of the ancient seas. For hundreds of millions of years, all life was sea life, developing in prodigious abundance and variety, evolving into thousands of kinds of creatures, some of which finally crept out of the sea, some of which, after long eons of time, became men. But we as man carry the sea’s salt in our blood, and the trace of our marine heritage in our bodies, and perhaps something akin to a racial memory of that dim past lies within us.

  A sense of some of these things may come to one who makes a long ocean voyage – when day after day he watches the receding rim of the horizon ridged and furrowed by waves; or when he stands alone in darkness on the deck at night, in a world compounded only of water and sky, and feels the brooding presence of the sea about him. And surely the sense of these things was in Debussy’s mind when he composed La Mer, capturing in immortal music the shining beauty, the awful power, and the eternal mystery of the sea.

  National Symphony Orchestra Speech

  [ … ] I BELIEVE QUITE SINCERELY that in these difficult times we need more than ever to keep alive those arts from which men derive inspiration and courage and consolation – in a word, strength of spirit. I believe this more strongly because of my own recent experiences – if I may again speak quite personally.

  After my book was published I began to receive a great deal of mail. These letters are still coming. They are from people of all ages, and both sexes, and of all degrees of education.

  They have made it clear that men and women in all walks of life are responding in a surprising way to what I have written about the ocean. They are finding in it something that is helping them face the problems of these difficult times.

  That “something” is, I think, a new sense of perspective on human problems. When we contemplate the immense age of earth and sea, when we get in the frame of mind where we can speak easily of “millions” or “billions” of years, and when we remember the short time that human life has existed on earth, we begin to see that some of the worries and tribulations that concern us are very minor. We also gain some sense of confidence that the changes and the evolution of new ways of life are natural and on the whole desirable.

  It has come to me very clearly through these wonderful letters that people everywhere are desperately eager for whatever will lift them out of themselves and allow them to believe in the future.

  I am sure that such release from tension can come through the contemplation of the beauties and mysterious rhythms of the natural world.

  But I am also sure that it is to be had through music in its reflection of the amazing creative genius of man.

  We need the inspiration that comes from hearing great music. The symphony orchestras that present and interpret the music of the ages are not luxuries in this mechanized, this atomic age. They are, more than ever, necessities.

  12

  [1952]

  Remarks at the Acceptance of the National Book Award for Nonfiction

  IN JANUARY, 1952, Carson learned she had won the prestigious National Book Award for nonfiction for The Sea Around Us. At the New York award ceremony, where Carson was joined on the dais by James Jones, the fiction winner for From Here to Eternity, and poet Marianne Moore, critic John Mason Brown acknowledged that “Carson has atomized our egos and brought to each reader not only a new humility but a new sense of the inscrutable vastness and inter-relation of forces beyond our knowledge or control.”

  Carson used the occasion to comment on the isolation of science in America and on what she viewed as the artificial separation of science and literature as exclusive methods of investigating the world. Carson’s early critique of the two cultures mirrored that late
r made famous by the English scientist C. P. Snow in 1959.

  WRITING A BOOK has surprising consequences, and the real education of the author perhaps begins on publication day. I, as the author, did not know how people would react to a book about the ocean. I am still finding out. When I planned my book, I knew only that a fascination for the sea and a compelling sense of its mystery had been part of my own life from earliest childhood. So I wrote what I knew about it and also what I thought and felt about it.

  Many people have commented with surprise on the fact that a work of science should have a large popular sale. But this notion that “science” is something that belongs in a separate compartment of its own, apart from everyday life, is one that I should like to challenge. We live in a scientific age; yet we assume that knowledge of science is the prerogative of only a small number of human beings, isolated and priestlike in their laboratories. This is not true. The materials of science are the materials of life itself. Science is part of the reality of living; it is the what, the how, and the why of everything in our experience. It is impossible to understand man without understanding his environment and the forces that have molded him physically and mentally.

  The aim of science is to discover and illuminate truth. And that, I take it, is the aim of literature, whether biography or history or fiction. It seems to me, then, that there can be no separate literature of science.

  My own guiding purpose was to portray the subject of my sea profile with fidelity and understanding. All else was secondary. I did not stop to consider whether I was doing it scientifically or poetically; I was writing as the subject demanded.

  The winds, the sea, and the moving tides are what they are. If there is wonder and beauty and majesty in them, science will discover these qualities. If they are not there, science cannot create them. If there is poetry in my book about the sea, it is not because I deliberately put it there, but because no one could write truthfully about the sea and leave out the poetry. [ … ]

  We have looked first at man with his vanities and greed and his problems of a day or a year; and then only, and from this biased point of view, we have looked outward at the earth he has inhabited so briefly and at the universe in which our earth is so minute a part. Yet these are the great realities, and against them we see our human problems in a different perspective. Perhaps if we reversed the telescope and looked at man down these long vistas, we should find less time and inclination to plan for our own destruction.

  13

  [1952]

  Design for Nature Writing

  THE JOHN BURROUGHS MEDAL awarded for excellence in nature writing was the one award Rachel Carson coveted. When she claimed the prize for The Sea Around Us in a gala ceremony in New York in April 1952, she used the occasion to make some trenchant criticisms of the parochial attitudes of nature writers, chiding them for not trying hard enough to educate the public about the importance of natural science as a way of understanding the modern world. Carson was once again ahead of her time in suggesting that the public wanted more information about nature and natural history. She believed nature writers had a moral obligation to bring the wonders of the living world to the general public and urged them to accept that responsibility.

  IN PRESENTING ME with the John Burroughs Medal you have welcomed me into an illustrious company, and you have given The Sea Around Us one of its most cherished honors. Any writer in the field of the natural sciences should feel a certain awe and even a sense of unreality in being linked during his or her own lifetime with the immortals in the field of nature writing. The tradition of John Burroughs, which you seek to keep alive through these awards, is a long and honorable one. It is a tradition that had its beginnings in even earlier writings. On the other side of the Atlantic it flowered most fully in the works of Richard Jefferies and W. H. Hudson; and in this country the pen of Thoreau – as that of John Burroughs himself – most truly represented the contemplative observer of the world about us. These four, I think, were the great masters. To those of us who have come later, there can scarcely be any greater honor than to be compared to one of them.

  Yet if we are true to the spirit of John Burroughs, or of Jefferies or Hudson or Thoreau, we are not imitators of them but – as they themselves were – we are pioneers in new areas of thought and knowledge. If we are true to them, we are the creators of a new type of literature as representative of our own day as was their own.

  I myself am convinced that there has never been a greater need than there is today for the reporter and interpreter of the natural world. Mankind has gone very far into an artificial world of his own creation. He has sought to insulate himself, in his cities of steel and concrete, from the realities of earth and water and the growing seed. Intoxicated with a sense of his own power, he seems to be going farther and farther into more experiments for the destruction of himself and his world.

  There is certainly no single remedy for this condition and I am offering no panacea. But it seems reasonable to believe – and I do believe – that the more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us the less taste we shall have for the destruction of our race. Wonder and humility are wholesome emotions, and they do not exist side by side with a lust for destruction.

  All of us here tonight are united by the strong bond of a common interest. In one way or another all of us have been touched by an awareness of the world of nature. No one present needs to be “sold” on this subject. But I should like to talk briefly about the non-naturalists and our attitude toward them – that large segment of the public that does not belong to the John Burroughs Association or to Audubon Societies and that really has very little knowledge of natural science. I am convinced that we have been far too ready to assume that these people are indifferent to the world we know to be full of wonder. If they are indifferent it is only because they have not been properly introduced to it – and perhaps that is in some measure our fault.

  Since I am speaking of the John Burroughs Medal and what it means, perhaps I should confine my illustration to nature writing. I feel that we have too often written only for each other. We have assumed that what we had to say would interest only other naturalists. We have too often seemed to consider ourselves the last representatives of a dying tradition, writing for steadily dwindling audiences.

  It is difficult to say these things without seeming to refer too directly to The Sea Around Us. Yet I feel they ought to be said, for in justice not only to ourselves but to the public we ought to develop a more confident and assured attitude toward the role and the value of nature literature. I am certain that what happened to The Sea Around Us could happen to many another book in the field of the natural sciences – and that it should happen.

  Perhaps writers and publishers and magazine editors have all been at fault in taking, too often, a deprecating attitude which assumes in advance that a nature book will not have a wide audience, that it cannot possibly be a “commercial success.”

  This attitude is not only psychologically unsound; it is a mistaken and ill-founded one. The public is trying to show us how mistaken it is, if we will only listen. It proves our mistake when it fills Audubon Screen Tour showings with overflow audiences. It proves it when it buys Roger Peterson’s bird guides by the many scores of thousands and goes afield with guide and binoculars. And if I may use a personal illustration, the letters that have come to me in the past nine months have taught me never again to underestimate the capacity of the general public to absorb the facts of science.

  If these letters mean anything it is this: that there is an immense and unsatisfied thirst for understanding of the world about us, and every drop of information, every bit of fact that serves to free the reader’s mind to roam the great spaces of the universe, is seized upon with almost pathetic eagerness.

  I have learned from these letters, too, if I did not fully realize it before, that those who hunger for knowledge of their world are as varied as the passengers in a subway. The mail
the other day brought letters from a Catholic sister in a Tennessee school, a farmer in Saskatchewan, a British scientist, and a housewife. There have been hairdressers and fishermen and musicians and classical scholars and scientists. So many say, in one phrasing or another: “We have been troubled about the world, and had almost lost faith in man; it helps to think about the long history of the earth, and of how life came to be. When we think in terms of millions of years, we are not so impatient that our own problems be solved tomorrow.”

  These are the people who want to know about the world that is our chosen one. If we have ever regarded our interest in natural history as an escape from the realities of our modern world, let us now reverse this attitude. For the mysteries of living things, and the birth and death of continents and seas, are among the great realities.

  The John Burroughs Medal is the only literary award that recognizes achievement in nature writing. In so doing, it may well be a force working toward a better civilization, by focusing attention on the wonders of a world known to so few, although it lies about us every day.

  14

  [1953]

  Mr. Day’s Dismissal

  ALBERT M. DAY was named director of the Fish and Wildlife Service in 1946, and under his direction the Service became the premier advocate for the conservation of the wildlife resources of the nation.

  When the Republicans won the White House in 1952, they began to institute policies more beneficial to big business than to conservation. Shortly after Oregon businessman Douglas McKay was appointed Secretary of the Interior, Albert Day and other top professional staff of the department were dismissed and replaced by nonprofessional political appointees. Deeply disturbed by this trend and what it portended for the future of the environment, Carson took pen to paper to protest.