If you have paid any attention to the sport of distance running, you will likely know that a few East African countries dominate the sport. Why this sIf you have paid any attention to the sport of distance running, you will likely know that a few East African countries dominate the sport. Why this should be is, however, something of a mystery. Adharanand Finn set out—unsuccessfully, though entertainingly—to answer this question in Kenya. Crawley’s book can be described as the companion piece on Kenya’s only serious rival in running dominance: Ethiopia.
Yet Michael Crawley is not just another running adventurer. He is both a serious runner (competing on the national British team) and a serious academic (completing a Ph.D. in anthropology on, you guessed it, the culture of Ethiopian running). His book is, consequently, not really an attempt to provide a definitive answer to why Ethopian runners are so good (something which seems close to impossible, anyway), but rather an attempt to understand how these top Ethiopian athletes think differently about their sport.
The most striking aspect of this training is the altitude. Like Iten in Kenya, Adis Adaba is well over 2,000 meters above sea level. And the runners often seek out even higher altitudes. According to Crawley, these heights are not sought out explicitly to increase their aerobic capacity via oxygen depletion, but rather because the runners think of the mountain air as pure and nourishing. Another notable feature of this training style was the avoidance of hard surface in favor of trails, as pavement is seen as unhealthily harsh.
I particularly enjoyed Crawley’s description of how the runners would deliberately take unusual, indirect, and difficult paths through the forest—partly in order to avoid going too fast and overtraining, and partly just to keep things interesting. And there is a memorable scene when Crawley is woken up at 2 in the morning to run hill repetitions in the dead of night, just for the sheer masochism of it. (The session ends by dumping cold water over your head!)
In sum, virtually everything Crawley describes—from rest, to diet, to the actual running—is a far cry from the numbers-obsessed, “scientific,” marginal-gains training plans which are popular in Europe and the United States. There is no talk, for example, of lactic thresholds or heartrate zones. And yet, the more you read, the more it seems that this training—and perhaps all training—pretty much adds up to the same thing: put stress on the body (but not so much as to cause an injury), and then leave enough time for the body to recover.
In any case, I think this book is far more interesting as an ethnography than as running advice. There is not much about this sort of training I could realistically emulate. However, simply to witness the ways that some of the best athletes in the world live and prepare is fascinating in itself. It is impossible to read this book without feeling awe at the level of physical, mental, and even spiritual discipline these runners have. Their victories are well-deserved....more
This book is a successful failure. Adharanand Finn set out to find the “secret” of the Kenyan’s running prowess by living and training in Iten—the runThis book is a successful failure. Adharanand Finn set out to find the “secret” of the Kenyan’s running prowess by living and training in Iten—the running capital of the country—for several months. What he finds is that there is no secret, just a multitude of factors that come together which make Kenyans into great runners (more later). As most of these factors aren’t easily replicable by aspiring non-Kenyan runners, the book is not useful as a running guide. That is the failure part. The success is that it manages to be an inspiring and enjoyable read, anyway.
As for those aforementioned factors, there are many. One, many Kenyan children—particularly those living in the countryside—run to school, back and forth, often twice a day. And they tend to do this running barefoot, which according to Finn improves running form. That is a lot of training. Another major factor is that, for many, running is the only viable path out of poverty. Thus, athletic talent is not siphoned off into other sports or diverted into other careers; every bit is tapped for running. Indeed, all over the country there are running camps where potential champions can live. There, they do nothing but run, sleep, and eat. Finn also thinks the high calorie, low fat, low protein diet is a major factor (probably a controversial claim). And of course there is the oft-mentioned altitude. Iten, for example, is 2400 meters (about 8000 feet) above sea level. (Training at high-altitude is supposed to make the body more cardiovascularly efficient.)
As you can see, unless you grew up and live in Kenya (or a similar place), this is not exactly useful. Nevertheless, Finn did improve during his time in Iten, mostly the old-fashioned way—running, running, running. (He also ate a lot of ugali, the carb-rich staple of the region.) Certainly, the constant presence of elite runners helped. Every other person in Iten, it seems, is a star runner. Finn could sleepwalk into a running group, and coaches fell from the sky. It is a rather peculiar kind of paradise. But the book is more of a memoir than a manual. Finn’s writing is strong and he effectively transports you into the experience of being a comparatively average runner in a strange land, training with the best of the best.
As a final note, I wanted to dwell on how very contradictory so much running advice is. The sportswriter Matt Fitzgerald, for example, emphasizes that good running form cannot be taught, and that every body naturally develops its own efficient stride. Yet Finn is convinced that running barefoot markedly improves form and efficiency. Further, Fitzgerald advocates mostly long, slow runs, whereas Finn basically ran as long and as fast as he could during every training. This inconsistency is true in my own experience in running, too. I recently signed up (heaven help me) to do a full marathon. One seasoned runner told me to focus on short, fast intervals; another told me I had to focus on building up mileage. Perhaps there is not any one ideal approach. In any case, wish me luck. I’ll need it....more
If you suspect that you are not adequately scared of infectious diseases, I can heartily recommend this book to you.
The Hot Zone opens with a descriptIf you suspect that you are not adequately scared of infectious diseases, I can heartily recommend this book to you.
The Hot Zone opens with a description of what the Marburg virus (a member of the Ebola family) does to your body; and I can say, with confidence, that it is one of the most disgusting things I have ever read. After telling the story of a small outbreak in Kenya (which could be traced to Kitum Cave in the shadow of Mount Elgon), the narrative shifts to Reston, Virginia, where research monkeys began to die of a strange disease in 1989. The army identified it as Ebola, or something very much like Ebola, and went into action to put down the monkeys and disinfect the area.
The emergency turned out to be something of a false alarm, since this virus—now called the Reston virus, closely related to Ebola—appeared harmless to humans. However, the Reston virus is still frightening, if only as a sign of what is possible. For it has a mortality as high as Ebola in monkeys (over 90%) and it can be transmitted through the air. The disease spread throughout the entire research compound, even though the monkeys were housed in different rooms, in individual cages. Obviously, if such a virus arose in humans, we would be in for a rough time.
The book ends with a description of Preston’s own voyage to Kitum Cave, the source of one outbreak. He gives a vivid account of the many different species of animals that inhabit the cave, any one of which could have been the virus’s original host. (Since then, we have detected the Marburg virus in bat guano.) The more general point is that the animal world is full of germs, some of them potentially devastating. AIDS crossed over into humans in the same region, a disease that has claimed many millions of lives. What else is out there waiting for us?
This book is written as a thriller—fast, easy, exhilarating—and so it does lack some depth and analysis that I had hoped to find. But Preston’s warning about Ebola proved prescient: the disease did return, and perhaps it will again....more
Ancient Egypt, like dinosaur bones and outer space, is one of those things which seem to attract universal curiosity. It certainly did in my case. I rAncient Egypt, like dinosaur bones and outer space, is one of those things which seem to attract universal curiosity. It certainly did in my case. I remember visiting the Egyptian section in the Met, as a young boy, and marveling over the mummies and the massive sarcophagi, the mysterious hieroglyphs and monumental statues.
There is something curiously foreign, even inhuman, about Egyptian artifacts. For one, they are old beyond anything we are accustomed to think about. To cite one oft-repeated fact, there is more time between construction the Great Pyramid and the life of Julius Caesar, than between Julius Caesar and our own time. Even ancient history seems like yesterday by comparison. Aside from mere time, Egypt’s culture is strikingly unlike our own. God-kings who marry their sisters to keep the blood-line pure, mummified bodies interred in graves full of gold, jackal-headed gods and hieroglyphic script—it is alien indeed.
Yet it is beautiful. Egyptian art is undoubtedly one of the great art traditions in the world—as anyone knows who has examined the bust of Nefertiti in Berlin, the seated scribe in Paris, or the statue of Hatshepsut in New York. It is a unified and coherent aesthetic, permeating everything from the smallest objects to the greatest temples, and lasting for thousands of years with only minor change. Even if it is enchanting, however, the art of Egypt also evokes this sensation of distance. Every image is so stylized, every human form is so rigid and unrealistic, every aesthetic choice pre-determined by tradition, that it is difficult to get a sense of real people behind these objects.
This sense of distance, of foreignness, of mystery, is what makes Egypt so exciting to study. (It is also why people talk about ancient aliens.) And Bob Brier is an ideal guide. I have never loved anything or anyone as much as Brier loves Egypt. This enthusiasm is infectious, and makes his series of lectures a real pleasure. He describes how he climbed into the Bent Pyramid—an early, failed attempt to create a pyramid—and how he traveled to the turquoise mines used by Egyptians themselves. He narrates Napoleon’s conquest of Egypt and explains how the Rosetta Stone was translated. He even describes in detail how to make a mummy—and he should know, since he made one himself.
Apart from these entertaining asides, Brier takes the listener through the whole history of Ancient Egypt, from prehistory to the death of Cleopatra. It is a fascinating story, and Brier is a wonderful storyteller. A lifelong resident of the Bronx, his verbal mannerisms may remind one—pleasantly or unpleasantly—of the man in the White House; yet he knows how to dramatize the relevant details enough to make them effortlessly stick in the memory. His love of a good story does lead him astray, at times. For my part, his two lectures on the Biblical stories, Joseph and Exodus, were somewhat too credulous of their veracity. He is similarly generous when it comes to Herodotus. And his theory of Tutankhamun’s murder has now been disproven.
Aside from these mild criticisms, I should note that the series does show its age. A lot has happened in the world of Egyptology since this series was recorded, in 1999, notably the advances in DNA and medical technology which allow us to know more about the lives of Egyptians. For example, we now know far more about Tutankhamun’s many physical ailments, and we also know that he was not the son of Nefertiti.
Nevertheless, these lectures remain a wonderful introduction to the times. I cannot emphasize enough how enjoyable they are. They convert you into an Egypt fanatic. Now I want teach myself hieroglyphics and to go to Egypt myself. It must be incredible to see all of this in person. For now, however, I will have to be content with Brier’s virtual tour and whatever museums I can visit....more
I first noticed Bannerman Island when I was visiting my high school girlfriend, who had just begun college in New Paltz. As I sat on the Hudson Line tI first noticed Bannerman Island when I was visiting my high school girlfriend, who had just begun college in New Paltz. As I sat on the Hudson Line train to Poughkeepsie, I tried to read; but to refresh my eyes I looked out the window now and then at the rolling green scenery of the Hudson Valley. Even in its dullest stretches the valley is a picturesque place. But then something incongruous popped into view: a brick-colored castle, sitting on an island, in ruins. I even doubted my eyes for minute. What was a castle doing in New York?
I asked my mother about this when I got back home, who told me that she heard it was built by a rich man who married a woman from Europe, to help alleviate his wife’s homesickness. But this explanation never quite satisfied; and every time I passed the island, my curiosity was increased. Finally, last year, I discovered that there are tours to the island. It was an excellent experience—I wrote about it here—and I would recommend it to anyone in the area. As a souvenir, I bought this book.
An installment of the Images of America series, this book consists of (mostly) old photographs with commentary providing the historical information. As such, it is more of a coffee-table book than a straightforward narrative. Nevertheless, the whole history is here, and it proves to be even more interesting than the apocryphal story my mom told me about the millionaire and his old-world wife. Francis Bannerman VI was one of those Andrew Carnegie types who immigrated, worked his way up from the bottom, and made a fortune. His business was in used military supplies; according to this book, his shop was possibly the first army-navy store in history.
As his supplies gradually grew—his company bought 90% of the supplies auctioned off after the Spanish-American war—his store in Brooklyn became a veritable armory. Eventually, concerned with the large amounts of explosives Bannerman had stockpiled, the city government asked him to relocate. Bannerman chose this island (actually called Pollepel Island) as the site of his new armory, in part because it is safely isolated, and in part because it served as an excellent advertisement to the ships and trains that went by. Considering that the black powder did eventually explode (destroying part of the complex) and that people still admire the building, I would say he made a good choice.
And by the way, it was Bannerman himself, not his wife, who was a lover of castles. After traveling in Europe, Bannerman sketched out his own eclectic designs, and incorporated many recycled war materials into the actual buildings, such as the cannonballs that decorate the façade.
This book does an excellent job in capturing the allure of this little island. And if you are not satisfied, the tour is even better....more
“When you become a doctor,” my professor said, “you swear to do no harm. Well, now I’m a teacher, but I abide by the same rule: Do no harm. So it’s my“When you become a doctor,” my professor said, “you swear to do no harm. Well, now I’m a teacher, but I abide by the same rule: Do no harm. So it’s my goal, by the end of this class, that you come out with a greater interest in the subject than you had coming in. Perhaps you won’t study this professionally. But I hope, from now on, if you’re reading the newspaper and you see an article about the subject, that you will be able to read, understand, and enjoy it.”
So said my anatomy professor, Bernard Wood, on our first day of class. We were in Eastern Africa, in an isolated research facility in the Turkana Basin—found in the semi-desert of northern Kenya, part of the East African Rift, a tectonic fault-line where fossil preservation is excellent. We were learning about human anatomy to better analyze and identify hominin fossils. And Professor Wood abided by his maxim: his aim was to interest you in the subject. For, as he well knew, if students are interested enough, you hardly need to teach them.
Even though he only taught us for two weeks, he was easily one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. At the beginning of our class, he took the time to interview every one of us students individually, to better understand our interests and goals. He must have quickly realized that I was a reader, for it was not long after our interview that he pointed to this book, which sat on the tiny bookshelf of the research facility, and said, “See this? This here is a great book.” By the time he left, I was already buried in its pages.
A couple weeks later, we were going on an educational dig to look for stone tools. The lorry broke down several times on the way there—“It’s not a true trip to Africa unless the lorry breaks down,” we were told—but we finally made it. The dig was just an exercise. Using suspended string, we sectioned off little segments in the ground, and started digging, sifting, digging, sifting, examining every bit of stone that was caught by the sieve. (We didn’t find anything. But the oldest stone tools ever discovered were recently found near that very site, and by another former professor, Sonia Harmand.)
Midway through, we took a lunch break. As always, it was stiflingly hot. We ate sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, and then followed it up with digestive biscuits and canned peaches. Then, we all gathered under the nearest acacia tree, and lay down on the sandy earth.
If you have never seen an acacia tree, they are small, thorny, gnarled things, with shoots of tiny leaflets. They don't provide much shade; but some shade is better than none. So we sat there, chatting idly, until the fatigue from digging caught up with us one by one, lulling everyone to sleep—everyone, save myself. Instead, I pulled out my copy of Ancestral Passions from my backpack, and read until the hottest part of the day had passed. And as I occasionally looked up from my book at the desert sky, I reflected that on this very landscape, a dozen or so kilometers away, the Turkana Boy skeleton was unearthed by Richard Leakey’s team.
Reading this book was one of the most incredible reading experiences I’ve ever had. And this is not only because I was there in Kenya, but because Morell has written a wonderful biography. My only criticism of this book is the title, which is a weak pun. But of course that's just a trifle. This book is well-written, well-researched, and the subject is well-chosen: two generations of the extraordinary Leakey family, anthropological royalty.
The book opens with Louis Leakey, a colorful character. Louis Leakey was a rake, a womanizer, a dreamer, a schemer, an underdog, an explorer, and a scientist. He was constantly running about, starting new projects, begging here, there, and everywhere for funding, and setting off into the bush. And he was a showman. One of my favorite stories was of the time when Meave (the future wife of Richard Leaky, Louis's son) took a job in Louis Leakey's new primate research center in Nairobi. Leakey boasted that he could identify the species of any monkey by putting its leg-bone in his mouth and feeling it with his tongue, and he then preceded to demonstrate his strange talent to his nonplussed new employee.
Louis's wife Mary was, if less flamboyant, just as impressive and eccentric. If memory serves, she made the workers on her sites dig in total silence. No conversation or singing allowed. Indeed, Morell makes it clear that Mary was the better scientist of the pair. Her work on the stone tools at Olduvai, the oldest yet found at the time, is still regarded as epochal and valuable research.
When the focus shifts to their son, Richard, the story is no less interesting. We follow Richard flying over the Turkana basin in his plane (which he later crashed in, perhaps due to sabotage), looking for good places to search for fossils. We follow him into the wilderness, riding on a camel, finding million-year-old skull caps sticking out of the sand. Or perhaps he is floating down a stream in a skiff, fending off crocodiles with a paddle. Meantime, Jane Goodall and Diane Fossey drift through the story, as the aging Louis sends them out into the field, devoid of any experience or training, to do pioneering studies of the great apes.
Although the science isn't the main focus of this narrative, it is covered admirably well, especially the social aspect of research. Almost as interesting as the story of humankind's origin is the story of our knowledge of it—a story of adventure and polemic. Since the first myths ever told around a fire, humans have speculated about their origins. The question, "Where do we come from?" has so many political, religious, and social implications that it cannot be asked dispassionately. Even in academic disputes, emotions can run high. And Louis, Mary, and Richard were deeply involved in the (sometimes bitter) academic controversies of their day, as competing theories attempted to account for the scanty fossil evidence.
The problem, then as now, is that the evidence is so fractured and fragmented. The remains of most ancient hominin species can fit inside a shoe box. And since we have such paltry evidence available, we must fill up the gaps with guesswork. To use one professor's analogy, it is like trying to piece together what happened at the Olympics with only a few, scattered, grainy, black-and-white photographs. Unsurprisingly, there is therefore a great deal of controversy and quackery. And since these fossils must be found in unfrequented, remote, and sometimes dangerous stretches of wilderness, to be a paleoanthropologist you have to risk your life to acquire evidence and then draw blood to defend your theories.
In short, this book is a wonderful blend of science and adventure, of drama and history. Unfortunately, after I left Kenya, I had to leave the copy of this book there at the Leakey’s research facility. But it has been my good fortune that Ted has just shipped me his copy. Now I can leaf through it and wax nostalgic. Thanks Ted! And thanks, my good professor, for putting this book into my hands. This is a book that can surely do no harm....more
I have a good life but I must write because if I do not write a certain amount I do not enjoy the rest of my life.
I came across The Green Hills of
I have a good life but I must write because if I do not write a certain amount I do not enjoy the rest of my life.
I came across The Green Hills of Africa selling for cheap at a used bookstore; and since I vaguely remembered that Hemingway’s famous quote about Huckleberry Finn came from this book (Hemingway thinks it’s the alpha and omega of American fiction), I snatched it up. Well, that quote is certainly in here. It is part of a conversation Hemingway has with an Austrian about literature, which for me was the highlight of the book. In just a few pages, Hemingway weighs the merits and demerits of various writers, and then gives his own philosophy of writing. It's quite fascinating. But this conversation takes place in the first few pages of this travel memoir; the rest of the book is dominated by his hunt for kudu.
I suspect that many will find the story of Hemingway’s hunts distasteful. I, for one, am not at all interested in hunting. I have seen, and loved seeing, many of the animals in this book when I was in East Africa; so the many descriptions of shooting and skinning gave me the creeps. To me, it’s as if somebody walked into an art museum, took out a pen knife, and cut a famous painting out of its frame to take home. Can’t you just look and appreciate?
Well, this perspective—that hunting is distasteful and crass—is expressed by the Austrian in the opening conversation about literature, and serves to set up the essential metaphor of this memoir. For Hemingway, art is very much akin to hunting: chasing a fleeting moment, through the brush and wilderness, under the heavy hot sun, following wherever it goes, in order to pin it down and capture it in words. The Austrian is, perhaps like myself, a critic: he wants only to look and appreciate. Hemingway differentiates himself as an artist by being a hunter: he stalks and kills.
So this little memoir can be read, in part, as an extended allegory of Hemingway’s artistic ideals: the artist as disciplined, solitary hunter. But, of course, it is also a memoir of his time in Africa. And in this respect, I think the book was the most disappointing. Hemingway is away in his own little world, measuring the horns of his prizes, tracking wounded animals, peevishly complaining any time somebody kills a beast bigger than his. The drama of the hunt wasn’t dramatic; and Hemingway’s deadpan writing wasn’t evocative of the landscape. He seems uninterested in the political situation in East Africa—which was under the domination of the British—and he generally comes across as a boorish colonialist, only interested in his own pleasure. Certainly not his best work; but insightful for Hemingway enthusiasts, and possibly interesting for big game hunters....more
To nick an idea I picked up from an introduction to War and Peace, this book is an excellent example of an ‘open novel’. This is in opposition to the To nick an idea I picked up from an introduction to War and Peace, this book is an excellent example of an ‘open novel’. This is in opposition to the (predictably named) ‘closed novel’. These terms merely serve to describe an aspect of the continuum between fable and history.
Fables are closed stories. When the protagonist is introduced, their backstory is either completely explained, or irrelevant. When the curtain closes and the story ends, every story-arc is tied up in a neat little bow, and they all live happily ever after. There is simply no more story after that.
History, meanwhile, is open. Any real event (the Peloponnesian War, for example), starts in medias res. The men who fought in the Peloponnesian War were not born to fight it, and many had significant political lives beforehand. The end of the war did mark an end of a chapter in the history of Greece, but certainly not the end of the whole story. History has no beginning or end. Any given history book merely singles out a section of it. The start- and end-points are arbitrarily defined.
On this spectrum—in-between fable and history—stands the novel. But not all novels occupy the same position. Some are at the ‘closed’ end. Jane Eyre is an excellent example of this; when the book begins, we know little Jane’s whole childhood history; and when we put the book down, there is nothing more to wonder about regarding her. Madame Bovary is another famous example, but the list is inexhaustible.
Meanwhile, the consummate example of the open form of the novel is War and Peace. No work of fiction more closely approached history than that great book. And I'd put God’s Bits of Wood alongside it in this category.
Like Tolstoy, Ousmane has an intuitive sense of history. Individuals operate with limited knowledge, for goals they aren’t quite sure of, obeying motivations that are only half-conscious, thrown around by forces beyond their control. In history, a stray bullet has no qualms about cutting down a young hero, and good and evil are never clear-cut. Such is life in God’s Bits of Wood. But the nice prose at least makes us feel better about it....more
Of all the great classic books, The Book of the Dead has been on my list for the longest time. My interest in the book was first ignited by the 1999 cOf all the great classic books, The Book of the Dead has been on my list for the longest time. My interest in the book was first ignited by the 1999 cinematic masterpiece, The Mummy, which was released at just the moment to leave a permanent imprint on my growing brain. Unfortunately, I have discovered that The Book of the Dead does not really allow you to summon an army of ninja mummies or to revive my long-lost love, Anck-su-namun. If anything, I appear to have only resuscitated Brendan Fraser’s acting career…
Some books are far more interesting to read about than to actually read, and this is one of them. The Book of the Dead is not really a book, in that it was never intended to be read for pleasure or even for edification. And, in any case, The Book of the Dead is not an accurate translation of what the Egyptians called it, which would be something like: The Book of Coming Forth by Day.
This sounds poetic. But perhaps a more descriptive title would be The Ancient Egyptian Manual for Safely Dying. For despite this text being the product of an ancient religion, filled with supernatural beings and too many gods to keep track of, this is above all a practical text. If you use the spells contained herein, you can be sure of making your way through Duat, the hellish underworld populated by monsters and other perils, to safety in the afterlife.
These powerful spells would be written on a long scroll of papyrus and buried along with the mummified body. These various papyri were not always identical, often containing variations of the same spell and a different total numbers of spells. But in total about 190 different incantations have been identified.
The practice of burying bodies with this “book” began about 1500 BCE, during the so-called New Kingdom, but many of the spells have even older origins. The very oldest funerary spells are known as Pyramid Texts, and they were inscribed inside the burial chamber of the Pharaohs in (you guessed it) the pyramids, during the Old Kingdom. Apparently, the afterlife was the sole privilege of the Pharoah in the beginning of Egyptian history. But this changed during the Middle Kingdom, when officials, courtiers, and otherwise very rich individuals began to be buried with Coffin Texts—spells inscribed on the inside of the sarcophagus or on the linen shroud that wrapped the body. When these spells began to be written on papyrus, their use became even more widespread. Life in Ancient Egypt was still thoroughly monarchical, but the afterlife became a touch more democratic.
Even (or perhaps especially) if you cannot read hieroglyphs, these papyri were often quite lovely, being richly decorated with vignettes. The most beautiful example of these papyri is the Book of Ani, named after the man whom the book was made for, a Theban scribe. It is worth scrolling through the entire papyrus (the full image is on Wikipedia) and just enjoying the many illustrations, including the famous vignette of Anubis weighing the deceased’s heart against the feather of Maat. This papyrus was actually stolen from the Egyptian police (who had confiscated it from antique dealers) and smuggled to England, where it became a prized item in the British Museum. (The man who stole it, E.A. Wallis Budge, is also, as it happens, the author of the most widely read English translation.)
All of this information is, in my opinion, quite fascinating. Unfortunately, the actual experience of reading the book is considerably less stimulating. As I mentioned above, the spells were not written as literature and make for repetitive, dull, and flat reading. I first attempted to tackle a Spanish version that had been given to me, edited by one Luis Tomás Melgar. But after about 100 pages I simply could not stand it, and decided to try the classic Budge version. The same thing happened: after about 100 pages, I could not bear to read another spell.
Indeed, I am a little embarrassed to admit how unpleasant I found this. Normally I can power through when I don’t much like a book. But it felt as though my brain had been dissolved with acid and was being extracted through my nose. Thus, I decided to have mercy on myself and to mark the book as “read,” while I still had some grey matter intact.
In fairness to the Ancient Egyptian priests and scribes who compiled the book, I ought to include a sample of a spell. Here is one allowing the deceased to transform into a hawk:
Hail, Great God, come now to Tattu! Make thou smooth for me the ways and let me go round to visit my thrones; I have renewed myself, and I have raised myself up. O grant thou that I may be feared, and make thou me to be a terror. Let the gods of the underworld be afraid of me, and may they fight for me in their habitations which are therein. Let not him who would do harm to me draw nigh unto me, or injure me, in the House of Darkness, that is, he that clotheth and covereth the feeble one, and whose name is hidden; and let not the gods act likewise towards me.
If you can make it through 200 pages of this, you are a stronger reader than I am.
Even if The Book of the Dead is not exactly great (or good) literature, it does provide an interesting insight into ancient religion. There is a striking difference displayed here in the attitude towards the Egyptian gods and, say, that displayed towards Yahweh in the Old Testament. In the former, the believer uses spells that grant him predictable control over the gods and other supernatural beings, while the psalms are prayers, supplications, thanksgiving, worship, meditations—attempts to approach and understand the divine, rather than command it.
Another noteworthy aspect is how thoroughly focused on death and the afterlife the Egyptian religion appears to have been. Getting to the afterlife was not seen as the reward of a life well-lived. To the contrary, the spells in this book allow the deceased to reach this eternal reward despite whatever sins they may have committed. The judgment of the gods was not inexorable or unavoidable, but open to magical manipulation. Even if you “defrauded the temples of their oblations” or “purloined the cakes of the gods,” there was still hope of escaping divine retribution.
I know it is highly unfair—and simply pointless—for me to judge an ancient religion, especially considering that I did not even manage to finish the sacred book. But I couldn’t help thinking that this religion lacked most of the elements which I normally find compelling in a creed: a substantive moral code, consolation for life’s tragedies, acceptance of the inevitable… There is nothing poetic about death, life’s last major transition (if it can be called that). Instead, the final journey is regarded in such a prosaic, literal-minded way that it evokes no strong feeling. The soul must be defended from physical dangers in order to reach a state of physical well-being, and that is all.
Of course, it is quite possible, and perhaps likely, that The Book of the Dead is not perfectly representative document when it comes to Egyptian religion. After all, the book was not meant to be read by the living, so maybe it is no wonder that I did not find much of value. If I can still access Goodreads from beyond the grave, I will update this review at that (hopefully remote) date....more
Shortly before or after (I don't remember) I studied abroad in Kenya with Richard and Meave Leakey, I decided to read the books by 'Leakey's angels': Shortly before or after (I don't remember) I studied abroad in Kenya with Richard and Meave Leakey, I decided to read the books by 'Leakey's angels': Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey, and Birute Galdikas. These three are known for their pioneering field studies of the three great apes—chimpanzees, gorillas, and orangutans, respectively. I thought that In the Shadow of Man was a far better read than Gorillas in the Mist. I never did get around to Galdikas's book...
When I read this book, I loved it. I suspect I would like it less if I read it today, but that's probably because I've become more of a snob. It should be said, however, that many of her methods were questionable. This is largely because she had no formal training, and Louis Leakey found it gratifying to send wide-eyed young women out into the field. From the standpoint of research, the most egregious thing that Goodall did was use bananas to lure the chimps into her camp. Leakey was furious about this, and it is, indeed, a frightful bit of scholarship. Nonetheless, it was entertaining to read about.
Goodall may not be a genius scientist, but she is certainly a passionate storyteller. It is incredible how effectively she pulled me in to the personal lives of her chimps. Aggression displays, rain dances, pregnancies, estrus cycles, and struggles for dominance play out like a soap opera. Chimps are fascinating. In some ways, they seem so human: they tickle, play, make tools, smile, shake hands, and even appear to love one another. In retrospect, I suspect that she was doing a bit of anthropomorphizing in her account. But many intelligent people have been led astray by this almost-human quality of our nearest relative (the best example of this can be found in the fascinating documentary Project Nim), so I'm willing to forgive her.
If someone were to ask me about the fundamentals of human behavior, this would be one of the first books I would direct them to. It is impossible to forget our intimate connection with our close relatives, and the significance of our evolutionary past, when we acquaint ourselves with ape behavior. Although we like to flatter ourselves with notions of our own uniqueness, we are not so different. It is a great irony that we have made an apocalyptic film entitled The Planet of the Apes. We are living on the Planet of the Apes, and we should be careful to remember it....more
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