E.O. Wilson in The New Yorker: Fictive science, not science fiction
Wednesday, January 27th, 2010
I didn’t expect to be tracking fiction here, but now that the opportunity has arisen, I’m eager to do it. In the Jan. 25th edition of The New Yorker, E.O. Wilson has one of the most interesting pieces of science writing I’ve seen in a long time. I wouldn’t call it journalism, but he uses his reporting (a lifetime studying ants) and his literary powers so expertly that I thought it was worth spending a few minutes this morning looking at what he’s achieved. (And if anyone wonders whether Wilson, a scientist, qualifies as a science writer, I remind you that he has won two Pulitzer Prizes for non-fiction. He qualifies.)
Wilson’s New Yorker piece is fiction, an excerpt from a forthcoming novel, called Anthill, to be published in April. The excerpt, called Trailhead, begins with the tragic death of the queen of the Trailhead ant colony, made especially poignant because the workers scurrying around her, all of them her children, don’t yet know she’s dead. Her horny exoskeleton remains unchanged:
Her stillness alone failed to give warning to her daughters that a catastrophe had occurred for all of them. She lay there, in fact, as though nothing had happened. She had become a perfect statue of herself…Hence the workers were at first unaware of their mother’s death. Her quietude said nothing, and the odors of life, still rising from her, signalled, I remain among you. She smelled alive.
He goes on to relate the 20-year history of the Trailhead queen, how she had once had wings, how she’d joined a swarm of flying males, and how one of them had clamped his legs around her body, sending them spiraling to the ground. In five minutes, he had given her all the sperm she would need to foster a colony of 10,000 ants. She would never need to mate again.
Wilson has to walk a couple of tightropes here. One requires him to balance narrative and exposition. The ellipses in the quote I highlighted above replace a couple of sentences explaining why the queen’s appearance didn’t change.
While humans and other vertebrates have an internal skeleton surrounded by soft tissue that quickly rots away, ants are encased in an external skeleton; their soft tissues shrivel into dry threads and lumps, but their exoskeletons remain, a knight’s armor fully intact long after the knight is gone.
I might have shortened or excised that, on the grounds that most people, however ignorant they might be about ants, understand that they would look unchanged at the moment they died; we’ve all seen dead ants. On the other hand, I would have hated to lose “a knight’s armor fully intact long after the knight is gone.” I’m picturing those creepy, empty suits of armor at the Metropolitan Museum; it makes me shudder.
Part of Wilson’s achievement here is that he mostly makes the right judgments about how much exposition to leave in, and so we learn an enormous amount about ants without losing the narrative drive. And because this is a story, I’m sure I’ll remember much more of the science than I would have if I’d read it in a biology textbook, even one by Wilson.
Another balancing act Wilson performs is to make the characters come alive without anthropomorphizing them, as a lesser writer might do. Describing the colony’s early history, he writes that some pioneers, “guided by instinct, because no one existed to teach them, set out to forage for food.” He doesn’t say, “brave pioneers decided leave the colony and hunt for food.” Humans decide; ants don’t.
When some soldiers begin to lay eggs to replace those formerly produced by the queen, Wilson writes, “Their fertility might renew the energy of the Trailheaders, but would it save the colony? The ants could not know. All they could do was react.” Wilson makes us care about these tiny creatures without endowing them with human attributes. That’s high art. And it must come not only from his literary skill, but from his decades of dedication to the study of ants.
Wilson goes on to chart the gradual decline of the colony without its queen, including a war reminiscent of Thoreau’s war of the red ants and the black ants in Walden. (Another literary precursor that occurred to me while I was reading this was Watership Down, the story of a rabbit warren forced to find a new home.)
Near the end of this excerpt, Wilson’s Trailheaders even sound scarily reminiscent of some human societies. With their queen gone, Wilson writes, “the ants were a doomed people in a besieged city. Their unity of purpose was gone, their social machinery halted…the order of the colony was dissolving.”
All the ants knew was that they had a choice–fight, or run.
“There was nothing else left in their collective mind.”
- Paul Raeburn