Leon – Hoopoe – A blog by nhbs

Book Review – The Lives of Bats: A Natural History

The Lives of Bats is part of Princeton University Press’s series The Lives of the Natural World that has grown to 14 volumes. Technically speaking, it is designed and produced by UniPress Books, which I have described elsewhere as the spiritual successor of Ivy Press and which is similarly known for producing good-looking books. As with the other volumes, this one is chock-a-block with full-colour photos, to the point that you would be hard-pressed to find a single page of plain text. It follows the same formula as other volumes, ending each chapter with a short species gallery that profiles four or five relevant or noteworthy species.

Professor of biology DeeAnn M. Reeder’s research programme encompasses physiology, immunology, disease ecology, behaviour, evolution, and conservation, and bats are often her model organism of choice. She is only all too aware of the dislike and fear that bats instil, especially as reservoir hosts of diseases, so an important focus of this book is to demystify and (if that is even a word) de-demonise bats by giving a factual and up-to-date primer on their biology. After a brief introduction, Reeder picks seven topics—evolution, anatomy, echolocation, diet, thermoregulation, reproduction, and disease—before ending with a chapter on past and present interactions between bats and humans.

If there is a unifying theme to this book, it is how much the biology of bats is shaped by the demands of flight. Anatomical adaptations are the first to come to mind, from the ankle spur (a calcar) that supports the wing membrane between the hind limbs (the uropatagium), to the five extra muscles that control the tautness and curvature of the wing membrane. Reeder’s favourite overlooked adaptation is the hind limbs that are rotated 180°, meaning the soles of the feet face forward and the knees bend backwards compared to other mammals.

The demands of flight extend far beyond anatomy, though. To conserve energy, bats can go into torpor, lowering their metabolic rate and body temperature. This can be as brief as a few hours or be extended for weeks on end, at which point we call it hibernation. Like humans, bats generate their own body heat (endothermy), but unlike us, they can conserve energy by allowing their body temperature to track the environmental temperature (heterothermy) while we maintain a steady body temperature (homeothermy). The need for energy conservation even impacts their reproduction. Bat pups are huge compared to their parents, meaning pregnancy is energetically costly on two fronts: foetal development takes energy, but so does flying around with all that extra mass. To make sure birth coincides with peak food availability, female bats can store sperm (a well-known trait in many organisms) but also slow down or even pause (!) foetal development.

Reeder features many other notable traits, adding an extra layer of information to the basic facts that will be rattling around in most people’s heads. Sure, bats echolocate, but what I did not realise is that some groups emit sound out of their mouth and others out of their nose. The family Pteropodidae, the fruit bats, have lost echolocation (fruit tends not to move), yet some species have secondarily re-evolved it, relying on wing-clapping or tongue-clicking to help them navigate their cave roosts. And where many bats issue a call and then listen out for the echo, some bats do not separate the two in time but in frequency, calling at a different frequency than the echoes return at. This nifty feat of sensory biology allows them to produce sound while simultaneously receiving and interpreting the incoming echoes.

I also came away from this book with a much better appreciation of the family Phyllostomidae. When the University of Chicago Press published a book dedicated to this family in 2020, I was admittedly nonplussed: what is so special about them? The incredible diversity of their diet. This family includes carnivorous bats dining on small reptiles, birds, and mammals. It includes the three species of vampire bat whose sanguivorous habits have become the stuff of legend. More relevant but less appreciated is that, by eating fruit, pollen, and nectar, they are important pollinators, including of many cacti and important crops.

Reeder is at her most strident when it comes to the role of bats in diseases, including COVID-19. Yes, bats harbour viruses and other pathogens that impact public health, but spillovers are a human problem caused by our relentless destruction of wildlife habitat. We should be wary of “the sometimes sensationalistic portrayal of bats, writ large, as hosts of deadly viruses” (p. 250); the same can be said of many other animal groups, including primates, rodents, and birds. Reeder is a proponent of the One Health framework that recognises that you cannot tackle human, animal, and ecosystem health in isolation because they are all interconnected.

Given the format and aim of this series, Reeder only has the space to go so deep on these and other topics. However, as with the book I reviewed previously, this is not just a regurgitation of popular information. You can tell this is written by a specialist in her field who is carefully weighing up how much information to give you and how much to hold back. The resources section recommends some of the many technical books if you want to read deeper, plus a two-page reference section to journal articles, including studies up to 2023 and 2024.

Bats are particularly photogenic, and the editorial team at UniPress Books has scoured several stock photo libraries, as well as the work of numerous individual photographers, credited in the back of the book. There are memorable photos here while a small number of neat infographics are contributed by illustrator Sarah Skeate.

The Lives of Bats continues the series’ successful formula: challenge one or two subject experts to write an accessible introduction that can serve multiple audiences. For novices, this is a great first stop on bats that will give you a well-informed introduction to their unique biology (and equally, it is a book that you can safely gift them). However, the book is also rewarding for biologists who just happen to have studied other organisms but have a hankering for bats. I enjoyed The Lives of Bats more than I thought I would, and by the end, I felt it had subtly enriched my knowledge.

Book review: Is a River Alive?

***** A hydrological odyssey

Nature writer Robert Macfarlane will need little introduction, having authored a string of successful books on people, landscape, and language. Billed as his most political book to date, Is a River Alive? sees Macfarlane wrestle with the titular question and examine its relevance to the nascent Rights of Nature movement.

At the heart of this book are three long, 70–100-page parts that detail visits to three river systems in Ecuador, India, and Canada. They are separated by short palate cleansers, describing brief visits to local springs close to his home in Cambridge. In the back, you will find a surprisingly thorough ten page glossary, notes, a select bibliography, a combined acknowledgements and aftermaths section detailing developments up to publication, and an index.

This dry enumeration aside, it is the quality of the writing that we are all here for, and Macfarlane is on fine form as he immerses you in the landscapes he visits. These journeys are not solo affairs, however, and in each place he is accompanied by knowledgeable local guides: some are long-term collaborators, others he has only just met. It is a motley crew that includes a mycologist, a musician, and a lawyer, as well as judges, activists, back-country experts, and his close friend Wayne Chambliss. Macfarlane has a knack for giving warm and memorable portraits of them, as well as others they meet along the way.

The political aspect of this book stems from the fact that all these river systems are under threat; from mining in Ecuador, industrial pollution in India, and the construction of hydroelectric dams in Canada. In part, the book is a reportage on the environmental harm caused by resource extraction, economic development, and heavy industry, and the slow violence it inflicts on predominantly poor and marginalised communities. In Chennai, he graphically details how this has already come to pass, while in Ecuador and Canada, it could come to pass if certain companies were to get their way. In response, Western and Indigenous activists have rallied behind the Rights of Nature movement that originated in 1972 when lawyer Christopher Stone asked whether trees should have standing. Its proponents argue that natural entities such as mountains, forests, and rivers can and should have rights—legal personhood even—and thus protection by law.

So, is a river alive? What makes this book intriguing and thought-provoking is that Macfarlane does not provide a straightforward answer (“Yes, of course rivers are alive and here is why”). Instead, he wrestles with this question in full view of the reader. Clearly, he supports the environmentalist agenda and quickly counters the claim of anthropomorphism. He refers to rivers as a “who” and not an “it”, condemning the habit of the English language to “it” all natural entities, “a mode of address that reduces them to the status of stuff” (p. 22). I like to reference the work of Eileen Crist to make the point that language shapes our reality, and Macfarlane condenses it masterfully here: “Words make worlds” (p. 22).

Macfarlane’s struggle plays out along two axes. First, how can we really speak on nature’s behalf? What does a river want? He worries that in granting rights to nature, we will simply end up with “human proxies […] ventriloquizing ‘river’ and ‘forest’ in a kind of cos-play animism” (p. 83). His close friend Wayne justifiably asks whether the whole movement is just “a disguised form of political manoeuvring” (p. 292), in which assigning personhood to natural entities merely becomes a means to an end. Second, there is a philosophical and linguistic struggle. What words can truly capture this? “The history of literature is littered with the debris of attempts to utter water” (p. 289). In searching for a “grammar of animacy” (sensu Kimmerer), he is frustrated with “language’s short reach” (p. 260) and repeatedly runs into a wall. Partially, it seems the answers cannot be verbalised but have to be bodily experienced, as his journeys show him; partially, Indigenous thinking provides him with answers.

On that latter point I have to be honest: though I am supportive of this cause, as a child of the Western, scientific tradition, Indigenous thinking does not resonate with me much, and this is entirely *my* shortcoming. Macfarlane, it seems, sympathises, struggling with it himself: “It requires unlearning, a process much harder than learning” (p. 19). That said, there are moments where he speaks to the biologist in me, such as when discussing the deep-time maps of geologist Harold Fisk that show the many past meanders of the Mississippi River snaking across the landscape, making rivers seem very much alive. Similarly, when mycologist Giuliana Furci points out the consequences of deforestation (when the cloud-forest goes, so do its rivers), you have to wonder: are these rivers a form of niche construction, or even (if you squint hard, I admit) an extended phenotype of a kind? By and large, however, even if life is a fuzzy phenomenon that lacks sharp boundaries, the scientist in me feels that the question is stretching a metaphor beyond its breaking point.

So, I ask again, is a river alive? Better perhaps to ask, I think: Does it matter? Given how entwined life is with water and how dependent human societies are on rivers, the question seems moot to me. For most people, this is ultimately about environmental protection, in which case, whether or not a river has vital signs is irrelevant. However, if personhood is what it takes, given existing legal frameworks, then, sure, why not? A second concern I have is that of enforcement. All these lofty declarations risk being yet more paper parks if they do not have the force of the law behind them. Though Macfarlane does not explicitly raise this point, both his main text and his aftermaths give examples where judges have successfully invoked the Rights of Nature to halt or prevent companies from extracting natural resources. A final concern, as was so clearly argued in The Irresponsible Pursuit of Paradise, is that protective measures risk merely displacing resource extraction to somewhere else with less oversight. As long as there is demand for resources and money on the table, companies will continue extracting value from nature. This deeper cause is not dealt with here, though expecting Macfarlane to imagine the end of capitalism, pretty please, would be a tad unrealistic of me. That is a thorny, multifaceted problem if ever there was one.

Is a River Alive? is an intriguing and thought-provoking piece of nature writing that refuses to give easy answers. I imagine that this is not what Macfarlane’s readers are after anyway, and, if so, they will be amply served by the spectacle of a master wordsmith grappling with a weighty question.

EBHL Conference – Paris, May 2025

NHBS colleague Leon recently attended the general meeting of the European Botanical and Horticultural Libraries Group, or EBHL for short, which this year took place in Paris from May 14th to 17th. This annual conference brought together librarians and archivists from academic libraries and herbaria for several days of talks and behind-the-scenes tours at four outstanding locations in Paris. We have attended previous meetings in Brussels and London, and this continues to be a valuable occasion to meet some of our key customers from across Europe and the USA in person. The overarching theme of this year’s meeting was “Plant Sources;” branching out into three topic areas over three consecutive days.

A view of the Jardin des Plantes and part of the Paris Natural History Museum.

Day 1

The first day took place just outside the Paris Natural History Museum and its botanical gardens and discussed new tools for botanical and horticultural documentation. This included approaches to preserving the illustrations in the herbarium of Bonpland and Humboldt, how bibliographic metadata reflects historical developments in taxonomy, and an introduction to World Flora Online, a global resource for botanical information. After lunch, delegates were split into several groups and taken around the special collections section of the Central Library, which featured a collection of remarkable historical wax models of fruit and fungi that were used in teaching. We were also amazed to see the museum’s restorators at work in the basement’s book and paper restoration workshop, surrounded by a collection of vintage hand tools and presses. The craft and skill on display here were, frankly, astonishing. The day was completed by a trip around the botany library and its enormous herbarium storing dried plant specimens, including some remarkable collections of original herbaria and exsiccata from Humboldt and other historical collectors.

Some of the historical herbaria and exsiccata in the collections of the museum's botanical library. — Some of the historical herbaria and exsiccata in the collections of the museum’s botanical library.

Day 2

The location of second day of the conference, the Institut de France. — The location of the second day of the conference, the Institut de France.

On Wednesday, the conference continued at the Institut de France in the heart of Paris, right next to the Seine, and discussed private herbaria. A series of talks introduced us to some remarkable historical figures, including Benjamin Delessert, the Girardin family, and the tragically short-lived Auguste Pervillé, who died aged 33. Details of their lives and the impact they have had on the history of botany are ongoing areas of research. After a brief tour of the stunning library of the Institut de France, we were expected back at the Natural History Museum for a guided tour of its famed Jardin des Plantes. After this, I had the opportunity for a quick visit to the museum’s comparative zoology and palaeontology galleries, which have been high on my bucket list for Paris. The group reconvened in the evening at a rather unique venue, the moored barge “L’Eau et les Rêves” that doubles up as a floating café and Paris’s only botanical bookstore.

One of the libraries inside the Institut de France, normally only accessibly on appointment.

The mind-boggling collection of vertebrate skeletons in the museum's Gallery of Comparative Zoology. — The mind-boggling collection of vertebrate skeletons in the museum’s Gallery of Comparative Zoology.

Day 3

Given the meeting’s theme for the third day, “Understanding French Horticulture”, we were originally supposed to convene at the Société Nationale d’Horticulture de France (SNHF) but, due to ongoing building and restoration works, were instead hosted at the Ácademie d’Agriculture. After being greeted by a bust of none other than Louis Pasteur, we listened to presentations from visiting scholars on, amongst others, SNHF’s historical bulletins and what they reveal about how horticulture grew and developed in France, the remarkable early-20th century autochrome and film collection of the Albert Kahn gardens (subject of the book Natures Vivantes), and the botanical iconography that can be found in the Decorative Arts Library. The latter was a visually rich talk on how botany has influenced ornaments used in print and sculpture.

One of the beautiful libraries in the French Senate.

In the afternoon, we were allowed access to several libraries inside the French Senate and taken on a tour of the adjacent gardens, the famed Jardin du Luxembourg. In the evening, we went back to the academy for a remarkable presentation of the book Les Raisins de Redouté, which reproduces historical paintings of grapes and grapevines. After having gone missing for over a century, this collection of 83 paintings on vellum was rediscovered in the academy’s archives in 2018 and reproduced in this handsome, large-format book while the originals, valued at some 6 million euros, have been stored in safer environs.

Day 4

The final day of the EBHL conference entailed a visit to Versailles, specifically to the Potager du Roi, the King’s vegetable garden, and the library of the adjacent École Nationale Supérieure de Paysage. This working garden used to supply food to the courtiers at Versailles at a time when year-round availability of fresh fruit and vegetables was still largely unheard of. The garden is in the process of being restored and has a long and storied history. In the library, the archivists treated us to numerous original maps from their collections that show plans of this and other gardens in Paris.

The meeting was a great opportunity to catch up with existing customers and hear what their institutes are up to. We are looking forward to the next meeting and would like to thank the organizers of this year’s conference, in particular Florence Tessier, Sabrina Castandet-Le Bris, Mégane Pulby, and Audrey Lumière.

NHBS welcomes opportunities to develop closer ties with the professional and amateur organisations that we count amongst our customers, whether through attendance or sponsorship. Do not hesitate to reach out to us.

Book review: King Tyrant

***** Sets the standard for what good popular science can be

When Princeton University Press announced King Tyrant, I was beyond excited. Whether it is pterosaurs, palaeoart, or the Crystal Palace dinosaurs; whatever palaeontologist and palaeoartist Mark Witton writes on has been brilliant so far, and King Tyrant very much continues that tradition. Do not let the pretty pictures fool you; this is not a children’s book but a grounded, fact-based overview of the scientific consensus on all things Tyrannosaurus rex, combined with numerous informative diagrams and Witton’s gorgeous palaeoart. The execution of this book sets the standard for what good popular science can be and is a model that other authors and publishers can aspire to.

Even if you know nothing about dinosaurs, T. rex is the one name you will recognise, such is the fame of this extinct animal. Surely, books about it are a dime a dozen? In a recent interview on the Love in the Time of Chasmosaurs podcast, Witton pointed out that, surprisingly, this is not the case. Hone’s book covered the family at large, but, aside from two technical books in recent decades, the last popular treatment was Horner & Lessem’s book in 1993. That might just as well be prehistory, given how much research has advanced and how many more fossils have been found since then. This is a clear case of Witton writing the book that he wanted to read.

Given how frequently the name T. rex crops up, you might even get a bit annoyed: not you again! All the more reason to read this book. Witton is acutely aware that a veritable subculture has grown up around this one species that “sits, sometimes uncomfortably, on the boundary between science and sensationalism” (p. 1). These popular depictions, often carrying with them an air of scientific authority, bleed into people’s consciousness, creating something less of a dinosaur and more of a chimaera, with traits both exaggerated and fictional. One of Witton’s most important goals with King Tyrant is to “deconstruct hype and controversy” (p. 41). The first chapter daringly combines a précis of the first century of research with an examination of the sociological side. How did this particular species become palaeontology’s rock star? It is a fascinating history that starts at the American Museum of Natural History who promoted it to attract large crowds. It was “proverbial lightning in a bottle” (p. 278), with an influential legacy that lasts to this day in movies, documentaries, and merchandise. And yet, popular depictions “have nothing on what science tells us about the reality of Tyrannosaurus rex” (p. 279).

The bulk of the book thus explores what the science actually shows. The remaining six chapters flow logically into each other: the definition and taxonomy of the species; internal and external anatomy; physiology, growth, sensory biology, locomotion, etc. (i.e., what all this anatomy might have been capable of); ecology and behaviour; and extinction. Indeed, the writing is one of the two highlights of this book. Witton strikes that fine balance between going into quite some technical detail and yet keeping it entertaining. The result is a well-grounded and accessible summary of the scientific consensus on numerous topics.

T. rex, more than any other species, attracts a lot of fringe ideas from inside and outside of academia, and Witton leaves no rock unturned. On the one hand, there are the minority views and “non-troversies” (thanks Witton, I am stealing that brilliant term) that get far too much airtime, such as the existence (or not) of a dwarf species, “Nanotyrannus“, or the scavenging hypothesis, the notion that T. rex was a scavenger rather than a hunter. Needless to say, neither idea curries much favour among professionals. On the other hand, actual scientific debates are often ignored by the press. Opinions are divided on whether dinosaurs were already on their way out before the asteroid impact or were still in their prime. Witton provides the best overview of this topic that I have read so far.

In The Future of Dinosaurs, Hone pointed out the frequent disparity between what people *think* we know, and what we actually know – and plenty of examples of this feature here. Some confident depictions are almost completely fictitious. The trope of the roaring T. rex leads to the question of whether dinosaurs as a group vocalised at all! This is not “overzealous scientific conservatism” (p. 159); we have found, all told, one whole fossilised voice box. The ensuing discussion on the evolution of vocalisation in birds, dinosaurs, and other reptiles shows the complexities and competing scenarios. The opposite also holds: there are topics where the general public does not realise just how much palaeontologists know, such as the anatomy of T. rex‘s face or its remarkable growth pattern with age.

The other highlight of this book is the illustrations, both the artwork and the diagrams. Witton is an accomplished palaeoartist who cares deeply about the scientific accuracy of his artwork. We thus get modern depictions of dinosaurs with fleshy lips and bulky muscles. Each of these paintings is worthy of a frame, and it is hard to pick favourites. The book’s cover, showing T. rex rumbling a closed-mouth vocalisation (a behaviour seen in modern birds and reptiles), is, in my opinion, one of the best pieces he has ever made. The azhdarchid pterosaur stalking a juvenile T. rex on page 250 is also instantly memorable. Even when the subjects are cliché, such as T. rex near erupting volcanoes or the K–Pg impactor streaking across the sky, Witton’s depictions are visually arresting. Labelled photomontages show T. rex‘s “raw osteological charisma” (p. 4), and include detailed close-ups that help you form a mental picture of what all those anatomical bits look like. Equally important are the numerous informative diagrams littered throughout the book. Witton has gone to the painstaking effort of redrawing every one of them, in the process modifying and adapting them as necessary. Instead of a mishmash of styles, ages, production values, and extraneous details, the illustrations are presented in a single unified style. It will have been a huge amount of work for something that most authors and editors would probably consider nominal gains, but it shows his attention to detail, and I, for one, rate this very highly.

King Tyrant is an instant classic: I do not even care that much for T. rex per se, but the book’s brilliant execution immediately lands it a spot in my top 5 for 2025. A compulsory buy for dinosaur enthusiasts, this book is also a valuable overview for professional palaeontologists and an inspirational example of what excellent science communication looks like.

Book review: Every Living Thing

***** An epic history of taxonomy across three centuries

Linnaeus was not the only seventeenth-century scholar trying to get to grips with life’s diversity; French naturalist Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon (Buffon hereafter) was another. Though the two men never met, their ideas did. Author Jason Roberts provides a biography of Linnaeus and Buffon, writing an epic history of their work and intellectual legacy. It has quickly become one of my favourite books this year for introducing me to a new scientific hero.

In the first two parts, Roberts charts the lives and works of Linnaeus and Buffon, alternating between the two as he goes. Having just reviewed The Man Who Organized Nature, I could not resist immediately checking his reference section. Broberg’s books is not amongst them, though he has consulted several other biographies Broberg recommended. His coverage of Linnaeus follows the major beats of his life but leaves out much of the extraneous details that Broberg provided, focusing on his taxonomical ideas. It quickly becomes apparent that Broberg was respectful, even mild, just reporting the facts of Linnaeus’s life but rarely passing judgment. Roberts has no such reservations, calling him out for his arrogance and immodesty. He also covers Linnaeus’s apostles who were sent on collecting expeditions to uncharted parts of the world with often fatal outcomes. True, they went willingly and were not the only ones to do so at the time, but they provided a number of harsh lessons. Roberts particularly holds Linnaeus’s feet to the fire regarding his scientific racism. “Later apologists have attempted to absolve Linnaeus of racism” (p. 180), but not Roberts. Sure, others would make the message more explicit and amplify it but modern race science “has a genealogy that can be traced directly to the pages of Systema Naturae” (p. 181).

In contrast, Buffon (1707–1788) emerges from this book in a far more positive light. Inheriting a fortune at age 10, by 1739 he was nominated as intendant of the Jardin du Roi, gaining both the ear and the financial support of King Louis XV. That was vital for the project that would dominate the rest of his life: Histoire Naturelle. Intended as an encyclopedia of all creation, he wrote 36 large and painstakingly detailed volumes, covering the mineral kingdom and part of the animal kingdom. Like Linnaeus, Buffon was a polymath and became captivated by life’s diversity, but that is where the resemblances end. I admit to knowing little about him before reading this book, but he was a fascinating character! He was the morally more upstanding person of the two, vocally opposing slavery and treating the women who crossed his path as equals. At home, “Buffon designed a life of maximum efficiency” (p. 64), having his valet wake him up at 5 AM every day (even if it meant being dragged out of bed) for a strictly scheduled day of writing in his spartan room, with breaks for meals and some socializing. It was a lifestyle he would stick to for the next 50(!) years, delighting in his “rigorous cultivation of solitary focus” (p. 66).

Who Was Carl Linnaeus? via The Collector.

As if that quirk was not enough to endear Buffon to me, his thinking was decades if not centuries ahead of his time. In his writings, he speculated about extinction, common descent and the evolution of species, the cellular basis of life, the finitude of natural resources, and an impending epoch of humans. Roberts provides relevant context to explain the rhetorical safeguards Buffon employed to sidestep censors and is careful to avoid grand claims: we should be careful not to retrofit today’s knowledge to his hunches and speculation back then. He also disentangles the “thicket of significant linguistic differences between Buffon’s era and ours” (p. 199), pointing out that e.g. evolution as we understand it had not yet been coined. Even so, Darwin admitted that Buffon’s ideas were “laughably like mine” (p. xi).

Of relevance to the history of taxonomy, and the leitmotif of this book, is the rivalry between the ideas of these two men. Roberts captures the contrast beautifully early on: “To Linnaeus’s mind, nature was a noun. All species remained as created during Genesis, representing an unchanging tableau. To Buffon, nature was a verb, a swirl of constant change” (p. 7). Linnaeus, like most naturalists at the time, believed in the fixity of species; evolution and extinction implied that Creation was imperfect. Buffon believed that species evolved and went extinct, even if he did not yet know how. Their differences reflected a deep philosophical divide. Linnaeus believed in absolute universal truths, in Aristotelian essences, with species being real entities. Buffon, in contrast, considered systematics and species useful concepts but also flawed human constructs.

Comte de Buffon via the British Library.

What elevated the book for me is that Roberts leaves himself a comfortable 110 pages in part 3 to describe what happened next and what the relevance of their ideas is to us today. The grand arc that he traces is that, after his death, Buffon’s ideas were quickly sidelined by Linnaeus’s adherents but over time have regained their significance. He takes you through the French Revolution and its aftermath, giving terribly interesting profiles of famous naturalists who embraced Buffon’s ideas to various degrees. He also discusses Britain’s lukewarm reception and then slow acceptance of Linnaeus’s ideas, with his collections ending up in England and leading to the founding of the Linnean Society of London. Simultaneously, Buffon influenced Darwin, Thomas Henry Huxley, and his grandson Julian Huxley who lived through the rise of genetics.

Today, Linnaeus’s taxonomical hierarchy has started to creak under the sheer magnitude of the planet’s biodiversity and has increasingly been abandoned, leaving just binomial nomenclature and a hierarchy of categorical ranks. Buffon’s observation, that life is like a web or network instead of a thread, seems more relevant than ever. Meanwhile, species concepts remain troublesome beasts, and some scholars propose we consider species “snapshots rather than static points”, which hews closer to Buffon’s idea they are “an entity of reason rather than a physical fact” (p. 352).

Though Roberts is not a science historian, he has done his homework, going back to source material wherever possible. He is not shy to judge both men by modern standards with Buffon emerging as the clear moral victor. He leaves ample space to discuss the aftermath and modern relevance of their ideas, which is a welcome stroke of brilliance. If you are new to the history of taxonomy, I have no hesitation in recommending that you start here; Broberg’s book is a more advanced text on a more circumscribed topic that will make for good follow-up reading.

Book review: Alexander von Humboldt

***** A factual and nuanced picture, and a critical interrogation of previous portrayals

I read and compared this book to Andrea Wulf’s widely-read The Invention of Nature. Historian Andreas W. Daum shows that good things come in small packages and delivers a factual, nuanced, and admirably concise biography. Straight off the bat, you can tell that this will be a different book. At 208 pages and 13 × 21 cm, it is swallowed by Wulf’s book. Though both authors are German, as a historian actively researching Humboldt’s biography, Daum is just that bit more qualified. Originally published in German, Daum was actively involved in the book’s English translation, revising and expanding it in the process.

A more detailed comparison follows at the end as I first want to judge this book on its merits. Daum discusses Humboldt’s life in six chapters, giving equal attention to periods that were less glamorous than his American and Russian expeditions. A short interlude reflects on his scientific approach, while the book ends with a chronology, a very useful narrative guide to sources and further reading, endnotes, and a selected bibliography. Daum has a clear mission statement: to examine Humboldt’s life “through a refined biographical lens [that] avoids both mystification and vilification [and] to suggest a more nuanced interpretation, portraying a multifaceted Humboldt” (p. 3). Two aspects stood out to me.

First, throughout, Daum pushes back on previous portrayals of Humboldt. Wulf’s and Meinhardt’s book are characterised as “popular, heroic accounts” (p. 162) that portray Humboldt as “a singular intellect way ahead of his time” (p. 2). He adds a clear barb at Wulf’s address by writing that Humboldt did not invent nature. He equally objects to postcolonial criticism that casts Humboldt as a gentleman colonizer. Though a necessary corrective, it needs to be combined with a fair assessment of his progressive sides. Portrayals of Humboldt as a second Columbus are similarly scorned as simplistic colonial tropes that are simply not true: “Humboldt was not venturing into unknown territory. Nowhere was he the ‘first'” (p. 55). Daum furthermore distinguishes between Humboldtian science and Humboldt’s science. Humboldt’s call for systematic collection of geomagnetic and climatological data by networks of observatories, later pursued by both Russia and the UK, has been called an example of *Humboldtian* science by historian Susan Faye Cannon. Daum counters that this is a later, idealized archetype that “jettisoned his emphasis on the aesthetic” (p. 124). *Humboldt’s* science, in contrast, was far more tentative, trying to balance empirical science with one’s subjective experience of nature. He did not have it all figured out before or after his American expedition. To suggest otherwise is “a retrospective projection” (p. 52) that does not do him justice. Finally, though Humboldt is venerated in South America and he welcomed declarations of independence, he played no role in them, nor should be labelled the “father of Latin American independence” (p. 109).

Alexander von Humboldt, by National Endowment for the Humanities.

Second is Daum’s nuanced picture of Humboldt. Take, for example, his political stance, or lack thereof. Though remembered for his liberal values and criticism of colonialism and slavery, he feared bloody violence, such as seen during the French Revolution and favoured more gradual reforms. When Prussia took the fight to Napoleon and occupied Paris in 1814, his brother Wilhelm supported the German cause while Alexander refused to, “souring relations between the two” (p. 105). Humboldt helped prevent the Paris Museum of Natural History from being looted and drew criticism back in Germany when lobbying for stolen German artworks to stay in Paris. He supported and found patronage for French and German scientists alike and, by refusing to pick sides, easily moved in different social circles. When he later returned to Berlin with its increasingly conservative political climate that curbed freedom of expression, he swam against the tide by offering free public lectures that became incredibly popular.

Daum gives a similarly nuanced picture of Humboldt’s way of working. Hearing of his grand plans for the American expedition, his brother was already concerned he would overreach. Indeed, he habitually bit off more than he could chew, always had multiple manuscripts on the go, and left a legacy of unfinished projects. Kosmos, the magnum opus he laboured on for the last two decades of his life, was not necessarily a resounding success, despite the high sales. Some contemporaries considered it challenging or requiring too much prior knowledge. Ironically, the proliferation of simplified versions and explainers meant that Humboldt succeeded, sort of, in popularizing science, though it “had taken on a momentum that the author could no longer control” (p. 142). Daum characterizes it as synopsis of material rather than a coherent synthesis, which buttresses his conclusion that Humboldt is remembered not for coming up with “a clearly defined theory that fundamentally changed scientific and social thinking”, but for leaving us with “myriad complex thoughts and incentives for further research” (p. 151).

Alexander von Humboldt, by Smithsonian Magazine.

Given the number of people who will have read Wulf’s The Invention of Nature, a comparison is in order. My one-liner is that Daum’s book is less fluff, more facts. The book’s brevity is partially achieved by omitting all the biographical material on other people that Wulf included and partially by mentioning rather than describing events in lively detail. This is particularly noticeable when it comes to Humboldt’s expeditions. Now, before you conclude that Daum’s book contains less material than Wulf’s, let me stop you there. For all its brevity, there are numerous details here not mentioned by Wulf. Beyond factoids, there are the above-mentioned aspects, attention for his lesser-known works, a more informed opinion on his sexuality, and many other things besides. In a mere 153 pages, Daum concisely offers a full yet nuanced picture of Humboldt’s life and work.

If you have already read The Invention of Nature, should you read this biography? Next to being a quick read, hopefully by now you are convinced Daum’s book is worth your time by offering a different perspective and much new information. I found reading them together an instructive and rewarding exercise. If you insist on me recommending just one book, answer me this: do you read history books to be informed or to be entertained? In the former case, choose Daum for a more scholarly take; in the latter, choose Wulf for an entertaining book that indulges in digressions. I hasten to add that I am talking shades of grey here: Daum prioritising the facts does not mean his book is boring, just as Wulf prioritising storytelling does not mean her book is inaccurate.

Book Review: New World Monkeys

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***** Comprehensive and incredibly accessible

When I recently reviewed The Real Planet of the Apes, I casually wrote how that book dealt with the evolution of Old Work monkeys and apes, ignoring New World monkeys which went off on their own evolutionary experiment in South America. But that did leave me wondering. Those New World monkeys, what did they get up to then? Here, primatologist Alfred L. Rosenberger provides a comprehensive and incredibly accessible book that showed these monkeys to be far more fascinating than I imagined.

Most people are probably not very familiar with these monkeys. Technically known as platyrrhines, they are predominantly arboreal (i.e. living in trees), small to medium-sized primates. You might know the insanely loud howler monkeys from nature documentaries. Perhaps you have heard of capuchin monkeys or spider monkeys. But you could be forgiven for not having heard of marmosets and tamarins, or the even more obscurely named titis, sakis, and uacaris. A total of 16 genera are recognized, but outside of the scientific literature and technical books, these monkeys are not all that well known. And that is a shame as, from an evolutionary perspective, this is a unique group.

Marmoset, Sagui gritando by Joao Guillherm Soares Dias, via flickr.

Now, before Rosenberger gets to this, it helps to better know these monkeys. Accompanied by many excellent illustrations and photos, the first half of New World Monkeys is dedicated to their ecology, behaviour, and morphology. Topics covered include their diet and dentition; locomotion and the anatomy of hands, feet, and prehensile tails; but also brain size and shape; and their social organization and ways of communicating via sight, sound, and smell.

The platyrrhines are a diverse bunch with some remarkable specialisations. In the family Cebidae we find the smallest members, some of whom, the Marmosets and Pygmy Marmosets, have teeth specialized for gouging the bark of gum trees and feeding on the gum that is released in response. In the family Pitheciidae we find the only nocturnal member, the Owl Monkeys, which have concomitant morphological adaptations such as enlarged eyes. In both this and the closely related Titi Monkeys, individuals have the adorable habit of twining their tails when socializing or sleeping. The family Atelidae is home to species with exceptionally prehensile tails whose underside ends in a pad with a fingertip-like surface. The Muriquis and the aptly-named Spider Monkeys use them as a fifth limb in locomotion, as demonstrated by a striking photo of a Black-faced Spider Monkey on plate 13. Here we also find the well-known Howler Monkeys, whose skull is heavily modified to support the exceptionally loud vocal organs in their throat and neck.

Black Howler Monkey Portrait #1 by Ryan Poplin, via flickr.

Despite these differences, platyrrhines are closely related and form what is called an adaptive radiation. Just like the textbook example of Darwin’s finches, many members have evolved unique adaptations and ways of living to minimise competition and maximise resource partitioning. Two ideas feature prominently in this book to explain how platyrrhines have evolved and what makes this adaptive radiation both so diverse and so interesting.

One idea is what Rosenberger calls the Ecophylogenetics Hypothesis. If I have understood him correctly, this combines information on a species’ ecology and phylogeny, its evolutionary relationships. It can offer hypotheses on how ecological interactions have evolved, but it also recognizes that ecological adaptations are shaped and constrained by evolutionary relatedness. For the platyrrhines, taxonomically related members are also ecologically similar. To quote Rosenberger: “[…] phylogenetic relatedness literally breeds resemblance in form, ecology, and behavior” (p. 96) and “Each of the major taxonomic groups that we define phylogenetically is also an ecological unit […]” (p. 97).

The other idea that makes the platyrrhines so interesting is dubbed the Long-Lineage Hypothesis. An extensive chapter on the fossil record documents how the whole radiation has been remarkably stable for at least 20 million years. Today’s New World monkeys are virtually unchanged from their ancestors, living the same lifestyles and occupying the same ecological niches. Some fossils have even been classified in the same genus as their living counterparts. This stands in sharp contrast to the evolutionary history of Old World monkeys where there has been a constant churn, whole groups of primates evolving and going extinct with time.

Red-backed Bearded Saki (Chiropotes sagulatus) by Allan Hopkins, via flickr.

What stands out, especially when Rosenberger starts talking taxonomy and evolution, is how well written and accessible the material here is. He takes his time to enlighten you on the history, utility, and inner workings of zoological nomenclature, making the observation that “names can reflect evolutionary hypotheses”. Here, finally, I read clear explanations of terms such as incertae sedis (of uncertain taxonomic placement), monotypic genera (a genus consisting of only a single species), or neotypes (a replacement type specimen). Similarly, there are carefully wrapped lessons on how science is done – on the distinction between scenarios and hypotheses, or how parsimony and explanatory efficiency are important when formulating hypotheses. Without ever losing academic rigour or intellectual depth, Rosenberger quietly proves himself to be a natural-born teacher and storyteller, seamlessly blending in the occasional amusing anecdote.

A final two short chapters conclude the book. One draws on the very interesting question of biogeography, i.e. on how platyrrhine ancestors ended up in South America, which was long an island continent. Rosenberger convincingly argues against the popular notion of monkeys crossing the Atlantic on rafts of vegetation* and in favour of more gradual overland dispersal. The other chapter highlights their conservation plight as much of their tropical forest habitat has been destroyed by humans.

With New World Monkeys, Rosenberger draws on his 50+ years of professional experience to authoritatively synthesize a large body of literature. As such, this book is invaluable to primatologists and evolutionary biologists and should be the first port of call for anyone wanting to find out more about the origins, evolution, and behaviour of these South and Central American primates.

* One mechanism that Rosenberger does not mention is that tsunamis could be behind transoceanic rafting, as argued in a recent Science paper. This looked at marine species in particular and I doubt it would make much of a difference for terrestrial species. Most of the objections Rosenberger gives would still apply.

New World Monkeys is available from our bookstore here.

Book Review: Metamorphosis

***** A delightful potpourri

Entomologist Erica McAlister, the Curator of Diptera at the Natural History Museum, London (NHM), has previously written two popular science books on flies, The Secret Life of Flies and The Inside Out of Flies. Her mission is to change your mind not just about flies, but, as Metamorphosis shows, about insects in general. In her third book with the NHM, she teams up with radio producer Adrian Washbourne with whom she worked on the 10-part BBC Radio 4 series Metamorphosis: How Insects Are Changing Our World that formed the basis for this book. A delightful potpourri of entomology, Metamorphosis is particularly strong on the science history front and further solidifies McAlister’s reputation as a science communicator par excellence.

Metamorphosis is the same size as the preceding two books on flies, a small 14 × 20 cm hardback that is illustrated throughout. Its ten chapters, clocking in at 20 pages or fewer, each focus on one particular group of insects that stand out for one reason or another. She examines the biomechanical and biochemical details that allow fleas to jump so far. She explains how Darwin predicted (correctly) the existence of a hawkmoth species with an exceptionally long tongue by examining an equally exceptional orchid. Plus, there is an engrossing chapter on blowflies and their role in forensic entomology, a topic I find particularly fascinating.

Author Erica McAlister. Credit: Channel 5

The flap text explicitly mentions the book will consider modern applications of entomology. Indeed, each chapter concludes with a brief section on current and expected future applications. There is unsurprisingly a fair amount of robotics here, with fleas and bees inspiring different kinds of miniature robots. The question of how beetles harvest water from coastal fog in the otherwise bone-dry Namib desert has inspired research on new water-repellent surface materials. Other research on moth tongues is informing the development of micro- and nanostraws that could one day result in safely reusable medical needles. Meanwhile, several start-ups are optimising rearing protocols for black soldier flies that could become the future of animal protein in our food. This would help recycle organic waste and eliminate the environmental impacts of livestock farming. However, it will require finding ways to overcome our disgust of insects and our reluctance to try new food.

The applications, however, come across as a sideshow. Instead, Metamorphosis excels in telling utterly fascinating chapters from the history of entomology. Drosophila (which are not true fruit flies but called vinegar flies) are a widely used model system in biological research. The famous Fly Lab of geneticist and embryologist Thomas Hunt Morgan (1866–1945) pioneered their use. The remarkable part is that he was sceptical of both Darwin’s and Mendel’s ideas and hoped to disprove them, but ended up doing the exact opposite, finding evidence of classic Mendelian inheritance patterns in certain mutant flies. Or, take the story of the remarkable Victorian entomologist Margaret Fountaine (1862–1940), who used the inheritance of an uncle to travel the world solo, amassed an enormous butterfly collection now housed at Norwich Castle Museum, and left a time capsule of twelve notebooks with instructions not to open these until 1978. McAlister & Washbourne also provide an extended backstory to African American entomologist and civil rights activist Charles Henry Turner (1867–1923) who Lars Chittka also featured in The Mind of a Bee. Turner was denied an academic position on grounds of his ethnicity yet staunchly laboured on and made pioneering observations on bee behaviour in particular. He was ahead of his time in refusing to see bees ‘as simple reflex machines driven by spontaneous reactions to environmental stimuli’ (p. 185).

Hummingbird Hawkmoth feeding on a flower — Research on moth tongues is informing the development of micro- and nanostraws. Image by Peter Stenzel via Flickr.

These and other people are vividly brought to life here. The only fly in the ointment is some errors in dates: apothecary James Petiver apparently lived from 1865 to 1718 (he was born somewhere between 1663 and 1665 according to a published chronology), Turner supposedly married his wife in 1896 even though she died in 1895 (they married in 1886), and Turner himself died in 1923 and two pages later in 1958 (the former is correct). Other than reiterating the importance of proofreading numbers, this minor complaint does not diminish the fact that the history-of-science component of Metamorphosis is utterly engrossing. Many of these stories are largely unknown to the general public, with only articles in specialist journals commemorating the achievements of these historical figures. There are several biographies in here waiting to be written and McAlister & Washbourne have the makings of a fine pair of science biographers.

Whether you enjoyed the BBC Radio 4 series when it aired, find yourself in the museum’s gift shop wondering whether this book is worthwhile, or nurture an interest in entomology or the history of science (or the intersection of the two), I warmly recommend this little book, especially given the reasonable cover price.

Metamorphosis is available from the NHBS online store.

Book Review: Lost Wonders

***** An emotional gut punch of a book

When you think Sixth Extinction, animals and plants such as the St. Helena olive, the Bramble Cay melomys, or the Christmas Island forest skink are unlikely to come to mind. And therein lies a problem: behind the faceless statistics of loss lie numerous stories of unique evolutionary lineages that have been snuffed out. In this emotional gut punch of a book, author and journalist Tom Lathan takes the unconventional approach of examining ten species that have gone extinct since 2000, nine of which you will likely never have heard of. Lathan momentarily resurrects them to examine what led to their loss and speaks to the people who tried to save them.

The one species and individual you are likely to have heard of is Lonesome George, the last Pinta Island tortoise, who received much media attention both in life and in death. The remainder are barely known outside of the small circle of conservationists who studied them. Of the unfortunately long list Lathan obtained from the IUCN, he has chosen a nicely balanced mix of species. Each chapter opens with a tastefully executed pencil-and-ink drawing by Lathan’s partner Claire Kohda. The geographic spread similarly includes organisms from around the globe (though no maps have been included, which would have been helpful). What unites these species is that they all lived, literally or functionally, on islands (environments prone to evolutionary experimentation and extinction), and they are no longer with us.

Each of the ten chapters mixes several elements such that, despite most chapters being quite long at 30–40 pages, all are very engaging. Lathan introduces what we know about their biology and how the frequent paucity of information frustrated subsequent attempts at captive breeding. By telling the stories of their discovery and formal description, Lathan answers his question of whether naming a species “is itself a life-giving act” (p. 28): it allows us to formulate conservation plans, making naming “the difference between life and death” (p. 29). Of course, species exist before we describe them, and his overview of their evolution is a potent reminder of this. It also highlights how, given enough time, organisms can reach remote islands and establish themselves there, despite the odds not being in their favour.

All of the above is relevant background information, but we are here for the stories of what went wrong. In the introduction, Lathan emphasizes just how incomplete our knowledge is: there is both a long queue of species awaiting assessment by the underfunded IUCN and an even larger pool of “dark extinctions” (p. 4): species that vanish before we even know of their existence. These stories are “a snapshot of extinction […] each a stand-in for other[s] that we will probably never know occurred” (p. 4). There is that importance of taxonomy again.

If extinctions of Pleistocene megafauna can reasonably be attributed to a mixture of human hunting and climate change, the fingerprint of more recent Holocene extinctions is clearly human. Lathan points out that our species is “one of the most potent agents of ecological destruction, regardless of time, place, or culture” (p. 135). For instance, the arrival of native Polynesians to Hawai’i already triggered a wave of extinction, such that the arrival of Europeans “was more like a passing of the baton in an ecocidal relay race” (p. 136). That said, in his next breath he immediately recognizes that European colonialism cranked up extinction to eleven—it is a good example of Lathan’s balanced reporting. What follows is the usual litany of rapacious resource extraction that destroys natural habitats and the accidental or purposeful introduction of invasive species. The two often work in tandem.

The strongest suit of Lost Wonders is the nearly 50 interviews with scientists, conservationists, hobbyists, and others whose first-hand experiences and frustrations imbue this work with much pathos. There are stories of species slipping through our hands as their habitats vanished (e.g. the Bramble Cay melomys, a rat, or the Alagoas foliage-gleaner, a bird); of ignored warnings, bureaucratic red tape, and apprehensive committees delaying meaningful action (e.g. the Polynesian tree snail P. labrusca or the Christmas Island pipistrelle); and of captive breeding efforts failing (e.g. the Mexican Catarina pupfish). By asking how the people involved experienced witnessing extinction, each chapter delivers an emotional gut punch that, I will not lie, sometimes brought me to tears. Some people still struggle talking about it, even a decade or more later, breaking down during their interviews. Others describe feelings of grief, depression, and loneliness, unable to truly share with others what they experienced. Lathan himself in his epilogue expresses his astonishment at “their capacity to articulate the profundity of what they had witnessed” and wonders out loud: “When a million years of evolution is extinguished right in front of you, what words suffice to describe this moment?” (p. 351).

Taking a step back to compose myself I do, however, have two points of criticism; or, if not criticism, two points I feel have been omitted. First, there is the proximate question of whether trying to save a species at all costs is always the best use of the limited time, money, and other resources available for conservation. Not everybody agrees it is, and e.g. Inheritors of the Earth provocatively argued that island species are evolutionary dead ends, vulnerable to invasion. Are resources better spent on populations that still stand a decent chance? A counterargument could be made that, yes, these attempts *are* worthwhile because we learn how to improve our protocols, techniques, and technologies for the inevitable next extinction. My point is that Lathan does not broach these questions here. I would have loved for him to wrestle with these and put them to his interviewees. Second, there is the ultimate question of what it would take to turn the tide of extinction, of what such a world would look like. I judge him less harshly on this because very few authors seem willing to mention the root causes that got us here. His interviewees gave him several openings at broaching thorny topics that he did not pursue. This is another set of questions where both his views and those of his interviewees could have further enriched the book.

The above suggestions would have been cherries on the cake but, as it stands, the proverbial cake is both edible and rich. Lost Worlds is an incredibly moving book that tugs at the heartstrings and draws on an impressive number of interviews. These eyewitness stories are a powerful reminder that behind each reported extinction lies a tremendous amount of work, and the loss of a unique way of life on this planet.

Lost Wonders is available from our bookstore here.

Book Review: Radical by Nature

***** A tremendously enjoyable biography

2023 marked the 200th anniversary of the birth of Victorian naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace. Best remembered as the father of biogeography and co-discoverer of natural selection, he was an all-round fascinating person. Evolutionary biologist, entomologist, and Darwin and Wallace scholar James T. Costa gives an in-depth, intimate, and updated story of his life.

Given the many other available Wallace biographies, why read this one? Because Costa can safely be considered an expert on the history of evolutionary thought. Next to three books on Darwin since 2009, Costa has also studied Wallace’s life and work since 2010, resulting in three books, not to mention numerous academic papers and magazine articles. What this means in practical terms is that Costa provides context, context, context.

As such, he explains the relevance and novelty of Wallace’s ideas at the time (and I am going to be very selective here). For instance, Wallace was one of the first to insist on the recording of accurate location data when collecting animals and plants. When moving east and west in the Malay Archipelago, he thus noticed that the fauna on some neighbouring islands differed sharply, a local division later named the Wallace Line. It undermined geologist Charles Lyell’s idea that environment alone determines distribution.

Speaking of Lyell, some of Wallace’s most underrecognized ideas concern transmutation (as evolution was known back then). Lyell claimed that species were immutable entities and that the fossil record reflected separate rounds of creation. Wallace disagreed; he was never one to shy away from discussion, even with intellectual giants. His then-novel idea was that “every species arises in immediate proximity to a preexisting and closely related species” (p. 158). But how? Wallace’s flash of insight on natural selection, the remarkable confluence of Darwin and Wallace’s ideas, and the case Wallace was building against Lyell are all deeply interesting topics that I am deferring to other reviews. Instead, let me briefly consider his take on anthropology. Wallace was fascinated with the indigenous people he encountered and his approach “was nothing less than a natural history of humans” (p. 196), applying the same evolutionary logic he applied to other animals. Against the background of a divided discipline back in London between polygenists (who saw races as separate entities, even species) and monogenists (who saw “races” as variations of a single human species), Wallace hewed closer to the latter.

Costa also provides much historical context on Wallace the person. He is rightly remembered as a humanitarian scholar for whom justice was his lodestar. Utopian socialist Robert Owen left a deep impression and the young Wallace was a regular at the halls of science and mechanics’ institutes that were just then popping up everywhere. These promoted self-improvement of working-class people through education. His full conversion to socialism came much later in life though. Wallace was an early advocate of women’s rights, supported the suffragette movement, and more than once campaigned for scholarly societies to allow women in. He also campaigned for land reform, and in hindsight regretted that many of his early survey jobs served ongoing efforts at land enclosure that effectively screwed the poor.

Cyriopalus wallacei Pascoe, 1866 (Cerambycidae: Cerambycinae) Holotype. — Cyriopalus wallacei Pascoe, 1866 (Cerambycidae: Cerambycinae) collected by Alfred Russel Wallace, via flickr.

Now, how for some context to the above context? Despite the above character sketch, it would be an oversimplification to celebrate Wallace as “an almost uniquely nonracist, egalitarian Victorian […] who was “woke”” (p. 166) before the rest of us were. Sure, he was respectful towards indigenous people, credited his field assistants, and criticized European civilization. But for all that, he was a product of Britain’s global empire. Wherever he went, he could call on officials, transportation networks, and crews of unnamed porters and boatsmen for assistance. And despite his opposition to slavery, he frequently turned a blind eye to slave-holding friends and expats.

Further commenting on Wallace’s character (here comes more context), Costa admits that Wallace’s trusting nature could border on the gullible. His interest in spiritualism caused disbelief among his peers, even while they praised his scientific achievements. Costa points out that many science historians forget how it impregnated Victorian society at all levels and even some of his critics attended séances suspiciously often. The other faux pas is Wallace’s opposition to smallpox vaccination campaigns. Wallace, himself vaccinated, was all about the science, but this was in its infancy in the 19th century. “We cannot hold those who lived in the past to standards based on modern understanding” (p. 353), pleads Costa. Fortunately, we find him on the right side of history where eugenics is concerned, which he denounced as “the meddlesome interference of an arrogant, scientific priestcraft” (p. 490, note 52).

Costa’s writing is lively, occasionally interjected with chatty remarks or witticism that made me chuckle. When Wallace writes that Alexander von Humboldt’s travel narrative gave him a desire to visit the tropics, Costa responds that “Wallace got a “desire to visit the tropics” all right” (p. 46). When Wallace scathingly remarks that indigenous women in New Guinea are “the least engaging specimens of the fair sex” he had ever met, Costa parries that “chances are he was not viewed by the locals as the hottest specimen of white European manhood either” (p. 231). And when only the religious Lyell is willing to take serious Wallace’s new spiritualist tendencies, Costa imagines how “Darwin could only shake his head at the two of them” (p. 310). I found these a welcome source of levity.

Beetles collected in the Malay Archipelago by Alfred Russel Wallace. — Beetles collected in the Malay Archipelago by Alfred Russel Wallace, via flickr.

Much more can be said about both Wallace and this wonderful biography. Wallace left behind a mountain of written material for historians. Instead, let me circle back to my first question. Why read this biography? In fairness, other biographies provide details omitted here. Far more important, however, is what Costa adds. Much unpublished information has come to light since the 2013 centenary and Costa has drawn extensively on the archive of material that Wallace’s grandsons had. This was gradually annotated and digitised from 2010 onwards as part of the publicly accessible Wallace Correspondence Project and has allowed Costa to add much intimate detail from hundreds of personal letters.

Given the above, Costa’s stated aim of writing an updated biography has been more than realised; this book is a triumph! I tremendously enjoyed Radical by Nature and was very impressed with the depth of its scholarship. Next to an intimate portrait of this most fascinating scholar, Costa provides much detail on a critical period of scientific development and the social context in which it unfolded.

Radical by Nature is available from the NHBS bookstore here.