Book review – Hoopoe – A blog by nhbs

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: 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.

Fungi Under the Lens and Fork: An NHBS Booklist

Parasol Mushroom by S. Rae via flickr. — Parasol Mushroom by S. Rae, via flickr.

In the early stages of the average mushroom-enthusiast’s journey, there comes a time where you begin to consider where you can take the interest of fungi further. Maybe you have identified all the mushrooms in your garden and want to learn more, or maybe you’ve even been intrepid, foraging and sampling some of the edible species out there, and are left wanting more. What ‘more’ looks like to some people becomes growing your own mushrooms, making spore prints, creating your own ink from the dripping tops of an inkcap mushroom, or perhaps you may want to look down a microscope to explore the sub-perceptual world of fungal microscopy, and that’s what these books aim to facilitate.

However you choose to flesh out your interest, the books below provide an excellent guide to the next steps in mycology.

Radical Mycology: A Treatise on Seeing and Working with Fungi

Radical Mycology is an awesome book in a very biblical sense. it inspires awe and in a more modern sense it is simply really, really cool. This book is a single man’s knowledge of all things fungi, distilled into 646 pages of rich prose, instruction and guidance. It moves through topics, that many other books have tackled in single volumes alone, in sections such as ethnomycology, culture, cultivation, medicine (*see footnote) and lab work, and does so in a way that doesn’t feel clunky or dense. I don’t think there is a topic in mycology that isn’t covered by this book in some way, and that to me makes it a unique treasure trove of knowledge. A field guide it is not, being quite large and very heavy, and it is not trying to pretend to be anything other than a treatise on the world of mycology. Filled with activities and projects that you can do yourself, it is not a passive book. It gets you interacting with and manipulating fungi, working with them in a way that you would not otherwise, and for that I think it is highly recommended for every reader, from the beginner to the professional. And if none of that takes your fancy, there is even a section on mushroom–related puns and a printout–and–play boardgame!

Growing Mushrooms at Home: The Complete Guide to Knowing, Growing and Loving Fungi

A more focussed look at cultivation and less dense than Radical Mycology, this book is primarily aimed at beginners who are looking to expand their knowledge of cultivation in its many forms, and is filled with simple, easy to follow text and beautiful images of mushrooms. It is designed to be accessible, so I would wager that this title is not suited for those of you with more experience in the field. But, for a first foray into mushroom cultivation this might be the book for you.

Organic Mushroom Farming and Mycoremediation: Simple to Advanced and Experimental Techniques for Indoor and Outdoor Cultivation

Organic Mushroom Farming and Mycoremediation takes a deeper dive into the same topic as the previous title. The book spans from easy projects that you can do at home with very little resources, to more advanced techniques that even the most experienced mycologist would enjoy having under their belt. The book also touches on mycoremediation (using mushrooms to improve the environment, from pollutants etc.), which is a wholly worthy topic on its own and will open your eyes to the potential for individuals to change the world for the better. After all, anyone who’s anyone in mycology has tried growing mushrooms on their old clothes, right?

Growing Gourmet and Medicinal Mushrooms: A Companion Guide to the Mushroom Cultivator

No list of mushroom cultivation books would be complete without a title by Paul Stamets – and this one is no exception. A dated publication now, owing to its original publishing in 1988 and subsequent re-prints in 1994 and 2000, have meant this this book has taken a back seat to the new shiny covers in the field. However, this has not dulled its brilliance at all, and it remains one of the most influential books on mushroom cultivation. The book contains foundational knowledge on mushroom cultivation for the amateur grower and is still held in high regard by anyone with a slight interest in modern mushroom cultivation. A must read and a true introduction to mastering the art of mushroom cultivation.ng mycologist.

* ‘Mushroom medicine’ is a term used often in fungal–oriented literature, and sometimes quite liberally. I would be remiss to note that processes, procedures and purported effects are anecdotal and not always backed up by peer–reviewed empirical research, and in a lot of cases research is ongoing. This is not to say it is not true, it’s to say that more research is usually needed. Be aware of the legality of foraging mushrooms in your area and remember, don’t munch on a hunch! Always ID your mushrooms and if you are not 100% confident consult a professional.