Monday, September 7, 2015

Le chêne et le roseau

             In Lawrence Buell’s discussion of nature writing, he states that [Thoreau] was “not really that interested in nature as such; nature was a screen for something else.” He includes Wordsworth in this idea as well, but this tool applies to a wide range of literary topics. There are countless examples of works written about the natural world whose overarching themes have almost nothing to do with it. Animal Farm, Terrible Things: An Allegory of the Holocaust, to name a few. Many of these are children’s books. Not only do children know and love plants and animals, but this demonstrates their ability to teach about morals and human behavior. Buell also mentions that these stories are often based in politics, whether targeting a particular regime or simply making a social commentary on the ways of the world.

            My favorites of this category are the fables of Jean Lafontaine. When I went to school in France, memorization and recitation of these poems in front of the class was required. This was the case for every French schoolchild (and apparently the occasional American 9-year old who happened to be there). Written in the 17th century, the 200+ fables vary and length and subject matter, but almost all of them feature plants and animals as the main characters. The one that I chose was called “Le chene et le roseau” (The Oak and the Reed), which told the story of a large, mighty, seemingly invincible oak tree and the small, helpless reed by its feet. The oak boasts of its limitless power and mocks the reed for its frailty and unwillingness to stand up to the wind. However, in the end, the oak is ripped up by a storm and the reed lives on, having used its pliability to its advantage.

    Achille Machillon's interpretation (1816)


            Several interpretations of the fable exist, but the fable is most commonly thought to be about Louis XIV’s autocratic regime of the 1600s. In an era where a direct literary attack on the monarchy would not have been tolerated, these characters from nature were well-crafted masks for the messages Lafontaine wanted the king to hear. In fact, the volumes containing these tales were given as gifts to the kings’ son, and later, his grandson. The oak (or Louis XIV, as it may) thought himself to be more powerful than he actually was. For the broader audience, including children, the fable also teaches the power of humility. I found this fable to be particularly relevant to Buell’s emphasis on environmental humility. He stresses the importance of being respectful of a place and mindful of its limitations, similarly to how the reed differed from his self-absorbed neighbor. Nature has provided a “screen” for Lafontaine to allow him to address off-limits topics, but perhaps readers can likewise choose to reapply these broader themes back to the natural world.

Photo: http://www.fitzwilliamprints.com/image/704087/michallon-achille-etna-le-chene-et-le-roseau-by-achille-etna-michallon


1 comment:

  1. I love how you related the way Buell's discussion of how/why Thoreau wrote about nature to the poem you memorized in France! I remember you talking about this as we walked down from the Algonquin summit, so I am happy you posted about it so I can have a better grasp of what you were talking about!

    The notion that even Thoreau was not fundamentally interested in nature leads me to think that perhaps none of us are really interested in nature for the sake of its existence! If we were, then why wouldn't we just leave the Adirondacks alone? The best way to love and respect nature is to leave it alone, but if we leave it alone, then we would never know what is so worth loving in the first place. Can we enjoy experiencing the Adirondack geography and love it at the same time? I don't know... I say I love the Adirondacks, but perhaps this love is more of a fondness. I find a salamander or a bird and want to look at it, want to feel its non-human skin, but then I release it back to where I found it because I ultimately put the creature's well-being above my own entertainment. But the very act of disrupting it is not always out of love. I am not a scientist gathering data about the way climate change effects the organisms of the Adirondacks; I just want to bask in the beauty of it all, have adventures and find inner peace. Is this selfish? The only way for me to connect with nature is to be a human in it. To attach the winding rivers and wildflowers to some poetic metaphor that I can't always put into concrete words and ideas. I can't look at something without being reminded of something else: my own existence. I try to love nature, and when I have a great day hiking and the fresh air rejuvenates my mind and soul, I believe nature loves me too. I just want to get along with the greenery around me, but perhaps our histories and means of communication are so different that it impossible for humans to ever know the essential spirit of the wilderness outside of the knowledge we have gathered from our limited perceptions and project onto it.

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