A little more than a month ago, in early April, one of the great writers of our time, Peter Matthiessen, died in New York, at his home in Long Island. He was not only a writer; he lived multiple lives in his 86 years. He was a distinguished novelist and non-fiction writer (principally natural science), having received awards in both fields, and was a founder of the Paris Review (of literature) in the 1950’s. In addition to his writing, he had a long career in progressive politics, supporting Cesar Chavez (in his book Sal si Puedes), and Leonard Peltier and the American Indian Movement in their struggles.

 

He was also an accomplished decades-long student, and eventually Master, of Zen Buddhism. This last achievement, to anyone who has tried to practice Zen or, for that matter, any form of Buddhism, knows how difficult this is.

So much good karma in one person is hard to believe – extraordinary, really — but exceedingly welcome. I am glad that he was celebrated during his lifetime and not only at his passing. It is good to see the truth of his art and life recognized and even acclaimed.

Some of his most well-known books, among more than 30 that he wrote over 60 years, were The Snow Leopard, In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, Wildlife in America, At Play in the Fields of the Lord, The Shorebirds of North America (also called The Windbirds), The Tree Where Man was Born, and Killing Mr. Watson.

He said that he preferred writing fiction to non-fiction, even though he was prolific in the latter category (including natural science, contemporary politics, travel and history). The reason for his literary preference? Essentially, because fiction is not limited to the facts (or more properly the ‘facts’ are created and manipulated by the author at will) and therefore one has more scope for literary invention and experimentation. I suppose this is true, although his non-fiction, as I read it, was always powerful, entertaining and enlightening, not to say witty. In one interview he said that non-fiction could be as fine as a well-made piece of furniture, but it wasn’t “sculpture.”

Matthiessen was something of a hero to me, although I suspect a grown man is not supposed to admit to having heroes — much less living ones. However, in my personal pantheon, where Thoreau, Muir, Beethoven and Socrates sit in majesty, and where I wander in from time to time for inspiration and guidence, a chair is being prepared for him. The vote is not yet in, but I think he has a good chance.

I’ve read a number of his books over the years, and they made quite an impression on me. They helped create my vision of man’s place in nature, a vision I cherish. Born and raised in New York, I shared some of the same Long Island landscapes he was generally familiar with. The sense of “home” when I walked through the forests of the tri-state area was no doubt similar. I am also a student of Zen; it informs and shapes my outlook in many ways. For these reasons, I feel a kinship with the man, and I would like to share a few thoughts and reflections on his life and career. For those interested, there are many informative articles and obituaries on-line. The New York Times has a good one, for example, and there are many others.

I think there was much to admire about the man in addition to his writing — although I assume he saw his literary work as his main achievement. In the overall scope of his life, I think writing was his way to record his exploration of nature and human nature. His many books may perhaps be read as a very long journal of his personal and spiritual growth.

His social conscience — what you might call a person’s ‘compassion quotient,’ which I prize above all else, was evident in many of his books. Certainly in his work on the Native American struggle for justice in the 1960’s and 70’s (which he wrote about In the Spirit of Crazy Horse) it is evident. He also knew and wrote about Cesar Chavez and the struggle of the National Farm Workers Association to bring better conditions and higher wages for the farm workers.

His social conscience was perhaps the more remarkable because he came from a wealthy family and lived, for example, on the very wealthy East Side of Manhattan as a young man. He went to elite schools such as Hotchkiss and Yale. Yet after service in the Navy at the end of WWII, and time in Paris, he went off on his own to pursue a career as a writer. In the course of these writing assignments he explored a great deal of America and most of the world’s continents. He even became a fisherman for a time, which allowed him to write Men’s Lives: The Surfmen and Baymen of the South Fork. This last book was about country and waters very close to his heart: the eastern, very rural parts of Long Island, in Suffolk County, where he lived most of his life.

Privilege such as he had, living at the top of the socio-economic pyramid, usually gives a man myopic vision of the lives of the people living at the bottom. “Blue bloods” cannot usually understand the terrible choices people often make as a result of poverty, or the frequent tragedy and drama of their lives. It does not lead to greater understanding and compassion. On the contrary, all too often it leads to corruption and contempt for the hoi polloi. We could cite many examples, but thankfully, in the case of Matthiessen, it was not so. He was made of sterner stuff; and no doubt his parents, despite their wealth, must have given him some of his capacity for compassion and sympathy with others, no matter at what level they lived their lives.

Perhaps it should be mentioned at this point that there was a discordant note in his early life: as a young man in the 1950’s, in the dark period of the Cold War, Matthiessen took a job with the CIA. While this sounds disturbing to anyone of progressive politics (it does to me, for example), it should be understood in its Cold War context and life in the 50’s.

As far as I understand it, his job was not real James Bond material — undercover in Eastern Europe, for example, pistols blazing — but writing reports from Paris on leftist writers he found there. Given his subsequent development — his interest in wildlife, conservation and religion, not to mention defense of and sympathy for the downtrodden — this early career choice seems strange.

I think it can be understood in the context of the Cold War. Personally, I am old enough to remember some of the climate of fear that prevailed at the time. The “anti-communism” of the 50’s was real and it was extreme.

I can recall, although only a teen-ager, the constant commentary of the Cold Warriors in every form of media, denouncing the “godless Russians.” TV, radio, magazines, books; it was everywhere. And this was in New York, not Nebraska or South Carolina.

And at home, right here in the U.S., Senator McCarthy and HUAC found Communists everywhere, although no one else ever found as many as they did. However, it was no laughing matter: men’s lives were destroyed by this simplistic, not to say un-American, rhetoric. The public was terrified and paranoid about “Communist” assault within and without. In reality, of course, the hunt for “reds” was mostly cover for persecution of progressive thinkers, union organizing and social and economic change of any kind.

The idea that “Communist Russia” was out to destroy or conquer the “Free World” was repeated so often it was accepted as gospel by almost everyone. What they did – the conquest of Eastern Europe and China — was often cited as an example. In fact, Nikita Khrushchev, the Russian leader at the time, despite his roly-poly and often folksy media image, said as much in his famous UN speech, with his unforgettable line “we will bury you!” Few doubted that they were just waiting for a good chance to launch their ICBM’s over the Arctic Circle, bringing the end to everything we held dear – such as life. Once begun, we knew, this war would bring the end of civilization as we knew it, world-wide. Not a pleasant prospect. Sputnik, the Korean War, revolutionary movements in Africa and Latin America — not to mention Fidel Castro — only made it worse.

And it was true that atrocities were committed by Communist armies and movements in various parts of the world, such as Eastern Europe. Hungary was a dramatic example; Russian tanks and troops entering Budapest in 1956 was certain and visual “proof” of anti-communist rhetoric. Czechoslovakia was another example. Despite many thousands of U.S. troops in Europe, in defense against just such a Russian invasion, these events could not be stopped.

It was therefore understood by most Americans that we had to protect the “Free World” by manipulating, whenever necessary, the political affairs of nations around the world. Otherwise we were doomed; the whole world would gradually become “red,” or at least pink. If this included overthrowing a dangerous government now and then, like Iran or Guatamala, or supporting vicious Latin American dictators, like Batista or Trujillo, or invading foreign countries when necessary (Vietnam, Dominican Republic, Panama), it could not be avoided. Unfortunate, no doubt, but necessary.

So this is the context in which I consider Matthiessen’s job as a CIA agent in the 1950’s. He may have fallen to some extent for Cold War rhetoric, or merely needed a free ticket to Paris (as he joked). A friend of mine who knew him at Hotchkiss (high school) said he was something of a rebel, and wore a python around his shoulders when he went to class. This does not quite jibe in my mind with a career in the CIA, but I guess I could be mistaken.

I have not read his biography or read his CIA reports, so I am not sure exactly what to think. According to some accounts, he said this assignment allowed him to further his literary career. It seems clear that he co-founded the Paris Review as cover for his “mission.” (When George Plimpton, subsequent editor of the magazine and a childhood friend, found out about the CIA connection, he was outraged.) In any case, he soon left “the company” and joined humanity again, this time on the right side.

I never met him in person, unfortunately. He did not make many public appearances that I, at least, was aware of. Especially out here in California for the last two decades, I was busy raising my family, teaching courses and exploring the state. I found many glorious spots, and not a few wonderful birds, but my free time was very limited. If he came to California, I found out about it after he left. My contact with him was thus through the printed page. However, as all readers know, books – well-written books – illuminate the souls of both writer and reader to such an extent that they give rise to passionate attachments.

Over the years I found several of his books on birds and wildlife that made a great impression on me. I loved (and still do) his style of writing, which was a mixture of erudition, “restraint,” poetic reflection and wry wit. It was a style I tried to copy over the years, since you want to reproduce what you admire. But despite my admiration, it did not flow naturally from my pen.

After a time I reasoned that his taciturn yet poetic style was a mirror of the man, and it was the man himself that could not be reproduced, much less his style. If I am any judge of my own writing, I tend to the baroque and confessional, with effusive asides. And the narrative is sometimes interrupted with tangents — even asteroids — of thought that deflect the body of the narrative from its original intended path.

Almost regardless of my personal taste, this style, chaotic as it appears to me, seems to be the essence of what is churning in my brain, trying to get out. Endless observations on all and sundry, good use of vocabulary, occasional striking images, but with a thin narrative thread. I suppose, of course, the same could be said, in spades, of “Leaves of Grass.” Yet it is considered a classic – despite being, in my mind at least, almost a random collection of thoughts. Imagery yes, but in the end, the only link the man and mind of Whitman. Equally so here: I am the link, the fountain of all this reflection; so many years of thought and wonder — what else could it be?

Regarding Matthiessen—the subject of this essay — I first found his books in a roundabout way. It actually came about, if we consider ultimate causes and the chain of causality in the development of our lives, as a result of my move to New York City in the early 70’s. The connection is as follows:

Needing a place to live, I moved to the community of Inwood. This little-known area was (still is) situated at the very northern tip of Manhattan. The neighborhood itself was no great shakes, no great architecture or cultural attractions (except the Cloisters), but it contained the most beautiful park I had ever seen.

This park, called “Inwood Hill,” was smallish, no more than 100 acres, but it had many dramatic features that added up to an overwhelming visual impression. The central portion was a forested plateau 200-feet high, which rose steeply from the surrounding fields. On the western boundary of the park was the mighty Hudson River, and to the north was the Harlem (River). The woodlands of the Y-shaped ridge were covered with oak, hickory, beech, tulip and maple, with a thick understory of sassafras, spicebush, viburnum and dogwood. Numerous wildflowers rose from the forest floor; birds and butterflies flew among the woodland.

Best of all, the elevated, forested area was almost never visited by the local residents, so when strolling through, you could imagine you were far away from the city, perhaps in the Catskills. And from the top, there were wonderful views of the Palisades across the river, very dramatic in themselves. You could see Riverdale beyond the Harlem to the north, and far to the east, the Bronx.

The park, I discovered, was the last remaining piece of New Amsterdam, the wilderness that greeted the early Dutch in the 1600’s. Miraculous was the only word for it — visually, naturally and historically. Everyone shook their head over it, nonplussed, but were delighted it existed. You must consider that only miles away, in the surrounding city of New York, the great metropolis, over the last 400 years millions of people have lived and died. Somehow, by a series of historical accidents, it survived.

I spent a part of every day in my new-found Walden, if only on the way to the subway. Its beauty, especially the little lagoon made by a bend in the Harlem River, not far from my building on 218th street, was hard to believe.

Over time, due to my daily immersion in the park, I began to notice the details of many of the trees, flowers and birds. They began to take on individual identities, almost personalities. Beyond obvious differences, I had previously never taken the time to look closely at these wild living things. I noticed that a willow was very different than an oak. And a swan very different than a duck. Kingfishers, herons, cormorants, hawks, all lived there, and all very different. I had time to look, and I did, more and more carefully. When you looked closely, the beauty and incredible craft of nature could be seen, and I marveled at it.

In several years, through walking, jogging and wandering through the woodland and fields, the park itself began to take on a “personality.” It was hard to describe, but I began to feel that these plants and animals were related, part of a larger living organism.

Mystical yes, but a real feeling I had, after tramping through the park, again and again. You could look at each individual tree, or take in the whole park, which was the home of all these plants and animals. Strange, perhaps, but a real perception, and most wonderful of all, a comforting and profound perception — that was part of it. By the grace of something, I was a part of it. Naturally, it was my birthright. I had only to open my eyes and see. Looking back, I can see that these years were perhaps the most important of my life, and had the most importance in shaping its eventual outcome. Only later would birds become my primary interest in natural science.

As a result of these epiphanies in the park, in the late 70’s and early 1980’s, that I began to take a much greater interest in natural science. It was then I found Matthiessen’s book, Wildlife in America, which had been out for two decades at that time.

Wildlife in America was Matthiessen’s first non-fiction book, written in the late 50’s. It was the story of a wild America that was profoundly changed by the arrival of Europeans. They arrived with their vast numbers, diseases and technology, all of which eventually devastated both Indians and wildlife .

He was still very young, in his early 30s and back from Paris. He reportedly took several years to visit all the national wildlife refuges in the country to research the subject, often camping out. (The book is dedicated to his parents, Erard and Elizabeth, “with love and many thanks”)

The book described the plants and animals of America prior to 1500. The birds, mammals and fish lived here in astronomical numbers – and relative balance — with the Native Americans. I learned of the fabulous hurricanes of Passenger pigeons (in the billions) that flew over the eastern forests, and lobsters in the Hudson that grew to six feet long. The fate of the Steller’s Seacow, a whale-sized sirenian (a manatee-like mammal) stunned me. I was not aware of its existence until I read about it at that time. It was killed off by Russian seal and otter hunters in the Aleutians in the 1700’s, almost as soon as they found it.

The well-known fate of the buffalo tells the tale in a nutshell. The prairies, a vast area stretching hundreds of miles from Missouri to the Rockies, were covered with herds of bison. They roamed and thundered in the millions, but by the late 1800’s there only remained great mounds of their bleaching white skeletons. Skeletons and a great silence, relieved by meadowlarks and the constant wind.

These and many other creatures were hunted into oblivion by the settlers. Hundreds of animals and birds went from incalculable numbers to insignificant ciphers. They became almost legendary beings, like the Carolina Parakeet or eastern Prairie chicken. This often happened within a century or two as the pioneers blasted their way west.

It was a sad tale of the conquest of the American continent, stolen from its original inhabitants, both human and faunal. How many Indian tribes went “extinct” from smallpox and small arms fire? One might say that the destruction of American wildlife was “collateral” damage to the overall conquest of the human inhabitants, the theft of a continent. (Matthiessen mentions but does not focus on the fate of Native American tribes here).

The last few chapters of the book note the birth of the 19th and 20th century conservation movement, which gives some hope for the future. But all told, it was a heart-breaking story, one I had not thought about in any great detail until that time.

Matthiessen’s book, among others by Kastner, Thoreau, Krutch, Thomas and others, had a noticable impact on me, and helped to enlarge my growing sense of man’s place within nature. And his unfortunate, almost unconscious, millennia-long destructive impact on nature.

Later in the decade, the late 80’s, I read At Play in the Fields of the Lord, one of his earlier novels. It is about two Christian missionaries in the Amazon, and their lives among the native peoples and the Amazon itself. However, I didn’t like it, despite its imagery and sensitivity to the life of the rainforest. I thought its message was murky and the ending nebulous. When it came to the end, it seemed to just fade out, not “end.”

Much later I found (given by a friend, actually) The Shorebirds of North America, a large and beautiful book with a text by Matthiessen and paintings by Robert Clem. Its subject is the lives and behaviors of sandpipers, avocets and plovers; really, all things Charadriidae and Scolopacidae. A separate paperback edition, with only Matthiessen’s text, is called The Windbirds.

It has a great store of shorebird biology, written with his usual grace and erudition. The book is a great way to learn bird biology; he mixes fact with the near-fiction of their lives — ocean wanderers, seafood gleaners, mudflat ramblers, gale riders and, finally, if fortunate, inter-hemispheric survivors. Whence comes their navigation systems, we wonder? Where is their longitude? Not from Greenwich, since they were there long before Britain. Whatever their GPS, it is found in their tiny, almost weightless brains. Only an ounce of protoplasm, and contained within, the knowledge of the stars. With their perilous lives, by the rules of biology we can’t speak of “courage,” but we must surely feel it.

Hand-held, deficient in avoirdupois, their feathery scimitar flights skimming over the seas, who can fathom these creatures? Matthiessen can, and did in this book. As I read it, I could picture them, as much as I do when I see my local plover at Pt. Isabel.

The poetry, mystery, the unfathomability of shorebirds, everything biology books carefully hide from us, is in this book. A great medley of shorebird lore, written as a prose poem. Perhaps a modern version, with the same spiritual depths, as The Ancient Mariner. The text flows like a mountain stream, but with the overall gravity of a great bay or sea. My favorite among his books I have read, I think.

Some of my students may remember it because I often read it to them in my classes. Especially when we were studying the poignant, wind-driven world of curlews, plovers and the all-too-frequently-anonymous peeps.

My last acquaintance of his books was The Birds of Paradise: Travels with Cranes. This book, little more than a decade old, is his chronicle of journeys spanning the world searching for those princely birds, the cranes. Anyone who has seen one of these birds, such as our native Sandhill, knows how moving this experience is. When I see them I feel an almost magical quality, difficult to put into words. Discounting mere grace and beauty, it seems an encounter with an alternative form of intelligence.

They have been admired, even worshiped, the world over, for millennia. Again, with this book, we delve deeper into the avian soul and its meaning for humans. There are numerous accounts of travels in Siberia, China and Korea in the search of these cosmic messengers, together with George Archibald, a crane shaman, insofar as we have one. This book is also greatly worth reading for its insights and observations, not only on cranes, but the world they – and we – inhabit. Together we win or lose the earth, equally.

Peter Matthiessen has now, as we all must, passed into eternity. All adults, from frequent and painful experience, know that this is the law of the cosmos, from stars to starfish. Birth and death, in an endless cycle. No emperor, no man, no child, no being, despite his eminence — and all our tears — can be above or change this law.

For conscious beings, the prospect of our demise, and that of our loved ones, is the most difficult truth to accept. Except that we know, somewhere in our hearts, that this truth allows heaven and earth to endlessly create new worlds.

Seen in collective terms, where the individual is part of the universal, birth and death is not a tragedy. For me it is analogous to the insight I was given at Inwood Park years ago.

This at least is my understanding of a life spent observing nature. I am not sure what other understanding can be found in nature. I am also not sure if it was Matthiessen’s understanding. As a Buddhist, perhaps.

Perhaps his epigraph from The Birds of Heaven is a good way to say farewell to Matthiessen, who illuminated the world of nature for so many. It expresses the beauty and fragility of life in a Buddhist sense, from a haiku by the Japanese Zen master Dogon:

The world?
Moonlit water drops
From the crane’s bill.