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THERE'S A TRANSPLANTED Scottish scientist out in southern
California, a self-styled "extropian" who calls himself
Max More and who claims to be working on some wondrous biomechanical
means of escaping the one great inevitability. "Conquering
death," More says, "is only the first step toward control
over the random tyranny of nature."
To beat death, More continues, we'll have to shed some of our
primate ways, swear off sex and war. We'll also have to dispense
with a few of the normal encumbrances--chiefly the frail and easily
damaged human body, which the young scientist proposes replacing
with "a virtual world where there's no gravity, where we're
not constrained by the laws of physics, where we can appear as
we like." In More's dream of the future, we'll be remade
as humans into perfectly functioning pieces of software, elegantly
coded and bug-free, projecting our invulnerable selves into the
future, out to the stars.
When, a few weeks ago, I read about More and his intimations
of immortality, I thought, incongruously, about Edward Abbey.
The proud descendant of hardscrabble Scottish farmers and laborers
and no stranger to grand dreams, Abbey would now be 72 years old.
Here on the 10th anniversary of his death I've been imagining
him as he might be if he had lived, gaunt and tall, a gray beard
tickling the bottom of his rib cage, looking very much like the
abolitionist John Brown in John Steuart Curry's famous painting,
ripping around Tucson in his fire-engine red Cadillac, mad as
hell, mad at everything, mad at the mention of a scientist who
dared even think it possible to sidestep the be-all and end-all
of life and death, mad at the thought that humans could, in just
the last few years, have found plausible ways to unhook our species
from the engine of natural selection and say goodbye at last to
the awful randomness of nature.
But he is not, of course, alive to sound his mighty dry-throated
roar of defiance in the face of such heresies. Ed Abbey died just
over a decade ago, on March 14, 1989, his embattled pancreas having
finally given out after years of alarms. Accepting nature as it
comes, he faced his death, by all accounts, with gruff courage,
even with humor.
When Ed Abbey left us, something changed in Tucson, in the Southwest,
in the West (for although Tucson claimed him jealously as its
own, Abbey claimed the whole West as his home). The desert lost
a defender, perhaps the most persuasive one it ever had. It lost
a champion who insisted that the land would prevail, and that
its enemies were also the enemies of humankind. It lost a man
who was unafraid to take on the thankless job of being a Socratic
gadfly--and a fly in the ointment. As Chuck Bowden wrote at the
time of the cantankerous anarchist's death, in Abbey's absence,
"Who in the hell is going to keep us honest?"
Eight days after Ed Abbey died, several dozen people gathered
in the desert west of Tucson to pay homage. The farewell, a celebration
much more than a funeral, was as Ed had instructed (he left a
rough agenda in his journal, reproduced in his book Confessions
of a Barbarian): It began with champagne, went on to a bagpiper's
playing Scottish tunes and readings by Leslie Silko, Bob Houston
and other local writers; moved into a feast of an unlucky cow
surgically removed from its pasture on some plot of public land,
of tortillas and tamales and seemingly endless quantities of beer,
tequila and whiskey; and ended with an impromptu concert by itinerant
guitarist Bob Greenspan and a tape recording of Ed reading from
his newly finished manuscript Hayduke Lives!
Six weeks later, as Chinese tanks moved in on the students
at Tiananmen Square, a group of people a thousand strong gathered
at Arches National Monument (now National Park) in southern Utah,
where Ed had written his best-known book, Desert Solitaire.
At sunrise on that hot May morning, one speaker after another
rose to remember Ed Abbey's contribution to Western writing, to
anarchist ecopolitics, to the protection of wilderness: C. L.
Rawlins, Wendell Berry, Ann Zwinger, Barry Lopez, Terry Tempest
Williams, Dave Foreman, Doug Peacock. Wallace Stegner, Abbey's
former teacher, who could not attend the memorial, wrote to say,
"He was a red-hot moment in the conscience of the country,
and I suspect that the half-life of his intransigence will turn
out to be comparable to uranium."
As I listened to the farewells in Tucson and Moab, I thought,
just for a moment, that it might be possible at that moment to
make something approaching a revolution away from civilization
toward culture (as Abbey put it in Desert Solitaire), that
the few hundred people in attendance would not return to their
homes but instead set about liberating what was left of the land,
perhaps run for public office, perhaps write a few incendiary
tracts, perhaps torch a bulldozer or two on the way out of town.
It would have been a fine legacy for Ed, the best and most appropriate
of all possible memorials. And the spirit was willing, with a
stock of conspirators close at hand.
But the revolution, of course, did not come. All of us went back
to our homes to make livelihoods and raise families and pay the
bills. Ed Abbey sank into the earth, and the bulldozers kept on
grinding their way across the land, doing their best to churn
up his bones.
INTRANSIGENCE CAN BE a fine and necessary thing, as Wallace
Stegner knew. But what half-life can it have in a civilization
that has no memory?
In this anniversary month of his death, a few readings have been
given, a few commemorative articles have been published. Perhaps
even a few prayers have been said. But still the revolution has
not come. These are fat times, and few people have taken up Abbey's
burden of spoiling the party by reminding their fellows that the
cycle of accumulation and consumption comes at great cost.
For all that, these 10 years have not been silent. There has
been all along a thriving Abbey industry, a steady stream of reissues
of Abbey's own books joined by a few posthumous titles--a collection
of poems, a set of aphorisms, a selection from his journals. A
collection of his letters is said to be in the works, as is a
movie version of Abbey's 1975 "comic extravaganza" The
Monkey Wrench Gang, the book that helped shape the modern
radical-environmental movement. (If that movie is in fact released,
then bulldozer owners should lock up their rigs; movie-inspired
copycats are everywhere.) Soon other books will feed into that
stream: memoirs by Doug Peacock and Jack Loeffler, a literary
study by Jim Cahalan, books of essays by writers whom Abbey inspired.
Even academia, which for so long left Abbey alone, is catching
up to him, as the recent publication of the collection of scholarly
essays Coyote in the Maze: Tracking Edward Abbey in a World
of Words bears out, to say nothing of a Cliff's Notes-like
set of "masterkeys" to Fire on the Mountain and
Desert Solitaire, books so transparent as to require no
explication. Abbey would probably have been amused by the academic
essays, but then appalled if he ever got around to reading them.
He had small patience with scholarly critics, who, he wrote, "have
donned the vestments of high priests and presume to instruct the
writer not only in literary method but in what he shall and shall
not write about, and in what he shall think about what he writes
and does not write."
That so much literary activity now surrounds Abbey is unsurprising.
When he died he had begun to accrue more than the usual recognition
given a writer of popular books; with profiles appearing in outlets
ranging from Outside and Smart to USA Weekend,
he was in danger of becoming a celebrity, a thought that worried
him some. He was receiving regular invitations to speak and to
give readings from his work, to teach, to perform all the chores
that bring in money but keep a writer from working. His recently
published novel Fool's Progress had been selling well and
had received generally positive reviews, although some critics
faulted him for his narrator's lack of refinement, and still others
had taken him to task for not having been, well, serious enough
in the book that he regarded as being among his best novels.
It's true that he had fun playing with his image in the pages
of Progress: "I shall live the clean hard cold rigors
of an ascetic philosopher," he wrote. "A dive into the
icy lake at dawn. Two quick laps around the shore. A frugal breakfast
of cool water and unsalted watercress, followed by an hour of
meditation. And then--then what? What then? Then I'll row my houseboat
ashore, jump into my rebuilt restored 1956 Lincoln Continental
four-door convertible and speed away to the nearest legal whorehouse
for some quick fun & frolick before lunch."
That fun aside, Fool's Progress was serious work, a book
on which Abbey had worked for years. It is, as he deemed it, an
"honest novel," one loosely based on his own life. In
its opening pages, Abbey's alter ego, Henry Lightcap, takes off
from his nearly empty Tucson home (its contents having just been
removed by a disgruntled spouse) after shooting his refrigerator,
a hated symbol of civilization. Lightcap makes a winding journey
by car to his boyhood home in the Appalachian Mountains of Pennsylvania,
calling on old friends along the road, visiting reservations and
out-of-the-way taverns, and reminiscing about the triumphs and
failures of his life. Readers would be mistaken to view The
Fool's Progress as pure autobiography, but it looks deeply
into Abbey's life and times and his way of thinking. Abbey regarded
it as one of his best books of fiction, and he was right to do
so.
He wanted, his journals suggest, to be remembered chiefly as
a novelist, not foremost as an essayist or nature writer or even
environmental activist. It didn't quite work out that way; what
gets people fighting about Abbey, all these years after his death,
is not this or that literary trope or plot line or technique of
characterization, but what Abbey had to say about ranching or
Gloria Steinem or Glen Canyon Dam, and where his work is taught--and
novels these days cheat death only by being made into movies or
assigned to college students--it's mostly Desert Solitaire
that joins the syllabus in surveys of Western American literature
or seminars in environmental writing.
Abbey spawned no school, although some of his friends have done
work that shares his concerns with the environment, and although
a handful of writers have made it their business to observe his
call, whether in direct homage or not, to speak for the voiceless.
(I think here of Barbara Kingsolver's recent, politically charged
novel The Poisonwood Bible, of Terry Tempest Williams'
essays on Mormon women and wild birds.) The money in literature
these days is not in speaking for the disenfranchised, but in
fetishizing the present culture (think of Bret Easton Ellis) or
imagining a past more noble than it was (think of Charles Frazier);
outside of a few little-read nature writers, no one else is doing
Abbey's work, picking up where he left off, although God knows
there's plenty more to be said.
As for the radical environmentalism that Abbey inspired, there's
little sign of it these days. The movement has largely disintegrated,
notably with Earth First! splintering in the wake of federal assaults
and internal dissension, which one can read about in the pages
of Susan Zakin's fine book Coyotes and Town Dogs. Abbey's
anarchism has shaded off into the cynical every-man-for-himself
libertarianism of the Contract with America crowd, while environmental
issues are generally shrugged off as so much old news.
PERHAPS ABBEY WANTED no followers. He did much in his last
years to assure that he would have none by raising pet peeves
to the level of ideology, by coupling reasonable calls to action
with unreasonable arguments. For, even as his celebrity was growing,
Abbey earned much bad press by stepping outside the bounds of
wilderness-preservation politics to speak on topics like feminism
and, thornier still, illegal immigration. In the early 1980s,
he began to publish letters to the editor and essays on that question,
insisting that the border between the United States and Mexico
be sealed off with electric fences and patrolled by the military--strange
talk indeed for a self-styled anarchist. "Taking in the surplus
populations of Latin America will increase our economic-social
troubles without really doing much to help Mexico and the others,"
he wrote, urging those "surplus populations" to take
up arms against their oppressors.
He didn't help his case, which, he said, was based on environmental
grounds (the United States was overcrowded as it was, he believed),
by further insisting that the American way of life had to be protected
against the Mexican threat "to degrade and cheapen [it] downward
to the Hispanic standard," and by pointing to what he called
"the rising tide of human muck...that is drowning our cities,
flowing over our borders, and threatening everything good and
free and spacious that still remains in American life."
These were heartfelt words, not contrarian put-ons of the sort
that might be explained away as bids for publicity. They led,
not surprisingly, to charges of racism. Ed didn't do much to fight
those charges; instead, he added fuel to the fire by dismissing
his critics as confused members of an imagined "East Coast
liberal elite."
I had worked with Ed to publish a 20th-anniversary reissue of
Desert Solitaire, and Ed asked me to read the manuscript
of Fool's Progress before he sent it off to the publisher.
I did, and I wrote him that while I thought the book fine for
the most part, I also thought that portions would confirm the
growing view that he was turning into a crank, especially some
of the passages that he regarded as humor. ("What's the difference
between Navajos and yogurt?" went one joke. "Yogurt
is a living culture.") I asked him whether he might reconsider.
Do you want, I asked him, to be explained away years from now
like Ezra Pound--assuming that anyone cares about Ezra Pound years
from now?
Ed wrote back and said that he'd rethink the troublesome passages.
Then, over the next few weeks, little white index cards began
to appear in my mailbox, scrawled in blue ink in his crabbed hand,
keyed to pages in the manuscript, announcing that he'd keep this
joke or that, that he'd say whatever he wanted to about minorities
"devoted to drugs, crime, spray paint, ward-heeling politics,
cars and the monthly welfare check"--and to hell with what
the critics might say about him. "Whatever happens,"
he wrote in one of those cards, "I'm going to stand up for
freedom of expression. I really resent this climate of intellectual
intimidation imposed on writers recently. The American literary
world is so corrupt and cowardly that I'd be happy--willing--to
lose my part in it anyhow." He added, in a note to another
reader, "As one who has been called an 'eco-fascist,' 'genocidal
racist,' 'creeping fascist hyena,' and such, I've developed a
fairly thick skin. The only response I cannot bear is--silence.
No response. Coarse laughter in all the wrong places would be
better than more of the silent treatment."
In the end, he kept his jokes, every last one of them, earning,
I expect, some of that that coarse laughter. I kept, and keep,
my conviction that the book would have been better without them--and
that Ed Abbey might be better regarded as a writer today if he'd
kept his writing closer to his own spirit, curmudgeonly but also
deeply generous, without a trace of meanness.
But Ed Abbey didn't much care; he was happiest, it seems, when
he'd enraged someone, anyone. "The fine art of making enemies,"
he wrote in his journals. "I've become remarkably good at
it." And he collected many as an equal-opportunity offender:
ranchers, government officials, leftists, liberals, businesspeople,
human-rights groups, conservatives and Western congressmen, to
say nothing of stalwarts of the literary establishment, notably
John Updike and Saul Bellow, whom Abbey accused of being "sycophants,
toadies to the powerful, because they pretend to be above it all,
when they're really on their knees below it all...groveling before
the rich, the powerful, the techno-scientific oligarchy and institutions,
those who dominate our lives today."
Say what you will about him: Abbey never groveled, never backed
off a position just to make the peace. That probably cost him
readers. So, too, did aspects of his latter-day politics--which,
for all his calling himself a theoretical anarchist and practical
democrat, were fitting to a kind of small-town conservatism that
valued old ways and mistrusted change.
ABBEY'S BOOKS, DESPITE their occasional lapses into crankiness,
will endure. For one thing, when he was on his game he wrote truly
and beautifully: there are few modern novels as heartfelt as Black
Sun, no book about the Southwestern landscape more evocative
than Desert Solitaire. We continue to read him because
no one else has so well captured the essential freedom and beauty
of the West, and of America generally. We read him because he
remained true to what he believed: the need for wilderness, for
open space, for a world outside the city. "There will always
be one more river, not to cross but to follow," he wrote
by way of a vade mecum in a late essay. "The journey
goes on forever, and we are all fellow voyagers on our little
living ship of stone and soil and water and vapor, this delicate
planet circling round the sun, which humankind call Earth."
True words all: that is why we read him.
And we read him because he wrote honestly in a time when the
worst sin is to offend someone, anyone, with an unpopular idea.
Abbey never shied from offending, even went out of his way to
do so, and if he sometimes settled on the wrong target, he more
often hit the right mark. He regarded his work as necessarily
dangerous; as he wrote, "If I lived in Russia, I'd be in
a psychiatric prison. If I lived in Poland, I'd be in hiding.
If I lived in almost any Latin American nation, I'd long ago have
been 'disappeared' (now a transitive verb), tortured, murdered,
buried in a secret mass grave."
Ed now lies buried under 30-odd tons of volcanic scree under
a cactus-studded escarpment somewhere in the desert of western
Arizona. I think of him often, especially when I drive through
cities like Tucson and Phoenix and Los Angeles, grim hives that
are busily chewing up the desert surrounding them. The West Abbey
loved is under assault every day, and things are getting steadily
worse. "One of the most beautiful regions on Earth is being
sacrificed to commercial greed and a blind, destructive and eventually
self-destructive industrialism," he wrote in 1983, well before
the Moab of Desert Solitaire had turned into a sprawl of
mini-malls, designer boutiques, microbreweries and mountain-bike
rental shops, well before the land just outside Abbey's Tucson
backyard had been scraped and bladed and chain-cleared to make
some subdivision with a faux-Spanish name, well before a mad scientist
could get glowing press for thinking that death could somehow
be evaded.
Ed Abbey did not beat death, but his memory lives on in the promise
of unfenced land and unbroken sky. It's as good a memorial as
any, requiring only a little salutary monkeywrenching by way of
upkeep.
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