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Simon Schama Grasps, If Not Quite Holds, The World In His Hands In 'Landscape And Memory.'
By Gregory McNamee
Landscape and Memory, by Simon Schama (Vintage Books).
Paper, $23.
SIMON SCHAMA IS no fan of short books. He's given us sprawling
treatments of the golden (or better, the tobacco and chocolate)
age of Dutch culture, of the French Revolution as it was played
out in bygone alleys, of the formation of modern European finance.
And the 650-plus pages of Landscape and Memory are just
as broad-ranging, as Schama sets about determining the role of
the land in the human mind.
"Landscapes," Schama writes, "are culture before
they are nature; constructs of the imagination projected onto
wood and water and rock." The branch crashing to the ground
in the proverbial forest makes no sound without human ears to
mark its fall.
Schama's vision of the land is fundamentally European. It defines
the natural environment, with some nostalgia, as a collection
of not only forests, rivers, and mountains--Schama's wood, water,
and rock, the parts by which he groups his text--but also of thatch-roofed
farmhouses in sylvan glens, a curl of smoke rising from the chimneys
and lambs bleating in clovery meadows full of swarming bees; fair-haired
children dancing around a maypole and strong elders smoking their
Meerschaums.
I exaggerate, but not much. The point is that there can be little
or no unmanaged nature in such a conception of the land, and for
good reason: Only in the wilds of highland Scotland and pockets
of the Balkans, among a few other places, has Europe left much
of its land alone. "It is...difficult," Schama writes,
"to think of a single natural system that has not, for better
or worse, been substantially modified by human culture."
Difficult for a European observer, perhaps, but not difficult
at all from where I sit, looking out at desert and mountains pockmarked
by evidence of human enterprise but not yet substantially remade
in the way that, for instance, Holland has been dredged from the
sea. A vision of the land that reaches beyond well-settled Europe
must necessarily include truly wild lands; places defined, as
Doug Peacock puts it, by the presence of "something that
can kill you and eat you." In that dangerous unpeopled landscape,
falling trees make plenty of noise.
But the European countryside has long been, as Schama admits,
"ribboned with trails, like Ariadne's thread, that guaranteed
to deliver the walker from savagery and get him back to the station
in time for the next train to Paris." In this difference
lies the chief problem with Schama's book: His universalizing
thesis is really only narrowly applicable, and then only within
the Western European tradition, and then only with many qualifications.
His vast range of reference--and it is clear that Schama has devoured
whole libraries in shaping this and his other books--does not
take in Asian, Native American, and African ways of considering
and living on the land, rich sources that if nothing else provide
a tuning fork against which to sound the European ideas Schama
discusses.
From the outset, then, Schama makes too generous claims for his
case. But if we take Landscape and Memory for what it really
is, we find a book on certain localized European attitudes toward
the land. And that book is a rich study of the adaptation of place
to the European imagination, of places that have generated literary,
historical, and especially artistic ideas, a book that makes a
nice across-the-pond rejoinder to Roderick Nash's classic Wilderness
and the American Mind.
Schama moves easily into and out of little-known pockets of history,
discussing the hydraulic enterprises of absolutist France, the
fascination of the English Romantics with mountains, and above
all the attachment that artists and intellectuals have felt for
the places they have known. He is at his best when he discusses
landscapes that've played formative roles in his own memory, personal
and ancestral: Few historians have made ancient places come alive
so well as he has with his evocation of the forbidding forests
of Poland's Bialowecza region, where his forebears were Jewish
woodcutters who sent its logs floating down great rivers to the
Baltic Sea, there to be built into the great sailing ships that
would send Europe off in search of still more exotic landscapes--the
Asian kingdom of Prester John, the Northwest Passage, El Dorado.
Those ancient forests and wilderness areas like them, Schama
writes, eventually entered into the modern European consciousness
as something like ancestral-memory theme parks, becoming the European
equivalent of the Hebrew wilderness: a place "where the faith
of the true believer would be put to the severest tests."
In Bialowecza, the memory of ancient Sarmatia and its bearskin-clad
warriors could fuel the dreams of the true believers of pan-Slavic
nationalism; only in such unsettled margins of civilization could
the Romantic obsession with returning to, and simultaneously mystifying,
"the Source" be played out, so that Eden could be located
in the Cotswolds, paradise in the Alps.
Landscape and Memory takes us into strange, beguiling
discussions of ancient Egyptian thought, and Schama doesn't bother
glancing over his shoulder to see that we're keeping up. He regales
us at length with the story of one Rose Powell's quest to have
Susan B. Anthony's likeness engraved alongside the four presidents
on Mount Rushmore--and piled on that, he offers a sidelong view
of the career of its sculptor, Gutzon Borglum, a member of the
Ku Klux Klan. In considering several especially spectacular hydraulic
monuments of Renaissance Europe, he offers a kind of art history
that's remarkably entertaining.
Marcel Proust once observed, "The places we have known do
not belong only to the world of space...None of them was ever
more than a thin slice, held between the contiguous impressions
that compose our life at that time; the memory of a particular
image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads,
avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years." And as fugitive,
alas, as are places themselves in this chewed-up world.
Simon Schama's assertion that "the cultural habits of humanity
have always made room for the sacredness of nature" does
not easily bear up in our time, when nature has become commodity
and byword. If in the end Schama does not deliver quite all that
he promises, it's surely not for want of trying. His reach has
merely exceeded his grasp--just like humankind's relationship
with the land.
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