The Flight of the Iguana (3 page)

And this in a country, remember, where 10,000 humans died every year from snakebite, almost a million more from malaria
carried in the bites of mosquitoes. The black widow spider, compared to those fellow creatures, seems a harmless and innocent beast.

But personally I hold no brief for
ahimsa,
because I don't delude myself that it's even theoretically (let alone practically) possible. The basic processes of animal life, human or otherwise, do necessarily entail a fair bit of ruthless squashing and gobbling. Plants can sustain themselves on no more than sunlight and beauty and a hydroponic diet—but not we animals. I've only mentioned this Jainist ideal to suggest the range of possible viewpoints.

Modern philosophers of the “animal liberation” movement, most notably Peter Singer and Tom Regan, have proposed some other interesting answers to the same question. So have writers like Barry Lopez and Eugene Linden, and (by their example, as well as by their work) scientists like Jane Goodall and John Lilly and Dian Fossey. Most of the attention of each of these thinkers, though, has been devoted to what is popularly (but not necessarily by the thinkers themselves) considered the “upper” end of the “ladder” of life. To my mind, the question of appropriate relations is more tricky and intriguing—also more crucial in the long run, since this group accounts for most of the planet's species—as applied to the “lower” end, down there among the mosquitoes and worms and black widow spiders.

These are the extreme test cases. These are the alien species who experience human malice, or indifference, or tolerance, at its most automatic and elemental. To squash or not to squash? Mohandas Gandhi, whose own ethic of nonviolence owed much to
ahimsa,
was once asked about the propriety of an antimalaria campaign that involved killing mosquitoes with DDT, and he was careful to give no simple, presumptuous answer. These are the creatures whose treatment, by each of us, illuminates not just the strength of emotional affinity but the strength, if any, of principle.

But what is the principle? Pure
ahimsa,
as even Gandhi admitted, is unworkable. Vegetarianism is invidious. Anthropocentrism, conscious or otherwise, is smug and ruinously myopic. What else? Well, I have my own little notion of one measure that might usefully be applied in our relations with other species, and I offer it here seriously despite the fact that it will probably sound godawful stupid.

Eye contact.

Make eye contact with the beast, the Other, before you decide upon action. No kidding, now, I mean get down on your hands and knees right there in the vegetable garden, and look that snail in the face. Lock eyes with that bull snake. Trade stares with the carp. Gaze for a moment into the many-faceted eyes—the windows to its soul—of the house fly, as it licks its way innocently across your kitchen counter. Look for signs of embarrassment or rancor or guilt. Repeat the following formula silently, like a mantra: “This is some mother's darling, this is some mother's child.”
Then
kill if you will, or if it seems you must.

I've been experimenting with the eye-contact approach for some time myself. I don't claim that it has made me gentle or holy or put me in tune with the cosmic hum, but definitely it has been interesting. The hardest cases—and therefore I think the most telling—are the spiders.

•   •   •

The face of a spider is unlike anything else a human will ever see. The word “ugly” doesn't even begin to serve. “Grotesque” and “menacing” are too mild. The only adequate way of communicating the effect of a spiderly countenance is to warn that it is “very different,” and then offer a photograph. This trick should not be pulled on loved ones just before bedtime or when trying to persuade them to accompany you to the Amazon.

The special repugnant power of the spider physiognomy derives, I think, from fangs and eyes. The former are too big and the latter are too many. But the fangs (actually the fangs are only
terminal barbs on the
chelicerae,
as the real jaw limbs are called) need to be large, because all spiders are predators yet they have no pincers like a lobster or a scorpion, no talons like an eagle, no social behavior like a pack of wolves. Large clasping fangs armed with poison glands are just their required equipment for earning a living. And what about those eight eyes—big ones and little ones, arranged in two rows, all bugged-out and pointing every-whichway? (My wife the biologist offers a theory here: “They have an eye for each leg, like us—so they don't
step
in anything.”) Well, a predator does need good eyesight, binocular focus, peripheral vision. Sensory perception is crucial to any animal that lives by the hunt and, unlike insects, arachnids possess no antennae. Beyond that, I don't know. I don't
know
why a spider has eight eyes.

I only know that, when I make eye contact with one, I feel a deep physical shudder of revulsion, and of fear, and of fascination; and I am reminded that the human style of face is only one accidental pattern among many, some of the others being quite drastically different. I remember that we aren't alone. I remember that we are the norm of goodness and comeliness only to ourselves. I wonder about how ugly I look to the spider.

•   •   •

The hundred baby black widows on my desk were too tiny for eye contact. They were too numerous, it seemed, to be gathered one by one into a pickle jar and carried to freedom in the backyard. I killed them all with a can of Raid. I confess to that slaughter with more resignation than shame, the jostling struggle for life and space being what it is. I can't swear I would do differently today. But there is this lingering suspicion that I squandered an opportunity for some sort of moral growth.

I still keep their dead and dried mother, and their vacated egg sac, in a plastic vial on an office shelf. It is supposed to remind me of something or other.

And the question continues to puzzle me: How should a human behave toward the members of other living species?

Last week I tried to make eye contact with a tarantula. This was a huge specimen, all hairy and handsomely colored, with a body as big as a hamster and legs the size of Bic pens. I ogled it through a sheet of plate glass. I smiled and winked. But the animal hid its face in distrust.

An Unpopular Meditation on Darwin's Silent Choir

Somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty each of us comes to the shocking realization that a lifetime is not infinite. The world is big and rich, options are many, but time is limited. Once that dire truth has revealed itself, everything afterward becomes a matter of highly consequential choices. Every hour of cello practice is an hour that might have been spent rereading Dostoyevski, but wasn't; every day of honest work is a day of lost skiing, and vice versa; every inclusion is also an exclusion, every embracement is also a casting aside, every
do
is also a
didn't
Then presto: Time is up, and each
didn't
goes down on the scroll as a
never did.
Yikes, why is he punishing us with this platitudinous drivel? you may ask. It's because I've just spent the entire first week of my thirty-ninth year thinking about earthworms.

Now I ask you to give the subject ten minutes. That figure includes a small margin, I hope, for divagations concerning television, the Super Bowl, the philosophy of Teilhard de Chardin, the late space shuttle
Challenger,
and other closely related matters, not least of which is the far-ranging curiosity of Charles Darwin.

Darwin spent forty-four years of his life, off and on, thinking about earthworms. This fact isn't something they bother to tell you in freshman biology. Even Darwin himself seems to have harbored some ambivalence over the investment of time and attention. In an addendum to his autobiography, written not long before he died, he confided: “This is a subject of but small importance; and I know not whether it will interest any readers, but it has interested me.” The interest had begun back in 1837, when he was just home from his voyage on the
Beagle,
and it endured until very near the end of his life. He performed worm-related experiments that stretched across decades. Finally in 1881 he wrote a book about earthworms, a book in which the words “evolution” and “natural selection” are not (unless I blinked and missed them) even mentioned. That book is titled
The Formation of Vegetable Mould, Through the Action of Worms, With Observations of Their Habits.
By “vegetable mould” he meant what today would be called humus, or simply topsoil. It was his last published work.

Darwin seems to have found something congenial about these animals. “As I was led to keep in my study during many months worms in pots filled with earth,” he wrote, “I became interested in them, and wished to learn how far they acted consciously, and how much mental power they displayed.” Among his typically methodical observations of wormish habits was the following: “Worms do not possess any sense of hearing. They took not the least notice of the shrill notes from a metal whistle, which was repeatedly sounded near them; nor did they of the deepest and loudest tones of a bassoon. They were indifferent to shouts, if care was taken that the breath did not strike them. When placed on a table close to the keys of a piano, which was played as loudly as possible, they remained perfectly quiet.” It's an image to be inscribed on all human memory, I think, as an antidote to pomposity and aloofness: Charles Darwin, alone in his study with a tin whistle and a bassoon and a piano, trying to get a rise
out of his worms. Under the category “Mental Qualities,” he stated, as though regretfully: “There is little to be said on this head. We have seen that worms are timid.” Later in the book, though, he described some experiments—designed to distinguish instinct, in their leaf-gathering behavior, from judgment—that inclined him to credit them with “a near approach to intelligence.”

But what mainly concerned Darwin was the collective and cumulative impact of worms in the wild. On this count, he made large claims for them. He knew they were numerous, powerful, and busy. A German scientist had recently come up with the figure 53,767 as the average earthworm population on each acre of the land he was studying, and to Darwin this sounded about right for his own turf too. Every one of those 53,767 worms, he realized, spent much of its time swallowing. It swallowed dead plant material for its sustenance, and it swallowed almost anything else in its path (including tiny rock particles) as it burrowed. The rock particles were smashed even finer in the worm's gizzard, mixed with the plant material and the digestive juices in its gut, and passed out behind in the form of “castings.” The castings contained enough natural glue to give them a nice crumb structure, characteristic of good soil, and were also biochemically ideal for nurturing vegetation. Collectively, over years and decades and centuries, this process transformed dead leaves and fractured rock into the famous and all-important “vegetable mould.” But that wasn't all.

At least some of those species of earthworm had the habit of depositing their castings above ground. A worm would back tail-first out of its burrow and unload a neat castellated pile around the entrance. As a result, Darwin recognized, soil from a foot or more underground was steadily being carried up to the surface. In many parts of England, he figured, the worm population swallowed and brought up ten tons of earth each year on each acre of land. Earthworms therefore were not only creating the planet's
thin layer of fertile soil; they were also constantly turning it inside out. They were burying old Roman ruins. They were causing the monoliths of Stonehenge to subside and topple. On sloping land, where rainwater and wind would sweep their castings away and down into valleys, they were making a huge contribution to erosion. No wonder Darwin concluded: “Worms have played a more important part in the history of the world than most persons would at first suppose.”

His worm book sold well in the early editions. By one account, in fact, it was a greater commercial success for him than
The Origin of Species.
Nowadays the book is generally ignored by everyone except soil scientists—who themselves nod to it devoutly but don't seem to take its contents too seriously. Sometimes these scientists mention that Darwin rather overstated the role of worms while he underestimated such other soil organisms as bacteria, fungi, protozoa, and subterranean insects.
The Formation of Vegetable Mould, Through the Action of Worms
is nevertheless a readable volume, mild and affable and modest in tone, containing a few curious facts and some telling glimpses of the author's fastidious methodology. But the most interesting thing about the book, in my view, is simply that this particular man took the trouble to write it. At the time, evolution by natural selection was the hottest idea in science; yet Charles Darwin spent his last year of work thinking about earthworms.