Author: billabong

Brian Coman is a research biologist who returned to the academy in his retirement to undertake postgraduate studies in philosophy and history. He has a general interest in the Western Tradition - its history, philosophies, religion and literature. He believes that the achievements of the Tradition are worth promoting.
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ON BIRDWATCHING – A REFLECTION

From ‘Bendigo’s Backyard Birds‘

To some people, the idea that a person should spend long periods of time gazing at wild birds will seem a bit strange. Indeed, this is reflected in the name given to birdwatchers in the UK  –‘twitchers’. The very name itself is a pejorative one, suggesting that people of this sort are a bit odd or ‘nerdy’, to say the least. Now, it is true that certain amongst the birdwatching fraternity take the matter a little too far, and the whole business becomes an exercise in ticking off a ‘wanted’ list in much the same manner as an avid stamp collector might go to great ends simply to acquire a rare stamp.

But for ordinary birdwatchers, the whole business has no sort of competitive bias whatsoever. It is simply a way of entering the world of nature and enjoying the spectacle. Nay, it is more. For most birdwatchers it is an exercise in the appreciation of beauty. But even the word ‘beauty’ fails to cover the whole situation. ‘Mystery’ might be a better word. For is it not true that we are continually astounded by the beauty of many avian species and their extraordinary lives and are at a loss to fully explain it? Of course, the more mechanistic amongst professional biologists will simply dismiss it as ‘survival strategy’ or a straightforward ploy to attract a mate. This, of course, takes for granted that birds will be attracted to the same bright colours, patterns or feather arrangements, and vocalisations as we are. But we have no warrant to automatically assume that this is so.  Many decades ago, the noted American philosopher Thomas Nagel wrote a much-quoted paper entitled “What is it like to be a Bat?”. The short answer is ‘we can never know’. For this, we should be grateful. If it were the case that we could one day fully explain away the gaudy extravagance (to us) of the Rainbow Lorikeet, or the beautiful song of the Shrike Thrush, then our lives would become sadly depleted. No future Keats could pen his poem to the Nightingale or a future Shelley his encomium to the Skylark. All the world of nature would be reduced to brute fact. There would be no birdwatchers, only behaviourists. Some intangible thing would be lost, and we would be the poorer for it.  Magpies would not carol in the mornings because they are happy to see the sun rise.  It’s simply a vocalisation to reinforce territorial rights.  And kookaburras would not signal the end of the day to all the other creatures by giving their last laugh just at that moment when dusk turns to darkness. They, again, are simply letting neighbouring kookaburras know who is in control of the local territory.  Creatures in this dull world respond only to external stimuli, or hormones, under a strict system of genetic coding. They have no ‘self’. They are not beings like us, just entities.

 The ancient Greeks were well aware of this sense of mystery. Plato, who believed in the transmigration of souls, felt that the better humans would come back as birds because, for him, birds had the greatest amount of freedom, especially in the power of flight. And we can understand why these same Greeks had so many of their gods or other spiritual entities appear as birds. We need to think no further than our Sacred Kingfisher which once had the taxonomic name Halycon sancta (now Todiramphus sancta). Alcyone (Halycon) was the daughter of Aeolus (king of the winds) who found her husband, Ceyx, drowned and overcome with grief, cast herself into the sea where she drowned. The gods rewarded her devotion by turning her into a kingfisher, and Aeolus (or, perhaps, Zeus) forbade the winds to blow during the “Halcyon Days”, the seven days before and the seven after the winter solstice, when legend has it that the kingfisher lays its eggs.  Ceyx was also transformed so as to fly with her. Would it surprise you to know that our Asure Kingfisher has the proper name Ceyx azureus?

There is also the matter of a bird’s eye. Have you ever stared intently into the eye of a wild bird either at close quarters or through binoculars?  It is a slightly unnerving experience. You experience something alien and truly ‘wild’ or ‘other’.  Herman Melville (in a footnote to Moby Dick) gives us this account of first seeing an Albatross at close quarters:

I remember the first Albatross I ever saw. … I saw a regal, feathery thing of unspotted whiteness, and with a hooked, Roman bill sublime. …  Through its inexpressible, strange eyes, methought I peeped to secrets which took hold of God. … I cannot tell, can only hint, the things that darted through me then.

But it would be wrong to suppose that birdwatchers are, therefore, simply sentimentalists.  The truth of the matter is that amateur birdwatchers in Australia have probably contributed vastly more to our understanding of native birds than have professional scientists. We owe, to the dedicated amateur birdwatchers, most of our knowledge of bird distribution, migratory patterns, mating and breeding behaviour, and so on. All of this knowledge has been gained without monetary reward and very often at the expense of sitting for hours in an uncomfortable bird hide.

There is one final aspect of birdwatching worth mentioning. Unlike many other ‘outdoor’ activities, you can enjoy watching birds from the comfort of an armchair on your back veranda.  With a little planning and foresight, a backyard garden of native trees and shrubs will attract a large range of local birds and requires minimal maintenance. Were it within our power, we would make it mandatory for all Aged Persons Homes to have a large garden of native trees and shrubs, and several birdbaths and nest boxes, the whole construction being so placed so as to allow residents to enjoy the spectacle of birds, butterflies and other denizens of nature. What better way to spend your declining years? And how do you know that William Blake was not right:

“How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way,

Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?”

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On Pascal and the Pensées

Car drivers or bicycle riders who have experienced flat tyres will be familiar with the kilopascal, the decimal unit of air pressure.  The unit derives its name from the famous French scientist, Blaise Pascal (1623-1662).  As will be evident from the dates, his life was tragically short but, in addition to a brilliant scientific career, Pascal wrote on philosophical and theological issues, many of them hugely relevant to our own troubled times. Other than letters to various people (he was a controversialist and embroiled in the Jansenist debate), Pascal left us a collection of short notes and reflections published posthumously as Pensées (Thoughts). These notes and reflections were intended to be ‘fleshed out’ into a book – a defence of the Christian religion, but Pascal died before he could elaborate on the notes.

Nonetheless, Pensées has long been regarded as one of the great literary works of the Western canon. The range of topics covered is colossal – God, infinity, death, the nature of the universe, the limits of reason, the meaning of life, human psychology, to mention just a few. Pensées is akin to a dictionary of quotations and any writer interested in philosophy and theology will almost certainly have the Pensées, on his or her bookshelf.  It is also an excellent bedtime book because, unlike novels which often demand long readings at any one time, you can open the Pensées anywhere and begin reading.  Even if you read the whole work several times in this haphazard fashion, each new visit will deliver up some new insight. Writers find it to be a marvellous source of quotes for their own works.

The most famous episode in the Pensées, (often placed as an Introduction – it was not part of his normal notes) takes up only a paragraph or so, but it describes (as best he can describe such an episode) some sort of vision of God. The description that Pascal wrote down on a piece of paper he subsequently sewed into the hem of his shirt.  It is often called his ‘Night of Fire’ and it changed his life.  He was always a practicing Catholic, but this vision imbued his Faith with a deep fervor. Here is the first half or so of the description, translated from the French:

This year of Grace 1654, Monday, November 23rd, day of Saint Clement, pope and martyr, and others in the martyrology, Eve of Saint Chrysogonus, martyr, and others; From about half past ten at night, to about half after midnight, Fire. God of Abraham, God of Isaac, God of Jacob, Not of the philosophers and the wise. Security, security. Feeling, joy, peace. God of Jesus Christ Deum meum et Deum vestrum …

The other very famous excerpt from Pensées is usually called Pascal’s Wager.  It has delighted and angered thinkers from his time until ours.  His argument, here rather crudely condensed, is as follows: God either exists or he does not.  You must choose one or other option (Pascal will not allow you to opt out of the wager). If he exists, you have everything to gain, If he does not, you have nothing to lose. The choice, therefore, is obvious.  Now, this pitifully brief account of the Wager may not appear to be much to us, but is was ground-breaking at the time because here, Pascal is employing the methodology used today in probability theory and decision theory.  Pascal, of course, did not need the Wager to ground his own Faith. It was more of a sort of intellectual exercise to put to others.

But what most delights the casual reader is the marvellous way in which Pascal can describe human foibles and human types.  Here is a little note about an ‘intellectual’ rather full of his own oratorical powers:

The doctor, who speaks for a quarter of an hour after he has said all he has to say, so full is he of the desire of talking.

The parrot’s beak, which he dries though it is clean already.

The analogy to the parrot is perfect. Certain radio ‘talkback’ hosts come to mind!

Here is another little reflection:

Set the greatest philosopher in the world on a plank really wider than he needs, but hanging over a precipice, and though reason convince him of his security, imagination will prevail. Many will scarce bear the thought without a cold sweat.

The next time you see a university graduation procession, or a group of judges entering a court, you might bring to mind this reflection from Pascal:

Our magistrates are well aware of this mystery [power of Imagination]. Their scarlet robes, the ermine in which they wrap themselves like furred cats, the halls in which they administer justice, the fleurs-de-lis, and all their august apparatus are most necessary; if the doctors had not their cassocks and their mules, if the lawyers had not their square caps, and their robes four times too wide, they would never have duped the world, which cannot resist so authoritative an appearance.

A bit harsh, perhaps, but not without a grain of truth.

For me, though, one of the best sections of Pascal’s work is that concerned with diversion – our need to occupy ourselves in some way – hobbies, games, hunting, etc., so as to ward of boredom and ennui:

Imagine any situation you like, add up all the blessings with which you could be endowed, to be king is still the finest thing in the world; yet if you imagine one with all the advantages of his rank, but no means of diversion, left to ponder and reflect on what he is, this limp felicity will not keep him going; he is bound to start thinking of all the threats facing him, of possible revolts, finally of inescapable death and disease, with the result that if he is deprived of so-called diversions he is unhappy, indeed more unhappy than the humblest of his subjects who can enjoy sport and diversion..

For Pascal, the quest for diversion is by no means an improper activity – most of us simply cannot do without it. Rather, the problem is that we seek diversion as an end in itself. As Pascal says: “The trouble is that they want it as though, once they had the things they seek, they could not fail to be truly happy. This is what justifies calling their search a vain one”.

Diversion is simply a tactic to stave off anxiety about our condition. It does not solve the problem for us. The whole point of Pascal’s arguments concerning the true nature of the human condition is to show us that without some overarching, transcendental goal, we will never be truly at peace with ourselves. We can obtain partial relief by occupying our minds with other things, but sooner or later, the “big questions” intrude. For Pascal, only by humbly recognising our position of ignorance and seeking divine help can we hope to obtain real peace of mind.

In our own age, there are two particular approaches to diversion. The first is a sort of vaccination against the reality of our condition via massive exposure to a harmless version of the real thing – like an inactivated-virus vaccine. Each day, the television screen or the tabloid page brings with it hundreds of images of death, suffering and destruction from around the world. These images come to us in the comfort of our own homes and without the slightest degree of actual danger to us. Moreover, to better placate any possible fears we may have, such horrific images are interspersed at random with wholly benign or pleasurable ones. Thus, a shot of starving children in some refugee camp will be followed by a story on a beauty contest or a new drug to combat obesity. These images are brought to us not to arouse our pity, to disturb us, or stir us into action. On the contrary they are simply there for entertainment – for spectacle. The overall effect is to blunt our sensitivities to both the good and the bad aspects of what it means to be a human. I say good and bad because the proper appreciation of one cannot be had without a proper appreciation of the other. Somehow or other, we have managed to disengage our higher emotions from our senses and replaced them with the mere capability of distraction, this being the price we pay for being protected from reality.

The second approach, vindicating Pascal, is our inordinate reliance on diversion as a survival strategy. There is a grim earnestness about it. The latest fantasy movie is specifically designed to provide us with an alternative reality. In the latest action movie, the hero or heroine confronts all our terrors and triumphs over them – on our behalf. Every effort is made to reproduce or re-make reality into something more palatable and, it goes without saying, “more real”. We might recall the “Feelies” in Brave New World where a love scene on a bearskin rug attracts the admiring comment: “every hair of the bear reproduced”. And it is in Brave New World that Huxley gives us the ultimate diversionary device – soma. The idea of a substance which would relieve us of the burden of being human is, of course, as old as civilization. Homer’s Odysseus forbids his men to partake of the lotus fruit because it will prevent them from “thinking of home”. But only in our own era has the idea of chemical happiness really started to have mass appeal and mass application. There is a thriving university industry in ‘happiness research’.

For those who have not read Pensées, I recommend the book as a sort of medicinal draft against the mad diseases of post-modernity. You can buy the Kindle edition for less than a dollar. A modern potboiler of a novel will cost you fifteen. This, in itself, says something about the way that the modern age values its literary heritage.

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The Review of Old Books – A Plea to the Reader

I know that there is nothing novel in the idea of reviewing old books rather than new ones.  People do it all the time.  For school and university set texts, in particular, there’s a quid to be made in this business.  But that’s just the trouble.  We are forever reviewing the popular, well-thumbed texts and leaving the rest to rot on the dusty shelves of  ‘opp’ shops and dingy secondhand bookstores with creaking floors and peeling paintwork. Now, I have no idea of the total number of published books in the world, but it must surely run into millions.  Of these millions, only a tiny proportion manage to stay before the public eye for more than a year or two.  Some, like David Hume’s first attempt ‘fall stillborn from the presses’.  Others have their brief hour of localised glory and then sink without trace.  I wrote a book about rabbits like that. Still others die slowly, fading into what the wine buffs call ‘the divine Untergang of infinite recession’.

The great tragedy is that many books have died that did not deserve to die.  Some were unfairly condemned to death by sneering, ignorant critics (e.g. ’This is not a book to put down lightly.  It should be hurled with great force’). Others were simply never discovered:

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear

Full many a flower was born to blush unseen

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Yet others were born before their time.  Their deserved admiring readers had not yet been born when such books first hit the street.  By the time these potential readers had been ‘educated’, they had either lost all interest in books (one of the aims of ‘education’ now is to permanently immunise the young against the disease of literature) or lost all opportunity of accessing their rightful literary subjects.

And so, I want to see readers of this blog scouring their shelves and giving us reviews of their own favourite, but obscure titles.  There need to be rules of conduct of course.  The chosen books really must be obscure and (as a suggestion) at least thirty years old.  Moreover, they must have given the reviewer not just genuine pleasure but a burning desire to share such pleasure with a wider audience. 

I must confess that the idea of reviewing obscure books is not a novel one.  Some people have been at it for years.  Bernard Levin, for instance, has produced some memorable examples. There was a marvellous review of a book by a G.R. Havens called Voltaire’s Marginalia on the Pages of Rousseau.  Levin, like me, imagined (before reading the said book) that such marginal comments might have consisted entirely of remarks like ‘Tiens!’, ‘Regardez!’, ‘Imbécile!’, etc.  In fact some were (apparently) much more substantial.  So much was Levin impressed that he himself lamented the fact that he had not taken advantage of this particular genre himself.  As he says, something like The Marginalia of F.R. Leavis on the Pages of His Supposed Enemies would fill several volumes.

I have an ulterior motive of course.  I myself have a number of obscure books which I value greatly and which continue to give me not just enormous pleasure in the re-reading, but a wealth of eminently quotable material.  Take Rat Catching for the Use of Schools, for instance.  It’s written by a man called H.C. Barkley.  It is quite honestly, the best natural history text I have read and the best practical account of a very useful trade.  When you dip into Barkley, you realise that this man is no armchair philosopher.  He knows the trade through hard-earned experience.  How else to explain this observation on rabbit and ratting dogs: ‘The shorter the pedigree, the better the dog, and if I could get one without a mother and father, I would have it tomorrow”. Or this:  “When buying ferrets, I always pick long ones”.  I picked up Barkley’s book (new) for about twenty cents at a Bendigo bookstore five decades ago.  Fortunately, the book is back in print and you can find it on Amazon.com. However, I doubt if many libraries have it in their catalogue.

Then, there’s a book on business management called Malice in Blunderland and written by a T.L. Martin.  I must admit that the subject matter advances little on what we already have from C. Northcote Parkinson, but certain new laws are enumerated, and in any case, the title alone puts the book on the ‘must have’ list.  Finally, there is one book that breaks my own rules re admission – it is only about 20 years old – but is of such merit that I cannot forbear to exclude it.  The title is Merde:  Excursions into Scientific, Cultural, and Socio-Historical Coprology.  The author, Ralph Lewin is a Professor of Marine Biology.  We have corresponded (he entertained a futile hope of a second edition with an Australian publisher) and I was in the fortunate position of being able to advise him if certain glaring lacunae in his otherwise comprehensive account.  Merde, by the way, is what the French general Cambronne said after the defeat at Waterloo.  Victor Hugo thought it was ‘perhaps the finest word ever spoken by a Frenchman’. 

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BENDIGO’S BACKYARD BIRDS – A NEW TITLE NOW AVAILABLE

From the cover blurb……

This is a book of bird appreciation, not of bird identification. If you are new to Bendigo, or new to bird-watching, this little publication is bound to stimulate your interest. As the authors point out, we share our city with a great range of birds, most of them native and many of them exhibiting extraordinary beauty.
The book does not pretend to supply a full description in the manner of some of the better known published accounts. Rather, it is simply an attempt to show, however inadequately, the great beauty of a selection of our native birds. A further modest aim is to show that, given a little foresight and empathy, it is possible for us as humans to live with our extraordinary feathered friends, to the mutual advantage of both. Like most other things, in the matter of wildlife conservation it is always preferable to start with your own back yard!
Both authors are long-term Bendigo residents and both have a great love for our feathered friends, with whom we share the urban environment.

This hard-copy book of 125 pages is now available at selected bookshops – Stoneman’s Castlemaine, Aesop’s Attic Kyneton, and Bookish in Bendigo.   The book features a great range of mainly native birds with photographs in full colour and on quality paper. Enquiries via ‘contact’ form on this site.

Eastern Spinebill

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Campaspe Book Now Available

From Mountains to the Murray: The Campaspe River and Her People

by Brian Coman and Harry Oldmeadow

This book is now available in a commercially printed softcover version.

Description:

Beginning its journey on the southern slopes of the Great Dividing Range above the small hamlet of Ashbourne, the Campaspe River winds its way north, through fertile farming country and striking gorges until it reaches Lake Eppalock. Below the dam wall it continues its journey north, slowly transforming itself into the characteristic ‘look’ of most inland rivers in southern Australia—lined with large Redgums and steep-banked. Its journey ends at Echuca on the Murray
This account of the river, delivered as a series of snapshots—both literal and in words, blends natural history with social history in a personal and very readable account of the river. The author, Brian Coman, was born and raised on a farm at South Kyneton and spent a good part of his working life as a biologist in the middle section of the catchment. Although coming from a scientific background, the author has here given us an avowedly personal account, with a minimum of scientific jargon and tedious statistics.
The photographer, Harry Oldmeadow has collaborated with Brian Coman on two previous books. His long-term interest in landscape photography is here put to good use in providing many beautiful photographs of the river in its various moods. A former Associate Professor in the Humanities, Harry shares, with Brian Coman, an appreciation of the objective nature of Beauty in the traditional, metaphysical sense.

Available locally at Aesop’s Attic, Kyneton, Bookish Bendigo and Stoneman’s bookroom, Castlemaine.

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ALONG THE COLIBAN – Soft Cover Format Only. REPRINT NOW SOLD OUT

May be available at Aesop’s Attic, Kyneton, or Stoneman’s Bookroom, Castlemaine.

Here is the cover blurb for the book:

Here in words and pictures is an account of the Coliban River on its journey through both landscape and time. The author and photographer follow the river from its source in the Wombat Forest above Trentham in Victoria to its final destination at Lake Eppalock.
The account, richly illustrated with photographs, blends natural history with social history in a personal and very readable account of the river. The author, Brian Coman, was born and raised near the Coliban Reservoir at South Kyneton and spent a good part of his working life as a biologist in the middle section of the Coliban catchment, centred on Metcalfe. Although coming from a scientific background, the author has here given us an avowedly personal account, free from scientific jargon and tedious statistics.
Harry Oldmeadow, by contrast, has no previous association with the river, but his long-term interest in landscape photography is here put to good use in providing many stunning photographs of the river in its various moods. A former Associate Professor in the Humanities, Harry shares, with Brian Coman, an appreciation of the objective nature of Beauty in the traditional, metaphysical sense. This sense of the beauty of the natural order pervades Oldmeadow’s work as a photographer.