Untiring Attention

Many years ago I discovered the French naturalist Henri Fabre, who, in the latter half of the 19^th century painstakingly and relentlessly studied insects and wrote about them. Charles Darwin paid tribute to Fabre and his many contributions to the science of entomology. Fabre spent countless hours on his knees studying many kinds of bugs and recording his observations. Those observations are often delightful to read.

There are two contrasting types of scientists who devote their lives to the natural world. The first type is usually formally educated, takes a position on the staff of an institution of higher education, and writes academic papers in his chosen field. The second type is often not formally educated, may have no academic employment, and devotes most of his time to field observation.

Of the first type, we have as examples such eminent individuals as Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein, and E.O. Wilson. Three examples of the second type are John Muir, Charles Darwin, and Fabre. The third individual in each case focused their work on insects.

Both Wilson and Fabre are people for whom I have enormous admiration, and have learned much from each of their studies and writings. I think what especially elicits my appreciation for the kind of naturalist that Fabre was, is the deep devotion and untiring attention he put to his work. In fact, what he accomplished should not really be described as work, but as passion. What drove him on (as well as Darwin and Muir) was not the desire to hold an esteemed academic position, or publish papers, but simply the urge to discover nature's ways. They were not driven to publish, but to watch.

I do not wish in any way to disparage the college professor who spends the majority of her time on campus, teaching, or writing papers. Science has benefited greatly from the work of academics. College professors often collaborate with fellow academics and form teams that tackle problems that individuals can't. College professors also have access to expensive resources—such as supercomputers and complex experimental machinery—that individuals don't. So they make invaluable contributions to knowledge.

An individual investigator like Fabre, Muir, and Darwin has his own advantage: freedom from academic dogma and institutional thinking. They can follow their own intuition. They are often obsessive people who are untiring in their attention—with a singular devotion to pursue their zeal to their heart's content. Darwin's extraordinary insights into evolution came after decades of dogged pursuit. Muir's advocacy for the need to protect nature's beautiful places followed decades of courageous and dangerous travels through the wilderness. Fabre's delightful discoveries came after decades of squinting at tiny bugs and getting sore knees.

I value both kinds of scientist—the academic and the field naturalist. Indeed, some scientists are both kinds. Maybe I lean a little bit toward the loners like Fabre because, living as a hermit, I treasure solitude. Besides, curious people like him inspire my own investigations in my own corner of the wilderness.