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.

Darrell the Stoical Dung Beetle--Part 2

No sooner does he utter these words, when the dung ball drops into a small depression. Damn! Darrell circles his poop globe again, and realizes that this will require a super dung beetle effort to get the ball rolling again. He returns to his post and digs in. He grunts and heaves and sweats—to no avail. Doug watches him struggle vainly for a few minutes, then ingratiatingly steps next to Darrell and they heave together. Whomp! The ball breaks free!

Darrell knows he’s in a fix now: he couldn’t have done it alone, and he knows he owes Doug something. Doug gazes at him with a shit-eating grin—exuding abundant pride at their achievement. Darrell doesn’t want to acknowledge Doug’s help. He knows that this scheming intruder, given an inch, will seize a mile. He can’t be trusted. Darrell also knows that if he sat down to rest and snoozed off even a few minutes, he’d awaken to find that Doug has stolen his treasure. Yet he also knows that he has to acknowledge and even appreciate Doug’s help. He can’t blow him off now. Still uncertain about what to do, he resumes his post and keeps on rolling—hoping against hope that Doug will get bored and wander off.

After a half-hour more of hard labor, Darrell pauses to look around—wondering where Doug is. He can’t see him lurking, licking his beetle lips, off to one side or the other. Has Doug gone? Could he be so lucky? Looking up, Darrell spots Doug squatting on top of the ball, as if having just won a round of “King of the Dung Hill.” Doug gaily waves down at him, saying, “I thought I’d ride up here and keep an eye out for other obstacles or dung bandits. I think we’re making good progress.”

Darrell grits his teeth (or at least his beetle mandibles), realizing he’s being toyed with. It’s the old dung-duping game: pretend to be helping roll the ball home, while you look for opportunities to snatch the ball for yourself. Losing patience and about to order the interloper down from his perch, Doug anticipates his mood change and whimpers, “Besides, I pulled a leg muscle on that last big heave we did. As soon as I rest a little more, I’ll be right down to help push.”

Darrell senses he’s been had. Doug’s declared injury stemmed from helping out. How can he tell him off now? He still doesn’t trust him, but what can he do? Once again, Darrell pushes off and the big ball reluctantly rolls on.

Will Darrell be forced to share his treasure with devious Doug? Will the shrewd interloper even succeed in purloining the prize all for himself, leaving poor Darrell empty footed? Will Darrell prevail and manage to shoo the pest away? We’ll leave our friends at this point in the story… regrettably leaving the reader hanging. Maybe it’ll be another day, another dung ball for stoical Darrell. Maybe he’ll have to start all over. Just another peek into the trials of your typical, stoical dung beetle.

Legion are those who heap scorn upon the Darrells of the dung beetle world. But pause and think about what life would be like without the determined Darrells… we’d be up to our ankles in excrement! We must express a little gratitude for these staunch recyclers. What a clean, beautiful world they bring us. No shit!

[Note: The story about Darrell, though a wee bit anthropomorphized,

is a true description of a dung beetle’s trials, as described by the venerable

J. Henri Fabre.]

Fabre's Insects

Jean Henri Fabre was a French entomologist and author who graced our little planet with his copious observations of the insect world. He lived from 1823 to 1915. Charles Darwin paid tribute to Fabre, calling him an “inimitable observer.” And that’s exactly what Fabre was—an incomparable insect eyewitness, as well as a commentator; not an opinionated theorist and not an academic who sits in his book-lined office and claims esoteric postulates about the workings of the world.

Fabre spent many years on his hands and knees, his nose close to the ground, observing countless details of the lives of insects. He had an enormous respect for the “lowly” bugs: their sheer numbers, their intricate habits, and their crucial role in the ecological balance of life on Earth. While others pronounced their often conceited and off-base ideas about insects, Fabre meticulously and objectively watched. And he watched.

But he did more than just watch and become familiar with what the little critters were doing; he conducted experiments. Watching may tell us what is happening, but the clever experiments that Fabre conceived of revealed the meaning behind their actions. Otherwise, we too easily fall prey to our preconceived and anthropomorphic thoughts. As he wrote: without experimentation, we tend to observe an insect and draw conclusions, based not “upon the primary motives of its activities, but our own opinions, which always yield a reply in favor of our cherished notions.”

So he watched and he watched; he asked good questions, and he conducted experiments, a process “which alone is able to some extent to fathom the obscure problem of animal intelligence.” Intelligence? Yes… he saw that the simplest insects display an acumen that is to be admired. His sense of humility enabled him to pursue and perceive some amazing facts about the insect world. He was able to see beauty in what most people feel is repugnant. His essays on the dung beetle, for example, provide a prime example of his ability to perceive the fascination and value of this lowly bug.

An illustration of his humility is shown by a letter he wrote to a friend, in which he said, “Because I have shifted a few grains of sand upon the shore, am I in a position to understand the abysmal depths of the ocean? Life has unfathomable secrets. Human knowledge will be eroded from the world’s archives before we possess the last word that a gnat has to say to us.” I love that last phrase… the end of our knowledge will never come.

The dung beetle is a curious little critter—engaging in behavior that humans consider disgusting: finding piles of poop, carving out and forming a round ball that is some 10 times the weight of the beetle, and then patiently rolling the turd sphere to a safe location, where it can be buried, to serve as either a cache of food or as a brooding chamber for its offspring. The beetle requires no other repast or liquid other than his poop ball; it’s his complete and sole diet. What’s more, he prefers the dung of herbivores, so his taste cannot be considered to be non-discriminating. Carnivore poop is not nearly as delicious, apparently.

The dung beetle offers a valuable service to the environment, by removing a breeding ground for flies and other germ-spreading bugs. This helps improve the hygiene of a herd of cattle, as well as provides fertilizer for plants, after he entombs the cow dung, but doesn’t completely consume it.

The following biographical sketch of the travails of a dung beetle was inspired—maybe even incited—by Fabre’s detailed and fascinating descriptions of the habits of these little critters.

Next time: the adventures of Darrell the Dung Beetle