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I must confess it took me several months to read the 42 pages of King James VI and I’s treatise on the ideal monarch, Basilikon Doron (The King’s Gift). James composed this gift for his eldest son and heir, Prince Henry, as a practical guide on how a king should govern wisely and judiciously. My stumbling blocks were not so much the sixteenth-century Scots spellings where u’s are written as v’s and vice-versa (enuie, neuer, vundestand), as my deep unease with James’s unshakeable conviction that anointed kings are tantamount to gods:
God giues not kings the stile of Gods in vain
For on his Throne his Scepter doe they swey

My reading was slowed as well, by the flagrant inconsistency between James’s stated principles and his own historical record. Given what we know of his craving for effusive flattery in the later years of his reign, his condemnation of this vice comes across as nakedly hypocritical: “Choose for servants men of known wisdom, honestie and good conscience, but especially free of that filthie vice of flatterie, the pest of all princes…” And of course I bridled at Basilikon Doron’s description of how the perfect relationship between a king and his consort ought to unfold. Even allowing for historical relativism, James’s opinion of women’s capabilities is here damningly restrictive: “command her as her Lord, cherish her as your helper, rule her as your pupil, and please her in all things reasonable; but teach not to be curious in things that belong her not: Ye are the head, she is the body; it is your office to command and hers to obey…suffer her never to meddle with the Politic government of the Commonwealth, but hold her at the Economic rule of the house, and yet all be subject to your direction.”

As an antidote to the rigid, often troubling views James advances in Basilikon Doron, I turned to Marianne Moore’s poem, “The Plumet Basilisk”, dedicated to a most remarkable lizard found in Costa Rica, southern Mexico and Panama. Also known as the plumed basilisk, this “living firework”, as she describes him, can run on top of the water, as agile there as on land. “He leaps and meets his/likeness in the stream. and king with king/helped by his three-part plume along the back, runs on his two legs.”

“One of the quickest lizards in the world,” Moore calls the basilisk. “If beset, he lets go, smites the water, and runs on it…” In his firework quickness on land and water, “the basilisk portrays/mythology’s wish/to be interchangeably man and fish.” Had James VI and I been more open to such supple interchangeability, conceiving of himself as both man and king rather than god and king, England might have been spared the bloodiest internecine conflict in its history, and the regicide that brought down the House of Stuart.

Prince Henry, for whom James wrote Basilikon Doron, died at age 16, a brave, soldierly, graceful young man adored by the people. Had he lived to become king, Henry might well have moderated his father’s unyielding doctrines on a king’s equivalence with god. His younger brother Charles, who succeeded James as Charles I, was to carry the divine right of kings espoused in his father’s treatise to such lengths England was plunged into civil war and Charles himself beheaded by Oliver Cromwell’s executioners.

Is it fanciful to wonder if Charles I’s obdurate resistance and refusal to compromise with Parliament was rooted in a failure of the imagination? Convinced of his own divine right to rule absolutely, in accordance with his father’s indoctrination, he was unable to envision another legitimate form of governance.

“As near a thing as we have to a king,” Marianne Moore calls the mind’s crucible of human imagination where all transformative thought is born. It is an insight that might well have helped James leaven his own unyielding vision of what kingship means and averted the years of horrific suffering that were its direct consequence.

When I finished my degree at the University of Edinburgh, I kept a promise to myself and travelled to Crete. My dream was to see the excavated palaces and artworks of the Ancient Minoans, the remnants of a culture thought to be matriarchal and peace-loving. I had studied the images of the sculpted wasp-waisted goddess who holds a serpent in either hand; the androgynous Prince of the Lilies; and the murals of the blue dolphins, and of the young female and male gymnasts vaulting over horned bulls. All these, and more, I saw at the palace of Knossos in Heraklion and in the city’s museum.
What I had not expected to see, and equally captivated me, were the round-eyed enigmatic octopi, arms a-swirl, featured on many of the Ancient Minoan vases. They seemed to constitute their own floating world on the ceramic surface, and their eyes, which gaze at us so directly, are full of astonished wonder. It is as if they are privy to some secret of existence that has left them amazed, and which they would impart to us if they could.
The Ancient Minoans may well have been enthralled by the octopus’ transformative powers: its ability to change shape and colour at will. Through a revealing and often poignant essay by Amia Srinivasan in the London Review of Books, I recently learned that even the largest octopi, weighing 100 pounds, can shape-shift their boneless mass of soft tissue to pass through an inch-wide opening. Octopi can not only change colour for protective camouflage, but also put on flamboyant displays of flashing rings, rippling hues and stripes. They are exceptionally strong; the Giant Pacific octopus can pick up 30 pounds with each of its 1,600 suckers.
The Ancient Minoans who immortalized the octopus perhaps intuited how intelligent these animals are. Octopi are readily able to navigate mazes, and repurpose objects in their environment for use as tools. In laboratory situations, scientists have observed them opening child-proof jars and evolving all kinds of ways to escape. They make these attempts often, flooding laboratories by plugging up the valves in their tanks with their arms, for example. Srinivasan tells of an octopus at the University of Otago that shot jets of water at the aquarium’s light-bulbs, short-circuiting the entire electrical system so often that the scientists released it back to the sea. One wants to cheer this animal for the ingenuity and persistence that enabled it to reclaim its freedom.
In heartbreaking contrast to the plight of captive octopi is Srinivasan’s description of how those in their natural habitat will greet deep-sea divers they encounter with a probing arm and sometimes lead them on a tour of their environment. Octopi most certainly feel pain. she tells us, and nurse wounded body parts. Thankfully, in 2010 the European Union issued a directive classifying cephalopods with vertebrates because of their “ability to experience pain, distress and lasting harm.”
The revelation in her essay that most shook me is the sheer brevity of the octopus’ lifespan. Most species live only a year or two, and the longest-living, the Giant Pacific, dies after four years at most. After the male and female mate, which occurs only once in their lifetimes, they go into a swift and sudden decline, losing interest in food and becoming disoriented. The females die of starvation while tending their eggs, and the males fall victim to predators as they meander in a daze.
Srinivasan tells us that early in its evolutionary history, the octopus gave up its protective shell “in order to embrace a life of unboundaried potential.” With its excellent eyesight, acute senses of taste and smell, and the half a billion neurons distributed in its arms, as well as in its brain, the free octopus leads a life of richly varied experience. This comes at the cost of extreme vulnerability to sharp-toothed predators. In making itself deliberately vulnerable so as to be wide-open to experience, the octopus brings to mind the all-consuming dedication and risk-taking of certain great artists. Perhaps this is why the Ancient Minoans depicted the octopi with such wide-open eyes and the swirling arms that speak of infinite transformative possibilities, albeit inside a lifespan of stark brevity.

September 6, 2017

I have been reading John Berger’s Portraits, a gathering of his insightful readings on artistic creation spanning the breadth of Western civilization, from the prehistoric animal portraits in the Chauvet Caves to artists of our time. In his tribute to the work of British painter, Yvonne Barlow, who died in 2017 mere months after Berger’s own passing, I found them staring in wonder at a painting I love which plays a major part in my novel, Hunting Piero. This artwork, which hangs in the National Gallery in London, is Piero di Cosimo’s Satyr Mourning a Dead Nymph. In my novel my principal female character, Agnes Vane, experiences a personal salvation through this painting, both literally and figuratively.

One of this artwork’s remarkable aspects is the affecting tenderness and grief in the faces of the two mourners flanking the dead nymph: a handsome young satyr, and a dark brown hound. The painting’s world seems eternally present, in part because of its pure luminosity emanating from the sheen upon the blue-white river. This flows behind the water meadow, with its delicate wildflowers, where the dead nymph lies.

For Yvonne Barlow and John Berger, who were art students when they viewed this painting together in 1942, it became their “private ikon, our secret logo.” This was a time of fear and turmoil for them, for although the London Blitz was over, the city continued to be bombarded by the pilotless drones known as Doodle Bugs. The world di Cosimo’s painting opened for the two young students in war-torn London was one of rare promise and a covenant of eternal renewal. Like Agnes in my novel, John Berger sees the painting as making possible a catharsis and healing. He conjectures that in Satyr Mourning a Dead Nymph Yvonne Barlow found the source of the imagery that inspired the “eloquent, diverse and mysterious works” she was to create over the next 60 years. Again and again in her paintings, Barlow returned to the image of “the animal as independent witness,” for example, and scenes that posed “the aerial everlasting question ‘What exactly has happened?’”

For my character Agnes, Satyr Mourning a Dead Nymph conveys a poignant mystery, a holy secret she believes the painter won through the agonized yet transporting practice of his craft, and “a belief in something fine and transcendent that lifted all life high above the abyss of bloody deeds and coiling tragic circumstance. Every detail intensified her conviction: the care he lavished on the tiny wildflowers of the meadow; a great heron silhouetted against the misty water, its supple gaunt frame looking so like a keyhole.” She feels the dog and satyr’s shared tender bond reach out to embrace her. And so the spell of di Cosimo’s painting continues through the centuries.

Marianne Moore’s praise-poem to the pangolin (“impressive animal and toiler of whom we seldom hear”) is a work I often revisit for its luminous vision of a world where humans’ relations with animals are grounded in respect and wonder. This exquisite poem was also my first introduction to the Asian and African anteater whose covering of super-hard, delicately overlapping scales makes it unique among the world’s mammals.

Tragically, the huge demand for these scales in Asian traditional medicine has made the pangolin the most hunted animal on Earth, the victim of illegal poaching and a thriving black market trade. This terrible fate would have made Moore heartsick, for it is a genuine love of this remarkable creature that animates her poem. As readers, we absorb her delight in the pangolin’s artichoke-like shape; its patient nocturnal hunting skills, solitary, peaceable, persistent character and the armature of sting-proof scales so resistant not even a lion can bite through them. We feel her wonder at this “night miniature artist engineer,” “this near artichoke with head and legs/and grit-equipped gizzard.” (Because the pangolin has no teeth, it swallows stones to grind up the ants that are its main sustenance.)

Moore’s degree in biology and histology allows her to bring a scientist’s eye, as well as an artist’s empathy, to her meticulous description of the pangolin’s movement and behaviour. We see him “stepping in the moonlight/peculiarly, that the outside edges of his/hands may bear the weight and save the claws for digging.” “Serpentined about the tree, he draws/away from/danger unpugnaciously, with no sound but a harmless hiss.” She celebrates the pangolin’s non-combative nature, as well as his “fragile grace” which she likens to a wrought-iron vine she once saw in Westminster Abbey. Almost magically, the pangolin can roll “himself into a ball, that has/power to defy all efforts to unroll it.”

Midway through the poem, Moore transports us to a medieval cathedral, where monks rest on stone seats beneath spires and roof supports embellished with carvings of animals. Through many readings of this poem, I assumed it was the emblematic animal sculptures that powered the transition from pangolin to monk. But recently I saw photos of pangolins walking as Moore describes, “on hind feet plantigrade,/with certain postures of a man.” With its front legs folded in front and head slightly bowed, the grey-hued pangolin does indeed resemble a monk, circumambulating a cloister in contemplation. I this stanza, she reveals humankind and animals as cohabitants of a world imbued by spiritual grace. The poem concludes with the image of the rising sun, an affirmation of continual renewal in an ordered cosmos. Although, like the pangolin, we are “the prey of fear…curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work/partly done,” we can still exclaim: “Again the sun!/anew each day; and new and new and new,/that comes into and steadies my soul.”

When Marianne Moore wrote this wondrous poem in 1936, she had no way no knowing the wrenching fate in store for the pangolin of the 21st century: “man and beast/each with a splendor/which man in all his vileness cannot set aside,” she writes. Today, however, “man in all his vileness” has in fact managed to set the pangolin aside — to the verge of extermination. Because of the demand for its scales and its flesh (considered a delicacy in Asian restaurants), this gentle mammal accounts for up to 20 percent of the entire wildlife black market.

Yesterday, I read an article in The Guardian (July 20, 2017) focusing on the millions of pangolins that have been hunted and killed in Africa, putting that continent’s four species as much at risk as the four decimated species of Asia. In September 2016, the Convention on the International Trade in Endangered Species passed a total ban on the international trade in any pangolin species. This ban can be effective only with the enforcement of international and national laws regulating illegal poaching and trafficking.

‘I am optimistic something can be done,” The Guardian quotes Daniel Ingram, leader of the University of Sussex research team investigating the decimation of the African pangolins, which found that up to 2.7 million are killed annually. Marianne Moore would, I am sure, have cheered him on in his dedication to save this rare creature, “who endures exhausting solitary trips through unfamiliar ground at night…stepping on the moonlight.”

My first reaction on reading a review of Charles Foster’s Being a Beast: Adventures across the Species Divide was amazed laughter. The idea of a middle-aged man attempting to live like a badger, sleeping all day in a tunnel underground, crawling through the woods on all fours at night in search of sustenance; or haunting the river’s depths, trying to catch fish in his teeth like an otter, struck me as courageous, yet absurd.

When I actually read Foster’s book, what I found was a deeply moral work: a frank and often funny account of the demanding physical and emotional attempts he made to enter the day-to-day reality of four other species: badger, otter, urban fox and red deer. His adventures, he explains, reflect the principle of “theory of mind” — the ability to think oneself into another person’s position; in his case, not just putting himself in someone else’s shoes, but into another creature’s hooves, pads or fins.

His expeditions involve definite discomfort, if not danger. He and his eight-year-old son Tom sneeze constantly as they dig their badger-like tunnel deep into a hillside in the Welsh Black Mountains, and Tom coughs up silica for several weeks thereafter. Badgers, Foster explains, have a sphincter-like muscle in front of their nostrils that prevents them from inhaling dirt as they dig. But he and Tom grow used to a diet of earthworms, which make up 85 percent of a badger’s diet, and come to feel at home in the enclosing, humming dark of their burrow. Crawling through the night-time wood, letting bluebells and bracken brush his face rather his boots, becomes Foster’s norm. Tom is far more successful than his father at following the badger’s scent landscape, even though it is Foster senior who did preparatory work, sniffing his children’s T-shirts to identify which was whose. “My versions of the senses – scent and hearing – were dismal compared with the badger’s,” he says. “I was handling the badger’s world with thick mittens.”

In his venture into otter-hood, Foster is badly bitten by an eel, but still manages to give sensuously precise attention to the river in which he is immersed: “Below a magpie’s nest, there is a column of absolute still. Move sideways an instant, and you’ll be spun sideways and down, faster than a magpie’s flight.”

Living like an urban fox in London’s Bow district, he dresses in dirty rags so that he can forage in garbage bins unnoticed. A police officer rebukes him, upon finding him asleep under a rhododendron on private property: “Get off home, sir, and get a life.” Foster’s response, “That’s exactly what I’m trying to get,” sums up the fraught nature of his mission. Of course, he will always fail to go as far into the animals’ worlds as he would wish. Nevertheless, his venturing brings him closer to their respective lives, and he shares much that he learns with his readers, such as the keen empathy foxes feel for one another’s suffering, their experience of bereavement, and the sounds of mourning they make.

Of the four animals whose worlds he tries to inhabit, Foster feels it is with the red deer he falls most grievously short; and this, despite his painstaking preparations: coating his long hair with mud; not cutting his toenails for several months so as to know what overgrown hooves feel like. He keeps a notebook of adjectives to describe the tastes of the bracken, nettles, sorrel and different moorland grasses he chews. Most tellingly, to better comprehend what it is to be prey, he has a friend’s bloodhound hunt him over many miles, recreating the terror of running for one’s life.

On Scotland’s Rannoch Moor, he wanders amongst the red deer and only just escapes freezing to death after a blizzard strikes, the whiteout obliterating the road that would lead him to shelter. He is fortunate to have with him a survival bag into which he crawls for protection and passes the night flexing his fingers and toes to keep the blood flowing. When dawn comes, he sees that he has been lying against a stone wall, with red deer asleep on his either side. Despite this closeness, he writes that he cannot conceive of the red deer as other than “victims,” and it is this characterization that prevents his imaginative entry into their species, with its “perpetual defining vulnerability.” I wonder if his attribution of victim-hood to the deer is rooted in the fact he once hunted these animals for sport on Rannoch Moor. Although Foster has given up hunting, it is possible the stain of the killing has stayed with him, infecting his vision of the red deer and their habitat.

Whatever the successes or failures of his cross-species expeditions, Foster’s book draws us seamlessly into the process of “theory of mind” and its related ability to appreciate the “interconnectedness of things.” “Shamanic transformation is the natural corollary of highly developed theory of mind,” Foster writes. In my novel, Hunting Piero, Agnes Vane speculates that her beloved Renaissance painter, Piero di Cosimo, may have been an instinctual shaman. Certainly, Piero’s portraits of a wild boar and a deer with human faces are evidence that he too, imaginatively and emotionally, crossed the species divide.