A professor asks a student to go on a plant-collecting trip, a perilous journey from Sweden to Suriname in 1754. The devoted student agrees, which means months tossed about on a wooden ship while chased by a simmering fever. When the student returns, he still shows hints of delirium, declaring that one of his specimens can produce a harvest of pearls, refusing to turn over any of his treasures to his mentor. What’s a plant-obsessed professor to do?
For Carl Linnaeus, this was easily answered. He went to Daniel Rolander’s home and, finding him away, smashed a window and broke in. Sadly, he found no pearl-bearing oyster plant or any other notable vegetation; merely one small herb which people in Suriname used to treat diarrhea. Linnaeus took it anyway. He then dismissed the young collector entirely, denying him compensation and pointedly naming a minuscule beetle “Aphanus rolandi.” (“Aphanus” means obscure, by the way.)
If this sketch of Linnaeus causes you to view the man as ruthless, a little unhinged and a lot meanspirited, well, that’s the point here. Jason Roberts, the author of “Every Living Thing,” is not a fan of the founding father of taxonomy, whom he rather hilariously describes as “a Swedish doctor with a diploma-mill medical degree and a flair for self-promotion.” But the snark is not merely entertainment — the portrait is central to the main thesis of Roberts’s engaging and thought-provoking book, one focused on the theatrical politics and often deeply troubling science that shape our definitions of life on Earth.
Roberts’s exploration centers on the competing work of Linnaeus and another scientific pioneer, the French mathematician and naturalist Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon. Of the two, Linnaeus is far better known today. Of course, Roberts notes, the Frenchman did not pursue fame as ardently as did his Swedish rival. Linnaeus cultivated admiration to a near-religious degree; he liked to describe even obscure students like Rolander as “apostles.” Buffon, in his time even more famous as a brilliant mathematician, scholar and theorist, preferred debate over adulation, dismissing public praise as “a vain and deceitful phantom.”
Their different approaches to stardom may partly explain why we remember one better than we do the other. But perhaps their most important difference — one that forms the central question of Roberts’s book — can be found in their sharply opposing ideas on how to best impose order on the planet’s tangle of species.
Linnaeus is justly given credit for applying logic and order to science, standardizing the names, definitions and classifications of research. But his directives were based on an often uncharitable and deeply biased worldview. He saw species, including humans, as needing to be ranked according to European values. Thus, Linnaeus is also credited with establishing racial categories for people.
He placed white Europeans firmly at the top. Homo sapiens Europaeus, as he called it, was blond, blue-eyed, “gentle, acute, inventive.” By contrast, Homo sapiens Afer was dark and, in Linnaeus’s definition, “slow, sly and careless”; Homo sapiens Americanus was red-skinned and short-tempered.
Buffon, far more generous by nature, rejected this racial hierarchy. “The dissimilarities are merely external,” he wrote in 1758, “the alterations of nature but superficial.” Living things were adaptable, he insisted, shaped by the environment. Charles Darwin, who pioneered the theory of evolution, would later call Buffon’s ideas, posed more than a century before the 1859 publication of “On the Origin of Species,” “laughably like my own.”
Roberts stands openly on the side of Buffon, rather than his “profoundly prejudiced” rival. He’s frustrated that human society and its scientific enterprise ignored the better ideas — and the better man. And he’s equally frustrated that after all this time we’ve yet to fully acknowledge Buffon’s contributions to our understanding. As time has proved him right, certainly on issues of race and evolution, Roberts asks, why are Linnaeus and his worldviews still so much better known — and better accepted by far too many?
The book traces some reasons — the anti-aristocratic fervor of the French Revolution in suppressing Buffon’s scholarship; the European colonialists who firmly elevated Linnaeus’s more convenient worldview. It wasn’t until the 20th century that scientists and historians began rediscovering the importance of the French scientist’s ideas. And that, Roberts believes, has been our loss in countless ways.
More than 250 years ago, Buffon proposed that we exist in a world full of ever-changing possibility, a place where our similarities matter as much as our differences. Perhaps it’s not too late, this book suggests, to be our better selves and yet hear him out.
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