Tag: anthropomorphism

Author Video: Bernd Brunner’s Bears Emerges from the Wild

BearsBernd Brunner discusses the motivations behind his recent book Bears: A Brief History. Humans and bears— two species that exhibit both peaceful and violent behaviors—have shared a lengthy history. And the bear has become a central figure in our collective consciousness: many children sleep with teddy bears while some adults suffer from “Bearanoia.” But do our images of bears have much in common with the animal as it really is?

Bernd Brunner is the author of Moon: A Brief History and Inventing the Christmas Tree, both available from Yale University Press.

You Know You Wonder What Your Pet Thinks

Jenny Diski is not an animal expert. Yet in her book What I Don’t Know About Animals, Diski shows us the myriad ways in which animals are omnipresent in our culture—even for those of us who aren’t biologists, zookeepers, or lifelong pet-owners.

The book, which the The Guardian has called “a wonderful and necessary read,” is a personal reflection on a lifetime of noticing animals—from Grey Cat, with whom Diski lived as a foster child, to the pigeons of Trafalgar Square and the lambs, horses, and elephants she visited while researching this project. Incorporating modern science, century-old philosophy, and even the television show Meerkat Manor into her discussion, Diski explores the breadth of the human/animal relationship in a “disarmingly engaging conversational tone.”

Diski’s narrative is remarkable too for its genuine honesty with respect to her own animal instincts: in a discussion of vegetarianism, the author admits, with some humor, that, “I’ve never felt any shiver of disgust at the idea of cannibalizing, say, an already dead fellow shipwreckee, as a rational solution to starvation.” She describes the kosher delis of her childhood and the lambs with which she spent several weeks before they became someone’s lunch, tracing, with believable sincerity, her dual desires to understand the suffering of animals and continue to eat meat.

Even as she expands her knowledge of the animal kingdom, Diski’s title remains apt, for she is struck again and again by the limits of human understanding. Scientific research, she notes, tends to be interpreted in human terms, shaped by our cultural assumptions and our desire to see ourselves—or avoid seeing ourselves—in our animal kindred. The final scene of the book portrays an encounter between Diski and her housecat Bunty, whose inscrutable expression of “catness” is the source of Diski’s never-ending wonder.

Bunty gets another mention in the acknowledgements of the book and makes an appearance in the author picture, one final nod to what makes Diski’s project truly extraordinary. For all her research, What I Don’t Know About Animals is truly a story of love: for Bunty, for her fellow animals, and for the humans who hope to understand them.

Lest We Forget: What We Don’t Know About Animals

Sarah Underwood—

A lot more sheep were involved in my college experiences than is probably typical. Colonial Williamsburg overlaps the College of William and Mary’s campus, so my friends and I had easy access to the reconstructed historical buildings and gardens. Because I’m a nerd (typical of W&M), I toured almost every historical building in Williamsburg, but because I’m weird (also typical of W&M), I more often visited the horses, sheep, ducks, fish, oxen, chickens, and cats that lived outside. Taking a walk and stopping to watch the lambs was a fun—and unusual, or so I’ve heard—way to de-stress. While I was leaning on the fence and staring, I figured that the sheep didn’t, or more likely couldn’t, care about me. But before reading Jenny Diski’s What I Don’t Know About Animals, I never thought about the sheep watching me in return. I never considered that the sheep might be intentionally ignoring me, that their gaze might mean something, or even that it might be rude to stare at them.

Diski spends some time with sheep, as well, staying at a privately owned sheep farm during lambing season. I may be prejudiced, having watched lambs frolic for extended periods of time, but I agree when she says that sheep have the cutest babies of any animals. She does not romanticize the animals, however, and reminds us that even a small farm, “light years from any intensive farming methods, is a factory for meat production”—and she suggests there is nothing wrong with that reality, at least not that she can discover. Her refusal to take a concrete position on the toughest questions about animals makes us reconsider everything we think we know about them. Do we anthropomorphize them too much, or humanize them too little?

Even her “abnormal” relationships with animals raise questions about the definition of and how we understand “non-human animals.” Diski is open about the fact that she used to be, as she says, “crazy.” Possibly her most disturbing encounter with animals is with a species that does not exist at all. As a young woman, she kept secret the fact she was dousing her skin and hair in insecticide creams and lotions, convinced her body was “infested.” Until she started her research for the book, she had never heard the name of her condition, delusional parasitosis. The “insect, lice-like, flea-like, tic-like crawling creatures that lived on” her, burrowing under her skin, probably composed the physically closest relationship she ever had with animals, and yet they were not real.

What makes her relatable—for example, when she describes her stint as an Earthwatch volunteer researching elephants—is the confession she makes in the book’s title. Her encounters with animals are something any person could have and probably has had. The animals in her life have included Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends, a duck in a story she wrote in primary school, and her multiple cats. Whether they are real, imagined, on the television, or behind the zoo’s bars, the primates, bugs, and stuffed toys she describes are always familiar. Our knowledge of animals will always be defined by our limited ability to form relationships with them, something she admits might be impossible. She traces her personal involvement with all kinds of creatures at the same time she chronicles human’s relationships with their non-human counterparts from Genesis to twentieth-century children’s wildlife programs, trying to find connections. What she doesn’t know, we find, is far more complex than what we do.

 

Sarah Underwood is a graduate of the College of William and Mary and a former Yale University Press intern. Her column, Lest We Forget, appears on the Yale Press Log.