Saturday, February 6, 2016

The Consolations of the Forest by Sylvain Tesson (2011)

This book is two-directional. On the one hand it convinces of being a worthy aphoristic successor to writings of philosophic contemplation in the wild like those of Thoreau. On the other one wishes that Tesson came to this a little later in his life: he's very fond of also philosophizing about how a particular type of cigar makes a particular philosophic impact at a certain time, compared to some other type; or drinking himself into oblivion tens of times with various forms of vodka, and seeing that as somehow illuminating, or significant. Near the end he says he knows he'll be back - given how good this is when the above are not being compassed, I can't wait. I want creaking-middle-aged Tesson to not be able to start, or have an interest in, playing these young man's games, leaving his focus far less dimmed, getting further into the colours with which the wilderness floods him (and reflecting on the struggle for physical survival in those conditions, given that he may feel the running-down of his body's energies?) This takes the form of a journal of six months' stay in a cabin on the shores of Lake Baikal, from winter to summer. So we start out in a white world, storing supplies in the ice, treating tiny birds whose appearance in those conditions seems a miracle to titbits of food, forging long journeys out on the surface of the silent lake (except for the giant creaks of ice-masses moving), traversing passes carefully in the mountains behind to seek the lie of the land. This is my favourite part of the book, where he is ensconced for long periods in his cabin, learning to look through the window for hours, watching small changes of snowfall and rare animal movement, reading for days at a time, cooking his supplies scrimpingly. He scrapes a hole in the ice to fish, and so opens up a fresher taste-horizon. Then, as the thaw approaches, the world opens up a little. Wet storms, rather than icy ones, start their ravage. The ducks multiply, as migratories fly in. Bears make more of an appearance, as do seals. And then the insects go crazy - the air is full of them in mass hatchings; mosquitoes particularly. Spotted through this natural history are visits from locals, mainly Russian cabin-holders, or rangers for the national park. Suddenly Tesson's musings take on a different aspect, as their tough personalities and obsessional bugbears make themselves felt. These are a good counterpoint to the more gentle swing of natural meditation, and provide him with food for the more social and political points that need making. I came to the conclusion, near the end, that when all is said and done, his very quotable, very apposite writing led me towards thinking this a brilliant twenty-first century instalment in the mode of Thoreau. But I think that, while this is the case, it is the chance to visit Baikal with him, and enter that spirit of cold wildness, which is my more personal joy.

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