Song of the Dodo — Vivid Writing

I mentioned that I was reading The Song of the Dodo: Island Biogeography in an Age of Extinction by David Quammen and how impressed I was with his writing.

It’s unbelievable. I could spend all day sitting in front of a computer and not write one page as well crafted as this entire 600 page book.

I’ve included three excerpts that serve as an example of what a master wordsmith he is. I’ve changed the order a bit, as the first excerpt appears after the last two in the book. It’s an example of good, fun writing. But it’s the last two that are truly moving. The last excerpt is Quammen’s exploration of how the last dodo might have died. It is purely imaginary, though entirely plausible. I’ve reread it over and over, and I can’t describe the feeling of sadness and anger that it envokes in me. I truly feel as if I’m there, watching the last dodo breathe it’s last breath.

Today there has been an extra distraction, not quite so routine. His ladyfriend, a bright and serious plant ecologist named Wendy Strahm, is momentarily miffed at him. She has reason to be. Within the tall adult body of Carl Jones there lurks a strain of feckless schoolboy, and that schoolboy had appropriated the shipping box from Wendy’s computer to serve temporarily as a pigeon cage. Wendy’s computer had meanwhile gone on the fritz and needed to be shipped away for repairs, which sent her hunting for the box. Of course the pigeons had shat in it. So there was hell to pay — a little hell, nothing dire, nothing irreconcilable, but Jone’s hell-paying account was already overdrawn. Jones merely ducked his head guiltily when Wendy stormed past us through the compound, and then with a nervous smirk he suggested we walk to the beach.

Now we’re on the coast, and the coast is clear.

Song of the Dodo page 276.

The vividness of the Iversen1 episode is somewhat misleading. The crux of the matter of extinction — the extinction of Raphus cucullatus or any species — is not who or what kills the last individual. That final death reflects only a proximate cause. The ultimate cause, or causes, may be quite different. By the time the death of its last individual becomes imminent, a species has already lost too many battles in the war for survival. It has been swept into a vortex of compounded woes. Its evolutionary adaptability is largely gone. Ecologically, it has become moribund. Sheer chance, among other factors, is working against it. The toilet of its destiny has been flushed.

Song of the Dodo page 274.

Raphus cucullatus had become rare unto death. But this one flesh-and-blood individual still lived. Imagine that she was thirty years old, or thirty-five, an ancient age for most sorts of bird but not impossible for a member of such a large-bodied species. She no longer ran, she waddled. Lately she was going blind. Her digestive system was balky. In the dark of an early morning in 1667, say, during a rainstorm, she took cover beneath a cold stone ledge at the base of one of the Black River cliffs. She drew her head down against her body, fluffed her feathers for warmth, squinted in patient misery. She waited. She didn’t know it, nor did anyone else, but she was the only dodo on Earth. When the storm passed, she never opened her eyes. This is extinction.

Song of the Dodo page 275.