Birds and Man by W. H. Hudson

More concerned with words than birds

W. H. Hudson was born in Argentina to a family of English and Irish heritage. He grew up in South America, emigrated to England in his early thirties, and published his first book in his early forties. Despite his late start, however, Hudson became a prolific author and published about four dozen books, mostly nonfiction but also a few novels (Green Mansions being his best-known work). Hudson was a naturalist who studied the plants and animals, particularly birds, of his native Argentina and later did the same in England. His book Birds and Man, published in 1901, is a series of essays about birds. In this volume, he’s only writing about English birds, not those of South America.

Hudson may have literally wrote the book on Argentine Ornithology (1888), but the books that I’ve read by him make it hard for me to believe he was a scientist. He writings come across more like the work of an avid birder with literary aspirations. What surprised me about this book, and why I dislike it, is because I learned almost nothing about the birds discusses, other than Hudson’s “artistic” descriptions about what they look or sound like. Each chapter focuses on a particular species, family of birds, or bird-related subject, within which Hudson will rattle off a string of anecdotes. These usually take the form of “I once saw a bird do this . . . It made me feel this way . . . That reminds me of a poem . . .” This book is not about the birds, it’s about Hudson’s feelings, and him showing off how he can relate those feelings through flowery language. 

This is not the first time reading a Hudson book has left me somewhat irritated (see also Idle Days in Patagonia). He seems like the kind of writer who one day decided, “I’m going to be a writer, and I’m going to write x thousand words a day . . .” whether he has anything interesting to say or not. Here in Birds and Man he shows no interest in educating the reader about birds. Rather, Hudson is trying to earn his place among the great British essayists like Thomas Carlyle and John Ruskin. One way to get there, he thinks, is to reference poets—Wordsworth, Tennyson, Cowper, etc.—any chance he gets. Despite his attempts to flaunt his erudition, Hudson is just not that good of a writer to belong in such company, and most of this book ends up being an utter bore. 

As a birder, Hudson also sports a very snobbish, know-it-all attitude towards those who aren’t his equals in bird knowledge. There is no sense of him welcoming amateur birders into the fold. Anyone who doesn’t fly into fits of ecstasy at hearing the song of the Wood Wren is a Philistine. Those with pet parrots are simpletons. Those who can’t name the species in their local woods are idiots. Hudson complains a lot in this book about taxidermy. He prefers living birds to stuffed ones. He thinks dead birds belong in specimen drawers where only ornithologists can view them. He hates museum displays of stuffed birds, from which the public might actually be able to learn about and appreciate birds, thus becoming less of the Philistines he despises so much.

One interesting matter he discusses is how English bird species have been driven to extinction or endangered status because so many collectors want to have glass cases full of pretty stuffed birds in their living rooms. There are also a couple mildly amusing stories about a pet owl and some pet parrots. Other than that, I found this book to be a complete waste of time. I’m a birder; I enjoy books about birds, but I did not enjoy this one.

The Purple Land by W. H. Hudson

An Englishman’s adventures in Uruguay

William Henry Hudson (1841–1922) was born and raised in Argentina. His parents were immigrants of English and Irish origin. At the age of 32, Hudson emigrated to England, became a British citizen, and started a literary career. He wrote many books about South America, both fiction and nonfiction. He was also an ornithologist and published numerous books on birds and nature. Hudson made his authorial debut in 1885 with his novel The Purple Land. From the preface, however, it sounds like the book was not widely read until a couple decades later when Hudson hit it big with another novel, Green Mansions.

Richard Lamb is an Englishman in Argentina who falls in love with a local girl named Paquíta. They elope against her parents’ wishes and flee from Buenos Aires to escape persecution. They cross the Río de la Plata to Montevideo, in Uruguay, where they temporarily take up residence with an aunt of Paquíta’s. Lamb has trouble finding work in the city and decides to venture off on his own into the countryside in hopes of finding work at an estancia (ranch or farm). This was a time when a traveler (at least an Englishman) coming upon a country house could expect to find hospitality, food, and shelter. As a result, Lamb doesn’t really do much work at all, but he does visit several different estancias where he is welcomed with mostly open arms. Along the way he lives a bit of the gaucho life, gets involved in a revolution, and experiences other adventures.

Hudson provides some historical context in a brief appendix. You’d be better off reading that first. At the time of this novel, Uruguay was governed by the Colorados (a.k.a. the Reds, liberals). This follows a long period of Civil War against the Blancos (a.k.a. the Whites, conservatives), who continue their rebellious resistance against the Red regime. The “Purple Land” of the title refers to the region being “so stained with the blood of her children.” The territory that now comprises Uruguay was also known as the Banda Orientál. Hudson uses the word “Oriental” quite a bit throughout the book. Here it simply means “Eastern,” as in Eastern South America, east of the Río de la Plata. Hudson also mentions ostriches several times in this novel. Although he was an ornithologist who should know better, I think he’s referring to the native rhea, which at the time might have been more commonly referred to as the “South American ostrich.”

Even more so than many inappropriate writers of the Victorian era, Hudson had a thing for young girls. I haven’t come across a book of his yet where some adult male isn’t romancing a girl of 14 or 15 (Hudson was 44 when this book was published). Even though Lamb is a newlywed, he’s constantly on the lookout for another woman, the younger the better. Such unfaithful behavior is unusual for a “gentleman” protagonist in British literature of this era, but Lamb falls in love with four or five girls or women over the course of this novel. The puritanical conventions of the Victorian novel, however, prevent him from getting very far with his infidelities.

I have read three other books by Hudson and found them mediocre at best, but I enjoyed this one quite a bit. The contents of this novel read like an assortment of Hudson’s own experiences, second-hand stories, and folklore. Every time Lamb moves to a different estancia, it’s like starting a new short story, which may last two, three, or several chapters. One of the more memorable chapters is just a half dozen guys sitting around a campfire telling tall tales and ghost stories. Hudson succeeds in providing the reader with colorful and revealing glimpses into Uruguayan life and culture. This not only works for “tourist” readers like me; this novel has even been praised by the great Argentinian writer Jorge Luis Borges. Ernest Hemingway, Joseph Conrad, and Ezra Pound were all fans of Hudson’s work, and after reading The Purple Land, I can kind of understand why.

Hopscotch by Julio Cortázar

Tragically bohemian Latinos in Paris

Argentinian writer Julio Cortázar was born in Belgium during World War I. He grew up in Buenos Aires and emigrated to France in his late thirties. Cortázar is a highly esteemed author in Latin America, where he is considered one of the groundbreaking modernists who spearheaded the Latin American literary “Boom” of the 1960s and ‘70s. His novel Hopscotch (original Spanish title: Rayuela) was published in 1963.

Hopscotch concerns an Argentinian expatriate named Horacio Oliveira who lives in Paris. He is involved with a woman called La Maga (real name Lucia) who is from Uruguay and has an infant son. The two South Americans circulate amongst an international group of friends, self-appointed intellectuals who live a bohemian lifestyle. Calling themselves, “the Club,” they spend their days and nights sipping coffee and maté (a sort of South American tea), listening to jazz records, and arguing about literature and philosophy. Other than one member who calls himself a painter, none of them seem to have jobs, and its unclear how they survive. All of the club members display a condescending attitude toward La Maga, who is not as well-read as the men in the group. She seems to have a genuine love for Horacio, who merely deigns to put up with her.

At first, it’s possible for the reader to become invested in the relationship between Horacio and La Maga, but at the halfway point the novel takes a turn into another direction that just feels silly, pointless, and a colossal waste of time. La Maga, unfortunately, is the only sympathetic character in the book. The rest of this social set is composed of smug, pretentious blowhards. If your circle of friends talked like the way these guys talk, you’d want to punch them all in the face. They take turns trying to prove they’re smarter than each other by out-name-dropping authors, musicians, philosophers and filmmakers that they think are cool. It doesn’t take long to realize that Cortázar himself is the pretentious blowhard who wants you to think his cultural choices are cool. When the writers and thinkers in question aren’t arcane enough to satisfy his snobbery, he even creates a fictional intellectual named Morelli whom he quotes at length to no purpose.

Hopscotch is renowned for its innovative narrative structure. In a brief intro, Cortázar explains that the novel can be read in two ways. First, one can read it as a linear novel from chapters 1 through 56. Alternately, one can follow a maze-like path in which chapters 57 through 155 are haphazardly distributed between the primary narrative chapters. The reader is directed from chapter to chapter in a manner reminiscent of the Choose Your Own Adventure Books, paging back and forth from one passage to the next, or in the case of the ebook, just clicking the links. Being the completist I am, I chose the longer, more circuitous route. Regrettably, chapters 57 through 155 are mostly unnecessary to the narrative (even Cortázar calls them “expendable”) and consist merely of “deep thoughts,” epigraphs, tangential digressions, and failed experiments.

If your definition of great literature is “anything goes,” then you’ll probably think Hopscotch is a cutting-edge masterpiece. I, however, don’t think it deserves that much credit. Many of the writers that Cortázar mentions in Hopscotch, such as Raymond Queneau and Witold Gombrowicz, were far more successful than he at using experimental language and structure to enhance a narrative, create an effect, or actually say something, rather than merely indulging in weird-for-weird’s-sake showiness. Cortázar seems to think that he can just write whatever pops into his head, and you’ll eat it up because he’s a highbrow man of letters. If the book were shorter, it might be easier to give him credit for some cleverly written passages, but Hopscotch is so overdone it feels like an ordeal, like being trapped at one of the Club’s maté parties.

Idle Days in Patagonia by William Henry Hudson

Too many idle thoughts, not enough Patagonia

William Henry Hudson (1841-1922) was born in Argentina, the son of settlers from the United States. He was raised in the pampas near Buenos Aires. He became a British citizen in 1900, and over the course of a literary career that spanned roughly four decades, he published many books on Argentina and England, including ornithological treatises, travelogues, memoirs, and novels. His book Idle Days in Patagonia, published in 1893, is about his first trip South into the vicinity of Argentina’s Rio Negro.

In the opening chapter, Hudson tells us that this journey to Patagonia is a lifelong dream of his. He has always wanted to study the birds of that region. On his way down the Atlantic Coast from Buenos Aires, the steamer in which Hudson is traveling is inadvertently grounded on a beach. All of the passengers have to get out and walk to their destination, a journey of a couple days. Shortly after reaching the Rio Negro, an English acquaintance of Hudson’s accidentally shoots him in the foot. This injury puts a limit on his birding and botanizing expeditions, and, as Hudson explains, results in the “idle days” of the title. Nevertheless, Hudson does manage to venture out a bit on horseback and observe the scenery, wildlife, and vegetation of the region, his descriptions of which constitute much of the book..

Although Hudson is an ornithologist, this book is not a scientific text. He mentions many bird species by name and gives a sentence or two about how pretty they are, but there is very little to learn here about the anatomy or behavior of South America’s birds. This is more a work of travel literature, and not a very good one at that. Successful travel literature requires that the author give the reader a sense of place in regards to the location that’s being discussed, and Hudson doesn’t really accomplish that. In fact, he doesn’t even seem to care whether he writes about Patagonia or not. He drew several of the chapters from papers and articles he had previously published in periodicals. There is an entire chapter in which he rambles on about snow, whiteness, and Herman Melville that has nothing to do with Patagonia at all. Two chapters on eyes and eyesight only vaguely touch upon the people and birds of South America. A chapter on the sense of smell is even more irrelevant. There is even a brief passage in which Hudson advocates for nudism. Hudson frequently departs from his Patagonian narrative to go off on all sorts of asides, which might be forgivable if they approached the philosophical profundity of Henry David Thoreau’s digressions. Instead, Hudson’s musings are mostly just common sense and personal opinion.

Hudson strikes me as one of those authors who decided early in life, “I’m a writer, by God!” and then proceeded to crank out a relentless stream of books about anything that crossed his mind without any consideration of whether what he was saying would be interesting to others. Many writers, once they’d been shot in the foot, might have decided “OK, I guess I’m not going to write this book,” but not Hudson. As a birding enthusiast, I have a high tolerance for writers who just like to talk about birds. Idle Days in Patagonia, however, left me with the feeling that, if I went and spent some time in Argentina, even I could write a better book about it than this.
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A Personal Anthology by Jorge Luis Borges

Challengingly erudite assortment of fiction, poetry, and essays

Argentinian author Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) is one of Latin America’s most critically acclaimed authors. Borges was a prolific all-around man of letters who published so much fiction, nonfiction, and poetry that no one seems to have compiled an authoritative bibliography of his work. In 1961, Borges published A Personal Anthology, a sort of self-retrospective of his career up to that time, edited by himself. Translated into English in 1967, the contents of the volume are comprised of short stories, poems, and essays—48 pieces in all—all of which are quite brief. Some of the selections are so short they can best be described as observations.

A fraction of the pieces included here are set in Borges’s native Argentina. In such stories, which sometimes take the form of westerns (or in Argentina’s case, southerns?), Borges contrasts the European culture of metropolitan Buenos Aires with the rugged gaucho life of the surrounding rural pampas. In stories like “The South,” “The Dead Man,” and “The End,” characters try to navigate from one world to the other and often find themselves in over their heads.

Beyond his tales set in South America, the writer Borges most calls to mind is Umberto Eco. The scope of Borges’s writings encompasses all of world history, including ancient and medieval times. Like Eco, Borges has a particular fascination for books and writers of the past, of all languages, and he demonstrates his encyclopedic mind through frequently arcane references. Unlike Eco, who seems to take pride in educating his readers on the world’s intellectual history, Borges just assumes you already know what he knows. While one can’t help but admire his impressive erudition, one also has to wonder if many of the critics and fans who praise Borges really understand what he’s saying much of the time.

Many of the briefer entries in this work, fiction and nonfiction, do little more than draw connections between historical figures and books from different corners of the globe and different eras in time, as if Borges were engaging in the mental gymnastics of Hermann Hesse’s The Glass Bead Game. This intellectual pinball makes his poetry quite interesting and enigmatic. In his fictional narratives, Borges defies conventional rules of storytelling. Even time itself doesn’t necessarily follow a linear path, and he often injects himself into his stories, blurring the line between author, narrator, and character. Such quirks feel appropriate in works that touch on science fiction and fantasy, like “Funes, the Memorious” or “The Aleph,” but often feel obtrusive elsewhere.

I don’t know if any of the writings in A Personal Anthology can be considered among Borges’s best work, but the volume overall, in presenting an ample and diverse selection of his work, serves as a fine introduction to his writing for the novice. That doesn’t mean that all the works included make for a satisfying reading experience. It seems as if the selections were chosen for their brevity, and they often feel more like incomplete sketches than fully realized ideas. Borges’s narratives are often frustratingly disjointed, and his style is a little too arty and pretentious for all but the highest denizens of the ivory tower to enjoy. If I had to judge his career on A Personal Anthology alone, the verdict would not be entirely favorable, but this collection did pique my interest enough to want to delve further into his extensive bibliography.

Stories and essays in this collection
(Poems and very brief selections are not included in the list below)

Death and the Compass

The South 

The Dead Man

Funes, the Memorious 

A New Refutation of Time 

The Circular Ruins 

Inferno I, 32 

Parable of the Palace 

The Wall and the Books 

The Enigma of Edward FitzGerald 

Averroë's Search 

The Maker 

Everything and Nothing 

From Someone to No One 

Forms of a Legend 

The Zahir 

The Aleph

Biography of Tadeo Isidoro Cruz 

The End

Story of the Warrior and the Captive 

The Modesty of History

The Secret Miracle 

Editor’s Epilogue

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