Synopsis
A leading nature writer looks at the annual migration of birds, harbor seals, and shore birds in Maine--including encounters with a kingfisher, a weasel, and sunfish--and discusses his own drive to join the great seasonal pull.
Reviews
An extravagantly lyrical indictment of our desecration of nature from the widely respected elder statesman of nature writers--aggrieved, contrarian, but ultimately self-absorbed. Readers of Hay's recent work (A Beginner's Faith in Things Unseen, 1995; The Bird of Light, 1991; etc.) will recognize familiar themes: humanity's shortcomings contrasted with nature's superior design; the foolishness of subduing and distancing the natural world. Summers in Maine and winters on Cape Cod provide the backdrop for appreciative observations of birds, butterflies, fish and the forests, fields, and marshes they inhabit. Hay has mastered the ecolyricist's requisite reverence for nature and facility for poetic description; his reveries on the sea's liberating effect or the spiritual inspiration gained from the company of barn swallows or the unexpected appearance of a kingfisher reverberate with a Whitmanesque celebration of self: ``The sea calls me out. . . . I would be carried on a wind which is free of possession. . . . I am interested in moving with the mind of birds.'' But combined with his obvious misanthropy in the face of mankind's disconnection from (or worse, hostility toward) nature, Hay's song of himself sounds an off-note between despair and self-involvement. He offers little in the way of actionable advice, opting instead for declarations that are portentous or self-evident. Much of what he says is sound (for example, he notes the absurdity of a planet that values the economic health of ``a bloated industrial society'' above clean air and water), but passion rather than fact propels his argument. The resulting sermon will undoubtedly draw plenty of amens from the choir, but it offers little saving grace for sinners. Moments of transcendent beauty, pretty writing, and a heart that's in the right place aren't enough to transcend Hay's self-conscious straining for a miracle around every corner. -- Copyright ©1998, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.
Hay, seasoned author of both nonfiction and poetry and 1964 winner of the prestigious John Burroughs Medal for nature writing, offers another work of insight and sensitivity characteristic of earlier books such as The Run (1959). In a series of musings on observations of nature, from his boyhood home in New Hampshire to the shore of Cape Cod, Hay reflects on a theme common in his writings?people's loss of connection to the natural world. His prose is filled with poetic imagery: "[the swallows] join thousands of others, flitting fast through the fiery lungs of air, at times landing, relocating and feeding, dipping and rising." Those who enjoy Henry Beston's classic, The Outermost House (1928), will appreciate this work. Recommended for all libraries.?Maureen Delaney-Lehman, Lake Superior State Univ. Lib., Sault Ste. Marie, Mich.
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.
In his new collection of observations and musings, Hay shows again why he is one of America's top nature writers. Here, one of his key themes concerns seasonal rhythms and how they are reflected in wildlife, including the swallows who have taken up residence in his barn-writing loft. Hay examines the mysteries and power of nature in his native New England. How does a hillside of seemingly destroyed balsams regenerate itself? Why such stubborn persistence in migrating alewives? Interwoven throughout is selected New England history, and here Hay's usual optimism is replaced with a palpable sadness. The core problem he sees is that people too often look at nature and ask, "What's it worth? How much can I get for it?" By viewing everything in economic terms, Hay argues, people blind themselves to the strength and beauty of our earth. Eloquent and honest, this is a must for nature-writing collections. Brian McCombie
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