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The Peregrine
From autumn to spring, J.A. Baker set out to track the daily comings and goings of a pair of peregrine falcons across the flat fen lands of eastern England. He followed the birds obsessively, observing them in the air and on the ground, in pursuit of their prey, making a kill, eating, and at rest, activities he describes with an extraordinary fusion of precision and poetry. And as he continued his mysterious private quest, his sense of human self slowly dissolved, to be replaced with the alien and implacable consciousness of a hawk.
It is this extraordinary metamorphosis, magical and terrifying, that these beautifully written pages record.
It is this extraordinary metamorphosis, magical and terrifying, that these beautifully written pages record.
191 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1967
About the author
J.A. Baker
10 books109 followersJohn A. Baker lives with his wife in Essex. He has had assorted jobs, including chopping down trees and pushing book trolleys in the British Museum. In 1965 he gave up work and lived on the money he had saved, devoting all his time to his obsession - the peregrine. He re-wrote his account of this bird five times before submitting it for publication. Although he had no ornithological training and had never written a book before, when The Peregrine was published in 1967 it was received with enthusiastic reviews and praise for his lyrical prose. Later that year he was awarded the distinguished Duff Cooper prize. He was also awarded a substantial Arts Council grant. His second book, The Hill of Summer, was published in 1969 and was also received with unanimous praise by the critics.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 803 reviews
November 25, 2014
He walks around and looks at birds and writes about them real good
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August 7, 2020I spent some time in December on a virtual walk across a ten-by-twenty-mile area, trailing J A Baker as he in turn trailed a couple of peregrine hawks over the fenlands and the estuaries of east Anglia. Of course, my virtual walk was conducted from the comfort of my fireside and only lasted ten days whereas Baker was outdoors in all weathers in pursuit of his prey, and his walk lasted from October to March when the Peregrines migrate to Scandinavia for the summer months.
The Peregrine, first published in 1967, reads as the diary he kept during that period but may include observations made over the course of the many other winters which Baker spent following the movements of these birds. It is important to point out from the beginning that even though this book is at first glance simply the diary of a bird watcher, it is also a novel with characters, setting, plot and suspense, and therefore any liberties Baker takes with chronology, weather and sightings, are perfectly in order. Having said that, this novel is presented exactly like a diary with entries only for those days he spends following the peregrines. He never tells us what he does on the other days, or how he spends his evenings, no personal details are included, all of the focus being reserved for the birds and the landscape. The only explanation he gives for this obsession with bird watching is when he says:
I have always longed to be part of the outward life, to be out there at the edge of things, to let the human taint wash away in emptiness and silence as the fox sloughs his smell into the cold unworldliness of water; to return to the town as a stranger.
Doesn’t the repetition of descriptions of birds and landscape become terribly tedious after a while, you may ask?
I can only reply that Baker succeeds in capturing our interest with the variety of the daily movements of the birds and the amazingly creative language of the descriptions. Here is an example of his prose:
The first bird I searched for was the nightjar, which used to nest in the valley. Its song is like the sound of a stream of wine spilling from a height into a deep and booming cask. It is an odorous sound, with a bouquet that rises to the sky. In the glare of day it would seem thinner and drier, but dusk mellows it and gives it vintage. If a song could smell, this song would smell of crushed grapes and almonds and dark wood. The sound spills out, and none of it is lost. The whole wood brims with it. Then it stops. Suddenly, unexpectedly. But the ear hears it still, a prolonged and fading echo, draining and winding out among the surrounding trees.
Elsewhere, he speaks of a crackling blackness of jackdaws, of hiding in my own stillness, of the soaring of the peregrines being an endless silent singing.
As the title suggests, the novel is mainly about peregrines and we learn that they belong to the hawk family, that the males are called tiercels and the females are falcons, that they resemble kestrels and sparrow hawks but are faster, more intelligent and more deadly. Whatever is destroyed, the act of destruction doesn't vary very much, Baker tells us, speaking no doubt not only of these raptors but also of man and his relationship with the earth; there is an environmental subtext, man is destroying the landscape, in particular with pesticide use, and birds and animals are losing their habitats and being slowly poisoned. Nevertheless, Baker doesn’t glorify the hawks or seek to excuse their violence towards their prey. He does point out however that they kill their victims almost immediately with an efficient strike to the spinal cord, not for humane reasons but simply to prevent escape.
Surely it is impossible that there can be any measure of suspense in a bird watcher’s diary, I hear you say. Nevertheless there is a plot here, and it keeps us reading until the final pages when we understand the outcome of the story. I leave it to you to discover how Baker achieves this magic.
The Peregrine, first published in 1967, reads as the diary he kept during that period but may include observations made over the course of the many other winters which Baker spent following the movements of these birds. It is important to point out from the beginning that even though this book is at first glance simply the diary of a bird watcher, it is also a novel with characters, setting, plot and suspense, and therefore any liberties Baker takes with chronology, weather and sightings, are perfectly in order. Having said that, this novel is presented exactly like a diary with entries only for those days he spends following the peregrines. He never tells us what he does on the other days, or how he spends his evenings, no personal details are included, all of the focus being reserved for the birds and the landscape. The only explanation he gives for this obsession with bird watching is when he says:
I have always longed to be part of the outward life, to be out there at the edge of things, to let the human taint wash away in emptiness and silence as the fox sloughs his smell into the cold unworldliness of water; to return to the town as a stranger.
Doesn’t the repetition of descriptions of birds and landscape become terribly tedious after a while, you may ask?
I can only reply that Baker succeeds in capturing our interest with the variety of the daily movements of the birds and the amazingly creative language of the descriptions. Here is an example of his prose:
The first bird I searched for was the nightjar, which used to nest in the valley. Its song is like the sound of a stream of wine spilling from a height into a deep and booming cask. It is an odorous sound, with a bouquet that rises to the sky. In the glare of day it would seem thinner and drier, but dusk mellows it and gives it vintage. If a song could smell, this song would smell of crushed grapes and almonds and dark wood. The sound spills out, and none of it is lost. The whole wood brims with it. Then it stops. Suddenly, unexpectedly. But the ear hears it still, a prolonged and fading echo, draining and winding out among the surrounding trees.
Elsewhere, he speaks of a crackling blackness of jackdaws, of hiding in my own stillness, of the soaring of the peregrines being an endless silent singing.
As the title suggests, the novel is mainly about peregrines and we learn that they belong to the hawk family, that the males are called tiercels and the females are falcons, that they resemble kestrels and sparrow hawks but are faster, more intelligent and more deadly. Whatever is destroyed, the act of destruction doesn't vary very much, Baker tells us, speaking no doubt not only of these raptors but also of man and his relationship with the earth; there is an environmental subtext, man is destroying the landscape, in particular with pesticide use, and birds and animals are losing their habitats and being slowly poisoned. Nevertheless, Baker doesn’t glorify the hawks or seek to excuse their violence towards their prey. He does point out however that they kill their victims almost immediately with an efficient strike to the spinal cord, not for humane reasons but simply to prevent escape.
Surely it is impossible that there can be any measure of suspense in a bird watcher’s diary, I hear you say. Nevertheless there is a plot here, and it keeps us reading until the final pages when we understand the outcome of the story. I leave it to you to discover how Baker achieves this magic.
March 3, 2015
This is just the most wonderfully poetic account of one man's year long exploration of the lifestyle of peregrines in the unnamed yet I assumed East Anglian area of the mid 1960's. Just beautiful.
On almost every page there is a wonderful simile or collective noun and his prose is the stuff for which fruity voices were made. He does stray on a number of occasions into prose so purple a whole college of Bishops could dress themselves in it but there are so many breathtaking phrases that I could forgive him the odd clanger dropped.
Whenever I read these nature books from decades ago there is always the sad realization that so much of the rural idyll has been lost forever; eg. The number of times he mentions towering Elms which grace the countryside, all now dead and gone after the tragedy of Dutch Elm Disease in the early 1970's. However for me there is also the joyous realization that his dread that peregrines themselves were a dying breed has been stopped in its tracks.
Peregrines may not be as common as Buzzards but they still thrive and hunt and are still here to be enjoyed 40 years on.
A selection picked at random from the pages...you judge purple or perfect;
'Their wings would rise into the sunset like smoke above the sacrifice'
or again ' Beauty is vapour from the pit of death '...no I have no idea but it sounds like an aphorism in the making
or again ' the peregrine hissed among them like a burning brand '
or again ' She clings to the rippling fleece of the earth as the leaping hare cleaves to the wind'
There are loads more. Fab
On almost every page there is a wonderful simile or collective noun and his prose is the stuff for which fruity voices were made. He does stray on a number of occasions into prose so purple a whole college of Bishops could dress themselves in it but there are so many breathtaking phrases that I could forgive him the odd clanger dropped.
Whenever I read these nature books from decades ago there is always the sad realization that so much of the rural idyll has been lost forever; eg. The number of times he mentions towering Elms which grace the countryside, all now dead and gone after the tragedy of Dutch Elm Disease in the early 1970's. However for me there is also the joyous realization that his dread that peregrines themselves were a dying breed has been stopped in its tracks.
Peregrines may not be as common as Buzzards but they still thrive and hunt and are still here to be enjoyed 40 years on.
A selection picked at random from the pages...you judge purple or perfect;
'Their wings would rise into the sunset like smoke above the sacrifice'
or again ' Beauty is vapour from the pit of death '...no I have no idea but it sounds like an aphorism in the making
or again ' the peregrine hissed among them like a burning brand '
or again ' She clings to the rippling fleece of the earth as the leaping hare cleaves to the wind'
There are loads more. Fab
Read
July 4, 2018Thus completes my reading cycle about hawks and falcons ( The Goshawk, The Pilgrim Hawk, and, surprisingly, The Adventures of Augie March). I thought this one the least overtly metaphorical of the bunch and certainly the lushest in language.
It is an odd hobby, to the point of fetish, to spend the day - every day - out in the landscape, regardless of weather, watching the peregrines . . . and the things that they kill. But then you learn this:
Wild peregrines love the wind, as otters love water. It is their element. Only within it do they truly live. All wild peregrines I have seen have flown longer and higher and further in a gale than at any other time. They avoid it only when bathing and sleeping.
I was taught more:
-- Female peregrines are falcons. Male peregrines are tiercels. Falcons are bigger than tiercels, and broader across the chest.
-- While the author did not specifically make a point of this, there are many descriptive passages where one falcon and one tiercel are playing/hunting/soaring together. Not in a group; just a couple. I liked that.
-- An adult peregrine is about the size of my arm from elbow to fingertips. But a peregrine's eye weighs about one ounce, larger and heavier than the human eye. If our eyes were in the same proportion to our bodies as the peregrine's are to his, a twelve stone man would have eyes three inches across, weighing four pounds.
-- Peregrines bathe daily, preferring running water. It helps them with their lice problems.
-- In a typical day, a peregrine will kill and eat two birds as well as assorted mice, worms and insects.
Well, actually, they aren't picky; and the author was fairly obsessed with recording the detritus:
-- found the remains of a great crested grebe . . . It had been a heavy bird . . . The breast bone and ribs were bare. The vertebrae of the long neck had been carefully cleaned.
-- Two kills by the river: kingfisher and snipe. The snipe lay half-submerged in flooded grass, cryptic even in death. The kingfisher shone in the mud at the river's edge, like a brilliant eye. He was tattered with blood, stained with the blood-red colour of his stumpy legs . . .
-- The remains of a herring gull lay at the roadside . . . The shredded flesh was still wet with blood . . .
-- There were kills by the brook: curlew, lapwing, woodpigeon, jackdaw, and two black-headed gulls.
-- two dead herons
-- the remains of a hare
-- the body of a carrion crow . . . black feathers wreathed in bloodstained bones . . .
-- a woodcock rises . . . bones snap . . .
-- a shelduck lay on the mud, shining like a broken vase . . .
-- he caught and ate six worms
-- I saw him afterwards (an erstwhile sparrowhawk). He had been an adult male. His grey wings lay like flakes of beech bark beside the peeled willow of his shining yellow bones and the sunset feathers of his tigered breast.
Descriptive dinner is on every page.
But then there was this:
At one o'clock a pipistrelle flittered above the lane, twisting and diving as though catching insects. None could be flying on so cold a day. Perhaps it had been roused by the sunlight, and was hunting in a dream of summer.
I was happy that there was no pipistrelle autopsy report.
The same can not be said for the dead porpoise, even though not killed by any peregrine. Its mouth hung open like a nail-studded sole gaping from an old boot.
The author is the only human identified in the book and he does not self-dissect. But he's not happy. We learn this not when he is following the peregrine but instead when he watches a seal at play:
Eventually the dark, whiskered muzzle of a seal appeared above the surface, and then the whole sleek streaming head. He looked at me, breathed in, and dived below. Slowly he splashed and idled around the bay and out to the estuary again. It is a good life, a seal's, here in these shallow waters. Like the lives of so many air and water creatures, it seems a better one than ours. We have no element. Nothing sustains us when we fall.
It is an odd hobby, to the point of fetish, to spend the day - every day - out in the landscape, regardless of weather, watching the peregrines . . . and the things that they kill. But then you learn this:
Wild peregrines love the wind, as otters love water. It is their element. Only within it do they truly live. All wild peregrines I have seen have flown longer and higher and further in a gale than at any other time. They avoid it only when bathing and sleeping.
I was taught more:
-- Female peregrines are falcons. Male peregrines are tiercels. Falcons are bigger than tiercels, and broader across the chest.
-- While the author did not specifically make a point of this, there are many descriptive passages where one falcon and one tiercel are playing/hunting/soaring together. Not in a group; just a couple. I liked that.
-- An adult peregrine is about the size of my arm from elbow to fingertips. But a peregrine's eye weighs about one ounce, larger and heavier than the human eye. If our eyes were in the same proportion to our bodies as the peregrine's are to his, a twelve stone man would have eyes three inches across, weighing four pounds.
-- Peregrines bathe daily, preferring running water. It helps them with their lice problems.
-- In a typical day, a peregrine will kill and eat two birds as well as assorted mice, worms and insects.
Well, actually, they aren't picky; and the author was fairly obsessed with recording the detritus:
-- found the remains of a great crested grebe . . . It had been a heavy bird . . . The breast bone and ribs were bare. The vertebrae of the long neck had been carefully cleaned.
-- Two kills by the river: kingfisher and snipe. The snipe lay half-submerged in flooded grass, cryptic even in death. The kingfisher shone in the mud at the river's edge, like a brilliant eye. He was tattered with blood, stained with the blood-red colour of his stumpy legs . . .
-- The remains of a herring gull lay at the roadside . . . The shredded flesh was still wet with blood . . .
-- There were kills by the brook: curlew, lapwing, woodpigeon, jackdaw, and two black-headed gulls.
-- two dead herons
-- the remains of a hare
-- the body of a carrion crow . . . black feathers wreathed in bloodstained bones . . .
-- a woodcock rises . . . bones snap . . .
-- a shelduck lay on the mud, shining like a broken vase . . .
-- he caught and ate six worms
-- I saw him afterwards (an erstwhile sparrowhawk). He had been an adult male. His grey wings lay like flakes of beech bark beside the peeled willow of his shining yellow bones and the sunset feathers of his tigered breast.
Descriptive dinner is on every page.
But then there was this:
At one o'clock a pipistrelle flittered above the lane, twisting and diving as though catching insects. None could be flying on so cold a day. Perhaps it had been roused by the sunlight, and was hunting in a dream of summer.
I was happy that there was no pipistrelle autopsy report.
The same can not be said for the dead porpoise, even though not killed by any peregrine. Its mouth hung open like a nail-studded sole gaping from an old boot.
The author is the only human identified in the book and he does not self-dissect. But he's not happy. We learn this not when he is following the peregrine but instead when he watches a seal at play:
Eventually the dark, whiskered muzzle of a seal appeared above the surface, and then the whole sleek streaming head. He looked at me, breathed in, and dived below. Slowly he splashed and idled around the bay and out to the estuary again. It is a good life, a seal's, here in these shallow waters. Like the lives of so many air and water creatures, it seems a better one than ours. We have no element. Nothing sustains us when we fall.
November 27, 2021
TL;DR: LABAI GRAŽU
Knyga-atradimas, skaitai ir net sunku patikėti - iš kur ji, kaip tokios knygos atsiranda?? Labai dera prie knygos tie pradžioje pateikiami straipsniai apie Bakerį: kad buvo atsiskyrėlis, su niekuo nebendravo, tiesiog vaikščiojo, stebėjo paukščius, rašė, dirbo bibliotekoj kažkokiu kroviku. Atrodo, toks niekam nežinomas literatūrinis perlas, atrastas po daugelio metų, - visai kaip mitai apie LT išeivius-literatus, kur vienas, kad pragyventų, dirba duobkasiu, kitas liftininku, o trečias iš popieriaus lanksto gėles :) O va GR bibliografijoje kaip tik trumpai rašoma, kad knyga buvo daug kartų perrašyta, kad jis vis dėlto dalyvavo literatūros gyvenime, nebuvo toks nuo visų atsiskyręs Voldenas. Ir vis tiek - gal čia jau žanro ypatumas - skaitant tą "naujai atrastą klasiką" apima geras jausmas, išties kaip atradus kažkokį seniai visų pamestą lobį.
Kas man buvo (be proto) gražu:
1. Šiaip atrodytų, kas čia ypatingo - dienoraščiai apie tai, kaip žmogus eina į laukus ir bando pastebėti sakalus, jei nepastebi - ieško jų pėdsakų: gal nudobė kokį paukštį ir nulesė, gal dar kas. Tokia struktūra nenumano didelės dinamikos ar kulminacijos, be to, kad dienoraščiai apima vienus "darbo" metus: nuo tada, kai sakalas atskrenda į pakrantę, iki kol išskrenda. Bet skaitai, ir reguliarumas ir kasdienis pokyčių, ženklų ieškojimas tampa ne priemone, bet tikslu - tokia katiniška būtim, kai tavo gyvenimas ir yra procesų suma, be jokių galutinių tikslų, jokių didelių išsikeltų uždavinių. Iš Bakerio teksto gana greitai tą pajunti ir įsėdi į jo užduodamą ritmą, nebelauki, Kol Kas Nors Nutiks. Stebuklinga - ne tai, kad taip būna, bet kad vien tik to ir gali pakakti gyvenimui.
2. Nežinau, ar labai pajaučiau tą ribos tarp žmogaus ir gyvūno trynimą, kaip rašoma anotacijoje. Bet savęs suvokimas greta gamtos, kaip visada esančio greta, per atstumą, plius nebandymas primesti gamtai savo modelių, jos nepersonifikavimas - tai nuostabus ir Bakerio-pasakotojo, ir visos knygos bruožas. Paradoksalu, bet iš tiesų, visada suvokdamas save kaip atskirą nuo kraštovaizdžio, nuo paukščio, matydamas tą "žmogaus baimę", būdingą visiems gyviems padarams, jis kažkaip tuo pat metu maksimaliai priartina mus prie jos. Gal - prie to stiklo, kuris visada nuo jos skiria, - bet vis tiek leidžiančio, labai pasistengus, priartėti tiek, kad nebematytum jame savo atspindžio, matytum tai, kas už jo.
3. Mariaus Buroko vertimas neįtikėtinas, jį norisi mokytis mintinai, skaityti balsu, vėl skaityti, klausyti skaitomo garsiai, skaityti draugams ir šiaip visiems. Tikiuosi, jis laimės vertėjo krėslą, o net jei ir nelaimės, tai šitas vertimas vis tiek jau laimėjo ne tik paties Bakerio, bet ir sakalo balsą.
CITATOS, BUS DAUG, NEGALIU SUSILAIKYT, NORĖTŲSI NURAŠYTI VISĄ KNYGĄ KAIP VIENĄ ĮSTRINGANČIĄ CITATĄ
Knyga-atradimas, skaitai ir net sunku patikėti - iš kur ji, kaip tokios knygos atsiranda?? Labai dera prie knygos tie pradžioje pateikiami straipsniai apie Bakerį: kad buvo atsiskyrėlis, su niekuo nebendravo, tiesiog vaikščiojo, stebėjo paukščius, rašė, dirbo bibliotekoj kažkokiu kroviku. Atrodo, toks niekam nežinomas literatūrinis perlas, atrastas po daugelio metų, - visai kaip mitai apie LT išeivius-literatus, kur vienas, kad pragyventų, dirba duobkasiu, kitas liftininku, o trečias iš popieriaus lanksto gėles :) O va GR bibliografijoje kaip tik trumpai rašoma, kad knyga buvo daug kartų perrašyta, kad jis vis dėlto dalyvavo literatūros gyvenime, nebuvo toks nuo visų atsiskyręs Voldenas. Ir vis tiek - gal čia jau žanro ypatumas - skaitant tą "naujai atrastą klasiką" apima geras jausmas, išties kaip atradus kažkokį seniai visų pamestą lobį.
Kas man buvo (be proto) gražu:
1. Šiaip atrodytų, kas čia ypatingo - dienoraščiai apie tai, kaip žmogus eina į laukus ir bando pastebėti sakalus, jei nepastebi - ieško jų pėdsakų: gal nudobė kokį paukštį ir nulesė, gal dar kas. Tokia struktūra nenumano didelės dinamikos ar kulminacijos, be to, kad dienoraščiai apima vienus "darbo" metus: nuo tada, kai sakalas atskrenda į pakrantę, iki kol išskrenda. Bet skaitai, ir reguliarumas ir kasdienis pokyčių, ženklų ieškojimas tampa ne priemone, bet tikslu - tokia katiniška būtim, kai tavo gyvenimas ir yra procesų suma, be jokių galutinių tikslų, jokių didelių išsikeltų uždavinių. Iš Bakerio teksto gana greitai tą pajunti ir įsėdi į jo užduodamą ritmą, nebelauki, Kol Kas Nors Nutiks. Stebuklinga - ne tai, kad taip būna, bet kad vien tik to ir gali pakakti gyvenimui.
2. Nežinau, ar labai pajaučiau tą ribos tarp žmogaus ir gyvūno trynimą, kaip rašoma anotacijoje. Bet savęs suvokimas greta gamtos, kaip visada esančio greta, per atstumą, plius nebandymas primesti gamtai savo modelių, jos nepersonifikavimas - tai nuostabus ir Bakerio-pasakotojo, ir visos knygos bruožas. Paradoksalu, bet iš tiesų, visada suvokdamas save kaip atskirą nuo kraštovaizdžio, nuo paukščio, matydamas tą "žmogaus baimę", būdingą visiems gyviems padarams, jis kažkaip tuo pat metu maksimaliai priartina mus prie jos. Gal - prie to stiklo, kuris visada nuo jos skiria, - bet vis tiek leidžiančio, labai pasistengus, priartėti tiek, kad nebematytum jame savo atspindžio, matytum tai, kas už jo.
3. Mariaus Buroko vertimas neįtikėtinas, jį norisi mokytis mintinai, skaityti balsu, vėl skaityti, klausyti skaitomo garsiai, skaityti draugams ir šiaip visiems. Tikiuosi, jis laimės vertėjo krėslą, o net jei ir nelaimės, tai šitas vertimas vis tiek jau laimėjo ne tik paties Bakerio, bet ir sakalo balsą.
CITATOS, BUS DAUG, NEGALIU SUSILAIKYT, NORĖTŲSI NURAŠYTI VISĄ KNYGĄ KAIP VIENĄ ĮSTRINGANČIĄ CITATĄ
Tai buvo pirmasis mano sutiktas sakalas keleivis. Nuo tada mačiau jų daugybę, bet nė vienas nepralenkė to pirmojo greičiu, narsumu ir įkarščiu. Dešimtį metų visas žiemas praleisdavau ieškodamas to maištingo, vietoje nenustygstančio spindesio, tos staigios aistros ir šėlo, kuriuos sakalai išplėšia iš dangaus. Dešimtį metų žvelgiau aukštyn, ieškodamas to debesis perveriančio inkaro pavidalo, to oru skriejančio arbaleto. Akis nebeišgali pasisotinti plėšriųjų paukščių vaizdais. Fiksuoja juos su ekstazišku pasiutimu, visiškai kaip paties sakalo akis, pasisukanti ir išsiplečianti, pamačiusi viliojančius, gardžius balandžių ir kirų pavidalus. (p. 27)
Sakalų stebėjimas paaštrina regėjimą. Žemė paplūsta iš akių, pasilieja veriamų spalvų deltomis, pasklinda už skriejančio paukščio. Nutaikyta akis perveria, perkerta paviršiaus šlamštą ir nuosėdas, įsikerta nuožulniai it kirvis į medžio šerdį. (p. 27)
Į giedrą dangų kyla ruduo. Javai nupjauti. Laukai po pjūties švyti.
Virš sodų, dvelkiančių rūgtelėjusiais krituoliais, knibždančių zylių ir sniegenų, prasklendžia sakalas ir nutupia paupio alksnyje. Upės šešėliai raibuliuoja griežto, asketiško sakalo veido atspindyje. Šmėkšteli šaltose stebinčio garnio akyse. Subliksi saulės spindulys. Garnys snapo ietimi prabeda balsvą upės rageną. Sakalas šauna aukštyn į besisklaidančius debesis. (p. 51)
Rajus, gobšus kėkštas - jam derėjo šokčioti sau nuo gyvatvorės ant gyvatvorės, mėtytis nuo medžio prie medžio, pasalūniškai, kaip yra pratęs. Neturėjo blykčioti baltomis sparnų juostomis ir baltu užpakaliu į akylą dangų. Neturėjo lėtai švytuoti per žalias užliejamąsias pievas kaip pernelyg ryški, akį traukianti žymė.
Sakalas perskrido į nudžiūvusį medį ir užsnūdo. Temstant nuskriejo į rytus, į savo tupimvietę.
Kur jis šią žiemą benuskrietų, aš visur seksiu jį. Dalinsiuosi medžiotojo gyvenimo baime, džiaugsmu ir nuoboduliu. Sekiosiu jį tol, kol manasis plėšrus žmogaus pavidalas siaubu nebetemdys margo kaleidoskopo spalvų, nudažančių gilią žvilgios jo akies duobelę. Mano pagoniška galva nugrims į žiemos peizažą ir bus jame apvalyta. (p. 53)
Rūkas išsisklaidė. Estuarija, nusvidinta rytų vėjo, sustingo į savo pavidalą. Tolumos kentė saulėkaitoje. Vanduo apaugo salomis. Trečią dienos, plaikstydamasis žemėlapiais, jūros pylimu praėjo žmogus. Penki tūkstančiai juodkrūčių bėgikų praskriejo šešių metrų aukštyje jam virš galvos - skubėjo gilyn į sausumą. Žmogus jų nepastebėjo. Šešėlių srautu jie pasiliejo jo abejingam veide. Ir nulijo tolyn, it spiečius auksiniu chitinu žvilgančių vabalų. (p. 61)
Potvynis slūgsta, cyplės skabo jūrinius andrus, garniai stypso šešėliuose. Ant pylimo ganosi avys. Persuk akimis visą ilgą estuariją. Te vanduo išlygina, užgydo krantą, it rūgštynės lapas ant nudilginto piršto. Palik paukščiais knibždantį dangų, tą šviesos skliautą, švelniai spindintį virš lygaus vandens. (p. 67)
Kažkur toli pasigirdo šaižus barbenimas. Lyg strazdas giesmininkas daužytų sraigę į akmenį, tik kažkur aukštai. Gyvatvorėje augančiame ąžuole, ant paties šakos galo, įsikibęs į liauną šakelę kabojo mažasis margasis genys ir, stengdamasis iškrapštyti lervą, snapu kalė gumbavapsvės paliktą gumbą. Penkiolikos centimetrų ilgio geniui tas gumbas buvo kaip gimnastikos kamuolys žmogui. Genys laisvai suposi ant šakelės, kartais pakibdamas žemyn galva, stengdamasis prabelsti gumbą iš visų pusių. Atlošdavo galvą penkis centimetrus ir smogdavo kupinas kirtikliu apsiginklavusio žmogaus įtūžio. Juodomis, švytinčiomis, aštriomis it adata akutėmis genys iš visų pusių apžiūrinėjo gelsvą gumbą. Niekaip negalėjo prabesti. Nuskrido į kitą ąžuolą, pabandė prakalti kitą gumbą. Visą rytą vaikščiodamas po laukus, nuolat girdėjau jį barbenant. (p. 100)
Tulžys švytėjo upės kranto dumble it žvilganti akis. Sudraskytas, kruvinas, išteptas tokia pat spalva kaip ir jo pastirusios trumpos, raudonos kaip smalkos lazdelės kojos, laižomos upės raibulių. Jis priminė užgesusią žvaigždę, kurios žalsvai melsva šviesa vis dar mirga iš ilgų šviesmečių tolumos. (p. 117)
Pažvelgiau į mišką. Giliai šešėlyje tupėjo sakalas ir stebėjo mane, nagais įsikibęs nudžiūvusios šakos. Šiomis dienomis mudu abu po atviru dangumi gyvename tą patį ekstazės ir baimės kupiną gyvenimą. Vengiam žmonių. Nekenčiame jų staiga pakeliamų rankų, beprotiškų, netvarkingų judesių, padriko žirgliojimo, betikslio klupinėjimo aplink, jų baltų veidų antkapių. (p. 117-118)
Žemai pakibusi žilpino saulė, pietūs degė poliarine liepsna. Pūtė pagelus šiaurės vėjas. Šerkšnas po nakties nenutirpo, dabar baltavo ant žolės kaip druska, žvilgėdamas ryto saulėje.
Sakalė nedrąsiai paskrydėjo prieš vėją ir pakibo virš tylių, baltų laukų. Oras sklandyti aukštai nesušils dar valandą ar dvi, tad ji tiesiog leido laiką. Dabar tik padrikai pleveno, vangiai judėdama nuo medžio prie medžio. Beveik pats jutai nuobodį sakalo, kuris jau išsimaudė, išsivalė plunksnas ir dar nėra nei alkanas, nei mieguistas. Tiesiog tinginiauja, skrajoja, kursto sumaištį vien tam, kad turėtų kuo užsiimti. (p. 133)
Joks skausmas, jokia mirtis laukiniam padarui nėra tokia baisi kaip žmogaus baimė. Rudakaklis naras, visas permirkęs nafta, bjaurus, tegalintis galvą pajudinti, iš paskutiniųjų stumsis snapu nuo jūros pylimo, jei pasilenkęs bandysi paimti jį, plūduriuojantį potvynyje it rąstigalį. Apsinuodijusi varna, prasižiojusi, svyrinėjanti žolėje, iš gerklės veržiantis geltonoms putoms, vėl ir vėl šoks viršun, vėl ir vėl atsitrenks į oro sieną, tau bandant ją pagauti. Laukinis triušis, išsipūtęs, apskretęs nuo miksomatozės, padarėlis, iš kurio belikęs tik pulsas, besidaužantis kailio ir kaulų maiše, ir tas pajus tavo žingsnių virpesį ir ims dairytis tavęs išsprogusiomis, nereginčiomis akimis. O tada iš paskutiniųjų nusivilks po krūmu, visas drebėdamas iš baimės.
Mes esame žudikai. Mes dvokiame mirtimi. Mes nešiojamės ją. Ji limpa prie mūsų it šerkšnas. Mes negalime jos nuo savęs atplėšti. (p. 148)
Keršuliai negalėjo nei palesti, nei pailsėti. Tūkstančiai nuskrido į šiaurę, tūkstančiai pasiliko. Kažką grioviuose lesiojo keletas geibių strazdų liesais kaklais ir įdubusiais šonais. Du perkarę garniai stypinėjo upelio seklumoje, kur vanduo dar neapsitraukęs ledu. Turkio spalvos banga suaušo į ant akmens stovintį tulžį. O tada sudužo ir pasruvo tolyn, už upelio posūkio. (p. 153)
Netrukus jį vėl aptikau ir stebėjau, kaip auga. Ramiai, pamažu. Iš trijų šimtų metrų aukščio virš slėnio jis leidosi į sodą, kurio dar nebuvo pasiruošęs su visam palikti. Iš kruopelės išaugo į dėmelę, paskui į paukštį, į sakalą, į sakalą keleivį, į pro vėją besibraunančią sparnuotą galvą. (p. 212)
Kaip ir dažną pavasario vakarą, greta manęs negieda nė vienas paukštis, bet tolimesni medžiai ir krūmai net skamba nuo giesmių. Kaip ir visi žmonės, aš taip pat, regis, vaikštau supamas šimto metrų skersmens įkaitusios geležies lanko, išdeginančio visa, kas gyva. Kai stoviu ramiai, tas lankas atvėsta ir pranyksta. (p. 220)
December 7, 2020
The writing is exceptional. For this reason alone, it is worth reading. Nature writing that is prose poetry filled with synaesthetic imagery. The reader becomes one with a peregrine. I was told the book would infuse me with such a feeling, and it does.
Yet, not more than three stars? I liked the book. All in all, it wasn't amazing or even very good, and so it must be given three stars.
It is extremely difficult to listen to hours and hours of lines that say approximately the same thing, even if those lines are lyrical. The content is repetitive. Day by day we follow Baker as he walks and bicycles a small patch of land, ten miles north to south and twenty miles east to west in Essex, observing peregrines. We start in early fall and conclude in late spring. Each chapter begins with a date. We are told what he saw and experienced that day, and the next and the next and the next. Each day is much like the last. The seasons do change and Baker does come closer both physically and emotionally to that he observes. The peregrines' movements become a dance, lovely to observe and emotionally feel, but nevertheless monotonous in the lack of change. Every day an awakening, play, a hunt and the kill.
I listened to the 50th Anniversary Edition of the Peregrine. It begins with an introduction by Mark Cocker which is then followed by biographical notes. Finally, we get to Baker’s writing. Baker’s lines are followed by an afterword by Robert Macfarlane which is then followed by Baker’s short essay On the Essex Coast. There is a lot of padding. The supplementary material is not exclusive; too much of the information said in one section is repeated in another. The biographical information provided is scanty and repetitive, due to the manner in which the 50th Anniversary Edition has been put together.
The audiobook is narrated by Dugald Bruce-Lockhart. He reads too quickly. Should poetry be zipped through? I do not think so. The narration I have given two stars.
It should be noted that Baker observed peregrines over a ten-year period. He observed and every night returned home to transcribe his notes. He rewrote the book five times and condensed his observations to one year. So even if we are given a date, we do not know in which year that date fell, and thus the observations made are not necessarily in chronological order even if we do move from fall to spring. I do not doubt the veracity of the observations made.
Yet one does not read Baker’s writing for its scientific content, or at least not only for its scientific content. We have here writing that goes beyond the study of the peregrine as a species. Baker has attempted to capture the nature, the existence, indeed the soul of the bird. Baker’s writing is exceptional but also monotonous.
Yet, not more than three stars? I liked the book. All in all, it wasn't amazing or even very good, and so it must be given three stars.
It is extremely difficult to listen to hours and hours of lines that say approximately the same thing, even if those lines are lyrical. The content is repetitive. Day by day we follow Baker as he walks and bicycles a small patch of land, ten miles north to south and twenty miles east to west in Essex, observing peregrines. We start in early fall and conclude in late spring. Each chapter begins with a date. We are told what he saw and experienced that day, and the next and the next and the next. Each day is much like the last. The seasons do change and Baker does come closer both physically and emotionally to that he observes. The peregrines' movements become a dance, lovely to observe and emotionally feel, but nevertheless monotonous in the lack of change. Every day an awakening, play, a hunt and the kill.
I listened to the 50th Anniversary Edition of the Peregrine. It begins with an introduction by Mark Cocker which is then followed by biographical notes. Finally, we get to Baker’s writing. Baker’s lines are followed by an afterword by Robert Macfarlane which is then followed by Baker’s short essay On the Essex Coast. There is a lot of padding. The supplementary material is not exclusive; too much of the information said in one section is repeated in another. The biographical information provided is scanty and repetitive, due to the manner in which the 50th Anniversary Edition has been put together.
The audiobook is narrated by Dugald Bruce-Lockhart. He reads too quickly. Should poetry be zipped through? I do not think so. The narration I have given two stars.
It should be noted that Baker observed peregrines over a ten-year period. He observed and every night returned home to transcribe his notes. He rewrote the book five times and condensed his observations to one year. So even if we are given a date, we do not know in which year that date fell, and thus the observations made are not necessarily in chronological order even if we do move from fall to spring. I do not doubt the veracity of the observations made.
Yet one does not read Baker’s writing for its scientific content, or at least not only for its scientific content. We have here writing that goes beyond the study of the peregrine as a species. Baker has attempted to capture the nature, the existence, indeed the soul of the bird. Baker’s writing is exceptional but also monotonous.
May 12, 2024
‘The—peregrine descended to its prey. The—sun was like a withered apple, shrivelling, dying. Dusk shaded the sliding hill lanes under spruces alpine with snow. Fieldfares and redwings, a few tired birds—A fox calling, blazing up before me in the torch-lit snow, glaring from a grate of blood and pheasant feathers, red and copper shavings. A day of blood; of sun, snow, and blood—Nothing is as beautifully, richly red as flowing blood on snow. It is strange that the eye can love what the mind and body hate.’
Disclaimer: Ramblings with no promise of coherence ahead/below. I didn’t expect to feel the way I feel about this one, but I also didn’t realise that this was set/based on a very particular area in Essex that I hold quite dear (even if it’s just nostalgia fucking with me; I gladly consent to it). Bearing in mind then that my views/feelings about Baker’s work is pretty much inevitably biased. I hated that it ended, but immediately understood that this is not something to be read/experienced only once, and with that realisation, I love it all the more. Been time since I read something that moved me like Baker’s prose does; and also painfully ironic knowing that Baker struggled with mobility/movement as he was composing it.
‘I’ve never taken LSD: thanks to Baker, I don’t need to. His Essex is landscape on acid: super-saturations of colour, wheeling phantasmagoria, dimensions blown out and falling away, nature as hyper-nature. Baker has inspired many imitators over the years, all aiming to riff and rip their ways to a comparable intensity of description. I’ve been one of them. But our style always feels brittle and synthetic in comparison to the original: made of Bakerlite.’ — from ‘The Afterword’ (Robert Macfarlane)
Admittedly ‘birds’ don’t interest me much; if anything, maybe penguins because they are chubby, awkwardly-shaped, and just really cute. I like Maran chickens because they produce lush eggs (for human consumption that is (don’t do ‘meat’ much anymore but I have always been and still am very egg-inclined); and that just renders this ‘affection’ sort of improper). It’s not like orca whales. With them, I can easily indulge in morbid, silly confessions/jokes like ‘when I actually fucking die I want a supermassive orca whale to swallow me whole’ (unfortunately (or at least much to my distaste) I am realising now that that line is very Charles Bukowski coded (if you know, you know)).
‘Learn to fear. To share fear is the greatest bond of all. The hunter must become the thing he hunts. What is, is now, must have the quivering intensity of an arrow thudding into a tree. Yesterday is dim and monochrome. A week ago you were not born. Persist, endure—A vivid sense of place glows like another limb. Direction has colour and meaning. South is a bright, blocked place, opaque and stifling; West is a thickening of the earth into trees, a drawing together, the great beef side of England, the heavenly haunch; North is open, bleak, a way to nothing; East is a quickening in the sky, a beckoning of light, a storming suddenness of sea. Time is measured by a clock of blood.’
‘I shall try to make plain the bloodiness of killing. Too often this has been slurred over by those who defend hawks. Flesh-eating man is in no way superior. It is so easy to love the dead. The word ‘predator’ is baggy with misuse. All birds eat living flesh at some time in their lives. Consider the cold-eyed thrush, that springy carnivore of lawns, worm stabber, basher to death of snails. We should not sentimentalise his song, and forget the killing that sustains it.’
Not only was Baker writing about the landscapes of ‘Essex’, but the part of Essex that I know (perhaps ‘knew’ is more precise, since it’s been time I’ve been back there; in any case, with relevance to the ‘natural’ landscape, there is a particular magnolia tree there that I still and will always feel very sentimental about for no single/particular reason — but that plus the ‘fact’ that there are some friends of mine would make the trip there to visit ‘the tree’ because of shared memories/moments in time (including the tenderly mundane ones) would probably colour me more biased than I already am about Baker’s work) like the back of my hand.
‘The sun shone from a cobalt sky that curved down, through pale violet, to cold and white horizons. The reservoir glittered in the sun, still as ice, and rippling with duck. Ten goosander launched upward from the water in crystal troughs of foam, and rose superbly through the sky. All were drakes. Their long red bills, sleek green heads, and narrow straining necks, led their heavy, lean, bomb-shaped bodies forward under the black and white flicking fins of their wings. They were splendid imperial duck, regal in the long reaches of the sky.’
‘I did not see a peregrine, though one was never far away. I found a black-headed gull that had been killed in the morning; it was still damp and bloody. Only the head, wings, and legs, were untouched. All other bones had been carefully stripped of flesh. What was left smelt fresh and sweet, like a mash of raw beef and pineapple. It was an appetising smell, not the least bit rank or fishy. I could have eaten it myself if I had been hungry.’
In terms of Anglo-landscapes, (taking personal relationships/memories out of the consideration/context) nothing down South beats anything up North (just my own preference). If I have to simplify my reasons in two words : texture and climate. Unless you cross borders to Wales, it’s so frustratingly ‘flat’ (but Masud counters my own sentiments in favour of flatness/flatlands in A Flat Place (the prose is so beautiful I’m almost afraid but mostly annoyed that my heart might bend/lean slightly south-wards after I’m done with it)). Even the sheep are more feral/cool up North (especially the ones shipped over by Vikings (Herdwick); cute, hardy, territorial (basically less likely to fuck off as they please but also would less likely be found mindlessly walking off a cliff) altogether — it’s like God’s biased or something).
‘Spring evening; the air mild, without edges, smelling of damp grass, fresh soil, and farm chemicals. There is less bird-song now. Many of the singing birds of March were migrants, and have gone back to the north. Most of the blackbirds and skylarks have gone, but a hundred fieldfares still roost in trees by the river. Reed buntings have come back to their nesting territories—Two peregrine kills lie beside the river. Both are woodpigeons. One is hardly touched; light still shines with an intense, fanatic blueness from its fish-like eyes. The other has been remarkably well eaten. It is deep in a reed-bed, near a huge pile of plucked feathers; just a husk of hollow bones.’
‘The whole bird looks completely out of proportion when perching, like a two-legged head. One must try not to be anthropomorphic, yet it cannot be denied that little owls are very funny to watch. In flight, they are just owls, but at rest they seem to be natural clowns. They do not know it, of course. And that makes them much funnier, for they always appear indignant, outraged, brimming over with choler. There is nothing funny about their sharp claws and rending beak. They are killers. That is what they are for. But whenever I see one close, in a tree, I laugh aloud.’
All that aside, I’m basically saying that it would take either a lot, something really special, or something strangely particular to come close to flicking my heartstrings when it comes to writing about the South of England (unless it’s Derek Jarman’s Dungeness; and very well-written nautical/fishing (not the meditative-leisurely-sorts but the fishing-boat-in-the-wild-seas-with-a-risk-of-storms-sorts) narratives). Baker’s writing was simply specific enough in enough ways, but also well loaded with all the most delightful surprises. It can even feel rather 'cerebral' at certain points; but Baker also always unfailingly mellows and balances his more 'serious' reflections with something poignant and simply and breathtakingly tender somehow. Always animated but also always brilliantly-directed; and it always moves like it’s written by one who is writing this as if there’s nothing in the world they’d rather be doing at all times (and that’s exactly how/what Baker felt about it all; he surely must be — considering — everything).
‘After the long, almost gradual descent, this final flinging blow seemed dazzlingly fast. The falcon hooked and tore the gull’s neck apart with her hind talons. She shivered away from the impact, like a splinter of wood flying from a cut log. Then she curved gently out and up above the water, recovering control. From a hundred feet up, the gull slid down quite slowly and emptied itself out upon the shingle. The falcon dropped beside it, and began to feed. The flesh was peeled away. The raw bones stood to the sky, like the ribs of a wrecked ship.’
Did definitely consider just leaving this review with a single line of : ‘not just for bird-lovers, even for the bird-indifferent (me, evidently)’. But felt like it deserved more than that, I like how Baker’s writing/work gives Essex a heartfelt, tender yet violently elegant layer(s) to the often misconstrued, often mocked, under-appreciated ‘beauty’ of ‘Essex’ (arguably/possibly marred by a certain telly ‘chef’; and of course ‘TOWIE’ (but this, I love ironically through the interference of nostalgic sentiments). Because of my emotional/nostalgic ties to Essex, everytime I stumble on something ‘beautiful’ and Essex-related, the voice (sans sobriety, surely) of my mates endearingly exclaiming ‘Essex ‘til I die!’ comes to me unfailingly like a lovely/loving bullet to the grey-pink jelly of a brain.
‘The thick scent of bluebells mingled with the smell of sulphur drifting from the orchard. A cuckoo flew slowly up from the direction of the river, following the windings of the brook. He came into the wood, and began his two months of unwearying song. Even if one is very close and can see him clearly, the two notes of his song seem to come from far away inside him. They are still muffled, as they were at a distance. He sings with an insane concentration.’
‘Like the hawk, I heard and hated the sound of man, that faceless horror of the stony places. I stifled in the same filthy sack of fear. I shared the same hunter’s longing for the wild home none can know, alone with the sight and smell of the quarry, under the indifferent sky. I felt the pull of the north, the mystery and fascination of the migrating gulls. I shared the same strange yearning to be gone. I sank down and slept into the feather-light sleep of the hawk. Then I woke him with my waking.’
‘When I looked back, through green and violet nebulae of whirling light, I could just see a tiny speck of dusk falling to earth from the sun, flashing and turning and falling through an immense silence that crashed open in a tumult of shrilling, wing-beating birds. I became aware of my own weight, as though I had been floating upon water and was now beached and dry and clothed and inglorious again. The hawk had soared for twenty minutes; during all that time blackbirds had been scolding in the hedge behind me and partridges had called in the fields. The stoop silenced them like death. And then the only sounds were the whisper and rustle of melting snow—.’
I certainly didn’t read The Peregrine on purpose/with a purpose, but simply an act of impulse as I was straying from my ���currently reading’, casually biblio-browsing, and/but also remembering that Benjamín Labatut had recommended/raved about it at some point, somewhere (can’t remember exactly, so you’ll just have to trust me on this, or not) in one of his interviews. But having said that, (take your pick depending on your own whim/stance) coincidentally/fatefully (satisfyingly timely either ways) Chelmsford Museum is presently having an exhibition of Baker, his writing, etc., from now until the end of the year.
‘—an Essex man born and bred, living all of his days in what was then the small rural town of Chelmsford— (Baker’s work) in spite of their extremely narrow geographical focus, they describe a roughly rectangular Essex patch of just 550km2—Chelmer Valley from the eastern edge of Chelmsford as far west as Maldon and the confluence of the Chelmer and Blackwater rivers. At its heart lies Danbury Hill, the highest ground in Essex, with its glorious ancient woodlands of coppiced hornbeam and sweet chestnut. Baker country then runs down Danbury’s far slope and on to the southern and northern shores of the Blackwater Estuary, there to be extinguished in the dark silts at the North Sea’s edge. Most of this countryside now lies within a commuter belt less than an hour from central London, yet in Baker’s day it was a deeply rural district. Residents of the beautiful village of Little Baddow recall how their doors were left unlocked at night until at least the 1970s. Between the dawn and dusk of a single winter’s day, Baker could traverse the whole area via a network of quiet country lanes. Throughout his life a bicycle was his only means of transport. He never learnt to drive a car.’ —from ‘Introduction’ by Mark Cocker
Baker composed and delivered electricity and alacrity to every line, immortalising his peregrines the way he did, without compromising any ‘beauty’, and without giving away that he was (angrily, but that comes as no surprise) dependent on painkillers, struggling with mobility and sight (life-long, acute arthritis; and finally cancer) while doing it. (And surely without romanticising illness/disabilities in any way) The very act itself (in terms of artistic control and expression) to me, is nothing but sublime — poetry in the very bones of Baker’s text, (dare I say) magnum opus — so elegantly-engineered. And the musicality of the text? A dull, repetitive throb to less sensitive readers, but otherwise you’ll hear the bird songs without end — every intended note brimming with Baker’s unquestionable and undoubtable love for the landscape. Baker’s voice, a deathless breath through the text, haunting hearts forevermore.
‘At the age of eight, Baker contracted rheumatic fever, the after-effects of which would be lifelong. It induced arthritis that spread and worsened as Baker aged, and at seventeen he was diagnosed with ankylosing spondylitis, an inflammatory form of acute arthritis that fuses muscle, bone and ligament in the spine. Codeine managed but did not eliminate the chronic pain, and Baker underwent agonising long-needle ‘gold’ injections into his joints in an attempt to slow the progression of his disease. But his body nevertheless succumbed: his knees and hips first, and then his hands, which were thoroughly stricken by the 1960s: fused knuckles, fingers beginning to curl over into talons.’
‘It is hard to read The Peregrine outside the knowledge of Baker’s double disability: his curtailed vision and his stiffened body. The peregrine was his dream-totem and also his prosthesis, perfected in precisely the ways that Baker was lessened. He chose as the object of his obsession a bird with astonishingly acute eyesight that was capable of the fastest speed of any creature on earth. A peregrine’s eyeballs are designed rather like binoculars, such that images are magnified by around 30 per cent in comparison to human vision, allowing it to spy prey from sky-high – and then stoop on it at up to 270 mph.’
‘Faces, in The Peregrine, usually have something held up to them: some object or prosthesis interposing between eye and world. Imagery recurs of visors, masks, helmets and lenses. I have come to think of Baker’s style, indeed, as a kind of augmented-reality visor – an Oculus Rift of text that enables otherwise impossible precisions of seeing and movement. This is one reason why reading Baker is such hard, unsteadying work. He causes us to lose our usual footings in the world. Landscape becomes surface, unfolding around us as we go. The brain is strained by the dynamism and dissonance of his prose, and the eyes by its uncanny geometries. Depths of field deepen and flatten unpredictably. Focal range ramps and flattens. Horizons lure and retreat. One ends a reading of Baker – lifts the visor – exhausted and exhilarated.’ — from ‘The Afterword’ (Robert Macfarlane)
My ‘praise’ for Baker’s work is admittedly rather ‘cringe’, overly written, and barely coherent; in short — pretty subpar (but unashamedly, it’s GR after all, allow the mild feral-ity), so I’ll have to end with Werner Herzog’s succinct and precise response (when asked for the reasons why he never adapted Baker’s text to film) below for dramatic effect :
“A feature film would be very wrong. There are texts that should never be touched. Georg Büchner’s LENZ is one of these cases. In fact, whoever tries to make a feature film of THE PEREGRINE should be shot without trial.
February 6, 2024
Perfection. An ecstatic meditation. A failed transformation. A hunt for perfection through imagery. Poetry. Lightning on every page. The smell of ozone and blood sticks with you. Beauty and death.
I'll add more later. A couple of his images just absolutely concussed me and I have to get used to this new world I've awoken into.
I'll add more later. A couple of his images just absolutely concussed me and I have to get used to this new world I've awoken into.
Want to read
February 20, 2013So when I get the Higgs boson blues something terrible and I am in a bad spot or life is just clinching its merciless little fist around me and squeezing squeezing something that always, without fail, cheers me up and/or sets my head a little straighter on neck is watching David Attenborough's nature specials- especially "The Life of [fill in the blank with type of animal here]"... I love David Attenborough and like 1200 hours worth of his material is available to stream on Netflix and I can just sit in bed in utter agony and watch a Ring-tailed Lemur or Giant Otter or some Bird of Paradise or even those dumb flesh-balloons the noble Manatee do their thing, or watch Attenborough dangle from a monkey-laden tree and explicate the hell out of a monkey nest (monkey's nest, no?) or show me a bird that collects refuse and makes little sculptures to woo a mate and so on and so forth and everything shifts a little more into a clear perspective. Then I'm just an innocent little animal like those hyenas cackling and devouring a buffalo corpse. It's wonderful that Attenborough chose to do what he did with his life. That crazy bastard could talk a cannibal out of eatin' him. I hope this book is something like that.
February 7, 2017
Un libro arduo. No tiene trama aristotélica, ni argumento al modo formalista ruso, pero impone una estética fuerte, bien definida. Su lenguaje es exuberante pero preciso. Es descriptivo, colorido, cinético, erudito. Se trata de una lectura difícil que ofrece mucho si el lector logra procesar sus exigencias. Inglaterra, década de 1960, geografía baja, pantanosa, del este británico, la mirada puesta en la naturaleza salvaje. El narrador describe con laconismo sus paseos de observación del halcón peregrino. Predomina la crueldad. Hay en la narración un devenir-animal que produce placer al narrador. Es lo contrario del devenir-insecto en La Metamorfosis de Kafka. El estilo es todo en este libro. Es una obra moderna que dialoga con la tradición de la literatura inglesa. Hay una mención explícita a La Tempestad. El halcón sería Calibán y el narrador sería Ariel (página 198), algo así como lo dionisíaco y lo apolíneo en Nietzsche. Es por eso que más que el peregrino, interesa la voz del narrador, ahí radica la fascinación. Parece un libro telúrico, pero es un libro introspectivo. Su condición neo-romántica está cifrada por el tratamiento de la naturaleza como espejo del alma. Proliferan los dualismos. La obsesión por el peregrino, por su temible destreza de cazador, por su inteligencia, por su capacidad para sobrevivir en la adversidad, son núcleos psicológicos que se imponen en la narración. Parece que el narrador está enojado, en fuga. La muerte que reparte el peregrino con actitud oligárquica le genera alivio al narrador. Es un narrador desesperado que identifica la belleza con la muerte: “La belleza es vapor del foso de la muerte” (página 203). La mayor parte del libro es impresionista, describe colores, luces, sombras, texturas. Registra detalles de árboles, pájaros, lluvias, vientos, el color del cielo al atardecer. Hay micro-relatos de cacería del peregrino, que siempre termina devorando la carne todavía palpitante de otros pájaros. El narrador está tentado de comer la misma presa, su olor le resulta agradable. Todo parece moverse por la lógica del fetichismo. Menciona 110 especies de pájaros, incluyendo al peregrino. Creo que este libro exige una lectura densa. Puede volverse tedioso si no se relaciona con la estética de lo que Harold Bloom llama La Compañía Visionaria. Sobre todo, su diálogo con William Blake es notable: el peregrino parece habitar el mismo lugar que Albión, Urizen y otros monstruos de la mitología inglesa. La angustia de las influencias hace crujir cada frase de Baker. La narración se aferra con masivo dolor a texturas materiales, sin embargo nada detiene la transformación. El camino hacia la muerte es implacable. Pienso que la sustancia estética de este libro es monstruosa, demasiado humana. De ahí su sombría belleza.
October 20, 2020
Writing about nature is a perennial challenge. The fact of the matter is that it can be a bit boring after a while to, say, watch a robin hunt worms. And trees do not even give you that much. Nature writers have risen to this challenge in a variety of ways—by providing illuminating scientific analyses, by finding truly bizarre and obscure examples of natural phenomena, by telling heartwarming or otherwise anthropomorphizing stories about particular animals, or by poetic description and romantic reverie. Baker takes the last route.
The Peregrine consists of two parts: a short, scientific description of this predatory bird, and a longer diary of his experience tracking the peregrine falcons in his area of rural England. Baker takes quite a lot of literary liberties with this diary. For one thing, he compresses ten years of observation into a single season. And the language is nothing like plain, factual notes. Rather, this work of birdwatching becomes a strange kind of lyrical poem, rhapsodizing the painful longings of a frail man to become fully natural and to fly free.
The book’s merit, then, must be judged on aesthetic rather than informational grounds. And Baker succeeds. His prose is dense with images and heavy-laden with similes. He twists words into thick knots as he tries to convey the near-mystical intensity of his visions. The dominant emotion is one of desolution and despair. The emptiness of the landscape mirrors a kind of inner emptiness, and his fascination for the peregrine becomes an expression of a deep yearning for a richer, fuller life. It is rather sad.
I do have to admit, however, that I found the emotional register of this book to be monotonous, and the prose to be overwrought. There is not really any emotional or tonal contrast to speak of, which makes it difficult to read the book for long spells. I was fortunate, however, to have listened to an audiobook version narrated by David Attenborough, who livened up the experience somewhat. And I do have to admit that the book had an effect on me, since I went on my first birdwatching expedition (to a park) shortly after finishing it.
The Peregrine consists of two parts: a short, scientific description of this predatory bird, and a longer diary of his experience tracking the peregrine falcons in his area of rural England. Baker takes quite a lot of literary liberties with this diary. For one thing, he compresses ten years of observation into a single season. And the language is nothing like plain, factual notes. Rather, this work of birdwatching becomes a strange kind of lyrical poem, rhapsodizing the painful longings of a frail man to become fully natural and to fly free.
The book’s merit, then, must be judged on aesthetic rather than informational grounds. And Baker succeeds. His prose is dense with images and heavy-laden with similes. He twists words into thick knots as he tries to convey the near-mystical intensity of his visions. The dominant emotion is one of desolution and despair. The emptiness of the landscape mirrors a kind of inner emptiness, and his fascination for the peregrine becomes an expression of a deep yearning for a richer, fuller life. It is rather sad.
I do have to admit, however, that I found the emotional register of this book to be monotonous, and the prose to be overwrought. There is not really any emotional or tonal contrast to speak of, which makes it difficult to read the book for long spells. I was fortunate, however, to have listened to an audiobook version narrated by David Attenborough, who livened up the experience somewhat. And I do have to admit that the book had an effect on me, since I went on my first birdwatching expedition (to a park) shortly after finishing it.
May 14, 2017
I read an article about this book recently, celebrating the 50th anniversary of its publication. https://www.theguardian.com/books/201...
The book is every bit as stunning as the article suggests. It was written as an elegy for these beautiful raptors, which 50 years ago were on the brink of extinction in the UK because of pesticides. Fortunately things have changed since then and the Peregrine is now safe again. The book is the result of 10 years of observation, distilled into one period from autumn, through winter and into spring.
Baker's writing is exquisite and on nearly every page there are phrases and sometimes whole paragraphs that make the reader stop at their beauty:
"Greenshanks stood in the marsh; hoary-looking waders, grey and mossy-coloured, tilting forward to feed over their thin grey legs. Where they were not grey, they were white; bleak, leaden birds, phantoms of summer green, suddenly aloof and beautiful in flight. Slow rain fell from mid-grey, light grey sky. A deceptive clarity and brightening at eleven o'clock meant that the rain was really setting in. For an hour, till greyness covered all, the water shone like milk and mother-of-pearl. The sea breathed quietly, like a sleeping dog."
Here is his description of the Peregrine's flight:
"He flowed across the dazzling sky in one great slash of light, and flared out into the darkness of the trees."
And another passage observing the bird:
"He flew south, moving like a sleepwalker, gazing forward enrapt. His wings just touched and skimmed the air. The sun shone upon him, and he gleamed like a shield of silver water, glowed purple-brown and wet like dark plough land after rain."
A wonderful book, probably particularly of interest to bird lovers, but worth reading for the language alone.
The book is every bit as stunning as the article suggests. It was written as an elegy for these beautiful raptors, which 50 years ago were on the brink of extinction in the UK because of pesticides. Fortunately things have changed since then and the Peregrine is now safe again. The book is the result of 10 years of observation, distilled into one period from autumn, through winter and into spring.
Baker's writing is exquisite and on nearly every page there are phrases and sometimes whole paragraphs that make the reader stop at their beauty:
"Greenshanks stood in the marsh; hoary-looking waders, grey and mossy-coloured, tilting forward to feed over their thin grey legs. Where they were not grey, they were white; bleak, leaden birds, phantoms of summer green, suddenly aloof and beautiful in flight. Slow rain fell from mid-grey, light grey sky. A deceptive clarity and brightening at eleven o'clock meant that the rain was really setting in. For an hour, till greyness covered all, the water shone like milk and mother-of-pearl. The sea breathed quietly, like a sleeping dog."
Here is his description of the Peregrine's flight:
"He flowed across the dazzling sky in one great slash of light, and flared out into the darkness of the trees."
And another passage observing the bird:
"He flew south, moving like a sleepwalker, gazing forward enrapt. His wings just touched and skimmed the air. The sun shone upon him, and he gleamed like a shield of silver water, glowed purple-brown and wet like dark plough land after rain."
A wonderful book, probably particularly of interest to bird lovers, but worth reading for the language alone.
November 17, 2022
Knyga - sveikas maistas.
Labai ilgai skaičiau, bet ne dėl to, kad nepatiko: tiesiog po kelių skyrelių užliūliuoja tie poetiški aprašymai, palyginimai sykiais taip lipa vienas ant kito, kad persisotini, pastebi, kad "nebesiklausai". Tada padedi, po kiek laiko vėl pasiimi ir galvoji – ot kaip gražu.
Apie paukščius ir sakalą – ne ornitologiškai, bet, laimei, paukštis nevirsta alegorija ar būdu autoriui papasakoti apie savo vidinį gyvenimą, kaip tai buvo mane nuvylusioje knygoje H is for Hawk. Ten, kur stebėtojas nukreipia žvilgsnį į save, mažiau patiko, bet nedaug buvo tokių vietų.
Apie paukštvanagio akis:
Apie tai, kaip sakalas medžioja kurapką:
Gal keista tokioje knygoje rasti mėgstamiausią personažą, bet man tai buvo tamsiai rudas sliekus lesantis sakalas.
Labai gerai skaitosi rudenį važiuojant traukiniu, ta aprašyta gamta tokia beveik lietuviška, skatina įvertinti pilką dangų ir traktoriaus vėžių išraižytus purvynus.
Labai ilgai skaičiau, bet ne dėl to, kad nepatiko: tiesiog po kelių skyrelių užliūliuoja tie poetiški aprašymai, palyginimai sykiais taip lipa vienas ant kito, kad persisotini, pastebi, kad "nebesiklausai". Tada padedi, po kiek laiko vėl pasiimi ir galvoji – ot kaip gražu.
Apie paukščius ir sakalą – ne ornitologiškai, bet, laimei, paukštis nevirsta alegorija ar būdu autoriui papasakoti apie savo vidinį gyvenimą, kaip tai buvo mane nuvylusioje knygoje H is for Hawk. Ten, kur stebėtojas nukreipia žvilgsnį į save, mažiau patiko, bet nedaug buvo tokių vietų.
Apie paukštvanagio akis:
Nutūpęs paukštvanagis kiek palinko į priekį, ištiesė kaklą ir apsidairė. Greitai sukiojo ir trūkčiojo galvą. Akys buvo didelės, palyginus su grakščia, paplokščia galva. Mažus juodus vyzdžius supo didelės geltonos rainelės. Jos liepsnojo tuštuma, kuo siaubingiausia deginančio geltonio beprotybe, kunkuliuojančia, siaučiančia it sieringas krateris. Jos, regis, švietė prieblandoje kaip geltono kraujo drebučiai.
Apie tai, kaip sakalas medžioja kurapką:
Buvo likę dar keli šimtai metrų, bet dabar jis smigo statmenai, mirgėdamas akinančioje saulėje, pavidalu primenantis liepsnojančią širdį. Toldamas nuo saulės susitraukė, patamsėjo. Apačioje sniege tupėjusi kurapka pažvelgė į viršum jos besiplečiančią juodą širdį, išgirdo, kaip suūžia sparnai. Sakalas nusileido per dešimtį sekundžių, ir visą nuostabų to skrydžio statinį, visas dekoratyvines pertvaras ir vėduoklinius skliautus, prarijo liepsningas dangaus verpetas.
O kurapkai staiga užtemo saulė, šlykšti besiblaškanti juoduma išskėtė sparnus, ūžimas nutilo, susmigo švytintys peiliai ir nusileido siaubingas šviesus veidas - snapuotas, kaukėtas, raguotas, išsprogusiomis akimis.
Gal keista tokioje knygoje rasti mėgstamiausią personažą, bet man tai buvo tamsiai rudas sliekus lesantis sakalas.
Labai gerai skaitosi rudenį važiuojant traukiniu, ta aprašyta gamta tokia beveik lietuviška, skatina įvertinti pilką dangų ir traktoriaus vėžių išraižytus purvynus.
July 4, 2017
Nunca se me hubiera ocurrido, creo, pensar a la luz del sol que se filtra por las ramas de los árboles como columnas. Columnas de sol. O imaginar a la niebla como un pelaje al filo de los campos. Estas y otras altísimas y mejores imágenes van llenando el increíble libro de Baker, quien obsesionado con el halcón peregrino, lo persigue por las zonas selváticas de Inglaterra hasta convertirse en uno. Hacia el final, el yo que construye Baker, integrado totalmente a la naturaleza, transformado en un ave carnívora, se oculta del ruido de los hombres y duerme en huecos de los árboles.
Hay que decir que la re pegó la editorial Sigilo con la traducción de este libro. Es hermoso, profundo, sincero, perdurable en la conciencia y el espíritu.
Hay que decir que la re pegó la editorial Sigilo con la traducción de este libro. Es hermoso, profundo, sincero, perdurable en la conciencia y el espíritu.
August 28, 2023
Parts of this book are like the poetry of Ted Hughes, but it occassionally gets bogged down in descriptions of the sky and of bird things so removed from the human world that I found them boring. That's probably a failing on my part.
Also, something Helen MacDonald points out in her book H is for Hawk: there's a sort of nihilism at work here. The author writes about the peregrines slowly going extinct and he resigns himself to it, as if people couldn't do anything about it. But the fact is that people could do something, and they did, and they stopped using DDT and other pesticides and now peregrine populations are on the rise all over the world. So the nihilism seems out of place.
The passages I highlighted on my kindle include:
1. A peregrine fears nothing he can see clearly and far off. Approach him across open ground with a steady unfaltering movement. Let your shape grow in size but do not alter its outline. Never hide yourself unless concealment is complete. Be alone. Shun the furtive oddity of man, cringe from the hostile eyes of farms. Learn to fear. To share fear is the greatest bond of all. The hunter must become the thing he hunts. What is, is now, must have the quivering intensity of an arrow thudding into a tree. Yesterday is dim and monochrome. A week ago you were not born. Persist, endure, follow, watch.
2. Time is measured by a clock of blood.
3. For ten years I followed the peregrine. I was possessed by it. It was a grail to me. Now it has gone. The long pursuit is over. Few peregrines are left, there will be fewer, they may not survive. Many die on their backs, clutching insanely at the sky in their last convulsions, withered and burnt away by the filthy, insidious pollen of farm chemicals.
4. They had no song. Their calls were harsh and ugly. But their soaring was like an endless silent singing. What else had they to do? They were sea falcons now; there was nothing to keep them to the land. Their life was lonely death, and would not be renewed. All they could do was take their glory to the sky. They were the last of their race.
5. All morning, birds were huddled together in fear of the hawk, but I could not find him again. If I too were afraid I am sure I would see him more often. Fear releases power. Man might be more tolerable, less fractious and smug, if he had more to fear. I do not mean fear of the intangible, the suffocation of the introvert, but physical fear, cold sweating fear for one's life, fear of the unseen menacing beast, imminent, bristly, tusked and terrible, ravening for one's own hot saline blood.
6. Wherever he goes, this winter, I will follow him. I will share the fear, and the exaltation, and the boredom, of the hunting life. I will follow him till my predatory human shape no longer darkens in terror the shaken kaleidoscope of colour that stains the deep fovea of his brilliant eye. My pagan head shall sink into the winter land, and there be purified.
7. He fell so fast, he fired so furiously from the sky to the dark wood below, that his black shape dimmed to grey air, hidden in a shining cloud of speed. He drew the sky about him as he fell. It was final. It was death. There was nothing more. There could be nothing more. Dusk came early. Through the almost dark, the fearful pigeons flew quietly down to roost above the feathered bloodstain in the woodland ride.
8. I avoid humans, but hiding is difficult now the snow has come. A hare dashed away, with its ears laid back, pitifully large and conspicuous. I use what cover I can. It is like living in a foreign city during an insurrection. There is an endless banging of guns and tramping of feet in the snow. One has an unpleasant hunted feeling. Or is it so unpleasant? I am as solitary now as the hawk I pursue.
Also, something Helen MacDonald points out in her book H is for Hawk: there's a sort of nihilism at work here. The author writes about the peregrines slowly going extinct and he resigns himself to it, as if people couldn't do anything about it. But the fact is that people could do something, and they did, and they stopped using DDT and other pesticides and now peregrine populations are on the rise all over the world. So the nihilism seems out of place.
The passages I highlighted on my kindle include:
1. A peregrine fears nothing he can see clearly and far off. Approach him across open ground with a steady unfaltering movement. Let your shape grow in size but do not alter its outline. Never hide yourself unless concealment is complete. Be alone. Shun the furtive oddity of man, cringe from the hostile eyes of farms. Learn to fear. To share fear is the greatest bond of all. The hunter must become the thing he hunts. What is, is now, must have the quivering intensity of an arrow thudding into a tree. Yesterday is dim and monochrome. A week ago you were not born. Persist, endure, follow, watch.
2. Time is measured by a clock of blood.
3. For ten years I followed the peregrine. I was possessed by it. It was a grail to me. Now it has gone. The long pursuit is over. Few peregrines are left, there will be fewer, they may not survive. Many die on their backs, clutching insanely at the sky in their last convulsions, withered and burnt away by the filthy, insidious pollen of farm chemicals.
4. They had no song. Their calls were harsh and ugly. But their soaring was like an endless silent singing. What else had they to do? They were sea falcons now; there was nothing to keep them to the land. Their life was lonely death, and would not be renewed. All they could do was take their glory to the sky. They were the last of their race.
5. All morning, birds were huddled together in fear of the hawk, but I could not find him again. If I too were afraid I am sure I would see him more often. Fear releases power. Man might be more tolerable, less fractious and smug, if he had more to fear. I do not mean fear of the intangible, the suffocation of the introvert, but physical fear, cold sweating fear for one's life, fear of the unseen menacing beast, imminent, bristly, tusked and terrible, ravening for one's own hot saline blood.
6. Wherever he goes, this winter, I will follow him. I will share the fear, and the exaltation, and the boredom, of the hunting life. I will follow him till my predatory human shape no longer darkens in terror the shaken kaleidoscope of colour that stains the deep fovea of his brilliant eye. My pagan head shall sink into the winter land, and there be purified.
7. He fell so fast, he fired so furiously from the sky to the dark wood below, that his black shape dimmed to grey air, hidden in a shining cloud of speed. He drew the sky about him as he fell. It was final. It was death. There was nothing more. There could be nothing more. Dusk came early. Through the almost dark, the fearful pigeons flew quietly down to roost above the feathered bloodstain in the woodland ride.
8. I avoid humans, but hiding is difficult now the snow has come. A hare dashed away, with its ears laid back, pitifully large and conspicuous. I use what cover I can. It is like living in a foreign city during an insurrection. There is an endless banging of guns and tramping of feet in the snow. One has an unpleasant hunted feeling. Or is it so unpleasant? I am as solitary now as the hawk I pursue.
August 6, 2018
I first read 'The Peregrine' back in the early 70's and it was this book more than any other which was responsible for my lifelong interest in Nature writing. I have often thought that there is a correlation between this and my other literary obsession, the Ghost Story. Something about remote landscapes and the creatures which inhabit them invoke an ethereal experience which is both personal and mysterious. My second reading of this ageless book, which won the Duff Cooper Prize in 1967, confirms to me that this is a work of genius. Many leading critics have thought so too: Robert Macfarlane deemed it to be "a masterpiece of twentieth-century non-fiction" in his introduction to the New York Review Books edition of the book. On the back jacket cover of the same edition, James Dickey states that the book "transcends any 'nature writing' of our time," while Barry Lopez declares the book to be "one of the most beautifully written, carefully observed and evocative wildlife accounts I have ever read." Werner Herzog called it the "one book I would ask you to read if you want to make films."
The genesis of the book came about from the author's ten-year obsession with the peregrines that wintered near his home in Chelmsford, Essex and recounts a single year from October to April 1962/3. The writing is lyrically charged throughout, as the author's role of diligent observer gives way to a personal transformation, as Baker becomes, in the words of James Dickey on the book's jacket cover, "a fusion of man and bird." There are times in the narrative when the interchangeability of Baker and the object of his desire are indistinguishable - Baker becomes the Peregrine, he feels its struggles and lives its joys. I think part of the success of the book stems from the fact that Baker was an ascetic, he lived as a wild animal might, instinctively, without many of the trappings of a materialistic society. The Peregrine was for him a paradigm of the way he wanted to be - free and unencumbered. This is reflected in the prose style - precise, perceptive yet elegiac, elegant and above all, beautiful - this is a book where beauty abounds, and with a style resonant of Richard Jefferies and Edward Thomas at their best.
Baker's only other book is 'The Hill of Summer' (1969), a lyrical and somewhat visionary account of summer's progress across the wilder parts of southern England.
If you never buy another book on Nature and Landscape buy this, it has been the benchmark for all who aspire to such writing from the moment it came out.
The genesis of the book came about from the author's ten-year obsession with the peregrines that wintered near his home in Chelmsford, Essex and recounts a single year from October to April 1962/3. The writing is lyrically charged throughout, as the author's role of diligent observer gives way to a personal transformation, as Baker becomes, in the words of James Dickey on the book's jacket cover, "a fusion of man and bird." There are times in the narrative when the interchangeability of Baker and the object of his desire are indistinguishable - Baker becomes the Peregrine, he feels its struggles and lives its joys. I think part of the success of the book stems from the fact that Baker was an ascetic, he lived as a wild animal might, instinctively, without many of the trappings of a materialistic society. The Peregrine was for him a paradigm of the way he wanted to be - free and unencumbered. This is reflected in the prose style - precise, perceptive yet elegiac, elegant and above all, beautiful - this is a book where beauty abounds, and with a style resonant of Richard Jefferies and Edward Thomas at their best.
Baker's only other book is 'The Hill of Summer' (1969), a lyrical and somewhat visionary account of summer's progress across the wilder parts of southern England.
If you never buy another book on Nature and Landscape buy this, it has been the benchmark for all who aspire to such writing from the moment it came out.
June 25, 2017
Peregrines are one of the most impressive apex predators in this country, but it is one that we almost lost because of pesticides and persecution. They are bold, confident birds, fearing nothing else and can also claim to be the world’s fastest animal as they have been recorded at speeds in excess of 200mph in their stoop to kill their prey. Two things saved them, the banning of pesticides and they moved from the rural to the urban environment, skyscrapers replacing the cliff top eyries.
Half a century ago, J.A. Baker first published this book on these magnificent birds. The book is written as a diary, with him following on foot and bicycle a tiercel and a falcon pair over the winter over the fields and fens of Essex, he would note on his OS maps when he saw them, the prey that they had caught, and general notes on the weather and sky. What started as a fascination with all of the raptors in the region, rapidly became a passion before becoming a complete obsession. He learnt the peregrines habits, sought out their roosts and before long his knowledge of them grew to become an innate ability to know where and when they would appear.
This is the second time I have read The Peregrine, the first time was back in 2011. Since then I have managed to work my way through an awful lot of natural history books by a lot of authors, a lot of which have been good, all the authors have been passionate about their chosen subject, but none have had that obsession that Baker has. What also strikes me about this book though, is just how sharp it still is, Baker writes with brevity, precision and a style that is quite unique and uncompromising. It pulls no punches either, this in not a sanitised volume on the grace and power of the raptor, you will hear a lot about the remains of their meals is all the gory detail. What you do get though is an observer who completely understands his subject describing that moment when they stop soaring about the fens and start the hunt to the sheer adrenaline of the stoop. It is a snapshot of the time when the peregrine was on the edge of the abyss, somewhat abated now, but not completely safe. If you have not read this before then this 50th-anniversary edition with the thoughts of two other great writers, Mark Cocker and Robert Macfarlane included, is a great place to start.
Half a century ago, J.A. Baker first published this book on these magnificent birds. The book is written as a diary, with him following on foot and bicycle a tiercel and a falcon pair over the winter over the fields and fens of Essex, he would note on his OS maps when he saw them, the prey that they had caught, and general notes on the weather and sky. What started as a fascination with all of the raptors in the region, rapidly became a passion before becoming a complete obsession. He learnt the peregrines habits, sought out their roosts and before long his knowledge of them grew to become an innate ability to know where and when they would appear.
This is the second time I have read The Peregrine, the first time was back in 2011. Since then I have managed to work my way through an awful lot of natural history books by a lot of authors, a lot of which have been good, all the authors have been passionate about their chosen subject, but none have had that obsession that Baker has. What also strikes me about this book though, is just how sharp it still is, Baker writes with brevity, precision and a style that is quite unique and uncompromising. It pulls no punches either, this in not a sanitised volume on the grace and power of the raptor, you will hear a lot about the remains of their meals is all the gory detail. What you do get though is an observer who completely understands his subject describing that moment when they stop soaring about the fens and start the hunt to the sheer adrenaline of the stoop. It is a snapshot of the time when the peregrine was on the edge of the abyss, somewhat abated now, but not completely safe. If you have not read this before then this 50th-anniversary edition with the thoughts of two other great writers, Mark Cocker and Robert Macfarlane included, is a great place to start.
January 2, 2013
this book will go in my best books I ever read shelf, and I will read it again and again. It will sit right beside Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. The Peregrine is J.A. Baker's season walking beneath, watching, learning from, hearing, and being a part of wild nature. He trailed peregrines in eastern England, down by the bottom of the country over ploughed fields, estuaries, woodland paths, fields, farms, towns, and in the process also watched and was part with hundreds of other birds, field animals, flora, sky, and weather. His following of peregrines was for 10 years, but he recorded the experience as one year, and it would appear to be 1966 or 1967. At that time they were becoming threatened/endangered by pesticide usage. Thank God some sense came to some humans and pesticides are not (in some places) prevalent and so clear and present a danger as once they were.
Being completely private (some believe he died in 1986, others are not so sure. Very little is known about him, and what is claimed includes conflicting information)he courageously exposed his guts to all who would read this book. You read this book and you know a large part of his heart, but the man is invisible, since we, how are not anyone but ourself, see only tge coat, the skin, never the guts. He could walk among a town who have all read his book and be unknown, so free.
The precision and pictures of his descriptions are peerless. I see it all, I feel the breeze pick up, the sun warm my eyelids, the grass soften my steps. I am agape at the powerful V of the peregrine falcon's wings pulling her high, fast, creating a smoke of fearful fieldfares. IF you read this book, and I hope you do, be sure to keep a bird book beside you. You'll be referring to it constantly and learning, learning, learning, and breathing, breathing, breathing.
Being completely private (some believe he died in 1986, others are not so sure. Very little is known about him, and what is claimed includes conflicting information)he courageously exposed his guts to all who would read this book. You read this book and you know a large part of his heart, but the man is invisible, since we, how are not anyone but ourself, see only tge coat, the skin, never the guts. He could walk among a town who have all read his book and be unknown, so free.
The precision and pictures of his descriptions are peerless. I see it all, I feel the breeze pick up, the sun warm my eyelids, the grass soften my steps. I am agape at the powerful V of the peregrine falcon's wings pulling her high, fast, creating a smoke of fearful fieldfares. IF you read this book, and I hope you do, be sure to keep a bird book beside you. You'll be referring to it constantly and learning, learning, learning, and breathing, breathing, breathing.
March 6, 2022
Nemeluosiu. Kankinausi. Su ilgom pertraukom. Ir jokio svaigaus skrydžio, o daugiau žiaurumo. Dar galvojau, kiek reikia turėti kantrybės (o gal pamišimo) šitaip stebėti sakalus.
Gerai gerai, galime sakyti, kaip fainiai ir poetiškai aprašyta (ne)nuobodi gamta. Veiksmas slepiasi medžių lajose, veiksmas už žolės kuokšto ir ramiam vandeny. Mikroskopinis pasaulis ant žemės ir didybė danguje.
Ar apie sakalus ką nors sužinojau? Ne.
Nemėgau biologijos pamokos. Nesimokiau, prieštaraudavau mokytojui, už parašytą savo, gimnazistės, vardą, pavardę ir užduotą klausimą per kontrolinius rinkdavausi balus.
Gal tik tiek ir tesugebėjau įskaityti.? J. A. Baker, atsiprašau, bet knygoje sakalas stebi ir stebi, sakalas pakyla, sakalas šauna žemyn/į šoną/į viršų, sakalas pačiumpa grobį, sakalas sulesa (labiau žiauriai suėda), sakalas pakakoja, lieka sakalo kakutis su plunksnomis ir akmenukais (reikia dėl virškinimo - vis dėl to sužinojau kažką), sakalas dingta. J. A. Baker eina namo. Skyrius baigtas. Knyga baigta.
p.s. ir vis dėl to iš principo laikiau biologijos valstybinį. Tarp kitko, gerai pavariau.
p.p.s. taip taip galime dar padiskutuoti apie gyvenimą ir mirtį, bet tiek to.
Gerai gerai, galime sakyti, kaip fainiai ir poetiškai aprašyta (ne)nuobodi gamta. Veiksmas slepiasi medžių lajose, veiksmas už žolės kuokšto ir ramiam vandeny. Mikroskopinis pasaulis ant žemės ir didybė danguje.
Ar apie sakalus ką nors sužinojau? Ne.
Nemėgau biologijos pamokos. Nesimokiau, prieštaraudavau mokytojui, už parašytą savo, gimnazistės, vardą, pavardę ir užduotą klausimą per kontrolinius rinkdavausi balus.
Gal tik tiek ir tesugebėjau įskaityti.? J. A. Baker, atsiprašau, bet knygoje sakalas stebi ir stebi, sakalas pakyla, sakalas šauna žemyn/į šoną/į viršų, sakalas pačiumpa grobį, sakalas sulesa (labiau žiauriai suėda), sakalas pakakoja, lieka sakalo kakutis su plunksnomis ir akmenukais (reikia dėl virškinimo - vis dėl to sužinojau kažką), sakalas dingta. J. A. Baker eina namo. Skyrius baigtas. Knyga baigta.
p.s. ir vis dėl to iš principo laikiau biologijos valstybinį. Tarp kitko, gerai pavariau.
p.p.s. taip taip galime dar padiskutuoti apie gyvenimą ir mirtį, bet tiek to.
October 12, 2019
"A hawk's kill is like the warm embers of a dying fire."
Like T.H. White's supreme The Goshawk (strangely never mentioned in any connection whatsoever in all that I've read about it), Baker's book is simple:
Guy watches hawk.
Now, there is a danger of oversimplification here, since Baker, at the time suffering from a debilitating arthritic condition that would eventually kill him, writes of spending six long months wandering the coast of East Anglia watching peregrines in action in a language so evocative, terse, and beautiful, that it comes across almost as crude and sudden as a falcon's stoop. But it is an attempt to know something wild by becoming as close to wild as one can. The book is little more than Baker's poetic invocation of that attempt.
Likely one of the best things you'll ever read.
"Wild things are truly alive only in the place they belong."
Like T.H. White's supreme The Goshawk (strangely never mentioned in any connection whatsoever in all that I've read about it), Baker's book is simple:
Guy watches hawk.
Now, there is a danger of oversimplification here, since Baker, at the time suffering from a debilitating arthritic condition that would eventually kill him, writes of spending six long months wandering the coast of East Anglia watching peregrines in action in a language so evocative, terse, and beautiful, that it comes across almost as crude and sudden as a falcon's stoop. But it is an attempt to know something wild by becoming as close to wild as one can. The book is little more than Baker's poetic invocation of that attempt.
Likely one of the best things you'll ever read.
"Wild things are truly alive only in the place they belong."
June 22, 2021
Nature writing can get woefully frustrating for someone like me who, despite my best attempts, is very teleological in my reading (and sadly, thinking). I always want to know what the point is. But nature, of course, doesn’t have a point - and so neither can nature writing. Books written about nature - and by people who appreciate nature, such as birdwatchers - reward more those interested in aesthetic and emotive experiences; those who have developed a poetic sensibility and a quality of attentiveness that allows them to be fascinated by minutiae; people who could stand for thirty minutes and look at a bird laying dead on the ground, and analyze it, think about it, appreciate the beauty and destruction, all without getting bored or asking how, in the grand scheme of things, that experience is important in their lives. I am, to my detriment, not one of these people, so I know that I did this book a disservice.
Nevertheless, the foreword and afterword, and Baker’s own introduction, provided some context for someone like me. They made it possible for me to at least understand where the book was coming from even if, in the end, I would not end up being as great a fan of it as it seems everyone else I know who has read it is.
In 1940, the British government issued an edict that all “peregrine falcons” were to be killed (as I have learned from Baker, the taxonomy is complicated: Peregrines belong to the Falcon genus, so all peregrines are technically falcons, but within the birding community, only female hawks are known as “falcons” - male peregrines are called “tiercels”). The reason was that peregrines hunted and killed particular kinds of homing pigeons, and pigeons were absolutely necessary in the war effort against the Nazis since, whenever tech failed, they were what were relied on to pass messages.
To continue the decimation of peregrines in England, the profusion of agrochemicals, most notably DDT, in the 1950s, when Baker’s fascination with birding began, meant that if things continued that way, peregrines would soon have become extinct in England. As Baker says at the beginning of his writing, “For ten years I followed the peregrine. I was possessed by it. It was a grail to me. Now it has gone. The long pursuit is over. Few peregrines are left, there will be fewer, they may not survive. Many die on their backs, clutching insanely at the sky in their last convulsions, withered and burnt away by the filthy, insidious pollen of farm chemicals”. The purpose of Baker’s book, as he saw it then, was, before it was too late, to try to “ recapture the extraordinary beauty of this bird and to convey the wonder of the land he lived in, a land to me as profuse and glorious as Africa. It is a dying world, like Mars, but glowing still.”
A few facts about peregrines: The peregrine is the fastest animal in existence (that we know of): it’s stoop (or swoop - they mean the same thing), a high speed dive, usually while hunting, can reach 320 km per hour. Peregrines have some of the most powerful eyesight of any animal. Peregrines exhibit sexual dimorphism, with female falcons being larger and heavier than male tiercels. Peregrines eat mostly medium sized birds, but they are not particularly discerning in their tastes. For peregrines, the more available a particular species of medium sized bird is, the more commonly that bird will be eaten. Per Baker’s observations, the most common prey for peregrines include woodpigeons, black-headed gulls, lapwings, wigeons, partridges, fieldfare, moorhens, curlews, golden plovers, rooks, waders, ducks and corvids. Most of the peregrine’s day is spent hunting or sleeping. But they’ll also set aside time for a bath, every single day. When bathing, they showcase a preference for small ponds and shallow brooks, with undergrowth that somewhat resembles their feathers, providing some camouflage.
Peregrines are understandably naturally averse to humans. To successfully watch them then, humans have to blend in as much as possible. Baker says that to successfully watch them over the ten years that he did, he had to imitate the hawk so much as to basically become it; to almost quit being a man - “I was imitating the movements of a hawk, as in some primitive ritual; the hunter becoming the thing he hunts. I looked into the wood. In a lair of shadow the peregrine was crouching, watching me, gripping the neck of a dead branch. We live, in these days in the open, the same ecstatic fearful life. We shun men. We hate their suddenly uplifted arms, the insanity of their flailing gestures, their erratic scissoring gait, their aimless stumbling ways, the tombstone whiteness of their faces.”
I think, what kept me going till I finished this book, despite it not being the kind of book I would usually read, was just Baker’s writing. It was, in every line, poetry masquerading as prose! It was violent but beautiful; precise yet affecting in a literary sense; descriptive yet also somehow metaphorical. Whenever he described a hawk or its kill, the Essex countryside, an owl he came across, my mind could’t help it; it conjured what I imagine to be the very precise image he was talking about. At the same time it extended to something grander, almost a witnessing of the magnitude of nature. And when he was not being vivid in his descriptions, he was being reflective in a way that was just as image provoking. Here, for example, is how he describes how he came to be a birder: ““I came late to the love of birds. For years I saw them only as a tremor at the edge of vision. They know suffering and joy in simple states not possible for us. Their lives quicken and warm to a pulse our hearts can never reach. They race to oblivion. They are old before we have finished growing.”
I wouldn’t issue a wholesale recommendation of this book. But for a particular person (unalike myself) - the poet, the contemplative person; someone who can nurse a thought, an emotion, a sensation, an affecting sight for a while, and not be downgraded into levity, - this book might be one of the best things they read.
Nevertheless, the foreword and afterword, and Baker’s own introduction, provided some context for someone like me. They made it possible for me to at least understand where the book was coming from even if, in the end, I would not end up being as great a fan of it as it seems everyone else I know who has read it is.
In 1940, the British government issued an edict that all “peregrine falcons” were to be killed (as I have learned from Baker, the taxonomy is complicated: Peregrines belong to the Falcon genus, so all peregrines are technically falcons, but within the birding community, only female hawks are known as “falcons” - male peregrines are called “tiercels”). The reason was that peregrines hunted and killed particular kinds of homing pigeons, and pigeons were absolutely necessary in the war effort against the Nazis since, whenever tech failed, they were what were relied on to pass messages.
To continue the decimation of peregrines in England, the profusion of agrochemicals, most notably DDT, in the 1950s, when Baker’s fascination with birding began, meant that if things continued that way, peregrines would soon have become extinct in England. As Baker says at the beginning of his writing, “For ten years I followed the peregrine. I was possessed by it. It was a grail to me. Now it has gone. The long pursuit is over. Few peregrines are left, there will be fewer, they may not survive. Many die on their backs, clutching insanely at the sky in their last convulsions, withered and burnt away by the filthy, insidious pollen of farm chemicals”. The purpose of Baker’s book, as he saw it then, was, before it was too late, to try to “ recapture the extraordinary beauty of this bird and to convey the wonder of the land he lived in, a land to me as profuse and glorious as Africa. It is a dying world, like Mars, but glowing still.”
A few facts about peregrines: The peregrine is the fastest animal in existence (that we know of): it’s stoop (or swoop - they mean the same thing), a high speed dive, usually while hunting, can reach 320 km per hour. Peregrines have some of the most powerful eyesight of any animal. Peregrines exhibit sexual dimorphism, with female falcons being larger and heavier than male tiercels. Peregrines eat mostly medium sized birds, but they are not particularly discerning in their tastes. For peregrines, the more available a particular species of medium sized bird is, the more commonly that bird will be eaten. Per Baker’s observations, the most common prey for peregrines include woodpigeons, black-headed gulls, lapwings, wigeons, partridges, fieldfare, moorhens, curlews, golden plovers, rooks, waders, ducks and corvids. Most of the peregrine’s day is spent hunting or sleeping. But they’ll also set aside time for a bath, every single day. When bathing, they showcase a preference for small ponds and shallow brooks, with undergrowth that somewhat resembles their feathers, providing some camouflage.
Peregrines are understandably naturally averse to humans. To successfully watch them then, humans have to blend in as much as possible. Baker says that to successfully watch them over the ten years that he did, he had to imitate the hawk so much as to basically become it; to almost quit being a man - “I was imitating the movements of a hawk, as in some primitive ritual; the hunter becoming the thing he hunts. I looked into the wood. In a lair of shadow the peregrine was crouching, watching me, gripping the neck of a dead branch. We live, in these days in the open, the same ecstatic fearful life. We shun men. We hate their suddenly uplifted arms, the insanity of their flailing gestures, their erratic scissoring gait, their aimless stumbling ways, the tombstone whiteness of their faces.”
I think, what kept me going till I finished this book, despite it not being the kind of book I would usually read, was just Baker’s writing. It was, in every line, poetry masquerading as prose! It was violent but beautiful; precise yet affecting in a literary sense; descriptive yet also somehow metaphorical. Whenever he described a hawk or its kill, the Essex countryside, an owl he came across, my mind could’t help it; it conjured what I imagine to be the very precise image he was talking about. At the same time it extended to something grander, almost a witnessing of the magnitude of nature. And when he was not being vivid in his descriptions, he was being reflective in a way that was just as image provoking. Here, for example, is how he describes how he came to be a birder: ““I came late to the love of birds. For years I saw them only as a tremor at the edge of vision. They know suffering and joy in simple states not possible for us. Their lives quicken and warm to a pulse our hearts can never reach. They race to oblivion. They are old before we have finished growing.”
I wouldn’t issue a wholesale recommendation of this book. But for a particular person (unalike myself) - the poet, the contemplative person; someone who can nurse a thought, an emotion, a sensation, an affecting sight for a while, and not be downgraded into levity, - this book might be one of the best things they read.
January 3, 2023
That the author can make an emotionally flat and plotless book about birds compelling to a reader who isn’t all that interested in birds, is impressive and a testament to his prose. There's something like a tenor to his writing, a somber gravity. And his descriptions are detailed and imagistic and sometimes beautiful. I came across the book in a Werner Herzog Masterclass. “Wherever he goes, this winter, I will follow him. I will share the fear, and the exaltation, and the boredom, of the hunting life. I will follow him till my predatory human shape no longer darkens in terror the shaken kaleidoscope of colour that stains the deep fovea of his brilliant eye. My pagan head shall sink into the winter land, and there be purified.”
June 19, 2017
This is a very subjective 3 stars. His prose deserves 5 stars, easily -- it's amazing. Beautiful, fresh, vivid... early on, I was loving it. But as the pages went by, I found it all quite samey. I needed some narrative rather than diary entries in which only the seasons really changed. That's very personal, so if that's your kind of thing, you will love this as the prose is some of the most poetic I've come across.
May 4, 2021
Such a vivid account of Baker's observations and obsession with the movements of peregrine falcons.
February 7, 2017
Un libro extraño, de lectura difícil y repleto de metáforas precisas, inusuales, barrocas pero concretas. Es un diario de observación de pájaros y halcones peregrinos en los fens, la zona baja y pantanosa del este de Inglaterra, entre octubre y abril de un año de la década del sesenta. Carece de estructura dramática. Aunque el autor habla muy poco de él, intuimos que algo muy serio lo aleja del pueblo hacia el campo y las marismas.
Baker se muestra fascinado y deseoso de compartir la experiencia de los peregrinos. La descripción de los vuelos es asombrosa. Logra hacernos ver con la visión amplia y profunda del halcón, detallando las columnas ascendentes de aire, los movimientos de las plumas y las alas como si realmente hubiera cambiado cuerpos con uno de esos pájaros que rasgan el cielo por encima de todo y que logran precipitarse verticalmente hacia su presa a la misma velocidad que un avión. En pasajes como este hay ecos de Yeats y de Milton:
In long arcs and tangents the hawk drifted slowly higher. From five hundred feet above the brook, without warning, he suddenly fell. He simply stopped, flung his wings up, dived vertically down. He seemed to split in two, his body shooting off like an arrow from the tight-string bow of his wings. There was an unholy impetus in his falling, as though he had been hurled from the sky
Esto es una cima de su prosa, pero jamás decae y contiene puntos aun más altos. En ningún momento su narración condesciende a antropomorfismos ni sentimentalismos. En el primer capítulo defiende al predador y la indiferencia abismal que la naturaleza presenta a lo moral. Esto debe ser lo que sedujo a uno de sus lectores m��s célebres, Werner Herzog.
La extrañeza estilística también está en la concepción geográfica con la que Baker describe el escenario de su obsesión. Sus direcciones son animales, impresionistas, en las que sólo se destacan el color y los volúmenes. Las estructuras humanas están disueltas o asimiladas por los pájaros y los ocasionales armiños y conejos.
Avanzando el invierno en el registro de los días, se hace manifiesto el hilo invisible de la historia personal del autor enredándose con la realidad general, el motivo visceral que hizo a Baker identificarse con los peregrinos y hasta imitarlos y buscar los restos de sus presas. Una enfermedad nunca mencionada que le fue diagnosticada -esto lo sabemos por la introducción al libro- y la entonces casi segura extinción de los peregrinos, que por el empleo del DDT en la agricultura los había vuelto estériles. La soledad de quien se cree moribundo con los últimos de su especie. La víspera de una navidad Baker la pasa en medio del viento y el frío, buscando sin éxito encontrar a la pareja de peregrinos que veneraba desde la distancia.
Tanto por la excelencia estilística de este libro como por el tono que se mantiene perfecto en todo momento más la subterránea trama de un drama personal que nunca es explicitado, esta obra es considerada el gold standard de la escritura sobre la naturaleza.
Baker se muestra fascinado y deseoso de compartir la experiencia de los peregrinos. La descripción de los vuelos es asombrosa. Logra hacernos ver con la visión amplia y profunda del halcón, detallando las columnas ascendentes de aire, los movimientos de las plumas y las alas como si realmente hubiera cambiado cuerpos con uno de esos pájaros que rasgan el cielo por encima de todo y que logran precipitarse verticalmente hacia su presa a la misma velocidad que un avión. En pasajes como este hay ecos de Yeats y de Milton:
In long arcs and tangents the hawk drifted slowly higher. From five hundred feet above the brook, without warning, he suddenly fell. He simply stopped, flung his wings up, dived vertically down. He seemed to split in two, his body shooting off like an arrow from the tight-string bow of his wings. There was an unholy impetus in his falling, as though he had been hurled from the sky
Esto es una cima de su prosa, pero jamás decae y contiene puntos aun más altos. En ningún momento su narración condesciende a antropomorfismos ni sentimentalismos. En el primer capítulo defiende al predador y la indiferencia abismal que la naturaleza presenta a lo moral. Esto debe ser lo que sedujo a uno de sus lectores m��s célebres, Werner Herzog.
La extrañeza estilística también está en la concepción geográfica con la que Baker describe el escenario de su obsesión. Sus direcciones son animales, impresionistas, en las que sólo se destacan el color y los volúmenes. Las estructuras humanas están disueltas o asimiladas por los pájaros y los ocasionales armiños y conejos.
Avanzando el invierno en el registro de los días, se hace manifiesto el hilo invisible de la historia personal del autor enredándose con la realidad general, el motivo visceral que hizo a Baker identificarse con los peregrinos y hasta imitarlos y buscar los restos de sus presas. Una enfermedad nunca mencionada que le fue diagnosticada -esto lo sabemos por la introducción al libro- y la entonces casi segura extinción de los peregrinos, que por el empleo del DDT en la agricultura los había vuelto estériles. La soledad de quien se cree moribundo con los últimos de su especie. La víspera de una navidad Baker la pasa en medio del viento y el frío, buscando sin éxito encontrar a la pareja de peregrinos que veneraba desde la distancia.
Tanto por la excelencia estilística de este libro como por el tono que se mantiene perfecto en todo momento más la subterránea trama de un drama personal que nunca es explicitado, esta obra es considerada el gold standard de la escritura sobre la naturaleza.
February 12, 2020
Lo que dice Werner Herzog es impecable y retrata de forma muy acertada la esencia del texto. No es común leer escritores tan geniales, las descripciones atravesadas de metáforas tan poéticas asombran y sacuden por igual. Es un libro arduo, creo que no para cualquier lector y para mí, para ser un libro "perfecto", hubiera necesitado una historia. Otra historia. Aunque entiendo que es un diario de observación de aves pero cada lector busca o se identifica con determinado tipo de lecturas. Para el que le interesa especialmente el tema, es un libro imprescindible!
August 14, 2015
Sometimes you read a book to find out "what happened?". Othertimes, you read as a kind of immersion process, to sink into a realm not your own and abide its rules and orders. This book is definitely suited for the latter kind of reading. There is no real plot to this book; it is, like much lyric poetry, interested in the nowness of its subjects rather than in the progress of the reader's journey.
This book really is more about the writer's relationship to nature in general and the peregrine in particular. Sometimes there's maybe too much fact, when it comes (do we really need the exact numbers of woodpigeons, lapwings and partridges killed by a peregrine in order to understand the bird's habits? Wouldn't a general nod in that direction suffice?), but from an immersion standpoint, we should be intrigued by even the grotesque and mundane necrology of birds who ignite the peregrine's hunting mind. The book is often pure, boring fieldwork, but it is cast in the most intense, devotional prose; the subject of the bird is lifted out of the mundane by its particulars, which Baker curatorially provides in scientifically accurate detail. "He flew southward, rising: four light wing-beats and then a glide, an easy rhythym. Seen from below. his wings seemed to merely kink and straighten, kink and straighten, twitching in and out like a pulse. A crow chased him, and they zig-zagged together. As he rose higher, the hawk flew faster; but so light and deft was his wing flicker that he looked to be almost hovering, while the crow moved backwards and down." For bird lovers, this simple devotion to the peregrine may seem enough. For me, the more I can understand a creature the better. But this book is not built on my instruction; if follows the mind of the researcher by following the mind of the bird. In the end, it is really about the relationship between a researcher and his fascinating subject, and I find the book wonderful in its very limited world. I'd also recommend reading "The Goshawk" by T. H. White.
This book really is more about the writer's relationship to nature in general and the peregrine in particular. Sometimes there's maybe too much fact, when it comes (do we really need the exact numbers of woodpigeons, lapwings and partridges killed by a peregrine in order to understand the bird's habits? Wouldn't a general nod in that direction suffice?), but from an immersion standpoint, we should be intrigued by even the grotesque and mundane necrology of birds who ignite the peregrine's hunting mind. The book is often pure, boring fieldwork, but it is cast in the most intense, devotional prose; the subject of the bird is lifted out of the mundane by its particulars, which Baker curatorially provides in scientifically accurate detail. "He flew southward, rising: four light wing-beats and then a glide, an easy rhythym. Seen from below. his wings seemed to merely kink and straighten, kink and straighten, twitching in and out like a pulse. A crow chased him, and they zig-zagged together. As he rose higher, the hawk flew faster; but so light and deft was his wing flicker that he looked to be almost hovering, while the crow moved backwards and down." For bird lovers, this simple devotion to the peregrine may seem enough. For me, the more I can understand a creature the better. But this book is not built on my instruction; if follows the mind of the researcher by following the mind of the bird. In the end, it is really about the relationship between a researcher and his fascinating subject, and I find the book wonderful in its very limited world. I'd also recommend reading "The Goshawk" by T. H. White.
May 15, 2017
I am aware of the Peregrine Falcon as the University of California Santa Cruz has a big Peregrine project to save the bird. The use of DDT had brought a number of local birds almost to extinction such as the Peregrine Falcone, the California Condor and the Brown Pelican. The project has been successful and there are a number of breeding pairs making nests in Bay Area buildings. Some of these building have installed webcam so the public can watch the hatching of the eggs and then watch the baby birds.
The author undertook a year-long study of the Peregrine. He followed birds around East Anglia (England). He explored their life style and the habitat of the bird. In many ways, the book is like his diary of his observations of the Peregrine. Baker’s prose had many wonderful passages that sounded more like poetry. My only complaint about the book is that at times Baker was repetitive. The book was originally published in 1967. This is the 50th anniversary edition of the book.
I read this as an audiobook downloaded from Audible. The book is about seven and half hours long. Dugald Bruce-Lockhart did a good job narrating the book. Lockhart is a classic trained actor and award winning audiobook narrator. He is from the United Kingdom.
The author undertook a year-long study of the Peregrine. He followed birds around East Anglia (England). He explored their life style and the habitat of the bird. In many ways, the book is like his diary of his observations of the Peregrine. Baker’s prose had many wonderful passages that sounded more like poetry. My only complaint about the book is that at times Baker was repetitive. The book was originally published in 1967. This is the 50th anniversary edition of the book.
I read this as an audiobook downloaded from Audible. The book is about seven and half hours long. Dugald Bruce-Lockhart did a good job narrating the book. Lockhart is a classic trained actor and award winning audiobook narrator. He is from the United Kingdom.
December 26, 2023
Mir ist das zu blumig-überladen, aber für ein Buch, das ich nicht mag, habe ich sehr viel Zeit damit verbracht (wegen https://twitter.com/Wanderfelsen).
Edit: Aus dem reading progress hier hochgeholt, damit es nicht verlorengeht:
Kathrin:
ich glaube, mir ist das doch zu artsy-fartsy, das Wanderfalkenbuch.
so viel Lyrik
Ornamente auf den Ornamenten
Aleks:
du lyrikverachter
es ist eines von werner herzogs lieblingsbuechern
Kathrin:
Lacht nicht über den Lyrikverachter!
Lacht lieber über den Ornamente-Pachter!
Den Alles-mit-Metaphern-Überfrachter!
Den Schaut-über-was-ich-alles-Nachgedachter!
Der Lyrikverachter hat alles richtig gemachter.
und Werner Herzog hat auch nicht IMMER recht.
Aleks:
aber baker hat ja gerade nicht ueber alles nachgedacht, sondern nur ueber den vogel
Edit: Aus dem reading progress hier hochgeholt, damit es nicht verlorengeht:
Kathrin:
ich glaube, mir ist das doch zu artsy-fartsy, das Wanderfalkenbuch.
so viel Lyrik
Ornamente auf den Ornamenten
Aleks:
du lyrikverachter
es ist eines von werner herzogs lieblingsbuechern
Kathrin:
Lacht nicht über den Lyrikverachter!
Lacht lieber über den Ornamente-Pachter!
Den Alles-mit-Metaphern-Überfrachter!
Den Schaut-über-was-ich-alles-Nachgedachter!
Der Lyrikverachter hat alles richtig gemachter.
und Werner Herzog hat auch nicht IMMER recht.
Aleks:
aber baker hat ja gerade nicht ueber alles nachgedacht, sondern nur ueber den vogel
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