Ozymandias

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Over at the New Scientist, Bob Holmes imagines what the world be like without human beings-- though the tone of the piece makes me want to imagine a world without the New Scientist.

The idea of Sic transit gloria mundi is nothing new, as Mr. Shelley's poem demonstrates. Using the involuntary experiment of Chernobyl as his starting point, Mr. Holmes spins his own take on the subject, describing how if man was removed from this planet, nature would take over in short order and all his works would soon vanish down the plug hole of time. He overstates his case a bit. He doesn't really understand the concept of archaeological stasis, which means that so long as an environment remains stable decay only proceeds to a certain point and then halts indefinitely, or that there are some works from time capsules to quarries that will remain intact for geological epochs. Indeed, the only lasting impact of man that he allows (aside from graves and rubbish tips) is global warming, which, since it is the bugbear du jour cannot possibly be belittled anymore than atomic radiation could in the heyday of the CND. All told, though, it's really just a shorter version of The Earth Abides without the lamentations.

Indeed it is the lack of lamenting that is so disturbing about the article. In fact, Mr. Holmes's attitude is quite the opposite. Instead of expressing sorrow that man's works will one day crumble into dust, he positively revels in the idea as he depicts the human race as being some sort of oversized locust, plaguing the Earth and bluntly stating, in a remarkable bit of what is either telepathy or projection, that the other species with whom we share this sphere would vote us off of it if given half a chance. How the ballot would be held is left to the imagination. Never the less, he clearly wants us gone. Mr. Holmes does not want us all to die of the plague, but only because that would be unsanitary. He would much prefer us all to be "transported to a re-education camp in a far-off galaxy." No doubt with himself as a trustee.

What I find particularly annoying about the piece is not Mr. Holmes's misanthropic attitude, but his lack of understanding of the part that man plays in nature. Much of what we think of as "wild" and "natural" is actually the result of man's cultivation. Pace Mr. Holmes, we are not destroyers, but creators. If Britain were to be depopulated tomorrow, not every bird and beast would be popping champagne corks. Many of the more foresighted ones would suffer from growing alarm as they realised that the moorlands, fields, meadows, hedgerows-- indeed, most of the British landscape--- would soon be devoured until the islands became one gigantic oak forest again.

I would suggest that if the New Scientist wishes to produce a sequel, they'd best poll the corn crakes and wild flowers (not to mention the dogs!) beforehand about how they would really feel about our deportation.

Update: And here's a happy little graphic.

Update: Mind you, it must frost Mr. Holmes that some of man's works may even outlive this paltry planet. Damn that transcendant human spirit!