Stories in Silent Spring

Last class Dr. Kells mentioned the book And No Birds Sing, a collection of rhetorical analyses of Silent Spring that I read in a class with her a couple of years ago. I’d forgotten about it, and going back to it I found a great article by Killingsworth and Palmer about how Carson uses narratives in Silent Spring.

Basically, the article analyzes Carson’s use of narrative at many levels, from the very brief stories of communities she tells to illustrate larger points, to the narrativized descriptions of bilogical processes (like the way cells produce energy), to the larger metanarratives she’s trying to change. Anticipating their readers’ reactions, Killingsworth and Palmer early in the chapter try to break down any hard and fast distinctions between science writing and literary writing. As an example they discuss science fiction writers like Ursula LeGuin and Robert Heinlein, pointing out that this ‘genre’ functions in part “as a response to science that contributes to the development of myths.” As a further way of countering possible criticism that talk of stories and myths has no place in a discussion of scientific writing, Killingsworth and Palmer argue that myths are not the “cultural equivalent of lies, mistakes , or superstitions that scientific enlightenment is committed to destroy but [are] collective narratives reaching beyond the boundaries of any specialized body of knowledge and touching the heart of a society’s emotional, spiritual, and intellectual consciousness” (175-6). The work performed by stories is deeply important, and Carson (and Leopold and Lopez and Dillard, and on and on) knew that the work they were attempting to do was to essentially change the narrative of our past and future as a culture, and our present views and actions as a result.

The most overtly mythical section of Silent Spring is the first chapter, “A Fable for Tomorrow,” and Killingsworth and Palmer’s take on this chapter is informative. First off, she’s taking a big rhetorical risk with this chapter, especially by beginning with it. After all, Silent Spring purports to be scientific, to be a solid counterdiscourse to whatever info was currently (and subsequently) provided by chemical companies and government agencies responsible for spraying. But there’s another, deeper risk. With her fable, Carson is tapping what Killingsworth and Palmer identify as apocalyptic millenialism, a tradition that sees humankind’s trajectory as essentially downward, doomed. Not only that, but the fable itself, apart from any tradition it continues, forecasts only the horrific aspects of Silent Spring, leaving out the hopeful notes. Certainly Carson wanted to communicate how bad things were in 1962, but don’t we think she also had hope they could change for the better? That she includes possible solutions to many of the problems she discusses both in the body chapters and at the end of the book leads me to believe that she did.

It’s easy to focus on the “Fable” that begins the book to the exclusion of the rest of it, which is one reason why I like K&P’s approach – they use it as a window into the rest of the work, pointing out its uses and rhetorical flaws. I wonder what others in the class think about the way the fable interacts with other parts of the book? For me, it sets an emotional tone that’s present throughout (one that’s indignant, ironic, and deeply sad), and also makes a central place for storytelling. Like Sand County Almanac, Silent Spring blends the logos of science with the mythos of story, one reason, I think, that both are so rhetorically powerful. Why does this combination work so well?

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