An ornithology of Buenos Aires

As part of the London literature Festival, three contributors to Granta 102 read at the Southbank last night. Paul Farley, Edward Platt and Mark Cocker discussed ‘New Nature Writing’ – each reading diverse and curious pieces: Edward Platt, who is a man of very few words and a soft, chesty voice talked about his ornithological adventures in the Middle East. He was guided by an Israeli who built a radar to keep track of migratory birds so that they didn’t crash in to planes and destroy them. ‘A honey buzzard colliding with a fighter jet’ was one of the strongest images of the evening.

Paul Farley (who said he felt like an interloper as he is primarily a poet) read about his visit back to his hometown, after recognising a childhood friend at an event. Mark Cocker read an excellent piece about the chaotic working process of the artist Keith Tyson. He managed to convey the energy and passion episodically – each part becoming more unbelievable until the image of the final product in my mind was a scruffy, anarchic mess. Actually, Tyson won the Turner Prize 2002 and the images of his exhibition look like any other.

The audience questions were pointed, but all three authors – and the chair Paul Blezard – managed to keep it both entertaining and erudite. The question of what, exactly, ‘New Nature Writing’ is, was addressed by Mark, who in turn asked ‘why is engagement with nature was licensed to bearded comedians? Why is talking about the natural world sad?’

There is a tendency to see nature writing as the reserve of Wordsworthian bores who project their inner turmoil on to every wilting flower; yet nature collides with the urban on almost every level: you needn’t be lost in a forest to appreciate its power (Hurricane Katrina) and you don’t need to visit a zoo to see curious examples. There are urban foxes and masonry bees and the strange plant species that grow through cracks in the concrete. I wondered whether nature could be a point of view: if I were to write from nature, not just about it, would that still be nature writing? Or would it be background information more relevant to the analysis of the piece than the genre?

Paul Farley and Mark cocker were interesting because they touched on their cruelty to animals. I heard the word ‘fireworks’ and immediately related. I remember boiling, ‘disinfecting’, stoning and crushing – but it’s a process that all children need to go through or else there is no curiosity. Why be curious about a thing that is presented as fragile on the brink of destruction? And how can you discover for yourself that worms stick together when reproducing unless you yank them apart?

There were more questions than answers. Some of the other ones were: Do bats pollinate? Could the world last more than four days without bees? Has the cult of David Attenborough left us with a kind of post coital disappointment when we enter nature? Is the first person the best perspective for talking about nature? Does it convey a sense of responsibility?

and, as a treat, three brilliant new words:

Gluse – ‘grey green’
Isogloss – the point where language changes
Mordross – Cumbrian for the sound of the sea