Robert Macfarlane: The Most Beautiful Conversation About Language | How I Write | How I Write

Well, you write so beautifully about nature.

You've been writing for 22 years and you've written about all different kinds of nature.

You've written about mountains and rivers and you've written about time.

And what I want to start off with is the sensitivity that you've developed over time, a sensitivity to be connected to this much larger world that we live in, both in space and in time.

Where does that come from and how have you cultivated that?

Hard to reverse engineer an answer for that.

I grew up in mountains.

I think that's probably the first answer to that.

And mountains sensitize you, right?

They are intense spaces and places.

The light feels brighter.

The snow on the face feels sharper.

The air you breathe, you feel it like a wire in your nose. runs down into your lungs.

And so everything kind of crackles and tingles in the mountains.

And also because they're dangerous places, you have to be alert.

And being alert means risk assessment, but it also means being open as the kind of atoms of the world meet you.

So I sometimes say my heart is made of mountains and always will be.

They're the the beginning and the end of all natural scenery as far as I'm concerned.

So from that I think at some level I learned an obsession with rock and ice and water and light and all the things that flow through and build my work.

And also, I guess they kind of they wore away the usual boundaries and shells of the self and they continue to do that in me.

Tell me about that obsession with light.

So I was flying into New York the other night.

And it was sort of a dark, kind of a very cloudy evening, thick clouds.

And we're kind of landing.

We go through the clouds.

And we get to the bottom of sunset time.

And there was this blood orange light that was shining through the clouds.

And it was marvelous.

It was magnificent.

And I have my phone in my pocket to go take a photo.

And I go, I'm never going to be able to capture it.

There's just no way.

I stopped myself.

I didn't take the photo.

And then I just started grieving that I'm never going to have the words to describe how beautiful this color light was.

And it's just going to be in my memory fading away every single day.

And I was like, I wish I could describe this.

How could I do that?

Has it faded?

I don't know.

I feel like I can't explain it to you and it makes me sad.

It was so beautiful.

Well, there was a slaughter in that sunset, right?

It was sanguineous.

It was bloody.

It was wild.

Language will always be late for its subject.

When its subject is light, it will be.

It stands no chance, right?

Nothing moves faster, nothing is more allotropic, nothing shifts its textures, its granulations, its forms more than light.

So i would say abandon the dream of correspondence.

So language will never, ever meet light granite has no grammar.

So For me, once you reach the point where you stop the futile questing after correspondence like oh, how can my language possibly meet?

Reproduce, carry the thing I have just seen.

What can't cause das Dinganzig, the thing in itself? you'll never do that.

So abandon it.

And then you're no longer irritably questing after that and feeling that you're falling short.

Instead, lean into artifice.

So, for me metaphor, which is fundamentally a distortion of the thing Aristotle defines it.

Metaphor is like unlikeness.

So sort of matching one thing to another, but across time and space is one of the most beautiful ways of evoking, but not and this is a verb I hate capturing nature.

We shouldn't dream of capturing nature, because then it becomes our captive and then it prowls restlessly backwards and forwards in its cage, and it's not itself.

So is it like, I'm thinking of an impressionist painting, right?

I think of a Monet.

He's not trying to capture the scene.

He's trying to paint his impressions of the scene.

The representation of perception rather than the thing itself.

And perception is always multiply filtered.

It's highly dynamic.

It's psychologically textured.

So...

Water.

I've spent a lot of time trying to think about how to write water recently, as I spent four years writing this big river book.

And one thing I came to realize is there is no single grammar of animacy, right?

There is no one way to write water.

There is an There is an obvious way to write water, which is to let language flow, as River does.

And I absolutely have enjoyed playing with that.

So there are sentences in Is a River Alive? which go on for, there's one that goes on for two pages.

And there's one that's 515 words long.

I didn't catch that.

Wow.

Well, and the dash.

So I'm a preposition obsessive and a punctuation obsessive.

So the dash, the M dash, that long dash, not the hyphen but the one that lives between words, to me is such a beautiful, fluid piece of punctuation.

I think it's my favorite piece of punctuation.

Where a full stop bangs down the hard end the book, end to a sentence, to a thought, the dash is liquid, it it flows two ways.

Both ways, meaning can move against the current eddy, back up the sentence or flow down the sentence.

So, looking at how we, as it were, traffic control, meaning with a with with, using the tiny stuff, the punctuation and the prepositions, which is something maybe we can come on to talk about the by's, the with's, the next to's, the above's, the below's, all of those.

Let's go into it, yeah.

Okay, well, I love to speak for prepositions because they don't get listened to enough.

So to give an example, I sometimes talk about the ways in which I

I write with nature.

So I write with rivers or with mountains.

Like almost as a co-author.

Exactly.

And there the preposition is what makes the difference.

Because if I were to say to you, oh, I write about rivers.

That's different.

That's me speaking about the river.

But writing with rivers, preposition shifts, is a new thing.

That's where the rivers and I are co-thinking, are co-writing.

And then there's a step beyond that, which is being written by river.

And there we've gone.

So we've gone from about to by and we've gone.

Metaphysically we've gone a huge distance.

Whoa.

And being at the very end of these years of river journey, I think I came to know, briefly and very consequentially, what it meant to be written by rivers.

Does the word a conduit feel right?

Yes, you become a channel, exactly.

A conduit is a lovely word for it because it is a river word.

It's kind of what rivers are.

I mean, water seeks a body.

We're water bodies.

It will always find a container.

Sometimes that's the banks of the river.

Sometimes it's a wetland.

Sometimes it's a human body.

In this case, I felt very strongly that the river was almost creating language through me as a conduit, to use your excellent word.

Tell me more about how you weaved in the flow and the rhythm of rivers into your writing.

Well, so rhythm is, I'm an obsessive about many things.

I'm an obsessive obsessive.

So you've so far heard me on prepositions.

You should come on How I Write sometimes.

I feel like it'd be a good show for you to come on.

That's a great idea.

We can wig out.

We can nerd out.

All right.

I'll set up a time.

I'll find a space.

So, you know, I'll have a chat about writing.

It'd be a really nice library background.

Yeah.

Okay.

Nerd to nerd.

Rhythm.

So we recognize rhythm as a function of poetry.

You would That's something we actively listen for when we meet a poem, when we read a poem.

We hear it in our mind's ear, a poem, we sound it.

Even fiction, I mean, James Joyce's Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake, deeply rhythmically alert texts.

But in nonfiction, I think partly because it has this weird name nonfiction, the thing that it isn't.

Like it isn't fiction.

It isn't fiction.

That's the only way we define it.

It's like, what?

Why?

There's two kinds of books.

Exactly.

There's fiction, and then there's the stuff that's not fiction.

There's not fiction, right, which I just find so strange.

And I think that almost subordinate relationship with fiction that nonfiction has is one reason why we don't expect it to be rhythmic.

Or to be sound patterned.

And rhythm and sound pattern are something that I have been obsessed with from the very beginning, because they work upon the mind, the reader's mind, the reader's mind's ear, in ways that are different to propositional language.

They're not telling you what to think.

They're not an argument.

They're not a set of facts.

They're not laying out propositions, they're working on what he once called the backwards and the abysm of the mind.

I think it means that they get, they speak to deeper down forms of knowing like, in the same sense, that rhythm.

You know when, if we're dancing, if we we, our brains, are not rational, rationally analyzing beat, our bodies are moving with it in ways that are surprising and pleasurable and but are involved with knowledge as well.

So rhythm, what does that mean in terms of nonfiction?

So first lines.

I probably spend longer on first lines than whole chapters and they get rewritten hundreds of times.

This is the first line of a book?

First line of a whole book.

Okay.

So much happens when you meet the first line of a whole book.

So is a river alive?

12,000 years ago, a river is born.

First line of The Wild Places.

The wind was rising, so I went to the wood.

Let's take that one.

The wind was rising, so I went to the wood.

Exactly.

So there's a- Exactly.

We have alliteration, the wind, the wood, the went, but we also have rhythm.

And there's also a puzzle.

Hold on.

The wind's rising, but why would you go to a wood when the wind is rising?

Isn't that the last place you want to be?

It becomes a dangerous place.

And so you know how Hemingway sort of wrote these.

He played with these sort of flash fictions long before flash fiction.

How much suspense or puzzlement could you set up in a single sentence?

So very often I try to test a first line like that.

12,000 years ago, a river is born.

The river is born.

What does that mean?

Is it born forever in time?

And why 12,000 years ago?

But also, that one is less rhythmic, shall we say.

But it's more mysterious.

There's an ominousness about it.

Yeah, something happened 12,000 years ago.

Okay, wow, we're about to go way back in time.

Way back in time, exactly.

And then...

Yeah, I think the next line is at the foot of a hill on which flints lie white as eyes.

Water rises for the first time from a crack in the chalk, rises and flows, rises and flows, and on we go.

So flints lie white as eyes.

We have the white in the eyes at the foot of a hill, and then rises, rises and flows, rises and flows picks up the sound of the eyes and then, So already the sound patterning is starting to happen.

And the reader's mind's ear, as I keep referring to it, gets activated by that.

I think whether they know it or not, they start to hear internal rhyme.

And it just makes you kind of sit up.

Okay, I'm not dealing with a kind of fact book here.

I'm dealing with a text in which other forms and forces are going to be active here.

Mm-hmm.

Yeah, maybe you can help me ground this, but I'm thinking about the different flows of rivers, right?

There's rapids.

There's still waters.

We say still waters run deep.

And then there's rivers that kind of meander.

There's straight rivers.

Like there's every single flow that you could get in writing.

I feel like you could find a river equivalent for that.

Absolutely.

And that's why I think the idea that river language is just fast language isn't. isn't right.

So because rivers move deep and slow, they pool, they pause, they, yeah, exactly.

So there's a bit I remember trying to work on.

So I paddled this huge river, the Muteshka Ship, with the Magpie River up in Northeastern Quebec and we were dropped in by float plane.

And then we paddled out over the And there's nothing like you get dropped.

We got dropped in at the head of this lake, Lac Magpie, that's 75 kilometers long.

That's like, it's from my home to the center of London.

Canadian scale boggles my tiny English mind.

But and then, and then, and then you, and then you.

The river has you and you follow the river through some wild water all the way to the coast of the Gulf of St.

Lawrence.

So there are so many, as you say, like kind of forms and almost species of water in that 120 miles.

And so, when I came to write about it, I realized that the flat water, the lake water, needed a different set of rhythms and tones.

And then the river, where the river was fast.

That's where the dashes came and the liquid language came and the speed came.

And I wanted the reader to feel what I felt like when that river pick me up.

So tell me, how do you write speed?

Is it like short sentences?

Is it fast sentences?

Like, how do you write that?

Like, is that what it is?

What do you do?

So I can give you an example.

So we're cutting into a sentence that is already half a page long and I am staring straight down into the hole at the wave's foot, and then I'm airborne and slammed into the hole head first and upside down.

I am exploded out of the boat on impact as if hurled from an ejector seat down into the white hole and river is punching fingers up my nostrils and river is ramming fist into my mouth and down my throat and I'm deep now, but the right way up.

So I grab handfuls of water and haul for the surface on them as if they're holds on a cliff or rungs on a ladder.

But they dissolve under each grasp and I'm kicking out and feel my feet bang against the rocks on the riverbed.

And one of them catches briefly and so on and so on and so on.

So there's a couple of things there.

And, and is your friend, right?

And is the conjunction equivalent of the dash.

It just, it tumbles and it tumbles and it tumbles.

It doesn't slow or stop or ask you to establish primacy or hierarchy between clauses.

It just runs you on and and and and, and.

The clauses between the ands get shorter and quicker and verbs become more active river, and I drop the article there.

So it's not the river, it's river rams fingers up my nostrils and river rams fists down my throat and I'm calling and and, and.

I mean, it's very simple, really.

It's a syntax of panic, of speed, of rapidity in both senses of the word.

So kind of easy, but when you read it, you yourself become breathless.

You don't know when to breathe, and that's what it's like being buried in a rapid like that.

Yeah.

Tell me about how, when you're out, the notes become books.

Because you start off and you write these little scribbles.

Just little scribbles here, little scribbles there.

And you're not, back to that word, you're not trying to capture the experience.

It's just little scribbles.

And then you go from there and then there's another step, and then there's just the work of actually writing the book.

How does that happen?

Yeah, thank you.

It fascinates me.

It is alchemical.

It's quite mysterious.

It's also very laborious.

So just to break it down into stages then.

So because of the nature of the big books I write, they often take between four and eight years.

They take many journeys.

There's a lot of field work where I'm meeting people.

I'm thinking with other people, with rivers, with mountains.

So on those I have my phone, um but.

But i prefer to use just these little notebooks and they're just about about this size, about a6, so they, they bend, they just stick in a pocket whatever, And into those I'm just always pouring what I sometimes call qualia.

In the philosophy of mind, those are just the phenomena of perception.

Subjective perception is broken down into qualia.

And by that that's just a grandiose name for saying stuff, the bits, the bobs, the fluff, the pebbles, the feathers that stick in my, in my mind, as it might be a fragment of conversation, it might, but most often it's an image.

There's a, there's a yeah, there's a rilke line that i'll come back to, which is about what happens to image between notebook and and page, but i'll come back to that.

And so the notebook's there and i'm just they're so messy that it's fragments.

There's no continuity.

Sometimes I call them like mica, like shards of mica.

The stuff that glitters, that goes in there.

Because you don't have time to sort of fully process this stuff when you're having encounter with river or people or mountain.

It's got to get it down.

And then not worry about it.

But that would be quite.

You know, at the end of each day I'll often even if I'm 4000 meters on a mountain or 100 miles down a river, I'll still tired flick the head torch on in the tent and just lie there and just jot and jot and try and pull it out of the brain fresh because it's only a few hours old.

You know what I've been doing recently?

I just get a little piece of paper.

It's like maybe four inches by two inches, like smaller than an index card.

And I've just been writing down thoughts that I have during the day with the goal of filling up the index card.

And I'm always amazed at how many thoughts I've had that I didn't even realize that I had.

And if I kind of force myself to get that full index card on the page, I'm like, oh my goodness, the number of interesting things that are actually happening here maybe not even interesting the number of things, whatever it could be junk is actually way more than I thought.

But I need to just Just sit with it and let the thoughts kind of arise and arise.

It needs space.

It needs time, stillness.

So the page in your description becomes like a condensation surface.

So you have this sort of vapor of thought that you've been working in and with, but almost invisibly, because it's evaporated.

But the paper then becomes the thing that condenses those thoughts.

And I speak for paper.

Pen and paper do things that...

Pixel and keyboard can't.

I really believe that.

What about more intimate?

What is it?

I think there's a Yeah, I sometimes say they're kind of.

The notes are what you flip fresh from the fire.

Like they're hot and they glow.

They're ill... They're unformed in terms of ways that could be communicable to other people.

Like nobody could read my notebooks and... and follow a linear flow.

I looked at them.

They seemed completely messy and beyond comprehension.

Exactly.

Except to me.

So they're highly encrypted.

There's only one person who could possibly... This is the original encryption.

It's bad handwriting.

Exactly.

WhatsApp end-to-end has nothing on my... If anyone... Yeah.

So then, how do you then turn a highly encrypted code readable, legible to only one person, into a book that might be read by 100000 people, if you're fortunate?

And the answer is with a lot of work.

But the next stage is when I come home from a big field trip, I will have five six seven, 10 notebooks all rammed and crammed.

And sometimes I will literally pick up feathers and bits of bits of earth and leaf and stuff and just stick them in the back of the notebook.

Just as more mnemonics yeah, um.

But then comes the what, and what happens at this stage is i sit with the notebooks and i'll work through page after page and now i am on screen and keyboard and there this kind of filling out happens because each of those little fragments to me becomes the end of a of a thread of memory, so that's the only bit you can see is the tiny fragment and you, but as you pull pull pull exactly exactly, and and they just keep coming, and so there my memory seems to be able to kind of go back into what the fragment was, and then the whole scene within which the fragment was jotted sort of opens around it and I find that very exciting and I then kind of summon that space as best I'm able in language or make a connection with.

And now is when pattern recognition starts to happen as well.

You start to see this interesting mycelium of connections open up.

And this is where I'll just mention this Rilke line and see what you think of it.

So it's in his letters to a young poet, which I would say to any reader.

Got to read it.

Any writer.

That's actually at...

It's on the main table at my house right now.

I've just been flipping through it.

Yeah, I was reading it last week.

Oh, that's beautiful.

Slender, wise, distilled, just fabulous.

Yeah, writer to writer, as it were.

And he says I don't know whose translation this is the images of the eyes are now present, but now is the time to go and do the heart work on the images that lie inside you.

So I think what he's getting at there is the distinction between that kind of immediate, empirical sort of noticing.

The notebook work is at some level the image of the eyes.

But the heart work that's the really hard work.

The heart work is the hard work.

And that's what comes when you return to these images and start to kind of understand their relation to other parts, to see how they've lodged in you, to see how they resonate.

So that's the hard work.

Make that concrete for me.

What's an example?

Yeah, really, really good question.

So when I was writing a book called Underland, which took me eight years, I came to realize that there was a series of images that recurred across many of the journeys.

And one of those images was, perhaps unsurprisingly, the image of the open hand.

I say unsurprisingly because the earliest cave art is exactly.

I don't know if you know how those were made.

I don't know anything about it.

Okay.

So what you'll know if you summon them into your mind's eye is that they're not hand prints.

So it's not that you get a red print of the hand.

You get the outline of the hand.

Okay.

And the way it seems that the early artists, cave artists, did this.

They would take a mouthful of red ochre dust, let's say, And then they would place the hand on the cave wall and then they would blow the dust around it.

So in effect, they're creating a stencil.

Some of the earliest art is stencil art with the human hand as the stencil.

So then you take the hand away.

You don't have the mark of the hand, you have the mark of the absence of the hand.

And there's something very beautiful and ghostly about that that what we see is not Mark, but absence of Mark.

And I became obsessed with that and realized you know, I'd see it in graffiti in the Paris catacombs like made using spray can 20 years earlier rather than 36000 years earlier.

But there was a commonality between those.

And I began to realize that the open hand was part of a repertoire of images that would become the heartwork of the book, to use Rilke's term.

So what you're saying there is you see this image of the hand and the absence of the hand.

You see it in Paris, you see it in the old cave art.

And then you get to the keyboard, you say, okay, there's something deeper going on here.

And then that is... when you begin to pull on the thread to figure out what is that deeper thing.

And then to even go back to earlier in our conversation, that's when the work of impressionism kind of comes into the writing or something.

Yeah, so it's sort of about pattern recognition, again, to use a phrase I used earlier.

And I don't teach writing very much because I teach at Cambridge my whole time.

But when I do teach writing, the first rule I give would-be writers is...

Ass on chair.

Turn up for work.

It hurts.

It's not much fun.

You feel like you're banging your head against a blackboard.

Don't run away from it.

Don't fetishize the working environment.

Don't think you have to get the angle, the feng shui angle of your pencil exactly right on the writing desk before you can possibly begin to start writing.

Ass on chair, show up for work every day and put the time in.

Second thing, look out for patterns.

And so the open hand.

I suddenly realized that the open hand was recurring throughout my notebooks, including not just that kind of cave hand placement, but also the open hand of greeting, of gesture, of community, of welcome.

And so I began to find ways of just highlighting the open hand, wherever it occurred in my journeys, in my writing.

And that then becomes a sort of pattern that lights up for the reader and for the writer.

And that lighting up is exciting when it happens.

Yeah.

So, as reading is River Alive, one of the things that occurred to me is that there are was a sense of awareness that you had a connection with nature, and attunement that I think we lose as adults.

And you're talking to your son and the conversation went something like I'm writing this book about is a river alive?

And your son said, duh, of course, like that book's not going to be very long.

And it made me realize like, There are these things that kids know that are facts about the world.

Obviously, it's like that.

And then as adults, we lose that.

And somehow, when it comes to nature, you haven't lost that.

Well, I…

I think wonder is an essential survival skill.

Ooh, tell me about wonder.

Well, wonder is jaw dropped, right?

It's the moment where you are just stepped back by the world, by the miracle of the world and the freely given miracle of the world.

A rainbow is like.

I mean a rainbow is.

Oh my goodness, the most magnificent rainbow.

I just stood there by the window.

I was like, wow, what the hell is that?

Every time, every time.

That's wonder.

And every time, and rainbows are like, they're the charismatic megafauna of wonder, right?

They do it often and well.

The other thing about a rainbow is it's utterly bespoke.

That is, it was your, it was David's rainbow.

It was no one else's rainbow in the way it appeared to you.

Because it's a prismatic function.

The water is lensing light and separating light into its constituent wavelengths.

But the precise nature of that color and the position and form of the rainbow in the sky is.

If you'd stepped a yard to the right and become a different person, you'd have seen a different rainbow.

So that's wondrous.

And science finesses the real into wonder.

Like science is...

Science doesn't mean unweaving the rainbow.

It can help us continue to be astonished by the world, just understand a little bit better how it works.

So I don't see science and wonder as opposed, but I am- I always struggle with that.

When I was a kid, I used to tell my science teachers, I don't want to know.

I don't want to know.

Because for me there was a way that science was taught that actually stripped the wonder out of the world.

And I didn't like science class because I didn't want to know about the stars in the sky.

I just wanted them to be like little dots that God or whatever hung in the sky.

And that was that.

Cool.

Well, you and John Keats, the poet who castigated science for, as he put it, unweaving the rainbow.

So yeah.

So you have a friend in a romantic poet, great author of Ode to a Nightingale and Ode on a Grishna.

And so let's not unweave the rainbow.

Actually, I think unweaving the rainbow is part of the rainbow.

It's fine.

I'm fine with that.

But wonder is super powerful, and kids have it.

Not always.

But I sometimes call children wondernauts.

They're not astronauts.

They're wondernauts.

They're continually voyaging in space.

So when I write for children I try to let wonder, kind of take charge, as it were, but also with an ear to rhythm and sound.

So I wrote a spell in this big book of spells, nature spells for children.

You wrote this?

Yeah, I wrote this called The Lost Words, working with this wonderful artist called Jackie Morris.

And so I wrote, for example, I wrote a spell for the otter.

And the idea is that children would speak these aloud as spells.

They would become spellcasters and they would kind of conjure back these creatures or plants or birds.

So the otter, the otter spell begins.

I'll see if i can do it.

So otter enters water without falter.

What a supple slider out of halton into river.

This shape shift is a sheer breath taker, a sure heart stopper.

But you'll never spot an actual otter, only ever bubble scheme or shadow flutter.

And then it ends um 'Run to the riverbank, otter dreamer?

Slip your skin and change your matter.

Slide your outer being into water and enter now as otter without falter into river.'"

Ah, nice!

Something like that.

But you can hear again the liquidity of the flow of the internal rhyme and the otter and the language and such like.

So, I think there's wonder, there's otter, there's rhythm, there's pace.

That at least is what I'm trying to do.

And then watching children actually take those and speak them aloud.

I get these wonderful films sent to me of children kind of on riverbanks speaking the otter spell.

And then, like, where's the otter?

Where's the otter?

Well...

What you're talking about with wonder, it reminded me of awe.

And there's a poem by William Blake, and it starts like this.

To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wildflower.

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.

Yes.

Like, yes, yes, yes, yes, right?

Like, to see a world in a grain of sand, like...

There's a way of activating and awakening your mind that, oh, it's just a grain of sand.

Come on, let's go on.

Versus like, it's a grain of sand.

Think of the lineage of that grain of sand, how it got there and all the times that the waves have come over it, the feet that have touched that thing.

And like, just in a grain of sand, the variance of what we can see or not see can be so vast.

And I think if you're writing about nature, that applies to everything, right?

Yeah.

Yeah, Blake's a wonderful example.

And he also says the green tree... is to some people just the thing that stands in the way, and to others it will set them weeping, something like this.

So again, it's the perception of perception, as it were.

And the other thing to say about that Blake poem is, of course, it's tiny.

It is itself a grain of sand in that sense, but it contains or speaks to eternity and universality.

Thank you.

I'll take six feet.

I'll lend you a couple of inches.

They're sort of how we measure and see the world, but they're only one scale.

And in fact we stand sort of vertiginously above all of these extraordinary micro scales and then the macro scales above us, and that fascinates me.

There was this moment in the early 17th century when the microscope and the telescope was suddenly cracking open the scales of the world and galileo was seeing the mountains on the moon and Anton van Leeuwenhoek was using a microscope to peer into a droplet of pond water and see it, as he put it, teeming with animalcules.

Suddenly, all these other scales of life and structure were revealed through technology.

And technology is amazing at that.

But yes, as a writer I'm often interested in nesting different scales next to or within one another.

Yeah.

The other thing I wanted to get at is the blinders of rationality.

And you're right.

For those who, like me, have been largely raised on rationalism, to imagine that a river is alive in a way that exceeds the sum of the lives it contains is difficult, counterintuitive work.

It requires unlearning a process much harder than learning.

Yeah.

And the question is, what is unlearning?

How do we unlearn?

What is unlearning?

That's what I was trying to get at with the kids that there's a way that kids see reality more clearly than adults do.

But it's also enchanted.

Yes.

And it's filled with mystery and awe.

Yeah.

And that was one of the through lines of stepping into the body of your work is...

Like whoa, there's something there that I don't know how to put words to, but it's sort of a question to pursue, you know.

Thank you.

I see the universe as, or the universe we inhabit as, how to put this, shadowed by mystery.

Like actually we, I think of these early, you know, the early cave explorers, the early cave painters.

When you hold up a light in a cave, especially if it's a flame light rather than a torch light, You light up just a tiny bit of the cave wall and you're barely aware of the extent of it around you.

And as you move, the light follows you but is only ever lighting up.

That's where we live.

I mean rationalism.

We think rationalism is the great light that floods the universe and tells us the secrets of everything.

Francis Bacon in 17th century says, let us torment nature until she yields her secrets to us.

But nature's secrets far outstrip the tormenting tools of rationalism.

So I suppose, I enter each landscape, each encounter, each book, aware that there is no possibility of catching and representing everything.

So then it becomes a case of what do you light up, and also what mysteries do you allude to?

Do you recognize?

I mean on the river.

I had this encounter at the end of this big, big river journey, the end of four years of river travel, with something that I can only describe as a kind of river being.

It felt like a very godlike presence.

How does language even come close to representing?

That's the bit where I really felt I was being written by an external force.

So what happened?

You were?

Well, we'd been traveling, you know, this hard river journey for 10, 12 days.

We'd been buried by the river.

The river was running really high, huge wild river.

That time of year, normally running about 150 cubic meters a second at the outflow.

Here it was running 275.

So it was more than double its normal, always approaching double its rate.

And so every day we were tumbled, we were swimming, we were bashed off rocks, we were running huge six-foot waves sometimes.

And that just... wore us away and each night we'd pitch camp and we'd have to catch fish for dinner and you know it was just just hard travel but also metaphysically it was kind of wearing me away it was unlearning me and that is where we come back to your question the river did the unlearning and it did it physically but it also did it metaphysically and it said well what what what do you mean this this is just water this is just dead matter that's sort of what the river was doing to me it was showing me its agency its will its presence its force and and i a great deal changed for me in that in that time and then at the very end i just i think i describe it as kind of these two auras as it were my aura and the river's aura just sort of overlapping and setting up an interference field for the first time and becoming very aware of this thing that has been moving through that landscape hugely consequentially for, again, 10,000 to 12,000 years.

I felt small.

I felt one among many kinds of being.

It was, I suppose, an experience of the divine, of something like faith, temporarily visceral, visceral and mystic and utterly fascinating and changing forever and then.

And then you're left with the question how do i, how do i find language to carry that?

And again, it doesn't have to carry it, it merely needs to kind of register some, some analog to what happened then, because you'll never carry that.

I think that another thing that you do is you find these questions these, They're narrow questions, but they're expansive.

You know, there's the question from Jonas Salk, who says, are we being good ancestors?

And then you ask, can a forest think?

Does a mountain remember?

And then is a river alive?

Tell me about those questions.

Yeah.

So the very first book I wrote in my early to mid-20s was a book called Mountains of the Mind.

I grew up as a mountaineer and a climber, as I mentioned.

And that was a book that began as a question.

It's a very old and famous question.

Why climb mountains?

And why do we climb mountains?

Why do I climb mountains?

George Mallory, who died on Everest in 1924, famously responded in New York in 1922 when asked why are you climbing Everest?

He said, because it's there which became this sort of legendary answer but actually gets us nowhere.

This does not help me at all.

No, exactly, you're right.

I'm like, I want to be like, wow, that's profound.

I don't think that helps me one bit.

It's a bit like my son saying to Iza River, like, well, duh, yes.

Well, that one I feel like is like, your son is just smack dab, right?

Okay, because it's there.

But the Everest guy, I'm like...

Okay.

You know what I mean?

Well, I hear you.

It has become the kind of most used answer to the question, well, why do we climb mountains?

Maybe the view is nice.

It's challenging, but yeah.

Well, it took me 300 pages to answer the question in A Mountain to the Mountain.

It took me 300 in Is a River Alive?

And I didn't come to the end of any of them.

But I think, having that Puzzle, that enigma, the enigma wrapped in mystery, I think, is a phrase for it.

These are deceptively simple questions.

Why do you climb a mountain?

Because it's there.

Is a river alive?

Yes.

But no, actually, when you begin to ask them, so they become, I don't know how to put it.

They become, let me give a caving example.

It's the portal.

It's the narrow portal, seemingly narrow portal.

And once you can make your way through it, dive the sump that it leads to, and then you surface into this immense space.

And that is the space of complexity, of mystery, of polyphony, of many voices.

It's crazy how much you see that in mythology, right?

That's the closet in Narnia.

You walk through and you enter a whole new world.

There's so many examples of portals.

And that's what they always are.

They're narrow.

You step through the narrow gate and then vast expansiveness on the other side.

The wardrobe that leads to the other landscape, the bungalow you duck into and find yourself in a cathedral.

The portals fascinate me.

And actually you've helped me to a really useful crystallization of that, which is those questions are portals.

They're modest.

They're the wardrobe.

They're the modest entrance point.

And then you push through the fur coats, whoosh, you're into it.

And in fact, Mountains of the Mind, you've reminded me, now begins with an image from Narnia.

The very first page has an image of my grandma, because I remember my grandmother's wardrobe with her fur coats hanging in it, up in the mountains.

And I would push through into that, dreaming that I would step through into a winter landscape.

And then actually the mountains helped me do that.

So yeah, the questions are portals.

The other thing I should say I do at the very start of a book, other than find the question, that is, the portal, is I write myself a letter?

Whoa, my future self, a letter.

And I, because I know these books are going to take, once I've committed to them, once I've found the portal question, they're going to take me three four five six seven eight, eight years.

I change a lot in that time.

The world changes a lot in that time.

The book, of course, will mutate and metamorphose a lot in that time.

So I tend to write, you know, dear Rob, future Rob.

And then in that letter I try to say what my heart hopes the book will be, how I think it will be shaped, what its resonances or key metaphors might be, where I want to go.

And then eventually what I wanted to do in the world.

And they're all tentative, right?

It's not a set of commandments.

They're an evocation of how I'm feeling about the book at that very, very, very early stage.

Then what I love is looking back at those letters when I finished the book and seeing the relationship and sometimes it's hugely discrepant and other times it's surprisingly close.

So with those questions, Do you like hang them on your desk?

Because here for Is a River Alive, it's so obvious.

Okay, it's the title of the book.

It's the driving question.

You're just going to think about that over and over again.

Is it always that kind of explicit and concrete?

I'm trying to think.

So I don't pin questions on my desk, but I do put quotes.

So, for example, with this book, there's this amazing line from Ursula Le Guin that she wrote very late in her life.

And she says something like, I think it's right before the first chapter after the prologue.

And if you just want to read it, I think that's where it is.

One way to stop seeing trees or rivers or hills only as natural resource is to class them as fellow beings, kinfolk.

I guess I'm trying to subjectify the universe because look where objectifying it has gotten us.

Hmm. to subjectify is not necessarily to co-opt, colonize, exploit.

And this is the bit that I really focused on.

Rather, it may involve a great reach outward of mind and imagination.

Yeah.

It ends strongly.

A great reach outward of mind and imagination.

Exactly.

And that That helps us think back to the portal.

So the question seems simple the key that unlocks the door.

But actually the real work is because to really answer yes, if you're not a nine-year-old to the question, is a river alive.

Those of us raised on rationalism, it requires a great reach outward of mind and imagination.

So Le Guin helped me keep thinking, I have to keep reaching.

I have to keep reaching outward.

Sorry, there's so much that was just like washed on me.

It's almost hard to like.

I don't even know where to.

I don't even know what to ask.

The riff is going.

How much of writing a book for you is an adventure versus like a plan?

Actually, maybe we'll just follow a river analogy.

Like say that you're whitewater rafting.

Like we're going to go from point A to point B, but how you're going to get there is going to be nuts.

And hopefully you make it there, right?

Yeah.

Where does that analogy break down?

Where does it hold up?

So with the river book more than any other book, I felt torrented from the beginning.

We'll stay with the metaphor.

But actually, I felt rather than rafting downstream, I was walking upstream.

You know when you walk in a river?

Yeah.

And you feel the muscles of that thing, right?

A river is a powerful presence physically.

And it's unceasing.

It's relentless.

Exactly.

It's just push, push, push, pressure, pressure, pressure.

And one thing I've found from physically walking in rivers which I do quite a lot because they make great paths, especially where the forest is thick on either side is that when you have your feet planted, you're fine.

The river's not gonna push you anywhere.

It's when you have to lift a foot to make progress.

So one foot comes up and then you're only on one foot and the river is pushing you off balance.

So actually it's stepping forwards.

It's the act of walking that unbalances you.

Writing a book is like walking upstream in a river.

You can get to a point, stabilize yourself, but when you come to take the next step, you lift that foot.

That's when river knocks you off balance.

It's also really exciting and that's how you make progress.

But I found very strongly that the river was also showing me the direction.

I didn't need to worry about direction.

It felt very intuitive.

But each step was because the force of the flow of ideas and people and encounters and rivers themselves was so strong.

It was unbalancing, torrenting in fascinating but not always easy ways.

You've been talking a lot about your relationship with...

And what is your relationship with other people in the book writing process?

We sort of got it actually with that Ursula Le Guin quote, right?

Where you get other writers who are almost giving you seeds and then you can basically take those seeds and turn them into something else.

What about peers?

How does that show up in your writing?

Such a smart question.

And they are themselves kind of river presences.

A person is not a fixed and sealed thing, right?

We know this.

We are all in motion and changing all of the time.

We're all in flux.

But I love people.

A lot of nature writing a phrase I hate, but a lot of nature writing used to be thought of as kind of, almost people-less.

It was only about the land, as it were.

I mean, John Muir, I don't think of people whenever I think of his writing.

I always think of the mountains and stuff like that.

Right.

And in fact Muir very shabbily treats and sort of discards the native presence in those landscapes, particularly in his early work.

When what he calls Indians come into view in the landscape, he will shuffle them off, he will frame them out.

I have come to love writing about people.

And it's partly that I hang out with, I try and get myself to travel with people who fascinate me.

It's back to being an obsessive, obsessive.

And almost all the people who fascinate me are people who are themselves fascinated by stuff.

Obsessive, obsessive, specialist, specialist.

So, for example, Giuliana Verci, this Chilean-Italian field mycologist, mushroom fungi specialist, who I traveled with in Ecuador.

She's one of the most amazing people I've ever met.

And she can hear fungi.

She's a dowser.

She can sense buried water.

She can tell you flow rates.

She has an astonishing sensitivity to water.

And that's, I think, inseparable from her sensitivity to fungi.

I was traveling with her in this cloud forest trying to find... make second collections of two new species of psilocybe, of magic mushroom, as we might call them.

And she could hear them before she could see them.

She could sense them around three bends in the path.

And I know you're as puzzled as anyone else I've told this story to, but I watched it happen.

Once and I was there when it happened a second time.

She just sort of says ah, I think they're near now.

We were two more turns in the path.

And then, woohoo, which is what she calls when she sees a fungus.

And she's down and there.

One specimen in each case.

Single fungi in a huge cloud forest.

And I should say she's a serious hardcore field scientist, right?

She's written the field guides to the fungi of Chile.

So we're not talking about a kind of, you know, crystal swinging mystic.

I mean, she's a hardcore scientist.

But she goes about things a different way.

So how do you write someone like that?

In a way, it's the easiest thing.

You just transcribe them, right?

Their speech is incredible.

Their way of being in the world is incredible, right?

I love it when, and I found it particularly with this book, people talk about them as characters.

So it sounds like this is a novel.

It isn't a novel, but they are characters.

They're incredible, incredible characters.

So the books are filled with dialogue, but it's true dialogue, as it were, best fit true dialogue.

Yeah, there's a poet I like.

His name's John O'Donohue.

Oh, yeah.

And he has this line.

He says, when was the last time you had a conversation?

A conversation that wasn't just too intersecting monologues, but a conversation where both people found something within each other, within themselves, that they didn't even know, that they knew.

And the way that I imagine...

That is like, you're kind of building a fire in conversation.

Like what we're doing right now.

It's like, I can't do this on my own.

You can't do this on your own.

We're in this together now.

We're actually creating, we're in a process of co-creation.

And that's what conversation is.

And he talks about that.

And the last line is so beautiful.

He says, conversations like that are food and drink for the soul.

It is.

Like, wow.

And all this is the same.

The writing process.

When you're with somebody like that woman or your friend who you go kayaking with, there's probably things that can get into your book that you would never be able to get on your own.

Oh, totally.

And they're almost a kind of co-writer for you.

Absolutely.

I love your idea of building a fire together.

I actually almost prefer that to John O'Donohue's metaphor, food and drink for the soul.

O'Donohue.

It's fascinating how many people his, because he was sort of a quiet writer.

But I have so many conversations like this where there's one line or a poem or something and it just lights people up.

Tell me about poetry.

Like you learned poetry as a kid and also one of the things that we sort of talked about before.

But it's how rhythm, sound and tempo they can kind of move you as a reader in ways that exceed the actual prose itself.

And that's what poetry does.

It's almost more than the words, but it's implicit.

And I think this is why you have to memorize poetry, is because it's only once it begins to – be known by heart.

We say right.

Once you know it by heart, then you begin to see all the rhythms and it's almost like a flower.

Like it takes a while to bloom, but once it does, wow, I didn't know it could do that.

Exactly.

The blooming is a lovely image for it.

It's entered you and then the seed is sown and then the blossom comes.

And I mean the last 10 years.

I've been lucky to collaborate with um artists with, so i've written libretti for full-length choral works.

I've also written a bunch of albums and actually, i have to say songwriting, writing lyrics has become i think all of these have helped me with with is a river alive.

I think that's the book that i've spent the last 22 years learning to write, and particularly the last 10.

Because actually writing lyrics, writing libretti, writing poetry... You wrote a requiem, right?

Written a full-length requiem.

Yeah, that's going to be like a 75-minute huge choral work.

It's going to premiere in Helsinki.

So can we do this?

Can we just go through libretti and then all of them?

I just want to hear kind of quickly what those forms have taught you about... As a long-form writer.

Yeah, exactly.

So we'll start with libretti.

What did that teach you as a long-form writer?

Well, so...

I've written for opera.

We created an improvised jazz opera that was about 15 years ago which we performed in a former nuclear weapons testing site, which was very cool.

So I expected you to be expected to hear.

But the most recent one, the one I've just finished is called The World Tree.

Okay.

And it's about this, did you follow the story of the felling of the Sycamore Gap tree in the UK?

It was chopped down in the middle of the night by two men who just wanted to visit harm upon it.

It was a completely iconic tree on Hadrian's Wall.

It featured in Robin Hood, Prince Thieves.

Anyway, it was a huge national and indeed international thing.

And it was so it's about.

It's a deep history of forests and trees and people in the northern parts of the northern hemisphere.

It's called the world tree.

But what did I learn from that?

Well writing for voice, especially for multiple voices, you have to work so closely on, for example, just the way one word transitions into another.

So if you have a glottal stop, like a at the end of one word, that then that the singer then has to overcome to flow into the next word.

That's fine if it comes at the end of a line, but if it comes in the middle of a phrase or a thought, it doesn't work.

So you begin to think about the kind of sound currents of single phrases and the singability and that is not something as a writer you would quite think about.

Um in in writing song lyrics.

I one of the thing, the single thing that that has taught me most clearly, is to let images lapse into looseness with one another.

Let me put it like that, and by that i mean as a As a teacher at Cambridge.

As a prose writer, I'm basically a control freak.

I have to make meaning mean exactly what I want it to mean.

And so you work with syntax in all of these really, really knotty and complex ways to kind of carry meaning.

So I wrote a song called Uncanny Valley with my friend Johnny Flynn.

So we all got lost in the uncanny valley, took a wrong turn at the end of the alley.

No one had a map and no one kept tally in the uncanny valley, in the uncanny valley.

And so when you speak it, it sounds almost like a nursery rhyme.

And I'd be embarrassed if I'd written that flat for the page.

But when you sing it and set it to beat and Johnny immediately looked at that and he said I want to set this offbeat.

So when you hear the language and the guitar sound backing, they sit slightly in friction with one another.

And that gives it this uncanny, off-kilter, sort of slightly strange.

And from the beginning, everything is off balance.

So they're letting language lapse into looseness, letting images live with one another in ways that they start to cross-pollinate in weird ways.

The other thing with that that I always love talking to artists about is the ways that serious artists are conscious of things that are below the register of consciousness for the consumer of that work.

Like those things you're talking about, I would have never thought about those things.

I could probably listen to Uncanny Valley a hundred times and be like maybe I'd get to.

Wow, there's something uncanny about the song.

But what you're saying is this is why that's happening.

The puzzle pieces aren't quite matching up and that is a feature, not a bug.

A feature, not a bug.

Exactly what seems like a glitch is precisely a glitch.

This is a song about glitch.

Then I carried that over to I mean, the biggest glitch, as it were.

Glitch is such a cool word.

It's such a cool word.

It's such a cool thing.

It's such a cool word.

It's where everything starts to kind of vibrate and the hologram flickers and reality is doing strange things and rationalism's limits start to be met.

And the biggest glitch in the matrix I've ever known was the encounter with this river being.

And so... there you have to start to find ways that language can glitch itself.

Again, something I learned in songwriting carries over into the big books.

Poetry.

Yeah, poetry.

Mostly for children, but here's a glitch poem for you actually.

A wren, this beautiful, quick little bird that moves so fast you can barely see it.

So when wren was, from stone to furs, the world around her blurs, for wren is quick, so quick she blurs the air through which she flows.

So there, it's all about the glitch.

Really it's about speed.

And then and then and then glitch, because the wren is so quick she seems to pass out of sight.

She seems to glitch.

We got to talk about words.

We have been.

We got to talk about words.

No, no, no, no, no.

Now we're really going to talk about words.

So tell me about place words.

Oh, yeah.

Like how you've collected place words for terrain, elements, light, life, place names.

Yeah.

Top of names.

Now we're really going to talk about words.

All right.

Well, let's get some words going.

The onomasticon.

The toponym.

So toponym is a place name.

Onomasticon is like a gathering of words, particularly for places, obviously glossary, lexicon.

So all of my books have glossaries.

I'll give you a few.

I'll give you a choice view from the glossary of Not because I want people, I don't use big words.

Because I want people to think I'm a big word user.

I use them because they are fantastically precise.

Descriptive.

Descriptive, precise, and I think precision is a function of lyricism.

Yes.

So here's a few from the... from the glossary of Is a River Alive?

Sump, a pit or pool into which waste liquids are drained, a cesspit.

Supervoid in astronomy a very large part of the universe containing very little or no known condensed matter galaxies superclusters, etc.

I have a cool one.

Go on then.

Runachmum.

Oh, Runachmum.

And you pronounced it pretty well.

That's because I I literally went to Google and I was like I'm not going to be able to pronounce this.

So I'm going to get the actual pronunciation on my piece of paper.

So I practiced that.

You did good job.

So you're talking about precise.

The shadows cast on the moorland by clouds moving across the sky on a bright and windy day.

Yeah.

Runachmum.

Exactly.

What's that?

Four syllables, but there it takes us in English.

A paragraph, really, a long sentence to describe.

So I should say this is from Gaelic, Scots Gaelic, and specifically it's from the Western Isles dialect or sort of idiolect of Scots Gaelic.

The language of nature is really diverse as you move around the world.

Super diverse, exactly, yeah.

I spent a wonderful two, two and a half years collecting.

So I was raiding old glossaries in libraries, regional libraries.

Because in the 19th century a lot of people were making these dialect glossaries and looking always for words for water, for land, for weather, for forests and trees, for moor, for mountain.

Words of relation with place, precise, lyrical, fascinating, strange, sometimes absurd.

And I would also go and interview language keepers, as it were.

What are language keepers?

Well, so they're, I guess, the elders of their communities, especially where languages are threatened.

So Scott's Gaelic, it's got as low as sort of 53,000 speakers.

It's starting to bump back up a bit now, but it's highly regionally specific.

So I came to know an amazing man to whom the book is dedicated called Finley MacLeod.

And Finlay was a first language Gaelic speaker, but bilingual in English.

And he had made part of his remarkable life's work gathering the language together and recording it, because a lot of it's oral culture.

Like you wouldn't necessarily think to write down the specific Runach Moem.

So he handed me this amazing document, a Peat glossary, which was like 150 words for aspects of Moreland and Peat on Lewis alone.

And I was just like, wow.

And that's where I met Runach Moem for the first time.

Tell me about language death.

Yes, it happens.

River death happens.

Language death happens.

I mean, language death is very simple to define.

It's where the last living speaker of a language dies.

And then the language survives in recordings, in a virtual record, in paper record, of course.

But it's no longer being passed on.

That's language death.

And when a language dies... knowledge goes with it because language is a knowledge storage system.

And some aspects of that knowledge cannot be translated across into another language.

They're not alienable from the language itself.

So language death is a kind of biocultural collapse as well, a deletion of knowledge, often that's been born and carried over many, many generations.

I asked you earlier about getting the early notes and then we sort of talked about revision.

But I know every single sentence gets revised 20, 100 times.

Tell me about the revision process.

How do you take something that is eh and turn it into yeah?

Well, I don't know if I do turn it into yeah, but I definitely try and move it away from eh.

And I am such a, I'm a muddy, mucky, messy writer.

So I sometimes liken it to potting, like being a potter.

Yeah, down it goes on the wheel.

And then the next bit is the hard work.

It's like the treadling, I think they call it.

So you're sort of pumping that foot treadle and that begins to spin the plate.

And then the fine work begins, which is where you begin to shape the ball, and shape the ball, and shape the pot or whatever.

And then eventually, once you've got that formed, then you start to do all the ornamenting and so on.

But it is messy work.

I am not a writer who has to finish one sentence before he goes on, he or she goes on to the next.

And a piece of advice perhaps I would have, for I often give this to writers who are stuck with a block.

I can't begin the book or I can't proceed with the book.

I'm like, Don't worry about that.

Just leave it.

Actually, I have two pieces of advice.

Let me give this.

So the first is, when you end a day's writing, make sure you know what the next sentence is going to be.

So when you wake up the next morning, yeah, you're like, oh, yeah, I'll finish that.

And that just gives you that little bit.

It's like pushing off on the bike and then you're cycling again.

That's a good analogy.

So that's like the hook and eye.

And the other is, if you're really stuck, don't worry.

Just go downstream.

Jump into the book further down and just write that bit.

And sometimes, and I build my books out of bits.

They're sort of mosaics.

So I write them often very non-linearly.

I'll be like OK, I know what's going to happen in that paragraph or that scene, or that bit of the river, or that journey or that encounter.

So I'll write that as a set piece.

And I'll be doing that with 100 set pieces, even as I'm trying to kind of remember the flow.

So I'm not at all scared of distraction, discrepancy, diversion.

It doesn't have to be this beautiful linear writing.

I don't know how Richard Powers writes.

I know Alan Hollinghurst, the English writer. novelist, won the Booker Prize, and many other things.

He writes perfect linear flow, handwritten sentences.

He'll write a page a day.

I once heard him say, then he'll stop.

And then he'll write the next page the next day, and then he'll stop.

If you write 365 pages a year, you've got yourself a novel really quickly.

That is an anointed human being.

That is rare.

Well, I think it must be.

And I am the opposite.

I'm like, okay, mosaic tile here, there.

Do you like writing?

Yes.

I mean, it is not coal mining.

I think writers can really whine about how hard writing is.

And at some level I think we need to recognize that you're sitting on the whole comfortably behind a desk and yes, there are external pressures and maybe worried about financial circumstances or deadlines or family.

You know, we're all, we're all under under many kinds of pressure, but the the actual writing work it, it.

It can be a bit hurty, let's say.

It's like it's brain hurty.

You don't want to do it because it's hard.

It's unnatural.

Yeah.

Well, to me, it's pretty naturalized now after 22 years.

It takes 20 years.

Yeah, 20 years.

I actually feel vindicated.

Okay.

Yeah, exactly.

It's totally natural.

It just takes 20 years.

You've been writing, I mean, really writing how long?

10 years now?

Yeah.

Okay.

You've just got another 10 to do and then it'll be fine.

It'll be like freewheeling on a bike with no hands on the handlebars.

Like a guy in a hammock.

Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do.

Well, it doesn't still feel like that, but we're back to ass on chair.

It's like, just show up.

And even if you only get a paragraph that day, your book's a paragraph longer.

How do you feel about using ChatGPT and AI in your writing?

Oh my goodness, look at those eyes.

I mean, I don't.

And I cannot ever imagine doing so again.

The only AI I use, although I do try and switch it off, is obviously spellcheck.

And that is a kind of AI, and I suppose it's been scrutinizing us for a long time.

But actually because my writing often is highly violating of grammatical norms, the grammar check goes wild.

It doesn't like it.

It does not like it.

And I'm like, good, this is excellent.

I could give you an example of what Grammarly does not like.

I sometimes like to remove verbs from sentences, leaving them technically not sentences.

But this is seeing this huge Canadian river for the first time from the sky.

My first sight of the river itself catches my breath.

New paragraph.

A world snake in the green.

New paragraph.

Cliffs dropping near sheer to water.

New paragraph.

House-sized boulders on the banks.

Time falls from the rock faces above.

New paragraph.

Water, blue, black, and glossy in the deeper, calmer runs.

Peep round where it's stretched towards and away from rapids churning green gold and cream in the falls.

So that's five paragraphs, five sentences.

Sounds doing weird stuff, cliffs dropping near sheer to water, and Grammarly does not approve, which I take to be a badge of success.

I agree.

It's sort of the paradox of Grammarly that it makes the average piece of writing, I think, much better, but it hurts a kind of writer's.

It takes away from distinctiveness and individuality that underlies so much great writing.

I think that's so well put.

And I like the idea of it hurting that.

I think that's a good way of putting it.

Salman Rushdie yesterday, I think, said writers have nothing to fear from AI until it can do comedy.

And I thought that was an interesting idea.

Like the hardest thing of all is to make us laugh.

But I think writing broadly does have a lot to fear from AI and we should resist it, including the absolute piracy of our books that we now know large language model composers have been undertaking for years now and feeding absolutely feeding them without any kind of recompense or licensing or permission sought into the creation of LLMs.

I want to hear more about what you do to make something feel visceral.

Like I've been thinking a lot about that word visceral.

And you talk about claustrophobia.

Yes.

And the way that that can feel visceral.

There's a line from William Golding where he talks about sympathetic kinesthesia twitching limbs, rising heart rates, faster breathing like and that we can actually experience something vicariously.

So early on in the conversation, we're talking about not trying to capture something.

Yes.

But this isn't the opposite, but it's-

But it's actually making the reader feel what you felt and having that feeling feel vivid.

Yes.

Transferring that.

Wow.

Well, yes.

So visceral from, as it were, viscera from the guts.

Like, how do you make a reader feel it in the guts?

And I mean curiously.

This is where feelings of nerves.

You know we talk about butterflies in the stomach.

We feel that kind of characteristic tingles, anxiety or panic.

Underland, which is the book I wrote about, which is highly kind of claustrophobic in many ways, although it's also about the immensities of the underworld and the ways they open us up as well as close us down.

But there is a passage in that where I am crawling through the Paris catacombs.

And I would say that the area under your chair and between the legs of your chair So about a foot is considerably bigger than the past.

I mean, the affordance of this passage was so tight that my nose, the back of my head, was on the base and that my nose was on the top.

Oh my goodness.

And I had to hook my rucksack to my ankle and drag.

And then the only way you could kind of move was just like worm-like, moving your way under.

And then this, this shuddering started, this vibrating start.

We were in.

It was a rock passage limestone and, and i came to realize, and the whole ceiling was everything was judging, the vibrations were passing through the rock, through my body and back into the rock.

It was a train, it was a, it was a a tube train.

We were under Paris, so it was a metro train.

And I realized it was passing directly overhead.

I mean, that probably was the time I felt most afraid in eight years of the underland.

Anyway, the roof didn't collapse.

We made it through.

But so many people have stopped reading at that point.

I must have had 100 people in readings and talks come up to me and I loved Underland, but when I got to that bit I just had to stop.

I had to jump ahead.

I was fascinated by this because being able to vicariously affect your reader's body not their mind, but being able to make them kind of clench, make their heart beat raise, make them go outside under a clear blue sky so they can recover from the claustrophobia, even though they were reading it in a room like this.

That's power.

It's power, and it's fascinating.

And I came to realize claustrophobia is much more vicariously powerful than vertigo.

And vertigo is quite powerful.

So when I'd written a lot about vertigo, people were like, oh yeah, I felt a version of that.

But with claustrophobia, people were like, I had to stop reading this.

So it's just yeah, sympathetic kinesthesia is where you're affecting not mind, but body, body and then mind.

And it's a fascinating power.

Worst claustrophobia I ever had was my first MRI.

I didn't really know what an MRI was, and I just showed up, and it was horrible.

You got it.

You felt it.

What, the kind of... Oh, it was terrible.

I asked them to stop.

I had to go back.

They had to say, do you want to do this?

Do you not want to do this?

I said, fine, I'll do it.

And it was just a terrible experience.

There's just something about claustrophobia that when you get it you want to hit the eject button and just get out of there so fast.

Yeah.

It's a strange kind of pain.

It's a strange kind of suffering.

It's more suffering than pain.

Yeah.

And it's so mental, right?

Because you would have known, the rational part of your brain knows, this is an MRI scanner.

Like, this is not going to collapse and crush me.

It's not going to harm me.

It's doing me good.

Many thousands of people have been here before me, but...

Yeah, I once thought about when I was writing Undone.

I thought about getting a business card which just read I do these things, so you don't have to.

But yeah, yeah, the underworld.

I haven't been back into the underworld much since I surfaced in about 2018, I must say whereas rivers, they're going to flow on through my life forever.

Nice.

I want to do kind of a fire round.

I want to ask you about language from different cultures and what we can learn from them.

So we'll start with Old English.

Okay, Old English, used to be known as Anglo-Saxon, now Old English.

So the kenning.

A kenning is a beautiful trope of Old English, which is where you hyphenate two words together to make a metaphoric version of another.

So bone cage, bone cage hyphenated means the skeleton, the body.

Whale road is the sea, the sea that the... for example, that ships sail on is the whale road.

That becomes the sea.

And this profusion of kennings which is so characteristic is just a beautiful metaphoric generosity, sort of fusing two bits of language together.

And once you start to play with kennings, it's very hard to not play with them.

So they're all hyphenated.

So there's Old English.

The kenning is so strong.

And also in Middle English.

So Gawain and the Green Knight, for example, 14th century, great epic poem of travel and nature.

Alliteration and rhythm are absolutely central to that.

The so-called the axe knocks of the stress.

And I've learned so much from that alliterative tradition of Old English.

Yeah, poems like the Seafarer, Gawain and the Green Knight, really, really strong for me.

So alliteration and kennings.

Hebridean Gaelic.

Well, compressive precision, I suppose.

We've talked about Runach Moem, the shadows cast by clouds on Moorland on a sunny, windy day.

Many versions of that.

And also what's sometimes called GPS, the Gallic Positioning System.

What's that?

Well, place sensitivity is so coded into a lot of Gaelic place names.

So for example, I'm a mountaineer and this is not Hebridean Gaelic, but Gaelic and Norse together.

So you can tell the shape of mountains depending on the names before you see them.

So, for example, a Ben like Ben Nevis or Ben Moore will be a.

That's like a generic hill will tend to be quite rounded.

Stob, Stobinian, for example, will be a sharper peak.

Skur, Skurnangilian, means literally a scarier tooth.

That will typically be a very sharp peak.

So or Ben Cruachan means the hill of the forge, and it's actually shaped like a big kind of forge building.

So coded into Gaelic place names are descriptors.

So the Gaelic positioning system, GPS.

If you can understand the place names, you can kind of read the landscape with them and locate yourself.

Man, it really gives you an X-ray vision into the natural world, these words.

Yeah, and they go, you know, way, way, way, way back.

So yeah, yeah.

So Bukul Etiv Mor literally means the big shepherd of the glen, the valley of Etiv.

So Mor is big, Bukul is the shepherd, and Etiv is the valley.

So and that stands like a kind of guard peak at the head of this incredible glen of Etive.

So Buckle Etive Moor.

How about the Irish versus the English?

What are the similarities, the differences?

I think what's shared is an absolute relish for what Heaney calls the palp and heft of language.

The palp and the heft of language.

So palp as in palpable, like the feel of it, the texture of words, and then heft how they weigh in the hand.

So what does Heaney say?

What a turn of phrase.

Oh, he just...

He just did that all the time.

I mean, no one taught me the pulp and heft of language better than Seamus Heaney.

He says, keep your mind clear as the bleb of an icicle.

And the bleb, it turns out, is not the icicle.

It's that single droplet of water that melts down and then hangs at the end of the icicle and then drips off.

But when it's hanging there, it's the bleb.

And the clarity of that, but also the way it shapes the world when you look into it.

That's what Heaney's talking about.

Keep your mind clear as the bleb of the icicle.

Hmm.

How about English writing?

Well, I mean, where to start and where to stop?

It's the water I swim in.

I think sometimes you want language, English, to be transparent as glass.

You don't want the reader to see anything between them and what it is they think they are living with you.

And sometimes you want it to be opaque and thick and rich and full of pulp and heft and for the reader to feel each word and to weigh language and to feel language.

If you get that wrong, it's a tremendous interference.

The reader feels like they're wading through heavy water and they're being weighed down by the heft of language and they just want to get away.

But if you get it right it becomes almost a physical, is a set of performances of, of lifting feel, the body's resistance to, to idea, to word, to to language, and and the minds leaning towards it or or moving away from it.

And so yeah, making the readers, making the reader dance with, with palp and with heft can, can be wonderful for writer and for reader, but other times you want them to forget languages there entirely.

What do you make of the early 20th century writing advice about removing needless words?

Remove it, remove it, get simple, get down to the essence.

It just seems to be the antithesis of what you do.

So what is going on?

When is that true?

When is that not true?

Is that just, no, that's bad advice.

Like, how do you feel about that?

So Walter Pater, who was one of the great Victorian, he says one of the great Victorian kind of essayists he said burn with a hard and gem-like flame.

He says, burn with a hard and gem-like flame.

And I think he much earlier than Hemingway and others and later Raymond Carver.

We could call them like the subtractionists, the people for whom taking away is almost always the right thing to do with language.

So I think Pater and Burning with a Heart and Gemlike Flame is thinking about something similar.

Sometimes I think that's really important.

And you heard the verbalist sentences earlier.

It's like, I mean, they're not Hemingwayan or Carverian, but they are gemlike.

Like there's a facetedness to them and they're just like, boonk, boonk, boonk.

Each of them is a sort of lapidary thing.

And I don't try and connect them or causally relate them.

It's just image, image, image, image.

And that, to change the form, it's like flashing those up on the mind's screen.

It's like a kind of brain cinema that's...

There's a vividness to that.

But then adding, yeah, I'm not a subtractionist, except at times.

I just think each landscape, each encounter asks a different bespoke perspective, presence of language, and sometimes you take away and sometimes you add.

Yeah, that's so.

I just think you just judge where you are and what you're trying to do.

We've talked a lot about making writing vivid and I want to go deeper on that of capturing astonishment, of not exaggerating.

Like we're not trying to exaggerate this, but also we're not trying to diminish the astonishment that you feel.

How do you do that?

How do you think about capturing the truth of that?

I think what you say about exaggeration is a really helpful note.

And I, uh, to, to writers, um, and to myself, I, uh, you know, hyperbole is your enemy.

Um, straining too hard is your enemy.

I mean, that way purple prose lies, I think.

So finding exactly the urge with astonishment is to render it with a similar kind of extravagant vivacity of language.

And actually that can leave a hollowness and a falsity to it, I think.

So again, I think...

Resisting the impulse to explain astonishment, I think, is important.

So the unknowables experiences that I've had in my 22 years of writing, including a ghostly encounter on a hilltop in England sleeping out alone on on my own in a, in a, as i subsequently found out, wood hilltop, wood that has a long history of of hauntology and and spectral encounters.

I didn't know any of that at the time, about that, how do you how?

That's an astonishment, but how do you?

How do you write it?

Well, i just try almost phenomenally i to adjust the empirical basis of it.

Just Tell it how you felt it.

And we're back to not representation, but the representation of perception.

And let the reader, and maybe this is where subtraction becomes important.

Because when you don't try to say everything or overlaid everything with language, the reader becomes a participant.

They are co-creating with you.

They're filling in gaps.

So letting things drop out that feel vital to you.

And again, don't over-explain.

And maybe this is where lyric writing is helpful.

Letting sense and cause drop out, because then the reader steps in and kind of fills those gaps and becomes your co-writer.

Yeah, I think sometimes if you have sentences where you dot the I's, you cross the T's, you make the edges kind of right angles 90 degrees.

Yes, it's really well put.

You... omit the space for a reader to contemplate it, to stir on that sentence on their own.

And I think that a lot of my gripe with hey focus on clarity.

Be really clear in what you're saying is a lot of good writing is you're gifting somebody a turn of phrase or a sentence that they can actually think about for a long time?

And in order for that to be a fruitful experience, the sentence has to contain some mystery.

And that's the only way that it can be a send-off for somebody else to make their own.

Absolutely.

And even when one is... working with a single sentence.

So I think there's a sentence in, is a river alive?

In English, there is no verb to river, but what could be more of a verb than a river?

Now, in a sense, that's a finished thought, but in another, it is a send-off.

It's like hold on.

So what does that?

Oh right yeah, we don't talk about rivering this or being rivered.

But of course, is a river a verb?

Yeah, how do we translate?

So yes, the...

Again, we're back to the portal.

You lend initial assent to the idea and then it kind of complexifies in retrospect.

Hey, this was wonderful.

Yeah.

Holy cow.

We're only just embarked on the river.

We've got another three hours downstream of us.

No, I'm only kidding.

That was a crazy conversation.

Wow.

It's so cool to talk to someone who loves language as much as I do.

Two nerds wigging out.

That is what just happened.

Wigging out.

Thank you, David.

It was a total pleasure.

Yeah.

Brilliant.

You know, I have a gripe with that word.

Oh, go on.

Let's end the wig out with a gripe.

So this is my gripe.

So in America, we overstate everything.

Yes.

We overstate everything.

And the English, very understated, okay?

And so like, no, it's pretty good.

In like English, English is like, wow, that was actually great.

But there's one word that the English overstate, not the Americans.

And it's brilliant.

I get out of a taxi in London.

I say, hey, thank you.

They say, oh, brilliant.

I'm like, it wasn't brilliant at all.

This is the most mundane, the most mundane, like basic thing.

And that's my gripe with the word brilliant, specifically with English people.

Thank you.

I agree.

I consider myself chastised.

Well, if you swap it, because it's a word of light, right?

Brilliant means radiant.

But if you swap it with radiant, then you realize how silly it sounds.

Like if you got out of a taxi and the taxi driver said, that was radiant.

But no, we've fully naturalized brilliant.

But this was brilliant.

This was brilliant.

American brilliant or English brilliant?

English brilliant.

It's an exercise for the listener.

All right.

That was good fun.

Cool.

[The Art of Writing Nature: Flow, Rhythm, and the Language of Wonder]-[Robert Macfarlane: The Most Beautiful Conversation About Language | How I Write]

📋 Summary

The Art of Writing Nature: Flow, Rhythm, and the Language of Wonder

Mountains and the Sensitivity of the Self

The Futility of Capturing Nature

Writing with Rivers: Prepositions and Punctuation

The Alchemy of Notebooks and "Heart Work"

Wonder as a Survival Skill

The Ethics of Language and Landscape

🎯Key Sentences

📝Key Phrases

📖 Transcript

[The Art of Writing Nature: Flow, Rhythm, and the Language of Wonder]-[Robert Macfarlane: The Most Beautiful Conversation About Language | How I Write]

📋 Summary

The Art of Writing Nature: Flow, Rhythm, and the Language of Wonder

Mountains and the Sensitivity of the Self

The Futility of Capturing Nature

Writing with Rivers: Prepositions and Punctuation

The Alchemy of Notebooks and "Heart Work"

Wonder as a Survival Skill

The Ethics of Language and Landscape

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🎯Key Sentences

📝Key Phrases

📖 Transcript

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