A wrinkle in the spacetime continuum—on a no. 3 insect pin
Metaphysical musings retold from 'Species, Science and Society'
A pinned specimen of Hylecoetus dermestoides. Image: copyright Pentti Ketola 2018. Source: https://www.insects.fi
Welcome to the Species Hall of Fame. As discussed in my forthcoming book, Species, Science and Society, museum specimens add a special dimension to taxonomy. Unlike experiments that must be repeated anew to evaluate, the very same museum specimens are consulted, reexamined, studied, probed and interpreted by generations of scientists to evaluate earlier observations and hypotheses— and to create new ones. But first, a different twist on this experience.
When my daughter Olivia was young and expressed an interest in the Civil War we watched the movie Gettysburg, then made a trip to Pennsylvania. As we approached that hallowed ground, the fields and rolling hills out of the car window were unremarkable, looking just like terrain we had been seeing for miles. But stepping out of the car onto blood-soaked soil where thousands of soldiers endured unimaginable suffering and anguish in July, 1863, was an experience that transcended topography and history books. Subconscious awareness of the significance of this place, of what had transpired there, made a connection between that bloody battle and the present that was not easily explained—yet impossible to deny.
In taxonomy, specimens often create similar experiences. During my first visit to the Museum National d’Histoire Naturelle in Paris, I held a pinned ship-timber beetle in my hand under a microscope. This was the individual, physical specimen chosen as the type for Hylecoetus cribricolle. Fewer than half a dozen entomologists had ever held or seriously contemplated this specimen since its description in 1889 by the French entomologist Fairmaire.
As my glance shifted from the microscope to his publication, which lay open on the desk, I read his words and struggled to fully comprehend what he was telling me about the morphology of this beetle. Fairmaire and I were intellectually connected in a kind of taxonomic “idea space,” a realm of thoughts about the details, significance and meaning of this beetle. In spite of being separated by language, culture, a hundred years and death, our minds occupied the same idea space, deeply engaged with the same timeless concepts. Ideas are central to the human existence—to being—and Fairmaire and I were sharing the same ideas, even if not at the exact same moment. I concluded that Fairmaire was mistaken when he named this species as new and that his specimen clearly fell within the expected range of variation of Hylecoetus dermestoides, a species named by Linnaeus a century before Fairmaire’s work. I, of course, had an advantage. I had examined hundreds of specimens, in this and other museums, collected after the time of Fairmaire, and it would be intellectually dishonest to hold that against his conclusion which was, given the specimens he had seen, and the facts known to him, understandable in its day.
Such specimens, like Gettysburg, seem almost supernatural when experienced in this way. They are constants in an otherwise ever-changing world. Evidence of what Fairmaire had seen, frozen in time, untouched by decades of changes in theories, technology, and events. This wasn’t just a beetle, it was like a fold in the spacetime continuum mounted on a no. 3 insect pin.
I don’t discount the power of films like Jurassic Park to bring dinosaurs to life in our imaginations. Yet, no web site, movie or model, no matter how detailed, replicates or replaces the experience of being in the presence of an actual tyrannosaur. Nor can I explain the psychology behind the deeply personal connections to history made on battlefields and in museums. Natural history museums alone, with their collections of enormous value to science for other reasons, offer us the opportunity to experience real specimens, something that cannot be duplicated by immersive 3D goggles or Hollywood special effects. Being in the presence of an actual, physical, individual animal or plant from millions of years ago, or even a century ago, makes a subconscious connection that can’t be faked. It alone has the illusion of bending spacetime to put us in touch with other eras, circumstances and human conceptions. Such connections are not unique to taxonomy. Just ask an archaeologist or historian. But they are uniquely woven into its work… and they never get old.
From somewhere in taxonomic spacetime, this is Quentin Wheeler reaching out for the Species Hall of Fame.
Further reading
Wheeler, Quentin (2023) Species, Science and Society: The Role of Systematic Biology. Abingdon: Routledge. 246 pp.
Thanks for sharing both these stories. I wish people today were more deeply thoughtful, circumspect and generous of spirit when judging individuals from the past. History is sometimes simplified to single issues and it’s players judged by contemporary criteria when knowledge and context would lead to more fair views of historic characters and make us wiser in the process. My advisor, Charles Triplehorn, was more cautious with taxonomic conclusions later in his career; experience begets wisdom, too.
This piece really resonated with me. I live a half hour from Appomattox Courthouse, where, as the local tourist agency says, "our country reunited." But it wasn't really like that. The "reunion" came about after years of war that devastated much of the south and cost over 600,000 lives. I've visited the historical park many times and never fail to be affected by the experience. Sometimes it's watching the introductory film in the visitor center, sometimes talking with a re-enactor who stays in character despite the attempts of others to distract him, and sometimes listening to a guide read aloud the correspondence between Grant and Lee prior to the surrender. Grant was generous to the starving, ill-clothed Confederates, parolling them to get home in time to plant their spring crops (it was April) and providing 10,000 rations on a day's notice. The latter deed showed why the Union, with vastly more resources, prevailed. One of my visits coincided with the anniversary of the surrender. It was early and the morning was cold and foggy. Almost nobody was there but for two troops of re-enacotrs, one in blue and one in gray. It was an incredibly magical feeling of having travelled back in time to 1865.
Nowadays I work on millipede taxonomy and in the course of that enterprise often look at specimens that have gone unexamined for a century or more, including many types. In my younger days, I was critical almost to the point of scorn for early taxonomists like Charles Henry Bollman or even more recent ones, especially Ralph Vary Chamberlin. So many mistakes! Then I recall that they were pioneers. They had neither our technology nor our store of knowledge and theory. They did the best they could. Now that I'm 80, I've come to a new appreciation of their efforts and much more forgiving of their errors, having made quite a few myself. I treat their work with more understanding now.