"O, my pretty insects!" cries Jean Henri Fabre, lamenting so much. As he settles into his observation post in the French countryside, and the reader into his impassioned, friendly voice, we turn our attention to those smallest of creatures. After decades toiling as a professor of non-entomological subjects, Fabre can finally begin his tenure as dedicated admirer of his insects (it's the little things that count), and you and I are so much the wealthier for it.
Before I continue, I need to credit Teixera de Mattos, whose obviously masterful translation from the French has acquainted me with Fabre. Having no experience with the original works, I can unfortunately only praise de Mattos for presenting me with English prose far exceeding the majority of prose I have read, and not for any particulars of the artistic feat his rendering represents.
Back to our French friend. Fabre gives himself permission, in the first essay, "Harmas", to forego the self-imposed shackles of conventional scientific writing, which places unadornment ("dryness" says Fabre) of style over all other considerations. How he shirks these usual confines is greatly amusing. Calling on the testimony of the insects themselves, he asks:
"...take up my defense and bear witness in my favor. Tell of the intimate terms on which I live with you, of the patience with which I observe you, of the care with which I record your actions. Your evidence is unanimous: yes, my pages, though they bristle not with hollow formulas nor learned smatterings, are the exact narrative of facts observed, neither more nor less; and whoso cares to question you in his turn will obtain the same replies."
Count me among his defenders, whether six-legged or two!
Freedom taken, Fabre imagination stretches its legs. In the eggs of the Pentatomae, or shield bugs, Fabre describes the tea cups that fairies might drink out of; in the Halicti, he labels the aging matriarchs jealous portresses; in the night-time commotion of critters in the bushes and trees, he hears the members of an orchestra playing their parts. Is it the responsibility of someone who loves something to transmit that loving-feeling to others? With color and vitality, born from the zeal in his own heart, Fabre ensnares the passion of the reader as well. So endearing, too, is his naked enthusiasm. If I was the Pentatomae treated to a "Well done, little bug!" from Fabre I daresay I would turn my chitin chin away in shyness at praise earnestly given. But as the reader, snubbed, I can only admit that his adoration is obvious and infectious.
When he turns to himself, he is still very worthwhile. In one of the autobiographical essays, he recounts an early experiment as a boy of five, in which he stands outside; opens his eyes and closes his mouth, and then does the reverse. His question: through which of these two interfaces does the sun's brightness communicate itself? We see through this charming anecdote that Fabre's proclivity for empiricism began early. But we are also edified. Ask and investigate the questions that matter to you -- and not to discover something new -- but to fill your world with the life it already contains.