Non- fiction corner: Two men aimed to categorise ‘every living thing’ on Earth

DEBORAH BLUM

A professor asks a student to go on a plant-collecting trip, a perilous journey from Sweden to Suriname in 1754. The devoted student agrees, which means months tossed about on a wooden ship while chased by a simmering fever. When the student returns, he still shows hints of delirium, declaring that one of his specimens can produce a harvest of pearls, refusing to turn over any of his treasures to his mentor. What’s a plant-obsessed professor to do?

For Carl Linnaeus, this was easily answered. He went to Daniel Rolander’s home and, finding him away, smashed a window and broke in. Sadly, he found no pearl-bearing oyster plant or any other notable vegetation; merely one small herb which people in Suriname used to treat diarrhea. Linnaeus took it anyway. He then dismissed the young collector entirely, denying him compensation and pointedly naming a minuscule beetle “Aphanus rolandi.” (“Aphanus” means obscure, by the way.)

If this sketch of Linnaeus causes you to view the man as ruthless, a little unhinged and a lot mean-spirited, well, that’s the point here. Jason Roberts, the author of “Every Living Thing,” is not a fan of the founding father of taxonomy, whom he rather hilariously describes as “a Swedish doctor with a diploma-mill medical degree and a flair for self-promotion.” But the snark is not merely entertainment — the portrait is central to the main thesis of Roberts’s engaging and thought-provoking book, one focused on the theatrical politics and often deeply troubling science that shape our definitions of life on Earth.

Roberts’s exploration centers on the competing work of Linnaeus and another scientific pioneer, the French mathematician and naturalist Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon. Of the two, Linnaeus is far better known today. Of course, Roberts notes, the Frenchman did not pursue fame as ardently as did his Swedish rival. Linnaeus cultivated admiration to a near-religious degree; he liked to describe even obscure students like Rolander as “apostles.” Buffon, in his time even more famous as a brilliant mathematician, scholar and theorist, preferred debate over adulation, dismissing public praise as “a vain and deceitful phantom.”

Their different approaches to stardom may partly explain why we remember one better than we do the other. But perhaps their most important difference — one that forms the central question of Roberts’s book — can be found in their sharply opposing ideas on how to best impose order on the planet’s tangle of species.

Linnaeus is justly given credit for applying logic and order to science, standardising the names, definitions and classifications of research. But his directives were based on an often uncharitable and deeply biased worldview. He saw species, including humans, as needing to be ranked according to European values. Thus, Linnaeus is also credited with establishing racial categories for people.

He placed white Europeans firmly at the top. Homo sapiens Europaeus, as he called it, was blond, blue-eyed, “gentle, acute, inventive.” By contrast, Homo sapiens Afer was dark and, in Linnaeus’s definition, “slow, sly and careless”; Homo sapiens Americanus was red-skinned and short-tempered.