Maybe we haven’t spoken up for the others partly because of the unconscious, innate quality of our ties with them. Possibly we need the telescopic view — the distance of forgetting and the jolt of recognition as a remembrance surfaces — to know what we adore. Maybe we can only look back in longing, over time or space, when the object of our care is far away. And our old home is gone.
We Loved it All wasn’t quite as interesting as I had hoped it would be: part memoir, part lament for disappearing species, I found this to be a tad dense and esoteric. Author Lydia Millet does include interesting facts about her family (her father was an Egyptologist and his father a globe-trotting diplomat), herself (she used the advance from the sale of her first novel to go to grad school to study conservation), and Americans in general (“a 2021 Pew Research poll suggested half of US adults are unable to read a book at even an eighth-grade level”), and she includes interesting facts about the deadly pressures we’re putting on animals and ecosystems, but the writing wasn’t always clear to me: not clear at the paragraph level or in its overall intent (I think this is meant to prove that storytelling is an important part of activism?) I admire Millet for what I’ve learned about her here — in addition to being a celebrated novelist, she has spent decades as an advocate for endangered species at the Center for Biological Diversity in Tucson — and I can agree that she is uniquely poised to comment on the connection between storytelling and activism, but I found this to be a bit of a slog, despite being interested in the topic; other readers’ experience will no doubt vary. (Note: I read an ARC through NetGalley and passages quoted may not be in their final forms.)
My presence in both of these subcultures is liminal — I float around on the margins. Neither fish nor fowl. Not really an activist, due to my aversion to slogans and crowds and open conflict. But also not a constant participant in the establishments of publishing or writing. Since the social and economic hub of publishing is New York, where I’ve chosen not to live. And since most literary writers also work as professors at universities, which I’ve chosen not to do.
Despite some personal stories, this doesn’t really read like a memoir; and despite some interesting facts (for instance: in 2018, the US budget for protecting endangered species from extinction was less than one-fifth of what Americans personally spent on Halloween costumes for their pets), this doesn’t really read like a call to action. And since Millet frequently makes the point that a percentage of Americans embrace anti-intellectualism as an “expression of personal liberty” (resulting in 40% of Americans believing that the sun revolves around the Earth, less than half believe that humans evolved from earlier animals, 40% believe that humans “probably” or “certainly” existed at the same time as dinosaurs, etc.), this felt a bit like preaching to the choir: nothing in this book seems designed to capture hearts or change minds. I am totally open to being shown the way forward, but I failed to find a pathway here.
If regret is the ghost of the past, for me, extinction is the ghost of the future. Now my worry is less about leaving than of what will be left. I hate the feeling. And yet that turning outward of fear may be the only thing of true value that I’ve ever learned.
I didn’t get a chance to write a review immediately upon completion of this, and nearly a week later, it’s all wisping away from me; I know it won’t leave a permanent mark, but again, if another reader finds this perfectly engaging, I wouldn’t be surprised. This is like-not-love for me, so three stars.
