The Signature of All Things
Peppered with factoids and historical references that dangle carrots over plenty of delightful rabbit holes, Elizabeth Gilbert’s novel, The Signature of All Things (2013), is a thoroughly researched historical fiction that quickly drew me in. Readers absorb all sorts of botanical and nineteenth-century truths— like ginseng is native to North America (Midwest to Maine)— and countless other little facts, references, and interwoven historical moments. Gilbert’s hefty historical fiction deftly interweaves scientific and historical research into the life of a nineteenth-century woman. Indeed, the novel centers on the life of one woman. Readers observe her, from birth to death, and the many scientific and social shifts witnessed over the century during which she lived. The novel opens with her birth, then takes a momentary pause in her story to tell that of her father’s youth. The Signature of All Things explores myriad themes, bold characters, and plenty of actual historical facts, but upon careful consideration, this is a story about adaptation in both scientific and human terms.
Gilbert’s protagonist, Alma Whitaker, is born with the nineteenth century. Privilege punctuates Alma’s young life. She comes from a very wealthy family and comes of age much differently than her peers. She is educated and encouraged to ask questions and participate in adult conversation with the Whitaker’s endless string of scientifically-minded guests. Botanical science is integral to Alma’s world view and her heritage. As she matures, these roots develop and she embraces a life of science. In time, Alma recognizes that human behavior must also align with the adaptation scientists of the day had begun to observe and discuss in other living species. In fact, her life (and that of her father before her), arguably demonstrate just such adaptation.
Themes of wonder and science, evolution and adaptation, love and madness, home and exploration all pop up in this historical fiction. Likewise historical characters like Captain Cook, Carl Linneas, Charles Darwin, and others parade through Gilbert’s story in one way or another, touching the lives of her main characters. In addition to investigating the human adaptations one might observe in one lifetime, Gilbert’s novel also begs the reader compare Alma’s life with that of her father. Henry Whitaker comes from nothing and makes much of his life through travel, keen observation, and adaptation; likewise his daughter is a careful observer and an independent spirit who travels across the world to find answers but ends up finding home. By taking a larger view of a lifetime, readers take on the role of scientist: observing and noting adaptations that lead to success or to peril.
This is not a light read. Gilbert does not shy away from unsettling themes (notably that of masturbation) which may seem strange and perhaps out of place. But by reading this subplot as a mode of adaptation, it finds more solid footing in the overall work. Other themes of nineteenth-century homosexuality, suicide, and abolitionism also pop up in its pages. At the heart of all the stories—both botanical and human—adaptation lies at the heart of any species, or individual’s ability to thrive; some find their circumstances too much and they fail to survive, while others adapt to circumstance in what some might find strange or uncomfortable ways, but they adapt nonetheless. The Signature of All Things is a fascinating read and one well-worth the time. It will be particularly interesting to individuals interested in nineteenth-century science, botany, and world-travel. What’s more, Gilbert’s writing is eloquent and poetic as she crafts a historical fiction that readers won’t soon forget, even if they wish certain things turned out differently for many of its characters.
Bibliography:
Gilbert, Elizabeth. The Signature of All Things. Viking: 2013.
A Few Great Passages:
“He had heard especially promising things about Philadelphia— the lively capital of that young nation. It was said to be a city with a good-enough shipping port, central to the eastern coast of the country, filled with pragmatic Quakers, pharmacists, and hardworking farmers. It was rumored to be a place without haughty aristocrats (unlike Boston), and without pleasure-fearing puritans (unlike Connecticut), and without troublesome self-minted feudal princes (unlike Virginia). The city had been founded on the sound principles of religious tolerance, a free press, and good landscaping, by William Penn—a man who grew tree saplings in bathtubs, and who had imagined his metropolis as a great nursery of both plants and ideas. Everyone was welcome in Philadelphia, absolutely everyone-except, of course, the Jews. Hearing all this, Henry suspected Philadelphia to be a vast landscape of unrealized profits, and he aimed to turn the place to his advantage” (54).
“Beatrix tutored her intelligent daughter herself, and with satisfaction. A parent is inexcusable who does not personally teach her child to think” (52).
“It was not so much the beauty of plants that compelled her as their magical orderliness” (80).
“It's a pity we cannot put an old head on young shoulders, or you could be wise, too. But someday you will understand that nobody passes through this world without suffering— no matter what you may think of them and their supposed good fortune” (158).
“Somewhere between Geological Time and Human Time, Alma posited, there was something else-Moss Time. By comparison to Geological Time, Moss Time was blindingly fast, for mosses could make progress in a thousand years that a stone could not dream of accomplishing in a million. Ber rolete do Moan Time, Mos Time was achingly slow: To the unschooled eye, Anner at not even seem to move at all. But moss did move, and wit extroninary results. Nothing seemed to happen, but then, a ecade or so later all wowki be changed” (170-171).
“But Alma thought that nature did make leaps. Perhaps only tiny leaps-skips, hops, and lurches-but leaps nonetheless. Nature certainly made alterations. One could see it in the breeding of dogs and sheep, and one could see it in the shifting arrangements of power and dominion between various moss colonies on these common limestone boulders at White Acre's forest edge. Alma had ideas, but she could not quite tack and baste them together. She felt certain that some varieties of Dicranum must have grown forth out of other, older varieties of Dicranum. She felt certain that one entity could have issued from another entity, or rendered another colony extinct. She could not grasp how it occurred, but she was convinced that it occurred” (193).
“The old cobbler [Jacob Boehme] had believed in something he called "the signature of all things"-namely, that God had hidden clues for humanity's betterment inside the design of every flower, leaf, fruit, and tree on earth. All the natural world was a divine code, Boehme claimed, containing proof of our Creator's love. This is why so many medicinal plants resembled the diseases they were meant to cure, or the organs they were able to treat. Basil, with its liver-shaped leaves, is the obvious ministration for ailments of the liver. The celandine herb, which produces a yellow sap, can be used to treat the yellow discoloration brought on by jaundice. Walnuts, shaped like brains, are helpful for headaches. Coltsfoot, which grows near cold streams, can cure the coughs and chills brought on by immersion in ice water. Polygonum, with its spattering of blood-red markings on the leaves, cures bleeding wounds of the flesh. And so on, ad infinitum” (229-230).
“But for me, to experience life through mere reason is to feel about in the dark for God's face while wearing heavy gloves. It is not enough only to study and depict and describe. One must sometimes... leap” (240).
“But divisions were being drawn now between the realm of nature and the realm of philosophy. Ministers who doubled as botanists or geologists were becoming increasingly rare, as far too many challenges to biblical truths were stirred up through investigation of the natural world. It used to be that God was revealed in the wonders of nature; now God was being challenged by those same wonders. Scholars were now required to choose one side or the other.” (293-94).
“This life is a mystery, yes, and it is often a trial, but if one can find some facts within it, one should always do so-for knowledge is the most precious of all commodities” (497).
“I have never felt the need to invent a world beyond this world, for this world has always seemed large and beautiful enough for me. I have wondered why it is not large and beautiful enough for others—why they must dream up new and marvelous spheres, or long to live elsewhere, beyond this” (497).
