Editorial Reviews. From the Inside Flap. Anthropologist and naturalist Loren Eiseley blends scientific knowledge and imaginative vision in this story of man. Loren Eiseley (September 3, – July 9, ) was an American anthropologist, educator, . Consider the case of Loren Eiseley, author of The Immense Journey, who can sit on a mountain slope beside a prairie-dog town and imagine. Anthropologist and naturalist Loren Eiseley blends scientific knowledge and imaginative vision in this story of man.
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His insight into the process of the evolution of the human mind, ideas, and culture is still relevant 50 years later. An anthropologist, a scholar, a poet, a genius.
There are a jurney of joufney and they aren’t presented symmetrically; at times he drifts into a sort of beat-poet reality, and at times he grips his topic with all the realism of the cynical scient Loren Eiseley first got my attention when part of his resonant essay “The Angry Winter” was reprinted in one of my high school textbooks. It was rather heavy going and I had the feeling that I didn’t learn much that was new.
The stories are what will survive over time. Want to Read Currently Reading Read.
The Immense Journey
Though his field was anthropology, every semester he was a guest lecturer for the English department in their Creative Writing classes.
But they cried there in some instinctive common misery, the bereaved and the unbereaved. Open Preview See a Problem? Water has merely leapt out of vapor and thin nothingness in the night sky to array itself in form.
In ‘The Bird and the Machine’, he writes about going to a long-abandoned cabin in the bush and capturing a young hawk for the zoo. I knew once more the body’s revolt against emergence into the harsh and unsupporting air, its reluctance to break contact with that mother element which still No one dared to attack the raven. Loren Eiseley first got my attention when part of his resonant essay “The Angry Winter” was reprinted in one of my high school textbooks.
Loren Eiseley, in prose that is closely related to poetry, demonstrates to the reader the awe-inspiring nature of being.
The Immense Journey, by Loren Eiseley, at American-Buddha Online Library
I puzzled with Eiseley over the mysterious naked bipedal prolonged adolescence and large brain of our species and how it came to be. A vast pouting mouth ringed with sensitive feelers confronted me, and the creature’s gills labored slowly. He was then recognized as the finest writer at Penn.
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Whatever sunny dream had kept him paddling there while the mercury plummeted joueney and that Cheshire smile froze slowly, it would be hard to say.
I was streaming over ancient sea beds thrust aloft where giant reptiles had once sported; I was wearing down the face of time and trundling cloud-wreathed ranges into oblivion.
I termed it science, however–a convenient rational phrase I reserve for such occasions–and decided that I would cut the fish out of eiselwy ice and take him home. This is a powerful book. The green world is his sacred center. Loren Eiseley had been a drifter in his youth. They became aware that evolution had occurred without thr how. If that excerpt from “The Angry Winter” shows anything, it’s that you don’t need the scientific realism to understand the less-worldly spiritual message, especially when scientific reality is probably a bit dated after sixty years.
Loren Eiseley (Author of The Immense Journey)
Men talk much of matter and energy, of the struggle for existence that molds the shape of life. Thin vapors, rust, wet tar and sun are an alembic remarkably like the mind; they throw off odorous shadows that threaten to take real shape when no one is looking. There are a lot of ideas and they aren’t presented symmetrically; at times he drifts into a sort of beat-poet reality, and at times he grips his topic with all the realism of the cynical scientist.
But men see differently. Enter the storyteller on horseback, riding languidly across the prairie until he sees something.
The words were what tue him in various honored posts; the words were what caused the students to flock to his often aborted courses; the words were what earned him esteemed lectureships and prizes. Till suddenly they took heart and sang from many throats joyously together as birds are known to sing.
On that day, however, the sight of sky and willows and the weaving net of water murmuring a little in the shallows on jougney way to the Gulf stirred me, parched as I was with miles of walking, with a new idea: Will it be Eiseley the forsaken child, Eiseley the teacher, or Eiseley the wandering philosopher? He was a bird of death. Non Fiction that might be read as well. The notion came to me, I suppose, by degrees.