Anthill is E.O. Wilson’s first work of fiction. It contains what its title promises it will contain: an anthill, embedded at its core. Not a metaphorical anthill, a real anthill, filled to the brim with—well, ants. And thereby hangs its tale.
People have long been fascinated by the similarities between ants and human societies. Though there are no ant symphony orchestras, secret police, or schools of philosophy, both ants and men conduct wars, divide into specialized castes of workers, build cities, maintain infant nurseries and cemeteries, take slaves, practice agriculture, and indulge in occasional cannibalism, though ant societies are more energetic, altruistic, and efficient than human ones.
The mirroring makes us nervous: Are we not enough like ants or are we too much like them? Our ambivalence shows: being compared to an ant can be either a compliment or an insult. “Go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways, and be wise,” exhorts the Book of Proverbs, suggesting that we should emulate the ant’s industry; to which the aesthete Max Beerbohm riposted, “The ant sets an example to us all, but it is not a good one.” Many generations of children were fed Aesop’s fable of the grasshopper and the ant—he feckless and fiddling, she drudging away at the storing of winter food; he begging for a handout when the chill arrives, she shutting the door Scroogily in his face. John Wyndham, in his 1956 novella, “Consider Her Ways,” postulates an all-female society that forms when men are wiped out by disease. Huge, stupid “Mothers” produce large batches of cloned girl babies, small fretful nurses tend them, Amazonian workers do the manual labor, a caste of intellectuals act as planners. As the time-traveling heroine from our own age remarks, the system lacks romance: but it is a more peaceful one than anything we see around us.
It is also a more peaceful one than anything the ants themselves come up with. In Greek myth, the Myrmidons were a valiant warrior tribe led by Achilles, the hero of the Iliad. Their name was cognate with the words for “ant” and “ant nest,” and they were valued especially for their ferocity and loyalty, for an ant will defend her nest to the death. There is, however, something mindless and robotic about such behavior, and it’s no coincidence that many of the warrior aliens and machines in science fiction films have lifted features from the ants. (The shininess, the blank eyes, the swarming, the sharp metallic-looking mandibles…) In T.H. White’s 1938 Arthurian fantasy, The Sword in the Stone, ants are a metaphor for fascist dictatorships, repeating a monotonous bonding slogan —“Mammy-mammy-mammy”—and broadcasting religio-political agitprop when disturbed, under a sign that reads “EVERYTHING NOT FORBIDDEN IS COMPULSORY.” More recently, the former French prime minister Édith Cresson’s 1991 remark about the Japanese and their trade practices—“yellow ants trying to take over the world”—was not intended as praise.
On some level the ants frighten us, as well they might. We humans would die without their soil-tilling activities, so critical to the continued existence of plant life; but what if they get out of control? Too few ants would be a disaster, but so would too many. How can we ensure that we will always have just the right proportion of ants?
In case you think this is a merely academic question, take a look at daring eco-adventurer Mark Moffett’s spectacular new ant book, Adventures Among Ants,1 which covers many varieties of ants—the army ants of Africa, the canopy forest weavers, the Amazon slavemakers, the leafcutters with their fungus gardens. Most ominously, Moffett describes the enormous war now being waged by the Argentine ants against all other ants and every other mini-bioform. The Argentine ants are not a pest in Argentina itself, but thanks to their hitchhiking propensities, they’ve now spread to places like California, Hawaii, and South Africa where they have no serious competitors. They’re forming huge supercolonies, while spreading their farmed aphids all over everything, including, very possibly, your rose bushes. This monoculture of ants is bad news.
Which brings us to Anthill. It’s no great surprise to learn that Moffett’s thesis supervisor was none other than Edward O. Wilson. Wilson is by now the grand old man of ants, having studied them intensively and written eloquently about them for over forty years. Anthill, though his first novel, is by no means his first book: at last count he’d logged over twenty-two of them, many of which have been groundbreaking.
Ants in themselves might not have raised many eyebrows outside the entomological world, but in the mid-Seventies Wilson lobbed what amounted to a stink bomb into the steam-heated gender wars of those times with his 1975 book, Sociobiology. Is saying that female hormones are different from male hormones a betrayal of the fight for equality in the workplace? Are we no more than our hormones? Should these hormones determine our social behavior, and our rate of pay? According to the World Economic Forum, women—as workers, buyers, and sellers—are now the largest emerging economy (bigger than India, bigger than China), so it’s certain that these questions will continue to trouble our waking dreams.
They have certainly troubled Wilson’s. He’s written widely on human nature, on genes, on mind, on culture. Then, beginning in 1984 with Biophilia, he expanded his field of vision to position human beings within their own crucial ecosystem, the earth. It’s no accident that small children are riveted by other life forms: we humans emerged to consciousness in necessary converse with them. It’s only in the past fifty years or so that children have been brought up to think chickens come from the supermarket and Nature is a TV show. As with so many things, what we don’t know may kill us, and what we seem not to know right now is that without a functioning biosphere (clean air, clean water, clean earth, a variety of plant and animal life) we will starve, shrivel, and choke to death.
In the 1990s Wilson (like many other naturalists) became increasingly troubled by what looked more and more like a human war against Nature—a war that was resulting in the disappearance of whole species and ecosystems. Over the past twenty years he has turned more forcefully toward advocacy. In Search of Nature appeared in 1996; Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge in 1998; the deeply troubling The Future of Life in 2002; and in 2006, The Creation: An Appeal to Save Life on Earth —this last a plea to the religious right, urging an attempt to find common ground in the interests of saving the world that fundamentalists claim to believe was created in an act of divine love. But Wilson had by no means given up on the ants: The Superorganism: The Beauty, Elegance, and Strangeness of Insect Societies appeared in 2009. 2
So, why has Wilson now turned to novel-writing? Those of us who’ve been at it for a while might have warned him off. Stick to what you know, we might have said. Rest on your considerable laurels. Don’t risk having the literati point and jeer; don’t give your opponents the opportunity to tear you down. What have you got to gain?
“A wider readership for urgent ecological messages” might be one answer. Many people have trouble grasping complex hypotheses and long strings of numbers, whereas narrative skills seem to be part of the basic human toolbox—an adaptation that gave those who could spin impressive yarns an evolutionary edge. Studies have shown that we identify with and remember stories, learning more easily from them than we do from more abstract presentations. (Hence the “stories” of such things as candles and pencils that we got in primary school. Are kids now being taught via Andy Atom and Ginny Gene? If not, maybe they should be.) Biologists—like doctors—are by their nature prone to storytelling: they study life forms, and a life form is nothing without its story, moving and changing as it does through time, through birth to growth to reproduction, then back into the ongoing food chain. Wilson may well have reasoned that he could get his warnings across more easily through a novel than through another “Nature” book.
However, the pedagogical motive is surely only one among many, for Anthill is a strange hybrid. As befits a saga with insect life at its core, it’s divided into six parts—one for each leg—with a prologue at the front that might stand for the head. In this prologue, Wilson tells us three things of import: first, that his story takes place on three planes of life—human, insect, and the biosphere that contains both—and that all are connected; second, that ants are a metaphor for men, and men for ants; and third, that the wars among ants are like mini-epics, of which Homer might well have written, “Zeus has given us the fate of winding down our lives in painful wars, from youth until we perish, each of us.”
Aha, I thought when I hit this quote. A clue—not so much to the contents of the book, perhaps, but to its structure, its patterning. Wilson knows his ants, but he also knows his classics, and, being a responsible fellow, he would not strew references to the Iliad around at the outset in an act of careless name-dropping. So I took him at his word and read his narrative with one eye on his venerable sourcebook.
The central figure in the book does not speak in the first person: instead, like Achilles, he is spoken about. (Heroes are always a little less heroic when portrayed too intimately: picture Heathcliff brushing his teeth.) The overall narrator of Anthill is one of the hero’s teachers, Dr. Norville, who may be said to play the role of the Centaur Chiron, educator of Achilles. This device allows for just enough distance: any closer and our lad might seem a bit humorless, and at times even priggish. But as it is these qualities may be excused as emanating from narrator Norville.
The role of Achilles himself—or possibly Achilles/Odysseus, because Wilson’s main man is a crafty little guy, not above a few lies and mind games—is played by young Raphael Semmes Cody. Like Wilson, “Raff” grows up in Alabama at a time not far from that in which Wilson himself grew up. Like Wilson again, young Raff takes a great interest in nature, focuses on ants, and goes on to study at Harvard. As you might expect in the work of a first-time novelist, some of these passages most likely contain boyhood reminiscences. The foods of that time and place are lovingly described, down to each sundae with chopped walnuts and each bowl of crab gumbo. So are the specific Yes Ma’m, No Sir manners of the era. So are the flora and fauna of the “Nokobee Tract,” a piece of Alabama wilderness that features as the maiden-in-peril of the plot. But Raff Cody doesn’t turn into a scientist like Wilson. His heroism takes another form.
To be published by University of California Press in May.↩