The title of Robert Macfarlane's latest non-fiction novel, Is A River Alive? is misleading. That’s actually not the question his book seeks to answer, it is in fact assumed and accepted from the get go. Rather, the book uncovers how is a river alive.
Through his exploration of three rivers across different continents, Macfarlane not only observes the rivers themselves, but everything that lives off them, everything that hurts them and everything that feeds them. I love how he describes the river as a body—how different aspects of the river aid in its regulation. You cannot truly understand the heart without the context of the cardiovascular system, or without how the nervous system allows it to beat. And he does this so perfectly.
He returns agency to the river, emphasising their autonomy and ability to hurt, but also to heal. The book follows his exploration of the Santa River in Ecuador, the wounded rivers of Chennai, India and Quebec’s Mutehekau Shipu (Magpie River). They all help Macfarlene tell their stories of how they shaped norms and laws around the perception of their rights, how they have been harmed by human development and how they all have a past of colonial forces not understanding the worth given to them by the Indigenous inhabitants around them.
His, and indirectly, the reader’s, understanding of these rivers would not be complete without the people who accompanied him. Giuliana and her obsession with fungus was endearing and insightful. Yuvan, who lives amongst wasps, and has a great love for birds, explains the contrast between government policy and the cultural and religious significance of Chennai’s rivers. Last, but certainly not least, Wayne, a man that talks while listening, and Rita, who with her powerful voice dismantles the hierarchy between Man and River.
Throughout reading this novel, I couldn't help but consider how disconnected we are from nature. How we seek to build on top of it instead of living within it. We forget how perfectly designed ecosystems are, and how even the smallest changes we make can destroy its symbiosis. While I hate wasps more than the next person, Yuvan reminded me how important they are to our ecosystem and so is every creature along it.
The book itself is gorgeous. The neon green and blue abstract illustration of the river as a cover encapsulates Macfarlane’s attempt to reimagine and redefine the river. On the inside, black and white images of the rivers resemble German Romantic paintings. But that is then directly juxtaposed by the picture of a dead turtle, killed by the actions of mankind. The photos both showcase the raw beauty of nature and its rivers but also the horrors of how we’ve significantly impacted it for the worse. The words within its pages are also beautiful, flowing like the movement of rivers he describes, it makes the daunting task of understanding the complex ideas he describes a little better.
Macfarlane’s words flow like the movement of the rivers he describes, representing his emphasis on the importance of word choice. Words form law and policy, create connotations and are riddled with hidden and double meanings. Thus, Macfarlane highlights how the words we use to describe rivers can greatly alter how we perceive them and thus the policies we form around them–often without their consent. His discussions on how we should talk about rivers has influenced me significantly, even his observation on what pronouns we use to describe a river–they or it–influences the pronouns I used in this review.
Macfarlane extends the concept of what is alive and what it means to be alive in his novel. While it might be easy to dismiss the importance of the conversation, our definitions and the way we categorise things has the power to shape laws and rights that are afforded to the rivers. These definitions can be the difference between a river killed in India and one that is alive and thriving in Ecuador. So, does Macfarlane successfully answer the question: is a river alive? No, instead he lets the rivers answer for themselves.