How to proceed
下载的压缩包包含如下文件:
Files in package
history.txt
the version history of the package
class file for LATEX
an example showing how to code the text
general instructions (source of this document), llncs.doc means latex documentation for Lecture Notes in Computer Science
llncsdoc.pdf
the documentation of the class (PDF version)
general instructions (source of this document)
llncsdoc.sty
class modifications to help for the instructions
an external (faked) author index file
subjidx.ind
subject index demo from the Springer book package
the resultig DVI file (remember to use binary transfer!)
sprmindx.sty
supplementary style file for MakeIndex (usage:&makeindex -s sprmindx.sty &yourfile.idx&&)
Invoke LLNCS class
LLNCS 只是标准 LATEX “article” class 的拓展版本，所以在文章中可以使用所有 “article” 的语法。如果要使用 LLNCS class，则使用如下形式：
\documentclass{llncs}
\begin{document}
contribution&
\end{document}
文章已经用 LATEX 写好而未使用 LLNCS 格式的情况
请不要使用任何会影响文档布局或格式的 LATEX 或 TEX命令（即像&\textheight,&\vspace&,&\headsep&,
etc）。然而，有可能会有例外的情况下，可以使用一些。
公式会以您文章出现的顺序在右手边使用阿拉伯数字自动编号。当你的工作在数学模式时，都是用斜体字排版。有时候你需要插入非数学元素（例如单词或短语）。这种插入的代码应该使用 roman（即&\mbox&）如下例所示：
\begin{equation}
\left(\frac{a^{2} + b^{2}}{c^{3}} \right) = 1 \quad
\mbox{ if } c\neq 0 \mbox{ and if } a,b,c\in \bbbr \enspace .
\end{equation}
输出示例：
如果你想在一个显示公式后立即开始新的段落，插入一个空白行，以产生所需的缩进。如果不插入一个空白行或代码&\noindent&会立即继续之前的文本而没有没有新的段落。
displayed 公式也使用相同的方式处理，其他普通文本则在结束本句前使用\enspace&。
注意括号的尺寸或其他分隔符必须保证是闭合的，使用下面命令可以保证：
\( 或者 \[ 和 \right) 或者 \right].
斜体和 Roman 体
在公式中，一般使用斜体，但下标应使用 Roman 体而不是斜体。确保一些物理标记使用&\mathrm&命令，如 Hz：&\mathrm{Hz}&。还有一些常用的数学函数，如
log，sin，exp，max和sup应该使用：&\log&，&\sin&，&\exp，&\max&和&\sup&。化学式应该使用 Roman 体，如： H2O。熟悉的单词或句子不应使用斜体，如： et al., a priori, in situ, bremsstrahlung, eigenvalues。
How to Edit Input (Source) File
标题中的所有单词应该都大写，除了连词、介词 (例如 on, of, by, and, or, but, from, with, without, under) 还有定冠词和不定冠词 (the, a, an) 除非他们出现在开头，否则均小写。公式的字母必须在文本内排版。
大写和不大写
下面情况均需大写：
Headings。文章中的缩写和表达式，如： Fig(s)., Table(s), Sect(s)., Chap(s)., Theorem, Corollary, Definition etc. 跟数字一起使用时，如： Fig.3, Table 1, Theorem 2。
下面情况不能大写：
在文章中，当 figure(s), table(s), equation(s), theorem(s) 等词没有与编号一起使用时。图表图例和表格标题，除非是缩写。
下列词除非是出现在句子开头，否则在文章中应该使用缩写： Chap., Sect., Fig.。例如： The results are depicted in Fig.5. Figure 9 reveals that ….
注： 公式一般使用括号跟数字代替，但出现在句子开头时需使用 “Equation”。 例如：Equation (14) is very important. However, (15) makes it clear that ….
如果文章中有出现全局的缩写，应该在第一次出现的时候标明，如： Plurisubharmonic (PSH) Functions, Strong Optimization (SOPT) Problem.
文章的开头
文章的标题（必须的）使用如下形式：
\title{ contribution title&}
标题中所有单词应大写，除了连词、介词和不出现在开头的定冠词和不定冠词。标题没有结束标点。
如果是很长的标题，使用&\\&另起一行。
If you are to produce running heads for a specific volume the standard (of no such running heads) is overwritten with the [runningheads] option in the \documentclass line. For long titles that do not fit in the single line of the running head a warning is generated.
You can specify an abbreviated title for the running head on odd pages with the command：
\titlerunning{ abbreviated contribution title&}
There is also a possibility to change the text of the title that goes into the table of contents (that’s for volume editors only – there is no table of contents for a single contribution). For this use the command:
\toctitle{ changed title for the table of contents&}
副标题使用：
\subtitle{ of your contribution&}
作者使用：
\author{ name(s)&}
为每个作者或地址指定标号时，使用：
超过一位作者的话，可以使用&\and&分隔。例如：
\author{Ivar Ekeland\inst{1} \and Roger Temam\inst{2}}
下面就是地址（学校，公司）了，多于一个地址，使用&\and&命令会自动编号，请确保跟作者顺序对应。
\institute{ of an institute&
of the next institute&
of the next institute&}
在&\institute&内使用&\email{&email
address&}&可以提供email地址。如果在文章的任何地方需要注脚，请使用(immediately after the word where the footnote indicator should be placed)：
\thanks{&}
\thanks&仅能出现在&\title&,&\author&and&\institute&中.
如果有两个或更多的脚注使用&\fnmsep&(i.e. footnote mark separator) 分隔.
\maketitle
然后 heading 就结束了，到这一步为止，还不会产生任何文本。
接下来就是摘要：
\begin{abstract}
&Text of the summary of your article&
\end{abstract}
### How to Code Your Text ###
用以下代码的话，标题会自动编号：
\section{This is a First-Order Title}
\subsection{This is a Second-Order Title}
\subsubsection{This is a Third-Order Title.}
\paragraph{This is a Fourth-Order Title.}
\section&and&\subsection&没有
end punctuation。&\subsubsection&and\paragraph&需要在末尾
punctuate。
另外，theorem-like environments 会自动编号，如果要使用计数器，只需指定envcountsame&:
\documentclass[envcountsame]{llncs}
例如&\begin{lema}&，第一次调用时会编号为1，再次调用编号为2，以此类推。如果需要每个 section 都重新计数，则指定为&envcountreset&:
\documentclass[envcountreset]{llncs}
预定义的 Theorem-like Environments
下面的标题随你选择：
加粗并带斜体文本的 run-in 标题：
\begin{corollary} & \end{corollary}
\begin{lemma} & \end{lemma}
\begin{proposition} & \end{proposition}
\begin{theorem} & \end{theorem}
以下的一般表现为斜体 run-in 标题：
\begin{proof} & \qed \end{proof}
这不编号，并且在结束前有一个吸引眼球的 square （即&\qed&）。
更多斜体和加粗体 run-in 标题：
\begin{definition} & \end{definition}
\begin{example} & \end{example}
\begin{exercise} & \end{exercise}
\begin{note} & \end{note}
\begin{problem} & \end{problem}
\begin{question} & \end{question}
\begin{remark} & \end{remark}
\begin{solution} & \end{solution}
自定义的 Theorem-like Environments
加强了标准的&\newtheorem&命令，得到两个新的命令&\
spnewtheorem&和\spnewtheorem*&，现在可以使用来定义新的语法。需要两个参数：type style 和 text style。type style 表示所出现的环境，text style
表示新环境的 text style。使用&\ spnewtheorem&的两种方法：
第一种（推荐！）
如果想与其他环境共享计数器，使用
\spnewtheorem{&}[&]{&} {&}{&}
[&num_like&]&指定为想要共享的环境。
\spnewtheorem{mainth}[theorem]{Main Theorem}{\bfseries}{\itshape}
\begin{theorem} The early bird gets the worm. \end{theorem}
\begin{mainth} The early worm gets eaten. \end{mainth}
Theorem 3. The early bird gets the worm.
Main Theorem 4. The early worm gets eaten.
\spnewtheorem{&}{&}[&]
上述代码会定义一个名为&&env_name&&的环境，它以&&cap_font&&打印标题&caption&&，
它以&&body_font&&打印文本。在每个新 section 指定&&within&时，会重新编号。
\spnewtheorem{joke}{Joke}[subsection]{\bfseries}{\rmfamily}
defines a new environment called joke which prints the caption Joke in boldface and the text in roman. The jokes are numbered starting from 1 at the beginning of every subsection with the number of the subsection preceding the number of the joke e.g. 7.2.1 for
the first joke in subsection 7.2.
Unnumbered Environments
如果想要非编号环境，使用：
\spnewtheorem*{&}{&}{&}{&}
可以使用 verbatim 环境或者 LATEX 的 verbatim package。
文章示例：
\title{Hamiltonian Mechanics}
\author{Ivar Ekeland\inst{1} \and Roger Temam\inst{2}}
\institute{Princeton University, Princeton NJ 08544, USA
Universit\’{e} de Paris-Sud,
Laboratoire d’Analyse Num\’{e}rique, B\^{a}timent 425,\\
F-91405 Orsay Cedex, France}
\maketitle
\begin{abstract}
This paragraph shall summarize the contents of the paper in short terms.
\end{abstract}
\section{Fixed-Period Problems: The Sublinear Case}
With this chapter, the preliminaries are over, and we begin the search for periodic solutions \dots
\subsection{Autonomous Systems}
In this section we will consider the case when the Hamiltonian
$H(x)$ \dots
\subsubsection*{The General Case: Nontriviality.}
We assume that $H$ is
$\left(A_{\infty}, B_{\infty}\right)$-subqua\-dra\-tic
at infinity, for some constant \dots
\paragraph{Notes and Comments.}
The first results on subharmonics were \dots
\begin{proposition}
Assume $H’(0)=0$ and $ H(0)=0$. Set \dots
\end{proposition}
\begin{proof}[of proposition]
Condition (8) means that, for every $\delta’&\delta$, there is
some $\varepsilon&0$ such that \dots \qed
\end{proof}
\begin{example}[\rmfamily (External forcing)]
Consider the system \dots
\end{example}
\begin{corollary}
Assume $H$ is $C^{2}$ and
$\left(a_{\infty}, b_{\infty}\right)$-subquadratic
at infinity. Let \dots
\end{corollary}
\begin{lemma}
Assume that $H$ is $C^{2}$ on $\bbbr^{2n}\backslash \{0\}$
and that $H’’(x)$ is \dots
\end{lemma}
\begin{theorem}[(Ghoussoub-Preiss)]
Let $X$ be a Banach Space and $\Phi:X\to\bbbr$ \dots
\end{theorem}
\begin{definition}
We shall say that a $C^{1}$ function $\Phi:X\to\bbbr$
satisfies \dots
\end{definition}
输出示例如下图，或&&下载查看
产生一个小型空格。例如在数字之间
产生一个横杠。前后无空格
产生一个横杠。前后各一空格
连字符。前后无空格
负号。只在文本中使用
21\,$^{\circ}$C etc.,
Dr h.\,c.\,Rockefellar-Smith \dots
20,000\,km and Prof.\,Dr Mallory \dots
1950--1985 \dots
this -- written on a computer -- is now printed
$-30$\,K \dots
21oC etc., Dr h.c.Rockefellar-Smith ...
20,000km and Prof.Dr Mallory ...
1950–1985 ...
this – written on a computer – is now printed
普通的字体类型（Roman）不需要代码。斜体 (&{\em &text&}&或\emph{&text&}&)，如果需要，黑体用于强调：
{\itshape Text}
{\em &text&}
强调的文本
{\bfseries Text}
\vec{Symbol}
向量只能出现在 math mode。如&$\vec{A \times B\cdot C}&得到&A×B
注脚应该被包含在下面代码中：
\footnote{Text}
Text with a footnote\footnote{The footnote is automatically numbered.} and text continues ...
Text with a footnote^4 and text continues ...
\begin{enumerate}
\item First item
\item Second item
\begin{enumerate}
\item First nested item
\item Second nested item
\end{enumerate} \item
Third item
\end{enumerate}
1. First item
2. 2. Second item
(a) First nested item
(b) Second nested item
3. Third item
图片应该插入到第一次提到该图片的段落后（不是段落中），它会被自动编号。图片应该是 PostScript 文件——最好是 EPS 数据，通过 epsfig package 生成。
格式：
\begin{figure}
\vspace{x cm}
\caption[ ]{...text of caption...} (Do type [ ])
\end{figure}
x&表示图片的高度。
\begin{figure}
\vspace{2.5cm}
\caption{This is the caption of the figure displaying a white eagle and a white horse on a snow field}
\end{figure}
更多请参见 LATEX 文档 p. 26 ff. 和 p. 204
表格
使用 LATEX 编写表格
\begin{table}
\caption{Critical $N$ values}
\begin{tabular}{llllll}
\hline\noalign{\smallskip}
${\mathrm M}_\odot$ & $\beta_{0}$ & $T_{\mathrm c6}$ & $\gamma$
& $N_{\mathrm{crit}}^{\mathrm L}$
& $N_{\mathrm{crit}}^{\mathrm{Te}}$\\
\noalign{\smallskip}
\noalign{\smallskip}
30 & 0.82 & 38.4 & 35.7 & 154 & 320 \\
60 & 0.67 & 42.1 & 34.7 & 138 & 340 \\
120 & 0.52 & 45.1 & 34.0 & 124 & 370 \\
\end{tabular}
\end{table}
不使用 LATEX
\begin{table}
\caption{text of your caption}
\vspace{x cm} % the actual height needed for your table
\end{table}
Signs and Characters
更多请参见原文档和 LATEX 官方文档 pp.41 ff.
有三种参考文献模式：number only，letter-number， 或 author-year。更多请参见 LATEX 官方文档 p. 71.
LLNCS 有一种特殊的 BIBTEX 格式，使用class： splncs.bst。调用代码\bibliographystyle{splncs}&。
如果打算使用 author BIBTEX style，请指定&[oribibl]&参数：
\documentclass[oribibl]{llncs}
Letter-Number 或 Number Only
在文章中使用&\cite&命令来引用文章，会得到形如：[1]，[E1, S2], [P1] 中之一的格式，这取决于 thebibliography 环境中&\bibitem&的使用。
thebibliography 环境:
\begin{thebibliography}{[MT1]}
\bibitem[CE1]{clar:eke}
Clarke, F., Ekeland, I.:
Nonlinear oscillations and boundary-value problems for
Hamiltonian systems.
Arch. Rat. Mech. Anal. 78, 315--333 (1982)
\end{thebibliography}
会产生类似的效果：
[CE1] Clarke, F., Ekeland, I.: Nonlinear oscillations and boundary-value problems for Hamiltonian systems. Arch. Rat. Mech. Anal. 78, 315–333 (1982)
[CE2] Clarke, F., Ekeland, I.: Solutions p?eriodiques, du p?eriode donn?ee, des ?equations hamiltoniennes. Note CRAS Paris 287, 1013–1015 (1978)
在文章中引用时：
\{clar:eke};
The results in this section are a refined version of [CE1];
Number-Only System
thebibliography 环境:
\begin{thebibliography}{1}
\bibitem {clar:eke}
Clarke, F., Ekeland, I.:
Nonlinear oscillations and boundary-value problems for
Hamiltonian systems.
Arch. Rat. Mech. Anal. 78, 315--333 (1982)
\end{thebibliography}
在文章中引用时：
\cite{n1,n3,n2,n3,n4,n5,foo,n1,n2,n3,?,n4,n5}
能够得到：
[1,3,2-5,foo,1-3,?,4,5]
Author-Year System
效果就像这样：&(Smith ),(Ekelandetal.1985,Theorem2),(JonesandJffe 1986; Farrow 1988, Chap.2)&。如果名字作为句子的一部分，那么括号内就可能只出现年份，如，&Ekeland
et al. (1985, Sect.2.1)&。
如果有几个文章属于同一（多）个作者，引用时应列在适当的顺序，表示如下：
一个作者：按文章时间排序；相同的合作作者：按文章时间排序；和不同的合作作者：按合作作者名字进行字母排序；
如果，有多个同样的作者同样的时间的文章，用 “a”, “b”, “c”, etc 区分。
How to Code Author-Year System
要使用这个系统，则需指定&[citeauthoryear]&参数，如：
\documentclass[citeauthoryear]{llncs}
thebibliography 环境:
\begin{thebibliography}{} % (do not forget {})
\bibitem[1982]{clar:eke}
Clarke, F., Ekeland, I.:
Nonlinear oscillations and boundary-value problems for
Hamiltonian systems.
Arch. Rat. Mech. Anal. 78, 315--333 (1982)
\end{thebibliography}
产生样例：
Clarke, F., Ekeland, I.: Nonlinear oscillations and boundary-value problems for Hamiltonian systems. Arch. Rat. Mech. Anal. 78, 315–333 (1982)
在文章中引用时：
(\{clar:eke});
The results in this section are a refined version of Clarke and Ekeland (1982);
/articles/RRBnMzz
本文已收录于以下专栏：
相关文章推荐
无意中发现了一个Springer的期刊Mobile Networks and applications，与我的研究方向相关。但是在找该期刊的投稿模板时却费了一番周折。在Springer网站发现，只有一...
How to use the Springer LNCS LaTeX template
Here’s how to use the LaTeX template from Springer ...
早就听说lock tables和unlock tables这两个命令，从字面也大体知道，前者的作用是锁定表，后者的作用是解除锁定。但是具体如何用，怎么用，不太清楚。今天详细研究了下，总算搞明白了2者的...
Latex的biography中作者照片的插入
假设作者的名字是ZhangSan，首先应该在这个tex文件所在的文件夹里放上这个作者的照片，要求eps格式，（据说pdf格式也可以），假设照片...
Information for Authors of Computer Science Publications
On this webpage, you will find Springe...
他的最新文章
讲师：王哲涵
讲师：王渊命
您举报文章：
举报原因：
原文地址：
原因补充：
(最多只允许输入30个字)小木虫 --- 600万学术达人喜爱的学术科研平台
热门搜索：
&&请教各位：SCI的proof是怎样进行的？
请教各位：SCI的proof是怎样进行的？
最近录用了第一篇，proof还没来，投稿系统是SCHOLARONE。今天自己又发现了文中有几个尺寸写错了，有些问题想请教一下：
期刊给出的proof是什么格式？如果是PDF怎么修改？出版时是把作者提交的proof直接出版吗？
我如果改正了那几个错误，会不会被怀疑造假而被退稿？
什么用了多久时间？吗？
去年8月投稿，上个月录用。
学术必备与600万学术达人在线互动！
扫描下载送金币William Cronon - The Trouble With W or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature
The Trouble with W or, Getting Back to
the Wrong Nature
by William Cronon
Print-formatted version:
In William Cronon, ed., Uncommon Ground: Rethinking the
Human Place in Nature, New York: W. W. Norton & Co., .
The time has come to rethink wilderness.
This will seem a heretical claim to many environmentalists, since the idea of wilderness has for decades been a fundamental tenet&indeed, a passion&of the environmental movement, especially in the United States. For many Americans wilderness stands as the last remaining place where civilization, that all too human disease, has not fully infected the earth. It is an island in the polluted sea of urban-industrial modernity, the one place we can turn for escape from our own too-muchness. Seen in this way, wilderness presents itself as the best antidote to our human selves, a refuge we must somehow recover if we hope to save the planet. As Henry David Thoreau once famously declared, &In Wildness is the preservation of the World.& ()
But is it? The more one knows of its peculiar history, the more one realizes that wilderness is not quite what it seems. Far from being the one place on earth that stands apart from humanity, it is quite profoundly a human creation&indeed, the creation of very particular human cultures at very particular moments in human history. It is not a pristine sanctuary where the last remnant of an untouched, endangered, but still transcendent nature can for at least a little while longer be encountered without the contaminating taint of civilization. Instead, it&s a product of that civilization, and could hardly be contaminated by the very stuff of which it is made. Wilderness hides its unnaturalness behind a mask that is all the more beguiling because it seems so natural. As we gaze into the mirror it holds up for us, we too easily imagine that what we behold is Nature when in fact we see the reflection of our own unexamined longings and desires. For this reason, we mistake ourselves when we suppose that wilderness can be the solution to our culture&s problematic relationships with the nonhuman world, for wilderness is itself no small part of the problem.
To assert the unnaturalness of so natural a place will no doubt seem absurd or even perverse to many readers, so let me hasten to add that the nonhuman world we encounter in wilderness is far from being merely our own invention. I celebrate with others who love wilderness the beauty and power of the things it contains. Each of us who has spent time there can conjure images and sensations that seem all the more hauntingly real for having engraved themselves so indelibly on our memories. Such memories may be uniquely our own, but they are also familiar enough be to be instantly recognizable to others. Remember this? The torrents of mist shoot out from the base of a great waterfall in the depths of a Sierra canyon, the tiny droplets cooling your face as you listen to the roar of the water and gaze up toward the sky through a rainbow that hovers just out of reach. Remember this too: looking out across a desert canyon in the evening air, the only sound a lone raven calling in the distance, the rock walls dropping away into a chasm so deep that its bottom all but vanishes as you squint into the amber light of the setting sun. And this: the moment beside the trail as you sit on a sandstone ledge, your boots damp with the morning dew while you take in the rich smell of the pines, and the small red fox&or maybe for you it was a raccoon or a coyote or a deer&that suddenly ambles across your path, stopping for a long moment to gaze in your direction with cautious indifference before continuing on its way. Remember the feelings of such moments, and you will know as well as I do that you were in the presence of something irreducibly nonhuman, something profoundly Other than yourself Wilderness is made of that too.
And yet: what brought each of us to the places where such memories became possible is entirely a cultural invention. Go back 250 years in American and European history, and you do not find nearly so many people wandering around remote corners of the planet looking for what today we would call &the wilderness experience.& As late as the eighteenth century, the most common usage of the word &wilderness& in the English language referred to landscapes that generally carried adjectives far different from the ones they attract today. To be a wilderness then was to be &deserted,& &savage,& &desolate,& &barren&&in short, a &waste,& the word&s nearest synonym. Its connotations were anything but positive, and the emotion one was most likely to feel in its presence was &bewilderment& or terror. ()
Many of the word&s strongest associations then were biblical, for it is used over and over again in the King James Version to refer to places on the margins of civilization where it is all too easy to lose oneself in moral confusion and despair. The wilderness was where Moses had wandered with his people for forty years, and where they had nearly abandoned their God to worship a golden idol. () &For Pharaoh will say of the Children of Israel,& we read in Exodus, &They are entangled in the land, the wilderness hath shut them in.& () The wilderness was where Christ had struggled with the devil and endured his temptations: &And immediately the Spirit driveth him into the wilderness. And he was there in the wilderness for forty days tempted of S and was
and the angels ministered unto him.& () The &delicious Paradise& of John Milton&s Eden was surrounded by &a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides /Access denied& to all who sought entry.& When Adam and Eve were driven from that garden, the world they entered was a wilderness that only their labor and pain could redeem. Wilderness, in short, was a place to which one came only against one&s will, and always in fear and trembling. Whatever value it might have arose solely from the possibility that it might be &reclaimed& and turned toward human ends&planted as a garden, say, or a city upon a hill. () In its raw state, it had little or nothing to offer civilized men and women.
But by the end of the nineteenth century, all this had changed. The wastelands that had once seemed worthless had for some people come to seem almost beyond price. That Thoreau in 1862 could declare wildness to be the preservation of the world suggests the sea change that was going on. Wilderness had once been the antithesis of all that was orderly and good&it had been the darkness, one might say, on the far side of the garden wall&and yet now it was frequently likened to Eden itself. When John Muir arrived in the Sierra Nevada in 1869, he would declare, &No description of Heaven that I have ever heard or read of seems half so fine.& () He was hardly alone in expressing such emotions. One by one, various corners of the American map came to be designated as sites whose wild beauty was so spectacular that a growing number of citizens had to visit and see them for themselves. Niagara Falls was the first to undergo this transformation, but it was soon followed by the Catskills, the Adirondacks, Yosemite, Yellowstone, and others. Yosemite was deeded by the U. S. government to the state of California in 1864 as the nation&s first wildland park, and Yellowstone became the first true national park in 1872. ()
By the first decade of the twentieth century, in the single most famous episode in American conservation history, a national debate had exploded over whether the city of San Francisco should be permitted to augment its water supply by damming the Tuolumne River in Hetch Hetchy valley, well within the boundaries of Yosemite National Park. The dam was eventually built, but what today seems no less significant is that so many people fought to prevent its completion. Even as the fight was being lost, Hetch Hetchy became the baffle cry of an emerging movement to preserve wilderness. Fifty years earlier, such opposition would have been unthinkable. Few would have questioned the merits of &reclaiming& a wasteland like this in order to put it to human use. Now the defenders of Hetch Hetchy attracted widespread national attention by portraying such an act not as improvement or progress but as desecration and vandalism. Lest one doubt that the old biblical metaphors had been turned completely on their heads, listen to John Muir attack the dam&s defenders. &Their arguments,& he wrote, &are curiously like those of the devil, devised for the destruction of the first garden&so much of the very best Eden
so much of the best Tuolumne water and Tuolumne scenery going to waste.& () For Muir and the growing number of Americans who shared his views, Satan&s home had become God&s Own Temple.
The sources of this rather astonishing transformation were many, but for the purposes of this essay they can be gathered under two broad headings: the sublime and the frontier. Of the two, the sublime is the older and more pervasive cultural construct, being one of the most important expressions of that broad transatlantic movement we today
the frontier is more peculiarly American, though it too had its European antecedents and parallels. The two converged to remake wilderness in their own image, freighting it with moral values and cultural symbols that it carries to this day. Indeed, it is not too much to say that the modern environmental movement is itself a grandchild of romanticism and post-frontier ideology, which is why it is no accident that so much environmentalist discourse takes its bearings from the wilderness these intellectual movements helped create. Although wilderness may today seem to be just one environmental concern among many, it in fact serves as the foundation for a long list of other such concerns that on their face seem quite remote from it. That is why its influence is so pervasive and, potentially, so insidious.
To gain such remarkable influence, the concept of wilderness had to become loaded with some of the deepest core values of the culture that created and idealized it: it had to become sacred. This possibility had been present in wilderness even in the days when it had been a place of spiritual danger and moral temptation. If Satan was there, then so was Christ, who had found angels as well as wild beasts during His sojourn in the desert. In the wilderness the boundaries between human and nonhuman, between natural and supernatural, had always seemed less certain than elsewhere. This was why the early Christian saints and mystics had often emulated Christ&s desert retreat as they sought to experience for themselves the visions and spiritual testing He had endured. One might meet devils and run the risk of losing one&s soul in such a place, but one might also meet God. For some that possibility was worth almost any price.
By the eighteenth century this sense of the wilderness as a landscape where the supernatural lay just beneath the surface was expressed in the doctrine of the sublime, a word whose modern usage has been so watered down by commercial hype and tourist advertising that it retains only a dim echo of its former power. () In the theories of Edmund Burke, Immanuel Kant, William Gilpin, and others, sublime landscapes were those rare places on earth where one had more chance than elsewhere to glimpse the face of God. () Romantics had a clear notion of where one could be most sure of having this experience. Although God might, of course, choose to show Himself anywhere, He would most often be found in those vast, powerful landscapes where one could not help feeling insignificant and being reminded of one&s own mortality. Where were these sublime places? The eighteenth century catalog of their locations feels very familiar, for we still see and value landscapes as it taught us to do. God was on the mountaintop, in the chasm, in the waterfall, in the thundercloud, in the rainbow, in the sunset. One has only to think of the sites that Americans chose for their first national parks&Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Canyon, Rainier, Zion&to realize that virtually all of them fit one or more of these categories. Less sublime landscapes simply did not appear worth not until the 1940s, for instance, would the first swamp be honored, in Everglades National Park, and to this day there is no national park in the grasslands. ()
Among the best proofs that one had entered a sublime landscape was the emotion it evoked. For the early romantic writers and artists who first began to celebrate it, the sublime was far from being a pleasurable experience. The classic description is that of William Wordsworth as he recounted climbing the Alps and crossing the Simplon Pass in his autobiographical poem &The Prelude.& There, surrounded by crags and waterfalls, the poet felt himself literally to be in the presence of the divine&and experienced an emotion remarkably close to terror:
The immeasurable height
Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,
The stationary blasts of waterfalls,
And in the narrow rent at every turn
Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn,
The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,
The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,
Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side
As if a voice were in them, the sick sight
And giddy prospect of the raving stream,
The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens,
Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light
Were all like workings of one mind, the features
Of the same face, bl
Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. ()
This was no casual stroll in the mountains, no simple sojourn in the gentle lap of nonhuman nature. What Wordsworth described was nothing less than a religious experience, akin to that of the Old Testament prophets as they conversed with their wrathful God. The symbols he detected in this wilderness landscape were more supernatural than natural, and they inspired more awe and dismay than joy or pleasure. No mere mortal was meant to linger long in such a place, so it was with considerable relief that Wordsworth and his companion made their way back down from the peaks to the sheltering valleys. Lest you suspect that this view of the sublime was limited to timid Europeans who lacked the American know-how for feeling at home in the wilderness, remember Henry David Thoreau&s 1846 climb of Mount Katahdin, in Maine. Although Thoreau is regarded by many today as one of the great American celebrators of wilderness, his emotions about Katahdin were no less ambivalent than Wordsworth&s about the Alps.
It was vast, Titanic, and such as man never inhabits. Some part of the
beholder, even some vital part, seems to escape through the loose grating
of his ribs as he ascends. He is more lone than you can imagine &.
Vast, Titanic, inhuman Nature has got him at disadvantage, caught him alone,
and pilfers him of some of his divine faculty. She does not smile on him
as in the plains. She seems to say sternly, why came ye here before your
time? This ground is not prepared for you. Is it not enough that I smile
in the valleys? I have never made this soil for thy feet, this air for
thy breathing, these rocks for thy neighbors. I cannot pity nor fondle
thee here, but forever relentlessly drive thee hence to where I am kind.
Why seek me where I have not called thee, and then complain because you
find me but a stepmother? ()
This is surely not the way a modern backpacker or nature lover would describe Maine&s most famous mountain, but that is because Thoreau&s description owes as much to Wordsworth and other romantic contemporaries as to the rocks and clouds of Katahdin itself. His words took the physical mountain on which he stood and transmuted it into an icon of the sublime: a symbol of God&s presence on earth. The power and the glory of that icon were such that only a prophet might gaze on it for long. In effect, romantics like Thoreau joined Moses and the children of Israel in Exodus when &they looked toward the wilderness, and behold, the glory of the Lord appeared in the cloud.& ()
But even as it came to embody the awesome power of the sublime, wilderness was also being tamed&not just by those who were building settlements in its midst but also by those who most celebrated its inhuman beauty. By the second half of the nineteenth century, the terrible awe that Wordsworth and Thoreau regarded as the appropriately pious stance to adopt in the presence of their mountaintop God was giving way to a much more comfortable, almost sentimental demeanor. As more and more tourists sought out the wilderness as a spectacle to be looked at and enjoyed for its great beauty, the sublime in effect became domesticated. The wilderness was still sacred, but the religious sentiments it evoked were more those of a pleasant parish church than those of a grand cathedral or a harsh desert retreat. The writer who best captures this late romantic sense of a domesticated sublime is undoubtedly John Muir, whose descriptions of Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada reflect none of the anxiety or terror one finds in earlier writers. Here he is, for instance, sketching on North Dome in Yosemite Valley:
No pain here, no dull empty hours, no fear of the past, no fear of the
future. These blessed mountains are so compactly filled with God&s
beauty, no petty personal hope or experience has room to be. Drinking this
champagne water is pure pleasure, so is breathing the living air, and every
movement of limbs is pleasure, while the body seems to feel beauty when
exposed to it as it feels the campfire or sunshine, entering not by the
eyes alone, but equally through all one&s flesh like radiant heat,
making a passionate ecstatic pleasure glow not explainable.
The emotions Muir describes in Yosemite could hardly be more different from Thoreau&s on Katahdin or Wordsworth&s on the Simplon Pass. Yet all three men are participating in the same cultural tradition and contributing to the same myth&the mountain as cathedral. The three may differ in the way they choose to express their piety&Wordsworth favoring an awe-filled bewilderment, Thoreau a stern loneliness, Muir a welcome ecstasy&but they agree completely about the church in which they prefer to worship. Muir&s closing words on North Dome diverge from his older contemporaries only in mood, not in their ultimate content:
Perched like a fly on this Yosemite dome, I gaze and sketch and bask, oftentimes settling down into dumb admiration without definite hope of ever learning much, yet with the longing, unresting effort that lies at the door of hope, humbly prostrate before the vast display of God&s power, and eager to offer self-denial and renunciation with eternal toil to learn any lesson in the divine manuscript. ()
Muir&s &divine manuscript& and Wordsworth&s &Characters of the great Apocalypse& are in fact pages from the same holy book. The sublime wilderness had ceased to be place of satanic temptation and become instead a sacred temple, much as it continues to be for those who love it today.
But the romantic sublime was not the only cultural movement that helped transform wilderness into a sacred American icon during the nineteenth century. No less important was the powerful romantic attraction of primitivism, dating back at least to of that the best antidote to the ills of an overly refined and civilized modern world was a return to simpler, more primitive living. In the United States, this was embodied most strikingly in the national myth of the frontier. The historian Frederick Jackson Turner wrote in 1893 the classic academic statement of this myth, but it had been part of American cultural traditions for well over a century. As Turner described the process, easterners and European immigrants, in moving to the wild unsettled lands of the frontier, shed the trappings of civilization, rediscovered their primitive racial energies, reinvented direct democratic institutions, and by reinfused themselves with a vigor, an independence, and a creativity that the source of American democracy and national character. Seen in this way, wild country became a place not just of religious redemption but of national renewal, the quintessential location for experiencing what it meant to be an American.
One of Turner&s most provocative claims was that by the 1890s the frontier was passing away. Never again would &such gifts of free land offer themselves& to the American people. &The frontier has gone,& he declared, &and with its going has closed the first period of American history.& () Built into the frontier myth from its very beginning was the notion that this crucible of American identity was temporary and would pass away. Those who have celebrated the frontier have almost always looked backward as they did so, mourning an older, simpler, truer world that is about to disappear, forever. That world and all of its attractions, Turner said, depended on free land&on wilderness. Thus, in the myth of the vanishing frontier lay the seeds of wilderness preservation in the United States, for if wild land had been so crucial in the making of the nation, then surely one must save its last remnants as monuments to the American past&and as an insurance policy to protect its future. It is no accident that the movement to set aside national parks and wilderness areas began to gain real momentum at precisely the time that laments about the passing frontier reached their peak. To protect wilderness was in a very real sense to protect the nation&s most sacred myth of origin.
Among the core elements of the frontier myth was the powerful sense among certain groups of Americans that wilderness was the last bastion of rugged individualism. Turner tended to stress communitarian themes when writing frontier history, asserting that Americans in primitive conditions had been forced to band together with their neighbors to form communities and democratic institutions. For other writers, however, frontier democracy for communities was less compelling than frontier freedom for individuals. () By fleeing to the outer margins of settled land and society&so the story ran&an individual could escape the confining strictures of civilized life. The mood among writers who celebrated frontier individualism was alm they lamented not just a lost way of life but the passing of the heroic men who had embodied that life. Thus Owen Wister in the introduction to his classic 1902 novel The Virginian could write of &a vanished world& in which &the horseman, the cow-puncher, the last romantic figure upon our soil& rode only &in his historic yesterday& and would &never come again.& For Wister, the cowboy was a man who gave his word and kept it (&Wall Street would have found him behind the times&), who did not talk lewdly to women (&Newport would have thought him old-fashioned&), who worked and played hard, and whose &ungoverned hours did not unman him.& () Theodore Roosevelt wrote with much the same nostalgic fervor about the &fine, manly qualities& of the &wild rough-rider of the plains.& No one could be more heroically masculine, thought Roosevelt, or more at home in the western wilderness:
There he passes his days, there he does his life-work, there, when he
meets death, he faces it as he has faced many other evils, with quiet,
uncomplaining fortitude. Brave, hospitable, hardy, and adventurous, he
is the grim he prepares the way for the civilization
from before whose face he must himself disappear. Hard and dangerous though
his existence is, it has yet a wild attraction that strongly draws to it
his bold, free spirit. ()
This nostalgia for a passing frontier way of life inevitably implied ambivalence, if not downright hostility, toward modernity and all that it represented. If one saw the wild lands of the frontier as freer, truer, and more natural than other, more modern places, then one was also inclined to see the cities and factories of urban-industrial civilization as confining, false, and artificial. Owen Wister looked at the post-frontier &transition& that had followed &the horseman of the plains,& and did not like what he saw: &a shapeless state, a condition of men and manners as unlovely as is that moment in the year when winter is gone and spring not come, and the face of Nature is ugly.& () In the eyes of writers who shared Wister&s distaste for modernity, civilization contaminated its inhabitants and absorbed them into the faceless, collective, contemptible life of the crowd. For all of its troubles and dangers, and despite the fact that it must pass away, the frontier had been a better place. If civilization was to be redeemed, it would be by men like the Virginian who could retain their frontier virtues even as they made the transition to post-frontier life.
The mythic frontier individualist was almost always masculine in gender: here, in the wilderness, a man could be a real man, the rugged individual he was meant to be before civilization sapped his energy and threatened his masculinity. Wister&s contemptuous remarks about Wall Street and Newport suggest what he and many others of his generation believed&that the comforts and seductions of civilized life were especially insidious for men, who all too easily became emasculated by the feminizing tendencies of civilization. More often than not, men who felt this way came, like Wister and Roosevelt, from elite class backgrounds. The curious result was that frontier nostalgia became an important vehicle for expressing a peculiarly bourgeois form of antimodernism. The very men who most benefited from urban-industrial capitalism were among those who believed they must escape its debilitating effects. If the frontier was passing, then men who had the means to do so should preserve for themselves some remnant of its wild landscape so that they might enjoy the regeneration and renewal that came from sleeping under the stars, participating in blood sports, and living off the land. The frontier might be gone, but the frontier experience could still be had if only wilderness were preserved.
Thus the decades following the Civil War saw more and more of the nation&s wealthiest citizens seeking out wilderness for themselves. The elite passion for wild land took many forms: enormous estates in the Adirondacks and elsewhere (disingenuously called &camps& despite their many servants and amenities), cattle ranches for would-be rough riders on the Great Plains, guided big-game hunting trips in the Rockies, and luxurious resort hotels wherever railroads pushed their way into sublime landscapes. Wilderness suddenly emerged as the landscape of choice for elite tourists, who brought with them strikingly urban ideas of the countryside through which they traveled. For them, wild land was not a site for productive labor and
rather, it was a place of recreation. One went to the wilderness not as a producer but as a consumer, hiring guides and other backcountry residents who could serve as romantic surrogates for the rough riders and hunters of the frontier if one was willing to overlook their new status as employees and servants of the rich. In just this way, wilderness came to embody the national frontier myth, standing for the wild freedom of America&s past and seeming to represent a highly attractive natural alternative to the ugly artificiality of modern civilization. The irony, of course, was that in the process wilderness came to reflect the very civilization its devotees sought to escape. Ever since the nineteenth century, celebrating wilderness has been an activity mainly for well-to-do city folks. Country people generally know far too much about working the land to regard unworked land as their ideal. In contrast, elite urban tourists and wealthy sportsmen projected their leisure-time frontier fantasies onto the American landscape and so created wilderness in their own image.
There were other ironies as well, The movement to set aside national parks and wilderness areas followed hard on the heels of the final Indian wars, in which the prior human inhabitants of these areas were rounded up and moved onto reservations. The myth of the wilderness as &virgin & uninhabited land had always been especially cruel when seen from the perspective of the Indians who had once called that land home. Now they were forced to move elsewhere, with the result that tourists could safely enjoy the illusion that they were seeing their nation in its pristine, original state, in the new morning of God&s own creation. () Among the things that most marked the new national parks as reflecting a post-frontier consciousness was the relative absence of human violence within their boundaries. The actual frontier had often been a place of conflict, in which invaders and invaded fought for control of land and resources. Once set aside within the fixed and carefully policed boundaries of the modern bureaucratic state, the wilderness lost its savage image and became safe: a place more of reverie than of revulsion or fear. Meanwhile, its original inhabitants were kept out by dint of force, their earlier uses of the land redefined as inappropriate or even illegal. To this day, for instance, the Blackfeet continue to be accused of &poaching& on the lands of Glacier National Park that originally belonged to them and that were ceded by treaty only with the proviso that they be permitted to hunt there. ()
The removal of Indians to create an &uninhabited wilderness&&uninhabited as never before in the human history of the place&reminds us just how invented, just how constructed, the American wilderness really is. To return to my opening argument: there is nothing natural about the concept of wilderness. It is entirely a creation of the culture that holds it dear, a product of the very history it seeks to deny. Indeed, one of the most striking proofs of the cultural invention of wilderness is its thoroughgoing erasure of the history from which it sprang. In virtually all of its manifestations, wilderness represents a flight from history. Seen as the original garden, it is a place outside of time, from which human beings had to be ejected before the fallen world of history could properly begin. Seen as the frontier, it is a savage world at the dawn of civilization, whose transformation represents the very beginning of the national historical epic. Seen as the bold landscape of frontier heroism, it is the place of youth and childhood, into which men escape by abandoning their pasts and entering a world of freedom where the constraints of civilization fade into memory. Seen as the sacred sublime, it is the home of a God who transcends history by standing as the One who remains untouched and unchanged by time&s arrow. No matter what the angle from which we regard it, wilderness offers us the illusion that we can escape the cares and troubles of the world in which our past has ensnared us. ()
This escape from history is one reason why the language we use to talk about wilderness is often permeated with spiritual and religious values that reflect human ideals far more than the material world of physical nature. Wilderness fulfills the old romantic project of secularizing Judeo-Christian values so as to make a new cathedral not in some petty human building but in God&s own creation, Nature itself. Many environmentalists who reject traditional notions of the Godhead and who regard themselves as agnostics or even atheists nonetheless express feelings tantamount to religious awe when in the presence of wilderness&a fact that testifies to the success of the romantic project. Those who have no difficulty seeing God as the expression of our human dreams and desires nonetheless have trouble recognizing that in a secular age Nature can offer precisely the same sort of mirror.
Thus it is that wilderness serves as the unexamined foundation on which so many of the quasi-religious values of modern environmentalism rest. The critique of modernity that is one of environmentalism&s most important contributions to the moral and political discourse of our time more often than not appeals, explicitly or implicitly, to wilderness as the standard against which to measure the failings of our human world. Wilderness is the natural, unfallen antithesis of an unnatural civilization that has lost its soul. It is a place of freedom in which we can recover the true selves we have lost to the corrupting influences of our artificial lives. Most of all, it is the ultimate landscape of authenticity. Combining the sacred grandeur of the sublime with the primitive simplicity of the frontier, it is the place where we can see the world as it really is, and so know ourselves as we really are&or ought to be.
But the trouble with wilderness is that it quietly expresses and reproduces the very values its devotees seek to reject. The flight from history that is very nearly the core of wilderness represents the false hope of an escape from responsibility, the illusion that we can somehow wipe clean the slate of our past and return to the tabula rasa that supposedly existed before we began to leave our marks on the world. The dream of an unworked natural landscape is very much the fantasy of people who have never themselves had to work the land to make a living&urban folk for whom food comes from a supermarket or a restaurant instead of a field, and for whom the wooden houses in which they live and work apparently have no meaningful connection to the forests in which trees grow and die. Only people whose relation to the land was already alienated could hold up wilderness as a model for human life in nature, for the romantic ideology of wilderness leaves precisely nowhere for human beings actually to make their living from the land.
This, then, is the central paradox: wilderness embodies a dualistic vision in which the human is entirely outside the natural. If we allow ourselves to believe that nature, to be true, must also be wild, then our very presence in nature represents its fall. The place where we are is the place where nature is not. If this is so&if by definition wilderness leaves no place for human beings, save perhaps as contemplative sojourners enjoying their leisurely reverie in God&s natural cathedral&then also by definition it can offer no solution to the environmental and other problems that confront us. To the extent that we celebrate wilderness as the measure with which we judge civilization, we reproduce the dualism that sets humanity and nature at opposite poles. We thereby leave ourselves little hope of discovering what an ethical, sustainable, honorable human place in nature might actually look like.
Worse: to the extent that we live in an urban-industrial civilization but at the same time pretend to ourselves that our real home is in the wilderness, to just that extent we give ourselves permission to evade responsibility for the lives we actually lead. We inhabit civilization while holding some part of ourselves&what we imagine to be the most precious part&aloof from its entanglements. We work our nine-to-five jobs in its institutions, we eat its food, we drive its cars (not least to reach the wilderness), we benefit from the intricate and all too invisible networks with which it shelters us, all the while pretending that these things are not an essential part of who we are. By imagining that our true home is in the wilderness, we forgive ourselves the homes we actually inhabit. In its flight from history, in its siren song of escape, in its reproduction of the dangerous dualism that sets human beings outside of nature&in all of these ways, wilderness poses a serious threat to responsible environmentalism at the end of the twentieth century.
By now I hope it is clear that my criticism in this essay is not directed at wild nature per se, or even at efforts to set aside large tracts of wild land, but rather at the specific habits of thinking that flow from this complex cultural construction called wilderness. It is not the things we label as wilderness that are the problem&for nonhuman nature and large tracts of the natural world do deserve protection&but rather what we ourselves mean when we use the label. Lest one doubt how pervasive these habits of thought actually are in contemporary environmentalism, let me list some of the places where wilderness serves as the ideological underpinning for environmental concerns that might otherwise seem quite remote from it. Defenders of biological diversity, for instance, although sometimes appealing to more utilitarian concerns, often point to &untouched& ecosystems as the best and richest repositories of the undiscovered species we must certainly try to protect. Although at first blush an apparently more &scientific& concept than wilderness, biological diversity in fact invokes many of the same sacred values, which is why organizations like the Nature Conservancy have been so quick to employ it as an alternative to the seemingly fuzzier and more problematic concept of wilderness. There is a paradox here, of course. To the extent that biological diversity (indeed, even wilderness itself) is likely to survive in the future only by the most vigilant and self-conscious management of the ecosystems that sustain it, the ideology of wilderness is potentially in direct conflict with the very thing it encourages us to protect. () The most striking instances of this have revolved around &endangered species,& which serve as vulnerable symbols of biological diversity while at the same time standing as surrogates for wilderness itself. The terms of the Endangered Species Act in the United States have often meant that those hoping to defend pristine wilderness have had to rely on a single endangered species like the spotted owl to gain legal standing for their case&thereby making the full power of the sacred land inhere in a single numinous organism whose habitat then becomes the object of intense debate about appropriate management and use. () The ease with which anti-environmental forces like the wise-use movement have attacked such single-species preservation efforts suggests the vulnerability of strategies like these.
Perhaps partly because our own conflicts over such places and organisms have become so messy, the convergence of wilderness values with concerns about biological diversity and endangered species has helped produce a deep fascination for remote ecosystems, where it is easier to imagine that nature might somehow be &left alone& to flourish by its own pristine devices. The classic example is the tropical rain forest, which since the 1970s has become the most powerful modern icon of unfallen, sacred land&a veritable Garden of Eden&for many Americans and Europeans. And yet protecting the rain forest in the eyes of First World environmentalists all too often means protecting it from the people who live there. Those who seek to preserve such &wilderness& from the activities of native peoples run the risk of reproducing the same tragedy&being forceably removed from an ancient home&that befell American Indians. Third World countries face massive environmental problems and deep social conflicts, but these are not likely to be solved by a cultural myth that encourages us to &preserve& peopleless landscapes that have not existed in such places for millennia. At its worst, as environmentalists are beginning to realize, exporting American notions of wilderness in this way can become an unthinking and self-defeating form of cultural imperialism. ()
Perhaps the most suggestive example of the way that wilderness thinking can underpin other environmental concerns has emerged in the recent debate about &global change.& In 1989 the journalist Bill McKibben published a book entitled The End of Nature, in which he argued that the prospect of global climate change as a result of unintentional human manipulation of the atmosphere means that nature as we once knew it no longer exists. () Whereas earlier generations inhabited a natural world that remained more or less unaffected by their actions, our own generation is uniquely different. We and our children will henceforth live in a biosphere completely altered by our own activity, a planet in which the human and the natural can no longer be distinguished, because the one has overwhelmed the other. In McKibben&s view, nature has died, and we are responsible for killing it. &The planet,& he declares, &is utterly different now.& ()
But such a perspective is possible only if we accept the wilderness premise that nature, to be natural, must also be pristine&remote from humanity and untouched by our common past. In fact, everything we know about environmental history suggests that people have been manipulating the natural world on various scales for as long as we have a record of their passing. Moreover, we have unassailable evidence that many of the environmental changes we now face also occurred quite apart from human intervention at one time or another in the earth&s past. () The point is not that our current problems are trivial, or that our devastating effects on the earth&s ecosystems should be accepted as inevitable or &natural.& It is rather that we seem unlikely to make much progress in solving these problems if we hold up to ourselves as the mirror of nature a wilderness we ourselves cannot inhabit.
To do so is merely to take to a logical extreme the paradox that was built into wilderness from the beginning: if nature dies because we enter it, then the only way to save nature is to kill ourselves. The absurdity of this proposition flows from the underlying dualism it expresses. Not only does it ascribe greater power to humanity that we in fact possess&physical and biological nature will surely survive in some form or another long after we ourselves have gone the way of all flesh&but in the end it offers us little more than a self-defeating counsel of despair. The tautology gives us no way out: if wild nature is the only thing worth saving, and if our mere presence destroys it, then the sole solution to our own unnaturalness, the only way to protect sacred wilderness from profane humanity, would seem to be suicide. It is not a proposition that seems likely to produce very positive or practical results.
And yet radical environmentalists and deep ecologists all too frequently come close to accepting this premise as a first principle. When they express, for instance, the popular notion that our environmental problems began with the invention of agriculture, they push the human fall from natural grace so far back into the past that all of civilized history becomes a tale of ecological declension. Earth First! founder Dave Foreman captures the familiar parable succinctly when he writes,
Before agriculture was midwifed in the Middle East, humans were in the wilderness. We had no concept of &wilderness& because everything was wilderness and we were a part of it. But with irrigation ditches, crop surpluses, and permanent villages, we became apart from the natural world&. Between the wilderness that created us and the civilization created by us grew an ever-widening rift. ()
In this view the farm becomes the first and most important battlefield in the long war against wild nature, and all else follows in its wake. From such a starting place, it is hard not to reach the conclusion that the only way human beings can hope to live naturally on earth is to follow the hunter-gatherers back into a wilderness Eden and abandon virtually everything that civilization has given us. It may indeed turn out that civilization will end in ecological collapse or nuclear disaster, whereupon one might expect to find any human survivors returning to a way of life closer to that celebrated by Foreman and his followers. For most of us, though, such a debacle would be cause for regret, a sign that humanity had failed to fulfill its own promise and failed to honor its own highest values&including those of the deep ecologists.
In offering wilderness as the ultimate hunter-gatherer alternative to civilization, Foreman reproduces an extreme but still easily recognizable version of the myth of frontier primitivism. When he writes of his fellow Earth Firsters that &we believe we must return to being animal, to glorying in our sweat, hormones, tears, and blood& and that &we struggle against the modern compulsion to become dull, passionless androids,& he is following in the footsteps of Owen Wister. () Although his arguments give primacy to defending biodiversity and the autonomy of wild nature, his prose becomes most passionate when he speaks of preserving &the wilderness experience.& His own ideal &Big Outside& bears an uncanny resemblance to that of the frontier myth: wide open spaces and virgin land with no trails, no signs, no facilities, no maps, no guides, no rescues, no modern equipment. Tellingly, it is a land where hardy travelers can support themselves by hunting with &primitive weapons (bow and arrow, atlatl, knife, sharp rock).& () Foreman claims that &the primary value of wilderness is not as a proving ground for young Huck Finns and Annie Oakleys,& but his heart is with Huck and Annie all the same. He admits that &preserving a quality wilderness experience for the human visitor, letting her or him flex Paleolithic muscles or seek visions, remains a tremendously important secondary purpose.& () Just so does Teddy Roosevelt&s rough rider live on in the greener garb of a new age.
However much one may be attracted to such a vision, it entails problematic consequences. For one, it makes wilderness the locus for an epic struggle between malign civilization and benign nature, compared with which all other social, political, and moral concerns seem trivial. Foreman writes, &The preservation of wildness and native diversity is the most important issue. Issues directly affecting only humans pale in comparison.& () Presumably so do any environmental problems whose victims are mainly people, for such problems usually surface in landscapes that have already &fallen& and are no longer wild. This would seem to exclude from the radical environmentalist agenda problems of occupational health and safety in industrial settings, problems of toxic waste exposure on &unnatural& urban and agricultural sites, problems of poor children poisoned by lead exposure in the inner city, problems of famine and poverty and human suffering in the &overpopulated& places of the earth&problems, in short, of environmental justice. If we set too high a stock on wilderness, too many other corners of the earth become less than natural and too many other people become less than human, thereby giving us permission not to care much about their suffering or their fate.
It is no accident that these supposedly inconsequential environmental problems affect mainly poor people, for the long affiliation between wilderness and wealth means that the only poor people who count when wilderness is the issue are hunter-gatherers, who presumably do not consider themselves to be poor in the first place. The dualism at the heart of wilderness encourages its advocates to conceive of its protection as a crude conflict between the &human& and the &nonhuman&&or, more often, between those who value the nonhuman and those who do not. This in turn tempts one to ignore crucial differences among humans and the complex cultural and historical reasons why different peoples may feel very differently about the meaning of wilderness.
Why, for instance, is the & wilderness experience& so often conceived as a form of recreation best enjoyed by those whose class privileges give them the time and resources to leave their jobs behind and &get away from it all?& Why does the protection of wilderness so often seem to pit urban recreationists against rural people who actually earn their living from the land (excepting those who sell goods and services to the tourists themselves)? Why in the debates about pristine natural areas are &primitive& peoples idealized, even sentimentalized, until the moment they do something unprimitive, modern, and unnatural, and thereby fall from environmental grace? What are the consequences of a wilderness ideology that devalues productive labor and the very concrete knowledge that comes from working the land with one&s own hands? () All of these questions imply conflicts among different groups of people, conflicts that are obscured behind the deceptive clarity of &human& vs. &nonhuman.& If in answering these knotty questions we resort to so simplistic an opposition, we are almost certain to ignore the very subtleties and complexities we need to understand.
But the most troubling cultural baggage that accompanies the celebration of wilderness has less to do with remote rain forests and peoples than with the ways we think about ourselves&we American environmentalists who quite rightly worry about the future of the earth and the threats we pose to the natural world. Idealizing a distant wilderness too often means not idealizing the environment in which we actually live, the landscape that for better or worse we call home. Most of our most serious environmental problems start right here, at home, and if we are to solve those problems, we need an environmental ethic that will tell us as much about using nature as about not using it. The wilderness dualism tends to cast any use as abuse, and thereby denies us a middle ground in which responsible use and non-use might attain some kind of balanced, sustainable relationship. My own belief is that only by exploring this middle ground will we learn ways of imagining a better world for all of us: humans and nonhumans, rich people and poor, women and men, First Worlders and Third Worlders, white folks and people of color, consumers and producers&a world better for humanity in all of its diversity and for all the rest of nature too. The middle ground is where we actually live. It is where we&all of us, in our different places and ways&make our homes.
That is why, when I think of th}