Frederik Sjoberg’s entomological memoir The Fly Trap deserves much better than my month late musings, but here they are.
The titular fly trap is the Malaise trap, an essential piece of entomological collecting equipment devised in the early twentieth century by the Swede Rene Malaise, when he noticed that flies had a tendency to collect in the highest corner of his tent. Malaise made several extraordinary collecting journeys, to Kamchatka and Southeast Asia, and uncovering something of the man is one of the driving forces behind Sjoberg’s book.
Sjoberg’s own interest is in one way the polar opposite of Malaise’s: for years Sjoberg collected only on the island of Runmaro, not far from Stockholm, and mostly in his own garden. He found more than two hundred species of hoverflies in this way, these being members of the widespread but rather inconspicuous insect family Syrphidae. Some of these harmless creatures are very convincing mimics of wasps and bees, which is a source of amusing aggravation when the entomologist is accosted by ignorant summer vacationers.
It bears remembering that in common with many other insect taxa, there remain many things about the life history and distribution of hoverflies, and no doubt many species, that are unknown to science. Many of Malaise’s specimens lie unsorted in museums to this day. Hence it is possible for the dedicated hobbyist (it’s not clear but I gather that Sjoberg supported himself with translation, and perhaps the civility of the Swedish state) to make real contributions that are truly appreciated by a small community of specialists. Amongst them, memories are long and the appetite for new reports tremendous; after a long summer of collecting Sjoberg describes settling in for the winter with his cabinets and writing to his colleagues about his most interesting discoveries.
He talks about the Legendary Flies, and it’s really hardly funny at all; it’s awe inspiring, these animals that are seen twice in a century, if that. He tells the incredible story of the Fly Tree, a giant which stood for centuries in a Swedish town until it was brought down with dynamite by insane government busybodies. It was so named because every summer night it was surrounded by a cloud of flies, some of which are speculated to have bred only in pools of water that collected high in the trunks of ancient trees. Where are they now?
Birds are my current pursuit in the domain of natural history, and I asked myself if there are legendary birds. There have been so many people looking for the Ivory Billed Woodpecker that it’s very hard to believe that it’s not extinct. Others, like the condors, whooping cranes, or Kirtland’s warbler, they are extremely rare, but, still, I think, more accessible than the Legendary Flies. Something I have yet to attain to. On the other hand, Sjoberg’s discussion of learning natural history the way one learns a language is, I think, quite widely applicable and accessible. He has invested so much time in learning hoverflies because reading the Book of Nature is so pleasurable. Simply looking is pleasurable as well, but that’s not all there is. I’ve learned that one has to know at a glance many species of warblers to feel the full impact of a really busy day of spring migration. One has to go out a lot, and listen carefully, to really appreciate the explosion of cedar waxwings in Boston in the first week of June.
I’m wondering what language I want to learn next.