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In 1867, John Muir set out on foot to explore the botanical wonders
of the South, keeping a detailed journal of his adventures as he
traipsed from Kentucky southward to Florida. One hundred and fifty
years later, on a similar whim, veteran Atlanta reporter Dan
Chapman, distressed by sprawl-driven environmental ills in a region
he loves, recreated Muir’s journey to see for himself how nature
has fared since Muir’s time. Channelling Muir, he uses humour,
keen observation, and a deep love of place to celebrate the
South’s natural riches. But he laments that a treasured way of
life for generations of Southerners is endangered as long-simmering
struggles intensify over misused and dwindling resources. Chapman
seeks to discover how Southerners might balance surging population
growth with protecting the natural beauty Muir found so special.
Each chapter touches upon a local ecological problem—at-risk
species in Mammoth Cave, coal ash in Kingston, Tennessee, climate
change in the Nantahala National Forest, water wars in Georgia,
aquifer depletion in Florida—that resonates across the South.
Chapman delves into the region’s natural history, moving between
John Muir’s vivid descriptions of a lush botanical paradise and
the myriad environmental problems facing the South today. Along the
way he talks to locals with deep ties to the land—scientists,
hunters, politicians, and even a Muir impersonator—who describe
the changes they’ve witnessed and what it will take to
accommodate a fast-growing population without destroying the
natural beauty and a cherished connection to nature. A Road Running
Southward is part travelogue, part environmental cri de coeur, and
paints a picture of a South under siege. It is a passionate appeal,
a call to action to save one of the loveliest and most biodiverse
regions of the world by understanding what we have to lose if we do
nothing.
In 1867, John Muir set out on foot to explore the botanical wonders
of the South, keeping a detailed journal of his adventures as he
traipsed from Kentucky southward to Florida. One hundred and fifty
years later, on a similar whim, veteran Atlanta reporter Dan
Chapman, distressed by sprawl-driven environmental ills in a region
he loves, recreated Muir’s journey to see for himself how nature
has fared since Muir’s time. Channelling Muir, he uses humour,
keen observation, and a deep love of place to celebrate the
South’s natural riches. But he laments that a treasured way of
life for generations of Southerners is endangered as long-simmering
struggles intensify over misused and dwindling resources. Chapman
seeks to discover how Southerners might balance surging population
growth with protecting the natural beauty Muir found so special.
Each chapter touches upon a local ecological problem—at-risk
species in Mammoth Cave, coal ash in Kingston, Tennessee, climate
change in the Nantahala National Forest, water wars in Georgia,
aquifer depletion in Florida—that resonates across the South.
Chapman delves into the region’s natural history, moving between
John Muir’s vivid descriptions of a lush botanical paradise and
the myriad environmental problems facing the South today. Along the
way he talks to locals with deep ties to the land—scientists,
hunters, politicians, and even a Muir impersonator—who describe
the changes they’ve witnessed and what it will take to
accommodate a fast-growing population without destroying the
natural beauty and a cherished connection to nature. A Road Running
Southward is part travelogue, part environmental cri de coeur, and
paints a picture of a South under siege. It is a passionate appeal,
a call to action to save one of the loveliest and most biodiverse
regions of the world by understanding what we have to lose if we do
nothing.
Maurice Hindle famously described Mary Shelley's first novel as
"the most radical critique of the 'Enlightenment project' available
in modern literature." This work builds on previous studies of
Shelley's novel, by highlighting the instability of the male
narratives which dominated her own time. A close reading of her
novel, what might cautiously be termed a deconstruction, reveals
how Shelley places John Locke's 'possessive' individual in a state
of war with himself. It demonstrates how, through the emblem of
Frankenstein's Creature, Shelley's text exposes the contradictions
in modern thought regarding the fixity of stability of the human
subject, and most crucially, the implications of gendering that
subject.
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