A Bestiary of the Anthropocene is an aesthetic delight. It’s a pleasure to look at, printed in bold silver ink on heavy black paper. The book even feels nice in your hands; the thick pages are downright enjoyable to turn. I want all of my books to have silver text on black paper now—it was such a great reading experience. It took me back to my “coloring in a black notebook with gel pens” days. This book is worth it for the look and feel alone.
Aesthetics aside, this is a deliciously unsettling book. It will be unlike any other book on your bookshelf or coffee table. It’s difficult to describe exactly what A Bestiary of the Anthropocene is: it’s part art book, part field guide, part classification exercise, part social commentary. This book is primarily a catalog of “hybrid” animals, plants, rocks, and other things. It’s an ethnography of the weird, wonderful, horrible things that happen when technology and nature collide. It covers everything from COVID-19 to nuclear craters. The book mostly consists of standalone single-page descriptions, so it’s easy to pick up whenever you have a few minutes to spare—though I couldn’t put it down and flew through it.
If you are a classification nerd like me, you will enjoy this book. The “Animals” section features biological oddities like military dolphins and caterpillars that eat plastic, but it also contains Tamagotchis and Roomba vacuums. Are they animals? Are they not animals? Does it matter if they are not technically animals if we treat them like pets anyway? I liked how this book stretches and pushes on the boundaries of our conventional classification system, winking at the reader with categories like “artificial insects, “software companions,” and “standardized nature.” These categories would perplex (and delight) any taxonomist.
Bestiary of the Anthropocene is written in a neutral, almost disinterested tone. When reading this book, I imagined myself as an alien learning about humanity and its strange practices for the first time. This book helped me step outside the everyday and think critically about how humans bend and twist the world to our preferences. In highlighting the strangeness and perniciousness of many of the weird hybrids we’ve created, this book shows just how tremendous (and often negative) our impact on the planet is. It manages to give you a low-key dread about the environment without coming across as preachy or “tree-hugging” (unless you count antenna trees to improve cell service). The entries in this book are both fascinating and disturbing.
The last third of the book is a series of philosophical essays, most of which are boring and skippable. A few of the essays were excellent (especially "On Temporalities" by Geoffrey Bowker), but most were so full of navel gazing and pretentious jargon that I didn’t finish them. This book would have been perfect as a standalone catalog of weird human-molded mutants. It didn’t really need the pseudo-intellectual fluff at the end.
Pretentious essays aside, this is a really cool, unique book. It’s lovely to look at and an unnerving delight to read.