The summer of 2017 saw the publication of a rash of magazines and guidebooks in an effort to capitalize on the latest "American eclipse". I found it rather easy to steer clear of most of the noise, even if I did end up with about a dozen pairs of eclipse-approved glasses. The publishing of this book fell right in line with everything else. And nearly a year after the eclipse, I seem to have found myself tending to my own eclipse hangover. But as eclipse souvenirs go, you can do a lot worse than American Eclipse, the story of the 1878 eclipse, largely through the experiences of three scientists of the era - James Craig Watson, Maria Mitchell, and Thomas Edison.
A lot of what makes this book a fun read is that it offers the standard appeal of a Gilded Age tale (appealing as long as we carefully ignore the post-Reconstruction South). From a scientific standpoint, we're still in that pre-Einstein world rife with invention. Baron spills a lot of ink on Edison, who mirrors his own country -- young, ambitious, chip-on-his-shoulder, one part creative genius, one part huckster. In space, there was a great race to name asteroids. What could be more charming? And the science questions were all human-sized. What is the sun made of? Is there a planet closer to the sun than Mercury?
If you were writing a script, you couldn't place the eclipse in a better spot than Colorado and Wyoming. The world of science was still a metaphorical Wild West, and Europe was dominant in the transatlantic rivalry. But the frontier was on the eastern side of the Atlantic. And the great minds of the era found themselves reckoning with railroad wars, lost bags, jostled equipment and altitude sickness as far from civilization as they could possibly handle. The tale almost writes itself.
But as much as I enjoyed the 'science is a messy business' tales, what really rounded out the history was the story of Mitchell, a Vassar astronomer, whose mere existence and persistence puts the story into appropriate social perspective. She aimed to draw women to science in an era when prevailing thought found acceptable opinions such as, "A woman who made a habit of riding trains did so 'at the expense of her future usefulness'."
But at the heart of everything is the eclipse. The book, for obvious reasons, builds to this crescendo. I'll close with Baron's description, since it's a good one.
A total eclipse is a primal, transcendent experience. The shutting off of the sun does not bring utter darkness; it is more like falling through a trapdoor into a dimly lit, unrecognizable reality. The sky is not the sky of the earth -- neither the star-filled dome of night nor the immersive blue of daylight, but an ashen ceiling of slate. A few bright stars and planets shine familiarly, like memories from a distant childhood, but the most prominent object is thoroughly foreign. You may know, intellectually, that it is both the sun and moon, yet it looks like neither. It is an ebony pupil surrounded by a pearly iris. It is the eye of the cosmos.