Fairy tale retellings

Little Red Riding Hood, as depicted by Gustave Doré (1883)

A few years ago, I blogged about fairy tales. “About once every hundred years some wiseacre gets up and tries to banish the fairy tale,” C.S. Lewis wrote in 1952, and Richard Dawkins had done exactly that.

Fairy tales are stories that have stood the test of time, and that means they have power. That power can be harnessed to teach science to children, but I don’t want to talk about that today; I want to talk about fairy tale retellings, which have become popular again in recent years.

It seems that Einstein did not say “If you want your children to be intelligent, read them fairy tales” – but fairy tales do develop the imagination and speak to the human heart. And retellings keep fairy tales fresh.

In the Forests of Serre (2003) by Patricia A. McKillip

Fairy tales are generally classified as fantasy, and most retold fairy tales fall within that genre too. Among my favourites are the dream-like novels of Patricia A. McKillip, including In the Forests of Serre (2003), which incorporates Slavic tales of Baba Yaga and the Firebird. In fact, pretty much everything that Patricia A. McKillip has written is superb.

“This Mortal Mountain” (1967), a novelette by Roger_Zelazny, collected in The Doors of His Face, the Lamps of His Mouth (1971) and This Mortal Mountain (2009)

Fairy tales can be retold as science fiction too. After all, “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” In “This Mortal Mountain” (1967), Roger Zelazny mashes together Sleeping Beauty (or “Doornroosje” as I first learned to call it) with Dante’s Purgatorio, in a story of mountain-climbing on a distant planet: “‘A forty-mile-high mountain,’ I finally said, ‘is not a mountain. It is a world all by itself, which some dumb deity forgot to throw into orbit.’ … I looked back at the gray and lavender slopes and followed them upward once more again, until all color drained away, until the silhouette was black and jagged and the top still nowhere in sight, until my eyes stung and burned behind their protective glasses; and I saw clouds bumping up against that invincible outline, like icebergs in the sky, and I heard the howling of the retreating winds which had essayed to measure its grandeur with swiftness and, of course, had failed.”

The spell described in this novelette is purely technological, but yet the story reduces me to tears every time I read it: “The planes of her pale, high cheeks, wide forehead, small chin corresponded in an unsettling fashion with certain simple theorems which comprise the geometry of my heart.”

The Lunar Chronicles, which I have not read, are a series of young adult science fiction fairy tale retellings, so the science fiction spin still exists.

Faerie Tale (1988) by Raymond E. Feist

Many fairy tales were originally intended to be scary. The terror of walking through a wolf-infested forest armed with, at most, a knife for protection is something that is difficult to imagine today, when Canis lupus is so much less common in the wild than it used to be. Deliberately swimming in shark-infested waters is perhaps the closest modern equivalent. Added to the wolves, bears, trolls, and giants, fairy tales also frequently have supernatural threats. In Faerie Tale (1988), Raymond E. Feist retells some Irish mythology as the straight horror it was perhaps once meant to be.

The Mountain of the Wolf (2016) by Elisabeth Grace Foley

Fairy tales can also be retold with great success as Westerns. As with science fiction retellings, the frontier elements of danger and of the unknown help to set the scene. A particularly good example is The Mountain of the Wolf (2016), in which Elisabeth Grace Foley retells Little Red Riding Hood (or “Roodkapje” as I first learned to call it), but with a believable motivation for Red Riding Hood’s presence in the danger zone (I grew up with a Dutch children’s game that acted out the story; Red Riding Hood’s motivation in the original tale always struck me as confused).

The Reluctant Godfather (2017) by Allison Tebo

Finally, fairy tales can be twisted. The outcome may be altered; the hero may become the villain; the beautiful dragon may be rescued from a ravening princess. This can become very dark, bordering on horror, or it may be light comic fantasy. And amusing recent example of the latter is The Reluctant Godfather (2017), a retelling of Cinderella by Allison Tebo in which the fairy godmother is (a) male and (b) totally uninterested in helping Cinderella out. In the movie world, Hoodwinked! is a well-known example of the twisted fairy tale in its comic form.

So there you have it. How do you take your fairy tales: black, or with cream and sugar?

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Answering Gracie Cunningham

A 16-year-old TikTok user called Gracie Cunningham recently went viral with two short videos (second video here) asking questions about mathematics. Like a few other people, I thought that they were sufficiently interesting to answer.

1. How did people know what they were looking for when they started theorising about formulas? Because I wouldn’t know what to look for if I’m making up math.

Well, first, contrary to your comment “I don’t think math is real,” mathematics is indeed real. Even if the universe was completely different from the way it is, mathematics would still be true. Edward Everett, whose dedication speech at Gettysburg was so famously upstaged by Abraham Lincoln, put it like this: “In the pure mathematics we contemplate absolute truths, which existed in the Divine Mind before the morning stars sang together, and which will continue to exist there, when the last of their radiant host shall have fallen from heaven.” (OK, not everybody has this view of mathematics, which is called “Platonism,” but in my opinion, it’s the only view that explains why mathematics works).

Second, mathematics is discovered, not invented. The great mathematician G. H. Hardy pointed out “that mathematical reality lies outside us, that our function is to discover or observe it, and that the theorems which we prove, and which we describe grandiloquently as our ‘creations’, are simply our notes of our observations.” When you embark on a journey of discovery, you don’t know where you’ll end up. That’s what makes it exciting. When the early Polynesians set off in canoes across the Pacific, thousands of years ago, they didn’t know that they would discover Hawaiʻi, Samoa, and New Zealand. They just headed off into the wild blue yonder because that was the kind of people they were.

Now the Babylonians and others developed mathematics primarily because it was useful – for astronomy (which you need to decide when to plant crops) and engineering and business. But the Greek started to do mathematics just for fun. They discovered mathematical truths not because they were useful, but simply because, as Joel Spencer, put it, “Mathematics is there. It’s beautiful. It’s this jewel we uncover” (quoted in The Man Who Loved Only Numbers, p 27).

It is also worth pointing out a subtle kind of prejudice (almost a kind of racism) that is widespread – many people think that the ancients were primitive. They weren’t. They had plumbing, and architecture, and astronomy. They even knew about zero. Some of them were very smart people. There were Babylonian versions of Albert Einstein, whose names are now long forgotten. There were many Greek versions of Albert Einstein (including Archimedes, among others). I kind of wish that schools would teach young people more about what the past was actually like. If people learn anything about the past at all, it’s usually from popular literature:

2. Once they did find these formulas, how did they know that they were right? Because, how?

Short answer: Euclid. Around about his time, the Greeks started to ask themselves exactly that question, and developed the concept of rigorous mathematical proof as an answer. The fact that typical mathematics classes don’t introduce simple proof is yet another indication of how badly broken modern education is. Even this simple visual proof (uploaded by William B. Faulk; click to view animation) gets the idea across:

3. Why is everyone being really mean to me on Twitter? Why are the only people who are disagreeing with me the ones who are dumb, and the physicists and mathematicians are agreeing with me?

Well, that’s also an interesting question. First, for reasons that I don’t fully understand, Twitter just makes people mean.

Second, as Dunning and Kruger famously pointed out, it is the people who know the least that are the most confident.

Third, the original video was in teen-girl English, with multiple uses of the word “like” (I have a sneaking suspicion that this was deliberate). Using teen-girl English for a “serious” subject like mathematics makes people’s heads explode (this will be useful to know when you have your first job interview).

But thank you, Gracie, for asking some really good questions.

Some follow-up remarks on what mathematics is not are here.

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What is Magic?

I have been reading some interesting fantasy novels recently by Rabia Gale: novels which blur the line between magic and technology (four stars for Mourning Cloak, by the way). That prompted me to ask: where does that line actually fall? Arthur C. Clarke once said, “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” So is there a line at all? What is magic, exactly?

One might perhaps define magic as the manipulation of the world using forces other than those commonly recognised. Exactly what that involves depends on where one thinks magic comes from.

(A): One might consider magical abilities to be divine gifts. God gives Moses the ability to carve a path through the Red Sea, for example. In practice, this category of activity is not normally called “magic,” and is more likely to go under the name of “miracle.” Generally, it is understood as divine manipulation of the world through a person, rather than by that person.

(B): The opposite scenario is where the magical gifts come from some darker power. In Navajo mythology, for example, witches gain their power by committing intrinsically evil acts, such as murder or incest. Obviously, magic of this kind must be avoided. Indeed, the Navajo prefer not even to speak of it. However, some form of this kind of magic is often used by the “bad guys” in fantasy.

(C): A third option is that some individuals are simply born with magical abilities. This is distinguished from case (A) in that there is normally an entire class of magical people or beings, and these people or beings have some form of free will regarding the use of their abilities. In the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, the Maiar (angels) and the Valar (archangels) fall into this category, as do the elves. Free will implies that some of these entities turn to evil: in the works of Tolkien, this includes Melkor or Morgoth (one of the Valar), and Saruman, Sauron, and the Balrogs (all Maiar of various kinds).

This approach to magic is a staple of young adult (YA) literature, in part because it encourages adolescents to think about the talents that they may have been born with, and how those talents will (or should) influence the trajectory of their lives. One thinks of Ged in A Wizard of Earthsea, for example, or of Pug in Feist’s Magician. Indeed, it is not only young adults who find this theme compelling.

(D): The fourth approach to magic is that it is a totally natural part of the universe. Anyone can learn to manipulate the universe with magic, just as one can learn electrochemistry or thermodynamics. Approached in this way, magic simply becomes a kind of fictional science.

There is also a combination of (C) and (D) where magic requires a combination of study and natural talent. This naturally leads to a “school for mages” novel, which can be a little dull (in my opinion, at least), unless the author finds a way of extracting the protagonist from the school (as in A Wizard of Earthsea), or of creatively subverting the whole idea of the school (as in The Bards of Bone Plain).

Human magic in the works of J.R.R. Tolkien seems in most cases to be a combination of (B) and (D). When human beings attempt to seize what comes naturally to elves, the outcome seems to inevitably be one of darkness and shadow, with the Nazgûl (Ringwraiths) being the extreme example. There is a parable here which applies also to technology, much like Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park and his other cautionary tales. Any sufficiently misguided technology, it seems, is indistinguishable from black magic.

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The Lost World by Michael Crichton: a book review

The Lost World, by Michael Crichton (1995)

Recently, because this is the season for extra reading, I re-read The Lost World by Michael Crichton (which was made into a 1997 film). This novel turns 25 years old in September. Its main plot needs no explanation, of course. Just like Jurassic Park, there’s action, there’s excitement, and there’s dinosaurs chasing people.

As with all Crichton novels, there are technical and scientific themes that do not make it into the film. I had forgotten, for example, that the original mobile laboratory is solar powered: “He wants them light, I build them light. He wants them strong, I build them strong – light and strong both, why not, it’s just impossible, what he’s asking for, but with enough titanium and honeycarbon composite, we’re doing it anyway. He wants it off petroleum base, and off the grid, and we do that too. … The Explorer with the black photovoltaic panels on the roof and hood, the inside crammed with glowing electronic equipment. Just looking at the Explorer gave them a sense of adventure…” (pages 64 & 94)

Velociraptor skeletal cast at the Dinosaur Journey museum in Colorado (original photo by Jens Lallensack)

Another theme, naturally, is the changing scientific view of dinosaurs, and indeed other things, over time (in fact, the book and film are already out-of-date in some respects): “Back in the 1840s, when Richard Owen first described giant bones in England, he named them Dinosauria: terrible lizards. That was still the most accurate description of these creatures, Malcolm thought. … the Victorians made them fat, lethargic, and dumb – big dopes from the past. This perception was elaborated, so that by the early twentieth century, dinosaurs had become so weak that they could not support their own weight. … That view didn’t change until the 1960s, when a few renegade scientists, led by John Ostrom, began to imagine quick, agile, hotblooded dinosaurs. Because these scientists had the temerity to question dogma, they were brutally criticized for years, … But in the last decade, a growing interest in social behavior had led to still another view. Dinosaurs were now seen as caring creatures, living in groups, raising their little babies.” (page 83)

Tortuga Islands, Costa Rica (original photo by “rigocr”) – is this the mysterious Isla Sorna?

As with many Crichton novels, scientific hubris is a major theme. Other themes include the education of children (both dinosaur children and human children), information systems design, the theories of Stuart Kauffman about self-organisation and evolution, and the importance of what is now called the complex systems view.

Overall, this is a good solid action novel, with several scientific and philosophical themes to think about. Goodreads rates it 3.78. I’m giving it only 3½ stars, in part because it’s a little too much like Jurassic Park. But it’s certainly well worth a read.

The Lost World, by Michael Crichton: 3½ stars

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Dune by Frank Herbert: a book review

Dune by Frank Herbert (1965)

I recently re-read the classic 1965 novel Dune by Frank Herbert. This is Frank Herbert’s best book, and one of the best science fiction novels ever written. It won the Hugo Award in 1966 (jointly with Roger Zelazny’s This Immortal) and won the inaugural Nebula Award. It became a quite terrible 1984 film and a somewhat better miniseries.

Parts of the novel are reminiscent of the work of Cordwainer Smith, notably the idea of a desert planet producing spice, and the idea that navigating a faster-than-light ship requires a guild of unusual navigators who can see into the future. However, most of the novel was so original that it became a huge hit when it first appeared. Themes that are particularly notable are those of planetary ecology, intergalactic politics, and unusual human skills.

I have always been moved by Herbert’s idea of a symbolic ecological language that can “arm the mind to manipulate an entire landscape” (Appendix 1), and the idea of making ecological literacy a key part of education:

“At a chalkboard against the far wall stood a woman in a yellow wraparound, a projecto-stylus in one hand. The board was filled with designs – circles, wedges and curves, snake tracks and squares, flowing arcs split by parallel lines. The woman pointed to the designs one after the other as fast as she could move the stylus, and the children chanted in rhythm with her moving hand.
Paul listened, hearing the voices grow dimmer behind as he moved deeper into the sietch with Harah.
‘Tree,’ the children chanted. ‘Tree, grass, dune, wind, mountain, hill, fire, lightning, rock, rocks, dust, sand, heat, shelter, heat, full, winter, cold, empty, erosion, summer, cavern, day, tension, moon, night, caprock, sandtide, slope, planting, binder. …’” (Chapter 22)

The unusual ecology of the desert planet Arrakis encourages us, of course, to think more deeply about our own planet (and Arrakis was apparently inspired by the Oregon Dunes here on Earth).

Also fascinating is the idea that the human race has turned away from computers and the Internet, and gone back to training human minds to remember, calculate, and think:

“‘Once men turned their thinking over to machines in the hope that this would set them free. But that only permitted other men with machines to enslave them.’
‘Thou shalt not make a machine in the likeness of a man’s mind,’ Paul quoted. […]
‘The Great Revolt took away a crutch,’ she said. ‘It forced human minds to develop. Schools were started to train human talents.’” (Chapter 1)

The most obvious theme, and the source of the novel’s action, is the galaxy-wide intrigue between the noble House Corrino, House Atreides, and House Harkonnen; the resulting warfare between them; and the resistance of the desert Fremen to occupation (inspired by Lawrence of Arabia):

“Paul took two deep breaths. ‘She said a thing.’ He closed his eyes, calling up the words, and when he spoke his voice unconsciously took on some of the old woman’s tone: ‘ “You, Paul Atreides, descendant of kings, son of a Duke, you must learn to rule. It’s something none of your ancestors learned”.’ Paul opened his eyes, said: ‘That made me angry and I said my father rules an entire planet. And she said, “He’s losing it.” And I said my father was getting a richer planet. And she said. “He’ll lose that one, too.” And I wanted to run and warn my father, but she said he’d already been warned – by you, by Mother, by many people.’” (Chapter 2)

Goodreads rates this classic science fiction novel 4.2. I’m giving it 4½ stars (but be aware that the sequels are not nearly as good).

Dune by Frank Herbert: 4½ stars

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Skylark DuQuesne by E. E. Smith: a book review

Skylark DuQuesne by E. E. “Doc” Smith (serialised 1965)

I recently re-read E. E. “Doc” Smith’s Skylark DuQuesne, the final story of Smith’s Skylark series. Smith, of course, is famous for the Lensman series, which is a bit annoying in places, but which is still full of all kinds of interesting ideas. This book is another matter. It’s just bad. Now poor writing may forgivable in “space opera,” and age may play a factor here too – the novel was serialised beginning in June 1965, when Smith was aged 75, and was published as a book in 1966 (Smith died during the serialisation). This novel has so many flaws, in fact, that I can only mention some of them.

To begin with, the sexual titillation for teenage boys is just over the top. Is there any reason why the characters need to be naked quite so often? Or for one of them to be a stripper? It’s a trifle creepy, to be frank.

The mathematics depicted in the book is also disappointing: “‘Hold it!’ Seaton snapped, half an hour later. ‘Back up – there! This integral here. Limits zero to pi over two. You’re limiting the thing to a large but definitely limited volume of your generalized N-dimensional space. I think it should be between zero and infinity—and while we’re at it let’s scrap half of the third determinant in that no-space-no-time complex. Let’s see what happens if we substitute the gamma function here and the chi there and the xi there and the omicron down there in the corner.’” (Chapter 24: DuQuesne and Sleemet)

Smith is describing simple high-school calculus (integrating a function on a single real variable). Even by the standards of the time (never mind the future!) there was a lot more mathematics out there. Robert Heinlein had no trouble getting that fact across in 1952 in The Rolling Stones / Space Family Stone: “Their father reached up to the spindles on the wall, took down a book spool, and inserted it into his study projector. He spun the selector, stopped with a page displayed on the wall screen. It was a condensed chart of the fields of mathematics invented thus far by the human mind. ‘Let’s see you find your way around that page.’ The twins blinked at it. In the upper left-hand corner of the chart they spotted the names of subjects they had studied; the rest of the array was unknown territory; in most cases they did not even recognize the names of the subjects.” (Chapter IV: Aspects of Domestic Engineering).

And hinting at new, future, mathematics is quite possible too. Isaac Asimov did it in 1942 in the first part of Foundation: “‘Good. Add to this the known probability of Imperial assassination, viceregal revolt, the contemporary recurrence of periods of economic depression, the declining rate of planetary explorations, the…’ He proceeded. As each item was mentioned, new symbols sprang to life at his touch, and melted into the basic function which expanded and changed. Gaal stopped him only once. ‘I don’t see the validity of that set-transformation.’ Seldon repeated it more slowly. Gaal said, ‘”But that is done by way of a forbidden sociooperation.’ ‘Good. You are quick, but not yet quick enough. It is not forbidden in this connection. Let me do it by expansions.’ The procedure was much longer and at its end, Gaal said, humbly, ‘Yes, I see now.’” (Chapter 4)

In contrast, Smith’s novel seems to have the goal of making his teenage readers feel good about what they know, rather than encouraging them to grow (and that applies to both intellectual and moral growth).

A PDP-8 computer of 1965

A related problem (common to Smith’s novels, and indeed to much early science fiction) is the failure to imagine how computers might be used. The novel assumes powerful computers (“brains”) which can both sense and influence the physical world. Yet manual information processing is still the order of the day: “Tammon was poring over a computed graph, measuring its various characteristics with vernier calipers, a filar microscope, and an integrating planimeter, when Mergon and Luloy came swinging hand in hand into his laboratory” (Chapter 9: Among the Jelmi)

Friedrich Nietzsche

Finally, the antagonist Marc DuQuesne (the name is a Genesis 4:15 reference, since the surname is pronounced duːˈkeɪn) is a rather unpleasant kind of Nietzschean Übermensch, and the protagonist (Richard Seaton) is not much better. Julian May, in her excellent Saga of Pliocene Exile (and even better Galactic Milieu Series) apparently based her character Marc Remillard in part on Smith’s Marc DuQuesne. But Marc Remillard repents of his crimes, and atones for them, and is actually interesting to read about. Smith’s novel finishes with DuQuesne as arrogant, as unrepentant, and as banal as ever.

Goodreads rates Smith’s novel 3.8, and some old-school science fiction fans still seem to enjoy it. It was even nominated for the Hugo Award for Best Novel, back in 1966, although it can hardly be compared to the other nominees – Dune and This Immortal (tied winners), The Squares of the City, and The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress (which was re-nominated, and won, in 1967). I give Smith’s novel just one star – but if you are nevertheless intrigued, it is now public domain in Canada and is online there.

Skylark DuQuesne by E. E. “Doc” Smith: 1 star

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Infinitesimal by Amir Alexander: a book review

Infinitesimal: How a Dangerous Mathematical Theory Shaped the Modern World by Amir Alexander (2014)

I recently read Infinitesimal: How a Dangerous Mathematical Theory Shaped the Modern World by Amir Alexander. This book concentrates on the “indivisibles” of Bonaventura Cavalieri and the “infinitesimals” of John Wallis (the man who introduced the ∞ symbol). As a history of pre-calculus, that’s rather incomplete. There are also some errors, noted by Judith Grabiner in her review for the MAA.

Alexander portrays the Jesuits as the “bad guys,” suppressing the idea of “indivisibles,” even though interesting and useful mathematical results can be obtained by using them. However, Alexander does not fully explain the Jesuits’ actions. There is not a word about their struggle with the Dominicans for intellectual leadership of the Catholic Church (although this played a major part in the Galileo saga). Nor does he explain the link between defending Aristotle and defending the doctrine of Transubstantiation. And, of course, the critics of Cavalieri and Wallis were actually quite correct. “Infinitely small numbers” greater than zero do not exist, and calculus did not have a rigorous foundation until the work of Cauchy and Weierstrass in the 1800s.

I was left rather disappointed with this book. GoodReads rates it 3.83, but I’m only giving it two stars.

Infinitesimal: How a Dangerous Mathematical Theory Shaped the Modern World by Amir Alexander: 2 stars

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Fictional books

A recent meme asked for “fictional books” that have influenced one. I’m not sure if it’s what they meant, but the obvious ones for me are the infamous Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred, and Copper, Silver, Gold: An Indestructible Metallic Alloy by Egbert B. Gebstadter (my illustration above).

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Scientific alignment

I was thinking recently about the alignment (in the Dungeons & Dragons sense) of fictional scientists (see diagram above).

I was brought up on the Famous Five children’s stories by Enid Blyton. Perennially popular, even though flawed in certain ways, these novels star a rather grumpy scientist called Quentin (who had more than a little to do with my own desire to become a scientist). Quentin is certainly altruistic:

“‘These two men were parachuted down on to the island, to try and find out my secret,’ said her father. ‘I’ll tell you what my experiments are for, George—they are to find a way of replacing all coal, coke and oil—an idea to give the world all the heat and power it wants, and to do away with mines and miners.’
‘Good gracious!’ said George. ‘It would be one of the most wonderful things the world has ever known.’
‘Yes,’ said her father. ‘And I should give it to the whole world—it shall not be in the power of any one country, or collection of men. It shall be a gift to the whole of mankind—but, George, there are men who want my secret for themselves, so that they may make colossal fortunes out of it.’” (Enid Blyton, Five On Kirrin Island Again, 1947)

However, Quentin works for no organisation (barring some government consulting work) and draws no regular salary. He is clearly Chaotic Good.

Long before Quentin, Victor Frankenstein in Frankenstein (Mary Shelley, 1818) created his famous monster out of selfishness and hubris. However, he also desires to make things right, so Frankenstein seems to me Chaotic Neutral.

On the other hand, the experiments of Doctor Moreau in The Island of Doctor Moreau (H. G. Wells, 1896) mark him as Chaotic Evil. The same is true of the scientist Rotwang in the movie Metropolis (1927), who is the prototype of the evil “mad scientist” of many later films – in contrast to good “mad scientists” like Emmett “Doc” Brown in the Back to the Future movies (1985, 1989, 1990).

In all cases, however, there seems to be a bias towards portraying scientists as Chaotic. This is a little strange, because the organisational structures, processes, and rules governing science in the real world are better described as “ordered” or Lawful (in the Dungeons & Dragons sense). Perhaps chaotic characters are just more fun?

Not that everyone follows all the rules and procedures of course. When I take the What is your Scientific Alignment? test, my personal alignment comes out as Neutral Good.

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Laws Guide to Nature Drawing and Journaling: a book review

Laws Guide to Nature Drawing and Journaling by John Muir Laws

Having written before about nature journals, a while ago I purchased the Laws Guide to Nature Drawing and Journaling by John Muir Laws of johnmuirlaws.com. This is a wonderful guide to both the scientific and artistic aspects of keeping a nature journal. There are chapter on how to observe as well as chapters on how to draw flowers, trees, and other things. Laws provides three useful observation cues: “I notice,” “I wonder,” and “it reminds me of” (click page photographs to zoom):

This wonderful book is full of practical tips, both on the scientific side and the artistic side. I particularly liked this little curiosity kit:

I haven’t quite finished with the book, but I really love it so far. Other reviews online are also very positive: “I can’t find a thing lacking in this book” (scratchmadejournal.com); “informative and inspiring” (parkablogs.com); “the best book for nature journaling in your homeschool” (proverbs14verse1.blogspot.com). Goodreads rates the book 4.67.

Laws Guide to Nature Drawing and Journaling by John Muir Laws: 5 stars

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