Green Theory & Praxis: The Journal of Ecopedagogy Volume 5, No.

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Against Wilderness
Robert Fletcher
The wilderness once offered men a plausible way of life...Now it functions as a psychiatric refuge…Soon there will be no place to go...Then the madness becomes universal...And the universe goes mad. —Edward Abbey (2000[1975], pg. 63) The Call of the Wild The above quotation, from Edward Abbey’s classic novel The Monkey Wrench Gang, one of the foundational texts of the modern environmental movement, illustrates a very common perspective on the value of wilderness as a place of escape from the ills of Western civilization. A similar theme has been echoed many times throughout the years. Indeed, it could be seen as one of the founding principles of Western environmentalism. Wallace Stegner (1961), for instance, famously contends: Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the last remaining wilderness be destroyed; if we permit the last virgin forests to be turned into comic books and plastic cigarette cases; if we drive the few remaining members of that wild species into zoos or to extinction; if we pollute the last clear air and dirty the last clean streams and push paved roads through the last of the silence, so never again will Americans be free in their own country from the noise, the exhausts, the stink of human and automotive waste (pg. 97). Similarly, in My Name is Chellis and I’m in Recovery from Western Civilization, Chellis Glendinning (1999) asserts: Because we are creatures who were born to live in vital participation with the natural world, the violation of this participation forms the basis of our original trauma... Original trauma is the disorientation we experience, however consciously or unconsciously, because we do not live in the natural world. It is the Robert Fletcher is Assistant Professor of Natural Resources and Sustainable Development in the Department of Environment, Peace, and Security at the United Nations-affiliated University for Peace in Ciudad Colón, Costa Rica. His research interests include resistance and social movements, globalization, conservation, ecotourism and the history of social theory. He is the editor of Beyond Resistance: The Future of Freedom (Nova Science Publishers, 2007). [email:] ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

Green Theory & Praxis: The Journal of Ecopedagogy Volume 5, No. 1 (2009) psychic displacement, the exile, that is inherent in civilized life. It is our homelessness (p.53).


In his 1999 anthology Against Civilization (to which the title of this essay is ironically opposed), “anarchoprimitivist” John Zerzan (1999) offers perhaps the most zealous and farreaching endorsement of this perspective, opining: We have taken a monstrously wrong turn with symbolic culture and division of labor, from a place of enchantment, understanding and wholeness to the absence we find at the heart of the doctrine of progress. Empty and emptying, the logic of domestication, with its demand to control everything, now shows us the ruin of the civilization that ruins the rest. Assuming the inferiority of nature enables the domination of cultural systems that soon will make the very earth uninhabitable (pg. 109). Indeed, an entire movement within environmentalism has arisen around this theme under the rubric “ecopsychology.” As Theordore Roszak (1995) writes in his introduction to the anthology of this name, “Those of us who feel trapped in an increasingly ecocidal urban, industrial environment need all the help we can find in overcoming our alienation from the morethan-human world on which we depend for every breath we breathe” (pg. 4). This same theme, of course, has a long history within Western thought. In the eighteenth century, philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau (1975) described his famous “noble savage” living in harmony with nature against the decadence of so-called “civilized” life, writing: Savage man lives within himself, while social man, always outside himself, can only live in the opinion of others, and it is only from their judgments that he draws, so to speak, the feeling of his own existence...[I]n the midst of all our philosophy, benevolence, politeness, and sublime principles we have nothing but frivolous and deceptive appearances: honor without virtue, reason without wisdom, and pleasure without happiness (pg. 200). In the mid-nineteenth century, Karl Marx invoked this same theme again, arguing that the ills of modern society lay fundamentally in humans’ sense of “alienation” from nature wrought by their imprisonment in industrial factories in which they no longer worked directly on the land; he writes, “Nature is man’s inorganic body...with which he must remain in continuous discourse if he is not to die” (1978, p.75). And once again, Sigmund Freud (1999) makes a similar point in Civilization and its Discontents (the title itself is paradigmatic): We come upon a contention which is so astonishing that we must dwell upon it. This contention holds that what we call our civilization is largely responsible for our misery, and that we should be much happier if we gave it up and returned to ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

Green Theory & Praxis: The Journal of Ecopedagogy Volume 5, No. 1 (2009) primitive conditions (pg. 57).


The main cause of our ills in modern society, it is argued in passages such as these, is that we have lost touch with nature; the solution, therefore, is to return to nature and redevelop the relationship that we have allowed to wither. In all of these passages, then, wilderness symbolizes freedom, civilization constraint. But is such an opposition necessary? Well, first off, we must recognize that it is not everyone who values wilderness in this way. The sentiment contained in these statements seems largely limited to societies in the Western European tradition. And even within such societies, a desire to immerse oneself in wilderness seems concentrated among members of the upper-middle-class (by “upper-middle-class,” I mean people who either practice, or were born to people who practice white-collar professions such as journalism, teaching, business and law) (Hendon, 1991; Chavez, 2000). So in answering the question of why we value wilderness, we need ask why wilderness is valued particularly by this demographic group. Then there is the fact that, even within this group, veneration for wilderness has only recently developed. As Roderick Nash writes in his classic study Wilderness and the American Mind (1973), “for most of their history, Americans regarded wilderness as a moral and physical wasteland fit only for conquest and fructification in the name of progress, civilization, and Christianity” (pg. xvi). Not until the twentieth century, with the birth of the so-called Conservation Movement, were the first seeds of widespread wilderness appreciation sown, and even in this movement regard for wilderness was dubious. As Martha Honey (1999) observes of the first Sierra Club outings to Yosemite, begun in 1901, “these enormous caravans, which grew to an average of 115-125 people [including “Chinese chefs as well as pack mules and wagons”], were anything but ‘eco’ in terms of their effect on the environment” (pg. 10). Again, in the 1950s, the dominant ideology of civilization subduing and conquering wilderness became dominant once more (”Better Living through Science”), and thus really only with the birth of the modern environmental movement in the 1960s can we say that true wilderness appreciation has become widespread even among the upper-middle class who forms its main espousers. Why, then, this dramatic change at this particular point in time? Romancing the Wild Western thought has long divided the world into opposing spheres of “nature” and “culture.” While earlier anthropologists such as Claude Lévi-Strauss (1969) thought this type of division was a human universal, later researchers have contended that this is not the case, that people in other places do not necessarily conceptualize the world this way (e.g., Ingold, 2000). In the West, this nature/culture division applies both to the outer world, where “wilderness” has long been distinguished from “civilization,” and the world within, where the human being is commonly seen as a rational consciousness superimposed over a wild irrational nature. In this respect, the nature-culture division mirrors our classic division between mind and body, inherited in large part from philosopher Rene Descartes (his so-called “ghost in the machine”): the body is ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

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seen as a wild animal dominated by irrational instincts that is gradually tamed and subdued by the development of a rational mind. In this image, then, nature and culture are seen to be in conflict, competing for dominance both within the human being and out in the world. Just as human beings seek to tame the outer wilderness by imposing civilization upon it, so do they need to tame their inner animal which always threatens to rise up and take over again if it is not kept subdued by vigilant self-control. Among members of the upper-middle class, this need to subdue one’s animal nature has been seen as particularly important. As Barbara Ehrenreich observes in Fear of Falling (1989), uppermiddle-class status depends on long years of training to qualify for the type of white-collar professional job that defines class status, and as a result upper-middle-class children must be taught strict self-discipline and deferral of gratification from an early age. An individual’s supposed wild irrational nature threatens to sabotage this process through temptation to hedonism and complacency, so this part has to be kept tamed and subdued. As a result, one’s relationship with this imagined inner animal is very ambivalent, because while it is necessary to subdue this animal in order to succeed professionally, there is always the sense that something significant is being sacrificed in the process, that one is being forced to deny an aspect of one’s being that would probably be very enjoyable to embrace. Thus there is always the sense of an inner temptation to hedonism and sloth that has to be resisted in order to succeed, and this imperative tends to produce a feeling of sacrifice and constraint. Now, as long as one’s goal is worth it this sacrifice can be seen as necessary. Hence, in the context of the material scarcity that was seen as endemic to Western societies before World War II, the need to restrain one’s animal impulses could be justified by the need to work hard in order to survive. With the arrival of unprecedented affluence, or at least the perception of affluence, after the war (John Kenneth Galbraith’s [1958] so-called “affluent society”), this sacrifice became harder to justify. If one’s reason for self-discipline is achieving wealth, why continue to discipline oneself once wealth has been achieved? In the post-war era, then, the ambivalence the upper-middle class has always felt about their extreme self-discipline has become more pronounced; hence many people have start to conclude that it just is not worth the sacrifice, and they have began to yearn to reacquainted themselves with their estranged inner “essence.” But how exactly does one do this? As I mentioned earlier, in this nature-culture division, the wild nature within is equated with the wild without. In other words, the civilized part of the human being is seen as the product of growing up in civilized society, and the wild inner animal has long been associated with the wilderness beyond civilization, so that it has often been feared that leaving civilization and becoming lost in the wilderness would allow one’s inner animal to rise up and take over again. Stories such as Heart of Darkness (Conrad, 1902), The Call of the Wild (London, 1903), and Lord of the Flies (Golding, 1954) (all written by upper-middle-class writers), express this point of view. In this conception, then, the way to get in touch with one’s natural essence is to go into the wilderness. And so a yearning for wilderness might be seen as a way that upper-middle-class people are able to free themselves, for a time at least, from the sense of self-discipline and ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

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control that they feel subject to in their everyday lives by taking a trip into the wild. But of course the wilderness that most outdoor enthusiasts seek is a very different entity than that envisioned by thinkers in an earlier age. In the Book of Genesis, wilderness was contrasted with the Garden of Eden: Adam and Eve were cast out of the Garden into a barren wilderness where they were constantly threatened with peril and forced to toil to survive. Living in the wilderness, then, was seen as a fall from grace from which some humans had eventually recovered to a degree by developing industrial civilization. In contemporary ecological thought, on the other hand, the wilderness is often described as itself a primitive Eden, a verdant garden where hunter-gatherers have only to wander around picking fruit from trees (Cronon, 1995). Daniel Quinn’s popular novel Ishmael (1995) embodies this point of view. In this vision, then, wilderness is Eden and industrial civilization a fall from grace, a dramatic reversal from earlier modes of thought. And while earlier thinkers saw a world dominated by wilderness from which moderns had carved small pockets of civilization, contemporary ecologists see small pockets of wilderness surrounded by an industrial civilization that blankets the globe. So the wilderness sought by environmentalists today is one that has already been tamed and contained, purged of most of the peril and uncertainty that characterized images of wilderness in an earlier age. In addition, wilderness enthusiasm, in the manner epitomized by Edward Abbey, involves embracing the great outdoors as something extraordinary and exotic, a perspective that can only come from spending the bulk of your everyday life indoors. The very idea of being able to decide whether or not to spend time outdoors can only come with the luxury to be able to make such a choice. It is difficult to imagine a migrant farm laborer in California or a hunter-gatherer in the Kalahari, for instance, talking about “getting outdoors” as an exotic escape. For someone from the upper-middle class, though, who almost by definition performs mental labor inside, getting outside for a wilderness sojourn can be an extraordinary experience. For someone who experiences comfort and luxury most of the time, “roughing it” can be a nice change of pace. And similarly, for someone who performs sedentary mental labor in their professions life, strenuous exertion can be an enjoyable diversion. Wilderness as Liminal Space Wilderness, in the perspective described above, is valued first and foremost because it allows an escape from everyday routines. Few writers actually advocate constructing a permanent life in the wild (even Abbey returned to urban New Jersey after his celebrated “season in the wilderness”). And for good reason: living in the wilderness would make the wilderness other than what we want it to be—a refuge from the everyday. Instead, it would become the everyday, such that it would no longer provide the function for which we most value it. And so our relationship with the wilderness is fundamentally ambivalent in another sense. On the one hand, we long for it, and imagine that if we lived entirely within it, free from the confines of civilization, we would always feel that sense of peace and expansiveness that we feel when we sojourn within it. On the other hand, on some level we know that if we were to ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

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actually attempt to construct a life in the wilderness, it would eventually become our life, would cease to function as the “elsewhere” that allows us to escape from our “real” lives and exist, for a time, in an “unreal” space. In this sense, wilderness functions as the quintessential “liminal” space. Anthropologist Victor Turner, drawing on the earlier work of Arnold van Gennep, coined this term in The Ritual Process (1969) to describe the “rite of passage” ceremony common to many societies throughout the world. In Turner’s analysis, the prototypical rite of passage is composed of three stages: separation, transition, and finally, reincorporation. Within the transition phase, Turner writes, the initiate is liminal, betwixt and between, freed for a time from roles and conventions that compel him or her to behave in socially acceptable ways. After the transition phase is complete, however, and the initiate is reintegrated into society in his/her new role, the state of liminality ends and the individual is once more subject to strictly defined social norms and conventions. For members of the upper middle class, especially in the U.S., wilderness functions as just such a liminal space. Within civilization, social conventions predominate, and individuals feel compelled to discipline themselves to the behavioral expectations they imagine others hold for them. The wilderness, however, is understood as beyond the pale, outside the confines of civilization, and while this is in some sense frightening, in that it offers the possibility of succumbing to the wild within, it also holds the promise of liberation, if only temporary, from the societal conventions dominating at home. But of course, this escape is (and must necessarily be) only temporary. As Turner observes, a liminal realm can only ever be a transient space existing in the interstices between established social structures. Before long, spaces originally experienced as liminal, as “antistructural,” inevitably spawn their own structures once more and become as restrictive as those they were designed to transcend. So wilderness, were it to become an actual enduring life space as opposed to a temporary respite, would also become structural once more and no longer provide the escape that we demand from it. Hence, the inevitable paradox: we long for wilderness, crave it, and imagine that we want more than we get. On the other hand, were we to get more, it would no longer be the thing that we want it to be. And so, inevitably, as in so many realms of life, we want what we can never truly have. The Illusion of Wilderness Then, of course, there is the reality that wilderness, in the form that we conceive it, has never really existed. “Wilderness,” according to the definition advanced by the U.S. National Wilderness Preservation Act of 1964 and widely cited within environmental literature, consists of “an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” There is scarcely a place on earth that meets these criteria. Long before Europeans first took to the seas in exploration, the entire planet (save perhaps Antarctica) had been traversed and occupied by humans for millennia. In every continent, areas deemed wilderness by European settlers had in fact been inhabited—and ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

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substantially altered—by humans for time immemorial, even if no permanent structures or obvious evidence of tampering existed. Native Americans throughout the continent, for instance, were intimately involved in shaping and molding the landscape, often viewing themselves as stewards or caretakers of the environment. They held regular burns to rejuvenate the flora; cultivated certain plants while combating others; and nurtured oak groves to promote acorn production (Blackburn and Anderson 1993). Recent research has also shown that many areas once deemed wilderness, and currently unoccupied by permanent settlements, had been fundamentally altered by human intervention in the past (e.g., Erickson 2008). Yet, in place after place, when European settlers “discovered” such landscapes they insisted on calling them wilderness. Indeed, many of their so-called wildernesses were still inhabited by humans, even if these people were not viewed as such at the time. Only by pronouncing indigenous people sub-human, and therefore incapable of diluting wilderness in the same manner as “civilized man,” could these early settlers maintain the illusion that a wilderness free of human manipulation existed at all. And so wilderness, in our common conception, may, unfortunately, be fundamentally racist. Of course, today, any wilderness that does exist (in the sense that no humans permanently occupy it at present) does so only because of different forms of human intervention: eliminating its former inhabitants and/or cordoning it off to prevent those who would otherwise occupy it from doing so. Historians suggest that as much as 90% of the original population of the Americas was exterminated in the course of the Spanish conquest, either through war or disease (Diamond, 1997), such that any “wilderness” that exists today does so only because it was depopulated in the past. Despite these gritty realities, however, the myth of wilderness continues. It continues because we need it. And because we need it, we are willing to engage in all manner of subterfuge to preserve the illusion that it exists. Nature as “Other” Jacques Derrida’s (1981) principle of différance holds that words, ideas, concepts are defined as much in terms of what they are not as what they are. In order to know what a word or idea means, in other words, it is not enough simply to look it up in the dictionary; you also have to know what other concepts or ideas it is considered distinct from. We know black not only because it is black but because it is not white (or green, blue, brown, red or yellow); similarly with good and bad, tall and short, weak and strong, up and down, et cetera. Hence “nature,” as a distinct entity, as something we can point to in the world, can only exist if there is something that is not nature. So what is this not-nature that allows nature to exist? Human consciousness, and the forms that it creates. Whenever we contrast nature with something, it is always the products of human thought and activity. As a result, we understand human consciousness as essentially apart from or outside of nature, and it is this separation and none other than allows “nature” to exist. Without human consciousness as a distinct and separate entity, nature as we have long conceived of it would cease to exist as well. ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

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Whenever we invoke the idea of nature, then, we necessarily imply something separate from and outside of it, and this something is usually our own observing consciousness. Thus, we necessarily observe nature as an “other” different from our “selves.” And therefore, no matter how hard we try to become “one with nature,” we will always be alienated from it. The only way to become one with nature is give up the idea of nature (as a distinct component of a larger universe) altogether. Environmentalism, then, exists by and large within the very same conceptual space that it purports to challenge: a perception of human consciousness as distinct from, outside of nature (Argyrou, 2005). After all, it is only from outside that one can enter a given space. In entering the wilderness, then, we are, fundamentally, trying to escape from ourselves. As a result, some writers seem to advocate the eradication of human consciousness altogether. Consider the passage by John Zerzan reproduced above. As David Graeber observes in Fragments of an Anarchist Anthropology (2004): Primitivists like John Zerzan, who in trying to whittle away what seems to divide us from pure, unmediated experience, end up whittling away absolutely everything. Zerzan’s increasingly popular works end up condemning the very existence of language, math, time keeping, music, and all forms of art and representation. They are all written off as forms of alienation, leaving us with a kind of impossible evolutionary ideal: the only truly non-alienated human being was not even quite human, but more a kind of perfect ape, in some kind of currently-unimaginable telepathic connection with its fellows, at one with wild nature, living maybe about a hundred thousand years ago. True revolution could only mean somehow returning to that (pg. 75). Again, this position reinforces the idea that human consciousness is distinct from nature, and thus that a return to nature would necessitate discarding this consciousness altogether. Rather than seeking to return to some preconscious state, I suggest, what we may need to accept is that our consciousness, and everything it creates, is itself part of nature, or rather, that it is neither natural or unnatural, since if we no longer conceive our consciousness as distinct from nature than the concept of nature dissipates altogether. In short, I suggest, what we may need is to discard the concept of nature, and by extension, wilderness, altogether. In the course of our revaluation of wilderness, from conquest to embrace, indigenous people, those erstwhile “sub-humans,” have been revalued as well: now we view them as, in a sense, more human, or at least more humane, than ourselves, more in touch with the natural world from which we have alienated ourselves (Argyrou, 2005). By contrast, I would contend that indigenous people are not less alienated (if indeed they are not) because they live in harmony with nature, or in nature, but because they have no concept of nature, as a distinct entity separate from the rest of the universe, in the first place. As I noted earlier, while earlier anthropologists claimed that a conceptual distinction between realms of “natural” and “culture” is universal, a basic component of human thought, later commentators have contested this point ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

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(Ingold, 2000). Consider, for instance, the Australian Aborigines. As Bruce Chatwin, among others, tells us in The Songlines (1988), Aborigines do not see themselves as separate from a “natural” world; nor do they see themselves as merely part of this world. Rather, there seems to be no concept of the natural, as opposed to the cultural or “civilized,” at all. For the Aborigines, the world was “sung” into existence by ancestors who were neither human nor non-human, but both simultaneously, and in order to continue to exist the world must be re-sung, in a sense, periodically by contemporary people, the descendents of these hybrid first beings, who travel the numerous “songlines” traversing the Australian continent reciting the narrative of the original creation. From this perspective, the world is not an entity independent of human consciousness, nor are human merely a part of the world; the world exists only because of human intervention, likewise humans only exist because of the work of the world. Humans are not natural, nor nature human; rather, in this conception, human consciousness and the world are fundamentally, inextricably one. The End of Nature As long as we feel the need to escape into a sequestered realm of the wild, we will see our “selves” as separate from the wild, as inhibited and constrained, and we will always need to escape ourselves. But since, as the popular wisdom tells us, “wherever you go, there you are,” this is of course impossible. Even if we do find in wilderness a brief respite from the inner demons that torture us, they will be there again when we return. So what we need is not to become wild, or go into the wild, but to eliminate the distinction between the wild and tame entirely, to realize that the “wild” is a human idea, that it has never truly existed as an objective reality, and that, in the final analysis, it has caused us more harm than good. As long as we believe that we are essentially wild animals incapable of operating in civilized society without self-discipline and self-control, we will always feel the need to constrain ourselves in the presence of other human beings, and as a result we will always feel stifled and inhibited. What we need is not to escape into the wilderness, but to become comfortable in the presence of other human beings, to feel free even when standing in the heart of “civilization.” And to do this, we need to give up the idea of the wild, as opposed to the tame, entirely, to realize that everything we do in neither wild or tame, that the products of human consciousness are not separate from non-human nature, and thus, that there is no inner animal to either constrain or to release. Our problem is not that we have lost touch with nature, with the wild, but that we imagine our selves to be separate from nature in the first place. As long as we maintain a concept of wild, it must always be separate from us, and we will always feel alienated, since it is our consciousness itself that we see as separate from the wild, and it is this same consciousness that, necessarily, always does the perceiving. In other words, our problem is not our selves, but the lies we tell about ourselves. The beauty of this is that we need not change the world in order to be content; we need only to see it ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

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differently. What we need, then, it not to develop a closer relationship with nature, not to spend more time in the wilderness, but to develop a new worldview that eliminates the conceptual distinction between nature and human consciousness entirely. Transcending the nature/culture divide within us means transcending the divide without as well. It is not about achieving a closer or more balanced relationship between humans and nature—as Michael Pollan observes in The Botany of Desire (2002), to have a relationship with something means standing apart from it. Rather, it is about dissolving the division between humans and nature altogether, so that we are able to acknowledge that all of our actions are part of nature, such that it is redundant to talk about a realm of distinct nature altogether. The fiction of the natural sustains the fiction of the artificial, the extra-natural. It makes us believe that anything we create can be (and usually is) unnatural, artificial. It gives us the illusion that we possess a power to defy, escape, or transcend the laws that govern “natural” processes, that we can stand outside of or above the rest of the universe. It is both cause and consequence of our arrogance to believe that we can dominate, and alternatively save, nature. So, in the final analysis, we find ourselves confronted with a counterintuitive truth: As long as we need wilderness we will never be free. References Abbey, E. 2000. The Monkey Wrench Gang. New York: Perennial Classics. Argyrou, V. 2005. The Logic of Environmentalism: Anthropology, Ecology, and Postcoloniality. New York: Berghahn. Blackburn, T.C. and K. Anderson. 1993. Before the Wilderness: Environmental Management by Native Californians. Menlo Park, CA: Ballena Press. Chatwin, B. 1988. The Songlines. New York: Penguin. Chavez, D.J. 2000. Wilderness Visitors in the 21st Century: Diversity, Day Use, Perceptions and Preferences. International Journal of Wilderness 6 (2): 10-11. Conrad, J. 1902. Heart of Darkness. London: Blackwood’s. Cronon, W. 1996. The Trouble with Wilderness. In W. Cronon (ed.), Uncommon Ground. New York: W.W. Norton. Derrida, J. 1981. Positions. A. Bass (trans.). Chicago: University of Chicago Pres. Diamond, J. 1997. Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies. New York: W.W. Norton. Ehrenreich, B. 1989. Fear of Falling: The Inner Life of the Middle Class. New York: HarperPerennial. Erickson, C. 2008. Amazonia: The Historical Ecology of a Domesticated Landscape. In H. Silverman and W. Isbell (eds.), Handbook of South American Archaeology. New York: Springer. Freud, S. 1999. Civilization and its Discontents. In J. Zerzan (ed.), Against Civilization. Eugene, OR: Uncivilized Books. Galbraith, J.K. 1958. The Affluent Society. New York: Mentor Books. ISSN 1941-0948 doi: 10.3903/gtp.2009.1.12

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Glendinning, C. 1999. My Name is Chellis and I’m in Recovery from Western Civilization. In J. Zerzan (ed.), Against Civilization. Eugene, OR: Uncivilized Books. Golding, W. 1954. Lord of the Flies. London: Faber and Faber Graeber, D. 2004. Fragments of an Anarchist Anthropology. Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press. Hendon, W.C. 1991. The Wilderness as a Source of Recreation and Renewal: Who Uses It? What are Their Characteristics? Their Other Interests? Their Preferences? American Journal of Economics and Sociology 50(1): 105-112. Honey, M. 1999. Ecotourism and Sustainable Development: Who Owns Paradise? New York: Island Press. Ingold, T. 2000. The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill. New York: Routledge. Lévi-Strauss, C. 1969. The Raw and the Cooked. J. Weightman and D. Weightman (trans.). New York: Harper and Row. London, J. 1903. The Call of the Wild. London: Macmillan. Marx, K. 1978. Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1944. In R. Tucker (ed.), The MarxEngels Reader. 2nd ed. New York: W.W. Norton. Nash, R. 1973. Wilderness and the American Mind. Revised ed. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Pollan, M. 2002. The Botany of Desire: A Plant’s Eye View of the World. New York: Random House. Quinn, D. 1995. Ishmael: An Adventure of Mind and Spirit. New York: Bantam. Roszak, T. 1995. Where Psyche Meets Gaia. In T. Roszak, M. Gomes, and A. Kanner (eds.), Ecopsychology. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Rousseau, J.J. 1975. The Essential Rousseau. L. Blair (trans.). New York: Meridian. Stegner, W. 1961. The Wilderness Idea. In D. Brower (ed.), Wilderness: America’s Living Heritage. San Francisco: Sierra Club Books. Turner, V. 1969. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. London: Routledge & K. Paul. Zerzan, J. 1999. Future Primitive. In J. Zerzan (ed.), Against Civilization. Eugene, OR: Uncivilized Books.

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