Once in a Lifetime

Bogs exist in the liminal space between water and land, haunted by will-o’-the-wisps and home to carnivorous plants, equally ready to suck in unsuspecting wanderers or disgorge eerily preserved ancient artifacts—or bodies. Long relegated to the purview of horror films or dismissed as wastelands, bogs have been sites of historical resistance and refuge in the past while quietly resisting the greatest threat to humanity in the present: climate change. Bogs sequester a third of the world's soil carbon while only covering a measly three percent of the Earth’s surface, but their reach is under even more threat due to peat harvesting and palm oil plantations. The ecologist Merritt Turetsky has spent decades studying the peaty places of the world, untangling sphagnum moss and dissecting cores from the boreal forests of Canada to the jungles of Borneo. Her new book, Bogland, is both a love song to the lands of peat and a plea for preservation. “Neither alive nor dead, suspended between present and past, peat is one of the strongest and most resilient resources on our planet,” she writes. “And yet, it is easily destroyed by human hands.”

Though the line between the living and the dead might seem at first obvious, the medical state of brain death invites complex moral questions, as bioethicist Carl Elliott writes in our Autumn issue. Organ transplantation regularly occurs in brain-dead individuals, but why stop there? Why not, as Willard Gaylin asked in 1974, keep brain-dead subjects—which Gaylin terms “neomorts”—on life support in specialized “bioemporiums” for use in medical training or drug trials? Though one’s first reaction might be a visceral “yuck,” this commodification of the body is simply an unvarnished version of what many “organ procurement organizations” regularly do in disguising their gruesome work with sanitized language. Revisiting Gaylin’s proposal, Elliott ventures deep into the world of tissue harvesting, cultural psychology experiments, and even etymology to question our assumptions about the degradation and altruism, donation and commodity, spectacle and science.

For a country with one of the lowest crime rates in the world, Japan has an unusual cultural export: the yakuza, members of transnational crime syndicates that can trace their origins to the Tokugawa shogunate of the early 1600s. “At one time or another, the yakuza have penetrated almost every industry in Japan,” writes Andrew Rankin, “from fish markets to geisha agencies, pachinko parlors, garbage collecting, sumo wrestling, speedboat racing, property development, and pornography.” These gangland figures get their English-language due in his new book, Yakuza: A 400-Year History of the Japanese Underworld. Despite the violence (and finger-chopping) that made them such meaty fodder for folk myths and the film industry, the yakuza are equally known for tales of chivalry and codes of honor even as they are increasingly targeted by the government, which has just as often collaborated with them. As Rankin writes, “It is not inconceivable that the organizations that ruled the Japanese underworld for the last few centuries will recede and vanish from sight altogether. But it would probably be rash to write them off just yet.”

Susan Stryker’s new book, Changing Gender, is as chameleonic as the scholar herself, combining as it does trans history, cultural theory, memoir, linguistics, gossip, anthropology, art criticism, and even an unforgettable analysis of the children’s song “Yankee Doodle.” The word gender originated in the domain of grammar, before becoming interlinked with sex in the 20th century, as the story goes. But Stryker’s romp through the historical record shows that as far back as the 17th century, English-speakers were playing with the concept. Far from being a simple linguistic category, gender sneaks in all sorts of assumptions that we make in the background of our everyday lives—and that, Stryker contends, is what makes it so threatening to the pundits and politicians who want to uphold the status quo and criminalize trans people. “Trans issues impinge directly upon the topics of how we collectively decide in the first place what’s materially possible, and therefore potentially real and empirically true,” she writes. “Untangling the mess of where gender came from has the potential to shift the ground of the culture wars if it allows us to understand the issues at stake differently.”

Summon an image of an American home: Odds are there’s a green grass lawn in front of it. Was this what Walt Whitman sang of in Leaves of Grass? Or was it the native grassland of the prairies, now disappearing under the onslaught of Poa pratensis, Kentucky bluegrass? In Christopher Kondrich’s new collection of poems, Tread Upon, a blade of grass is the beginning of a book-length sequence about the devaluation of the living world, from BP’s invention of the concept of the carbon footprint to the tiny bodies of bats exploding near wind turbines, from the coal ash belched into the Cape Fear River to voiceless Western pond turtles searching for water in a drought. “We belittle the grass when we think it grows / everywhere. It doesn’t. It grows here and here and here,” Kondrich writes. “Even one blade is a place.”