Publishers Weekly referred to him as 'the modern Thoreau.' The broad scope of his writing reflected upon such topics as the mind of Sir Francis Bacon, the prehistoric origins of man, and the contributions of Charles Darwin.Įiseley's reputation was established primarily through his books, including The Immense Journey (1957), Darwin's Century (1958), The Unexpected Universe (1969), The Night Country (1971), and his memoir, All the Strange Hours (1975). He was a 'scholar and writer of imagination and grace,' whose reputation and accomplishments extended far beyond the campus where he taught for 30 years. At his death, he was Benjamin Franklin Professor of Anthropology and History of Science at the University of Pennsylvania. He received many honorary degrees and was a fellow of multiple professional societies. Loren Eiseley (Septem– July 9, 1977) was an American anthropologist, educator, philosopher, and natural science writer, who taught and published books from the 1950s through the 1970s. Sir Francis Bacon, Charles Darwin, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Alfred Russel Wallace It is the gravest, most meaningful act I shall ever accomplish, but, as Thoreau once remarked of some peculiar errand of his own, there is no use reporting it to the Royal Society.University of Pennsylvania, MA, PhD (1937)ģ6 honorary degrees Phi Beta Kappa Awardįor 'Best science book', Darwin's Century Round and round we tumbled and for just one ecstatic moment I held the universe at bay by the simple expedient of sitting on my haunches before a fox den and tumbling about with a chicken bone. On impulse, I picked up clumsily a whiter bone and shook it in teeth that had not entirely forgotten their original purpose. I drew the breath of a fox's den into my nostrils.

Gravely I arranged my forepaws while the puppy whimpered with ill-concealed excitement. It was a time only for the careful observance of amenities written behind the stars. the universe was swinging in some fantastic fashion around to present its face and the face was so small that the universe itself was laughing. He innocently selected what I think was a chicken bone from an untidy pile of splintered rubbish and shook it at me invitingly.

His parents must not have been home from hunting. God knows what had become of his brothers and sisters.

It was a small fox pup from a den under the timbers who looked up at me. I crept on my knees and crouched beside him.

Notes of an Alchemist by Loren Eiseley