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Book Review
An Odyssey in Time
Reviewed by Robert J. Sawyer
This review originally appeared in Quill &
Quire, July 1989
Russell, Dale A. An Odyssey in Time: The
Dinosaurs of North America, University of Toronto Press,
1989.
Copyright © 1989 by
Robert J. Sawyer
All Rights Reserved
The bayous of Saskatchewan. The sand dunes of Nova Scotia.
To Dr. Dale A. Russell of the Canadian Museum of Nature, these
landscapes are as real as the dusty prairie, the Bay of Fundy.
Indeed, his new book, An Odyssey in Time: The Dinosaurs of
North America, is more about landscapes than dinosaurs, and
that distinguishes it from the glut of other dinosaur books on
the market. Lowland, upland, swamp, forest: each is a separate
world to Russell, a tightly-woven ecosystem. He doesn't just
tell us that thus-and-so-saurus was yea long and weighed
mumblety tons, as so many others do. No, Russell paints the
entire environment, showing how one beast related to another, as
predator or prey, as parasite or partner.
Once again Russell has collaborated with Eleanor M. Kish, the
Robert Bateman of prehistory (their earlier book, A Vanished
World: The Dinosaurs of Western Canada, was published in
1977 by the National Museums of Canada). Kish's paintings are
the ideal complement to Russell's prose, dripping with detail and
new interpretations. Her latest crop of brontosaurs have a lean
and hungry look that would put Cassius to shame; her full moon
over a monsoonal rain pond is painted larger than it would appear
in a contemporary sky, and the crater Tycho, formed after the age
of dinosaurs, is missing.
Of course, the book must stand on the strength of Russell's
prose. His writing perhaps isn't quite as solid as the giant
columns of a brontosaur's legs. No, it's more like the nimble
dancing of his favorite dinosaur, Troodon, a fleet fellow
that had to keep moving, lest he lose his balance. Every time
Russell looks as though he's going to topple, he pushes ahead and
regains a surer footing. Still, he's got a bit too much of the
scholar in him, and his prose periodically wanders dangerously
close to academic writing.
He's self-conscious of this, or so it seems, for he attempts
to compensate for his fondness for the passive voice, his
flirtation with the polysyllable. In the early part of his book,
he spends much time discussing mammal-like reptiles and
proto-dinosaurs. These beasts, some our direct ancestors, are
not well-known generally, and rather than have the reader trip
repeatedly over thecodont and rhynchosaurs and a
dozen others, Russell proposes his own plain-English names. But
instead of simply translating the Greek tongue-twisters, he makes
up completely new terms: gatorlizards, owliguanas, cowturtles.
Ultimately, it's a disservice to the reader, and even Russell has
trouble keeping his menagerie straight: the owliguana
miraculously becomes an owlizard at one point.
Russell takes his title seriously: An Odyssey in Time is
just that, a journey, period by period, through the Mesozoic. He
devotes one chapter to the millennia before the age of dinosaurs;
then a chapter to their dawn years, the Triassic (stepping far
from the North America promised in his subtitle to do so); a pair
of chapters to their heyday, the steamy Jurassic, when
Brontosaurus and Stegosaurus held sway; and three
chapters to the Cretaceous, the time of Tyrannosaurus and
Triceratops, the period preserved in the rocks of
Alberta's Badlands. His odyssey builds compellingly, with the
saurians evolving from tiny reptiles to giants, from just one of
many forms of life to the lords of creation. And, as Bogey would
say, there's a wow finish: the sudden extinction of 90% of the
life on the planet.
Russell has a storyteller's feel for his material. He
realizes that bones have come to life on his pages, and to stop
now for a pedantic examination of theories would break the flow.
Instead, he begins his penultimate chapter, "The Extinction of
the Dinosaurs," with a brief note to the reader making clear that
he isn't going to run through the usual litany of explanations
that others set up just to knock down. Instead, he brings the
story to a rapid end, diving into the theory he personally
favors: the aftermath of a comet impact killed the great
saurians and most of their contemporaries. Here, and elsewhere,
he shifts into Carl Sagan mode, waxing pseudo-poetic:
When the comet crossed the orbit of the Moon it was moving at a
velocity of 30 kilometers per second and the end of the
Cretaceous was three hours away. It seemed to hang in the sky
like a second moon, or the eye of God, but no dinosaur looked at
it with understanding. It suddenly swelled in the sky, and then
a dark mantle spread across the firmament.
The prose may be a bit much, but Russell brings to his
writing a humility and dare I say it? a bone-dry wit that
is missing from Sagan's.
In the final chapter, Russell looks for the meaning, if any,
of the dinosaurs and their demise. He knows enough not to try to
tack a moral on the end of his story, but he does leave the
reader with much to contemplate.
All in all, Russell's done it right: in a world full of
books about dinosaurs, he's taken a different approach. No
protracted debate about warm-bloodedness, no endless thrashing
over ideas about the extinctions, no bogging down in charts and
statistics. Instead, just a refreshing, vital glimpse at
dinosaurs in context, alive, going about their daily business.
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