Rusty old iron. It's not exactly stirring stuff, and yet it is the subject of one of my favourite pieces of science writing.
The piece comes from a lecture on iron in nature, delivered by the social reformer and art critic John Ruskin in 1858 (published in The Two Paths in 1859, and excerpted in the Faber Book of Science as "In praise of rust"). Ruskin thought artists should understand science, especially the science of the natural world, and was himself a keen amateur geologist.
In the essay, Ruskin warns us not to dismiss rusted iron as spoiled. When iron rusts it takes oxygen from the air, he explains, just as we do when we breathe. Pure iron might be useful for making tools, but metals in this oxidised, "living" form – such as sand or clay – make up the very ground that nourishes us. Without them, he points out, the planet could support no life:
" ... how would you like the world, if all your meadows, instead of grass, grew nothing but iron wire – if all your arable ground, instead of being made of sand and clay, were suddenly turned into flat surfaces of steel – if the whole earth, instead of its green and glowing sphere, rich with forest and flower, showed nothing but the image of the vast furnace of a ghastly engine – a globe of black, lifeless, excoriated metal?"
Not only that, says Ruskin, but oxidised iron gives earth its vibrant colour:
"Think of your winding walks over the common, as warm to the eye as they are dry to the foot, and imagine them all laid down suddenly with gray cinders. Then pass beyond the common into the country, and pause at the first ploughed field that you see sweeping up the hill sides in the sun, with its deep brown furrows, and a wealth of ridges all a-glow, heaved aside by the ploughshare, like deep folds of a mantle of russet velvet – fancy it all changed suddenly into grisly furrows in a field of mud. That is what it would be without iron."
He concludes with the possibility that iron is responsible for the crimson hue of blood itself:
"Is it not strange to find this stern and strong metal mingled so delicately in our human life that we cannot even blush without its help?"
For me, this is a forceful demonstration of how to write about science with creativity, passion, and even poetry. Ruskin conveys the scientific understanding of his day with clarity and precision. But he also gives it beauty and meaning. What could have been a mundane discussion of metal oxidation becomes a moving exploration of our relationship with a nourishing planet.
The piece has a strong moral message too, about the dangers of untrammelled technological advance and the importance of the natural world both to our physical existence and our spirit. Ruskin listens to scientists and respects their knowledge, but doesn't follow their agenda.
Not that all science writing should have such a strong moral or political slant. But it is important to acknowledge that science is inevitably a human concern, with implications for how we look at the world and the way we live our lives.
Scientists often assume that a journalist's job is simply to translate what they want to say into words that other people can understand. But good science writing is far more than that. Move beyond what the scientists are telling you. Add something of your own soul into it. And decide for yourself what story you want to tell.
Jo Marchant is a freelance science journalist based in London and author of Decoding the Heavens. She blogs at http://www.decodingtheheavens.com/