Figure 6.1 Part of the skeletonized holotype of Serranus goliath Peters, 1855. The name is a synonym of Epinephelus lanceolatus (Bloch, 1790), the giant grouper native to the Indo-Pacific region. Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, M. Ohl photo.
Figure 6.1 Part of the skeletonized holotype of Serranus goliath Peters, 1855. The name is a synonym of Epinephelus lanceolatus (Bloch, 1790), the giant grouper native to the Indo-Pacific region. Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, M. Ohl photo.
In the first half of the nineteenth century, telegraph technology—which enabled the electrical transmission of encoded letters and other characters—had developed to the point where information could be securely sent over increasingly long distances. While Carl August von Steinhall was still experimenting with distances of five kilometers in 1836 Germany, by 1850, English engineers and scientists had begun with the systematic development of a cable connection between Great Britain and the United States. Laying a 4,500-kilometer-long cable was one of the greatest technological challenges of the day: not only was the process incredibly expensive and involved, but no one knew whether electrical signals could even be transmitted such great distances. After two failed attempts, a cable was successfully laid between Ireland and Newfoundland in 1858. A global sensation! In August 1858, despite several hiccups, Queen Victoria of Britain and U.S. President James Buchanan were able to send each other congratulatory telegrams.
Initially, the transatlantic cable didn’t quite live up to its promise. The message from Queen Victoria, which contained only 103 words, took almost sixteen hours from the Irish telegraph station to reach its destination in Newfoundland. Only a month after its inauguration, the cable failed terminally probably because of its damaged casing, which left the core of the cable vulnerable to the destructive force of seawater. It wasn’t until 1866, after great cost and effort, that a permanent telegraph connection would be established between Ireland and Newfoundland.
The success of such an ambitious undertaking was contingent on countless factors, many of which were not fully understood at the time. For instance, the chemical and physical conditions at great depths, including the features of the ocean floor, remained largely unknown. To remedy this, in 1857, the British Admiralty deployed the H.M.S. Cyclops under the command of Joseph Dayman with the aim of researching and measuring the seabed along the planned cable route—the so-called “telegraphic plateau.” The Cyclops collected sediment samples, which were subsequently sent to the zoologist Thomas Henry Huxley to identify and describe possible animal life. Dayman monitored the study of the samples. In his 1868 report outlining the results of the exploration, he noted a remarkable observation: almost all of the sediment samples contained microscopic, distinctively round platelets that dissolved in acid and were unquestionably inorganic in makeup. Dayman named these tiny bodies “coccoliths.” This provided the backdrop for Huxley as he took on the North Atlantic mud.
Figure 6.2 The late Thomas Henry Huxley. Courtesy of Wellcome Library, image #12958i.
Thomas Henry Huxley was one of the leading biologists of the nineteenth century. In 1846, at age 21, Huxley joined the H.M.S. Rattlesnake as the ship’s doctor on a four-year research expedition to New Guinea and Australia, during which he conducted extensive oceanographic studies. He was a talented orator and writer as well as a proponent of Darwin’s theory of evolution. His strong advocacy, including his 1863 book Evidence as to Man’s Place in Nature—not to mention a public feud with Samuel Wilberforce, the Bishop of Oxford—earned him the moniker “Darwin’s Bulldog.” Huxley was the grandfather of biologist and first UNESCO Secretary-General Julian Huxley, as well as Brave New World author Aldous Huxley.
One of the most challenging scientific problems of the time was the question of how life could have emerged from inorganic matter. Ernst Haeckel—Darwin’s foremost defender in Germany and a close correspondent of Huxley’s—postulated that the most primordial living things were entirely homogenous, structureless organisms comprised of protoplasm, an undifferentiated cellular material. These primordial organisms, which Haeckel named “monera,” promised to close a gap so painful to evolutionary theory—the gap between inorganic matter and the simplest known life forms. Proving the existence of monera was therefore one of the Darwinians’ greatest dreams from the mid-nineteenth century onward.
Figure 6.3 Ernst Haeckel in 1908. Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, Historische Bild- u. Schriftgutsammlungen (MfN, HBSB) Bestand: Zool. Mus., Signatur: B I/60.
With the sediment samples from the Cyclops, Huxley struck gold. In nearly every sample, he discovered gelatinous matter in which Dayman’s coccoliths were suspended like sliced fruit in Jell-O. Huxley thought he had successfully ended the global search for monera. He described his discovery in extensive detail in an 1868 publication. In honor of Haeckel’s prediction, Huxley named the monera he’d discovered Bathybius haeckelii. His first thought was to send the namesake his publication, accompanied by a letter expressing his hope that Haeckel not be ashamed of his new godchild. In reply, Haeckel assured Huxley that he was “very proud” and concluded with gusto, “Long live the Monera!”
Figure 6.4 A plate depicting the gelatinous Bathybius haeckelii Huxley, 1868, and the coccoliths. Haeckel, E., Beiträge zur Plastidentheorie, Jena. Z Med Naturw. 5, Tafel XVII (1870). Staatsbibliothek Berlin.
In the following years, the existence of Bathybius haeckelii was proven repeatedly in different locations by different scientists. Haeckel developed his monera concept further and suggested that, starting at depths around 1,500 meters below sea level, the entire ocean floor was covered in Bathybius goop. Huxley also proposed the existence of “living scum or film on the seabed, extending over thousands upon thousands of square miles,” which represented the simplest and thus oldest form of life on earth.
Figure 6.5 Haeckel’s “Genealogical Tree of Humans” from 1874, showing the linear development from the monera at the base of the tree to all other animals and ultimately to humans (Menschen) at the top of the tree. Haeckel, E., Anthropogenie; oder, Entwickelungsgeschichte des Menschen (Leipzig: Wilhelm Engelmann, 1874). Library of the Museum für Naturkunde Berlin.
Haeckel relished the limelight of public presentations and pop science polemics, and he undoubtedly welcomed the flattery of this open tribute. Who wouldn’t? This wasn’t one of those ordinary biological discoveries, known only to scientists and barely noticed by the public. This was the primordial soup itself, the origins of all life, the protoplasm predicted by the famous Haeckel, the discovery of which the whole world had been waiting for. Who other than Haeckel should derive credit from the honorable discovery and confirmation of his theory? Suddenly, everyone was talking about Bathybius haeckelii and its namesake.
Many are surprised to learn that millions of plant and animal species remain undiscovered to this day, and that thousands of new species around the world are described every year. Most people also consider the naming of species in terms of human names: the misconception is widespread that the scientists writing the descriptions get to simply name the species after themselves. Although not explicitly prohibited by the nomenclature rules, this is seen as inappropriate (if not unethical) grandstanding, and it’s highly uncommon. Instead, species names derived from human names are almost always dedicated to a person other than the author of the species description, although the motivation and intentions behind the dedication can vary. Another word for such names is “patronym,” which isn’t entirely accurate because as a “father-name,” a patronym denotes those names in which the father’s name—usually his first name—can be identified. This is expressed in some languages through the use of certain pre- or suffixes, such as “Klaus Johansson,” which means “Klaus, son of Johann.” As far as patronymic species names go, the model can be found in German surnames such as Pauli, Wilhelmi, and Caspari, many of which originated in the Middle Ages. By tacking on the Latin suffix—us, for instance, the name “Paul” takes on the Latinized form “Paulus.” In the genitive case, “Paulus” becomes “Pauli” and expresses ownership or membership, as the genitive does. “Andreas Pauli” thus literally means “the Andreas of Paul” or “Paul’s Andreas.” Many species names based on people are formulated in this fashion.
Creating zoological species names based on personal names follows a few easy rules. As just illustrated, most of these names are substantives in the genitive case, expressing possession such as the patronyms Pauli and Caspari. They are formed according to standard Latin grammar, adding the suffix –us for male and –a for female individuals. Following Latin declension rules, the endings are then brought into the genitive, which leads to –i (singular) and –orum (plural) for men and –ae (singular) and –arum (plural) for women. The lesser kestral Falco naumanni is named after ornithologist Johann Friedrich Naumann, whereas Eleonora’s falcon—named after Eleonora d’Arborea, a Sardinian regent and folk hero—is named Falco eleonorae.
As substantives in the genitive, these names have the same meaning as linguistic patronyms. Falco naumanni literally means “Naumann’s falcon.” This basic principle of creating names dedicated to individuals can be applied to the personal names in one’s own life. First names might include johni for John, matthewi for Matthew, dorisae for Doris, miriamae for Miriam, and elizabethae for Elizabeth. Last names are no different: a male Smith becomes smithi, a female smithae, Schmidt becomes schmidti and schmidtae, and Bohart becomes boharti and bohartae. This works perfectly, provided the name forming the base ends in a consonant. Should the name end in a vowel, several peculiarities should be noted. If the names are classical in origin and end in a Latinate syllable, such as –us or –a, they’re also treated as Latin endings. This means that the existing ending is declined directly without adding a new ending. In terms of first names, Lisa thus becomes lisae, Nikolaus nikolai, Fabricius fabricii, and Linnaeus linnaei. Alternatively, the Code also allows names that seem Latinate to be treated as modern names: a Latin-seeming ending first receives an additional Latin ending, which is then put into the genitive. Fabricius can thus become fabriciusi—it’s possible but uncommon.
Two options are available for name creation when dealing with a name whose grammatical gender does not correspond to the gender of the person named. For instance, several insect species named podae—after entomologist Nicolaus Poda von Neuhaus—take the feminine genitive ending, despite its being a man’s name, because Poda is treated as a classical name. Alternatively, Poda can also be treated as a modern name, in which case it would become podai.
As with all organism names, those dedicated to individual people may not contain special characters, such as the accents and apostrophes fairly common to personal names. Because special characters are modifications of standard letters, the simple rule applies to nearly all cases—that the special character be removed, leaving the unchanged standard letter. Thus, O’Neill becomes oneilli, Sjöberg sjobergi, D’Urville durvillei, and Méneville menevillei. A special rule applies to German umlauts, which have only been replaced by the umlaut-less base letter since 1985, the year the third edition of the nomenclature rules was published. Names published before this year replaced umlauts with the base letter, followed by the letter –e. Up to 1985, Müller was thus muelleri, and since 1985, it has been mulleri. These mandatory retroactive changes are without nomenclatural effect.
However, plenty of special cases exist. For example, Dr. and other honorific titles are generally dropped, whereas abbreviated saints’ names are written out in Latin. St. John would thus become sanctijohanni, and St. Catherine would be sanctacatherinae. Mc, Mac, or M’ are standardized as “Mac” and added to names in the form macdonaldi. Prepositions such as von, van, von der, van der, de, la, and so on are usually included only if the actual name appears as a single word that incorporates the preposition: Vanderbilt, for instance, becomes vanderbilti. The choice is still left to the author—species named after the wasp researchers van der Vecht and de Beaumont could be vandervechti or vechti, debeaumonti or beaumonti.
Last, personal names can also be used as appositions. In these cases, they’re treated as substantives that are neither declined nor adjusted to match the grammatical gender of the genus name. They’re simply “added” to the genus name unaltered, which aligns with the general function of apposition. One example is Platygobiopsis akihito, a fish species named after Japanese emperor and prominent ichthyologist Akihito. Such names are actually fairly common, and although the nomenclature rules explicitly allow them, their use is discouraged. That’s because when genus names are created without an associated species name, the author name is typically used. In the case of Platygobiopsis, authors Victor G. Springer and John E. Randall described the genus together in 1992, and in a list of genus names, their work would show up as Platygobiopsis Springer and Randall, 1992. From the combination with the appositive species name Platygobiopsis akihito, one might get the impression that Akihito had described the genus, especially if the combination were accidentally not italicized and akihito were capitalized. In a museum collection’s daily grind, it can easily come to pass that italics can’t be displayed, whether in handwritten records or electronic databases. To preclude any possible confusion, the Code therefore recommends against using appositional names that derive from personal names. Following this recommendation, the better form would have been akihitoi, but this wasn’t the name that was published. Platygobiopsis akihito therefore remains the correct original notation.
There are many reasons for naming species after people. The classic motivation is to honor or thank someone, and it’s safe to assume that most of these names are created for people the author wants to thank for supporting the project, providing materials, or similar.
Beyond expressing gratitude, these names often convey additional information. For instance, a name might be chosen to suggest a close relationship—or really any degree of acquaintance—with a prominent colleague or sponsor, which might be viewed with awe or even envy by one’s associates. Through the shrewd selection of influential figures, a scientist can make important connections known to the public, asserting his or her membership in a particular social network. Financial backers, sponsors, and patrons are usually happy to see species named after them, which may leave them disposed to show further generosity.
Personal reasons can also provide the motivation behind new names. Family members, personal supporters, favorite characters from mythology, fairy tales, books, or films, admired artists, historical figures—the number of possible sources of names is nearly limitless.
The reason for a certain name choice is elucidated in the section of the species description known as the “etymology” or “derivatio nominis.” As such, this section of the publication is intended for the actual etymology, or linguistic derivation, of a name. Although the nomenclature rules only recommend—but don’t require—these explanations, they’re common today, and many scientific journals have a policy of requiring them. In addition to providing a linguistic explanation of the name components, their linguistic origins, and the gender and grammatical form of the name, this is also where authors can present the scientific or personal reasons for choosing a name at their own discretion. It’s one thing to establish ties to prominent figures through taxonomic names and quite another to provide the reasons for doing so. With descriptive or geographical names, the reason is often obvious, but it’s at least assumed that the information contained within the name applies to the species named. This usually isn’t immediately evident with personal names, and their actual origins often remain opaque until the original description has been read. An informal survey of my colleagues in taxonomy revealed that when first scanning a new publication, at the sight of a dedication, most will read the etymology section with great interest. Thus, the etymology section of a species description isn’t just a linguistic explanation, it’s also a mix of social media and gossip column.
The effectiveness of VIP names dedicated to politicians or popstars relies on their being noticed and read and not just by those in the field. In taxonomy today, it has become evident that in selecting a name, many scientists calculate and plan its public impact to a T. Major taxonomic research institutions, such as natural history museums, promote the names through targeted public relations campaigns online and through other mass media channels with large public followings. Although the actual advertising effect of such anecdotal name selections can hardly be measured, taxonomists agree that this is one of the ways to direct public attention to the multitude of undescribed species and the field of taxonomic research.
A nice example for the interwoven reasons behind the creation of patronyms can be found in the description of a variety of new huntsman spiders from Southeast Asia, published by Peter Jäger over the course of many years. Jäger is an internationally known spider expert who works at the Senckenberg Museum in Frankfurt. He has named around 260 spider species, most of which he discovered in Asia. By the end of 2013, fourteen of these names were “VIP names”—as Jäger refers to them in his Arachno-Blog—which are good publicity. Twelve others allude to overpopulation, and 81 were named after individuals more or less known to the general public. Heteropoda davidbowie and Pseudopoda amelia are two such VIP names, and several others were coined in honor of German actors and comedians. Heteropoda davidbowie is a Southeast Asian species named after the English singer, songwriter, and actor David Bowie, and the Chinese huntsman spider Pseudopoda amelia recalls the title character of the 2001 French film Amélie. Jäger views the twelve names that refer to global overcrowding as political statements highlighting the ecological problems resulting from overpopulation. For those who know German, the name Heteropoda zuviele (zu viele = too many) is easy to understand. Heteropoda duan means “urgent” in Lao, the national language of Laos, and the name calls for what Jäger sees as the need for quick action against the unchecked destruction of natural habitats. Heteropoda laai is also borrowed from Lao and means “lots.” Heteropoda homstu is an abbreviation of Homo stultus, the “stupid human,” which Jäger also translates as “madman” or “idiot,” referring again to the environmental destruction by which humans are ravaging their own basis of existence. Heteropoda opo comes from “OverPOpulation.” Heteropoda duo is not based on the Latin adjective for “two,” as one might think. Rather, it comes from a Chinese word that means “too much.” Finally, there’s Heteropoda hippie, a general nod to the hippie movement and the long hairs on the male spiders’ legs.
Figure 6.6 Portrait of the huntsman spider Heteropoda davidbowie, Jäger, 2008. Courtesy of Mattes Linde.
In addition to thoroughly unusual name derivations, Jäger’s linguistic constructions are also worth mentioning. Most of the artists’ names are appended as appositions, meaning they’re added to the genus name unaltered. Jäger brushed off the Code’s recommendation not to use personal names as appositions. The examples given here are pretty unproblematic because there is little risk that someone would take David Bowie to be the author of the spider genus Heteropoda, at least for now, while the artist is still sufficiently well known. With the names Heteropoda zuviele, H. duan, H. laai, and H. homstu, Jäger ignores another recommendation of the Code, namely, that for scientific names, one should avoid using vernacular terms in the original and instead Latinize them. This is also just a recommendation, though, meaning that Jäger’s names are formally unproblematic.
But what drives Jäger toward these catchy, unusual names? Certainly these creative christenings are fun, but there’s more to it than that. The political statements inherent to Heteropoda zuviele, H. duan, H. laai, and H. homstu are self-evident. As a biologist whose work is focused in Southeast Asia, Jäger witnesses firsthand the rapid disappearance of the huntsman spiders’ tropical habitat. Communicating a political message by means of a species name is certainly an unconventional move, bearing the risk that the meaning will not be understood or even noticed by anyone beyond other specialists, who tend to already share the aforementioned environmental concerns. The meaning inherent to a species name is linguistically encrypted as it is, and the use of German, Chinese, and Lao names presents a further level of encryption that requires no small amount of effort for the user to crack. Heteropoda homstu is certainly an extreme example: a name whose political content is beyond recognition, hidden under several layers (environmental destruction—idiocy—translation into Latin—abbreviation—merging of isolated syllables). Because most readers are only able to understand the political statements contained within Jäger’s names in combination with the supplemental explanations in the original description, their immediate political impact is limited at best.
And why does Jäger name his spider species after musicians and artists one can assume he doesn’t know personally? The explanations in the etymology are definitely worth a read. For instance, in the etymology of Heteropoda davidbowie, he writes, “The species name is honouring the rock-singer David Bowie—composer of the music album The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and interpreter of songs such as ‘Glass Spider’—who has been in early years of his career sometimes as painted as the frontal view of the head of this new species, furthermore inspiring the author by his songs full of energy, creativity and open-mindedness.” With regard to Heteropoda ninahagen, named for the “godmother of [German] punk” Nina Hagen, he writes, “This species is named after German rock and punk singer Nina Hagen, who has inspired the author for many years with her one-of-a-kind songs and lyrics, which are as unusual as the form of the new species’ RTA; a substantive in apposition.” Not only does the reader learn that Jäger is a longtime Nina Hagen fan, they also discover that her songs and lyrics readily withstand comparison to the form of the new species’ RTA. RTA stands for “retrolateral tibial apophysis,” which denotes a certain structure in the male spiders’ copulatory organs. The RTA and other male genital structures are complex and often provide reference points for species differentiation. Hence, Jäger is saying that Nina Hagen’s songs and lyrics are as unusual in the music scene as the male genitalia of the new species are within the genus Heteropoda. A truly striking comparison!
Jäger, with his selection of species names, falls within the current trend. Given the freedom of name choice, it’s currently in style to use eye-catching monikers. Taxonomic species descriptions are mostly done for specialists. Close colleagues in the field—who are interested in either the animal group at hand or the geographic region the species comes from—are the only people who will read these articles with interest, if not enjoyment. It’s more difficult—if not hopeless, and in some instances, perhaps pointless—to garner attention for the approximately 18,000 new species discovered worldwide and described every year. The careful selection of PR-friendly names, however, can bump discoveries like these into the limelight. An online search for Peter Jäger’s star names illustrates this point: hundreds of news tickers, blogs, and print media have reported on the new spider names, which is a level of attention the spiders never would have reached had they been given dry, descriptive names. Heteropoda davidbowie seems to have had particular appeal to the international press because directly following its publication, there were more than 230,000 Google hits for the name. Music magazines, including the German edition of Rolling Stone, reported on it, and Jäger took the stage at the World Science Festival 2012 in New York to present Heteropoda davidbowie to the crowd.1 The species named after German singers haven’t made it quite as far, even if Udo Lindenberg does mention “his” spider on his homepage.
It’s obvious that this kind of media coverage attracts attention for the spiders as well as for Jäger, which is naturally in his interest and in that of the Senckenberg Natural History Museum in Frankfurt. Such attention needn’t be entirely self-serving, and to his credit, Jäger has parlayed his interview time into a platform for raising awareness of the large percentage of undiscovered species worldwide, the plight of biodiversity, and the threat of habitat loss, especially in tropical regions.
In terms of political effectiveness, the art of naming entails more than the quality of the name then—if it is to be heard, the message needs an adept messenger and not only a quirky medium. A colorful name such as Heteropoda davidbowie certainly catches the eye, but deeper public impact depends on Jäger’s continued efforts and ability to inspire the press to report further research.
Realistically, the burning environmental questions will not be solved by the description of 18,000 new davidbowie spiders or freddiemercuryi damselflies a year. However, there’s also little danger of a glut of celebrity-inspired names; most taxonomists prefer to avoid the limelight, and many are dismissive of such media-friendly names as flashy and flip. Thus, we can expect that most newly described organisms will continue to be named in classic fashion, according to features, geographical origins, and sponsors.
Figure 6.7 A wandering albatross (Diomedea exulans Linnaeus, 1758) egg, labeled in pencil. Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, M. Ohl photo.
Still, Jäger isn’t alone in adopting musicians and other public figures as namesakes for new species and other taxa. A complete list would fill pages. Although most musician-based species names simply express the scientists’ enthusiasm for their favorite artists, some are chosen because of certain features shared by the species and the human namesake. The Antarctic predatory dinosaur Elvisaurus, for instance, has a crested forehead reminiscent of Elvis Presley’s pompadour hairstyle. Elvisaurus was only informally introduced by its author, Holmes, and under the nomenclature rules, it is considered “nomen nudum,” or a “naked name” that doesn’t fulfill the Code’s requirements. The correct name of this dinosaur genus is Cryolophosaurus.
In 2013, the team around paleontologist Jason Head—then of the University of Nebraska–Lincoln—dubbed a giant herbivorous lizard from the Eocene of Myanmar Barbaturex morrisoni in honor of Jim Morrison. The reason behind it wasn’t just a passion for The Doors’ music but because of a lizard that appears in one of their songs: “I am the Lizard King, I can do anything.”
More critical attention was raised by a new Australian species in the horsefly family, named Scaptia (Plinthina) beyonceae Lessard & Yeates, 2011. In the etymology, the Australian authors simply state that they named the species in honor of singer Beyoncé Knowles, but they provided further details in several interviews. This horsefly is distinguished by the striking golden tip of its abdomen, which reminded Lessard and Yeates of the singer’s curvaceous backside in one of her golden evening gowns. Lessard referred to Scaptia (Plinthina) beyonceae as the “all-time diva of flies.” Beyoncé’s horsefly received mixed reviews, and some saw sexism (or at least poor taste) at play, another example that species names with even the slightest suggestion of sexual connotation can be a real balancing act.
An alternative possibility, although not widely practiced, is to translate a modern musician’s name into a classical equivalent. The result has all the appearances of a scientific and serious name but one whose etymology is often encrypted beyond the point of recognition. The genus name of the ichneumon wasp Xanthosomnium froesei Sime & Wahl, 2002 is a translation of the progressive rock band Tangerine Dream. The species name is in reference to Edgar Froese, who founded the band in 1967. Similarly, the specific epithet of the mite species Funkotriplogynium iagobadius Seeman & Walter, 1997 combines Iago (James) and badius (brown) in a hidden homage to funk legend James Brown.
The individual members of a band can also be immortalized with species names, grouped together under the same genus. For instance, Jonathan Adrain and Gregory Edgecombe named new trilobite species after the members of the Ramones (Mackenziurus johnnyi, M. joeyi, M. deedeei, and M. ceejayi), the Sex Pistols (Arcticalymene viciousi, A. rotteni, A. jonesi, A. cooki, and A. matlocki), and Simon & Garfunkel (Avalanchurus simoni and A. garfunkeli).
In addition to the well-represented world of musicians, countless species names are based on other famous figures. In 1996, for instance, a conch was named Bufonaria borisbeckeri after the tennis champion Boris Becker, notwithstanding the snail’s slowness in juxtaposition with Becker’s swiftness. The author, Parth, evidently intended it as a tribute, writing in the etymology that the new species was dedicated to the “single greatest German athlete of all time, in my opinion.” Comedians have done well; Jäger, among others, has immortalized some with spider names, and there are many examples from other animal groups. The long-legged fly Campsicnemus charliechaplini was named after Charlie Chaplin in 1996 by Neal Evenhuis because of its unusual tendency to die with bowed middle legs. A pair of cicada species—Baeturia laureli and Baeturia hardyi de Boer, 1996—were named after the classic comedy duo.
The world of writers and publishing has also received its due. The eccentric wasp researcher Alexandre Arsène Girault—who will be introduced in greater detail in the chapter 9—appears to have been in a literary frame of mind while searching for genus names for Australian wasps: Aligheria (for Dante Aligheri), Carlyleia (for Thomas Carlyle), Emersonella (for Waldo Emerson), Goethana (for Johann Wolfgang von Goethe), Keatsia (for John Keats), Plutarchia (for Plutarch), Richteria (for Jean Richter), and Shakespearia (for William Shakespeare). Arthurdactylus conandoylensis Frey & Martill, 1994 is a Brazilian pterosaur named in honor of Arthur Conan Doyle in reference to his 1912 novel The Lost World, in which an expedition finds its way to the top of an isolated plateau in the South American jungle, only to discover pterosaurs and other extinct animal species still living there. The Cretaceous-era herbivorous dinosaur Serendipaceratops arthurcclarkei Rich & Vickers-Rich, 2003 was named after science fiction author Arthur C. Clarke, who predicted a future in which all humans would be vegetarian. A now-endangered subspecies of the North American cottontail rabbit, Sylvilagus palustris hefneri Lazell, was named after Playboy founder Hugh Hefner in 1984. The author is said to have received financial backing from Playboy.
Film is another popular source for scientific animal names. In 2002, the entomologist Terry Erwin named several newly discovered Costa Rican ground beetles after actors. Agra katewinsletae (for Kate Winslet in her role in Titanic) and Agra liv (for Liv Tyler in her role in Armageddon) are meant to represent catastrophe and raise awareness that these species’ habitats are threatened by manmade or natural disaster. On the other hand, Agra schwarzeneggeri—described in the same publication as a ground beetle with “markedly developed (biceps-like) middle femora”—is a nod to Arnold’s distinct physiognomy. And what could be more appropriate than Coloborhynchus spielbergi Veldmeijer, 2003, a pterosaur named after Jurassic Park director Steven Spielberg?
Figure 6.8 A specimen of the carabid beetle Agra schwarzeneggeri Erwin, 2002, with its biceps-like middle femora. Courtesy of Karolyn Darrow, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC.
It’s no secret that American arachnid taxonomist Gustavo Hormiga is a big Orson Welles fan and knows his filmography inside and out. In addition to naming a new genus of Hawaiian spiders in the Linyphiidae family Orsonwelles, he also commemorated many of Welles’s best-known film roles as the species names: Orsonwelles othello, O. macbeth, O. falstaffius, and O. calx. The Shakespearean characters are easily recognized; “calx,” the Latin for “limestone,” is a reference to Harry Lime, Welles’s role in The Third Man. For other species in the genus, Hormiga uses the titles of Welles films, adapting them according to classical rules: Orsonwelles bellum (Latin for “war”—War of the Worlds), O. malus (Latin for “evil”—Touch of Evil), and O. polites (Greek for “citizen”—Citizen Kane).
Figure 6.9 An adult male of Orsonwelles malus Hormiga, 2002, from Kauai. Gustavo Hormiga photo.
In the river systems stretching across the American southeast, Steve Layman and Rick Mayden studied the speckled darter Etheostoma stigmaeum, a widespread and colorful species of darter. Their genetic data suggest that some in the subpopulation differ significantly enough to be recognized as separate species. They described five of these newly discovered darter species in 2012 and named them after four American presidents and one vice president: Etheostoma obama, E. gore, E. jimmycarter, E. teddyroosevelt, and E. clinton. This naming strategy proved effective in capturing the attention of the American media, and in the many interviews Layman and Mayden have given since their publication appeared, they have detailed the reasons for their name selections, pointing to the achievements each of the namesakes have made in American environmental politics.
Figure 6.10 The darter Etheostoma obama Mayden and Layman, 2012. Drawing by Joseph R. Tomelleri (www.americanfishes.com). Copyright by Joseph R. Tomelleri.
A source of species names as popular now as it was in Linnaeus’s day is ancient mythology. There can be many reasons for choosing a certain Roman or Greek figure as a namesake, and the publications of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries don’t usually provide any background information. Here’s a small sample of the loveliest patronyms drawn from Greek and Roman mythology.
The death’s head hawk moth genus Acherontia Laspeyres, 1809, which includes the species A. atropos (Linnaeus, 1758), A. lachesis (Fabricius, 1798), and A. styx Westwood, 1847. Acheron and Styx are two of the five rivers of the underworld in Greek mythology, and Atropos and Lachesis are Greek goddesses of fate. Aphrodita Linnaeus, 1758 is a sea mouse that can also be found on German shores, a segmented worm with dense, shimmering bristles. It’s said that the hairless, naked underbelly of this seven-to-ten-centimeter-long, two-to-three-centimeter-wide worm reminded Scandinavian seamen of women’s genitalia. Linnaeus, who liked using names with sexual connotations, took this image and gave the sea mouse the name of the Greek goddess of love, beauty, and carnal desire. The male members of the Cretaceous shark genus Damocles Lund, 1986 have a prominent structure that reaches over the head from the back. Its namesake, Damocles, is a figure from Greek mythology who had a sword suspended over his head by a single horse hair. The impressive Central and South American eagle species Harpia harpyja (Linnaeus, 1758) may count as the inspiration for some sagas and legends of mythical creatures. Linnaeus named it after the harpies, the winged hybrid monsters in Greek mythology. Pegasus Linnaeus, 1758 is one of two genera of so-called seamoths or dragonfish. The enlarged, wing-like pectoral fins of these demersal fish are reminiscent of the winged horse Pegasus in Greek mythology. In 1758, Linnaeus named the oceanic tropicbird genus Phaethon for the sun god Helios’s son, who brazenly drove his father’s sun chariot into the heavens. Titanus giganteus (Linnaeus, 1758), the Titan beetle, and Dynastes hercules (Linnaeus, 1758), the Hercules beetle, are the world’s largest beetles. The names refer to these figures from Greek mythology, known for their size and strength.
Figure 6.11 A male specimen of Damocles serratus Lund, 1986. Carnegie Museum (Natural History), Pittsburgh PA, #CM 35473. Courtesy of Richard Lund and Eileen D. Grogan.
Figure 6.12 The Hercules beetle, Dynastes hercules (Linnaeus, 1758), here a specimen of the subspecies Dynastes hercules ecuatorianus Ohaus, 1913, from Peru. Muséum d'Histoire Naturelle de la ville de Toulouse, Didier Descouens photo.
Gods and other mythical beings not of classical origin are also popular choices for scientific animal names. For instance, Lucifer Döderlein, 1882, a deep-sea fish, was initially given the biblical name for the devil that literally means the “bringer of light” but has since been renamed Photonectes. Beelzebufo Evans, Jones & Krause, 2008, is an amphibian genus from the Cretaceous period that the authors refer to as the “frog from hell.” The name is a portmanteau of Beelzebub, another name for the devil, and bufo, Latin for toad. Murina beelzebub was the name given to a bat species discovered in Southeast Asia in 2011. Mephisto Tyler, 1966 is a genus of spikefish related to pufferfish. Moloch horridus Gray, 1841, is the Australian thorny dragon, a spiny lizard, named after Moloch, one of the devils in John Milton’s 1667 epic poem Paradise Lost. Anubis Thomson, 1864, is a longhorn beetle named after the Egyptian god of death. An especially popular namesake is Osiris, the Egyptian god of the afterlife, rebirth, and the Nile. A search of the Encyclopedia of Life turns up more than 200 names that contain Osiris, either as a genus or species name. The New World bee genus Osiris boasts a couple dozen species alone, but stick insects, moths, and several other animal and plant groups have Osiris as the specific epithet in their name.
New World gods also find their way into scientific names. The enormous pterosaur Quetzalcoatlus northropi Lawson, 1975 was named after Quetzalcoatl, a Central American god of the Aztec and Maya, among others. The specific epithet is in honor of aircraft engineer John Knudsen Northrop, whose designs of flying wings still serve as the basis for the stealth bomber B-2 Spirit.
Among taxonomists, The Lord of the Rings has its share of fans, and perhaps unsurprisingly J.R.R. Tolkien’s fantasy worlds and invented languages have provided a source for many scientific names. Director Peter Jackson’s hugely successful film trilogy, released in 2001 to 2003, provided the books with new fans and widespread popularity. In 2013, for instance, an international group of wasp researchers led by Fernández-Triana and Ward described a new genus and six new species of braconid wasps (Braconidae) from New Zealand, where the Lord of the Rings movies were filmed. The genus name Shireplitis refers to the Shire, the fictional homeland of the hobbits for which New Zealand served as the cinematic stand-in, thus alluding to the wasps’ real-world geographical origin. (The suffix –plitis comes from the morphologically similar genus Paroplitis.) Five of the new species were named after hobbits: Shireplitis bilboi, after Bilbo Baggins, finder of the ring in question; Shireplitis frodoi, after his nephew, Frodo Baggins, who bore the ring on the quest for its destruction; Shireplitis samwisei, after Frodo’s best friend and faithful companion, Samwise “Sam” Gamgee; and Shireplitis peregrini and Shireplitis meriadoci after his companions Peregrin “Pippin” Took and Meriadoc “Merry” Brandybuck. With the sixth wasp, Shireplitis tolkieni, the authors pay “humble homage” to the creator of the epic.2
Figure 6.13 A male of Shireplitis frodoi Fernández-Triana and Ward, 2013. Courtesy of José L. Fernández-Triana.
Others have delved deeper into the intricacies of Tolkienian lore. In a 1978 article in Evolutionary Theory, the American paleozoologist Leigh Van Valen described a number of prehistoric mammal fossils, assigning names that evince a detailed knowledge of the pseudo-historical Elvish languages invented by Tolkien, including references to The Silmarillion, a posthumously published mythological prehistory to The Lord of the Rings. Choice examples include Oxyprimus galadrielae, after Galadriel, the highest-ranking Elf in Middle-earth from the Elvish language Sindarin. Van Valen does not provide the motivation behind this name choice. Deltatherium durini, after Durin I, the King of Dwarves who initiated construction of the vast subterranean fortress of Khazad-dûm, was chosen for the species’ diminutive size. Chriacus calenancus, from the Sindarin “calen,” for green, and “anca,” for jaw. The fossil was potentially that of an herbivore. Thangorodrim thalion, in which Thangorodrim refers to a mountain fortress in The Silmarillion, and refers to the animal’s mountainous discovery site. The species name means “strong” in Sindarin. Platymastus palantir, after Palantír, one of the seven “Seeing Stones” created by Fëanor that can see through time and space, from the Elvish language Quenya. The name refers to the species’ long record of existence. Platymastus mellon, from the Quenya word for “friend.” “Mellon” is also the password to enter the western gate to Khazad-dûm. In the species, the name refers as well to “melon” and to the Greek term “mellesis” (hesitation, delay). Mixed in are names from American Indian languages, for example, Ellipsodon yotankae, derived from Sitting Bull’s name in the Lakota language, Tatanka Yotanka, and from the holy texts of Hinduism, for example, Haplaletes andakupensis, based on Andhakupa, described in the fifth book of the Bhagavatapurana as the hell for those who have killed mosquitos or other blood-sucking insects. The species name refers in equal measure to the fossil’s origins in the Purgatory Hills and its proximity to Bug Creek.
Van Valen is best known for his 1973 contribution of a “new evolutionary law,” which has since become an inextricable part of modern evolutionary theory.3 The hypothesis holds that the risk of extinction for every organism group is about the same, independently of how long the organism group has been in existence. All that matters is that the group constantly adapts to ever-changing environmental conditions to assert its earned position and not die out. To illustrate, Van Valen again found inspiration in fantasy literature, naming the hypothesis after the Red Queen from Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass, who explained the natural laws of her realm: “Now here, you see, it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place.” The Red Queen’s Hypothesis has been applied to many other areas of evolutionary biology, in particular the phenomena of evolutionary arms races between predators and prey, hosts and parasites, and to explain the advantages of sexual selection.
The examples in this chapter reflect an imaginative approach to the search for scientific names, a cherry on top of the naming and describing process. For the most part, names dedicated to people—whether in honor of a generous patron or a fictional character—are usually intended as an expression of positive feelings toward the creature named and its namesake alike. However, here, too, are exceptions. At times the temptation to use a name dedication as a platform to express a negative feeling toward a specific person may be irresistible. Because this is rather unusual and generally frowned upon by scientists, one can assume that the authors’ conflicts with the targeted colleagues, friends, or relatives must have been serious. Admittedly, however, the entertainment value of spiteful names is usually pretty high, and the scientific community reads them with great interest. A name’s negative charge can be emitted from the denigrating meaning of the name itself, or it can come through the dedication of a species with unpleasant features.
No surprise that the Bone Wars should constitute a master class in the art of the insulting name. In 1869, Othniel Charles Marsh described a fossil marine reptile that he named Mosasaurus copeanus. The first element of the species name copeanus unquestionably refers to his bitter rival, Edward Drinker Cope. The second element, however, is somewhat ambiguous. The Latinate suffix –anus can be used to make the species name into an adjectival form to modify the genus name, for instance, describing an affiliation or a connection. Common examples include montanus, meaning “of the mountains,” as in Suncus montanus, the Asian highland shrew; or africanus, “of Africa,” as in Agapanthus africanus, the African lily. The suffix is analogous to –an in English, as used in “African.” In a few cases, the suffix –anus has been used to express affiliation with an individual person. The braconid wasp Xiphozele linneanus, for example, was described and named by the Dutch entomologist Kees van Achterberg in 2008 in honor of Linnaeus on the 250th anniversary of the establishment of binomial nomenclature. With Mosasaurus copeanus, Marsh was thus clearly dedicating the name to his colleague Cope. But in this case, one would expect a simple genitive construction based on Cope’s name—copei—as Marsh had done for so many other fossil names. The choice of the far less common suffix –anus was surely no accident—the scatological associations of copeanus are impossible to ignore. This particularly juicy insult would have been keenly felt by Cope, and likely an object of mirth for others in the field.
Figure 6.14 The holotype specimen for Mosasaurus copeanus Marsh, 1869 (YPM VP 000312). Courtesy of the Peabody Museum of Natural History, Division of Vertebrate Paleontology, Yale University (http://peabody.yale.edu).
The ridicule can’t have been lost on Cope. Never one to allow his detractors the last laugh, in 1884, he described Anisonchus cophater, an herbivorous mammal from the Miocene. On first glance, cophater has the appearance of a Greek etymology, but in a letter to paleontologist Henry F. Osborn, Cope revealed that he had named the species in honor of his many enemies: “Cope Haters.” The absence of the “e” at the end of Cope’s name in cophater might have been intended to make the word look Greek by means of the resulting “ph,” somewhat disguising the message from those not in the know. Thus, rather than meeting insult with insult, Cope chose the route of self-deprecation.
Then there is the more ambiguous case of the “Hitler beetle.” In 1933, German coleopterist and civil engineer Oscar Scheibel, residing in Ljubljana, Slovenia, then part of the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, purchased from a Slovenian biologist several specimens of an unknown beetle that had been found in the caves near the city of Celje. In 1937, Scheibel published in Entomologische Blätter a description of a light-brown ground beetle a mere five millimeters long under the name Anophthalmus hitleri. After the war, Scheibel is supposed to have claimed that naming the beetle in honor of Hitler had been a subversive act: after all, this was an unlovely species of brown, blind cave beetle that lived hidden from view. This defense must be squared with the original description, the final sentence of which reads, “Dedicated to Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler, as an expression of my reverence.” No official response from the Reich Chancellery was documented in this case.
To date, Anophthalmus hitleri has been found in but a handful of caves in Slovenia. Particularly after the media discovered and circulated the Hitler beetle story in 2000, interest in this species has been rekindled. A well-preserved specimen of Anophthalmus hitleri can fetch upward of 2,000 euros on the collectors’ market; among the bidders, certainly some wish to add the Hitler beetle to their collection of Nazi memorabilia. Increased demand for the specimens has raised concern in Slovenia, where the beetle has been granted protected status. Despite a required government permit to collect the beetles, poachers continue to scour the caves in search of a lucrative source of extra income. Its name has turned out to be something of a curse: the Hitler beetle is now an endangered species.
At least one other species has been named after Adolf Hitler: the fossil Roechlingia hitleri, which belongs to the Palaeodictyoptera, a group of primitive fossil insects. Roechlingia hitleri was described in 1934 by German geologist and paleontologist Paul Guthörl. In 1949, entomologist Hermann Haupt attempted to synonymize the genus with an older one and rename the species Scepasma europea, as he took Roechlingia hitleri to be a nomen nudum, or “naked name,” not considered valid without additional information. According to other specialists, however, Haupt’s interpretation is incorrect, and consequently Roechlingia hitleri remains available (and possibly valid) to this day.
Extensive research has failed to turn up any other species named in honor of Hitler. This seems surprising, as this form of salute could have proven quite expedient to aspiring German scientists from about 1933 until 1945, at the latest. There is no evidence to show that German taxonomists sought to avoid the political implications of such name choices by remaining neutral. The likeliest explanation is that when Hitler patronyms were planned, approval was sought in advance from the Führer (by way of the Reich Chancellery), whether out of respect or perhaps fear of potential consequences. In 1933, for instance, a rose breeder submitted a written request to the Reich Chancellery for permission to introduce to the international market one of his best rose varieties, bearing Hitler’s name. Similarly, a nursery owner from Schleswig-Holstein hoped to name a “prized strawberry variety” the “Hitler strawberry,” in honor of the Reich Chancellor. They already had a “Hindenburg” strawberry variety in their catalog, he added. In reply to both cases, Hans Heinrich Lammers, Chief of the Reich Chancellery, sent almost identical letters, in which the inquiring parties were informed that, “upon careful consideration, [the Reich Chancellor] requests that a name in his honor most kindly not be used.” Although no such letters are known within scientific taxonomy, it can be assumed that any requests for patronyms were declined in a similar fashion. Perhaps this fundamental rejection of honorary names is the reason that so few hitleris exist.
In the broader context of naming, it’s worth noting that from 1933 onward, German registry offices saw an influx of requests by parents to use the name Hitler as a given name for their children, whether in its original form or in such feminized forms as Hitlerine or Hitlerike. The Reich Ministry of the Interior issued a directive to registrars and their agents, instructing them to advise any potential applicants to choose a different name.
Today, regular public discussions take place as to whether animal species named after dictators, murderers, and their ilk shouldn’t be renamed. The International Code of Zoological Nomenclature states that no name should be proposed that “would be likely to give offence on any grounds.”4 Technically speaking, although the rules recommend this, they don’t require it. The nuance here is significant: because these names have already been successfully published, it is impossible for a later author to simply change the name. The only practical way would be to submit an official appeal to the nomenclature commission, which no one has done yet. It’s unlikely that anyone will: when push comes to shove, taxonomists, conservation organizations, and Slovenian coleopterists profit more from this stigma than they are harmed by it, even to the detriment of a beetle species. On the one hand, Anophthalmus hitleri is a historical document of the entanglement of politics and taxonomy. On the other hand, by means of its discomfiting implications, the beetle raises public awareness of the background of biodiversity discovery and scientific naming. Thus, the name hitleri will probably keep its place in the catalog of life, its significance as a historical anecdote assured by the political implications greatly different today from what Oscar Scheibel originally intended.
Let’s return now to Bathybius haeckelii, the monera about which Haeckel had theorized, which he and Huxley believed covered the entire floor of the ocean in a primordial slime. Its fame was only fleeting, and by the 1870s, even Haeckel’s reputation no longer benefited from association with Bathybius. Directly after Huxley’s original description was published, British zoologist Sir Charles Wyville Thomson examined several samples from the depths of the Atlantic and reported exultantly that the sediment really was alive. Starting in 1872, Thomson led the Challenger expedition, a three-and-a-half-year-long deep-sea exploration aboard the corvette H.M.S. Challenger, a voyage considered a watershed in the establishment of scientific marine research. Thomson and the other scientists aboard labored in vain to find fresh primordial slime in their samples of the North Atlantic seabed. The deep-sea slime was indeed teeming with life, but there was no sign of Bathybius. Realization gradually dawned: Bathybius tended to appear in the sediment samples when alcohol was added to a fresh sample. Highly concentrated alcohol (ethanol, to be specific) has long been used to preserve natural specimens and is still the substance of choice when preserving plants and animals. When alcohol was added as a matter of course to the deep-sea sediment, Bathybius was evident, whereas when the fresh samples were examined, it was completely absent. The chemist on board the Challenger ultimately determined that the alcohol added to the deep-sea samples resulted in a precipitate of calcium sulfate, which explained the slimy substance. Bathybius, whose existence had already been questioned by Berlin zoologist Christian Gottfried Ehrenberg, had finally proven to be a falsity, an inorganic delusion from the depths of the sea. For a brief moment, Haeckel, Huxley, and the entire world, it seemed, had imagined the ocean floor covered in primordial soup: a slimy net of pulsing material that spanned the globe, the glorious manifestation of the theory of life’s emergence from inanimate matter, only to be revealed as the result of a simple chemical reaction inside a test tube. Quel dommage!
Thomson, who over the years had provided Huxley with the most outlandish deep-sea fish and other zoological samples from the Challenger’s nets, sensed that this discovery would spread quickly around the world and discredit Huxley. While still in Queensland, he wrote a personal letter to Huxley, in which he reported that the true nature of the Huxley-Haeckel primordial soup had been discovered, and that he—Huxley—would do well to take an appropriate stance on the matter. Huxley reacted promptly. He had earlier played a decisive role in founding the scientific journal Nature, a prestigious publication to this day, and he was in close contact with the publisher at the time, Norman Lockyer. In a letter to Lockyer, Huxley lamented, “My poor dear Bathybius appears likely to turn into a Blunderibus.”5 Huxley assented to the publication of Thomson’s letter in the August 1875 issue of Nature and explicitly accepted responsibility for “introducing this singular substance into the list of living things.”6 The wind was thus taken from his critics’ sails, should they have accused him of malicious intent or—even worse for a scientist—naïve self-deception. Although Huxley openly admitted to his error in 1875, he continued to mention Bathybius in lectures and publications until at least 1879; some residual doubt must have remained as to whether there might still be something to the idea of an oceanic primordial slime. In 1886, German zoologist Hubert Ludwig included Bathybius haeckelii in the third edition of Dr. Johannes Leunis Synopsis der Thierkunde. Although Ludwig cites the Challenger’s findings, which state that Bathybius is a sulfate precipitate, he goes on to report that “bathybius-like protoplasmic mass” had recently been found at 92 fathoms in the North Pole region, and that this mass contained a network of pseudopods—mutable projections of unicellular organisms—and made amoeboid movements. But this discovery, too, turned out to be a dead end in the search for the primordial slime.
Its fate sealed, Haeckel acknowledged that Bathybius had turned out to be a flop. However, he maintained that his monera theory was still true, and that sooner or later the monera-slime would be found. His monera phylum was later elevated to a kingdom, but by 1977, this term was deemed obsolete, and currently no taxon exists with the name monera. Bathybius haeckelii also has faded into obscurity, although its namesake is unlikely to lose his place in the history of science, not least for the aesthetic value of his engravings.