Innumerable stories remain to be told about the people who have dedicated their lives to the study of the world’s natural diversity—stories of self-sacrifice and deprivation but also of enthusiasm and joy. Few have managed to capture this as well as Swedish author and hoverfly taxonomist Frederik Sjöberg does in his 2004 book The Fly Trap. Part personal memoir, part literary reflection on the meaning of entomology, Sjöberg describes with gentle self-deprecation the passion for collecting, classification, and naming. What’s special about Sjöberg’s account is that he knows what he’s talking about, writing as he is from inside the world of taxonomy. This authenticity, in combination with the author’s sense of irony, makes for a charming illustration of how the eccentricity so closely tied to taxonomists’ love of organization is at once a burden and a boon to this form of scientific research.
While it isn’t hard to find eccentric characters in the sciences, there’s a veritable line out the door when it comes to taxonomists (and perhaps especially entomologists). Working with entomologists means getting mixed up with a bunch of eccentrics, and as an entomologist, I can attest to that. In their attempt to rein in the seeming endlessness of global lifeforms, insect researchers are especially prone to losing themselves in illusory or parallel universes that are difficult for the uninitiated to access, should they even care to try. The often solipsistic world of entomological taxonomy can be staunch in its refusal to offer a plausible justification of its purpose. Why bother discovering and describing hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of insect species according to the ritualized standards of the field? Well, because they’re there and just waiting to be discovered, those countless diverse species! On the strenuous, months-long marches through the jungle, in the endless and often fruitless battle to protect the collected insects from mold, decay, and ants, and through the subsequent years of laborious microscope work between library and museum—it’s here that taxonomists will find what Sjöberg would call happiness.
Taxonomania
It’s not necessarily considered socially unacceptable to be an eccentric, to find oneself “ex centro”—that is, outside the center of social convention. Eccentrics think outside established norms, often happy to forgo social recognition in unapologetic pursuit of their convictions and ideals. But they choose to do this all voluntarily, and this choice is what distinguishes socially accepted forms of such behavior from unhealthily compulsive conduct. In many of the stories told in this book, the amusement elicited by the weird behavior and strange passions depicted is commingled with a sense of unease. When considering the taxonomists who’ve become famous through unusual feats or initiatives, who have dedicated their lives to the classification of natural objects and thus broken from societal convention, who’ve decided against what most would consider a fulfilling social and family life and risk their necks on dangerous journeys—can one really be certain that they’re doing this by choice? Or might some be driven by an urge outside their control, an urge to record, organize, sort; an urge that follows rules other than actual free will? It’s safe to assume that every taxonomist could name colleagues whose interpersonal skills are noticeably unorthodox. The borders are fluid between a manageably eccentric state and a pathological one, and many an obsessive-compulsive individual has felt comfortably at home in these surroundings defined by order and classification.
Alexandre Arsène Girault was one of those eccentrics unable to keep his own insanity at bay. Like so many entomologists, he started as a fifteen-year-old interested in bugs and—many detours and mishaps later—ended up becoming one of the most unusual figures in the history of insect taxonomy. Born in 1884 in Maryland, Girault—who was of French extraction—worked sporadically as a math teacher, but his passion in life was the superfamily Chalcidoidea (chalcid wasps), an enormously species-rich family thought to comprise tens of thousands of species, many of which are parasites of garden pests, making them critically important to agriculture. Most chalcid wasps are small, even tiny, and their taxonomy is challenging.
Figure 9.1 Alexandre Arsène Girault. Courtesy of the National Archives, image #7-H-15-H79.
After Girault had worked for a number of years in the United States, he lived in Queensland, Australia, from 1911 to 1914. During this time, Girault was engaged as an entomologist on a sugar cane plantation, where he studied crop pests and their natural enemies, which included chalcid wasps. He encountered an unbelievably rich and widely unstudied population of chalcid wasps. After only a few years, Girault quit his post in applied agronomics, dedicating the rest of his life to what he called the “pure taxonomy” of chalcid wasps. It was already clear by this point that Girault was a man of strong principles, with an unwavering view of what was good science—and good taxonomy, in particular. For him, taxonomy represented the most important basis of biology, and in his opinion, taxonomists should be highly educated individuals for whom the work took precedence over everything else. Girault’s objective was to discover the truth, and in his estimation, he was one of the greatest authorities on recognizing it. When it came to his convictions, he was uncompromising and intolerant.
People can be like that, but Girault’s intractability in pushing his views unfortunately didn’t stop at his colleagues and superiors. Within three years of his returning to the National Museum of Natural History in Washington, DC—where he was also officially employed during his time in Australia—he had fallen out with the entire staff, and in 1917, he was terminated. He returned to Australia the same year and again found work on a sugar cane plantation. By 1919, after sustained conflict with his boss, James Franklin Illingworth, he was fired there, too. The next twenty years were defined by a constant cycle of unemployment, short periods of work, and, throughout, tremendous productivity in the taxonomic recording of Australian chalcid wasp species. By 1939, Girault’s behavior had grown increasingly erratic, and following an incident with the police, his children checked him into a psychiatric hospital. Over the next two years, he was repeatedly released from the hospital—only to be readmitted—until his death in the ward in 1941.
Girault was an exceptional taxonomist. He published 462 titles, many of which were hundreds of pages long. At his death, he also left behind 2,483 handwritten pages of unpublished manuscripts. Over the course of his life, Girault described around three thousand genera and species of chalcid and a few other wasps, most from Australia. Recent reviews of several chalcid wasp species have shown that most of those he described are both recognizable and nomenclaturally valid. For a long time, about sixty works he had published privately between 1917 and 1937—in which he described hundreds of new species—were fervently disputed. Taxonomists usually publish their findings in official scientific journals. Privately printed works—even those with a sizable print run—are frowned upon in taxonomy because of the danger that they won’t fulfill the conditions for a nomenclaturally admissible publication. For a long time in the chalcid wasp scene, it was unclear how to treat Girault’s privately published works, which were also more than a little unusual. For instance, because they weren’t officially published, none of the names was included in the Zoological Record, the standard reference work for research on zoological publications and names. Other catalogs, however—such as Sheffield Airey Neave’s multivolume Nomenclator Zoologicus, published from 1939 onward—included Girault’s names, thereby lending them substance. They couldn’t be ignored, but they also didn’t seem especially usable. One possibility may have been to petition the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature to declare Girault’s privately published names invalid—a common practice with a clear outcome. Ultimately, however, the community of chalcid wasp specialists moved differently: they performed a cost–benefit analysis and found that invalidating Girault’s names would have such a devastating impact on chalcid wasp research that it seemed to make more sense to simply recognize the private publications as legitimate in the eyes of the Code. Because they mostly had limited distribution, Girault’s privately published works were rereleased in 1979 in an American entomology journal. They were thus made available to the wider public, clearing the path for anyone to use the descriptions and names.
Girault’s private publications, which were not subject to the scrutiny of colleagues in the field, provided him a space to let his opinions and feelings flow. He wrote obsessively on many topics, ranging from “economic entomology and entomologists” to trade, the economy, politics, the state of U.S. society, women, and colleagues. Some topics were especially important to him and ran through his publications like a golden thread: truth in science, the changing status of taxonomy, and himself and his own position within his complex worldview. His criticism is formulated as if axiomatic, its tone often scathing, and it was particularly injurious to colleagues and politicians. The style varies, expressing his embittered views in long, epic scenarios, pithy bon mots, and poems, as well as species descriptions.
Of the hundreds of serious species descriptions Girault published on these tiny wasps, two names break the mold. Neither was intended to describe a species that truly existed in nature. Instead, both are Girault’s invective masquerading in the formal trappings of a taxonomic publication. Not only are these names constructed as formal species descriptions, they’re also published alongside names that really are, which furthers the illusion.
The first is the wasp species Shillingsworthia shillingsworthi. It’s worth reading the original description—which prefaced the sober description of three new species and a new genus—in its entirety:
Like Polynema [another chalcid wasp species], but petiole, head, abdomen, mandibles absent. S. shillingsworthi, blank, vacant, inaneness perfect. Nulliebiety remarkable, visible only from certain points of view. Shadowless. An airy species whose flight cannot be followed except by the winged mind. From a naked chasm on Jupiter, August 5th, 1919.
This so thin genus is consecrated to Doctor Johann Francis Illingworth [sic], in these days remarkable for his selfless devotion to entomology, not only sacrificing all of the comforts of life, but as well his health and reputation to the uncompromising search for truth and for love of “those filmy people of the air.” Honour him!1
The title of the 1920 publication in which this description appeared is itself striking: Some Insects never before seen by Mankind. It opens with a short tirade on one of Girault’s favorite topics, the corruption of scientific pursuits harnessed for commercial ends:
Research is a labour of love. […] Must love, too, be a matter of cash? […] By Heaven! it has come to that. […] Will not [lovers] be scarcer and scarcer, bastardy at that, the mothers prostitutes? What a spectacle! In the meanwhile, all true loves may go to the Devil; incidentally, also all men and all things whatsoever without cash.
But who cannot see that these copper-hunting men are not true lovers, but only poachers, snarers, and cunning trappers (not likely to become good fathers!)? Courage, Huntsmen!2
At the time of publication, Illingworth—who was namesake to both S. shillingsworthi and another, genuine species in the same work—was Girault’s superior. During Girault’s sojourn in the United States, Illingworth had moved into his vacated position; upon returning to work in Australia in 1917, Girault was thus required to function as Illingworth’s assistant and complete tasks only as assigned. Girault agreed to the terms and started his new job at the sugar plantation research station in Meringa (known today as Gordonvale, Queensland). Given his job responsibilities, he was forced to start using his free time for his taxonomic studies. Within a few short months, Girault was already engaged in a serious dispute with his boss. His employer suspended him in early 1919, after he’d repeatedly failed to come to work. Girault claimed he’d been “on strike” after Illingworth had spoken “roughly” to him. Illingworth, Girault, and research station administrators clashed so intensely in the following weeks that, by May 1919, Girault had been terminated. Girault expressed his resentment and frustration in his description of the new species. The species and genus names contain a criticism of the commercialization of science, as Illingworth becomes “shilling’s worth.”
In another, perhaps even more abstruse species description, Girault had a different objective in mind. In Homo perniciosus and New Hymenoptera, a four-page article published privately in 1924, Girault described a new species of human:
Since W. Shakespeare described Woman, I have explored America and elsewhere and on Mars I thought I had found a notable new kind of female Man like her, and which had caused some commotion up there (heard even on Earth as faint squabbling). This form was, however, soon recognized upon earth (in America first) by men in general, and called New or Business Woman. […]
Homo perniciosus was thus described and this description is confirmed: Abnormal female (loveless, without offspring); heart functionless; mammae aborted; psychology novel (as supposed) but artificial; gay, high-coloured, feral, brass-cheeked, shape lovely like Woman but nature hard (selfish, thoughtless, proud, unsympathetic, irresponsible, aggressive, irritant, insensible, luxurious, pugnacious, over-active, inquisitive, mischievous, voracious and even carnivorous; antagonistic, ungentle, immodest, critical, competitive, poisonous); conduct unstable (even inclined to treachery), the lips compressed, body strong. Everywhere but rare in natural habitat.
From young adults, these commonest, 1923, Australia.
This abnormality of Woman, which at first I mistook for a new morphological variation, is serious and needs attention, as all know by this time. […] [Some call] them weeds, nuisances, unbalanced, ugly—what the devil are they? […]
When I discovered what was wrong and that Woman had not discovered but had invented, a New Psychology, by Heavens! I shook with laughter. Humorous enough, but more sad and even becoming grim. […] God aid us! War would be nothing to this moral scourge and when, in my suffering and shame, I think of the cause, many is the time I have uttered this fearful cry from the heart: —
God curse and smite all free-acting women.
Is Earth free from Sun? How, then, can Woman be free from Man, or Man from Woman?3
Following this tirade against the new working woman of the 1920s follow two and a half pages of the driest wasp taxonomy imaginable. By now, it should be abundantly clear why Girault would have opted to publish privately rather than submit his works for peer review.
Homo perniciosus, the pernicious human, seems to have worried Girault because it appeared in two further private publications. Hymenoptera Minutae Nova Australiensis (or “new, small hymenoptera from Australia”) was published in 1926. It consists of four paragraphs printed on a single page. In the first, he describes the chalcid wasp Mozartella beethoveni, made famous by its name. The second paragraph describes another wasp genus; the fourth, a new species. Between them lies a single sentence: “Homo perniciosus Girault. This aberrant cosmopolite is due to Modern Commerce, certainly the cause of more than one perversity.”
A further pamphlet appeared in 1928, titled “Some Insecta and a New All Highness: Notes compiled in fear and sorrow.” In it, Girault expanded on his vision of a changing female paradigm, concluding that this change represented a concrete threat against society—and in particular, against those men searching for truth. The two opening sentences say it all:
A revolution has occurred in Nature. Woman—Homo perniciosus—has usurped the earthly throne and is now our King-despot, the All-highest Majesty to whom all (men) must bow.
Naming the Imaginary
Such spurious, wide-ranging passages litter the pages of Girault’s private publications, which, it bears repeating, are taxonomically valid, having been accepted by the community as Code-compliant. Considering his personal background, it isn’t always clear why he pursues certain topics with such acrimony and intransigence. Despite his incredible productivity in chalcid wasp studies, Girault’s clear professional failings can be attributed to a life-defining attitude of universal defiance. In the years directly following his death, attention to the emotional parts of his publications largely eclipsed recognition of his complete works. His taxonomic work has since been rehabilitated, as mentioned, whereas his other pieces, composed with such ardor, are now regarded as little more than the bizarre excesses of an eccentric.
But what’s really going on with Shillingsworthia shillingsworthi and Homo perniciosus? Many, if not most, species names have a certain linguistic appearance—a certain morphology—that makes them easy to recognize within a text: they’re two-part, the genus name is capitalized while the species name is lowercase, both are typically italicized, and both will usually be of classical origin or at the least have a Latinate ending. When a word combination fulfills these requirements, it tends to signal that it’s a taxonomic name, which is thus subject to the nomenclature rules. Shillingsworthia shillingsworthi and Homo perniciosus appear to meet these standards, and it’s not hard to see them morphologically as species names. Yet there’s obviously a huge difference between them and other names because they don’t represent real species. Is this an issue for the nomenclature rules? In other words, does a systematic scientist have to pay them any attention or can they be written off as the amusing issue of a creative mind?
Let us remember: only available names—that is, those that fulfill certain criteria for formation and publication—are subject to the nomenclature rules, and thus endure in the taxonomic literature, even if they’re later discovered to be synonyms and lose their validity. The question of validity is addressed at the beginning of the Code; in short, it applies to the scientific names of all animals living or extinct. A later paragraph is decisive in determining the status of Girault’s names. It explicitly states that names introduced for hypothetical concepts are not subject to the provisions of the nomenclature rules. The Code thus states that only those names should be accepted that name something whose biological existence is accepted.
When it comes to Shillingsworthia shillingsworthi, the case is pretty obvious, and it’s unlikely that a chalcid wasp taxonomist would want to touch it. A species characterized by shadowlessness and a lack of material existence clearly can’t have been observed in nature as a tangible entity. With regard to the Code, Shillingsworthia shillingsworthi is unquestionably the name for a thoroughly hypothetical concept.
Despite the fundamental absurdity of the species description for Homo perniciosus, a hairsplitting taxonomist could take the nomenclature rules to the extreme and demand a serious analysis of the description. Because unlike the ethereal, immaterial wasp, the working woman who caused Girault such distress was as real then as she is now. Girault presumably had a few women in mind when he sat down to write the description, although he didn’t designate anyone as the type specimen. He didn’t assign types in his wasp descriptions with the specificity expected today, however, so the missing type for the working woman isn’t grounds for stripping Girault’s Homo perniciosus of its validity. Further, it doesn’t matter that it’s all biological nonsense. Species names are labels for scientific hypotheses, which—as with all hypotheses—can be disproved. From the perspective of the nomenclature, there’s nothing wrong with describing a new species based on a single, unusual-looking animal, which Girault also did hundreds of times. Only time will tell whether the name will endure—in other words, whether the hypothesis behind the name will withstand further tests, such as comparisons with new discoveries and other species. Is Homo perniciosus an available name, then, that would have to be included as a younger addition to the synonym list for Homo sapiens? That is, do the zoological nomenclature rules apply to Homo perniciosus? The answer would probably be yes because, given the understanding that Girault’s private publication fulfilled the Code’s requirements for regular publications, no fundamental difference exists between the description of Homo perniciosus and that of the braconid wasp Phanerotoma coccinellae, which follows on the very same page.
The nomenclature rules ultimately require a healthy dose of sound judgment in this case. Girault’s description, in light of his bellicose comportment, leaves no doubts as to his intentions: he viewed the task of taxonomical writing as an opportunity to impart a personal, perhaps even political statement about his observations of societal change—no more, no less. Let’s say a taxonomist seriously decided to ignore Girault’s contextually embedded intentions and apply the Code literally, concluding that Homo perniciosus was an available name. What would be the point? The population of enterprising women denoted by this name could hardly be defined by any species concept as a meaningful biological entity, which would leave no option for the name but synonymy with Homo sapiens. As a result, the list of invalid names for the sole human species still living on Earth would be one invalid name longer. The discussion will thus remain in the academic realm, and Shillingsworthia shillingsworthi and Homo perniciosus will maintain their commonly accepted status as the names of hypothetical constructs—and as anecdotes in the history of biology.
It seems to go without saying that scientific animal names are meant to name something that exists in nature. As demonstrated, the concept of existence isn’t entirely straightforward, but we don’t need to spend any more time on that here. What’s certain is that a scientific name should signify something that, in the biological context, has a clear referent in nature. Now, to join the chorus of linguists: naming is the verbalization of an idea. Therefore, the naming as such does not demand an evaluation of the meaningfulness or credibility of the idea verbalized. In other words, when it comes to the act of naming, it doesn’t matter whether the object named makes biological sense. Now, as a rule, biologists attempt to name only those entities whose real existence in nature can be proven empirically for an obvious functional reason: the key purpose of naming in biology is to make substantiated claims about the natural world.
Figure 9.2 Mounting stands for preserved birds displaying historical labels with the species name, synonyms, geographical origins, and the collector’s name. Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, M. Ohl photo.
Sound Science and Flights of Fancy
Because ideas find themselves verbalized through the act of naming, however, it’s immediately clear that names aren’t reserved exclusively for the hypothetically existing. We can have lots of ideas, plenty of which don’t exist in nature or, for that matter, beyond the realm of the human mind. Shillingsworthia shillingsworthi and Homo perniciosus are examples of names for imaginary biological entities. Their naming doesn’t differ fundamentally from the act of naming real species. The difference is that these two “species” exist solely in Girault’s mind.
An astonishingly great number of names for decidedly fictitious species are found in zoology (i.e., names created according to the nomenclature rules that were published with the clear intention of describing fantastical creatures and made-up species). The motivations for doing something like this vary. Girault wanted to give outlet to his contempt. For others it’s a fun taxonomic exercise to unleash the precepts of anatomy, evolution, and naming on a fictitious diversity. Humans have a natural impulse to invent and write fantastical tales, and this urge appears to extend to taxonomists as well.
One of the most wonderful and endearing classics in imaginary species diversity are the rhinogrades or snouters, members of Rhinogradentia, a fictitious order of mammal described in 1961 in an eighty-page book released by the esteemed scientific publishing house Gustav Fischer Verlag, Stuttgart. The author is Dr. Harald Stümpke, a pseudonym for University of Karlsruhe zoology professor Gerolf Steiner. His book, The Snouters: Form and Life of the Rhinogrades, has appeared in many editions and languages, including a 1967 translation into English. Snouters were incredibly popular among biologists in the 1960s and found their way into various other textbooks. For instance, they’re included as their own order of mammal—just after rodents—in Rolf Siewing’s Zoology Primer, a systematic volume formatted according to the standards of the field. A short sentence stating that the animal’s existence was widely doubted, despite Stümpke’s book, is the only explicit reference to the rhinogrades’ constructed character.
Steiner (a.k.a. Stümpke) was inspired by a poem by Christian Morgenstern, whom Steiner credited with having made early reference to this unknown group of animals he called nasobames:
In truly amusing attention to detail and using what is immediately recognizable as a practiced scientific patois, Steiner exhaustively outlines the story of the animals’ discovery, their geographic distribution and embryonic development, and their extinction following nuclear weapons testing in the (likewise invented) Hy-yi-yi Archipelago. The snouters’ grim atomic obliteration, which came shortly after Stümpke’s purported visit to the islands, was fitting for the time. In 1961, a good decade had passed since the end of World War II and the first use of nuclear weapons against Japan. The fear of further atomic conflict was a prime component of the Cold War, which defined the global politics of the time. Given the context, it comes as no surprise that the Liberal Democratic Party of Germany took Steiner’s zoological humoresque at face value; in the Liberal Democratic Newspaper, distributed primarily in East Germany from 1945 to 1990, the party reported that the wonderfully strange animal world of Hy-yi-yi would have survived, “had we, the peaceable powers, managed in time to implement widespread disarmament and prohibit the production and testing of nuclear weapons.”
Most of Stümpke’s monograph, however, is dedicated to the systematics and taxonomy of the rhinogrades, and the author shines here. With great precision, he creates an inherently consistent image of a species-rich animal group, complete with internal genealogical order.
The diversity of scientific names that Stümpke coined is truly remarkable. He wrote perfect descriptions for 15 families, 26 genera, and 138 species. However, the names are clearly not from the pen of one versed in classical languages, a point that led renowned evolutionary and systematic biologist George Gaylord Simpson to write a review of the book in Science. Although he considered the rhinogrades “the most startling zoological event so far in the 20th century,” he also criticized Stümpke’s name creations as “criminal violations of the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature.” Simpson seized on Stümpke’s tone, lamenting the missing “rotated matrix” (a concept in mathematics that plays no part in zoology), along with the fact that Stümpke’s taxonomy was “painfully phylogenetic.” Simpson also notes that, “it is a custom, if not a duty, for a reviewer to hint that he knows more about the subject than the author and that the book would have been better if he, the reviewer, had taken time out from more important things to write the book himself.”
Other reviewers of Stümpke’s book oriented their analyses on the seeming seriousness of the book and wrote their own commentaries in the argot of scientific book reviews. To this day, Rhinogradentia comes up occasionally in publications that creatively and humorously expand on the snouter universe. For instance, the Max Planck Institute for Limnology in the northern German city of Plön announced a new species discovered in Lake Plön, while French scientists discovered a cache of amazingly well-preserved snouter fossils. Alleged sightings are posted as photos or videos online every so often, and natural history museums curate whole shows on rhinogrades. In 1988, Gerolf Steiner dropped Stümpke for the new pseudonym Karl D. S. Geeste, but working with the same publishing house—the success of the first edition was such that the editor agreed to continue the joke—released a little hundred-page book cataloging the papers, reviews, and further studies that had taken place since the snouters’ discovery.
The central trait unique to all snouters is, “as the name indicates,” a snout known as the “nasarium,”5 which takes on a range of appearances across species and serves as the animals’ primary organ for locomotion and a wide range of other actions. As such, Steiner made an effort to indicate the specific nasal forms and functions in his names. He includes each species’ vernacular name in the description, allowing those readers less familiar with classical languages to understand each name’s derivation (perhaps this was also meant to redress Stümpke’s maladroitness in classical languages, criticized by Simpson as well as “Geeste” in the second book). For instance, Georrhinidia are Burrowing Snouters,6 the genus Holorrhinus represents the Wholesnouters,7 and Hopsorrhinus aureaus is known more commonly as the Golden Snout Leaper.8 Add to that a whole host of inspired name creations such as Archirrhinos haeckelii, Haeckel’s Primitive Snouter, in honor of our old friend Ernst Haeckel.9 Not a bad alternative to Bathybius haeckelii, that doomed primordial soup. Throughout, Steiner’s text is an absolute delight:
Tyrannonasus imperator is especially noteworthy for two reasons: like all polyrrhine species the animal is not particularly swift on nose, and yet it travels at a more rapid pace than the nasobemids. But now, since all polyrrhine species, because of their intranasal pneumatic apparatus, when walking give out a whistling hiss that can be heard from afar, Tyrannonasus is unable to creep silently upon his victims; but—since they flee while he is still at a distance—must first lie quietly in wait and then stride after.10
Figure 9.3 The snouter, or rhinograde, Tyrannonasus imperator. Harald Stümpke, Bau und Leben der Rhinogradentia, Tafel XI (München: Spektrum Akademischer Verlag, 2006). Courtesy of Springer Nature.
And so on, for nearly eighty pages.
Another slightly less celebrated example of an entirely invented monograph by another entirely invented persona is the thirty-four-page description of Eoörnis petrovelox gobiensis, written in 1928 by Augustus C. Fotheringham. Fotheringham—an alias for botanist Lester W. Sharp—reports that the long-disputed existence of this rare bird species had finally been confirmed after a four-year expedition to the Gobi Desert. The local name for the bird was said to be woofen-poof, an onomatopoeic name that captured the sound of the bird taking flight: “a ‘woof’ or ‘whiz’ in the air, followed by a ‘poof’ or ‘shush’ made by the bird’s feet in striking the loose desert sand.” The expedition was led by Brigadier-General Sir Cecil Wemyss-Cholmondeley, Fotheringham serving as its scientific director. The average woofen-poof is approximately 17 centimeters in length and has a beak and throat pouch reminiscent of a pelican’s. It has markedly short, crescent-shaped wings that produce a tone in flight, “three octaves above middle C,” given its rapid wing-beat. The woofen-poof’s plumage consists of small, sand-colored feathers with a smooth, glossy, almost metallic appearance.
As the observant reader will have noticed, the genus name doesn’t conform to the nomenclature rules because it contains a special character. However, the “ö” doesn’t represent an umlaut; instead, it’s a dieresis to indicate the separated syllables of the adjacent “o”s. The correct pronunciation is thus “Eo-ornis,” and the name would have to be rewritten as Eoornis to meet nomenclature requirements. Not Eooernis, although the Code requires that umlauts be replaced by the stem vowel, plus an appended –e in names published before 1985. Because it’s not an umlaut, the dieresis would simply have to be removed, leaving an “o” where once there was an “ö.” However, as will be discussed later, the taxonomic status of Eoörnis petrovelox gobiensis is beyond questionable, and as long as that’s the case, we don’t need to think too seriously about correct notation.
The history of the bird’s discovery dates back 12,000 to 40,000 years to the Cro-Magnon period, as evidenced in the cave paintings of the Dordogne. According to Fotheringham, amulets bearing the woofen-poof’s likeness were found in Tutankhamun’s tomb. A number of narrative accounts of Eoörnis petrovelox gobiensis were also said to exist, written by figures such as Ancient Roman historian Eutropius, Marco Polo, and Thankgod Pillsbury, the alleged ship’s doctor on Captain James Cook’s expeditions in the Pacific Ocean.
Beyond its unique skeletal features, which Fotheringham describes in detail, the woofen-poof is characterized by its unusual lifestyle. It is exceedingly social, living in groups of 25 to 250 individuals. In flight, the birds exhibit their distinctive “Sumerian arrow” formation. Woofen-poofs mate for life, and interestingly, each bird pair will produce twins—a male and a female. Upon reaching maturity, these siblings will then mate and remain paired for life.
Curiously enough, in his 1933–1934 article, “Eugenics and Consanguineous Marriage,” philosopher and anti-Semite Anthony M. Ludovici cited this latter detail of the woofen-poof’s behavior as proof of instinctual incest existing among animals. Sharp’s work on Eoörnis petrovelox gobiensis has also been cited in many renowned scientific journals, usually seriously in tone but with full awareness of its being a “fabrication.” The original booklet has gone through several editions and can still be found in bookstores.
What the snouters and woofen-poofs have in common is that both were created by and primarily for scientists. Both Steiner (a.k.a. Stümpke) and Sharp (a.k.a. Fotheringham) managed to create closed systems of invented information on invented animal groups that emerged in the reader’s mind as believable, detailed worlds. The many editions still appearing today are a testament to the popularity—as well as the plausibility—of the snouter and woofen-poof worlds.
In 1982, paleontologist and evolutionary biologist Dougal Dixon published After Man: A Zoology of the Future, a hugely successful book that established his reputation as an author. It was meant for a wider readership, and, as such, the inspired and well-studied scientific names he coined played only a marginal role. After Man is an extensive, illustrated volume that depicts what the animal world might look like in several million years—fifty, to be exact, at which point humans will have long gone extinct. In the first thirty pages of the book, Dixon gives a quick overview of the salient evolutionary mechanisms at play, as well as the genealogical changes seen in today’s animal world. He emphasizes that these theories, mechanisms, and data form the basis for his projections of the future. Indeed, he applies them to imaginatively develop the “tree of life” beyond its current ending point. Dixon also invents a number of species, providing Latin names for all and colloquial names for many. In text and images reminiscent of old high school biology textbooks, we learn that rats have become the planet’s chief carnivore group. The falanx (Amphimorphodes cynomorphus), for instance, is a dog-sized rat that hunts its prey—the equally fictitious rabbuck—in packs.
Dixon thus allows his imagination to run free but in a scientifically sound way. The antelope—now known as Megalodorcas borealis, or the woolly gigantelope—has evolved into a massive, long-haired creature whose horns grow out in front of its face. The penguin has developed into the largest animal in the world, known as the vortex (Balenornis vivipara). Penguins had moved into niches made available following the extinction of baleen whales many millions of years prior, ultimately producing their own twelve-meter-long species whose beak had developed into a plankton sieve. Although penguins originally laid their eggs on land, Balenornis carries its eggs internally until ready to hatch. These characteristics are reflected in the name: “Balen” refers to whales, especially baleen whales (a small error on Dixon’s part: “Balaen” would be the correct formulation); “ornis” to birds; and “vivipara” to viviparity, or giving birth to living young.
And so life merrily continues in Dixon’s animal world. The young parashrew (Pennatacaudus volitarius) can spread the hairs of its tail into a parachute that allows it to glide for up to 24 hours on summer updrafts in the mountains where it lives. The flunkey (Alesimia lapsus) possesses a flying membrane between its extremities, much like today’s flying squirrels, which will long have died out by then. Florifacies mirabilis, the flooer, is a flightless, largely sedentary bat with bright red ears and nasal flaps. By positioning these colored features skyward and sitting amid foliage, the flooer mimics the blossoms of a particular flower. Insects that land on the imitation, rather than the flower, are the bat’s welcome prey. From ants to antelopes, opossums to ostriches, all have undergone an evolution into the strangest forms. At least that’s how it seems when compared with the fauna currently familiar to us. Beyond the pure joy of zoologically sound invention, Dixon’s message to his readers is: Today’s animals appear familiar, if not normal, to us. But it’s worth taking a step backward and regarding today’s animal world through the eyes of extraterrestrials or early humans. Through this lens, suddenly our animals seem no less weird than Dixon’s extraordinary and not-so-implausible evolutionary advancements.
Figure 9.4 The “Flooer” (Florifacies mirabilis), a ground-living bat, which imitates a flower to attract insects. Dixon, D., After Man: A Zoology of the Future (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1981). Courtesy of Dougal Dixon.
Naming the Lie
From time to time, sandwiched between the more comprehensive real articles, brief fictional descriptions will find their way into scientific journals. The motivation for doing so varies, but it’s usually with humorous intent. The problem that scientific journals face in publishing such entries is their scientific nature—that is, their responsibility to publish only articles that make verifiable claims about the natural world. Because the journals expect this of their authors, readers expect the same of the journal and rely on the belief that every article will meet general scientific standards. Unless directly obvious, fantastical works not based on scientific methods can quickly and often irreparably damage the reputation of a journal.
Austrian entomologist Hans Malicky used this to his advantage. Malicky is known outside Austria as a prominent expert on caddisflies. In the late 1960s, he chaired the Entomological Society of Austria; in this position, he also published the society newsletter, the Entomologische Nachrichtenblatt. The bulletin primarily published anecdotal and not infrequently irrelevant articles on a range of insect-related news items. As its editor, Malicky pushed for raising the scientific standard. The society saw things a bit differently, it has been said, and Malicky was summarily relieved of his post. A short time later, Malicky submitted an article to the society’s other publication, the Zeitschrift der Arbeitsgemeinschaft Österreichischer Entomologen, using the pseudonym Otto Suteminn. The focus of the piece, which appeared in 1969, was two new flea species from Nepal, Ctenophthalmus nepalensis and Amalareus fossorius. At first glance, nothing jumped out as peculiar about the article: two new species names, complete with morphological descriptions, location of discovery, and author. At first glance, no one could tell that it was all completely fabricated, and because none of the manuscripts submitted to either of the society’s journals went through a process of peer review—something Malicky had wanted to change as editor—the new editor didn’t notice anything was amiss either. The article was published. While insiders close to Malicky saw what was happening, it wasn’t until 1972 that a short article was printed in the Entomologische Nachrichtenblatt by F. G. A. M. Smit, a well-known flea researcher at the Natural History Museum in London. Its title was “Notes on Two Fictitious Fleas from Nepal.” Smit went through the original article line by line, showing that most of the information was invented. Not only the fleas, but also their mammal hosts, Canis fossor (literally, the “canine gravedigger”) and Apodemus roseus (the “pink wood mouse”), are both fictitious, although some of the flea species used for comparison are real. With a little imagination (and linguistic access), a number of the discovery locations provided reveal themselves to be thinly concealed expressions in Austrian dialect. Thanks to an Austrian colleague, Smit was able to provide an explanation for these names: “‘Khanshnid Khaib’ probably stands for ‘Kann’s nit geiba’ (cannot exist)” and “‘leg. Z. Minař’ can sound like a very vulgar (unprintable) expression.”11 Whether this form of humor is actually funny must be left to the reader to decide. Despite their debunking, Malicky’s two flea descriptions remain in effect to this day, and Ctenophthalmus nepalensis—the fictitious flea hosted by the fictitious “pink wood mouse”—even has its own Wikipedia page. As for Otto Suteminn—supposedly stationed at a regional museum in Košice, Czechoslovakia—he remained a mystery to Smit. The latter had even sent a letter to Suteminn’s address, requesting to borrow the fleas, but he received no reply, nor had the letter been returned. “Suteminn” itself was a pseudonym for Otto von Moltke, a fictitious knight from the region of Mecklenburg in a book by Karl May—a nineteenth-century adventure writer treasured by Germans and best known for his tales of the American Wild West. At times, the knight secretly retreats to a magical house, where he performs all manner of scientific experiments under the alias “Suteminn.”
In 1978, the Journal of the Herpetological Association of Africa, a journal dedicated to the scientific study of reptiles and amphibians, published the description of Rana magnaocularis, the “pop-eyed frog.” The fictitious author is Rank Fross of the Loyal Ontario Museum, a malapropism of the Royal Ontario Museum in Toronto. It’s a short article, little more than a page in length, composed with the structure and style of a legitimate species description. It opens as follows: “Night collecting along roads in Ontario has revealed a new species of frog strikingly characterized by enormous eyes and a flattened body. The species is described below and the adaptive significance of its diagnostic features are discussed.” The diagnosis: “Eyes enormous, protruding tongue usually extended, body and limbs highly flattened dorso ventrally. Dorso lateral fold absent. Otherwise resembles Rana pipiens.” The species could regularly be found in or alongside busy paved roads, especially in the spring. The discussion section is particularly amusing:
Three questions require attention. Of what significance is the peculiar morphology, why is it restricted to a single habitat and how does it move?
Why is the body so flattened and why are the eyes so large? We believe that these are adaptations to the peculiar habitat. Normally frogs are at least partially hidden from potential predators by reeds, grass or bushes. On the road they are completely exposed, however. In evolving a two-dimensional body, the pop-eyed frog is enabled to escape the attention of all predators excepting those immediately overhead. […]
We were at first puzzled as to how it moved from one place to another, observations on live specimens being lacking. Initially we found the tread-like markings found on the upper surface puzzling. Of what use were the treads in locomotion when they were not in contact with the ground? Analogy with the hoop snake offered a hypothesis; the frogs roll themselves into a ring, insert the extruded tongue in the posterior, and roll themselves neatly along, thereby engaging the treads with the road surface.
The description includes a cartoonish sketch of a frog lying in the street with bulging eyes, its tongue fully extended.
It’s clear that this is a description of the many leopard frogs (Rana pipiens) that are squashed in the road each spring. What’s less clear is whether the name can be considered available, according to the nomenclature rules. There certainly aren’t any amphibian taxonomists who would want to include the name in their species lists. If one used the zoological nomenclature rules as the yardstick, surely it would be possible to find an article violated by this species description, thus rendering the name formally unavailable. Many of the basic requirements appear to have been fulfilled: the description is properly published, and it has a scientific name, diagnosis, description, and explicit designation of type material. It’s highly likely that this flat frog hasn’t really been inventoried as a holotype in the collections of the Royal (or Loyal) Ontario Museum. But it isn’t the purpose of the nomenclature rules to assess the credibility of statements made. Even with serious species descriptions, it’s only in exceptional cases that the inventory number and existence of type material are reviewed.
All that remains, then, is the disqualifying factor used in Girault’s case, namely, that regarding hypothetical concepts. Nowhere does the publication state that Rana magnaocularis is a hypothetical concept, and what makes the situation even stickier is the fact that the description is based—at least potentially—on a real, physical animal. Reading between the lines, one must therefore conclude that the author’s explicit intent was to publish a name for a hypothetical concept, which would thus preclude him from the responsibility of adhering to the nomenclature rules. It’s safe to assume that the scientists affected by this case (i.e., amphibian taxonomists) would welcome this opportunity to banish Rana magnaocularis to the group of unavailable frog names, and it’s likely the author would agree.
It’s no accident that when considering whether Rana magnaocularis is nomenclaturally relevant, the intent of the author should be emphasized so strongly. If the consensus were that the author was naming a hypothetical concept, it’s unlikely that anyone would argue that the name signified a tangible biological entity and was therefore made available through its publication. The question as to the author’s intent becomes tricky in cases where it’s not immediately clear. But what’s even trickier is when the author’s explicit intent is to name a species he or she believes is real but whose existence other scientists doubt or view as totally hypothetical.
These two criteria—the author’s intent and the physical existence of a biological basis—could actually be enough to separate the wheat from chaff. When it comes down to it, however, it’s anything but easy, and the Loch Ness Monster will show us why.
Since the sixth century, there have been reports of a large animal—or even a group of large animals—in Loch Ness, a deep freshwater lake in the Scottish Highlands. Along with the Yeti and Bigfoot, the monster known as Nessie is one of the best-known zoological mysteries studied by cryptozoologists. The field of cryptozoology examines legends and myths about large animals for their substance, guided by the belief that a significant number of folktales worldwide are based on truly existent but well-hidden animal species. As one of these mysterious mythical creatures, Nessie has grown enormously popular and plays a huge role in the Scottish tourism industry. Alleged sightings are reported to this day, but even systematic searches using sonar and automatic cameras (a necessary strategy, given the unfathomable depth of Loch Ness, which consequently contains by far the most water of all Scottish lakes) have failed to turn up indisputable proof of the existence of an unusually large animal inhabiting the loch.
One of the most widely circulated theories about Nessie is the suggestion that it’s a surviving plesiosaur—part of a group of sea reptiles that otherwise went extinct at the end of the Cretaceous Period, itself the final chapter of the Mesozoic, or the planet’s Middle Age. Plesiosaurs are characterized by an oblong body, long neck with a small head, and four large, paddle-like swimming extremities. The long neck, in particular, is a regularly recurring motif in popular representations of Nessie. And while there are plenty of scientific reasons that speak against the possible existence of a Plesiosaurus or plesiosaur-type creature in Loch Ness (such as the lake’s geological history or its having too little water and too few nutritional resources, even for a small population), the image of the aquatic dinosaur seems to have become permanently fixed to Nessie.
Many images allegedly show that the Loch Ness Monster exists. The first was taken in 1934 by R. K. Wilson, a respected surgeon, and laid the foundation for the plesiosaur myth. It depicts a large, long-necked creature gliding through the water. The photo was printed in the Daily Mail in 1934 and considered by some to constitute conclusive evidence for the existence of Nessie. However, in 1994, a rigorous study of the image revealed that Wilson had faked the photograph with the help of some accomplices.
The best-known images of Nessie in recent decades were automatic underwater photos taken by patent judge Robert Rines and team. The group produced around 2,000 photos, which were taken in brief, regular intervals during an expedition in 1972 and another in 1975. Six of the photos contained noticeable forms, and of the six, two supposedly showed Nessie. The photos—which are rather grainy, despite their having been extensively retouched using the computer technology of the day—show what the authors were convinced were rhomboidal fins, as well as part of the body of a large animal. Using the camera’s magnification, it was calculated that the back right fin was approximately two meters in length.
Based on some of these underwater photos, as well as sonar diagrams created around the same time, Rines and Sir Peter Scott—a photographer and conservationist—decided to formally describe and name the monster of Loch Ness. They published the description in Nature, one of the world’s most respected scientific journals, which guaranteed them international attention. The scientific name they selected was Nessiteras rhombopteryx, which is derived as follows: the first part of Nessiteras is obvious, referring to Nessie and thus the name of its home, Loch Ness. The second part ostensibly derives from the Greek teras; the authors write that since Homer, this term has been used to mean “a marvel or wonder, and in a concrete sense for a range of monsters which arouse awe, amazement and often fear.” The specific epithet is a combination of the Greek rhombos, for rhomboidal, and pteryx, for fins or wings. Scott and Rines write that, literally translated, Nessiteras rhombopteryx means “the Ness wonder with a diamond fin.”
The existence of the Loch Ness Monster is anything but obvious, but Scott and Rines substantiate their comprehensive description with information from their photos and other sightings to date. Granted, at first glance there’s not much to see in the photos: a few shadowy and light fields bleed into each other, making any discernible forms hard to interpret. A larger photo shows a white structure that seems almost to suggest a horned head, despite the image’s flaws. Scott and Rines draw what they can from the photos: they describe the approximately two-meter-long fin (the right rear?), areas of the back and belly displaying rough skin texture, and maybe a few ribs. These two small photos, which the authors believe exhibit these structures, represent the actual basis for the Nessiteras rhombopteryx description. All other information provided is guesswork. Based on a fin length of two meters, and with the help of the calibrated photographs, Nessie is said to be 15 to 20 meters in length, with a neck three to four meters long and a small head, which might feature a few horn-like protrusions. The spotty description is completed by two reconstructions that depict a plesiosaurus-type animal, whose body is rather fat and ungainly around the front extremities. The authors pointedly avoid the question as to which animal group Nessie would belong to. The existence of the rhomboidal fins means it would be a vertebrate, no question. According to Scott and Rines, there are no living whale species with even remotely similar fins. D’accord. All that leaves us with is a reptile of some sort, but as the authors concede, any more precise definition would be pure speculation.
Figure 9.5 Photograph taken with a strobe flash in Loch Ness on June 20, 1975, showing the head and neck, 7 to 12 feet in length, of Nessiteras rhombopteryx. According to the authors, adjacent frames, taken 1 minute before and after, show nothing. Reprinted by permission from Macmillan Publishers Ltd: NATURE (vol. 258, Scott, P., Rines, R., Naming the Loch Ness Monster), copyright (1975).
Scott and Rines could easily foresee that the description of Nessiteras rhombopteryx would be met with criticism. They point out that the nomenclature rules allow species descriptions based on photographs, and that they had to rely on this allowance because unfortunately there wasn’t any type material for Nessie. This isn’t entirely true because technically speaking all that’s missing is the physically available holotype. There was, however, most certainly a type specimen from August 8, 1972, onward because they took a picture of it.
At the end of the description, Scott and Rines state that it “had been calculated” that the biomass available in Loch Ness was sufficient to sustain animals of this size, given the ample populations of salmon, sea trout, and large eels at their disposal. They also believe it possible that 12,000 years ago, at which point Loch Ness was an estuary, it was cut off from the ocean by an encroaching isthmus. A small population of Nessiteras rhombopteryx could thus have been isolated and contained within Loch Ness, where they’ve been living ever since.
It’s worth noting that Scott and Rines open their article with an explanation as to why they want to name the Loch Ness Monster in the first place. Schedule 1 of the Conservation of Wild Creatures and Wild Plants Act, passed by the UK Parliament in 1975, extends full protection to any animal whose survival in nature is threatened. To fall into this category, the organisms must have both a scientific and a colloquial name. Although Scott and Rines grant that Nessie’s existence remains controversial among specialists, they propose to operate under the principle of “better safe than sorry.” Accordingly, if lawmakers are to undertake measures to protect this species of no more than a few individuals (at best)—should its existence ever actually be proven—then it should be acknowledged, they reason, that its inclusion in Schedule 1 has already been cemented through its formal naming.
It’s not unprecedented for a possibly fictitious organism to fall under official protection. In 1969, Skamania County in Washington State put Bigfoot on the list of protected species. Bigfoot (also known in Canada as Sasquatch) is the legendary ape-man of the Rockies and Appalachians; alleged sightings continue to this day, but its existence has yet to be proven through indisputable evidence. Various theories regarding Bigfoot’s systematic assignment have been discussed. One of the most popular ideas is that Bigfoot is a descendant of Gigantopithecus, an extinct genus of giant ape from Southeast Asia known to us only through fossils. The Yeti, or Abominable Snowman, is also thought to be related to Gigantopithecus and, thus, to Bigfoot. In his book Big Footprints, anthropologist and Bigfoot researcher Grover S. Krantz, who died in 2002, discusses the plausibility of the Bigfoot and Sasquatch legends and suggests a few vague possibilities for scientific names. Should Bigfoot be proven to belong to Gigantopithecus, then Gigantopithecus canadensis would suggest itself as an appropriate choice. Should Bigfoot ultimately require its own genus, then it should be called Gigantanthropus, presumably with the same specific epithet, canadensis. Krantz also considers a possible connection between Bigfoot and Australopithecus, an extinct genus of early humans found in Africa, which would lead to the name Australopithecus canadensis. Gordon Strasenburgh, another Bigfoot expert, had already published in 1971 on potential family ties between Bigfoot and another genus of hominids, resulting in an altogether different name: Paranthropus eldurrelli.
But let’s return to the question of whether Nessiteras rhombopteryx is nomenclaturally available, which remains unanswered. Is it a valid name, according to the zoological nomenclature rules? Description, diagnosis, name, publication—check, check, check, check. The discussion is therefore focused instead on whether Nessiteras rhombopteryx names a hypothetical concept, in which case it wouldn’t fall under the purview of zoological nomenclature. Many people would surely assert that Nessie is a creature of myth and legend, lacking a biological manifestation in Loch Ness or anyplace else on Earth, which would therefore indicate a hypothetical concept. However, an important tenet of taxonomy is that, first and foremost, what is published is valid. Based on the publication, there’s no doubt that both Scott and Rines are thoroughly convinced that Nessie exists. In other words, the description of Nessiteras rhombopteryx was not published explicitly for a hypothetical concept, and it’s doubtful that the opinion held by many, if not most, scientists—that is, that Nessie is not real—could be reason enough to strike the name from the list of animal species in Great Britain. So there’s a lot to suggest that Nessiteras rhombopteryx can be accepted as a real, earnest, and, yes, valid name.
Interestingly, Scott and Rines compare their new species Nessiteras rhombopteryx with other mythical sea serpents, but specifically those that have also been formally named. The oldest is the Massachusetts Sea Serpent, named Megophias monstrosus in 1817 by naturalist Constantine Samuel Rafinesque-Schmaltz. It wasn’t until 1958 that Bernard Heuvelmans—the founder of cryptozoology and one of its most colorful characters—described Megalotaria longicollis, another fabled species with the appearance of a plesiosaur said to live in North American waters. After comparing their photos to the other species’ descriptions, however, Scott and Rines conclude that the older names aren’t applicable to the “owner of the hind flipper in the photographs.”
Bernard Heuvelmans did more than just provide an American sea serpent with a name. Following the Second World War, Heuvelmans—who was born in Normandy in 1916 and was torn for many years between his two great passions, jazz and biology—began to systematically study enigmatic, mythical animal species. His two-volume Sur la Piste des Bêtes Ignorées (On the Track of Unknown Animals) from 1955 was a bestseller and made him famous overnight. The book provided the cornerstone of modern cryptozoology.
In this work and others, Heuvelmans published scientific names for a host of mythical creatures whose existence is disputed. In 1969, for instance, he described Homo pongoides based on the so-called Minnesota Iceman, a humanoid body frozen in a block of ice that was exhibited in malls and state fairs throughout the United States and Canada in the 1960s and 1970s. Heuvelmans believed that Homo pongoides represented a human species closely related to the Neanderthals that had presumably gone undetected until somehow being shot in the Vietnam War. There’s a lot to suggest that the Minnesota Iceman was a hoax.
Like the Minnesota Iceman, the Yeti also has Heuvelmans to thank for its scientific name: Dinanthropoides nivalis. Heuvelmans translated the name as the “terrible anthropoid of the snows.”12 If the Yeti, like Bigfoot, potentially represented a survivor of the extinct giant ape genus Gigantopithecus, then Dinanthropoides would be its younger synonym because the former name was published in 1935 by Gustav von Koenigswald. If this were the case, Heuvelmans concludes, then the Yeti’s scientific name would be adjusted accordingly to Gigantopithecus nivalis.
In this fashion, Heuvelmans works his way through the world of cryptids—the world of marvelous animals that so determinedly elude human detection. Not all are as popular as the Yeti, but Heuvelmans wants to use proper scientific names as the key to acknowledging their existence: the long-necked sea cow, 18 meters in length and quite possibly a sea lion (Megalotaria longicollis); the merhorse, an 18-meter-long, whiskered sea monster (Halshippus olaimagni); and the “Super Otter” (Hyperhydra egedei), a sea serpent twenty to thirty meters in length resembling an otter.
Whether Heuvelmans’s names would pass the test of the zoological nomenclature rules is questionable. But there is as little possibility here to oppose the status of a hypothetical concept as there was for Nessie. Even if Heuvelmans were the only person worldwide to believe the cryptids he named actually exist—which he isn’t, by the way—one would have to accept that the names were published for biological entities believed to truly exist. Whether parts of the Code beyond this stipulation were violated would have to be tested for each individual case.
Let us return to a central theme of this book: the Code is a convention developed over many years and by many minds, meant to standardize and thus simplify the management of droves of taxonomic data. How taxonomy—the science of recognition, description, and naming—relates to nomenclature—the rules for creating and managing names—is a regular topic of debate. In most cases of species description, the entities addressed by taxonomy and nomenclature coincide so elegantly that it can be difficult to tell the difference between them in everyday scientific work. The taxonomic process of species recognition and description is so closely intertwined with the naming process that it doesn’t seem necessary to differentiate between the two. Both taxonomy and naming are trained on the same object: a species or other biological entity waiting to be both described and named. As for “naming nothing,” however, the difference is especially striking. In these cases of cryptozoology, the object range for taxonomy is empty because most systematic scientists would agree that the species being described do not exist. The process of naming, however, continues as it always has and as it always should. It’s a linguistic process not an empirical one—it needn’t be bound to reality. Empirically oriented taxonomy and linguistic naming finally overlap when it comes to the range of validity determined by the zoological nomenclature rules. The Code applies only to those names intended for tangible biological entities. By excluding names for hypothetical concepts, the verdict has been issued for most of the names mentioned in this chapter. They don’t fall under the purview of the nomenclature rules and therefore don’t belong in the catalog of life. Were a bureaucratic taxonomist to adopt the view that some or even all of these names were formally relevant to the nomenclature, the question would remain as to what could be gained from this stripe of formalism. Whether the list of all organism names includes a few dozen cryptids—which could turn out to be either fairytale creatures or actual species—is mostly irrelevant to the big questions surrounding the inventory of global species diversity. Considered within this context, names like these are merely the stuff of academic jest, humor notwithstanding.
The publication of Nessiteras rhombopteryx in Nature, one of the best-known and most highly regarded scientific journals in the world, would ultimately prove to be its Disaster of the Year in 1975. The publication, which came out in early December, was followed by a global media response: the whole world was talking about Nessie and its new name. It was precisely the type of media presence a scientific journal like Nature had always dreamed of—and all because of a single scientific article. Before the year was out, however, Scottish parliamentarian Nicholas Fairbairn made a surprising discovery. He had played around with the letters of Nessiteras rhombopteryx and found it was an anagram of “monster hoax by Sir Peter S.” He informed the New York Times by letter, and by December 18, the Times had printed a brief note on the matter, citing the anagram as proof that Nessiteras rhombopteryx was a canard. For Nature, although Rines had countered that the letters could also be rearranged to spell “Yes, both pix are monsters. R.,” it was reason enough to realize it had been given the runaround. We’ll never know whether Robert Rines and Peter Scott had intentionally planted this anagram or it was merely a happy accident. Certainly, that a name formed with such serious scientific intent should contain within itself an admission of deceit constitutes a particularly beautiful example of the art of naming.
Figure 9.6 A jumble of old labels from the mammal collection. Museum für Naturkunde Berlin, M. Ohl photo.
