Whenever I read a book that isn’t great but merely good, the writer will fall into two categories. The first is where the writer could be great, if only some trimming and tweaking were done. Frank McCourt falls into this category with his classic memoir Angela’s Ashes, for while the book is filled with terrific scenes and description, structurally the book is weak. The second involves a writer that, despite being good technically, lacks the “highs” of the first writer. Macfarlane falls into this second category, for while The Wild Places is technically a good, solid book, there is something missing from the writing that no amount of tweaking could ever make it a great work. Many of the reviewers have been raving about how “poetic” Macfarlane’s prose is. Just to give you part of a blurb from the back of the book: “Boldly celebrates places that aren’t supposed to exist, and in prose that is at times very nearly as vivid and beautiful as the thing itself”—Rebecca Solnit.

This kind of blurb really aggravates me because of the selective, tip-toe aroundish word choices such as: “at times” and “very nearly” (since reviewers never want to come out and have a real opinion lest offend anyone), but all that is beside the point. Writing today has gotten so bland and dull, that when you have some writer with the slightest twist of phrase, he or she is immediately labeled “poetic.” In short, The Wild Places has a handful of memorable moments and some nice turns of phrases, but I wouldn’t label Macfarlane a “poetic” writer.

Just to give an example, here is probably the worst paragraph from the book:

When I woke in the corrie above Doo Lough that night, at some point in the small hours, the cloud had passed away, and the moon was pouring its light down on to the valley. I was thirsty, so I took my metal cup and walked to the side of the corrie, and held the cup beneath the spill of one of the waterfalls. The water hit the tin and set it ringing like a bell. I drank the cold, clear rainwater, and looked down over the dark valley. The shadows of the mountains on either side of the lough were cast over its floor in clear black shapes.

Not exactly Loren Eiseley. Now, this isn’t bad per se, but note the predictable modifiers that tread into cliché and the straightforwardness of the scene. There are not rapturous turns of phrasings here, just matter of fact description that is in no way “poetic.” The back of the book even states: “With lyrical elegance and passion, he entwines history and landscape in a bewitching evocation of wildness and its vital importance.”