Chekhov’s Mistess

Henry Petroski

Recently on my lunch break I’ve been piecing my way through Henry Petroski’s Pushing the Limits. It’s divided into two halves, one dealing only with bridges and the other with all sorts of engineered pieces, ranging from skyscrapers to dams to fuel cells. The book is perfect for my half hour break because it consists of 24 pieces, each about ten pages long, and I have just enough time to casually enjoy easy work. 

These are the kinds of essays that reward patience, not because they are difficult, but because they’re written in such a calm, deliberate manner that they persuade the reader to slow down and enjoy.

The engineer in Petroski is evident as he quietly, but proudly, discusses some of the most marvelous structures on Earth. Pushing the Limits, like many of Petroski’s other books, could only have been written by a trained engineer because of the technical knowledge and grounding in science required by the subject matter. Yet, equally, this book could only have been written by an engineer because of the clear admiration lavished on its technological subjects, the same kind that Ansel Adams applied to his prints or Nabokov his books. 

Take, for instance, Petroski’s description of construction on Confederation Bridge, a 13-kilometer span that connects Prince Edward Island to the Canadian mainland:

Throughout construction, on the ferry ride to P.E.I., itself a sinuous route from dock to dock, regular and first-time passengers alike tended to list the vessel by congregating portside so they could view the bridge in progress . . . Early in the project, some ferry riders gazed wistfully at the still wide and untouched stretch of water in the middle of the strait. . . . Pier bases and shafts, cantilever and drop-in girders, in varying stages of production, were aligned in rigid rows with the concrete tracks and rail lives along which they would be carried by the turtlelike crawling machinery . . . The construction of the bridge was the talk of the ferry and the island, and guided tours of the construction yard were popular with residents and tourists alike. 

Reading this, I can imagine Petroski as one of the ferry passengers eagerly crowding up against the side to catch sight of the mammoth bridge under construction. I see him on Prince Edward Island, smiling as he talks up the bridge and tours it, relishing the work going on. This prose isn’t bombastic or effusive (although given the scope of the bridge being built, it could be). Instead Petroski lets the facts, and the undeniable pride in his words, speak for themselves.

And what facts they are. I’ve learned that a miles-long pontoon bridge in Seattle was destroyed one Thanksgiving weekend when workers left the hatches to the pontoons open, allowing water to enter in. That America alone contains more than 500,000 bridges. That the French enjoy testing new bridges by filling them up with loaded semis stacked end-to-end so that engineers can measure how much the bridge bends under the weight.

Currently, of course, there is something of a cottage industry in the kind of book that Petroski writes, knowledgeable histories of somewhat obscure topics. Some of these books desperately flail around for relevance, straightjacketing their subjects into ridiculous world-historic roles that they neither want nor deserve. It’s as though the authors or publishers are afraid that no one will care about something that—gasp—hasn’t destroyed an empire or killed thousands or underwritten some great cultural advance. Petroski is refreshing because his books are the opposite: although his topics include some of the most significant tools and structures in the modern world, he rarely says why they are important. More often than not, the import of Petroski’s topic is clear simply because of the thoughtful way in which Petroski chooses to write about it. 

As much as I’m enjoying Pushing the Limits, I think that Petroski’s earlier book, The Book on the Bookshelf, is a superior work. Pushing the Limits was culled together from columns Petroski wrote for American Scientist and although certain themes emerge from essay to essay, Petroski doesn’t really follow a certain thread of thought all the way through like he does in The Book on the Bookshelf.

In On the Bookshelf, Petroski examines the symbiotic evolution of books and the shelves on which they are stored. Going back to the times when humanity used scrolls, Petroski shows how books and bookshelves changed to suit the needs of those who used them. For example, monks used to house books in shelves next to windows so that they could easily read and copy a book’s words. This is because, to ward off theft in a time when books were rare objects, monks chained their books to bookcases. 

In addition to unearthing some delightful facts (there were once desks set up with revolving wheels that held several books at once), Petroski demonstrates interesting principals about design. By tracing the co-evolution of books and bookshelves, Petroski shows how responsive these objects that have been indispensable for centuries have been to the fluid society that surrounds them. Although we never think of a bookshelf as being any other way than we now see it, Petroski demonstrates just how much history and change underlie this everyday object. And once again, Petroski’s prose demonstrates a quiet admiration for an appreciated item:

Indeed, if nature abhors a vacuum, most book lovers seem to abhor an empty shelf, or even a narrow gap in one, judging from their propensity to keep buying new titles. . . . Some book owners see “every hole in the shelf a crater.” When the craters have been filled, kitchen and pantry cabinets can be commandeered in the fight to find bookshelf space, and a family’s eating habits can be changed. . . . In short, even the most crowded homes and apartments always have room for more books, though that space might not be in the form of traditional bookshelves. 

I appreciate Petroski’s books because they are thoughtful examinations of everyday objects. They show me things I might never have known about objects that are integral to my world, things that I probably take for granted every day. This information is interesting and, perhaps, useful even, as Petroski’s works have given me a greater appreciation for the thought and care that the best engineers make commonplace so that their designs are useful to humanity. But what may be best about Petroski is the way in which he writes his books. By their very nature they remind me to pause a bit in each day and simply take pride in something that I appreciate, something that I need not extol or adulate, but simply come into contact with, to enjoy.

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About this Post

• Posted by: Bud Parr
• Date: January 16, 2005
• Filed Under:
  Wise Men Fish Here: Literature

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