The Nature of Defoe

Perhaps the most difficult comparison between a main character and nature is found in Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. That’s why I saved this one for last. It isn’t difficult due to a heavy depth of character—in fact, it’s quite the opposite. As far as I’m concerned, Crusoe is hardly a stand-alone man. He’s too shallow; he’s less of a person and more of a plot device. Crusoe is about as deep as a kiddy pool. But, to each his own, I suppose.

Even in Crusoe’s vapid monologues, there’s quite a lot to be found regarding man’s relationship to nature, involving an interesting concept called the “Noble Savage”. The Noble Savage is an idealistic look at detachment from humanity, the basic notion that humans are born pure and corrupted by society. As someone who’s been around devious small children before, I can’t say I agree with that, but it’s intriguing nonetheless. Crusoe himself isn’t a Noble Savage—specifically, a Noble Savage is an outsider, revered for his innocence and isolation. Crusoe, though, and his actions, support the ideals of a Noble Savage.

His story begins with a baseless desire: exploration. It’s made clear in the beginning of the book that society—his parents, his peers—aren’t necessarily fond of Crusoe’s yearning to be at sea. Even Crusoe himself questions his desires, when confronted with a less-than-welcoming storm:

“I made many vows and resolutions that if it would please God to spare my life this one voyage, If I ever once got my foot upon dry land again, I would go directly home to my father, and never set it into a ship again while I lived; that I would take his advice, and never run myself into such miseries as these anymore... And I resolved that I would, like a true repenting prodigal, go home to my father,”

It’s safe to say that Crusoe’s decision to go to sea wasn’t the best idea. His aspirations fly in the face of logic itself, but Crusoe follows them anyway—a relatively played-out trope, but I can forgive that, given that the book was written three and a half centuries ago. The key point here is that despite all the pressures of society to remain within its grasp, Crusoe leaves anyway. And, inadvertently or not, things start to look up. Not long after being stranded upon an island with no human contact, Crusoe begins to see the bounty of nature, lush and plentiful around him.

“How mercifully can our Creator treat His creatures, even in those conditions in which they seemed to be overwhelmed in destruction! How can He sweeten the bitterest providences, and give us cause to praise Him for dungeons and prisons! What a table was here spread for me in a wilderness where I saw nothing at first but to perish for hunger!” 

To the same god who Crusoe once prayed to for liberation from his silly desire of being at sea, he now wholeheartedly thanks for the situation presented before him. Rebuking his prior folly, Crusoe thinks to himself, what an idiot he was—there was all this, right in front of him, and all he could do was starve. But the efficacy of his escapades exponentially enhances. Crusoe takes command of nature around him, and recreates a society that rivals the one which he left so long ago.

“My island was now peopled, and I thought myself very rich in subjects; and it was a merry reflection, which I frequently made, how like a king I looked. First of all, the whole country was my own mere property, Baso that I had an undoubted right of dominion. Secondly, my people were perfectly subjected. I was absolute lord and lawgiver, they all owed their lives to me, and were ready to lay down their lives, if there had been occasion of it, for me.”

How far have you come indeed, Crusoe, from the lonely stranded cabin boy who ended up on an island? You’re a king now. You’ve got a castle, you’ve got a kingdom, and you’ve got peasants who’d drop dead on command for you. And you’re isolated beyond all communication with the rest of the world. In the small universe you’ve made for yourself, you might as well be god.

By the end of the book, Crusoe and nature have entirely switched places. Before, Crusoe was subdued to a crying mess by one storm, and now, he has his own world. Crusoe did what Hemingway would say is impossible—he conquered nature. Not only that, he did it while breaking Hemingway’s #1 rule of manliness—he cracked under pressure. A lot. But nonetheless, he managed it. And with that in mind, I propose a new title for future editions of Defoe’s lovely novel:

“From the vapid disarray of a one-dimensional kid’s TV show host, to the calculated fanaticism of an evil genius, the success story of Robinson Crusoe—how to conquer nature in six easy steps.”