What does it mean to "call things by their proper names," especially when it comes to the natural world? Naming things might seem like a trivial task, but it’s far more complex than it appears. For example, the Lapwing—also known as the Green Plover or Peewit—has multiple names depending on where you are in the world. If you step outside your country, the confusion only grows. Every species, from birds to the parasite living in the intestines of the endangered Tasmanian Devil, needs a name. But how do we decide on the "proper" one?
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This matter was addressed by John Wright in The naming of the shrew. What follows is a summary. I very much recommend John's book for a humorous and informative take on the subject.
Before we dive into the intricacies of naming, we need to first address a more fundamental question: what exactly are we naming? At first glance, the answer seems obvious. A duck is a duck if it walks, looks, and quacks like a duck, right? This is the morphological species concept, where a species is defined by physical or behavioural traits.
However, this system isn't perfect. Think about humans—there's a lot of variation between individuals, yet we’re all one species. Then there’s the biological species concept, which defines species by their ability to breed and produce fertile offspring. But even here, exceptions occur. For instance, Wigeon and American Wigeon, or Tufted Duck and Pochard, can interbreed. Things get even more complex when dealing with species that reproduce asexually or hybrids like Brewster's Warbler and Chestnut-sided Warbler, and inter-generic tri hybrid.
Some scientists argue for the phylogenetic species concept, where species are seen as branches of the evolutionary tree. But how big should a branch be? Should it include only closely related species like Wigeon, Mallard, Gadwall, and Pintail? Or should it be broader, grouping all ducks together? Then there’s the more humorous but brutally honest cynical species concept, which suggests that a species is simply whatever a competent taxonomist says it is.
A Journey Through History: Naming Nature
The quest to name and categorize life dates back to ancient times, beginning with Aristotle, who identified 500 different kinds of plants and animals. When the Roman Empire fell, much of his work was lost to the West but preserved and translated into Arabic. It returned to Europe during the 11th to 13th centuries, but by then, many more species had been discovered, making naming an increasingly complex task. At its most cumbersome, a plant like the Dog Rose could be formally named Rosa sylvestris alba cum rubore, folio glabro—hardly an efficient system.
Enter Carl Linnaeus, an 18th-century Swedish botanist who revolutionised the naming process with his binomial system. In 1753, he published Species Plantarum, giving each plant species a two-word name, and later extended the system to animals in his work Systema Naturae in 1758. This simple, yet effective system still serves as the foundation of modern biological naming.
The Rise of Nomenclature Rules
By the mid-19th century, biologists realized that clear rules were needed to keep species names organised. With species being discovered at a rapid pace, and global communication being slow, it was common for the same species to be given multiple names or for different species to share the same one. Unfortunately, botanists and zoologists didn’t always cooperate, and two different sets of naming rules emerged: the International Code of Zoological Nomenclature (ICZN) and the International Code of Botanical Nomenclature (ICBN). In 2011, the ICBN evolved into the International Code of Nomenclature (ICN), as it covered not just plants, but also fungi and algae.
Despite the differences between the two codes, several core principles remain consistent:
All species must have a two-part scientific name.
If two names are given to the same species, the first published name takes priority.
If the first name cannot be objectively determined, the name used in the first subsequent publication becomes the correct one.
Once published, a name cannot be reused for another species.
Names must be linked to a physical specimen, known as a "type specimen."
Should We Move Away from Latin?
Some argue that it’s time to replace the Latin-based naming system. Critics claim it’s too unfamiliar and difficult to pronounce, especially since Latin is a "dead" language. But the fact is, any language would seem foreign to non-native speakers—Linnaeus could have chosen Swedish, which would have been just as confusing to English speakers. Moreover, scientific names don’t rely solely on Latin. Ancient Greek is often used (e.g., Calopteryx meaning "beautiful wing"), and modern languages like Welsh have even found their way into species names, such as the Ghost Slug, Selenochlamys ysbryda ("ysbryd" is Welsh for ghost).
Children, who enthusiastically pronounce names like Carcharodontosaurus, are hardly deterred by Latin. The real beauty of this system lies in its stability. Latin has stood the test of time and provides a universal language for scientists worldwide. Replacing it with English, or any other language, would create endless complications. For instance, renaming the Blackbird (Turdus merula) as a "thrush" would make sense taxonomically, but would cause confusion as Turdus infuscatus, the Black Thrush, already exists in the Caribbean.
Embracing the Binomial System
For all its quirks, the binomial system has proven to be a universal and reliable method for naming species. It ensures consistency across languages and regions, helping scientists communicate about the vast diversity of life. So while it might not always be perfect, the system that Linnaeus introduced in the 18th century is here to stay. Rather than seeking to replace it, we should embrace it—and maybe even celebrate its peculiarities.
In the end, calling things by their proper names, as Confucius suggested, is the beginning of wisdom. And when it comes to the natural world, those names are more important than ever.
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