Роман Нины Шайлер «Открой шлюзы» наделяет реку правосубъектностью в суде

Getting your Trinity Audio player ready... San Anselmo author Nina Schuyler’s new novel, “Open the Floodgates,” is a remarkable, genre-blurring novel that invites readers to reconsider the boundaries between human and nonhuman, self and environment. It’s a brilliant feat of storytelling that captures both the fragility of our environment and our duty to protect it. In this inventive and moving book, Schuyler crafts a story where a river, depicted as a sentient being, recounts its history, the life it sustains, the harm caused by human actions and its rights to exist and flourish. As River seeks legal recognition in a gripping courtroom drama, the narrative tackles weighty questions around justice, responsibility and our bond with the living world. It makes a compelling case for a new relationship with nature — one that respects its rights and agency. The structure of the novel flows like its central character, moving dynamically between perspectives: the river itself; the conflicted judge, Larry Skolnick; passionate witnesses like George, Hazel and Ed; and the corporate Goliath, Z Corporation. A longtime admirer of Schuyler’s work, I had the pleasure of corresponding with the author about “Open the Floodgates” to discuss the legal, philosophical and literary currents running through her novel. To capture the intricate relationship between humanity and nature, Schuyler adopted a polyphonic approach that gives agency to human and nonhuman characters alike, ranging from court witnesses to animals and trees. While breaking away from conventional narration felt daunting at first, Schuyler tells me that she saw it as a necessary shift toward viewing nature as an equal partner rather than a passive object. “I wanted the story to feel like water swishing; the average adult human, after all, is 60% water,” Schuyler said. “Climate change is complex, and moving away from the Western view of nature as an object required a new kind of narrative. I played around, and the voices proliferated to pigeons, dogs, horses, witnesses and cottonwood trees.” Combining lyrical prose with sharp dialogue, Schuyler gives River a raw, poetic voice that captures both the beauty of nature and the ruin of human pollution. When asked about developing River’s unique voice, Schuyler points to real-world precedents in New Zealand, India and Ecuador that granted legal personhood to rivers. She approached River like any other character — imagining how bewildering and urgent it would feel for an ancient, moving body of water to sit in a rigid courtroom. “To win and live, it has to go to court, but the essence of a river is movement; that’s its way of being in the world,” she said. This movement is reflected in Schuyler’s narrative, where she incorporates elements of shape poetry to weave River’s consciousness into visual riffles and currents across the page. The novel’s characters are complex and memorable, each wrestling with their own hopes, fears and complicity in neglecting to protect River’s health and well-being. Schuyler’s inventive use of nonhuman points of view — including animals and even trees — expands the reader’s sympathies, compassion and sense of awe. Balancing a fluid stream of consciousness with a stringent trial setting required a careful ear for narrative rhythm. Drawing inspiration from Virginia Woolf’s ability to shift between internal lyrical states and concrete realities, Schuyler shares with me that she used the trial setting to anchor her floating narrative styles with conflict and structure. Achieving that balance, she says, meant constantly sensing when the language needed to return from poetic soaring to grounded action — or, as Schuyler puts it, “when does it need to come back to the judge pounding the gavel on his desk, yelling for order?” Reading “Open the Floodgates” highlights a vital evolution in contemporary literature: the move from viewing nature as a passive backdrop to treating it as an active participant in storytelling. By grounding a speculative novel in real-world jurisprudence — such as the Rights of Nature movements across New Zealand and Ecuador — Schuyler bridges the gap between environmental theory and stewardship. Her novel reminds us that legal systems are not absolute truths; they are human constructs designed to decide who belongs and who’s excluded. When River enters the halls of justice, it exposes the absurdities of defining life strictly through human utility. The story does not offer simple solutions and does not cushion the reader from the consequences of ecological damage. Instead, it leaves us with an urgent imperative: to widen our circle of compassion beyond our own species before the currents of climate change wash away the foundations we’ve built. Schuyler’s background in law and philosophy shaped her approach to these legal boundaries. She points to the rigid distinctions embedded in traditional legal systems. Under Western law, she says, nature is reduced to property, granting owners the right to reroute rivers, clear habitats or mine mountains at will. Shifting a natural feature like a river into the category of legal personhood transforms everything, allowing designated guardians to take legal action to protect its right to exist, thrive and regenerate. For Schuyler, blending these fields confronts a fundamental question that legal frameworks often take for granted: “I think we’re still grappling with what, exactly, a person is.” By assigning each character a distinct relationship to the natural world, Schuyler captured the complexity of environmental attitudes without descending into didacticism. The varied perspectives allow the author to mix diverse linguistic registers, ranging from judicial legalese to the observations of local wildlife. But writing the corporate perspective took an unexpected turn. “I was particularly surprised by the evolution of Gary, the defense attorney, representing corporate and agricultural interests,” she said. Personally, I was struck by the parallel between the nonhuman world’s battle to speak in court and the historic disenfranchisement of marginalized people. Schuyler notes that this connection is woven directly into her cast of characters, such as Hazel, a former teacher witnessing system decay, and Ed, an Indigenous man weighed down by generations of institutional injustice. When traditional hierarchies are established, power imbalances inevitably follow —a dynamic the novel directly confronts. As Schuyler explains, the river granted personhood is a challenge to the traditional power structure and “that reverberates in the courtroom, frustrating and sometimes paralyzing the legal process.” The novel’s experimental structure and shifting perspectives may challenge readers who prefer linear, single-voice narratives. Yet this approach is essential; it reflects the book’s core message that all living things — and all human experiences — are inextricably intertwined. Schuyler’s novel is a timely and moving contribution to the ongoing conversation about our responsibilities to the natural world — and to each other. By testing the fictional town with ecological upheaval, Schuyler hopes the novel sparks a broader dialogue about moving from a mindset of domination over nature to one of mutual reciprocity. Reminding us that rivers, trees and wildlife are living entities with an inherent desire to thrive, she envisions a future defined by ecological stewardship and action rather than exploitation. Ultimately, Schuyler hopes her novel transforms empathy into real-world action, noting that “conversation is the fertile field for change.” Britta Stromeyer is a member of the National Book Critics Circle. Her writing appears in The Common, World Literature Today, Tupelo Quarterly, Beyond Words Magazine, Necessary Fiction, On the Seawall, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bending Genres Journal and other publications. Stromeyer has authored award-winning children’s books and holds an MFA from Dominican University of California, an M.A. from American University and a certificate in novel writing from Stanford University.