Iida Turpeinen: “In 200 years, humans will laugh a lot at our predictions about AI.”

As a child, she spent a lot of time on a small island, Harakka, located opposite Helsinki, a nature reserve where her mother worked. And there, Iida Turpeinen (Helsinki, 1987) delighted in observing nature and scientists in action, even when they were collecting plankton samples and rescuing injured birds.

It is no surprise, then, that science, and the relationship we establish with nature and other living beings, also forms the backbone of her first novel, The last giant of the sea (Ed. Cossetània, 2025), a delight that has been translated into more than 30 languages—into Catalan by Emma Claret Pythönen—and has received several awards.

Turpeinen, with a generous and easy laugh that defies all Nordic stereotypes, tells the tragic story of the Steller's sea cow, a grand and majestic creature, "a mermaid with myopic and tender eyes," that humans excavated. A fate for a wonderful and chimerical being as dire as that of the dodo and so many other species. The last giant of the seaThis researcher in literature and the history of science, through four stories that unfold over three centuries and without moral lessons, makes us aware of the loss of biodiversity. The Finnish writer visited Barcelona to participate in Catalan Book Week.

He dedicates the book to the more than 400 species that became extinct during the time it took to write the novel.

— The real number is probably higher, which triggers my eco-anxiety, but it perfectly illustrates one of the problems we face when we talk about the sixth mass extinction: we know it's happening, but it happens without us realizing it. In fact, when I thought about writing a little reminder for each of the species that disappeared while I was writing the novel, I went to the IUCN [International Union for Conservation of Nature] red list of threatened species. I was shocked to discover there were more than 400! How can we react to a catastrophe that we don't even realize is happening?

Nor did the characters who pass through his novel realize it, neither the sailors of Bering's expedition in 1741, who incessantly hunted the sea cow, nor, a century later, the Finnish governor who settled in Russian Alaska with the mission of making the Empire grow.

— You have to look at history to understand how we got to where we are now. In reality, when you review past episodes, you realize there's no villain in the story; in the end, everyone was doing the best they could with the resources and knowledge of their time. Judging them through today's lenses would be pointless. When you read 18th-century diaries, you realize they had no idea of ​​the vulnerability of nature.

In fact, it took us more than a century to understand that humans could cause the disappearance of species.

— That's right, and it completely changed our relationship with nature. In the 18th and 19th centuries, empires' lack of understanding of biology inadvertently caused extinctions, such as when otters were hunted by the thousands for their fur in Alaska, disregarding these mammals' reproductive cycles, which eradicated them from many areas. This has changed today, but not much.

Just think of tuna or whales, for example.

— We still have a huge discrepancy between financial systems and our understanding of nature and its rhythms. In the 19th century, people began to connect the dots to see that it was humans who were causing the extinction of species, an idea that contradicted God's designs, although it wasn't fully accepted until almost the beginning of the 20th century. And it's interesting, because doing so changes everything: suddenly, the weight of responsibility is enormous. Perhaps that's why, perhaps, we avoided being aware of it as much as we could.

Why did you choose the sea cow to talk about the sixth extinction?

— It was the perfect victim. In 2016, I was strolling through the Finnish Museum of Natural History when I saw the large, robust skeleton of an animal I couldn't recognize. The sign underneath said it was the Steller's sea cow, an animal that became extinct just 27 years after being discovered by science, and of which very few skeletons remain. These two phrases raised many questions: what was the story behind this disappearance? Why was one of the few specimens, so rare and valuable, in Helsinki, which isn't exactly the metropolis of science? To answer these questions, I ran to the National Library and started looking for books about this animal. I soon realized it was the story I was looking for: the sea cow, a kind, innocent, good animal that didn't hurt anyone, made it easier to connect with the drama of the sixth extinction.

Quite an achievement, because it's becoming increasingly difficult to provide readers with information about extinctions and the climate crisis without annoying them.

— It's true that people are tired of hearing about it. Statistics, such as 75% of species will become extinct during the sixth mass extinction, generate emotions that are difficult to manage, such as anger, fear, anxiety, guilt, pity, and helplessness. But, paradoxically, we need information. That's why I believe literature is the best ally for science, politics, and activism, because it can help create an emotional connection with difficult topics. In this case, through the story of a specific species, such as the Steller's sea cow, readers can experience the emotions associated with its extinction in a balanced, pleasurable way—because reading is pleasurable—but also impactful. And this can be transformative. Literature is a very powerful tool.

There is a lot of scientific research on the power of literature to generate empathy.

— I was very skeptical about that idea, but I've tested it with some of my readers. At a presentation of the novel, a 50-year-old reader, who had no interest in environmental issues, approached me to explain that he had cried for the first time in 15 years reading about the sea cow. This demonstrates the power of literary narrative.

He claims that extinction has its own cultural history.

— We often talk about extinction from political, economic, or biological perspectives, but it's also a cultural phenomenon. And this is hopeful, because culture can be changed, and so can our relationship with nature.

It took them seven years to research and write the book.

— I had to write about times and places I knew very little about, which involved extensive research and scouring archives, which I love. In fact, I worked with fascinating materials, from diaries, letters, maps, drawings, and paintings to expedition reports and humanistic research. I also wanted the sea cow to be one of the book's characters, which required me to understand the scientific research on this animal and the reasons for its disappearance. I ended up collaborating with many scientists to ensure I had the facts straight.

One of the questions the book raises is what is acceptable and what is not for scientific advancement. The naturalist and theologian Georg Wilhelm Steller never questioned the ethics of killing dozens of sea cows to obtain the perfect sample.

— Sorting through the archives of natural history museums is a complex experience, to say the least, due to the enormous number of specimens that once existed, which were living animals. There comes a time when scientists, once they realize the impact of their research, stop. But it's true that until very recently, our understanding of our relationship with nature was very different.

Removing archives has also rescued women who played a relevant role in the science of forgetting.

— I decided that half the characters in the book would be women. I had read many novels about the history of science, and it bothered me that women were either nonexistent or, if they appeared, they did so as assistants to men. And I didn't want to write another great story of men helped by women. I was convinced that there had been women who had been involved with that animal. And I found them. They're all real. From Anna Furuhjelm, an example of the primordial roles of women in constructing the cultural ideas we have about nature, to Hilda Olson, who is my favorite. She was able to work in the world of science as a woman in 1816, at a time when science wasn't accessible to women. And despite her short career, she did spectacular work. She was in university 40 years before women were admitted in Finland.

Thanks to her book, Olson has received the recognition she deserved.

— A couple of weeks after publishing the novel, the director of the Natural History Museum called me to tell me that, after reading the novel, they had searched the archives and found Olson's scientific illustrations under the name of Alexander von Nordmann, the professor who had inspired her work. Upon reviewing the plates, they found Hilda's name on every one of them. She assured me they were magnificent and would be shown in an exhibition. A week later, the director of the Finnish National Gallery called me, also interested in organizing an exhibition about Olson. So last spring, her work was on display at both museums. At least now she has received the recognition she deserved as an artist and scientist. She was the only woman in the Nordic countries to work professionally as a scientific illustrator.

You are now a writer-in-residence at the Natural History Museum in Helsinki.

— It's a dream come true. I'm working on my second novel, based on a completely mind-blowing 19th-century fable. In the midst of the race to build the electric telegraph and make long-distance communication possible, a school of thought in France championed the theory of animal magnetism. They genuinely believed they could develop a telegraph based on the interaction of live snails! That project is one of the reasons why scientific experiments are now double-blind, because science needed to be able to separate esoteric theories from serious research. It's absolutely mind-blowing that people would have believed this was possible, and that's precisely why I'm interested in it—because it allows me to talk about why we trust the things we trust, or what generates knowledge. And now begins the most fascinating challenge of being a writer, which is imagining a world in which they thought this was possible.

In 200 years, humans of the future may also find some of the ideas or theories we have now mind-boggling.

— Surely everything we say now about AI, our predictions about AI, will be thought of as akin to the snail and the telegraph and will laugh a lot.