Culture
A Murdered Journalist’s Unfinished Book About the Amazon Gets Completed and Published
In 2018, the British journalist Dom Phillips joined a 17-day expedition into the Javari Valley, a vast, nearly inaccessible Indigenous land on the western edge of the Brazilian Amazon, tracking signs of an isolated group increasingly threatened by illegal activity.
It was a grueling journey: 650 miles by boat and foot, crossing treacherous log bridges, dodging snakes and pushing through suffocating forest. The river, when it reappeared, offered both relief and what Phillips later called moments of “exquisite loveliness.”
He was struck by the Indigenous guides’ command of the “forest’s secrets,” but even more so by Bruno Pereira, the expedition leader and a seasoned official at Funai, Brazil’s Indigenous protection agency.
Phillips saw him as a public servant deeply committed to protecting Indigenous peoples (though he was not himself Indigenous), and able to navigate the Javari with unmatched ease. When he returned to the region to work on a book, he set out to document how an Indigenous patrol was protecting the largely ungoverned territory — an effort then led by Pereira.
The two men ran afoul of an illegal fishing gang and were killed in June 2022. But the story did not die with them.
Journalist friends and family have brought Dom Phillips’s work to life with the release of “How to Save the Amazon: A Journalist’s Fatal Quest for Answers.” Over three years, they completed the half-finished manuscript thanks to crowdfunding, grants and, finally, a willing publisher.
The Javari expedition first appeared in a 2018 article Phillips wrote for the British newspaper The Guardian, and again in the opening pages of his incomplete book.
The trip had been “a huge moment in Dom’s life,” said Jonathan Watts, who co-authored the foreword and a chapter of the book, calling it “a natural starting point, and also maybe fate.”
In 2022, Watts was among the first to hear that the two men had vanished after venturing across the Itaquaí River, deep within the unspoiled rainforest. But there was a crucial mistake: He believed it was Tom Phillips — another Guardian journalist — who had disappeared.
Watts called the paper, which corrected the confusion, while Tom Phillips quickly published the first in a long series of reports on the case — not before calling his family to reassure them he was safe.
He then joined the searches, tracing the region’s remote rivers, the only way in, as hope faded with each passing day. There, he met the photographer João Laet, Dom Phillips’s longtime collaborator and the eyes behind some of the widely shared images of him.
Laet described covering the searches as deeply traumatic. Everything felt chaotic — slow internet, colleagues falling ill with Covid, the relentless pace of reporting, all while one question haunted him: “Where is my friend?”
He held back tears until the workday ended, then collapsed into sleep, each day blurring into the next with exhaustion and grief. “It felt like a trance,” he said in a recent interview.
The two bodies were found on June 15, 10 days after the murder. One suspect confessed to ambushing and shooting the men during a boat journey and led police to the site where they had been hidden.
They were laid to rest in different Brazilian cities that month. Phillips was 57, Pereira, 41.
The crime drew rare global attention to violence in the Amazon. The police concluded that the murders were retaliation for Pereira’s efforts to protect the region from illegal fishing and mining. In November 2024, they charged the alleged mastermind, who was accused of arming and financing the killers.
For Tom Phillips, seeing a colleague’s press card and notebooks recovered in the jungle made it all painfully real: “It could have been any of us.”
But with the news came a “deep sense of responsibility,” he said. “In some ways, it’s therapeutic,” he added, “to keep doing the work, to have a clear mission — which is to finish this book, and keep reporting the hell out of the Amazon.”
The team behind the manuscript moved quickly to secure Dom Phillips’s files, sharing both the digital backups and his carefully cataloged notebooks among the contributors.
For his chapter, Tom Phillips retraced one of his colleague’s journeys to Yanomami Indigenous land — a region of the Amazon as vast, remote and perilous as the Javari Valley.
“Deciphering hieroglyphics” of the late reporter’s handwriting was one challenge. But only by retracing his steps, speaking with the people he met and cross-checking their accounts did the story slowly take shape. “It was all there, if you knew how to break the code,” Tom Phillips said.
Dom Phillips and Tom Phillips are co-authors on a chapter about the rush for Amazon riches, while also showcasing a cacao project supporting local communities in building sustainable income.
Most chapters follow this similar path — rooted in conflict, but searching for solutions.
When Dom Phillips returned to the Javari Valley in 2022 for his book research, the region had become a hot spot for pressured drug trafficking, land grabs, poaching, unchecked cattle ranching and logging.
His widow, Alessandra Sampaio, said he often spoke of a book not just to explore ways forward but to spark an emotional connection to the rainforest, which he felt intensely.
Before the crime, Sampaio said she knew the Amazon “through Dom’s eyes.” He always sent itineraries for safety, along with voice notes, photos and reflections. “Ale, one day you’ll come with me,” he often told her.
She finally got there in 2023, joining a government delegation to the Javari Valley. It was a symbolic return of state presence under President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, though Indigenous leaders there continue to call for structural action against growing illegal activity.
One moment stayed with Sampaio: An Indigenous man embraced her, calling her family — and reminding her that family takes care of each other. That, she said, sealed her commitment.
Like many families scarred by loss, she was drawn into a cause through tragedy. Along with helping bring the book to life, she now leads the Dom Phillips Institute, supporting young Indigenous storytellers.
Her only request to the book team was to keep her husband’s hopeful original title. Only the subtitle was changed, as he had inevitably become a character in the story.
“One thing Dom always told me was, ‘Keep going, Ale’,” she said. “Every time I wonder if I can go on, I hear his voice: ‘Keep going, Ale.’ And I do.”
Maybe you woke up this morning haunted by the first four lines of W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — or tickled by its tongue-in-cheek handling of existential dread. (Not ringing any bells? Click here to begin the Poetry Challenge).
This is a love poem. Perhaps that seems like an obvious thing to say about a poem with “Loving” in its title, but there isn’t much romance in the opening stanza.
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Ada Limón, poet
Nonetheless, the poem soon makes clear that love is very much on its mind.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
David Sedaris, writer
The polished informality gives the impression of a decidedly cerebral speaker — someone who’s looking at love philosophically, thinking about how it works and what it means.
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Reginald Dwayne Betts, poet
Musing this way — arguing in this fashion — he stands in a long line of playful, thoughtful poetic lovers going back at least to the 16th century. He sounds a bit like Christopher Marlowe’s passionate shepherd:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
Auden’s poem, like Marlowe’s, is written in four-beat lines:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Josh Radnor, actor
And it features strong end rhymes:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Samantha Harvey, writer
These tetrameter couplets represent a long-established poetic love language. Not too serious or sappy, but with room for both earnestness and whimsy. And even for professions of the opposite of love, as in this nursery rhyme, adapted from a 17th-century epigram:
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell
The reason why I cannot tell.
But this I know and know full well
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
There is some of this anti-love spirit in Auden’s poem too, but it mainly follows a general rule of love poetry: The person speaking is usually the more loving one.
This makes sense. To write a poem requires effort, art, inspiration. To speak in verse is to tease, to cajole, to seduce, all actions that suggest an excess of desire. That’s why it’s conventional to refer to the “I” in a poem like this as the Lover and the “you” as the Beloved. The line “Let the more loving one be me” could summarize a lot of the love poetry of the last few thousand years.
But who, in this case, is the beloved? This isn’t a poem to the stars, but about them. Or maybe a poem that uses the stars as a conceit and our complicated feelings about them as a screen for other difficult emotions.
What the stars have to do with love is a tricky question. The answer may just be that the poem assumes a relationship and then plays with the implications of its assumption.
This kind of play also has a long history. Since love is both abstract and susceptible to cliché, poets are eager to liken it to everything else under the sun: birds, bees, planets, stars, the movement of the tides and the cycle of the seasons. Andrew Marvell’s “Definition of Love,” from the 1600s, wraps its ardor in math:
As lines, so loves oblique may well
Themselves in every angle greet;
But ours so truly parallel,
Though infinite, can never meet.
The literary term for this is wit. The formidable 18th-century English wordsmith Samuel Johnson defined a type of wit as “a combination of dissimilar images, or discovery of occult resemblances in things apparently unlike.” “The most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together,” he wrote; that kind of conceptual discord defines “The More Loving One.”
The second stanza is, when you think about it, a perfect non sequitur. A hypothetical, general question is asked:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Mary Roach, writer
The answer is a personal declaration that is moving because it doesn’t seem to apply only or primarily to stars:
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tim Egan, writer
Does this disjunction make it easier or harder to remember? Either way, these couplets start to reveal just how curious this poem is. We might find ourselves curious about who wrote them, and whom he might have loved. Tomorrow we’ll get to know Auden and his work a little better.
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your task today: Learn the second stanza!
Let’s start with the first couplet in this stanza. Fill in the rhyming words.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
Literature
Oedipa Maas from ‘The Crying of Lot 49’ (1966) by Thomas Pynchon
“The unforgettable, cartoonish protagonist of this unusually short novel is a California housewife accidentally turned private investigator and literary interpreter, and the mystery she’s attempting to solve — or, more specifically, the conspiracy she stumbles upon — is nothing less than capitalism itself,” says Ngai, 54. “As Oedipa traces connections between various crackpots, the novel highlights the peculiarly asocial sociality of postwar U.S. society, which gets figured as a network of alienations.”
Sula Peace from ‘Sula’ (1973) by Toni Morrison
“Sula arguably begins to disappear as soon as she’s introduced — despite the fact that the novel bears her name. Other characters die quickly, or are noticeably flat. This raises the politically charged question of who gets to ‘develop’ or be a protagonist in American novels and who doesn’t. The novel’s unusual character system is part of its meditation on anti-Black racism and historical violence.”
The speaker of ‘Lunch Poems’ (1964) by Frank O’Hara
“Lyric poems are fundamentally different from narrative fiction in part because they have speakers as opposed to narrators. Perhaps it’s a stretch to nominate the speaker of ‘Lunch Poems’ as a main character, but this book changed things by highlighting the centrality of queer counterpublics to U.S. culture as a whole, and by exploring the joys and risks of everyday intimacy with strangers therein.”
This interview has been edited and condensed.
More in Literature
See the rest of the issue
Let’s memorize a poem! Not because it’s good for us or because we think we should, but because it’s fun, a mental challenge with a solid aesthetic reward. You can amuse yourself, impress your friends and maybe discover that your way of thinking about the world — or even, as you’ll see, the universe — has shifted a bit.
Over the next five days, we’ll look closely at a great poem by one of our favorite poets, and we’ll have games, readings and lots of encouragement to help you learn it by heart. Some of you know how this works: Last year more Times readers than we could count memorized a jaunty 18-line recap of an all-night ferry ride. (If you missed that adventure, it’s not too late to embark. The ticket is still valid.)
This time, we’re training our telescopes on W.H. Auden’s “The More Loving One” — a clever, compact meditation on love, disappointment and the night sky.
Here’s the first of its four stanzas, read for us by Matthew McConaughey:
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
Matthew McConaughey, actor and poet
In four short lines we get a brisk, cynical tour of the universe: hell and the heavens, people and animals, coldness and cruelty. Commonplace observations — that the stars are distant; that life can be dangerous — are wound into a charming, provocative insight. The tone is conversational, mixing decorum and mild profanity in a manner that makes it a pleasure to keep reading.
Here’s Tracy K. Smith, a former U.S. poet laureate, with the second stanza:
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Tracy K. Smith, poet
These lines abruptly shift the focus from astronomy to love, from the universal to the personal. Imagine how it would feel if the stars had massive, unrequited crushes on us! The speaker, couching his skepticism in a coy, hypothetical question, seems certain that we wouldn’t like this at all.
This certainty leads him to a remarkable confession, a moment of startling vulnerability. The poem’s title, “The More Loving One,” is restated with sweet, disarming frankness. Our friend is wearing his heart on his well-tailored sleeve.
The poem could end right there: two stanzas, point and counterpoint, about how we appreciate the stars in spite of their indifference because we would rather love than be loved.
But the third stanza takes it all back. Here’s Alison Bechdel reading it:
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Alison Bechdel, graphic novelist
The speaker downgrades his foolish devotion to qualified admiration. No sooner has he established himself as “the more loving one” than he gives us — and perhaps himself — reason to doubt his ardor. He likes the stars fine, he guesses, but not so much as to think about them when they aren’t around.
The fourth and final stanza, read by Yiyun Li, takes this disenchantment even further:
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Yiyun Li, author
Wounded defiance gives way to a more rueful, resigned state of mind. If the universe were to snuff out its lights entirely, the speaker reckons he would find beauty in the void. A starless sky would make him just as happy.
Though perhaps, like so many spurned lovers before and after, he protests a little too much. Every fan of popular music knows that a song about how you don’t care that your baby left you is usually saying the opposite.
The last line puts a brave face on heartbreak.
So there you have it. In just 16 lines, this poem manages to be somber and funny, transparent and elusive. But there’s more to it than that. There is, for one thing, a voice — a thinking, feeling person behind those lines.
When he wrote “The More Loving One,” in the 1950s, Wystan Hugh Auden was among the most beloved writers in the English-speaking world. Before this week is over there will be more to say about Auden, but like most poets he would have preferred that we give our primary attention to the poem.
Its structure is straightforward and ingenious. Each of the four stanzas is virtually a poem unto itself — a complete thought expressed in one or two sentences tied up in a neat pair of couplets. Every quatrain is a concise, witty observation: what literary scholars call an epigram.
This makes the work of memorization seem less daunting. We can take “The More Loving One” one epigram at a time, marvelling at how the four add up to something stranger, deeper and more complex than might first appear.
So let’s go back to the beginning and try to memorize that insouciant, knowing first stanza. Below you’ll find a game we made to get you started. Give it a shot, and come back tomorrow for more!
Play a game to learn it by heart. Need more practice? Listen to Ada Limón, Matthew McConaughey, W.H. Auden and others recite our poem.
Question 1/6
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
Tap a word above to fill in the highlighted blank.
Your first task: Learn the first four lines!
Let’s start with the first couplet. Fill in the rhyming words.
Monday
Love, the cosmos and everything in between, all in 16 lines.
Tuesday (Available tomorrow)
What’s love got to do with it?
Wednesday (Available April 22)
How to write about love? Be a little heartsick (and the best poet of your time).
Thursday (Available April 23)
Are we alone in the universe? Does it matter?
Friday (Available April 24)
You did it! You’re a star.
Ready for another round? Try your hand at the 2025 Poetry Challenge.
Edited by Gregory Cowles, Alicia DeSantis and Nick Donofrio. Additional editing by Emily Eakin,
Joumana Khatib, Emma Lumeij and Miguel Salazar. Design and development by Umi Syam. Additional
game design by Eden Weingart. Video editing by Meg Felling. Photo editing by Erica Ackerberg.
Illustration art direction by Tala Safie.
Illustrations by Daniel Barreto.
Text and audio recording of “The More Loving One,” by W.H. Auden, copyright © by the Estate of
W.H. Auden. Reprinted by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd. Photograph accompanying Auden recording
from Imagno/Getty Images.
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