I will make no secret of my love of J.R.R. Tolkien’s works. Equally, I am always entertained by books looking at the science behind fictional worlds depicted in books, movies, and TV series. The Science of Middle Earth is a remarkable undertaking, with three editors bringing together contributions on a wide range of topics, from humanities such as sociology and philosophy, to natural sciences such as geomorphology, chemistry, and evolutionary biology. Tying it together are Arnaud Rafaelian’s beautiful drawings that immediately draw your attention. Both a serious appreciation of Tolkien’s world and an entertaining work of popular science, this book hit the sweet spot.
The Science of Middle-Earth: A New Understanding of Tolkien and His World, edited by Roland Lehoucq, Loic Mangin, and Jean-Sébastien Steyer, illustrated by Arnaud Rafaelian, published by Pegasus Books in June 2021 (hardback, 432 pages)
Before I delve in, a couple of things to note. First, virtually all contributors to this book are French because this is a translation (courtesy of Tina Kover) of the French book Tolkien et les Sciences, published in 2019 by Belin Éditeur. Second, this is not the first book by this title. Some of you might be familiar with Henry Gee’s two editions of The Science of Middle Earth and wonder how the two compare. Unfortunately, I do not actually have this book, and my impression is that it has flown under many people’s radar. However, looking at some previews suggests that its tone is similar (popular science rather than scholarly analysis) and that there is some overlap in topics (mithril, spiders, and oliphaunts immediately caught my eye). You will certainly want to read this book if you have Gee’s book, and conversely, even after reviewing this book, I still want to read his take on the subject.
For this book, astrophysicist Roland Lehoucq, science magazine editor Loïc Mangin, and palaeontologist Jean-Sébastien Steyer have brought together no fewer than 37 contributors from a wide range of academic disciplines to contribute 40 chapters under six thematic headings. The sheer breadth of topics is quite astonishing. The book opens with the humanities: the sociological character of certain races and alliances, the relatedness of the many fictional languages Tolkien created, the depiction of philosophy in the books, or the historiography that characterises his work. Tolkien spent an inordinate amount of effort on describing how myths and legends had been passed down the ages, all the way from the god-like Ainur and Valar, through the Elves, to the men and Hobbits in the Third Age. He even blurred the lines between fiction and reality, fashioning himself a chronicler rather than a creator, supposedly translating texts that had come to him from Ælfwine, an Anglo-Saxon mariner.
Most of the book, though, deals with the natural sciences, with chapters covering e.g. the geomorphology and climate of Middle-Earth, the chemistry of the One Ring, the anatomy of Hobbit feet, the possible link between oliphaunts and extinct and extant proboscideans, the birds observed in Middle-Earth, the biology of dragons such as Smaug and Glaurung (and the question of whether they could fly), or the nature of the tentacled Watcher in the Water that guards the entrance to the mines of Moria. And that is to name but a few! The one notable topic absent here, other than a chapter on vegetation zones, is botany. However, seeing how thoroughly this was covered in Flora of Middle-Earth, this is quite understandable.
“Could Ents exist? There are real-world examples of animals resembling plants, and Ents could be imagined as chimaeras of giant, photosynthetic stick insects capable of sessile periods.”
Most of these chapters take one of two approaches. First, several authors examine where Tolkien could have gotten his inspiration from, turning to history and mythology. Luc Vivès and Christine Argot remark that “Tolkien’s work is unique in that it forms the first interface between cycles, sagas, and epics on one hand, and nomenclatures, dictionaries, and encyclopedias on the other […] coming as close as possible to being a study of the natural world perceived mythologically, and mythology perceived as natural” (p. 277). They call his world a “cosmogenic melting-pot” with traces of biblical texts, Celtic legends, Welsh folklore, Norse fairy tales, Scandinavian Eddas, Icelandic sagas and the Kalevala, Finland’s epic poem. Other authors comment on the places that inspired Middle-Earth, examine the sources of Tolkien’s dragons, or ask how much of the character of Beorn the man-bear draws on the legendary Viking berserker warriors.
The second approach many chapters take is to probe the realism of Middle-Earth. Though Tolkien openly denounced scientific materialism and the technological totalitarianism it fostered, he was at the same time a rigorous scholar who strived for internal consistency in his fiction and spent a lifetime creating a highly detailed and believable world. Some of his ideas violate laws of nature: scaling relationships make the flight of dragons and giant eagles highly improbable. Other ideas are reasonably plausible: one chapter discusses the possible properties explaining the excellent eyesight of Elves. Some are even close to realistic: could Ents exist? There are real-world examples of animals resembling plants, and Ents could be imagined as chimaeras of giant, photosynthetic stick insects capable of sessile periods, rooted on the spot like corals.
Some chapters reflect on the state of science in his time—volcanology in the 1930–50s was not what it is today and the theory of plate tectonics only became accepted decades after his works had been published. Others consider how Tolkien’s work shows his interest in, and knowledge of, disciplines such as speleology, mining, and metallurgy. Yet others are a springboard for expositions on e.g. materials science (how would you make an invisibility cloak or a metal such as mithril?) or are entertaining thought experiments. Can we run a climatological model for Middle-Earth or draw up a phylogenetic tree for the humanoids populating it? Yes we can, and this is what it would look like.
“The editors have done a formidable job reigning in all contributors, as I am sure they could have written a great deal more about their respective topics.”
This book is squarely for the Tolkien fan. Now, some people in the fandom take his work very seriously. Those who have delved into the 3-volume Tolkien Companion or the J.R.R. Tolkien Encyclopedia, or read publications by professional Tolkien scholars such as Christina Scull, Wayne G. Hammond, or Verlyn Flieger might find this book lacking in depth. My impression is that they are not the primary audience—this is popular science rather than scholarly treatise. I would actually argue that the brevity of these chapters, the vast majority of which run 7–10 pages only, is admirable. The editors have done a formidable job reigning in all contributors, as I am sure they could have written a 
great deal more about their respective topics. Nevertheless, they all approach their subject thoroughly and seriously, going well beyond Middle-Earth as described in The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. Many authors consider details from The Silmarillion, the 12-volume History of Middle Earth, Tolkien’s letters, and other writings on and by him, as well as, occasionally, Peter Jackson’s movies.
Finally, I have to commend Arnaud Rafaelian‘s beautiful and tastefully executed drawings. As much as I worship Alan Lee (his pictures grace my walls), it is refreshing to see Tolkien’s world depicted by a new illustrator. Also worth mentioning are the infographics, most of which are drawn by Dianne Rottner whose style meshes perfectly with Rafaelian’s. Add illustrated endpapers and decorated initials opening each chapter and this book is, in one word, sumptuous in its presentation.
Unbeknownst to me, there is a thriving Francophone Tolkien community out there. I think that Pegasus Books did very well in picking up this book for translation—this was very much worth the effort. The Science of Middle Earth comes warmly recommended for Tolkien fans and is already a precious addition to my collection.
Edit: Since publishing this review several people have pointed out that, unfortunately, this book contains various factual errors, which has disappointed serious fans. Others have pointed out that many contributors lack relevant in-depth knowledge and argue oversights could have been addressed had the book been proofread by one or more Tolkien scholars. I normally steer clear of reading other reviews when preparing mine, so as not to be influenced by other people’s words and ideas too much, but in this case that bit me in the behind—and is, yes, a bit embarrassing. I still think that overall this is an entertaining pop-science book that is beautifully presented, but serious Tolkien fans might also want to have a look at Kristine Larsen’s extended review in the Journal of Tolkien Research, volume 12(2) to make up their mind.
Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.
Other recommended books mentioned in this review:
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This review marks the three-year anniversary of this blog. I would have loved to be able to write that this is also the 300th review, but, well, 2020 had other plans. I guess 275 is also a nice round number. For this review—insert obligatory Monty Python reference—something completely different. The Inquisitive Biologist reviews… a dictionary?
Oxford Dictionary of Zoology, written by Michael Allaby, published by Oxford University Press in June 2020 (paperback, 722 pages)
Why? Because dictionaries are books too. But… how? That is a trickier question. Normally, I read the books that I review cover to cover, but even I am not so eccentric as to read a dictionary in its entirety. Instead, I have kept it close at hand while reviewing zoologically-themed books over the last few months. But first, some background.
Science writer Michael Allaby has been compiling technical dictionaries since 1976, first with MacMillan and since 1984 also with Oxford University Press. He now looks after five of their dictionaries: Zoology, Ecology, Plant Sciences, Environment & Conservation, and Geology & Earth Sciences (which I frequently use), all of which have gone into multiple editions. These are part of the Oxford Quick Reference series, formerly known as the Oxford Paperback Reference series, which contains other dictionaries on topics such as biology, physics, chemistry, astronomy, etc. The zoology dictionary reviewed here has been published under various titles in 1991, 1999, 2009, 2014, and, in this fifth edition, in 2020. Interestingly, the number of entries has hovered somewhere between 5–6,000 since the first edition, suggesting that each revision that added new words will also have dropped others.
The dictionaries in this range are compact, printed on thin (but not too thin) paper. Gouged-out thumb tabs are a feature you rarely see nowadays, and would only work for a larger hardcover dictionary anyway. Instead, full-bleed printing results in grey tabs visible on the side of the closed book. Entries at the top further help you quickly hone in on the term you are looking for. Next to the common names (see below), there is a series of short appendices with the terms used for endangered animals, the genetic code, the geologic timescale, SI units, metric prefixes (milli, micro, nano, etc.), a table with extant animal phyla, and the hierarchy used in taxonomic classification (species, genus, family, etc.). There are over sixty line drawings scattered throughout, mostly clarifying morphological terms, but this is no illustrated dictionary.
“The reason I speak in tongues here […] is exactly to show you why you need a dictionary.”
Utility is, of course, the be-all and end-all of any dictionary. The first entries I looked up were monophyly, polyphyly, and paraphyletic (there is no entry for paraphyly), which describe different patterns of evolutionary relatedness; sympatric, allopatric, and peripatric, which are different patterns of speciation; and holotype, lectotype, and syntype, which describe different categories of specimens in taxonomy used to define and name a species. I admit this to my shame—as an evolutionary biologist I should know these by heart, yet I still get confused. Concise definitions are given here, sometimes in one sentence, sometimes in a paragraph.
While I was reviewing Desert Navigator I read about ants that are eusocial1, brachypterous2, and, in some cases, practice thelytoky3. Some are crepuscular4, and some show torpor5. Their morphology mentioned parts such as a petiole6 and a pygidium7.
Mark Witton populated his book Life through the Ages II with temnospondyls8, procolophonids9, pareiasaurs10, perissodactyls11, and artiodactyls12. One feature of this dictionary is that it includes a large number of entries for order and family names. For this edition, common names have been moved from the main entries to a 50-page appendix. So, the whale groups odontocetes and mysticetes are in the main dictionary, but the rorqual (a species) is in the appendix.
A random sampling reveals such lexicographical jewels as Aristotle’s lantern13, hypsodont14, orthokinesis15, or synecology16.
“Detractors might […] ask why you would bother with a paper dictionary. Everything is online anyway nowadays […]”
The reason I speak in tongues here and only give the definitions at the end is exactly to show you why you need a dictionary. Like most scientists, biologists are hyper-specialized within their subdisciplines. No matter how knowledgeable you are in your discipline, papers and technical books only slightly outside of your field will contain unfamiliar terminology.
Naturally, you have to make a selection when compiling a dictionary, so I could not find everything. Necromones and polydomous were missing. Perhaps they were too specific? Other omissions are harder to understand. mt-DNA (mitochondrial DNA) is in, but ncDNA is not (it stands for non-coding DNA, by the way, not nuclear DNA). Speaking of diets, folivorous (leaf-eating) is in, but graminivorous (grass-eating) is not, nor is granivorous (grain-eating). Looking at whale morphology, melon (fatty tissue in the forehead used in vocalization) is in, but junk (the analogous structure in sperm whales) is not. And the entry for Testudines does not clear up the linguistic differences between turtles, tortoises, and terrapins.
Detractors might look at this and ask why you would bother with a paper dictionary. Everything is online anyway nowadays and just a search on Google or Wikipedia away. True, but is it not ironic that when you look up online the first word in this dictionary, abaptation, you find the definition that Allaby wrote for this dictionary? Let us not forget the lexicographical work and research that goes into writing a dictionary.
“[…] it is easy to forget that online access is a privilege that we in the Western world take for granted but that is not universal.”
I am no techno-Luddite making the case that a paper dictionary is superior to an online one. There are many advantages that a paper dictionary cannot replicate (the almost unlimited amount of words you can find online, the option to quickly update definitions and correct mistakes). OUP offers online versions of its dictionaries, and the third edition of their Environment & Conservation one is now online only (though trying to figure out how to subscribe to it as a private individual send me down a confusing warren).
But online has downsides too. Most online resources are free and (partially) depend on annoying adverts to pay their bills. Sitting down at a computer brings the risk of easy distraction, whereas with a printed book it is just me and the words. The worst that can happen is that I look up other words. The trustworthiness of online resources can be questionable, so further research might be needed anyway. And when I read a (printed) book, I am seated in a comfortable spot, not at my computer, so it is far easier to have a dictionary within arm’s reach. And as opposed to websites or internet connections, books cannot go offline. Plus, it is easy to forget that online access is a privilege that we in the Western world take for granted but that is not universal.
Clearly, a printed dictionary is a personal preference. I have found that I use the technical dictionaries I have regularly. I would even argue there is space in the Oxford Quick Reference range for a few more. A dictionary dedicated to evolutionary biology & palaeontology? I would buy it instantly (Springer publishes a palaeontological dictionary, but at their usual absurd price). And an entomological dictionary would also be very welcome. The affordability and authoritativeness are enough for me to make the OUP dictionaries my first port of call.
1 eusociality: a social structure in which only one female in a community produces offspring
2 brachypterous: insects in which both pairs of wings are reduced.
3 thelytoky: obligatory *parthenogenesis, with Allaby providing a paragraph of interesting background and examples. The asterisk, by the way, indicates that parthenogenesis, too, is an entry in the dictionary.
4 crepuscular: of the twilight (what a beautiful pithy definition), applied to animals that are active at dusk.
5 torpor: a physiological response where the body temperature drops close to the environmental temperature to save energy.
6 petiole: a wasp waist, the constriction at the base of the *gaster… wait, what is the gaster?
6½ gaster: a part of the abdomen in Hymenoptera. (No mention is made here that petiole is also a well-known botanical term, which is fair enough in a zoology dictionary, I guess.)
7 pygidium: the terminal segment of an insect.
8 Temnospondyla: a subclass of Carboniferous to Early Jurassic amphibians.
9 Procolophonia: A family of relatively advanced stem reptiles.
10 Pareiasauridae: A family that comprises the largest of the stem reptiles.
11 Perissodactyla: ungulates with an odd number of toes (one or three).
12 Artiodactyla: even-toed ungulates. And for those who need reminding, ungulates are hoofed, grazing mammals.
13 Aristotle’s lantern: the jaw apparatus of echinoderms.
14 hypsodont: teeth with high crowns and short roots.
15 orthokinesis: the movement of an animal in response to a stimulus where the speed of the movement is proportional to stimulus strength.
16 synecology: the study of whole plant and animal communities.
Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.
Other recommended books mentioned in this review:
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To outsiders, phylogenetics, the study of the evolutionary relationships between organisms, must seem like quicksand: the landscape is ever-changing and what you thought was solid ground can turn into contested and unstable territory overnight. Even so, we are getting an ever-clearer picture. In no small part this is due to new methods: the rapid technological progress in DNA sequencing has now made it both feasible and affordable to sequence whole genomes (all of a cell’s DNA) instead of selected genes for many taxa. And when you can bring multiple lines of evidence – morphological, developmental, genetic, and palaeontological – to bear on the question of evolutionary relationships, the resulting family trees become better supported and more credible. That is exactly what Gonzalo Giribet and Gregory Edgecombe, both experts in invertebrate biology and palaeontology, have done here in The Invertebrate Tree of Life – a work of dizzying scope since 96% of all known species are invertebrates. They have synthesized a truly monstrous amount of research to give an overview of our current thinking on invertebrate phylogeny, writing a new benchmark reference work for students of invertebrates.
The Invertebrate Tree of Life, written by Gonzalo Giribet and Gregory D. Edgecombe, published by Princeton University Press in February 2020 (hardback, 680 pages)
As the authors point out in their preface, it is exactly the pace of progress that makes this book relevant and gives it a reason to exist next to third editions of e.g. Nielsen’s Animal Evolution and Brusca’s Invertebrates – two works that have much inspired these authors. Those works date back to 2012 and 2016, respectively. The nearly 3,000 references here, packed in a 100-page bibliography, bring the reader bang up-to-date to mid-2019.
In 52 chapters, the authors navigate down the different branches of the invertebrate tree of life, for most groups summarising at least their systematics, genomics, and the fossil record where information is available. As they point out, that last one is often an either/or proposition. Either books discuss the biology of living invertebrates, or they focus on the fossil record. You might think that it is only invertebrates with shells or exoskeletons that would litter the fossil record. And they do. But several exceptional sites, so-called Lagerstätte, preserve invertebrate fossils in exquisite detail, revealing more than just the hard parts. Next to the well-known Burgess Shale in British Columbia, there is the Chengjiang biota found in the Chinese province of Yunnan.
For the better-studied groups, the authors provide additional information on morphology, physiology, neuroanatomy, reproduction, development, and life cycles. Given the scope of this work these sections are necessarily brief – this book is explicitly not intended as a complete textbook on invertebrate biology. But it will give you the basics with plenty of references to papers and books if you want to read more on, say organ systems or neuroanatomy. And if you want to go into the real technical details on any one group, the ongoing The Handbook of Zoology series published by De Gruyter is your next port of call.
“You might think that it is only invertebrates with shells or exoskeletons that would litter the fossil record. And they do. But several exceptional sites, so-called Lagerstätte, preserve invertebrate fossils in exquisite detail […]”
This brevity notwithstanding, there is plenty of absolutely fascinating material here even when invertebrate taxonomy is not your speciality. I knew that cnidarians have a complex life cycle, with free-swimming jellyfish alternating with sessile polyps. But wait, boloceroidid sea anemones can swallow their own tentacles that then grow into new polyps? Or what to think of all the invertebrate groups practising kleptocnidism: the stealing of the stinging nematocyst cells from Cnidaria, which are then used for their own defence? And what to make of the fact that in Platyhelminthes (flatworms) even a single cell can regenerate an entire animal?
The authors also do a good job balancing how much (or really, how little) information they provide for well-known groups such as arthropods and molluscs versus all the other lesser-known groups. Getting more familiar with the latter gives the reader a renewed appreciation of the diversity of life. So, yes, invertebrate organisms can be both bizarre 
and incredibly diverse, but communicating this is a but a secondary aim of this book.
The real value of The Invertebrate Tree of Life is the discussion of evolutionary relationships and how our thinking has shifted over time: how we used to think groups were related, what names have fallen by the wayside, and how other group names have come to encompass different groups. For example, Arthropoda used to include Onychophora (the velvet worm, pictured on the book’s cover), which is now considered a sister group. These shifts in nomenclature can make entering the literature a daunting prospect, so this historical review is invaluable.
“The real value of The Invertebrate Tree of Life is the discussion of evolutionary relationships and how our thinking has shifted over time […] These shifts in nomenclature can make entering the literature a daunting prospect, so this historical review is invaluable.”
Similarly, the authors provide a good overview of current competing schools of thought on evolutionary relationships. For example, some authors talk of the clade Neuralia (Cnidaria + Ctenophora + Bilateria, but excluding Porifera and Placozoa), while Giribet & Edgecombe support the clade Planulozoa (Cnidaria + Placozoa + Bilateria). Similarly, which groups are part of Xenacoelamorpha (a clade of mostly marine worms)? That depends on who you ask. They also guide the reader to areas of consensus, and the kinds of data in support of it. Take Nemertea (ribbon worms), which look like flatworms. The current consensus based on phylogenomic analyses places them closer to molluscs and annelids.
The book is illustrated with a selection of photos of extant and extinct species, detailed trees for the internal organisation of prominent groups such as molluscs and arthropods, and useful schematic drawings of morphology, anatomy, and life cycles of other notable groups. My only criticism is that, for a book that wishes to be a textbook for students, there is no glossary – the authors assume familiarity with terminology. Some of it is explained, but can you tell paraphyly from polyphyly, synapomorphy from plesiomorphy, or schizocoely from enterocoely? I admittedly had to look some of this up, 
and some diagrams in the introductory chapters to get everyone on the same page would have been useful. But this is a minor quibble.
The Invertebrate Tree of Life is an invaluable work for anyone entering or already working in the field of invertebrate evolution, taxonomy, and phylogenetics. By unlocking and reviewing a huge body of literature, identifying knowledge gaps, and providing a balanced overview of both current consensus views and disagreements, Giribet and Edgecombe provide an incredibly useful community service, making this work a benchmark for the future.
Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.
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or Science has brought us many advances and has deepened our understanding of the world around us, pushing back the boundaries of our ignorance. But as it has given, so it has taken. It has revealed a vast stage whose age is measured in incomprehensible epochs of Deep Time and whose dimensions stretch away into the frigid depths of an uncaring cosmos. Leaving us bereft of meaning and purpose, science has driven home how utterly insignificant we, the denizens of that Pale Blue Dot, ultimately are. Personally, I find this perspective deeply humbling and I know many scientists feel likewise, but I also realise we live in a bubble of our own.
The notion that we are unique, special, or – in the eyes of many still – God’s chosen children, persists. Luckily for us all, evolutionary biologist David P. Barash is here to take down our “species-wide narcissism” a peg or two (or three). But far from a self-congratulatory circle-jerk, Through a Glass Brightly is an erudite, life-affirming, and sometimes riotously amusing look at ourselves.
Through a Glass Brightly: Using Science to See Our Species as We Really Are, written by David P. Barash, published by Oxford University Press in August 2018 (hardback, 203 pages)
About half of the chapters in this book are reworked and expanded versions of essays and articles published in other outlets. But the format of this book allows Barash to bring together his thinking on these topics, and add others in the process. The first eight chapters mostly deal with paradigm shifts that diminished humanity’s sense of self-importance and have thus been fiercely resisted, while the last eight chapters look more closely at scientific ideas on human nature and how these have changed. Each chapter focuses on an old anthropocentric paradigm to which Barash marries a new “anthropodiminishing” paradigm (both handily summarised at chapter’s end).
As such, Barash initially wanders widely, taking in (of course) how astronomy made us the centre of the universe no more. How evolution explained the maddening imperfections in our body, a ramshackle patchwork that is a far cry from an intelligent design. How the anthropic principle, the idea that the cosmos has been fine-tuned for human life, is but an illusion. And in perhaps his most gripping chapter, he ponders the meaning of life or the lack thereof: “Meaning isn’t bestowed upon anyone merely because there is a god who gives a damn, or by virtue of existence itself“. But his assertion that life is inherently meaningless is no call for nihilism. He besieges us to take responsibility for our own choices, to create meaning for ourselves in a world without purpose. Now, where have I heard that before?
“Sometimes the problem isn’t simply to discover truths but to accept them (p. 5)”
Ah yes, my favourite foul-mouthed blogger Mark Manson who so eloquently highlighted how we avoid the, what he calls, uncomfortable truth: that human existence is meaningless. To then argue that we must learn to act without hope. It should come as no surprise that both Manson and Barash profess an interest in Buddhism. The upshot is that Barash is surprisingly unconfrontational. Whereas a Richard Dawkins seems hell-bent on pissing off the world’s religions, Barash is, in my opinion, strident without being demeaning. Above all, he seeks to dispense wisdom, “so that paradigms lost become wisdom gained“.
The second part of the book is where Barash turns his gaze inwards, towards science itself. This is the more technical half, focusing on anthropology, psychology, and evolutionary biology. He gives a masterful recounting of the birth of ethology as a biological discipline and how it led to the idea that animals lack complex cognition, making humans unique – something a new generation of researchers is hard at work dismantling. Think of Marc Bekoff, Frans de Waal and Carl Safina.
“Call it a kind of evolutionary existentialism. In an absurd, inherently meaningless world […] the only route to meaning is to achieve it by how we engage our own sentient existence. (p. 27)”
Barash questions the honesty of communication. He doubts the concept of free will. And he gets downright technical when discussing parent-offspring conflict, kin selection and altruism. The better (and worse) angels of our nature are not god-given but have plausible biological explanations. Naturally, he has to introduce his hobby-horse monogamy, while reminding us that biology is not destiny – so don’t you get any funny ideas.
And although he agrees with Steven Pinker that violence has declined in recent times, he disagrees with the idea that we have always been chronically prone to war. Nor are we natural pacifists. The truth, as usual, is more complicated and lies somewhere in the middle. Although he draws different conclusions, he channels Richard Wrangham when he distinguishes between two kinds of violence: “violence is almost certainly deeply entrenched in human nature; warfare, not so much“.
“As it happens, Occam’s Razor is generally a good rule of thumb. But it is neither sacrosanct, nor so sharp that it cuts through all aspects of reality (p. 97)”
A final chapter sees Barash worry about the insane pace at which our cultural evolution has outstripped our biological evolution, with concomitant mismatches occurring at all levels. The result is a “terrifying paradox of culturally mediated power wielded by a creature that is not only biologically unprepared to do so, but actively ill-prepared“. Something which deeply troubles him in the context of nuclear proliferation. And, much to my delight, he calls out overpopulation as the root cause of many of our current problems, noting how it “is set at its maximum effective rate” which did not use to be a big problem. I will kiss the feet of any man or woman who publicly calls out the demon in demography.
Throughout, Barash quotes poets, classical authors, scientists, and philosophers to enliven his narrative, though he is notably quotable himself as I have tried to show above. Through A Glass Brightly slays holy cows without patronising chest-thumping, and champions science without succumbing to cringeworthy glorification. Erudite and uplifting, it is the light-bearing brother to Nicholas Money’s The Selfish Ape that I will be reviewing next.
Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.
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