Ever since humans appeared on the scene, we have been altering life on Earth. Where once our actions could be considered part of nature’s fabric, our influence has become outsized and our options to exercise it have multiplied. Though the subtitle of Life Changing does not make it explicit, science writer Helen Pilcher focuses on our impact on the genetics and evolution of life around us. A book that stands out for its balanced tone, it managed to surprise me more than once, despite my familiarity with the topics considered.
Life Changing: How Humans Are Altering Life on Earth, written by Helen Pilcher, published by Bloomsbury Publishing in February 2020 (hardback, 391 pages)
Life Changing is told in three acts. Pilcher first examines the species we have purposefully engineered, then looks at the many animals unwittingly caught up in the advancing human juggernaut, and finally considers how we might wield our knowledge for good in conservation efforts. Examining the work of numerous scientists, she takes the reader through topics as diverse as domestication, cloning, invasive species, urban evolution, de-extinction, and rewilding. Two aspects of her writing stood out for me in particular: she gets the nuances of these technical topics right, and she is balanced, not letting personal prejudice get in the way.
First, those nuances. As a former reporter for Nature and with a PhD in cell biology, Pilcher understands the biology and knows how to communicate it. Right off the bat, she clarifies that domestication is simply another form of genetic modification. Making a distinction between this and modern, laboratory-based methods, as GMO opponents are often wont to do, is a good example of the appeal to nature fallacy. The difference is one of degree, not of kind. She similarly puts the record straight on cloning: clones are not 100% genetically identical. Although you duplicate the nuclear DNA, you will need an egg cell in which to do so. The egg donor contributes its own mitochondrial DNA, which is a small but not insignificant fraction. With time, further differences accrue due to mutations and epigenetics (processes that change the way DNA is expressed without changing the DNA sequence). “We are all far more than the sum total of our DNA” (p. 136), remarks Pilcher. The last example is de-extinction, the subject of one of her previous books. Often misrepresented as resurrecting an extinct species, in reality it means genetically modifying a closely related species to resemble its ancestor. The result is “a hybrid modern-day facsimile” that “doesn’t mark a return to bygone eras; instead it marks an entirely new phase in the evolutionary story” (p. 138).
The second strong suite of Life Changing is Pilcher’s balanced reporting. Cloning has found many uses in animal breeding, but we must not forget that it is a notoriously inefficient process with most clones dying before birth—which is one reason why she would not want to clone her dog. When discussing the genetic changes wrought by trophy hunting, she admits finding the whole business repugnant but recognises how South Africa has shown that the money ploughed back into wildlife reserves benefits wildlife overall. “Although it may seem counter-intuitive, sometimes, hunting can actually help wildlife” (p. 63). And while invasive species have a bad reputation, she also speaks at some length to ecologist Chris D. Thomas. In his book Inheritors of the Earth, he pointed out how many invasive species simply slot right into an ecosystem without disturbing the locals. New Zealand now has nearly double the number of plant species. “Despite what you might have heard, invasive species aren’t all bad” (p. 229).
“[…] de-extinction [is] often misrepresented as resurrecting an extinct species, in reality it means genetically modifying a closely related species to resemble its ancestor.”
Particularly interesting is the topic of hybridisation. There is much concern about closely related species hybridising as climate change causes home ranges to shift, with pizzlies (polar–grizzly bear hybrids) being one example. But, just as humans contain some Neanderthal DNA, studies have shown grizzly bears to contain some polar bear DNA; one example of the book surprising me with something I did not know yet. It is estimated that the two species have occasionally interbred for the last 40,000 years. So should we panic? This is perhaps where Pilcher’s logic lapses slightly. When she introduces extinction and climate change she admits that, yes, these are natural processes that have always happened, but it is the current high rate that is worrisome. That same logic is not applied to her discussion of hybridisation. On the flip side, it can also be a conservation tool. The northern white rhino is functionally extinct as only two females remain. Using frozen sperm from the last, now deceased male, researchers inseminated a female southern white rhino, creating two hybrid embryos. Are we diluting the northern white rhino genome or preserving a significant fraction of it? “In some instances, maybe it’s better to have a hybrid than it is to have nothing at all” (p. 216).
Besides nuance and balance, Life Changing has several other things going for it. As a comedy writer, Pilcher has a wicked sense of humour. Regarding artificial insemination in cattle breeding, she declares: “Romance is dead, replaced by a glorified bovine turkey baster” (p. 53). Her description of zoologist Mark Carwardine’s encounter with an amorous kakapo simply has to be read; I will just leave you with the words “demented pair of sex-mad avian earmuffs” (p. 290). Sometimes, the humour is acerbic. Industrial animal farming is a major driver of the global decline in biodiversity. If somebody were to populate a new ark to reflect this shift in abundance, she half-jokes, the roll call would go “chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, cow” (p. 353).
Pilcher knows when not to provide too much information. Whole books have been written about e.g. the long-running fox domestication experiment in Siberia, evolution in urban settings and the textbook example of the peppered moth evolving in response to changes in air pollution, the gene-editing tool CRISPR, or the stratigraphical definition of the Anthropocene and what marker will be suitable (it might just be chicken bones). For all of these topics, she manages to provide the relevant details in just a few pages.
“[…] just as humans contain some Neanderthal DNA, studies have shown grizzly bears to contain some polar bear DNA […] It is estimated that the two species have occasionally interbred for the last 40,000 years.”
In other cases, she goes into great detail. This book could be a rather depressing read, so in the last part, she explores in-depth some examples of how our knowledge and technical skills can stem the tide of biodiversity loss. Some researchers have figured out how to make coral spawn on-demand in the lab, allowing the reintroduction of live coral to sites affected by bleaching. There is the intensively managed Kakapo Recovery Program in New Zealand, and the hands-off approach of rewilding, such as the Knepp Estate in the UK. The topic of rewilding is where I find Pilcher at her least critical and most starry-eyed. Although there are places where she hints at human population numbers multiplying our impact, she never mentions overpopulation out loud. And beyond some hints at eating less meat, she does not really address what limits we ought to impose on ourselves if we want large-scale rewilding efforts to exist side-by-side with 8 billion people. Admittedly these are huge and divisive topics without easy answers that are outside of the scope of this book, but they are barely acknowledged here.
In her introduction, Pilcher pithily states: “Life is changing. Humans are responsible“. Life Changing is a very enjoyable piece of popular science writing that shows the many ways in which this is true. I was particularly pleased that, despite my familiarity with the topic, she still had surprises in store for me.
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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The reintroduction of wolves to Yellowstone National Park is one of the best-known examples of wildlife conservation. To celebrate its 25th anniversary and summarise the many lessons learned, Yellowstone Wolf Project leaders Douglas W. Smith and Daniel R. Stahler, together with wildlife ecologist Daniel R. MacNulty, bring together research from over 70 colleagues in this large, edited collection. The combination of academic content, excellent photography, guest essays, and an online bonus documentary with interviews make this the go-to reference work for anyone wanting to go beyond the headlines on this reintroduction project.
Yellowstone Wolves: Science and Discovery in the World’s First National Park, edited by Douglas W. Smith, Daniel R. Stahler, and Daniel R. MacNulty, published by the University of Chicago Press in December 2020 (hardback, 339 pages)
The first thing that struck me about Yellowstone Wolves is how well-organised the book is. Six parts contain nineteen chapters, none going beyond twenty pages, and most include a clearly signposted conclusion. To give equal airtime to so many different studies and opinions is remarkable—the six years the editors spent on this book have borne fruit. The second thing is how readable the book is. To do justice to the subtleties and complexities of real-world ecosystems means digging into scientific research. Thus, it discusses methodologies and research results and provides graphs galore, 
but without bogging the reader down with excessive jargon or complex statistics. Only occasionally, when the discussion turned to species interactions or ecosystem ecology, did I feel that I was reading an academic paper.
So, what have we learned from 25 years of having wolves back in Yellowstone? This book covers a wide range of topics, more than I can hope to discuss here. Sensibly, it opens with a short history of the park, wolf extermination, and the reintroduction—a dramatic story complete with last-minute lawsuits that almost scuppered the whole operation.
“The first thing that struck me about Yellowstone Wolves is how well-organised the book is. […] To give equal airtime to so many different studies and opinions is remarkable”
After some basic wolf biology, the bulk of the book discusses long-term research. This covers pathogens and parasites, the genetic studies that inform wolf pedigrees and explain why you see both black and grey wolves in the park, and, notably, the different aspects of wolf packs. How they form, how long they last, how they defend territories and compete with one another, and how they change over time. This introduces some of the legendary wolves from Rick McIntyre‘s Alpha Wolves of Yellowstone series, or the very popular female O-Six, but also reveals the value of older wolves to their pack, or the surprisingly high mortality due to intraspecific (i.e. wolf-wolf) conflict when wolves are not constantly hunted by humans.
My impression, however, is that the seven chapters across parts 4 and 5 will be the most relevant to many readers. Why? First, because the chapters on community ecology (particularly wolf-prey interactions) touch both on the concerns of the hunters and ranchers who opposed wolf reintroduction, and on the challenges faced by generations of park managers. Second, because the topic of ecosystem ecology (the effects of wolves on ecosystems) catapulted the park to internet fame.
We are going to need some history here.
Woven throughout this book is the story of how predator removal at the beginning of the 20th century saw elk populations boom, leading to concerns of too many elk overgrazing and trampling the park and surrounding farmland. From 1920 to 1968 park management and hunters culled and relocated tens of thousands of elk, leading to concerns of too few elk and, from 1969 onwards, new policies that let nature take its course. Predictably, without predators, there was a new elk boom. This is the context in which wolf reintroduction was finally put on the table.
“Of course, wolves eat elk, but the devil is in the details […] these chapters seek to correct misconceptions [as] wolves are not the ungulate killing machines some imagine”
Elk numbers have since declined again, causing—you cannot please everyone—renewed consternation. This time, though, wolves get the blame. Of course, wolves eat elk, but the devil is in the details: “what is in doubt is the size and timing of [their] contribution” (p. 187). So, these chapters seek to correct misconceptions. Though wolves are formidable pack hunters capable of taking down large prey, failure is frequent and the risk of injury high. Lacking the powerful bite and retractable claws of big cats or the muscular forelimbs of bears, wolves are not the ungulate killing machines some imagine, instead preying on young, old, and sick elk, or scavenging e.g. bison carcasses. Furthermore, elk decline started months before the wolves returned 
to Yellowstone in 1995. In subsequent years other predators such as cougars, bears, and coyotes also flourished, while hunters continued to shoot substantial numbers of elk just outside the park. Guest contributors weigh in here with lessons learned from other long-term wolf studies in national parks such as the island of Isle Royale, Banff, and Denali.
The other controversial topic tackled is ecosystem effects: the idea that the impact of predators on prey affects the prey’s food base, rippling down the food web and influencing a whole ecosystem. Now, such trophic cascades do occur in nature, but in Yellowstone’s case, the narrative has been hijacked by that one viral video clip, How Wolves Change Rivers. It presents a straightforward story of wolves killing elk, which reduced elk overgrazing of trees, in turn stabilising river banks and leading to the return of numerous animals. Broken ecosystem? Just add Wolves
! Obviously, I am being facetious. In her contribution to Effective Conservation Science, Emma Marris examined the clip, the accusations of oversimplification, and the power of a good story. Ben Goldfarb, in his book Eager, noted that it downplays the effect of beaver reintroductions.
“the topic of ecosystem ecology […] catapulted the park to internet fame […] trophic cascades do occur in nature, but in Yellowstone’s case, the narrative has been hijacked by that one viral video clip”
Given this background, I was very curious to see how this book dealt with the matter. In one word: circumspect. The clip is only hinted at: “Some videos on the topic have garnered online audiences of millions. Although scientists have discredited some of these works as romantically simplistic […]” (p. 257). One chapter has a research group present the argument in favour of trophic cascades. They admit that indirect effects on vegetation have not been observed everywhere in the park where wolves now roam and add that players such as beavers, bison, wildfire, and disease complicate the picture. The next chapter has another research 
group consider more complex networks of interactions between wolves, other predators such as bears and cougars, scavengers, and herbivore prey. They open by writing that: “the preceding chapter considered […] processes in a single oversimplified food chain (i.e. wolves-elk-aspen/willow) in Yellowstone. Here, we discuss a broader set of food web relations that are too often ignored in the push to explain the links between wolves, elk, and vegetation” (p. 223). And so the discussion rumbles on.
The book ends with very relevant chapters on park management that explain the rationale behind visitor rules, celebrate dedicated wolf watchers, and hash out a framework for the perenially controversial topic of transboundary wolf management. That last one, in layman’s terms, gives recommendations for wildlife agencies on dealing with predators that cross the borders we draw on maps and come into conflict with stakeholders such as ranchers or hunters living near national parks.
As noted elsewhere, Yellowstone’s wildlife is subject to continuous change. By reintroducing wolves, scientists have had the unique opportunity to study the complexities of living, breathing ecosystems. Written by the very people who spent decades in the field doing the research, Yellowstone Wolves is a formidable achievement that presents a wide range of scientific topics in a well-organised, readable, and beautifully illustrated book.
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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In the field of palaeoanthropology, one name keeps turning up: the Leakey dynasty. Since Louis Leakey’s first excavations in 1926, three generations of this family have been involved in anthropological research in East Africa. In this captivating memoir, Meave, a second-generation Leakey, reflects on a lifetime of fieldwork and research and provides an inspirational blueprint for what women can achieve in science.
The Sediments of Time: My Lifelong Search for the Past, written by Meave Leakey and Samira Leakey, published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt in November 2020 (hardback, 396 pages)
With The Sediments of Time, Meave* follows a family tradition. Her husband Richard, and his parents Louis and Mary have all been the subject of (auto)biographies, now many decades old. Science writer Virginia Morell later portrayed the whole family in her 1999 book Ancestral Passions. Much has happened in the meantime, and though this book portrays Meave’s personal life, it heavily leans towards presenting her professional achievements, as well as scientific advances in the discipline at large. Thus, Meave’s childhood and early youth are succinctly described in the first 15-page chapter as she is keen to get to 1965 when a 23-year-old Meave starts working with Louis in Kenya.
Whereas Louis and Mary were famous for their work in Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania, Richard and Meave have made their careers around Lake Turkana in northern Kenya. The first two parts of the book take the reader chronologically through the various excavation campaigns. These include the decade-long excavations in and around Koobi Fora, one highlight of which was the find of Nariokotome Boy (also known as Turkana Boy), a largely complete skeleton of a young Homo erectus. The subsequent campaign in Lothagam yielded little hominin material but did reveal a well-documented faunal turnover of herbivore browsers being replaced by grazers with time. Meave has also described several new hominin species. This includes Australopithecus anamensis, which would be ancestral to Australopithecus afarensis (represented by the famous Lucy skeleton), and Kenyanthropus platyops, which would be of the same age as Ardipithecus ramidus. That last name might sound familiar, because…
“Woven into Meave’s narrative of exploration and excavation is an overview of how palaeoanthropology developed as a discipline, and what are some of its big outstanding questions.”
Having just reviewed Fossil Men, which portrayed the notorious palaeoanthropologist Tim White, I was curious to see what Meave had to say about him. In Fossil Men, Kermit Pattison already mentioned that she described White “with a note of sympathy” (p. 5), and she affirms that picture here, writing that he is “a meticulous scientist […] intolerant of bad science […] outspoken and frank […] although he was charming and a gentleman in less formal situations” (p. 136). And though they meet more than once to compare fossils, notes, and ideas, they remain at loggerheads over certain claims.
Woven into Meave’s narrative of exploration and excavation is an overview of how palaeoanthropology developed as a discipline, and what are some of its big outstanding questions. A recurrent theme is the influence of climate on evolution, often by impacting diet and available food sources. There is the difficult question of naming species and how much difference is enough to recognise a separate species, which ties into the whole lumpers vs. splitters debate in taxonomy. The latter readily name new species whereas the former (White being an example) point to sexual dimorphism and morphological variation and recognize only one or very few hominin species. Your stance in that debate affects what you think of Meave’s descriptions of Au. anamensis as being part of a lineage towards Au. afarensis, and whether K. platyops is a species distinct from Ar. ramidus (White obviously thinks not).
This discussion of topics relevant to palaeoanthropology strongly comes to the fore in the book’s third part, by which time Meave is examining the Homo lineage and the question where we appeared from. This sees her tackling topics such as human childbirth and the role of grandmothers, Lieberman’s hypothesis of endurance running as a uniquely human strategy to run prey to exhaustion, palaeoclimatology and the mechanism of the Milankovitch cycles, the spread of Homo erectus around the globe (the Out of Africa I hypothesis), and the use of genetics to trace deep human ancestry. I feel that Meave overstretches herself a little bit in places here. Though her explanations are lucid and include some good illustrations, some relevant recent literature, on e.g. ancient DNA and Neanderthals is not mentioned.
“Meave can draw on a deep pool of remarkable and amusing anecdotes that are put to good use to lighten up the text. And though the focus is on her professional achievements and the science, real life interrupts work on numerous occasions.”
Meave can draw on a deep pool of remarkable and amusing anecdotes that are put to good use to lighten up the text. And though the focus is on her professional achievements and the science, real life interrupts work on numerous occasions. Some of these are joyful, such as the birth of her daughters Louise and Samira. Some are a mixed blessing, such as Richard’s career changes, first when Kenya’s president hand-picks him to lead the Kenya Wildlife Service and combat rampant elephant poaching, then when he switches to attempting political reform. It removes him from palaeoanthropology and their time together in the field. Other occasions are outright harrowing, such as Richard’s faltering kidneys that require transplantations, or the horrific plane crash that sees him ultimately lose both legs despite extended surgery.
Illustrator Patricia Wynne contributes some tasteful drawings to this book, though the figure legends do not always clarify the important details these images try to convey. And I would have loved to see some photos of important specimens, whether during excavation or after preparation, especially given how much Meave focuses on the scientific story in this book. Many specimens are described in great detail but the colour plate section mostly contains photos of the Leakeys and collaborators in the field. Another minor point of criticism is that I was not clear on Samira’s part in writing this book. The dustjacket mentions her as a co-author, but the story is told exclusively through Meave’s eyes, and the acknowledgements do not clarify Samira’s role. I am left to surmise that Meave and Samira together drew on their store of memories for this book.
These minor criticisms notwithstanding, I found The Sediments of Time an inspiring memoir that provided a (for myself long-overdue) introduction to the Leakey dynasty. Meave has led a charmed existence and she is a fantastic role model for women in science.
* I normally refer to authors by their last name but, for obvious reasons and with all due respect, I will be deviating from that habit here and mention the various Leakeys by their first name.
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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Where do humanity’s evolutionary roots lie? The answer has long been “in Africa”, but this idea is being challenged from various sides. I previously reviewed Begun’s The Real Planet of the Apes as a warming-up exercise before delving into this book. My conclusion was that its discussion of archaic ape evolution, although proposing that species moved back and forth between Africa and Eurasia, ultimately did not really challenge the Out of Africa hypothesis. Not so Ancient Bones. German palaeontologist Madeleine Böhme, With the help of two co-authors, journalists Rüdiger Braun and Florian Breier, firmly challenges the established narrative in an intriguing book that is as outspoken as it is readable.
Ancient Bones: Unearthing the Astonishing New Story of How We Became Human, written by Madelaine Böhme, Rüdiger Braun, and Florian Breier, published by Greystone Books in September 2020 (hardback, 376 pages)
Ancient Bones was originally published in German in November 2019 as Wie wir Menschen wurden. Less than a year later the good folk at Greystone Books have already published the English translation. The challenge to the Out of Africa narrative is twofold here: criticism by palaeoanthropologists and Böhme’s own discoveries. The latter are the novel part of this book and are told with much verve. Two fossils, in particular, take centre-stage.
First, there is the rediscovery of a tooth and a jawbone christened Graecopithecus freybergi. Originally found in 1944 near Athens, together with other animal fossils, they went missing for decades before Böhme tracks them down, in true Raiders-of-the-Lost-Ark–style, in the catacombs of the Nuremberg congress hall, a location infamous for the Nazi party rallies during World War II. With today’s technology, old fossils hold new value. Careful study of the jawbone with computed tomography scanning showed that the teeth resembled early hominins* more than other great ape fossils. Novel magnetostratigraphic analysis of crystals in sediment trapped inside the animal bones from the same dig allowed the whole lot to be dated to about 7.2 million years ago (mya).
“These two important fossils, Graecopithecus and Danuvius, were present in Europe at a time where conventional wisdom has it that Africa was the epicentre of hominin evolution.”
The second discovery is made by Böhme and collaborators in a southern German clay pit. In a nail-biting race against time—the pit is commercially operated year-round to turn the clay into bricks—they manage to recover much fossil material during three field seasons. This includes a partial skeleton of a new primate species named Danuvius guggenmosi dated to about 11.6 mya. Based on several physical characteristics, Böhme and colleagues argue it, too, resembles early hominins more than known great ape fossils.
So, Graecopithecus and Danuvius, two important fossils, are one part of her argument that there were early hominins in Europe at a period where conventional wisdom has it that Africa was the epicentre of hominin evolution. The second challenge to the Out of Africa hypothesis comes from other palaeoanthropologists. For example, there is criticism of the earliest claimed African hominin, Sahelantropus tchadensis**, with some researchers arguing it is a great ape instead. Then there are several fossils from Asia (the Chinese Homo wushanensis, the Philippine H. luzonensis, and the Indonesian H. floresiensis), plus tools that overlap with the African timeline up to 2.6 mya, contradicting the Out of Africa hypothesis (specifically, the Out of Africa I variant).
“As with deserts, savannah ecosystems were in constant flux and integrated across Africa and Eurasia, a region dubbed Savannahstan by some. Perhaps that was the cradle of humanity.”
This criticism is embedded in plenty of background information that benefits tremendously from excellent infographics by freelance illustrator Nadine Gibler. Some topics covered are the history palaeoanthropological discoveries that, thanks in particular to the Leakey dynasty, shifted in focus from Europe and Asia to Africa from 1924 onwards. There is a recap of the history of archaic ape evolution that Begun told in The Real Planet of the Apes. And there is an overview of the anatomical characters that set apart apes and hominins.
Particularly relevant is the palaeoclimatological and biogeographical story. On the one hand, shrinking and growing deserts throughout northern Africa, the Mediterranean, and Asia provided a barrier to migration. On the other hand, the little known Messinian Salinity Crisis*** saw the Mediterranean Sea dry up about 5.6 mya, allowing migration of fauna between Africa and Eurasia, including a lot of animals we now think of as “typically” African. “Why should early hominins be an exception?” asks Böhme on page 194. As with deserts, savannah ecosystems were in constant flux and integrated across Africa and Eurasia, a region dubbed Savannahstan by some. Perhaps that was the cradle of humanity.
“It is not that the fossils found in Africa are not important, but […] the focus on any one particular continent is too narrow […]”
This material is divided over seventeen reasonably-sized, readable chapters in four parts. Depending on how widely you have read on human evolution, the final two parts of the book will already be familiar to you and feel like filler or will be a tasty sampler of other topics. Böhme changes gear here, introducing two questions. One, what made us human? She briefly discusses the hand, above-mentioned Asian Homo fossils and our wanderlust, long-distance running, Wrangham’s thesis that fire and cooking allowed our brains to grow larger, and the physical and genetic evidence for language (this section is a far cry from Rudolf Botha’s critical evaluation in Neanderthal Language). Two, why are we the last ape standing? Rather than Paul Martin’s Pleistocene overkill hypothesis, she favours the (to me novel) idea that that at least Neanderthals and Denisovans simply merged with us. Ancient DNA has revealed we all carry some of their DNA in us, but we do not all have the same pieces. Puzzle it all together, and an estimated 30% of the Neanderthal genome and up to 90% of the Denisovan genome is retained in the current human population.
Ancient Bones is not afraid to go against the grain and be provocative. Though it will no doubt ruffle feathers, my impression is that Böhme draws on a growing body of convincing evidence and arguments to make her case. It is not that the fossils found in Africa are not important, but Böhme’s conclusion on page 271 that the focus on any one particular continent is too narrow is hard to disagree with in light of everything she presents here. What is undeniable is that her decision to involve three others in the writing process makes this a top-notch example of an engaging book accessible to a broad audience.
*Hominins are a taxonomical grouping encompassing humans, chimpanzees, and bonobos, plus their extinct ancestors.
**There is a remarkable personal attack here on Sahelanthropus‘s discoverer who has withheld a thighbone from scrutiny by the wider scientific community for close to two decades pending his own investigations. It could answer whether Sahelanthropus was bipedal or not. When two scientists wanted to present our understanding so far at a meeting their application was rejected. “Could it be that Michel Brunet, one of the icons of French science, Knight of the Légion d’honneur, recipient of the Ordre national du Merité, did not want to be challenged?” (p. 128), is one of the things Böhme asks pointedly. Now, it is not that there are no big egos in science, because there are, but to publicly shame a colleague in a book for a general audience felt, to me, unnecessary. It would have been sufficient to write, as she does here, that his choice is unfortunate and holds back scientific progress.
***The Messinian Salinity Crisis is a fascinating geological event that cries out for a popular treatment. Though some books mention it, as far as I am aware, there has not been a book dedicated to it since 1983, even though our knowledge on it has increased tremendously.
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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Neanderthals have enjoyed quite the renaissance in the last decade or so, with research attributing skills and capacities to them once considered uniquely human. One of the most contested claims in this arena is language. Since (spoken) language does not fossilise, nor leave material traces in the archaeological record, the case for Neanderthal language relies on indirect evidence. In this book, linguist Rudolf Botha takes a hard-nosed look at why this matter is so controversial and offers a framework to properly tackle it.
Neanderthal Language: Demystifying the Linguistic Powers of our Extinct Cousins, written by Rudolf Botha, published by Cambridge University Press in May 2020 (hardback, 209 pages)
The introduction to Neanderthal Language might intimidate as it immediately introduces Botha’s conceptual framework and attendant terminology. The book is as much a review of the many claims put forth as it is about the nature of evidence and how to evaluate claims. This is where it all gets a bit meta, so bear with me.
In his previous book, Language Evolution, Botha introduced what he calls the Windows Approach. Basically, since there is no direct evidence available to study the evolution of language, you have to rely on other phenomena for which you do have direct evidence, and then convincingly argue that these offer a window on language evolution. For your inferences and conclusions to be sound, three conditions need to be met. One, your conclusions need to be pertinent: whatever you are describing (here, language) should be properly identified. Two, your inferences should be grounded: grounded, that is, in accurate data that is informative of the phenomenon you are trying to study. And three, your inferences should be warranted: you should be able to justify why you can draw on this indirect evidence to say something about language evolution, i.e. you require a so-called bridge theory. Are you still with me? The first two chapters will require you to wrap your head around this framework, but stick with it, it is quite intuitive.
Botha evaluates two groups of claims that archaeologists and anthropologists use to argue for Neanderthal language: behaviours that are symbolic (personal ornamentation, cave art, body decoration, and burials) and non-symbolic (making stone tools, teaching it, and hunting big game). The last chapter shortly touches on biological attributes such as genetics (e.g. the gene FOXP2) and brain regions, but that is not the focus of this book*.
“[Claims for language rely on] complex inferences: you do not just jump from finding objects at a dig site to the conclusion of language.”
All of these claims rely on what Botha calls complex inferences: you do not just jump from finding objects at a dig site to the conclusion of language. So, for the personal ornamentation argument, the chain of inference runs something like this: we find objects associated with Neanderthal skeletons, we conclude these were worn as ornaments, from which we conclude in turn that they were treated as symbols, from which we conclude in turn that Neanderthals had language. The problem is that upon close inspection most claims already fall at the first hurdle, writes Botha.
The examples of cave art attributed to Neanderthals might have been made by other hominids; we just cannot date them accurately enough. Plus, their meaning remains a mystery—maybe they were symbols, maybe something else. The blocks of manganese dioxide yielding black pigment might have had other explanations than Neanderthal make-up, fire-starters being one likely candidate. And those burials were probably intentional, but the lack of clear grave goods undermines their symbolic status as funerary practices. Out of this lot, only personal ornamentation fares reasonably well. This is the largest chapter as there is much empirical work to make a pretty convincing case that objects found associated with Neanderthal skeletons were, indeed, used as jewellery.
Where all these claims fail is the inference that they are examples of symbolic behaviour. Botha asks probing questions, such as “what are the distinctive properties of symbols according to [these authors]?“, and “To what theory of symbolism do they subscribe?” (p. 54). Many authors are either not explicit about this, do not specify what would count as evidence for or against, define symbolism but present data that has no bearing on it, or, in the case of ornamentation, simply state that ornaments are symbolic by definition, excluding them from empirical verification.
“[…] there is much empirical work to make a pretty convincing case that objects found associated with Neanderthal skeletons were, indeed, used as jewellery.”
Even if, writes Botha, we assume for argument’s sake that these behaviours were symbolic: how do you go from there to language? The often unspoken assumption is “because language is also symbolic”. This lands you into a hornet’s nest of linguistics. I quote Botha: “By what bridge theory is [the inference] underpinned—a theory specifying the ways in which semantically non-combinable cultural symbols and semantically combinable linguistic signs are interlinked?” (p. 105). Without this, it is merely “an arbitrary inferential leap” to go from symbolic behaviour to language. Further problems are the vague and frequently different definitions of what exactly would characterise Neanderthal language, and the failure to distinguish between Neanderthal groups. “The Neanderthal” does not exist: they were not a monolithic entity, but a hominid species that were around for roughly 400,000 years, distributed over a large area. So who, exactly, are we talking about?
It is much the same for the non-symbolic behaviours, according to Botha. The stone-tool claims start with empirical data obtained on modern human volunteers. In the former, there is the assumption that tool behaviour and speech are similar enough that, because we knap stone tools using a series of actions involving hierarchies and recursions, so did Neanderthals, and from there that this also applies to their language. The latter argues that, since teaching stone-tool making by modern humans benefits from verbal instructions, it is likely that Neanderthals used language too. The only claim that Botha deems likely is that of big-game hunting. We have unequivocal evidence of cooperative ambush hunting of large prey, which would have required cooperation, which would have required communication, which would have required language. Even here, though, by mentioning a grammatically simple language such as Riau Indonesian, he points out it need not have been a complex language.
“[Botha] is not unfriendly to the idea of Neanderthal language […] but he calls for better science and offers a framework to do so.”
I mentioned this book gets rather meta, talking of conceptual frameworks and bridge theories, the nature of evidence and the evaluation of claims, and a healthy dollop of linguistics. Fortunately, it is also clearly structured, both within and between chapters, making good use of lists, headers, and figures to make its points. Though aimed at professionals, this book is perfectly accessible to a more general audience.
Books such as The Smart Neanderthal and Kindred have popularised the idea that Neanderthals are not all that different from us, so you might think Botha a bit of a party pooper. Note, however, that he is not unfriendly to the idea of Neanderthal language and explicitly says his criticism does not disprove it, but he calls for better science and offers a framework to do so. As such, Neanderthal Language provides a healthy dose of caution and scepticism for readers of general works such as the above and should be a valuable guide for practising archaeologists and anthropologists.
* After this review was published, a user on Reddit by the name of Denisova commented that they found it “a bit awkward that genetic and anatomical arguments are left out in his assessments.” This is a good point of critique that, in hindsight, I did not raise sufficiently. Botha mentions in his introduction they will not be the focus of this book, but it would have made for a more complete treatment if he had, possibly seeking the help of a co-author better versed in those fields.
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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Some encounters change the course of your life. For young American Peace Corps volunteer Jonathan C. Slaght, it was a chance sighting of a rare owl in the Russian Far East that turned him onto the path of wildlife conservation. Hidden behind the conservation plans and the data there are amazing personal stories that are not often told. Owls of the Eastern Ice is a spellbinding memoir of determination and obsession with safeguarding the future of this bird of prey that firmly hooked its talons in me and did not let go.
Owls of the Eastern Ice: The Quest to Find and Save the World’s Largest Owl, written by Jonathan C. Slaght, published in Europe by Allen Lane in August 2020 (hardback, 348 pages)
Primorye, or Primorsky Krai*, is a remote spit of land in the Russian Far East, wedged between China and the Sea of Japan, that is as bleak and forbidding as the cover of the book suggests**. It is home to bears, tigers, leopards, and the elusive Blakiston’s fish owl that went unnoticed by local ornithologists for a century. But the area is not free of human pressures. The locals have a long tradition of living off the land, hunting and fishing, while commercial industries such as mining and logging are being developed. But not to the point that it has severely degraded this ecosystem. Yet. Successful wildlife conservation here requires cooperation with local interests, which requires knowledge. Owls of the Eastern Ice thus tells the story of Slaght’s PhD project from 2006 to 2010 to collect baseline data on these long-lived owls: where they nest, what landscape features they prefer, or how large their territories are.
Credit: Jonathan Slaght
What sounds like a simple plan on paper—find some owls, fit them with radio transmitters, monitor where they go—hides weeks or months of back-breaking labour on a shoestring budget, endless patience, and sometimes the bitter disappointment of having nothing to show for it. Especially in remote parts of the world, even the most mundane tasks can be challenging beyond the comprehension of most Westerners (I had my brush with this as a student). So, in some ways, Owls of the Eastern Ice is the classical hero’s journey, Slaght starting out as a rookie who is not even quite sure what these birds look or sound like. During the successive three-month field seasons, he goes from fleeting glimpses of fleeing owls to catching, banding, and tagging a handful of adults, to ultimately observing intimate moments in the lives of these birds. For interested readers, endnotes will lead you to the hard biological facts published in papers and books. Here, it is his vivid descriptions that bring this mysterious raptor to live:
“Breathy, low and organic, the fish owls’ call pulsed through the forest, hiding among the creaking trees and bending with the rushing river. It was the sound of something ancient and in its place.”
A lot of what propels this book, however, is the human story. Even though Slaght has visited Primorye for years before starting this project and speaks Russian, his novice mistakes and the steep learning curve of the fieldwork make it clear that he remains an outsider. I might have called this a hero’s journey, but Slaght never pretends to be one: this is a team effort. Next to his mentor Sergey Surmach there is a motley crew of assistants and fixers with their own idiosyncrasies who share cramped sleeping quarters and all-night stakeouts; from a cynical former coal miner to a virtuoso snorer with a urine fetish. The help of locals with their own colourful backstories—hermits, hunters, and loggers—is equally crucial to making this research possible.
Credit: Amur–Ussuri Centre for Avian Biodiversity
Slaght’s observations of the cultural differences and the occasional misunderstandings flowing from them provide plenty of amusing anecdotes: the stubborn, manly-man Russian attitudes that not infrequently get people into trouble, the unusual Eastern European superstitions, and the local customs that often involve long drinking sessions. (Why sell bottles of vodka with a cap? “Either a bottle is full or it is empty, with only a short period between these two states.”) But Slaght never descends into mockery or disrespectful cultural voyeurism, and recognizes how crazy his calling is. The people he meets regularly wonder who in his right mind would spend the winter months in this remote corner of the world chasing after some birds.
“the starring role is reserved for nature itself […] The violence of the spring melt gives rise to phenomena that have no words outside of the Russian language”
In many ways, the starring role is reserved for nature itself: the majestic forest taiga and the cold spine of the Sikhote–Alin mountain chain. No mere backdrop, it rules man and beast alike, readily taking the lives of those unwary, unprepared, or just plain unlucky. Fieldwork here is a constant struggle against the elements, dictated by the changing of the seasons. The violence of the spring melt gives rise to phenomena that have no words outside of the Russian language.
Slaght takes all these elements—the owls like a fever-dream out of a Jim Henson movie, the hardy cast of locals, and nature’s raw power—and weaves them into a memoir so mesmerizing and spellbinding that I was compelled to read this book in a single sitting. I have tried not to reveal too many details in this review so as not to spoil potential readers. I will just say that if you enjoy wilderness travelogues or books such as Schaller’s Tibet Wild or Berger’s recent book Extreme Conservation, then you will devour Owls of the Eastern Ice. The fish owls are blessed to have someone like Slaght fight their cause. And if my review did not convince you, let me leave you with this book trailer.
* A krai is a federal subject, one of the types of administrative divisions of Russia, roughly translating to “region” or “area” in English.
** The UK cover, that is, the US cover is not nearly as impressive.
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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In his previous book, Beyond Words, ecologist Carl Safina convinced his readers of the rich inner lives of animals. Just like we do, they have thoughts, feelings, and emotions. But the similarities do not stop there. Becoming Wild focuses on animal culture, the social knowledge that is transmitted between individuals and generations through sharing and learning. The more we look, the more animals seem less different from us—or we from them. On top of that, Safina puts forward several eye-opening and previously-overlooked implications of animal culture.
Becoming Wild: How Animals Learn to be Animals, written by Carl Safina, published in Europe by Oneworld Publications in April 2020 (hardback, 377 pages)
To observe animal culture first-hand, Safina focuses on three species and accompanies the researchers that study them in the field. He furthermore draws on the primary scientific literature on culture in a host of other species. The stars of this book are sperm whales and the long-term Dominica Sperm Whale Project led by Shane Gero, the scarlet macaws in Peru studied by Don Brightsmith and Gaby Vigo’s group, and the chimpanzees in Uganda’s Budongo Forest studied by Cat Hobaiter’s group. They are worth the price of admission alone.
I admit I have a thing for the denizens of the deep. Just as Safina previously showed orcas to be fascinating, here he taught me how little I know about sperm whales. Clearly, I must read up on them. They communicate in clicks generated by the world’s most powerful animal sonar. Beyond finding squid in the deep, unique patterns of clicks (so-called codas) announce group membership to other whales. Sperm whale families worldwide are organised in different clans that do not mingle, each sounding their own coda. And these have to be learned by youngsters. Safina furthermore gives a searing history of whaling and its effects and considers what we know of culture in other cetaceans.
It is hard not to like parrots, and the section on macaws provides plenty of antics to enjoy. These pair-bonding birds teach their young where food is to be found and what ripens when. Sodium is in short supply in this part of the jungle, so macaws use ancient clay deposits as communal salt licks. But this is also an opportunity to socialise, find mates, and see who is hanging out with who. Here, too, groups of parrots have idiosyncratic cultural preferences for certain salt licks over others.
“The three stars of this book—sperm whales, scarlet macaws, and chimpanzees—are worth the price of admission alone.”
Chimpanzees, then, have been intensively studied and examples of culture abound. Different groups have unique tool use and dietary habits that get passed down the generations, not just through copying, but at times even through teaching. Some chimps use rocks as anvils and hammers to crack nuts, some craft wooden spears to kill bush babies hiding inside logs, while others raid nearby farms for guava fruit that most chimps will not touch. They live in strongly hierarchical groups where alpha males vie for power, and violent outbursts are frequent. Youngsters have to be taught everybody’s place in the ranking as they grow up. Nevertheless, Cat Hobaiter is at pains to show Safina that most of the time these animals are peaceful. Based on this, primary literature, and books such as The New Chimpanzee and The Real Chimpanzee, Safina, in turn, paints a nuanced picture of chimpanzee society. Interested readers will also want to look out for the forthcoming Chimpanzee: Lessons from our Sister Species and Chimpanzees in Context for the state-of-the-art of the field.
But these three focus species are not all there is. Safina examines other studies to show how widespread animal culture is. He draws parallels between humans and other animals and probingly asks what this means for how we treat them and their world. Perhaps no more so than on page 327: “No wisdom tradition grants a generation permission to deplete the world and drive it toward ruin […] Life is a relay race, our task merely to pass the torch.” And he develops interesting ideas, two of which struck me as eye-opening.
One is the underrated significance of culture for conservation biology. Much of how animals learn to be animals depends on knowledge being passed from generation to generation. Thus, the biodiversity crisis is about more than just numerical losses, genetic bottlenecks, and habitat fragmentation. Unique cultures are snuffed out as we kill animals and destroy their habitats to claim more room for ourselves. Worse, breaking these links of knowledge transmission also greatly hinders reintroduction efforts. Without their elders to teach them how to live in their particular environments, young animals often struggle to survive, while willy-nilly translocating mature animals is bound to run into obstacles. It is a disheartening insight that, it seems to me, many conservation biologists and organisations still have to come to terms with.
“[…] the biodiversity crisis is about more than just numerical losses, genetic bottlenecks, and habitat fragmentation. Unique cultures are snuffed out as we kill animals and destroy their habitats to claim more room for ourselves”
The other concerns the role of culture in speciation and evolution. Safina hinted at this in Beyond Words but here develops this idea more fully. The evolution of new species starts with reproductive isolation between different groups, this much biologists agree on. But what drives reproductive isolation? Traditionally, geography is invoked: the formation of mountains and rivers, or the conquest of islands separates populations in space, preventing reproduction. If this persists, populations start to diverge and are on their way to becoming separate species. Biologists call this allopatric speciation. But there are cases, the Lake Victoria cichlids being a textbook example, where species continue to share the same habitat and could interbreed but for some reason do not. This is known as sympatric speciation. Biologists have long struggled to explain what causes reproductive isolation here.
Culture could.
As Safina points out, socially learned preferences lead to avoidance between groups and thus to reproductive isolation. In orcas, for example, different groups with different diets (fish vs. marine mammals) are already showing morphological changes. Safina proposes that, next to natural and sexual selection, cultural selection could be a pathway to speciation. It is a thought-provoking idea.
“[…] socially learned preferences lead to avoidance between groups and thus to reproductive isolation […] Safina proposes that, next to natural and sexual selection, cultural selection could be a pathway to speciation. “
What makes Becoming Wild such a pleasure to read is that Safina speaks to you in many voices. There is Safina the ecologist, Safina the conservationist, Safina the philosopher, etc. He has many angles on his subject which keeps the narrative flowing and the reader engaged. His questions are probing: Who are we sharing the planet with and what is life like for them? In places, his prose soars into poetry. When writing of the dawn chorus: “Dawn is the song that silence sings […] as the eyelash of daybreak rolls endlessly across the planet, a chorus of birds and monkeys is eternally greeting a new dawn.” (p. 232) And the epigraph that describes Shane Gero’s revelation as to why he studies sperm whales was so powerful that Safina had me in tears before even starting the book.
Becoming Wild is another jewel in the crown of Safina’s work that packs fascinating field studies, interesting theoretical ideas, soul-searching questions, and probing reflections on human and animal nature into a book that is as profound as it is moving.
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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Recognising that animals are intelligent beings with inner lives, emotions—even personalities—has a troubled place in the history of ethology, the study of animal behaviour. For most pet owners, these things will seem self-evident, but ethologists have long been hostile to the idea of anthropomorphising animals by attributing human characteristics to them. The tide is turning, though, and on the back of decades-long careers, scientists such as Frans de Waal, Marc Bekoff, and Carl Safina have become well-known public voices breaking down this outdated taboo. In preparation of reviewing Safina’s new book Becoming Wild, I decided I should first read his bestseller Beyond Words. I have to issue an apology here: courtesy of the publisher Henry Holt I have had a review copy of this book for several years that gathered dust until now. And that was entirely my loss, as Beyond Words turned out to be a beautiful, moving book.
Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel, written by Carl Safina, published in Europe by Souvenir Press in September 2016 (hardback, 480 pages)
A plain summary of this book could run something like this: a large book in four parts in which ecologist Carl Safina delves into the inner worlds of elephants, wolves, and orcas, with frequent comparisons to other animals. This is based on interviews with biologists, time spent with them in the field observing their study animals, and close reading of both the books they wrote and the primary scientific literature. In Africa, he speaks to Iain Douglas-Hamilton and Amboseli Elephant Research Project leader Cynthia Moss. In Yellowstone National Park he spends time with long-term wolf-watchers Laurie Lyman, Doug McLaughlin, and Rick McIntyre. The latter has since started chronicling the lives of Yellowstone’s alpha wolves in a yet-to-be-completed trilogy. And on the Pacific coast between the USA and Canada he accompanies Ken Balcomb who has dedicated his life to observing orcas, while listening closely to Erich Hoyt, Alexandra Morton, Denise Herzing, and Diana Reiss.
This summary would tell you of the long-term studies and numerous observations that have revealed so much. How elephants in a herd defer to the leadership of a matriarch, who is a walking memory bank of valuable knowledge on e.g. the location of food and water holes in times of famine and drought. How they show empathy by caring for their wounded and sick, even grieving their dead, paying close attention to bones long after the death of their owner. How they communicate, using infrasound to cover long distances, and how the slaughter for ivory causes life-long havoc by destroying family structures.
The wolves reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park have revealed how the different alpha males and females have their own personalities, some ruling their pack calmly, others tyrannically. These are clever carnivores who outsmart competitors threatening their pups, and cooperate in a complex fashion to bring down large prey. Here, too, human hunters killing wolves causes collateral damage that reverberates down the social hierarchy, breaking up and reshuffling packs, often costing more lives.
“Not assuming that other animals have thoughts and feelings was a good start for a new science. Insisting they did not was bad science.”
And killer whales? These highly social and long-lived marine mammals live in pods that, like other cetaceans, show what can only be called culture. Such as their exceptional dietary specialisation that is taught to youngsters. These echo-locating predators show refined, cooperative hunting techniques and are intensely social, mothers contributing to the survival of their children and grandchildren well after menopause. Just as elephants and wolves, they recognize other individuals after prolonged periods of separation (and show it too). As told elsewhere, we learned much of this the hard way by catching killer whales for display in marine theme parks. Suffice to say that breaking up families and isolating individuals in small pools has turned out to be extremely traumatising.
But this way of reviewing the book would neglect much of what makes it such an exceptional read. And I am not talking about all the other intelligent beings populating these pages: the primates, dogs, dolphins, and birds.
Take the much-needed history lesson of why scientists have been so shy to grant animals a measure of agency and intelligence: the mere mention of it could kill your academic career. In Mama’s Last Hug, Frans de Waal called this resistance to anthropomorphising “anthropodenial”. Safina agrees that we have taken it to the other extreme: “Not assuming that other animals have thoughts and feelings was a good start for a new science. Insisting they did not was bad science” (p. 27). Notably, though, where De Waal makes a careful distinction between emotions and feelings, Safina uses these two words interchangeably.
“Peel back the skin and underneath we find similarities everywhere […] and why would we expect anything else? We know that evolution excels at reusing, repurposing, and rejiggling existing structures and processes.”
Or what of the gentle skewering of academic concepts such as “theory of mind”, the realisation that others have their own motivations and desires? Those who continue to deny animals this should get out more, for they show “that many humans lack a theory of mind for non-humans” (p. 253). In Safina’s hands, the mirror mark test, that supposed litmus test of self-awareness, looks daft. Animals failing to recognize their own reflection only show that they do not understand reflection, without it, well, reflecting on self-awareness. In the wild, both self-awareness and gauging another’s state of mind are often a matter of life or death.
Probably one of the most convincing threads that runs through this book, and to which Safina returns frequently, is that of evolutionary legacy. Consciousness, emotion—the mental traits that we long thought as uniquely human—have deep roots. Peel back the skin and underneath we find similarities everywhere: the same neurological circuits, the same hormones, the same physiological pathways. And why would we expect anything else? We know that evolution excels at reusing, repurposing, and rejiggling existing structures and processes.
So, he happily goes against the grain and speculates about animals’ mental experience in this book, though always with one eye on evidence, logic, and science. (He helpfully bundles up the more unbelievable ones on cetaceans in a chapter called “Woo-Woo”.) To really see animals not for what, but for who they are, observations outside of the artificial environments of laboratories and captive enclosures are vital. Consequently, as Safina admits, much of what he relates here is anecdotal. As many sceptical scientists, myself included, like to say: “the plural of anecdote is not data”. But the bin in his mind labelled “unlikely stories” is getting cluttered. Anecdotes can only keep piling up for so long before you can no longer ignore them.
“[T]his book would not have the impact it has had if it was not for the writing. It is easy to see why Safina’s oeuvre has garnered literary awards.”
Finally, this book would not have the impact it has had if it was not for the writing. It is easy to see why Safina’s oeuvre has garnered literary awards. His many, short chapters are threaded together suspensefully. His wordplay sometimes borders on brilliant: when observing our shared evolutionary history and legacy: “beneath the skin, kin” (p. 324); when pondering our endless cruelty towards animals: “the next step beyond human civilization: humane civilization” (p. 411). And if the many stories do not already move you, I will leave you with a quote that choked me up, where he makes the point that the study of animal behaviour is not a mere “boutique endeavour”:
“Anyone can read about how much we are losing. All the animals that human parents paint on nursery room walls, all the creatures depicted in paintings of Noah’s ark, are actually in mortal trouble now. Their flood is us. What I’ve tried to show is how other animals experience the lives they so energetically and so determinedly cling to. I wanted to know who these creatures are. Now we may feel, beneath our ribs, why they must live.” (p. 411)
Beyond Words is a heartfelt gem of a book. Whether you are fascinated by the lives of charismatic megafauna such as elephants, wolves, or killer whales, or have an interest in animal behaviour, pick up this book. It is never too late to read a bestseller that you have ignored so far.
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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