When thinking of human ancestors, the name “Lucy” will likely come to mind. But a dedicated team of scientists spent decades labouring on the discovery of a species more than a million years older still, at 4.4 million years of age. Nicknamed “Ardi” and classified as Ardipithecus ramidus, it was finally revealed to the world in 2009. For a full decade, journalist Kermit Pattison immersed himself in the story of Ardi’s discovery to bring to life both the science and the scientists. The resulting Fossil Men is an incredibly well-researched book that tells the definitive insider’s story of how one of the most divisive fossils in palaeoanthropology was discovered by one of its most divisive characters: Tim White.
Fossil Men: The Quest for the Oldest Skeleton and the Origins of Humankind, written by Kermit Pattison, published by William Morrow & Co. in December 2020 (hardback, 534 pages)
Fossil Men stands out for its brutally honest portrayal of the main protagonist, Tim White, something for which Pattison has had the full cooperation of White, his co-workers, and his many adversaries. From the very first pages, he is unsparingly described as a relentless perfectionist with “a razor intellect, hair-trigger bullshit detector, short temper, long list of discoveries, and longer list of enemies” (p. 2). He will take as long as he darn well needs to make sure his findings are beyond bulletproof. And while many loathe being at the receiving end of his withering criticism—”enemies not only resented him; they fucking hated him” (p. 71)—many also admit that he excels at what he does: “Tim White is brutal. He’s a real scientist. His literature will stay forever” (p. 4).
Pattison follows White’s story of fossil discovery in Ethiopia from its start in 1981. Against a backdrop of bureaucracy, corruption, and civil wars, White organised annual expeditions that “he micromanaged without apology“, while fellow anthropologist Bruce Latimer marvels that he is “without question the best field worker there is […] His science, logistics, and efficiency are phenomenal” (p. 127). What stands out, and endeared him to this reader, is how he insists on local capacity building, employing and training numerous Ethiopians, and only rarely recruiting foreigners, the Japanese Gen Suwa being one of these notable exceptions.
As a journalist who has published in the New York Times, GQ, and other outlets, it comes as no surprise that Pattison engagingly portrays the human interest story. He has extensively interviewed the people around White, including Ethiopian collaborators such as Berhane Asfaw, Alemu Ademassu, and Yohannes Haile-Selassie, or the creationist-turned-palaeoanthropologist Owen Lovejoy. But he also speaks to White’s many adversaries, including Ian Tattersall, Lucy team members Jon Kalb and the celebrity-loving Don Johanson, as well as members of the world-famous Leakey dynasty.
“Fossil Men stands out for its brutally honest portrayal of the main protagonist, Tim White”
What positively surprised me, however, was how thoroughly and accurately Pattison delves into the biological details. Whether it is related species such as Ardipithecus kadabba, the anatomy of the foot and spine, or the genetical wonderland of ancient DNA, evolutionary developmental biology, or comparative genomics—he puts to good use the more than 500 pages that have been crammed into Fossil Men. White’s obsessive attention to detail seems to have rubbed off on Pattison, and in the acknowledgements he admits the enormity of writing this book: “Nobody in their right mind takes on a project like this” (p. 423). The bibliography reveals just how deeply he has ventured: next to books and peer-reviewed papers, Pattison has consulted unpublished manuscripts, interviews, grant proposals, video material, oral histories, court files, and archives of private correspondence.
Over the years, White’s team unearths fragmentary remains and puzzles together the creature that will become known as Ardi. However, much to the frustration of peers and grant agencies, White refuses to go public until he has every detail nailed down. This is not a popular strategy and the briefly-featured Michel Brunet was similarly scolded in Ancient Bones for holding back important material. After an initial 1994 announcement in Nature, White and collaborators labour for a full 15 years in strict secrecy. Pattison here exclusively reports the many twists, turns, and realisations during this long period.
The crescendo of Fossil Men comes with the big reveal of Ardi in a 2009 special issue of Science. As expected, the popular press laps it up while the academic establishment is initially more resistant. Pattison again excels at showcasing the range of opinions. Reading the objections it is easy to see how White’s arguments go against the grain. Specifically, A. ramidus was initially considered to be the most chimp-like ancestor known so far. However, the more White’s team looked at the anatomy of the feet, pelvis, skull, and other body parts, the more they argued that human ancestors never went through a stage resembling modern apes. The long-held paradigm that modern apes are good models of our human ancestors was declared dead. Instead, compared to Ardi, humans are the ones retaining primitive anatomical aspects, while modern African apes are considered evolutionarily more derived. It would require several instances of convergent evolution amongst apes for this to happen, and is thus considered less parsimonious by evolutionary biologists, but that does not mean it is impossible.
“Ardi, it seems, has everyone flummoxed, proving to be “a simian-human combination that nobody had predicted“”
Ardi, it seems, has everyone flummoxed, proving to be “a simian-human combination that nobody had predicted” (p. 353). Refreshingly, some opponents have come around to White’s arguments after they have been given the opportunity to inspect the fossils for themselves. Another supporter is David Begun who dedicated a section to A. ramidus in The Real Planet of the Apes, discussing the configuration of the big toe. He agrees with White that “meticulous collection of data should come before interpretation“, and highlights how the assumption that hominin ancestors by definition cannot have a grasping big toe imposes restrictions on how to interpret new and contradictory evidence such as Ardi.
Arguments over Ardi’s status continue unabated. While writing this review, New Scientist reported on a study in Science Advances that analysed Ardi’s hands, arguing that they are more chimp-like and adapted for swinging from branches (suspensory locomotion). Unsurprisingly, White has responded to this in his usual gruff fashion: “This is another failed resurrection of the antiquated notion that living chimpanzees are good models for our ancestors“.
I admit that I was initially mildly concerned that the publisher was overselling Fossil Men by calling it a scientific detective story. However, it did not take long for me to become completely engrossed by Pattison’s portrayal of these scientists, and to be in awe of the skill with which he tackles numerous complex biological topics. This is a chunky book, but it is a page-turner that you will not regret.
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:
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
]]>
The history of human evolution has become firmly wedded to the Out of Africa hypothesis: the idea that we evolved in Africa and from there spread around the world. Back in 2015, palaeoanthropologist David R. Begun gave the proverbial tree of life a firm shake with The Real Planet of the Apes, making the case that the picture is a bit more complicated than that. Providing an incredibly well-written overview of the deep evolutionary history of great apes and humans, an interesting picture emerges of species moving into and out of Africa over time. Some reviewers hailed it as provocative—but is it really?
The Real Planet of the Apes: A New Story of Human Origins, written by David R. Begun, published by Princeton University Press in October 2015 (hardback, 262 pages)
In case you are wondering why I am only now reviewing a book published in 2015: I had just started reading the foreword of the recently published Ancient Bones when it occurred to me that its spiel—our deep evolutionary history lies in Europe rather than Africa—sounded familiar, as did the name of its writer, David R. Begun. Where did I read about this before? One glance at my bookshelves confirmed that, yes, Begun wrote The Real Planet of the Apes which I bought some years ago but had not yet read. Better late than never.
With this book, Begun takes the long view, surveying the deep evolutionary past of the ancestors of great apes and humans, i.e. the period from approximately 35 to 7 million years ago (mya). His starting point is the split between the ancestors of New World monkeys (which went off on their own evolutionary experiment in South America), and the ancestors of Old World monkeys and hominoids (humans, lesser and great apes, plus all their ancestors). Begun would some years later contribute a very readable 10-page summary of archaic ape evolution to Gurche’s Lost Anatomies, but the executive summary would be: out of Africa, into Europe, and then back into Africa.
“[…] Begun takes the long view, surveying the deep evolutionary past of the ancestors of great apes and humans”
A bird’s-eye-view version of his argument starts with the great diversity of catarrhine* primates flourishing in Africa from the Oligocene into the early Miocene (~33 to 17 mya), including Aegyptopithecus (a “not-quite-ape”), Kamoyapithecus (“possibly the first ape?”), and the intermediate monkey-ape genera Proconsul and Ekembo. Then, by 17 mya, Afropithecus and the closely related Heliopithecus show up in East Africa and expand their range into Eurasia. While Asia sees its own flourishing of species in what is by now the middle Miocene, Europe is the epicentre of the overall story and sees the evolution of Griphopithecus and Dryopithecus around 15–13 mya. Four descendants of Dryopithecus (Hispanopithecus, Rudapithecus, Ouranopithecus, and Oreopithecus) are discussed here in particular.
Meanwhile, the fossil record in Africa seems to dry up. Are we yet to find crucial fossils from this period? Possibly, but Begun points out we have plenty of other fossil mammals from these areas and the environment back then would have been suitable for apes. There are some questionable African fossils from this period discussed here, but nothing convincing. By ~10 mya, climatic changes forced the Eurasian great apes to reinvade Africa where the first hominins appear by ~7 mya; Sahelantropus tchadensis is mentioned in particular.
Now, in case you think that this makes for a neat linear story, let me stop you there. For the sake of brevity, I have skipped over many side branches and dead ends that Begun discusses here. Evolution resembles a tangle more than a tree. Although his ideas are not accepted by everyone (show me a group of scientists not endlessly arguing finer points), are his ideas really this much at odds with the established Out of Africa story? Let me offer three observations.
“[…] your narrative depends on what period you take as your starting point and what groups you consider, which can make the whole Out of Africa narrative sound a bit arbitrary”
First, definitions matter. Casual use of the phrase “Out of Africa” in the popular press often fails to mention the when. Some researchers use it to talk about Pleistocene migrations into Europe by hominins such as Homo erectus, though it more commonly refers to the spread of anatomically modern humans from Africa between 300,000 to 200,000 years ago. Begun ends his story some 7 mya, which is when many popular accounts start theirs. Although I do not know if Mark Maslin agrees with Begun’s thesis, the scenario laid out in his book The Cradle of Humanity is perfectly congruent with it. Maslin’s starts around 5 mya and Begun agrees that the fossil record situates early hominins in Africa by this time. My thoughts after reading this book are that your narrative depends on what period you take as your starting point and what groups you consider, which can make the whole Out of Africa narrative sound a bit arbitrary. Even Begun’s ideas could be cast as an Out of Africa scenario.
Second, the recent ancient DNA revolution has splendidly revealed how populations have constantly moved and mixed. Though this technology only allows us to look back hundreds of thousands of years, there is no reason to think the pattern differed drastically before that. Especially as pretty much all palaeoanthropologists agree that climatic changes are an important driver of migration: Begun does so here, Maslin does, even the Leakeys—focused as they are on human evolution in Africa—do.
Third, Begun’s claims might be provocative, but his delivery is not. Instead, his account is tempered and reasonable, clearly indicating where and why his ideas diverge. He might not always agree with others but nevertheless goes on record here to praise their track record. The most severe criticism he expresses (and that is putting it strongly) is that he follows a philosophical approach of putting evidence before process (e.g. the Out of Africa hypothesis). In his opinion, others lean towards putting process before evidence, ignoring or downplaying evidence that does not fit. He thinks that most of the research community has mischaracterised the European branch of the ape family during the middle to late Miocene as little more than an exotic sideshow. But he also repeats throughout how he is open to changing his mind with future fossil finds. Basically, I see someone of intellectual integrity here.
“[…] Though [ancient DNA] only allows us to look back hundreds of thousands of years, there is no reason to think [migration patterns] differed drastically before that. Especially as pretty much all palaeoanthropologists agree that climatic changes are an important driver”
And there is much else to like here. Begun clearly, and if necessary repeatedly, clarifies terminology, whether it is cladistics or skeletal morphology. He also offers excellent explanations of how we reconstruct past climates. How the rules around taxonomical nomenclature work. How plate tectonics influenced biogeography, specifically how, as the Tethys Sea was closing up, rising and falling sea levels revealed and sundered land bridges, opening or closing migratory routes in the Mediterranean and Arabian Peninsula. And how, with modern technology (and often a lot of hard work) we can extract unbelievable detail from fossil teeth, which are frequently the only remains we find. Additionally, he spices up his writing with introductions to the typical fauna of the different periods, short excursions into the history of palaeoanthropology as a discipline, and personal anecdotes of old-guard researchers he met or worked with.
Seeing the book’s age, it is relevant to ask what has happened since publication to change or reinforce this idea. When I contacted Begun, he confirmed that there have been no major finds to overthrow his ideas, with new work adding further support. I will next turn to the 12-million-year-old finds recently described in Ancient Bones. Also of interest is the story of the 4.4 million-year-old Ardipithecus, one of the last species Begun mentions, which is told in more detail in the recently published Fossil Men.
I was not all that familiar with the earliest chapters of primate evolution, so, all in all, I found The Real Planet of the Apes an incredibly engaging and useful account.
* catarrhines are a taxonomical group that encompasses humans, great apes, hylobatids such as gibbons, old-world monkeys, and all their ancestors before these various groups split from one another.
Other recommended books mentioned in this review:
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
]]>
Whatever mental image you have of our close evolutionary cousins, the Neanderthals, it is bound to be incomplete. Kindred is an ambitious book that takes in the full sweep of 150 years of scientific discovery and covers virtually every facet of their biology and culture. Archaeologist Rebecca Wragg Sykes has drawn on her extensive experience communicating science outside of the narrow confines of academia to write a book that is as accessible as it is informative, and that stands out for its nuance and progressive outlook. Is this a new popular science benchmark?
Kindred: Neanderthal Life, Love, Death and Art, written by Rebecca Wragg Sykes, published by Bloomsbury Sigma in August 2020 (hardback, 408 pages)
Two things immediately struck me when I received this book. First, a personal favourite, illustrated end plates! Since Kindred discusses discoveries made at numerous dig sites, there is a map of Europe and part of Asia with their locations. At the back, there is a family tree showing the complex interrelatedness between early Homo sapiens, Neanderthals, and Denisovans. Second, at just shy of 400 pages with the bibliography online (more on that later) and having a larger trim size than usual for a Bloomsbury Sigma title, this is a chunky book
The reason soon becomes apparent: Sykes covers a lot of ground in this book. The deeper evolutionary history of our family tree, the history of Neanderthal discovery, their skeletal morphology, the traces and injuries that reveal their hardships in life, the climatological fluctuations during the 350,000 years of their existence on this planet, the stone, wood, and bone tools they produced and left behind, their diet, the temporary nature of their home sites as deduced from traces of fireplaces, their migrations and mobility in the landscape, the material traces hinting at a sense of aesthetics, the educated guesses we can make about their social and emotional lives, their funerary practices, the ancient DNA revolution, and, finally, the various explanations given for their disappearance. The scope of Kindred is nothing short of breathtaking. Her acknowledgements mention that the eight years it took to write this book were as daunting and as difficult as she had feared they would be, and the enormity of the task is clear.
“[…] the tools now at the disposal of archaeologists border on science fiction. Most certainly quite beyond the imagination of the pioneers, but even a formidable task for current scientists to keep on top of.”
Part of the reason is that technological advances have led to a veritable explosion in new methods to apply and new kinds of questions to ask. I was familiar with some of these, such as ancient DNA and the microscopic patterns of wear and tear left on teeth, but many were entirely new to me. The use of computers to fit stone flakes and fragments back together to reconstruct how a piece of stone was chipped and shaped into a tool? The use of laser scanners to document dig sites in exquisite three-dimensional detail? The analysis of the microscopic stratigraphy in soot layers, known as fuliginochronology? The use of isotopes to study where individuals were born and then moved to during their lives? As Sykes remarks, the tools now at the disposal of archaeologists border on science fiction. Most certainly quite beyond the imagination of the pioneers, but even a formidable task for current scientists to keep on top of.
This avalanche of information and techno-wizardry could have resulted in an inaccessible monolith of a book. There were a (very) few places where I felt Sykes careened into a dense thicket of details, such as when discussing the different lithic techno-complexes (for us mortals, the different styles of stone tools). And she does not always explain technologies. I assume most people will not know what the deal is with ancient DNA or what mtDNA even stands for. By and large, however, this book stands out for being fascinating, accessible, and terribly exciting. This is a golden age for archaeology! Most chapters are just the right length to avoid information overload, while a handful of drawings illustrate tricky concepts.
The picture that emerges of Neanderthals is that of hominins who are increasingly indistinguishable from early Homo sapiens; inventive, smart, social creatures, likely capable of spoken language, that survived for a very long time while weathering ice ages and warm periods. This picture is delivered in vivid writing that sometimes borders on lyrical—there were passages where I felt Sykes channelled the voice of deep time:
“Amid ancient surfaces densely spangled with myriad artefacts, fireplaces are like archaeological wormholes, bridging the impossible chasms of time separating us from long-vanished dwellers.”
But there is much else in her writing to admire. There are fascinating histories: how some skeletons ended up scattered over different countries, surviving multiple wars before the different body parts were reunited decades later. She reveals how archaeologists used to work and think, and how that has changed. For example, early excavators could not tell the difference between naturally shattered versus intentionally knapped rocks, thus discarding vast bodies of evidence at dig sites without recording them. In some cases, these are now being re-excavated for renewed examination. She repeatedly warns of simplistic interpretations and sexed-up headlines that dominate the news, instead stressing the far more interesting nuances, such as the fantastically complex patterns of population dispersals, influxes, turnovers, and interbreeding revealed by ancient DNA.
One of Sykes’s side projects is co-curating the website TrowelBlazers which celebrates the achievements of women in archaeology, geology, and palaeontology. Thus, I expected a certain progressive outlook. Indeed, why should the evidence for interbreeding always be interpreted as rape? Why is “desire and even emotional attachment […] regarded as more of a fairy tale than other explanations”? But she goes well beyond that, positively surprising me. Such as when parsing the complex and incomplete evidence for cannibalism in Neanderthals. She challenges the reader to consider different ways of interpreting this behaviour. Or by highlighting how Indigenous knowledge from hunter-gatherer communities can offer completely fresh perspectives on the archaeological record. This can illuminate blind spots of Western scientists, whether practical (the identification of tracks in the physical record) or more fundamental (challenging our ingrained tendency to see everything through a lens of dominance, exploitation, and conflict).
“[…] this book stands out for being fascinating, accessible, and terribly exciting. This is a golden age for archaeology!”
Finally, one decision that might divide opinions. Sykes opens the book explaining why, after careful thought, she did not include citations for claims and statements, focusing instead on the narrative. She has provided a 122-page bibliography online, but unfortunately, there is no link between references and what part of the text they are relevant to. Although I understand her reasoning, I have always found the use of superscripted numbers leading to individual notes and references to be a minimally intrusive middle road.
Though Kindred is not the first book to point towards a certain Neanderthal renaissance, its scope and authoritativeness eclipse what has come before. Whether you wonder what book to start with when new to the topic, or which book to pick if you only have time for one, Kindred is without a doubt the go-to book for a nuanced and current picture of Neanderthals.
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:
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
]]>
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:
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
]]>
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:
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
__________________________________________________________________
]]>
“Mama’s Last Hug: Animal Emotions and What They Teach Us about Ourselves”, written by Frans de Waal, published in Europe by Granta Books in March 2019 (hardback, 348 pages)
The book opens with the final meeting between the titular Mama, an old chimpanzee matriarch on her deathbed at Burgers Zoo in the Netherlands, and Dutch biologist Jan van Hooff, whom she had known for some 40 years. The video clip shows a touching moment of cross-species affection as Mama wakes up and suddenly recognizes Jan, hugging him. (As an aside, I do feel the book provides useful context you might not get from just watching it – most people, myself included, would not be able to interpret chimpanzee behaviour properly.)
Should we be surprised by Mama’s capability to recall Jan? De Waal is strongly of the opinion that the school of behaviourism pioneered by the likes of B.F. Skinner and others has cast a long shadow over the study of animal behaviour. They see animals merely as stimulus-response machines driven by instincts and simple learning, and De Waal’s previous book Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are? was a passionate riposte to this mode of thinking. Mama’s Last Hug is the companion to that book, dealing with emotions, which De Waal considers fully integrated with cognition and intelligence (see also Descartes’ Error: Emotion, Reason and the Human Brain).
Before we proceed there is an important distinction to be made that De Waal returns to throughout the book. Emotions and feelings are not the same things, though they are often conflated in day-to-day speech. Emotions are bodily and mental states (fear, anger, desire) that drive behaviour. They show as facial expressions, gestures, odours, or changes in skin colour or vocal timbre. Feelings are subjective internal states only known to those who have them. Or as De Waal poetically puts it: “We show our emotions, but we talk about our feelings”. Emotions, therefore, can be observed and measured in the wild or in experimental settings. Feelings… well, making claims on what animals feel is a bridge too far even for De Waal. He thinks it is likely animals related to us have similar feelings, but he also recognises that this is pure conjecture for the moment.
“Emotions and feelings are not the same things […]: “We show our emotions, but we talk about our feelings””
And with that, De Waal launches into his book. In seven chapters he wanders widely, discussing his own and other’s research on primates and other animals; recounting engaging anecdotes of observations made in the wild or in captivity; and weaving in history lessons, explaining how the academic landscape of ethology (the study of animal behaviour) started, how it developed, and what has changed over the many decades of his own research career.
In passing, he deals with a range of emotions. Grief is particularly well publicised for elephants (see How Animals Grieve). Laughing and smiling are argued by Van Hooff to express different emotions in primates, but to have grown closer and often blend in humans. Empathy (sensitivity to another’s emotions) is widely documented in primates, where group members regularly comfort each other (see also De Waal’s earlier book The Age of Empathy: Nature’s Lessons for a Kinder Society). And the list goes on: disgust, shame, guilt, pride, hope, wrath, forgiveness, gratitude, envy… De Waal shows how all of these have been observed primates and other mammals (see also Animal Wise: How We Know Animals Think and Feel). And where researchers have cared to look, some also show up in birds and fish (see Gifts of the Crow: How Perception, Emotion, and Thought Allow Smart Birds to Behave Like Humans and What a Fish Knows: The Inner Lives of Our Underwater Cousins).
This facet of the book is incredibly engaging and entertaining. But if I had to criticise something, it feels somewhat unstructured. De Waal wades in enthusiastically as there is so much to tell. He threads together one example and one emotion after another. But is this book more than just a collection of case studies? Yes, it is, but upon gathering my thoughts for this review I found I had to read between the lines to uncover what seems to be one of the main arguments. The blurb on the dustjacket mentions it quite prominently, but De Waal does not bring it up until halfway the book, on page 165. Emotions, he proposes, are like organs. Each one of them is vital and we share them with all other mammals.
“Emotions, [De Waal] proposes, are like organs. Each one of them is vital and we share them with all other mammals. What this boils down to is a reversal of the burden of proof.”
What this boils down to is a reversal of the burden of proof. Rather than the default assumption of no animal emotions, we should assume that animals have emotions – those who wish to make the case they do not should be backing up that claim with evidence. Some may find this controversial, but from an evolutionary standpoint, it makes sense.
“Just look how similar our bodies are!”, exclaims De Waal. The musculature of primate and human faces – so important in emotional expression – is indistinguishable. When we eat something disgusting, both monkeys and humans pull the same face and the same brain area is active. The same antidepressants that work in humans can liven up bored fish, while rats and humans (and their brains) respond the same to drugs that induce a euphoric state. And remember all the hoopla around mirror neurons? They were discovered in macaques. (See also Mirrors in the Brain: How Our Minds Share Actions and Emotions and The Myth of Mirror Neurons: The Real Neuroscience of Communication and Cognition for a critique). De Waal mentions Sapolsky’s point that evolution strapped human emotions onto ancient emotions shared with other animals (see Behave: The Biology of Humans at Our Best and Worst). All of these examples reiterate the deep shared roots of the vertebrate neurological system, and make the presence of animal emotions the more parsimonious explanation.
It is not anthropomorphism we should worry about, but what De Waal calls anthropodenial. To assume that we are the only animals to experience emotions denies us our animal roots, reeks of human exceptionalism, and requires a belief in a unique cognitive spark, “a pretzel-like twist rather than the usual slow and smooth course of evolution […] only because science has neglected what animals are capable of.”
“It is not anthropomorphism we should worry about, but what De Waal calls anthropodenial. […] science has neglected what animals are capable of.”
This is another aspect of the book I thoroughly enjoyed: De Waal is outspoken. He rails against gratuitous anthropomorphism in the popular press, against dogmatic sociobiological theories that only recognise selfish motives behind actions, against colleagues who are so scared of anthropomorphism they deny animals all emotions, against the mechanistic view of behaviourism, against the cultural and religious prejudices that seek to separate mind and body, against moral philosophers who ignore emotions in their theories, against those who object to behavioural research on animals as cruel and unnecessary. If I make him sound like an angry man, no, his disagreements are always reasonable and well-argued, but he has his opinions and is not afraid to voice them.
So, what does Mama’s Last Hug teach us about ourselves? That we are far less unique and share far more with our animal relatives than we think. That there are important lessons to be drawn on how we treat animals. And that we tell ourselves misleading stories about our past. He singles out Richard Wrangham and Steven Pinker who would have us believe we have always been a violent rather than a peaceful species (see Demonic Males: Apes and the Origins of Human Violence, my review of The Goodness Paradox: How Evolution Made Us Both More and Less Violent, and The Better Angels of our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined). As I also mentioned in my review of The Creative Spark: How Imagination Made Humans Exceptional, the recent decline in violence might be true, but the archaeological evidence does not support a deep history of perpetual warfare.
De Waal brings a wealth of experience to the table and his writing is entertaining, stimulating, and thought-provoking. It makes Mama’s Last Hug a wonderful induction into the world of animal and human emotions.
Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however. You can support this blog using below affiliate links, as an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases:
Other recommended books mentioned in this review:
, 
or 
, __________________________________________________________________
, 
, 
, __________________________________________________________________
, 
or 
, __________________________________________________________________
, 
or __________________________________________________________________
]]>
, 
, 
“The Human Swarm: How Our Societies Arise, Thrive, and Fall”, written by Mark W. Moffett, published in Europe by Head of Zeus, in April 2019 (hardback, 480 pages)
Two ideas lie at the basis of The Human Swarm. One is Moffett’s fascination with social insects and his conviction that human and insect societies are more alike than we might think. The other is a fascination with the concept of “foreignness”: how human societies are shaped in time and space by what are, on the face of it, but small differences.
With its narrative stretching over more than 360 pages, Moffett has divided the book into nine sections and 26 relatively short chapters. I think this has been a very good choice as the book is information-dense and, befitting a big history book, deals with big questions. It also allows him to bring together many disparate strands and still keep the story organised.
The first two sections of The Human Swarm introduce the different societies we see in vertebrates and social insects. This is a benchmark Moffett will return to throughout, although the majority of the book really deals with human societies. He makes some fascinating observations here. Though animals can congregate in large numbers, we typically do not consider the herd of mammals or the school of fish a society. Biologist W.D. Hamilton instead referred to them as selfish herds. Those animals that do form societies, such as elephants or primates, rely on individual recognition of all members. This puts a hard limit on size, with groups rarely surpassing 50 members (though multiple such groups can congregate).
“[…] the key breakthrough that allows [ant] and human societies to grow so large is anonymity.”
Social insects such as ants are an exception, and the key breakthrough that allows their and human societies to grow so large is anonymity. An ant “cares” only that fellow ants are his nest mates, he does not need to know them personally. It is much the same for humans. But where ants rely on scent marks to establish identity, humans use a constellation of markers, language and dress being just some of them.
It would be tempting to take the beginning of agriculture and the rise of states as the starting point for his argument. And Moffett gets their eventually, but not before taking the reader through an extraordinarily thorough and largely chronological tour of our deeper prehistory. From primates to hunter-gatherers, this is really the part of the book where he branches out into topics such as archaeology, anthropology, ethnology, linguistics, and psychology to make his many points.
Moffett traces the development of identity badges that allowed for anonymous instead of individual recognition societies to our primate ancestors, speculating that certain vocalisations could have been the first markers (the wonderfully named pant-hoot still seen in chimpanzees and bonobos). As Scott also highlighted in Against the Grain: A Deep History of the Earliest States, the progression from nomadic hunter-gatherers to settled farmers was not neat and linear, with switches between these lifestyles and intermediate forms of settled hunter-gatherers all possible. But where they did settle, the egalitarianism still seen in such societies today started making way for leaders who could intervene when arguments broke out.
“[Violence] seems to have been unavoidable when it came to expanding villages into kingdoms, nations etc. “Societies don’t merge freely”, writes Moffett”
Several doors opened up by settling down, such as accumulation of possessions and developing technology. Scientists often speak of cultural ratchets in this context (see also The Big Ratchet: How Humanity Thrives in the Face of Natural Crisis). But doors also closed: with growing populations suitable space ran out, especially if all the neighbours also started settling, and reverting to nomadism became harder.
But Moffett is equally interested in the psychology that comes with recognition of one’s tribe or clan members and, therefore, categorising those who do not belong as foreign. Many biologists and sociologists have been vehemently combatting the notion of human race as a biologically useful concept (see e.g. The Myth of Race: The Troubling Persistence of an Unscientific Idea and Superior: The Return of Race Science). Moffett largely sidesteps the issue by contending that in the context of societies of people of different lineage coming into contact during migrations, the word race has a distinct meaning, and throughout happily uses this word. Interestingly, he does not address the findings from ancient DNA that reveal our ancestors’ constant mingling and mixing (see my review of Who We Are and How We Got Here: Ancient DNA and the New Science of the Human Past). Although I did not get the impression that his use of this shorthand serves any nebulous agenda, I wonder if it will land him in hot water in certain quarters.
Contentiousness aside, it does allow him to highlight our natural proclivity to subconsciously and almost instantaneously classify people when we meet them, something that shows up very early in childhood. We are all biased to some degree. It feeds into how we perceive people; into stereotypes and generalisations, the ignoring of differences between groups of people; into rituals to affirm group membership and cultural markers of national identity such as flags, and the feelings those evoke. It affects how immigrants respond to their host countries and vice versa. The sweep of topics considered here is very broad, going well beyond modern Western societies in both time and space.
“we should think of [the fall of civilizations] more as fractures or dissolutions than wholesale collapses”
It is exactly at these interfaces, of groups meeting other groups, that we are at our most aggressive. Moffett is pleasantly up to date here, touching on Wrangham’s idea of the “peace at home”, “war abroad” dichotomy that characterises humans (see my review of The Goodness Paradox: How Evolution Made Us Both More and Less Violent) as he considers our history of conflict. Although violence does not mark all interactions between groups, it seems to have been unavoidable when it came to expanding villages into kingdoms, nations etc. “Societies don’t merge freely”, writes Moffett, and with it come all the horrors of slavery, warfare, and genocide.
And nor, it seems, do they last. One other big topic is the rise and fall of civilizations over time. As Harper pointed out in The Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease, & the End of an Empire, we should think of these more as fractures or dissolutions than wholesale collapses (sensu Diamond, see Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Survive). And, not surprisingly, the fracture lines often follow the old factions from which such societies were build up in the first place. Moffett stops short of going into the topic of environmental history to consider some of the more ultimate causes of the fall of civilizations (see my review of Climate Change and the Health of Nations: Famines, Fevers, and the Fate of Populations). Given the scope of the book, leaving things is not a bad decision.
As he considers many topics along the way rather than pushing one central thesis, I did come out of reading it feeling slightly stunned, with that kind of “what just happened?” grin on my face. It is pleasantly dense in information and well referenced and annotated, and I will need some time to digest and ponder it all – I have only touched on some of the book’s topics here. Reviewers elsewhere have put The Human Swarm in the same category as Diamond’s Guns, Germs and Steel: A Short History of Everybody for the Last 13,000 Years or Harari’s Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind and it is easy to see why. Moffett casts his net wide and knows how to write a captivating book. Recommended if you like big big history books.
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:
, 
, 
, __________________________________________________________________
, 
, 
, __________________________________________________________________
, 
, __________________________________________________________________
]]>
, 
, 
, 
“The Goodness Paradox: How Evolution Made Us More and Less Violent“, written by Richard Wrangham, published in Europe by Profile Books in January 2019 (hardback, 381 pages)
Traditionally, this debate has been ruled by two extreme viewpoints: we are naturally nice but susceptible to corruption, or we are naturally evil but kept in check by the forces of civilization. Wrangham wants to boldly go where few have gone before and says: “this debate makes no sense to begin with, we are both”. Aggression, he says, comes in two major forms, each with their own biology and evolutionary history. He calls them reactive and proactive aggression throughout the book but explains we can also call them hot and cold, or impulsive and premeditated. It is the difference between lashing out in a fit of rage or deliberately planning a murder.
Wrangham starts off with what primatological research tells us about violence in ourselves and our closest relatives, something which he explored before in his book Demonic Males: Apes and the Origins of Human Violence. Anthropological research, furthermore, has shown the “peace at home” and “war abroad” dichotomy that characterises humans. Our levels of reactive aggression are low, while levels of proactive aggression are high.
The bulk of the book then goes into the question of why we are so tolerant. Wrangham’s argument runs something like this: Reduced aggressiveness is a hallmark of domesticated species. Taken together with other hallmarks, a convincing case can be made that we are a domesticated species. A self-domesticated species to be precise. How? Social control in the form of execution by groups of adult males drove a reduction in aggression. Sounds controversial? Let’s unpack this a bit more.
“Humans. How is it that you can herd 200 of them into an aeroplane without a riot erupting, while they also commit unspeakable atrocities?”
Tolerance is rare in nature but common in domesticated species. Wrangham discusses Belyaev’s classic work on silver foxes in Siberia at length (see How to Tame a Fox (and Build a Dog): Visionary Scientists and a Siberian Tale of Jump-Started Evolution, reviewed here). It has shown that selection against reactive aggression results in domestication and comes with a suite of morphological changes: shorter faces, smaller brains, floppy ears, and white patches of fur. As an aside, at the very end of this book, the authors referred to work done by Wrangham and others on the underlying mechanism. He picks up the baton here and shortly explains his research on migration of neural-crest cells (a kind of stem cell) during embryonic development and hormonal control exerted by the thyroid gland, and how these produce the observed changes in morphology.
Archaeological findings show the same kinds of changes in human fossils (yes, including, only recently, a reduction in brain size). Traditionally, scientists have tried to explain this by finding individual adaptive explanations for each of them. But, says Wrangham, they are more likely a byproduct of domestication (mildly ironic, if you ask me, as Wrangham has contributed to this discussion himself in the past; his book Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human argued that cooking led to reduced jaw and tooth size).
The idea of modern humans as a domesticated species is not new and Wrangham shows how it has been around since Darwin and before. But who domesticated us? We did. This allows Wrangham to discuss primatological research on bonobos. Generally known as the peace-loving primates that solve every problem with sex, the question arises of how a tolerant species is not invaded by selfish, aggressive individuals. In bonobos, females form coalitions to punish bullying males.
“How is a tolerant species is not invaded by selfish, aggressive individuals? […] Wrangham says that in humans it is coalitions of males that kill other males.”
In what will probably be seen as the most controversial point the book makes, Wrangham says that in humans it is coalitions of males that kill other males. To support this assertion, he turns to the rich body of anthropological research on hunter-gatherer societies that shows capital punishment is universal. In subsequent chapters, he argues how it explains why we care so much about reputation and how morality came about. Vital in this model was the acquisition of language, which made possible both conspiratorial gossiping and the careful planning required for capital punishment.
This leaves the other form of aggression, the proactive one. You might see where Wrangham is going at this point in his book. The corollary of the proposed mechanism for reduced reactive violence is that of carefully planned proactive violence. So, as we evolved to become a more socially tolerant, more docile species, we simultaneously gained the capacity for organised violence.
The idea that war comes naturally to us is something that many people really do not like. Stephen Jay Gould did not. Nor do people like anthropologist Agustín Fuentes (see Race, Monogamy, and Other Lies They Told You: Busting Myths About Human Nature) or Bad Religion songwriter and zoologist Greg Graffin (see Population Wars: A New Perspective on Competition and Coexistence). Others see no problem with an evolutionary explanation (see recently e.g. War – What Is It Good for?: The Role of Conflict in Civilisation, from Primates to Robots and Why We Fight: The Cognitive Basis for War).
“The idea that war comes naturally to us is something that many people really do not like.”
The interesting thing is that most people do not necessarily disagree with the data, but consider this kind of interpretation taboo. “We cannot have scientists saying that violence and warfare are natural, that would induce fatalism and remove any inclination to try and prevent or reduce it”. To me, that reeks of political correctness, and Wrangham’s defence is both spirited and logical. Most primatologists discovering the violent nature of primates did not become fatalistic (see e.g. Goodall’s Reason for Hope: A Spiritual Journey). He is, furthermore, careful to stress that evolution is not destiny, nor should an evolutionary explanation be hijacked for political purposes (this has happened too often already). And war is costly. As Wrangham writes, and as e.g. Steven Pinker has documented in The Better Angels of our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined, it has a strong tendency to disappear when it does not pay. Being a US scientist, he is careful to reiterate in his afterword that just because he puts forward capital punishment as an evolutionary explanation, that does not mean he supports the death penalty.
I found The Goodness Paradox a well-written and convincing book-length argument that is bristling with many other interesting ideas I have not been able to touch upon here. Especially the idea of two kinds of violence with their own biology and evolutionary history is revelatory. No doubt it will cause much discussion and disagreements. I think it is a model for thoughtful and respectful writing that shows how to dig into a controversial topic, survey its history, give the various schools of thought a fair hearing, and explain your argument.
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:
, __________________________________________________________________
, 
, 
, __________________________________________________________________
]]>
or 
,