Death, and its attendant grief, is on that infamous shortlist of two things that are sure in life. But are humans alone in understanding death? To prepare for reviewing Susana Monsó’s new book Playing Possum: How Animals Understand Death, I reach back in time to 2013 to a highly relevant book that has been sitting on my shelf unread for too long. In How Animals Grieve, anthropologist Barbara J. King mines a compelling vein of anecdotes that strongly suggest this emotion is not uniquely human. This, then, is the first of a two-part review exploring how our evolutionary next of kin experience and understand death.

How Animals Grieve, written by Barbara J. King, published by the University of Chicago Press in April 2014 (paperback, 193 pages)

This is largely a book of stories and observations made by scientists, zookeepers, pet owners, and others who share their lives with animals. King introduces you to elephants who will seek out the bones of fallen comrades to caress and explore them with their nimble trunks. There are heartbreaking tales of dolphins keeping afloat dead calves and monkeys carrying around dead infants, to the point of corpses starting to rot and mummify. Pet owners who have had multiple cats, dogs, or rabbits widely report how survivors are affected by the loss of a companion that they have spent years with, uttering cries normally never heard or searching the house for days. Primatologists have recorded strong responses in chimpanzees and gorillas, both in captivity and the wild, to the death of fellow apes. There are touching stories here of cross-species friendships on farms and sanctuaries followed by signs of grief when one of the two partners dies. There is even the thought-provoking question of whether animals can suffer so much that they are driven to suicide. How Animals Grieve flows over with stories that will tug at your heartstrings.

Now, a hard-nosed sceptic might just see a collection of unlikely stories here but I am reminded of what Carl Safina wrote in Beyond Words: how his mental bin labelled “unlikely stories” is getting cluttered. You can only ignore a steady piling up of anecdotal observations for so long. King, while moved by these stories, keeps her composure and examines the matter with the eyes of a scientist. There are noticeable commonalities when a companion dies: distress, loss of appetite and weight, a lacklustre or dejected attitude with a loss of interest in one’s environment, acting out, displays of aggression, etc. Animals of many stripes show such behaviours. An initial and, by her admission, not completely perfect definition of animal grief hinges on two ingredients. First is love as evidenced by a strong drive to be close to each other. Second is the suffering that follows when animals can no longer be together. We cannot always observe separation in the wild, and this definition does not distinguish between different kinds of love, but her starting point is that: “When we find animal grief, we are likely to find animal love, and vice versa. It’s as if the two share emotional borders” (p. 10).

“{King’s] starting point is that: “When we find animal grief, we are likely to find animal love, and vice versa. It’s as if the two share emotional borders” (p. 10).”

Particularly interesting is the neurobiological work on animal grief that King discusses here. The authors of a 2011 study looked at the biology of depression and observed that stress has a neurophysiological impact, leading to brain damage. The resultant inflammatory response to repair it leads to psychological pain. Is this what we experience as grief? King quotes one of the authors who summarises their findings thus: “Grief is an evolved behavioral program, akin to sickness behavior, that promotes convalescence during a significant neural rewriting job” (p. 50). It responds to earlier work by John Archer who in The Nature of Grief instead argued that grief might be evolutionarily maladaptive but also an unavoidable corollary of a more useful separation response that drives individuals to reunite when separated. I have to admit that Archer’s explanation appeals as well and reminds me of what Justin Gregg wrote about human morality (and its failings) in If Nietzsche Were a Narwhal: “You cannot have that laundry list of positive cognitive skills without the negative consequences” (p. 154 therein).

King admits that not all examples she discusses here are airtight. When we move away from primates and other social mammals, gauging what is going on becomes harder. Do intelligent birds such as corvids grieve? Marzluff & Angell think they do, but probably not for very long. And what about sea turtles? Hawai’ian locals who in 2008 erected a memorial for a slaughtered turtle observed a male visiting it and sticking around for hours. King admits it is hard to know what was going on here, despite the spin immediately put on it by media reports. Some cases may seem far-fetched but I am reminded of Safina’s pithy conclusion in Beyond Words about how humans and other animals are all shaped by the same evolutionary forces: “beneath the skin, kin” (p. 324 therein). We are all built on the same meat-and-bones platform, running on the same bio-logic, if you will. This is an area ripe for further study and drives home a point King makes midway through the book: “We won’t have a hope of finding […] grief until we look for it” (p. 105).

“though death and grief often co-occur, they do not have to […] not grieving is not equal to not understanding death.”

There are three take-home messages for me in this book that I want to call out. First, King early on highlights that, though death and grief often co-occur, they do not have to. Grief does not require “a cognitive mastering of the concept of death” (p. 14) and not grieving is not equal to not understanding death. This distinction will be particularly relevant when we next turn to Monsó’s book Playing Possum. However, King muddies the water somewhat: despite this caveat, she almost exclusively discusses grief in the context of death, with other contexts only given incidental mention and not explicitly examined. It could well be that such data were simply not available at the time of writing because of the anthropocentric biases in what researchers choose to study, as Monsó would later highlight. If so, King does not comment on it, nor call for researchers to examine grief in other contexts.

Second, and tying in with this, is how King highlights both intra- and interspecific variation in grief. Intraspecific variation means that not all individuals of a species will express grief, though that for King does not negate the phenomenon at large. I would argue that the distinction the late Frans de Waal made between emotions (observable bodily and mental states) and feelings (subjective internal states) offers another useful way of thinking about this. Furthermore, especially in primates, we have clear examples of individuals showing different responses to death: aggressive displays, touching (or not) of the body, and avoidance (or not) of the room where the companion died. Interspecific variation means that there is no universal way of grieving across species: “Goat grief […] is not chicken grief […] is not chimpanzee grief or elephant grief or human grief” (p. 7). As an anthropologist, she thinks humans are exceptional in being able to anticipate future grief when someone falls ill, sometimes months or years ahead of time. However, acknowledging such differences “need not amount to a manifesto of human superiority” (p. 147). Asking whether our grief is deeper than that of other animals misses the point for her: “We each are what we are, animals bound together by our various ways of grieving” (p. 148).

“Interspecific variation means that there is no universal way of grieving across species […] Asking whether our grief is deeper than that of other animals misses the point”

Third, the study of animal grief has value for anthropology. We have scattered evidence of purposeful burials as far back into prehistory as approximately 100,000 years ago and possibly older, but were these accompanied by grief and mourning? Excavations, grave-good inventories, bone analyses etc. cannot answer this question, but the body of observations discussed here can help, suggesting that grief has deep evolutionary roots. King is quick to qualify this: “It is only emotional capacity that this comparative context illuminates, though, and we would do well to keep in mind that the capacity to experience an emotion doesn’t always result in the expression of that emotion” (p. 159).

How Animals Grieve is a compelling and thought-provoking book. To my mind, King leaves little doubt that we are not alone in experiencing grief, even if the details differ between species. The consequences of what that means for how we treat animals are only all too briefly explored here, beyond her acknowledgement that we are often the cause of animal grief. If books by Carl Safina, Frans de Waal, or Marc Bekoff resonate with you, this book will too. Finally, what can all this tell us about animals’ understanding of death? I will next turn to Monsó’s book Playing Possum where we will see a thorough philosophical analysis of this question.

Both Barbara J. King and Susana Monsó were recently interviewed by the hosts of the WAMU 88.5 American University Radio show 1A as part of their Scientific Method series. You can listen to that 34-minute episode here.

How Animals Grieve

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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The year 2023 marks the 200th anniversary of the birth of Victorian naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace. Best remembered as the father of biogeography, and only relatively recently pulled out of Darwin’s shadow as co-discoverer of the principle of natural selection, he was an all-round fascinating person. I have long wanted to read more about him. Evolutionary biologist, entomologist, and Darwin and Wallace scholar James T. Costa gives an in-depth, intimate, and updated story of his life. This first of three reviews will prepare me for a descent down the rabbit hole on how two scholars independently hit on the mechanism driving evolution.

Radical by Nature: The Revolutionary Life of Alfred Russel Wallace, written by James T. Costa, published by Princeton University Press in March 2023 (hardback, 552 pages)

In case you have only vaguely heard of Wallace, let me offer you a very brief statement of facts. Alfred Russel Wallace (1823–1913); born in a working-class family; trained as a surveyor; soon developed an interest in botany and entomology; spent four years (1848–1852) in the Amazon collecting animals and plants; lost most of them during a disastrous return journey; soon spent eight years (1854–1862) island hopping around the Malay Archipelago on collecting expeditions that cemented his reputation as a naturalist; had important insights on (prominently) biogeography and evolution; contributed to numerous other disciplines beyond the above two; returned to England to marry late and have three children; had an incredibly prolific scientific career right up to his death; and, finally, raised contemporary eyebrows for championing causes both progressive (e.g. women’s rights and socialism) and unorthodox (e.g. spiritualism). Yes, this was one multi-faceted, interesting character.

But this review is not about retreading Wallace’s life. Given the many other available Wallace biographies (more about those later), why read this one? Because Costa can safely be considered an expert on evolutionary biology and the history of evolutionary thought. Next to three books on Darwin‘s work since 2009, Costa has also studied Wallace’s life and work since 2010, resulting in On the Organic Law of Change (2013); Wallace, Darwin, and the Origin of Species (2014); and co-editorship on An Alfred Russel Wallace Companion (2019); not to mention numerous academic papers and magazine articles. What this means in practice is that Costa provides context, context, context.

As such, he explains the relevance and novelty of Wallace’s ideas at the time (and I am going to be very selective here). For instance, Wallace was one of the first to insist on the recording of accurate location data when collecting animals and plants. When moving east and west in the Malay Archipelago, he thus noticed that the fauna on some neighbouring islands differed sharply, a local division later named the Wallace Line. It undermined geologist Charles Lyell’s idea that environment alone determines distribution and Wallace’s 1880 book Island Life dug deeper into the why. Before continental drift and plate tectonics, land bridges were all the rage though would sometimes have required outlandish proportions to explain observed distributions. Island Life dialled down their explanatory power.

“Given the many other available Wallace biographies, why read this one? Because Costa has studied Wallace’s life and work since 2010. What this means in practice is that he provides context, context, context.”

Speaking of Lyell, some of Wallace’s most underrecognized ideas concern transmutation (as evolution was known back then). Lyell claimed that species were immutable entities and that the fossil record reflected separate rounds of creation. Wallace disagreed; he was never one to shy away from discussion, even with intellectual giants. His then-novel idea that formed the essence of what became known as the Sarawak Law paper was that “every species arises in immediate proximity to a preexisting and closely related species” (p. 158). But how? Wallace’s flash of insight on natural selection, the remarkable confluence of Darwin and Wallace’s ideas, and the case he was building against Lyell are all deeply interesting topics that I am deferring to my next two reviews. Instead, let me briefly consider his take on anthropology. Wallace was fascinated with the indigenous people he encountered and his approach “was nothing less than a natural history of humans” (p. 196), applying the same evolutionary logic he applied to other animals. Against the background of a divided discipline back in London between polygenists (who saw races as separate entities, even species) and monogenists (who saw “races” as variations of a single human species), Wallace hewed closer to the latter.

Costa also provides much historical context on Wallace the person. He is rightly remembered as a humanitarian scholar for whom justice was his lodestar. Utopian socialist Robert Owen, who campaigned for educational and labour reform, left a deep impression. The young Wallace was a regular at the halls of science and mechanics’ institutes that were just then popping up everywhere. These promoted self-improvement through education and soon became community hubs-cum-libraries where working-class people discussed science, politics, and social reform. His full conversion to socialism came much later in life after reading Edward Bellamy’s popular novel Looking Backward which depicted a future world free of class struggle. Wallace was an early advocate of women’s rights, supported the suffragette movement, and more than once campaigned for scholarly societies to allow women in. He also campaigned for land reform, though many of his early survey jobs served ongoing efforts at land enclosure that effectively screwed the poor (Costa provides the requisite background information). It was something he would come to regret, unaware “that he was an accessory to a crime, as he later saw it” (p. 23).

Now, how for some context to the above context? Despite the above character sketch, it would be an oversimplification to celebrate Wallace as “an almost uniquely nonracist, egalitarian Victorian […] who was “woke”” (p. 166) before the rest of us were. Sure, he was respectful towards indigenous people, credited his field assistants (especially Ali), and criticized European civilization. But for all that, he never questioned its intrinsic superiority and his expeditions benefited from the infrastructure of Britain’s global empire. Wherever he went, he could call on officials, transportation networks, and crews of unnamed porters and boatsmen for assistance. And despite his opposition to slavery, he frequently turned a blind eye to slave-holding friends and expats.

“[Wallace] is rightly remembered as a humanitarian scholar for whom justice was his lodestar [but] it would be an oversimplification to celebrate Wallace as “an almost uniquely nonracist, egalitarian Victorian”“

Further commenting on Wallace’s character (here comes more context), Costa admits that his trusting nature could border on the gullible. His interest in spiritualism caused disbelief among his peers, even while they praised his scientific achievements. Costa points out that many science historians forget how spiritualism impregnated Victorian society at all levels; even some of Wallace’s critics “attended séances rather more frequently than would seem warranted for either entertainment value or ghostbusting research” (p. 327). The other faux pas is his opposition to smallpox vaccination campaigns that the British government forced on the poor. Wallace, himself vaccinated, was all about the science, but this was in its infancy in the 19th century. “We cannot hold those who lived in the past to standards based on modern understanding” (p. 353), pleads Costa. Fortunately, we find him on the right side of history where eugenics is concerned, which he denounced as “the meddlesome interference of an arrogant, scientific priestcraft” (p. 490, note 52).

Costa’s writing is lively, occasionally interjected with chatty remarks or witticism that made me chuckle. When Wallace writes that Alexander von Humboldt’s travel narrative gave him a desire to visit the tropics, Costa responds that “Wallace got a “desire to visit the tropics” all right” (p. 46). When Wallace scathingly remarks that indigenous women in New Guinea are “the least engaging specimens of the fair sex” he had ever met, Costa parries that “chances are he was not viewed by the locals as the hottest specimen of white European manhood either” (p. 231). And when only the religious Lyell is receptive to Wallace’s new spiritualist tendencies, Costa imagines how “Darwin could only shake his head at the two of them” (p. 310). I found these a welcome source of levity.

Much more can be said about both Wallace and this wonderful biography, and on some topics even Costa refers readers to in-depth analyses in papers and edited collections. Wallace left behind a mountain of written material for historians. Instead, let me circle back to my first question. Why read this biography? Even before the 2013 centenary of his death saw yet more biographies, we already had a fair few. I have both Raby’s 2001 Alfred Russel Wallace: A Life and Slotten’s 2004 The Heretic in Darwin’s Court on the shelf—unread—and momentarily entertained the idea of a comparative analysis of Wallace biographies. However, with apologies to the reader, I only have so much time. That said, I could not resist skim-reading passages of Heretic because they are of comparable calibre (Heretic larger at 602 pages) and Costa describes it as “indispensable” (p. xi). They largely follow the same beats, sometimes very closely for the well-documented expeditions, but elsewhere emphasize different details. My cursory impression is that Slotten pays more critical attention to Wallace’s spiritualism than Costa, e.g. mentioning his 1910 book The World of Life which marked a further shift towards mysticism which Costa omits. And where Costa in one sentence mentions Wallace died in 1913 after a brief illness, Slotten spends several pages on his final days and the outpouring of grief that followed. One minor criticism I have is that Costa squeezed the last 26 years of Wallace’s still very productive life (more than a quarter!) into one 36-page chapter, where Slotten used 92 pages over four chapters.

“Costa has drawn extensively on the treasure trove of the Wallace Correspondence Project, adding intimate detail from hundreds of letters. His goal of writing an updated biography has been more than realised.”

So, sure, you can read earlier biographies and learn things about Wallace not covered here. Far more important, however, is what Costa adds. Much unpublished information has come to light since the 2013 centenary and Costa has drawn extensively on the treasure trove of the Wallace Correspondence Project (WCP). Back in 1998, biologist and science historian George Beccaloni discovered that Wallace’s grandsons had a large archive of their grandfather’s books and manuscripts. Though Slotten mentions having been allowed to examine some of it (his p. viii), this material (and whatever else the WCP team could find) was only transferred to the London Natural History Museum in 2002 to be digitised, transcribed, annotated, and eventually put online from 2010 onwards. This has allowed Costa to add much intimate detail from hundreds of personal letters.

Given the above, Costa’s stated aim of writing an updated biography has been more than realised; this book is a triumph! I tremendously enjoyed Radical by Nature and was very impressed with the depth of its scholarship. Next to an intimate portrait of this most fascinating scholar, Costa provides much detail on a critical period of scientific development and the social context in which it unfolded.

One matter, in particular, has long fascinated both myself and others: why, when the world was informed that two scholars had independently hit on the same idea of natural selection, have we forgotten Wallace and given Darwin all the credit? Did Wallace just stumble onto it? Did Darwin, as some have claimed, steal certain insights from Wallace? Join me for a double review of On the Organic Law of Change and Wallace, Darwin, and the Origin of Species where I finally dig deeper into these questions.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

Radical by Nature

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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If you have any interest in oceanography and its history, you will have heard of the Challenger expedition. An early example of government-funded big science, it saw a crew of six scientists and more than 250 sailors and officers of the British Navy aboard HMS Challenger circumnavigate the globe during a 3½-year expedition from late 1872 to 1876. Focused on deep-sea exploration, it is considered the birth of oceanography. But given it was not the first nor the last oceangoing expedition, why has this one achieved such legendary status? Here, earth scientist Doug Macdougall discusses its many and diverse discoveries and shows how scientists have since built on them.

Endless Novelties of Extraordinary Interest: The Voyage of H.M.S. Challenger and the Birth of Modern Oceanography, written by Doug Macdougall, published by Yale University Press in August 2019 (hardback, 257 pages)

The Challenger expedition has featured multiple times on this blog already with several books briefly mentioning it or featuring it more in-depth. I have been meaning to get around to Endless Novelties of Extraordinary Interest for a while, if only because of its intriguing title; words that, we soon learn, were penned by the expedition’s scientific leader Charles Wywille Thomson. Macdougall is an emeritus earth scientist at the Scripps Institute of Oceanography and seems the right person for the job, having previously written books on the history of disciplines such as glaciology and geochronology.

The aim of the Challenger expedition was to collect basic oceanographic data in oceans around the world. Every few hundred miles the ship would stop at a so-called station to measure water depth, water temperature and velocity at different depths, collect sediment samples, and catch a sample of the animals and plants living at different depths using townets and dredges. A large part of the expedition was a matter of rinse and repeat. However, oceanic islands acted as a magnet on the scientists and much space is given here to describing what they encountered there.

The book’s approach quickly becomes clear. Though it proceeds largely chronologically, the focus is less on the journey and the experiences of the people on board, and more on the science. Following some preliminary material that includes a listing of the main characters and a three-page map that shows the ship’s route, Macdougall delves straight into the first example of a scientific topic for which the Challenger expedition laid the foundations: the study of cosmic dust gathered from ocean sediments. It is a bit of an incongruous starting point, as in chapter 2 he backtracks to provide a biographic introduction to the six scientists on board and the overall aims for the expedition. After this, each chapter is written around a few observations or research questions that were particularly relevant to that leg of the journey.

“The aim of the Challenger expedition was to collect basic oceanographic data in oceans around the world […] A large part of [it] was a matter of rinse and repeat.”

There is much material Macdougall can draw on. After the expedition ended, its scientists would study the vast trove of data, samples, and specimens for 19 years with the help of a growing international network of other scholars. The results were published from 1880 to 1895 in a report series that would span 50(!) volumes. It was a show of government support that would leave many scientists today green with envy. Some examples of the many questions studied included the nature of the ocean floor. The thinking was that all of the world’s oceans were covered in layers of muddy chalk, the same material as the fossil shells making up the famous white cliffs of Dover. Soon enough, however, the scientists found different sediments, a prelude to the era of deep-sea drilling that has taught us so much. Remarkably, the seafloor sediment maps they produced for the Challenger Report have not changed much in their rough outlines since. Another open question was whether the deep sea was home to primitive organisms or even “living fossils”, but no such animals were found. They did find many bioluminescent organisms, although opinions differed as to what caused this; the pioneering work of Raphaël Dubois, who illuminated the biochemistry underlying this phenomenon, was still in the future. Finally, the scientists constantly dredged up manganese nodules. These potato-sized, black, spherical objects were rich in metals and the Challenger scientists worked out that these grew extremely slowly when dissolved manganese precipitated around objects such as shark teeth, bits of whalebone, or pieces of pumice. Though interest in them gradually waned after the expedition, the idea of mining the deep sea for metals has captured the imagination again in recent decades, .

Macdougall is not content with just relating the past and continuously tells what has become of some of the locations the expedition visited, or what our current understanding is of the topics they studied. It is an approach the book shares with Richard Corfield’s The Silent Landscape from 2003, the previous book on the Challenger expedition for a general audience. One example is penguin evolution. Anatomist Morrison Watson studied the penguins that had been collected and concluded that the group must have diverged early on in bird evolution. However, in the absence of fossils, he would not speculate further on the matter. Since then, we have filled in many gaps and have a better picture of just how diverse ancient penguindom was. The scientists were also fascinated by birds of paradise but were only able to find a few species. It took until 2004 for a National Geographic expedition to find and photograph all 39 existing species. Another hotly contested topic at the time was the nature of coral reefs and how these formed and grew. A young upstart by the name of Charles Darwin had his ideas, but his views were not accepted by everyone, including Challenger scientist John Murray. Whereas Murray argued that reefs only formed where debris had built up to create shallow areas, time has proven correct Darwin’s idea of coral atolls forming around sinking underwater volcanoes.

“Macdougall is not content with just relating the past and continuously tells what has become of some of the locations the expedition visited, or what our current understanding is of the topics they studied.”

Of course, when writing about a historical episode such as the Challenger expedition today, you have to address past attitudes and ideas. Many of these are at least objectionable if not outright repugnable to us now. I feel Macdougall strikes the right balance, providing the context while neither defending nor condemning the people of the past. This plays out most visibly in the chapter on anthropology. The Challenger scientists were burdened by all the baggage and prejudices that characterised the cultural imperialism of the time: native people were considered inferior savages and European culture de facto superior—and the scientists could not help themselves constantly remarking on this. Yet, at the same time, they were genuinely fascinated by the people they encountered and by what they considered primitive roots of Western culture in native practices. Flawed? Yes, and of its time. Macdougall is similarly upfront about the attitude towards animals. Gathering specimens for museum collections meant killing animals and their journals betrayed “no hint of contrition” (p. 203) in doing so. Lastly, the mission did have ulterior motives; this was also an imperial project. The laying of underwater telegraph cables required an understanding of the seafloor and it did not hurt that the expedition projected power and prestige towards competing seafaring nations. However, Macdougall thinks that we should not be too cynical about this. This was not some thinly veiled excuse for Britain to expand its empire; this was first and foremost a scientific expedition to better understand the ocean. Even the discovery of phosphate deposits on Christmas Island, which would earn the British government more in mining royalties than the whole expedition ever cost, was a clear case of serendipity. As the author points out, the ship never visited the island and this discovery happened years later during background research for the Challenger Report.

I enjoyed Macdougall’s thematic approach to the subject and I think he successfully shows why the Challenger expedition is considered groundbreaking. That said, I do have some criticism. The presentation of biographical information in chapter 2 is a bit messy: dates of birth and death are not systematically presented and sometimes lacking, and only a few portraits are included, meaning major protagonists such as John Murray and the fascinating Henry Moseley remain faceless names. We also rather abruptly leave the expedition somewhere in the Pacific. The trip out of the Pacific, the multiple stops in southern South America, and the return trip through the Atlantic do not feature here. Readers who are new to the topic might also want to consider the National Maritime Museum’s book The Challenger Expedition. Published in 2022 to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the expedition’s start, it offers a richly illustrated general introduction. I found my interest nourished but not yet sated. Early on, when reflecting on the contents of the Challenger Report, Macdougall points out that “in terms of sheer volume, biology won, hands down” (p. 59). As such, future me has reviewed the 2022 book Full Fathom 5000 as it promises to review all the strange animals the scientists found in the deep sea.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

Endless Novelties of Extraordinary Interest

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.

The Sediments of Time

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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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.

Fossil Men

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.

Ancient Bones

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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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.

The Real Planet of the Apes

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.

Neanderthal Language

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

Some time after I reviewed Angela Saini’s book Superior, I was contacted by medical anthropologist and science writer Alondra Oubré, offering me the opportunity to review her new book. The overall aim of Science in Black and White might be the same—the debunking of the biological arguments used to justify racist thinking—but Oubré shows there is more than one approach to get there.

Science in Black and White: How Biology and Environment Shape Our Racial Divide, written by Alondra Oubré, published by Prometheus Books in April 2020 (hardback, 376 pages)

Scientific racism has a long history, so the first third of this book provides plenty of background information and history to get you oriented. This includes the origins of the nature vs. nurture debate, social Darwinism, and eugenics. The rise and fall of the blank slate, the notion that the human mind is shaped solely by the environment. The rise of both behavioural genetics, which studies genes associated with behaviour, and Darwinian medicine, which looks at evolutionary explanations for why some genetically related groups are more prone to certain diseases. The basics of natural selection, DNA, SNPs (single-nucleotide polymorphisms—the single-base-pair mutations that much research has focused on), and the method of genome-wide association studies that allow you to rapidly compare whole genomes for numerous such mutations. But also the concepts of gene × environment interactions, epigenetics (inheritance through other mechanisms than DNA), and biological plasticity. And, finally, a primer on brain architecture.

In case you were in doubt, Science in Black and White is an information-dense and intensely data-driven book that is meticulously annotated. Hundreds of endnotes reference the studies that Oubré draws on to back up her statements and claims. In discussing this background, she already reveals a long history of trying to justify exploitation, colonialism, and white supremacy with scientific arguments. Most of that has now been shown for what it is: flawed research, full of confirmation biases and faulty assumptions. And yet, there remain plenty of right-wing scholars happy to use the latest research tools to push their agenda, while others continue to misinterpret new results.

The remaining two-thirds of the book thus samples a wide range of modern research and what it is and is not telling. This covers purported ethnic differences in IQ, the use of MRI to show racial differences in brain features and anatomy, and the use of candidate gene association studies that result in those headline-grabbing claims of “scientists have found gene for X!”. But Oubré also covers studies on sexual maturation and age of puberty onset, with the accompanying claims that African American girls start earlier—the not-so-subtle hint being that this makes them more prone to adolescent behavioural problems, teenage pregnancies etc. And there is the tale of testosterone and now the AR or androgen receptor gene, with some scholars seeking to pin increased violence and incarceration rates of African Americans on hormones.

“By the end of the book, it is hard not to feel that some people are just incorrigible racists, hell-bent on proving some link, any link, to support their notion of black inferiority and white supremacy.”

These chapters offer plenty of asides that might not immediately deal with racial science, but that serve to place it in a wider context and explain technical details. Nevertheless, a clear pattern emerges. In chapter after chapter, Oubré shows how simplistic claims of racial differences in behaviour or personality traits that are pinned on genetics do not stand up to scrutiny. Further research invariably shows that things are, well, complicated. By the end of the book, it is hard not to feel that some people are just incorrigible racists, hell-bent on proving some link, any link, to support their notion of black inferiority and white supremacy.

To expound on this a bit more, pro-nature advocates love to flaunt statistically significant results, but they rarely discuss the extent of variation around averages. Nor do they consider effect sizes, i.e. are minuscule but statistically significant differences actually biologically or socially relevant? And the correlations they show do not equal causation, though this is frequently overlooked or conveniently forgotten. Their claims are thus already on shaky ground by themselves.

What complicates such attempts at straightforward genetic explanations further are environmental influences, which can completely overrule genetic tendencies, and epigenetics, which add another layer of complexity. Some examples discussed here include brain structure (powerfully shaped by nutrition and early childhood development), intelligence (influenced e.g. by the socioeconomic status of the family you grew up in, but also by epigenetics, e.g. the chemical substance DNA methyltransferase that can tweak the activity of genes associated with intelligence), or the effect of genes on aggressive behaviour (which can be completely annulled by growing up in nurturing environments free of abuse). Furthermore, the genetic basis of many traits is complex, influenced by thousands of genes with tiny contributions each (so-called polygenic traits—Robert Plomin makes a notable appearance here).

“This book is not driven by a pro-nurture agenda; Oubré repeatedly hammers home the message that nature vs. nurture ought to be replaced by nature plus nurture. Both play a role.”

Intelligence has been a hot and recurrent topic over the decades in this kind of research, and one oddity struck me: Oubré takes as a given the reality of the IQ gap, the idea that white people are smarter than black people because they score higher on intelligence tests. I might be mistaken, but I was under the impression that this gap is subjective, notably because IQ tests are notorious for their inbuilt (cultural) biases and are thus of questionable value.

Aside from that, I found Oubré’s dispassionate approach a breath of fresh air. I greatly appreciated her neutral post-mortem of the Samuel Morton–Stephen Jay Gould debacle on braincase volume and its link to intelligence*. Where racialist scholars have a point, Oubré will readily grant them it. And while for Saini all research on ethnic differences is suspect by definition, Oubré is level-headed, highlighting its value in understanding why ethnic groups differ in their vulnerability to certain diseases (e.g. the increased risk of prostate cancer in African American men). This book is not driven by a pro-nurture agenda; Oubré repeatedly hammers home the message that nature vs. nurture ought to be replaced by nature plus nurture. Both play a role. Her epilogue, which highlights that clan or family genetics might offer a new perspective is remarkable in that sense.

Science in Black and White is not necessarily the easiest book to read and I can see people getting bogged down by the rich technical detail provided here. But if you want to engage with the nitty-gritty and go deeper into the claims of racialist scholars and understand why they are mistaken, this book is the ticket.

* Gould shot down Morton’s ideas in his book The Mismeasure of Man, but later, more careful reanalysis found that Gould’s approach was not free of confirmation bias either, causing no end of glee in certain quarters.

Disclosure: The publisher provided a review copy of this book. The opinion expressed here is my own, however.

Science in Black and White

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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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.

Kindred

Other recommended books mentioned in this review:

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