From the issue dated October 18, 2002
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Evolution and Literary CriticismBy DAVID P. BARASH and NANELLE BARASH"Criticism," according to Northrop Frye, "is badly in need of an organizing
Several decades ago, the geneticist Theodosius Dobzhansky gave this title to a now-famous article he wrote for American Biology Teacher: "Nothing in Biology Makes Sense Except in the Light of Evolution." We suggest that Dobzhansky's dictum applies to literary criticism just as it does to biology, albeit with some softening. It may be that much literature makes sense in the light of the current warhorses of critical analysis: Marx, Freud, textualism, postmodernism, "queer theory," and so forth. But it is equally likely that a good deal of literature (just as life itself) makes more sense in the light of evolution. Accordingly, literary critics might well profit by adding Darwinian analysis to their armamentarium. After all, whereas Aristotle, Marx, Freud, Jung, Foucault, Derrida, and others offer intellectual richness, so does Darwin. Moreover, Darwin has an additional appeal: He was right. To be sure, evolution is only one discourse among many, but there is something to be said for the benefits of basing an interpretive project on empirical validity rather than on idle speculation, airy disquisitions on indeterminacy, or the presumed impossibility of any rational discourse whatever. That is not to say that scientific veracity should be the sole touchstone for literary theory. After all, physics is also valid (despite what postmodernists -- many of them, incidentally, literary theorists -- might claim) and yet, it would be pointless and, indeed, comical to base literary criticism on quantum mechanics, string theory, or general relativity. And even though suitable calculations of force, mass, and momentum would doubtless yield insights into Anna Karenina's unfortunate encounter with a train, we suspect that a Newtonian analysis of Tolstoy's great novel would leave out some important (non-Newtonian) dynamics. Nonetheless, literary representations are not autonomous constructs, disconnected from the material world; rather, they reflect the way organisms encounter their environments, most notably, humans encountering other members of their own species. Hamlet suggested that the role of the artist is to hold a mirror up to nature -- not, as some current theorists would have it, to hold a mirror up to another mirror and thereby reflect only the infinite emptiness of mirrors. Literature does not so much construct an arbitrary array of disconnected imaginings as it reflects the interaction (whether actual or imagined) of living organisms with the world in which they evolved and to which they are adapted. Human nature is not like a unicorn or some other mythical beast. It exists, and it does so because human genes exist, producing a different kind of creature from those created by hippopotamus or hyacinth genes. "Read deeply," writes Harold Bloom, in How to Read and Why, "not to accept, not to contradict, but to learn to share in that one nature that writes and reads." Notwithstanding the variety displayed by human beings in different cultures and societies, human nature remains an unseen but constant presence that undergirds the universality of great works of creative literary genius. It is, for example, what makes Shakespeare's characters readily comprehensible, despite the fact that they are now 400 years old. Their language may sometimes be dauntingly archaic, but this only emphasizes the point: Even as the surface features have greatly changed, some things remain stodgily the same. And so, there is something familiar and recognizable about such basic, such obviously human traits as Romeo and Juliet's hormonally overheated teenage love, Hamlet's intellectualized indecisiveness, Lady Macbeth's ambition as well as her remorse, Falstaff's drunken cavorting, Viola's resourcefulness, Lear's impotent rage, Othello's jealousy, and Puck's well, Puckishness. And when the latter concludes, wonderingly, in A Midsummer Night's Dream, "What fools these mortals be," we cannot but agree, because we know what human beings they -- and we -- all are. Dostoyevsky's Ivan Karamazov worried that "without God, everything is permissible." Without human nature, everything, too, is permissible. There could be worlds -- of the imagination or in reality -- in which people don't eat, or sleep, or communicate with each other, or reproduce. Or in which there is no sexual identity, no biased predisposition to care for one's children or relatives, no predictable patterns of love, anger, competition, and cooperation. The result would be a kind of "science fiction" or wild fantasy, but interestingly, such imaginary excursions of extreme "inhuman-ness" are rarely undertaken, almost certainly because qualitative departures from the recognizably human are not only very difficult but also genuinely incomprehensible and thus, likely to be uninteresting. Even the imaginary creatures conjured up in various Star Wars movies, for all their imaginative structural variety, retain demonstrably human motivations and relationships to one another. And so, centuries after his conception, Hamlet remains a vital presence, whereas most cartoon heroes are two-dimensional caricatures with a predictably short life span. All of which leads to a potential key concept in any evolutionary analysis of literature (and in nearly all approaches to literature generally, even by avowedly non-Darwinian readers); namely, "believability." We suggest that characters are believable insofar as they behave in concert with biological expectation, and that evolutionary considerations serve as a powerful, unconscious touchstone for such expectations. To be sure, literary characters may sometimes behave unbelievably. They are fictional after all. But even such exceptions would be of particular interest, since their impact may well derive from the drama of observing patterns contrary to what we unblushingly call "reality." "From the crooked timber of humanity," wrote Kant, "nothing straight was ever fashioned." Here is Kant, Darwinized: From the squishy life-stuff of humanity, nothing nonbiological was ever fashioned. Even the loftiest products of human imagination are, first, emanations of that breathing, eating, sleeping, defecating, reproducing, evolving critter known as Homo sapiens. And for those emanations to be believable, they must accord with a kind of evolutionary straightness. Too much crookedness won't do. Thus, for millennia, readers have been fascinated, for example, by Achilles, despite his "unrealistic" immunity to injury; not coincidentally, this invulnerability is combined with other, believable traits, such as a penchant for male-male competition, for famously sulking when he feels unappreciated, anger when deprived of a loved one, etc. Or take the character Pilate, in Toni Morrison's Song of Solomon. She lacked a navel, magically demonstrating her profound independence. Such suspensions of disbelief are consistent with a Darwinian literary analysis, so long as the characters and their actions remain recognizably human; that is, undertaken by biological creatures whose behavior, for all its vagaries, somehow fits our anticipation of what Homo sapiens might conceivably do. Rather than seeing a literary text as an arbitrary ordering of components within its own semantic system, an evolutionary criticism would therefore view each as a document created by, and concerned with, unique life-forms embodied in an organic world of sex, blood, food, fear, anger, love, hopes, trees, animals, air, water, sky, rocks, and dirt. Such reality exists independent of anyone's rhetorical flourishes, cultural constructs, or subjective experiences. Even solipsists look both ways before crossing a street, and postmodernists, we suspect, submit their appendicitis to a surgeon, not a semiotician. Given that most of modern science is true, then, as Popper once observed (but shouldn't have had to), "realism must also be true." Darwinian literary criticism would be nothing if not realistic. Given the existence of a fundamental, wide-ranging scientific understanding of life in general (including that of Homo sapiens), one might think that literary critics would long ago have rushed to embrace evolutionary biology, or, at least, to explore its potential usefulness. That, to our knowledge, has not happened, although from time to time scholars have at least gestured in that direction. For example, in his magisterial History of English Literature, written between the appearance of Darwin's Origin of Species (1859) and Sexual Selection and the Descent of Man (1871), Hippolyte Taine struggled to glimpse an evolutionary conception of literature, reveling in the fact that modern science finally "approaches man; it has gone beyond the visible and palpable world of stars, stones, plants, amongst which man disdainfully confined her. It reaches the heart, provided with exact and penetrating implements." How much more penetrating are the analytic implements of today's biology. Taine's approach was relatively primitive, emphasizing the importance of a writer's inherited tendencies, as well as his or her cultural and historical circumstances. Modern social and biological science has come a long way since then, although by and large, literary theorists have not noticed. This is not to argue that the degree of "biological realism" reflected in a particular work should be privileged in any literary criticism, even a Darwinian species thereof. Photography is not superior to painting. There will always be room for the uniquely subjective qualities of literature, with its richly imaginative textures. Fictional accounts of what people might be like are in no danger of being supplanted by nonfictional accounts of what they really do. Literature is not ethnography, nor should it be. We find it significant, however, that for all the expressive freedom of literature, there is virtually no written equivalent of abstract expressionism, which is to say, arrays of words seemingly disconnected from any referent to the real world. Literature is not even close to what psychiatrists call "word salad," the random, chaotic verbalizations of people suffering from a variant of schizophrenia. Rather, literature deals, however impressionistically and subjectively, with people, and the nature of people (just like the nature of their language) follows certain consistent patterns, even as that nature is relatively open-ended and malleable. Shouldn't there be room for analysts of literature to take that into account? Although most scholars give lip service to the merits of "interdisciplinary" study, all too often such efforts are only celebrated when they involve poaching on another discipline's preserve. Thus, current literary criticism seems eager to "deconstruct the texts" of natural and social scientists, while considering their own domain sacrosanct. What about some traffic in the other direction, all the while fully admitting that evolutionary insights will not exhaust the rich body of human literary imaginings, any more than the science of optics contains all that might be said about sunsets? We come to expand and enhance literary criticism, not to limit it. Let's take The Aeneid as an example. The epic poem has been interpreted as many things: a history/allegory of Rome's founding, an effort by its author to ingratiate himself with the Emperor Augustus, the greatest surviving example of Latin verse, a prefiguration of Christianity, even a work of divine inspiration. Whatever one's "take" on The Aeneid, Virgil's masterpiece also reflects our shared human biology. The Iliad effectively concluded with the fall of Troy, whereupon the task of founding its successor -- Rome -- fell to Aeneas, son of Venus, whose divine parentage doubtless bolstered Roman pride. (Divine genes can only be an evolutionary plus.) The Aeneid is divided into 12 books, the first six of which describe the tribulations of Aeneas and his men at sea as they recount Troy's demise and travel to their promised land by way of Carthage, where the hero dallies with Queen Dido. The second half of the poem details the war between Aeneas and his rival, Turnus, for control of Italy. Throughout, Aeneas has a mission: to establish a glorious new city and -- not coincidentally, for our thesis -- to initiate a genetic line that will dominate much of the known world. Aeneas has been promised that his descendants will be great rulers, and indeed, for the pre-Romans, as for most people today, posterity is a prime consideration (even when the genetics of "fitness maximization" isn't consciously acknowledged). Significantly, the iconic image of Aeneas fleeing Troy has the renowned progenitor carrying Anchises, his father, on his shoulders, and leading his son, Ascanius, by the hand. But what of Aeneas's sojourn with Dido in Carthage? It seems a perfect deal, at least for many contemporary men: to have the resources of an entire city and the love and affection of a beautiful queen, no strings attached. Why, then, does he leave for uncharted waters? What, furthermore, can one say about Aeneas's personal qualities if he abandons his lover, thereby causing her suicide? Such coldheartedness seems counter to Aeneas's heroic reputation, and indeed, it has divided students of the poem for ages: Was he right to leave, or inexcusably impolite? We submit that whatever else he was doing, Aeneas was following human -- that is, biological -- impulses, conveniently projected onto the gods. Jupiter, informed of Aeneas's initial dalliance with Dido, sends his messenger Mercury to remonstrate, insinuating that were he to remain in Carthage, Aeneas would be denying his son (and thus, future descendants) his genetic posterity. We suggest that in abandoning Dido, Aeneas is not merely following Olympian decree. The gods often serve as a personification of Darwinian desires and needs, the id made manifest. If Aeneas's genes could spell out their reckoning, it would go somewhat like this: Although staying with Dido is pleasurable, you -- and thus, your genes -- have bigger fish to fry. When the alternative is maximizing your inclusive fitness by founding a dynasty, a sterile dalliance with a middle-aged woman is maladaptive. So Aeneas sets sail once again, revealing, as he departs, an intuitive comprehension of his actions. Thus, as he pleads for Dido's understanding, Aeneas explains, "It is not my own free will that leads me to Italy." In his conscious mind, it is the gods who dictate Aeneas's actions, but deep down, his biological impulses compel him to leave, a kind of ancient "My genes made me do it." At the end of Book VIII, Venus, Aeneas's mother, gives him a great shield upon which is engraved the fate of Rome and, thus, of Aeneas's descendants. In wonder, Aeneas surveys this future and then, not entirely understanding what he sees, he puts the shield to his shoulder, lifting "up the fame and fate of his sons' sons." The biological metaphor should be clear: Aeneas carries the burden of starting this new line. No one but he can father those descendants engraved on his shield, just as no one else will have his exact genetic material. The importance of his genetic lineage is further italicized in a famous episode when Aeneas journeys to the underworld, where he is shown in marvelous fashion the future history of Rome. In modern Darwinism, genes assure their own perpetuation not only by producing offspring, but also via the connection between genes and altruism, kinship and kindness. The ancient Trojans evidently "understood" evolutionary genetics, since manifestations of "kin selection" abound throughout The Aeneid. For example, while at sea, with a great storm brewing, the helmsman, Palinurus, suggests that the Trojans take shelter at "the faithful shores of Eryx, your [Aeneas's] brother." Sure enough, when the Trojans reach land, Aeneas's kin follows the expected genetic reckoning: "Not forgetting his old parentage, he welcomes their [Aeneas and companions'] return with joy." Consider the initial greetings between Aeneas and Evander, a petty king in Italy. In theory, Aeneas, a Trojan, should be wary of Evander, who came from Arcadia, a district of Greece. But Aeneas points to an ancient biological connection between their two lineages, explaining that "our related ancestors join me to you." He then launches into a detailed description of how the two chieftains are genetically connected: The mother of Dardanus, the ancestor of the Trojans, was Electra, whose father was Atlas. Evander's father is Mercury, whose mother was Maia. And by lucky chance, Maia was Atlas's daughter. After rattling off this shared genealogy, Aeneas finally concludes that "both our races branch out of one blood. Trusting to this, I shunned ambassadors or sly approaches." Evolutionary biologists have also noted that altruism can be positively selected even among nonrelatives, a pattern known as reciprocal altruism. There is no common Latin word for reciprocity, but this doesn't keep those ancient people, and their gods, from expecting payment for services rendered. Classical accounts feature many examples of war heroes praying extensively to their gods for success in combat. And when they do, they often remind their divine interlocutors of specific debts they are owed, or else promise generous sacrifices if they triumph. Before shooting an arrow, Nisus pleads to Diana, "If you were ever honored by Hyrtacus, my father, when he brought before your altar gifts on my behalf, if I have ever added offerings to you from my own hunting ... guide my spearhead through the air." In a similar vein, Pallas, attempting to kill Turnus, reminds Hercules of his father's hospitality to the demigod. Ascanius, Aeneas's son, later vows to Jupiter that if successful in his first attempt to kill a man, "I myself shall bring my yearly offerings into your temple; before your altars I shall set a dazzling white bullock." Then there is sex. Evolutionary biology makes much of it, and not surprisingly, so did the ancients. The two main characters of the last half of The Aeneid, Aeneas and Turnus, are both "hunks," highly attractive to the women they meet. Turnus was betrothed to Lavinia, daughter of the local king, except for a prophesy that her husband should be a foreigner. (Inbreeding avoidance is another universal, with distinct evolutionary benefits.) Similarly, Aeneas was able to attract the amorous attention of Dido, even though she had vowed not to love or marry after the death of her previous husband. Wherein lies the sex appeal of Turnus and Aeneas? A major tenet of the biology of mate selection is that people -- like other living things -- are attracted to those who offer the best reproductive options: the best genes, the best resources, the best behavior. Turnus and Aeneas are attractive because they demonstrate each of these characteristics. At one point, Dido and her sister, Anna, have a revealing discussion about Dido's feelings for Aeneas. Dido is overwhelmed by her attraction to his physical characteristics and his behavior. Virgil explains that "Aeneas's high name, all he has done, again, again, come like a flood" through her mind, and Dido sighs "How confident he looks, how strong his chest and arms!" Anna completes the evolutionary triad by pointing out his resources, both the protection he would provide to the burgeoning city of Carthage and the amount he could contribute toward its construction. She reminds Dido that "if you marry Aeneas, what a city and what a kingdom, sister, you will see!" Turnus, similarly, is attractive because of his physical appearance (that is, his underlying genetics): He is "handsomest beyond all others" and to top it off, "he had mighty grandfathers and great-grandfathers, and Latinus's royal wife wished to see him as son-in-law." Sex typically implies not only attraction, but also competition, especially among males. Book V of The Aeneid details an array of highly competitive "games" among hormonally overcharged young men, after which fully half the narrative, Books VI to XII, is devoted to more lethal forms of male-male competition, specifically between Turnus and Aeneas. After all, Aeneas has successfully wooed Lavinia, Turnus's former girlfriend. Their struggle quickly grows into a war between the Rutulians/Latins and the former Trojans, during which the soldiers express their male-male competition, mano a mano. The ultimate question is which army -- made up, after all, of contending individuals -- is strongest, fastest, bravest, smartest, most fit to father future generations, and which of the two contending leaders will prevail. Female-female competition, a subject that has been enjoying much press recently, also features prominently in The Aeneid, especially as reflected in the struggle between Juno (Aeneas's foe) and Venus (his mother and protector). We predict that one of the "growth areas" of future research in evolutionary studies of behavior will be the elucidation of female-female competition. Virgil's poem richly expresses such competition in the dynamics of Juno and Venus, as the two goddesses struggle continuously to undermine, outsmart, and outmaneuver each other. Evolutionary-based criticism can help the reader to understand many other elements of The Aeneid that might otherwise mystify. How else explain an episode in Book V, in which a woman with twin children at her breast is given to the loser of a boat race? The answer, presumably self-evident to the Trojans, is that a woman with infant children is reproductively unavailable for several years, and thus much less "valuable" than a younger virgin. Furthermore, the loser will be obligated by society (but not by his genetics!) to provide for the twins until they are old enough to fend for themselves, which means shelling out precious resources for nonrelatives. In many ways, Virgil seems more attuned to humanity's animal nature than are modern readers. After all, animal-based "epic similes" are among the most prominent features of The Aeneid. Virgil famously compares Dido's construction workers to bees (hence our saying, busy as bees), and Turnus is repeatedly described as a wolf. Along the way, other characters are compared to bulls, lions, deer, eagles, and so forth. Virgil, 2,000 years ago, acknowledged and celebrated the human animal-ness of us all; why shouldn't modern readers and literary theorists do the same? We could go on. Our hope, instead, is that literary scholars will do so, and not just for The Aeneid. Do we advocate abandoning other modes of literary criticism? Definitely not. Let a thousand critical schools bloom. We only ask that the Darwinian be added to the interpretive landscape. Human beings -- and thus, their imaginative creations -- are so complex and diverse that the study of literature should profit from any help it can get, especially insofar as there is no single pot of gold waiting to be unearthed at the end of the interpretive rainbow. We are reminded of the parable in which two sons are told to dig for a treasure in the family vineyard: They did not find any treasure, but their labors greatly enriched the soil. David P. Barash is a professor of psychology at the University of Washington. Nanelle Barash is a student at the Overlake School, in Redmond, Wash. http://chronicle.com Section: The Chronicle Review Volume 49, Issue 8, Page B7
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Copyright © 2002 by The Chronicle of Higher Education