Recently Read

The Evolution of Beauty
by Richard O. Prum

Whenever we wish to answer any question about the natural world, and we're in doubt about it, we usually turn to Darwin. Except, that is, when it comes to the question of beauty and how it exists in the world, according to Yale professor Richard Prum. The rejection of Darwin's ideas about sexual selection--as opposed to his theory of natural selection--by the bulk of evolutionary scientists serves as the inspiration for Prum's The Evolution of Beauty, a book written as a methodical (and methodological) counterpoint to the field's slavish devotion to adaptation as the answer to everything.

Prum makes it clear that he does not wish to reject the notion of adaptive mate choice--the evolutionary mechanism that is scientists' preferred answer for why animals evolve in every given way--but simply wishes to reassert an arbitrary character to certain processes that lead to many of the extraordinary forms and behaviors displayed by animals and humans.

The Evolution of Beauty
by Richard O. Prum

Yes, humans, too. We're animals of a sort, and one of the great legacies of Darwin's investigation of evolution was to pull modern human beings out of their Ptolemaic universe, where we viewed ourselves as a special creation that lived in the center of the universe, near to but separated from the rest of the animal kingdom, and into a more scientific and realistic conception of ourselves as being the products of an expansive Tree of Life--animals along with all the rest of this planet's occupants, and sharing many similar characteristics, right down to our genes.

Thus, if you're the type who likes to spend weekends hanging out at the Creationist Museum, this book is probably not for you.

If, however, you have an open mind--especially a mind more open than most of today's current crop of evolutionary scientists, according to Prum--then you're likely to profit from reading The Evolution of Beauty, particularly if you have long pondered the signficance of the differences we see among creatures in the world around us--including the creatures we see at the mall, the grocery store, and the office.

Frankly, the idea that much of the organic world's existence is governed by a notion of aesthetic mate choice--that is, mates are chosen not simply for their Darwinian "fitness," but also for how aesthetically pleasing they are to other members of their species--seems like something fairly obvious. This observer has long understood (to his own personal detriment) how "the birds with the brightest plumage are the ones who get the mates." It seems like a strain to deny that being beautiful works heavily to a creature's advantage, be that creature a Great Argus pheasant, a breed of dog, or a USC cheerleader.

Yet, according to Prum, that has largely been the case within the field of evolutionary science, where the out-sized influence of Alfred Russell Wallace (the co-discoverer with Darwin of natural selection) has worked for over a hundred years to champion the primacy of all-powerful adaptation as the cause of all evolutionary change.

As Prum establishes in his book's early chapters, the turn away from Darwin's theory of aesthetic mate choice as a key component of sexual selection was largely driven by Wallace's personal animus, along with hearty doses of Victorian-era primness, particularly with regards to female sexual autonomy. The implications of "this aesthetic view of life"--as Prum puts it, echoing Darwin's famous closing to Origin of Species--were a little too risque if not revolutionary for the staid world in which the famous naturalist first proposed them, and biological sciences clung to adaptation as a shield against any nervous-making ideas interfering with their solidly orderly and reasonable view of how animals evolve.

But now, in the 21st century--where primness is an idea that has dissolved and the culture has moved well beyond the boundary of quaintness--along comes Prum, an ornithologist who has taken a lifetime of observing birds and their mating rituals and identified behaviors and physical characteristics that simply can't be explained by mere adaptation, or "honest advertising" of physical superiority, as the adaptationist creed would have you believe.

Thus, most of the first half of The Evolution of Beauty presents Prum's examples from the field, where his observations--literally, his bird-watching excursions--of Great Argus pheasants, various species of Manakins and Bowerbirds, and other exotic avians introduced him to behaviors and traits that defy classification as advertisements of an individual bird's fitness. Prum explains how, in most of the species studied, female mate choice served as the engine for creating adjustments to the males who were seeking mates, either through changes in appearance or in behavior, that are not only not adaptive in nature, but in some instances can be considered maladaptive, at least from an individual's point of view. (The mating displays of male Manakins--where multiple males show coordinated behaviors that assure certain birds lose out on breeding opportunities--are particularly effective evidence.) The chapter on duck sex presents a surprisingly dramatic scenario that makes a sound case for just how strong--and urgent--is the female drive to adapt in order to preserve their sexual freedom--a freedom of choice that insists upon being able to preserve a hen's desire to mate with the drake who is most appealing to her.

Later in the book, Prum tackles how aesthetic mate choice works in the human species, from our divergence with our ape cousins all the way through to the rise of homosexuality as an open human sexual phenomenon in these later days (at least as a question of sexual identity, if not the more ancient mechanics of the thing). Subjects tackled in these later chapters are as colorful as the human male's lack of a baculum (penis bone) and the utility of female orgasms (maybe there isn't any, besides the fact that it feels good) to the sobering reality that many of the by-products of human aesthetic mate choice (by women) serve the purpose of nullifying "traditions" of sexual coercion and violence. It's a rich tapestry for sure, and bound to be of interest to anyone with an interest in human sexual dynamics--which is to say, everyone.

Prum's treatment of his subject is scholarly, but that doesn't mean it's too opaque for the average reader to comprehend. The professor doesn't dumb things down; he keeps his reporting as straightforward and clear as possible to serve the purpose of reaching, and influencing, a broad audience. So, too, does his writing style; Prum injects a healthy amount of humor and even pop culture references into his text, which certainly helps to lubricate the nonscientist's understanding of the subjects being discussed. For a work as intelligent and dense as The Evolution of Beauty, the book is in fact a relatively easy and enjoyable read. The author's only real misstep comes in his closing chapter, where he presents as a thematic anchor a gross misinterpretation of an old Greek aphorism, which then serves to undermine his closing argument. Other than that one fault, Prum's presentation is lucid, well-argued, and hard to refute.

So, then, does The Evolution of Beauty triumph in beating back the adaptationists' claims to universality? Yes, I think so, at least as far as the notion of the ubiquitous and unchangeable power of adaptive mate choice is concerned. There's too much here that argues too strongly in favor of that "aesthetic view of life" for all the eggs to be placed in the adaptive basket. But some of Prum's conclusions--"intellectual offerings" may be a more accurate description--remain highly speculative and are (by the author's own admission) still wanting in evidence to be claimed as fact. Overall, the case for aesthetic mate choice is strong, but, as the Scots might say, "not proven."

Still, The Evolution of Beauty is a welcome addition to the scientific bookshelf. Science only progresses--indeed, only happens--when questions are asked, particularly questions that challenge entrenched dogmas. Prum had done more than enough with this volume to raise important questions and set the course for the next generation of evolutionary biologists to find the proof for these ideas.

Recently Read

Call of the Cats
by Andrew Bloomfield

There are two possible takeaways from reading Andrew Bloomfield's Call of the Cats: What I learned about Life and Love from a Feral Colony.

One is that Bloomfield is an uncommonly dedicated animal lover, one who devoted a huge part of his life to taking care of a group of backyard cats for little more than the intangible rewards of good deeds done (and maybe, perhaps, a decent writing contract).

The other potential takeaway is that Bloomfield confirms many observers' perceptions of cat people as weird, off-center, and perhaps more than a little crazy.

Andrew Bloomfield's Call of the Cats

The latter notion comes through to the reader less by way of the author's interaction with the cats in his neighborhood's large feral colony and more through what Bloomfield reveals about himself in the process of telling his story. In various diversions, Bloomfield discusses his time in Nepal, his on-again, off-again work as an astrologer, his spectacularly unsuccessful career as a day trader, his time as a dealer in rare Asian artworks...in short, Bloomfield relates the story of a peripatetic working life in which he apparently did everything except hold a normal job. The implication--no normal job because he's no normal person--seems clear, and certainly reinforces the notion that someone who would dedicate himself so vigorously to taking care of a group of cats--who often feel substantially less care for him--is probably a bit of a misfit, at least as far as the general rules of society go.

Nothing particularly revealing there. Those of us who love cats, in general, would have no problem with characterizing ourselves as misfits. In this world, dog owners are clearly deemed to be the normal people; they fit in, and one could even say they come across as quite satisfied with themselves. No such comfort exists for cat lovers, particularly those who really love cats. Bloomfield, apparently, qualifies on all counts there.

If you can get past the author's eccentricity, you do get an interesting and informative portrait of just how difficult it can be to handle--literally and figuratively--a colony of feral cats. The stories range from heartening--tales of this or that cat's recovery from a seemingly fatal illness--to heartbreaking--the devastation wreaked upon the colony, and particularly its kitten population, by the local predator population (coyotes, raccoons, opossums). It ain't easy living out there in the spaces in between, and it can be a harrowing experience if you're trying to help the cats who have settled into those spaces. That message shines through in Bloomfield's writing, at least as strongly as the characterization of the author himself does.

If there's any problem with Call of the Cats, it's mostly from a sense that the tale told in the book is comprised of many disjointed segments; a sense of flowing narrative rarely comes out of these pages. (Bloomfield's personal diversions do as much harm to that sense of flow as they do to his chance of being perceived as normal.) Also, the cast of feline characters grows too large at certain points for the casual, not-entirely-attentive reader to keep straight. The reader winds up feeling muddled in more than one stretch of the book's length.

But it's hard for a cat lover to make too negative an assessment of a book like this, and for an author who clearly exposes a deep and abiding love for the subjects of his literary inspiration. Those of us who deem ourselves to be true feline friends will find more than enough pleasure from Call of the Cats. And even the dog people among us, if they're feeling charitable towards their eccentric neighbors--and can get past feeling so satisfied with themselves--might get a bit of joy out of this very cat-centric book, too. It's certainly worth picking it up and giving it a try.

Recently Read

The Character of Cats
by Stephen Budiansky

Cats sure do have character. Cats sure are characters. The question is, how much does author Stephen Budiansky reveal, which we don't already know, about that subject in his book, The Character of Cats? The best answer I can give you is, some.

The Character of Cats
by Stephen Budiansky

Budiansky's work reads as a natural history of the domesticated cat, covering well-worn topics such as the origin of their partnership with humans in ancient Egypt and their supposed vilification in medieval Europe; vaguely familiar ground (to cat enthusiasts) such as the feline's natural inclinations towards loner living and territoriality; and all the way through to information on more obscure items (in some cases, through new and recent scholarship) such as cat learning ability and the range of personalities found in the population of domestic kitties.

In some of these cases, the author's assertions are challenging and provocative. For example, Budiansky reports on new thinking about the domestication process that brought formerly wild animals--including cats--into the human realm, ideas that turn the traditional view on its head. Cats have long been seen as "the only animal to have domesticated itself," whereas the rest of the farmyard crew came to their lots in life via a conscious process of subjugation by humans. However, Budiansky calls on recent scientific studies and makes the opposite claim: it was cats who were purposely domesticated (or at least semi-domesticated) by people, while other animal species took the yoke upon themselves as a response to "evolutionary trouble" (meaning loss of habitat, dwindling numbers, etc.).

It's an intriguing claim--but are we sure it's true? Budiansky's argues persuasively from observed experiments, but should we really conclude that everyone who thought about this topic prior to now just got it all wrong? And not just wrong, but completely backwards? If this is the first book of natural history you've ever read, you may be inclined to swallow the argument whole and just move on. But if your experience with the field includes more than these pages, you've certainly encountered exactly this sort of dynamic before: a back and forth set of points and counterpoints around a bone of contention that is not made crystal clear by the biological, genetic, or paleontological evidence. Think of the dinosaurs and their extinction--there are still holdouts who do not accept the asteroid theory and argue for other suspects in that particular whodunit. If experts are themselves uncertain about these matters, how can humble lay readers such as ourselves come down on one side or the other?

Cats, of course, are beguiling in many ways, and lend themselves quite well to this sort of uncertainty. Take, as another example, the state of their vision. Are cats colorblind? They were long thought to be so. And then some observers made claims that cats can and do see color. Now, Budiansky weighs in on the side of feline colorblindness, citing experimental results and the physical structures in cats' eyes (cones and rods), to back up his position. But is that the last word on the matter? How many more times will we see new claims made, on both sides of this issue, in the future?

Thus, the reader must take what he reads in The Character of Cats with a grain of salt--at least where his own direct observations can not confirm or deny the author's assertions. Still, Budiansky's views on our favorite furry friends provide some value. Later sections of the book, dealing with cat psychology and learning potential, should be read by anyone with a serious interest in the health and well-being of cats. In particular, getting a handle on how cats see the world--and thus how they can taught positive behaviors and cajoled away from destructive antics--can be of particular value to anyone sharing territory with a kitty (or more than one).

Lastly, Budiansky brings a solid writing style to the pages in The Character of Cats. The reader may learn a thing or two about cats, but that does not mean he's in for a scholarly slog. The tone of the text remains light and readable through most of its length. The casually interested, as well as the hardcore cat fan, can get through this slim volume without any problems.

In sum, The Character of Cats passes the test. If you'd like to add a few good nuggets of information to your pool of knowledge about our fabulous feline friends, this book is worth your time.

Calls of the Wild

The children of the night...
such music they make.
(Photo courtesy wikipedia.org)

So here I am, staying at my Mom's place in the old folks' village of Rossmoor, and every night about 1 or 1:30 I get to hear a brief symphony from the local coyotes.

This is not exactly new to me; I heard the coyotes howling plenty of times during my residence at my apartment in nearby Lafayette. But these late episodes bring something special to the scene: a certain wonderfully ominous character to them that strikes my ironic funny bone in a most peculiar way.

You see, it's basically winter out there (not by the calendar, but for the Bay Area, this is pretty much it as far as that season goes). And you have all these old people holed up in their boxy little apartments, while outside a band of mini-wolves is howling at the door. It's like a theater in the round version of a very odd Russian play. Next thing you know an army will march through and seize everyone's grain.

Yeah, I know it's not much, but in these trying times I have to amuse myself with what I've got. Check back in next week when I'll be house-sitting and enjoying more leisure time with myself for something more entertaining.