Each species has a different model of reality mapped into its brain. No model is complete. Every model misses some aspects of the world. Because of this incompleteness, sooner or later there will be surprises—perceived, perhaps, as something like magic or miracles. There are different sensory modalities, different detection sensitivities, different ways the various sensations are integrated into a dynamic mental map of … a snake, say, in full hunting slither.
But Descartes was unimpressed. He wrote to the Marquis of Newcastle:
I know, indeed, that brutes do many things better than we do, but I am not surprised at it; for that, also, goes to prove that they act by force of nature and by springs, like a clock, which tells better what the hour is than our judgment can inform us.11
——
As life evolved, the repertoire of feelings expanded. Aristotle thought that “in a number of animals we observe gentleness or fierceness, mildness or cross-temper, courage or timidity, fear or confidence, high spirit or low cunning, and, with regard to intelligence, something equivalent to sagacity.”12 Emotions that Darwin argued are manifested by at least some mammals other than humans—chiefly dogs, horses, and monkeys—include pleasure, pain, happiness, misery, terror, suspicion, deceit, courage, timidity, sulkiness, good temper, revenge, selfless love, jealousy, hunger for affection and praise, pride, shame, modesty, magnanimity, and a sense of humor.13
And at some point, probably long before the first humans, a new set of emotions—curiosity, insight, the pleasures of learning and teaching—also slowly emerged. Neuron by neuron, the partitions began to go up.
ARE ANIMALS MACHINES? FOUR VIEWS
A Seventeenth-Century View: Descartes:
[A]s you may have seen in the grottoes and the fountains in royal gardens, the force with which the water issues from its reservoir is sufficient to move various machines, and even to make them play instruments, or pronounce words according to the different disposition of the pipes which lead the water …
The external objects which, by their mere presence, act upon the organs of the senses; and which, by this means, determine the corporal machine to move in many different ways, according as the parts of the brain are arranged, are like the strangers who, entering into some of the grottoes of these waterworks, unconsciously cause the movements which take place in their presence. For they cannot enter without treading upon certain planks so arranged that, for example, if they approach a bathing Diana, they cause her to hide among the reeds; and if they attempt to follow her, they see approaching a Neptune, who threatens them with his trident; or if they try some other way, they cause some other monster, who vomits water into their faces, to dart out; or like contrivances, according to the fancy of the engineers who have made them. And lastly, when the rational soul is lodged in this-machine, it will have its principal seat in the brain, and will take the place of the engineer, who ought to be in that part of the works with which all the pipes are connected, when he wishes to increase, or to slacken, or in some way to alter their movements …
All the functions which I have attributed to this machine (the body), as the digestion of food, the pulsation of the heart and of the arteries; the nutrition and the growth of the limbs; respiration, wakefulness, and sleep; the reception of light, sounds, odours, flavours, heat, and such like qualities, in the organs of the external senses; the impression of the ideas of these in the organ of common sense and in the imagination; the retention, or the impression, of these ideas on the memory; the internal movements of the appetites and the passions; and lastly, the external movements of all the limbs, which follow so aptly, as well as the action of the objects which are presented to the senses, as the impressions which meet in the memory, that they imitate as nearly as possible those of a real man: I desire, I say, that you should consider that these functions in the machine naturally proceed from the mere arrangement of its organs, neither more nor less than do the movements of a clock, or other automaton, from that of its weights and its wheels; so that, so far as these are concerned, it is not necessary to conceive any other vegetative or sensitive soul, nor any other principle of motion, or of life.14
An Eighteenth-Century View: Voltaire:
What a pitiful, what a sorry thing to have said that animals are machines bereft of understanding and feeling, which perform their operations always in the same way, which learn nothing, perfect nothing, etc.!
What! that bird which makes its nest in a semi-circle when it is attaching it to a wall, which builds it in a quarter circle when it is in an angle, and in a circle upon a tree; that bird acts always in the same way? That hunting-dog which you have disciplined for three months, does it not know more at the end of this time than it knew before your lessons? Does the canary to which you teach a tune repeat it at once? Do you not have to spend a considerable time in teaching it? Have you not seen that it has made a mistake and that it corrects itself?
Is it because I speak to you, that you judge that I have feeling, memory, ideas? Well, I do not speak to you; you see me going home looking disconsolate, seeking a paper anxiously, opening the desk where I remember having shut it, finding it, reading it joyfully. You judge that I have experienced the feeling of distress and that of pleasure, that I have memory and understanding.
Bring the same judgment to bear on this dog which has lost its master, which has sought him on every road with sorrowful cries, which enters the house agitated, uneasy, which goes down the stairs, up the stairs, from room to room, which at last finds in his study the master it loves, and which shows him its joy by its cries of delight, by its leaps, by its caresses.15
A Nineteenth-Century View: Huxley:
Consider what happens when a blow is aimed at the eye. Instantly, and without our knowledge or will, and even against the will, the eyelids close. What is it that happens? A picture of the rapidly-advancing fist is made upon the retina at the back of the eye. The retina changes this picture into an affection of a number of the fibres of the optic nerve; the fibres of the optic nerve affect certain parts of the brain; the brain, in consequence, affects those particular fibres of the seventh nerve which go to the orbicular muscle of the eyelids; the change in these nerve-fibres causes the muscular fibres to alter their dimensions, so as to become shorter and broader; and the result is the closing of the slit between the two lids, round which these fibres are disposed. Here is a pure mechanism, giving rise to a purposive action, and strictly comparable to that by which Descartes supposes his waterwork Diana to be moved. But we may go further, and inquire whether our volition, in what we term voluntary action, ever plays any other part than that of Descartes’ engineer, sitting in his office, and turning this tap or the other, as he wishes to set one or another machine in motion, but exercising no direct influence upon the movements of the whole …
Descartes pretends that he does not apply his views to the human body, but only to an imaginary machine which, if it could be constructed, would do all that the human body does; throwing a sop to Cerberus unworthily; and uselessly, because Cerberus was by no means stupid enough to swallow it …
… [W]hat living man, if he had unlimited control over all the nerves supplying the mouth and larynx of another person, could make him pronounce a sentence? Yet, if one has anything to say, what is easier than to say it? We desire the utterance of certain words: we touch the spring of the word-machine, and they are spoken. Just as Descartes’ engineer, when he wanted a particular hydraulic machine to play, had only to turn a tap, and what he wished was done. It is because the body is a machine that education is possible. Education is the formation of habits, a superinducing of an artificial organisation upon the natural organisation of the body; so that acts, which at first required a conscious effort, eventually became unconscious and mechanical. If the act which primarily requires a distinct consciousness and volition of its details, always needed the same effort, education would be an impossibility.
According to Descartes, then, all the functions which are common to man and anim
als are performed by the body as a mere mechanism, and he looks upon consciousness as the peculiar distinction of the “chose pensante,” of the “rational soul,” which in man (and in man only, in Descartes’ opinion) is superadded to the body. This rational soul he conceived to be lodged in the pineal gland, as in a sort of central office; and here, by the intermediation of the animal spirits, it became aware of what was going on in the body, or influenced the operations of the body. Modern physiologists do not ascribe so exalted a function to the little pineal gland, but, in a vague sort of way, they adopt Descartes’ principle, and suppose that the soul is lodged in the cortical part of the brain—at least this is commonly regarded as the seat and instrument of consciousness.
.. [T]hough we may see reason to disagree with Descartes’ hypothesis that brutes are unconscious machines, it does not follow that he was wrong in regarding them as automata. They may be more or less conscious, sensitive, automata; and the view that they are such conscious machines is that which is implicitly, or explicitly, adopted by most persons. When we speak of the actions of the lower animals being guided by instinct and not by reason, what we really mean is that, though they feel as we do, yet their actions are the results of their physical organisation. We believe, in short, that they are machines, one part of which (the nervous system) not only sets the rest in motion, and co-ordinates its movements in relation with changes in surrounding bodies, but is provided with special apparatus, the function of which is the calling into existence of those states of consciousness which are termed sensations, emotions, and ideas. I believe that this generally accepted view is the best expression of the facts at present known.
… It is quite true that, to the best of my judgment, the argumentation which applies to brutes holds equally good of men; and, therefore, that all states of consciousness in us, as in them, are immediately caused by molecular changes of the brain-substance. It seems to me that in men, as in brutes, there is no proof that any state of consciousness is the cause of change in the motion of the matter of the organism. If these positions are well based, it follows that our mental conditions are simply the symbols in consciousness of the changes which take place automatically in the organism; and that, to take an extreme illustration, the feeling we call volition is not the cause of a voluntary act, but the symbol of that state of the brain which is the immediate cause of that act. We are conscious automata …16
A Twentieth-Century View: James L. and Carol G. Gould:
In considering the issue of mental experiences in animals, we have begun to wonder if the implicit assumption that humans are almost wholly conscious and aware (and hence fully competent to evaluate our cognitively less sophisticated animal brethren) is correct. Could it be that the degree to which conscious thinking is involved in the everyday lives of most people is greatly overestimated? We know already that much of our learned behavior becomes hardwired: despite the painfully difficult process of learning the task originally, who has to concentrate consciously as an adult on how to walk or swim, tie a shoe, write words, or even drive a car along a familiar route? Certain linguistic behavior, too, falls into such patterns. Michael Gazzaniga, for instance, tells the story of a former physician who suffered from a left (linguistic) hemisphere lesion so serious that he could not form even simple three-word sentences. And yet, when a certain highly touted but ineffective patent medicine was mentioned, he would launch into a well-worn and perfectly grammatical five-minute tirade on its evils. This set piece had been stored on the undamaged right side (along with the usual collection of songs, poetry, and epigrams) as a motor tape requiring no conscious linguistic manipulation to deliver.
… Indeed, what evidence is there that those sublime intellectual events known as “inspiration” involve any conscious thought? Most often our best ideas are served up to us out of our unconscious while we are thinking or doing something perfectly irrelevant. Inspiration probably depends on some sort of repetitive and time-consuming pattern-matching program which runs imperceptibly below the level of consciousness searching for plausible matches.
It strikes us that a skeptical and dispassionate extraterrestrial ethologist studying our unendearing species might reasonably conclude that Homo sapiens are, for the most part, automatons with overactive and highly verbal public relations departments to apologize for and cover up our foibles.17
* It’s not the taste of the blood that attracts her, but the warmth If she drops onto a butyric acid-scented toy balloon filled with warm water, she will readily puncture it and, an inept Dracula, gorge herself on tap water
* One promising finding in artificial intelligence is the discovery that distributed data processing—many small computers working in parallel without much of a central processing unit—does very well, by some standards better than the largest and fastest lone computer Many little minds working in tandem may be superior to one big mind working alone
Chapter 10
THE NEXT-TO-LAST REMEDY
When all the world is overcharged with inhabitants,
then the last remedy of all is war …
THOMAS HOBBES,
Leviathan, II, 301
Once organisms get really good at sex, once they evolve the plumbing and the passion for it, there gets to be a danger: So many competent, DNA-exchanging beings may be born that they will improvidently gobble up all the food or nutrients or prey, and then almost everyone, including their close relatives, will die. This must have occurred innumerable times in the history of life.
Take a being as modest as a bacterium, weighing in at a trillionth of a gram, and let it reproduce with no impediments. In the second generation there will be two bacteria; in the third generation, four; in the fourth generation, eight; and so on. If we imagine that none of those offspring die, then in 100 generations they will collectively weigh as much as a mountain; in 135 generations, as much as the Earth; in 150 generations, as much as the Sun; and in 185 generations, as much as the Milky Way galaxy.
Of course, such prodigious increases in mass are arithmetic exercises only. They could never occur in the real world. For one thing, the replicating microbes would soon run out of food. Your descendants cannot weigh as much as a mountain if there’s not a mountain’s worth of food to eat—much less an Earth’s worth or a Sun’s or a galaxy’s. There is only so much food available. Thus, your descendants will quite soon be in competition with one another for scarce resources. But because of the enormous power of exponential reproduction, an organism with even a slight advantage in finding or utilizing food rapidly supplants the competition (or at least its descendants do). Fast reproducers generate large populations, and competition for resources; they provide the raw material for a natural selection that efficiently magnifies small differences in fitness, differences that might be too small or subtle for even the most skilled naturalist to notice. This was the central argument of Darwin’s unpublished 1844 manuscript on evolution, and of his article in the Proceedings of the Linnaean Society of London for 1858.2
So what happens in fact when there’s too much crowding? Some responses seem to serve a larger purpose. Sibling shark embryos fight to the death in utero. In many nonhuman mammals, brothers and sisters of the same litter compete for access to nipples; often, there is a least competent infant, unsuccessful in elbowing its way to a nipple—the runt of the litter, who becomes progressively weaker with each failed attempt to nurse. The Virginia opossum has thirteen teats and, generally, more than thirteen pups per litter. Only those who regularly get to a teat live. Such competitions weed out the weak. Those species with more teats than pups permit weakling and unaggressive youngsters to reach adulthood. If they are unlikely to compete successfully as adults and pass their genes on, their mother has, from the point of view of her genes, been wasting her time nursing such pups. Those mothers with fewer teats or more pups have a selective advantage. Concern about cruelty and suffering doesn’t, so far as we know, enter into it.
Cities aside, we humans routinely experiment on crowdi
ng animals into confined enclosures. The institutions responsible are called zoos; some are much more pernicious than others. A well-known problem of zoos is that many of the inmates are somehow less able to “breed in captivity”; another problem is sustained and violent conflict, usually between males of the same species. Zookeepers have learned that if they wish to maintain their “inventories,” they must often separate the males. Experiments have also been performed in the laboratory to study overcrowding. In all of these cases it’s important to remember the artificiality of the circumstances. An option available in the wild is unachievable in captivity: No matter what the provocation, a caged animal cannot flee conflict and make a new start somewhere else.
Norway rats have been bred in scientific laboratories since the middle nineteenth century. Artificial selection has elicited—partly through unconscious choices by laboratory personnel—a strain of rats that is calmer, tamer, less aggressive, more fertile, and with significantly smaller brains than their wild ancestors. All this is a convenience for those experimenting on rats.3
In a now-classic experiment,4 the psychologist John B. Calhoun let Norway rats reproduce in an enclosure of fixed size until the number of occupants, and therefore the population density, was very high. He made sure, however, to provide everyone with enough to eat. What happened?
As the population increased, a range of unusual behavior was noted. Nursing mothers became somehow distracted, rejecting and abandoning their infants, who would wither away and die. Despite the surplus of ordinary food, the bodies of the newborn would be greedily eaten by passersby. An adult female in heat or estrus would be pursued relentlessly, not by one, but by a pack of males. She had no hope of escape, or even sanctuary. Obstetrical and gynecological disorders proliferated, and many females died giving birth, or from complications soon after. When crowded together, the rats lost their inclination or ability to build nests for themselves and their young; their desultory constructions were amateurish and ineffective.