The Meaning of Human Existence (3 page)
Read The Meaning of Human Existence Online
Authors: Edward O. Wilson
Within biology itself, the key to the mystery is the force that lifted prehuman social behavior to the human level. The leading candidate is multilevel selection, by which hereditary social behavior improves the competitive ability not just of individuals within groups but among groups as a whole.
Bear in mind that during organic evolution the unit
of natural selection is not the individual organism or the group, as some popular writers have misconstrued it. It is the gene (more precisely the alleles, or multiple forms of the same gene). The target of natural selection is the trait prescribed by the gene. The trait can be individual in nature and selected in competition among individuals inside or outside the group. Or the trait can be socially interactive in nature with other members of the group (as in communication and cooperation) and selected by competition among groups. A group of uncooperative, poorly communicating individuals will lose to its better organized competitors. The genes of the losers will decline across generations. Among animals, the consequences of group selection can be most plainly seen in the exquisitely programmed caste systems of ants, termites, and other social insects, but is also manifest in human societies. The idea of between-group selection as a force operating simultaneously in addition to between-individual selection is not new. Charles Darwin correctly deduced its role, first in the insects and then in human beings, respectively in
On the Origin of Species
and
The Descent of Man
.
I am convinced after years of research on the subject that multilevel selection, with a powerful role of group-to-group competition, has been a major force in the forging of advanced social behavior—including that of
humans. In fact, it seems clear that so deeply ingrained are the evolutionary products of group-selected behaviors, so completely a part of the contemporary human condition are they, that we are prone to regard them as fixtures of nature, like air and water. They are instead idiosyncratic traits of our species. Among them is the intense, even obsessive interest of people in other people, which begins in the first days of life as infants learn particular scents and sounds of the adults around them. Research psychologists have found that all normal humans are geniuses at reading the intentions of others, whereby they evaluate, proselytize, bond, cooperate, gossip, and control. Each person, working his way back and forth through his social network, almost continuously reviews past experiences while imagining the consequences of future scenarios. Social intelligence of this kind occurs in many social animals, and reaches its highest level in chimpanzees and bonobos, our closest evolutionary cousins.
A second diagnostic hereditary trait of human behavior is the overpowering instinctual urge to belong to groups in the first place, shared with most kinds of social animals. To be kept forcibly in solitude is to be kept in pain, and put on the road to madness. A person’s membership in his group—his tribe—is a large part of
his identity. It also confers upon him to some degree or other a sense of superiority. When psychologists selected teams at random from a population of volunteers to compete in simple games, members of each team soon came to think of members of other teams as less able and trustworthy, even when the participants knew they had been selected at random.
All things being equal (fortunately things are seldom equal, not exactly), people prefer to be with others who look like them, speak the same dialect, and hold the same beliefs. An amplification of this evidently inborn predisposition leads with frightening ease to racism and religious bigotry. Then, also with frightening ease, good people do bad things. I know this truth from experience, having grown up in the Deep South during the 1930s and 1940s.
It might be supposed that the human condition is so distinctive and came so late in the history of life on Earth as to suggest the hand of a divine creator. Yet, as I’ve stressed, in a critical sense the human achievement was not unique at all. Biologists have identified at the time of this writing twenty evolutionary lines in the modern-world fauna that attained advanced social life based on some degree of altruistic division of labor. Most arose in the insects. Several were independent origins in marine
shrimp, and three appeared among the mammals—that is, in two African mole rats, and us. All reached this level through the same narrow gateway: solitary individuals, or mated pairs, or small groups of individuals built nests and foraged from the nest for food with which they progressively raised their offspring to maturity.
Until about three million years ago the ancestors of
Homo sapiens
were mostly vegetarians, most likely wandering in groups from site to site where fruit, tubers, and other vegetable food could be harvested. Their brains were only slightly larger than those of modern chimpanzees. By no later than half a million years ago, however, groups of the ancestral species
Homo erectus
were maintaining campsites with controlled fire—the equivalent of nests—from which they foraged and returned with food, including a substantial portion of meat. Their brain size had increased to mid-sized, between that of chimpanzees and modern
Homo sapiens
. The trend appears to have begun one million to two million years previously, when the earlier prehuman ancestor
Homo habilis
turned increasingly to meat in its diet. With groups crowded together at a single site, and an advantage added by cooperative nest-building and hunting, social intelligence grew, along with the centers of memory and reasoning in the prefrontal cortex.
Probably at this point, during the habiline period, a
conflict ensued between individual-level selection, with individuals competing with other individuals in the same group, on the one side, and group-level selection, with competition among groups, on the other. The latter force promoted altruism and cooperation among all the group members. It led to innate group-wide morality and a sense of conscience and honor. The competition between the two forces can be succinctly expressed as follows: Within groups selfish individuals beat altruistic individuals, but groups of altruists beat groups of selfish individuals. Or, risking oversimplification, individual selection promoted sin, while group selection promoted virtue.
So it came to pass that humans are forever conflicted by their prehistory of multilevel selection. They are suspended in unstable and constantly changing positions between the two extreme forces that created us. We are unlikely to yield completely to either force as the ideal solution to our social and political turmoil. To give in completely to the instinctual urgings born from individual selection would be to dissolve society. At the opposite extreme, to surrender to the urgings from group selection would turn us into angelic robots—the outsized equivalents of ants.
The eternal conflict is not God’s test of humanity. It is not a machination of Satan. It is just the way things
worked out. The conflict might be the only way in the entire Universe that human-level intelligence and social organization can evolve. We will find a way eventually to live with our inborn turmoil, and perhaps find pleasure in viewing it as the primary source of our creativity.
A
LTHOUGH THE TWO GREAT BRANCHES OF
LEARNING, SCIENCE AND THE HUMANITIES, ARE
RADICALLY DIFFERENT IN THE WAY THEY DESCRIBE
OUR SPECIES, THEY HAVE RISEN FROM THE SAME
WELLSPRING OF CREATIVE THOUGHT.
W
e’ve considered thus far the biological origins of human nature, and from this information the idea that a large part of human creativity is generated by the inevitable and necessary conflict between the individual and group levels of natural selection. The implied unity in the explanation leads us to the next leg of the journey I suggest. It is the concept that science and the humanities share the same foundation, in particular that the laws of physical cause and effect can somehow ultimately account for both. You will likely recognize this proposition. Western culture has already traveled this way. It was called the Enlightenment.
During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the idea of the Enlightenment ruled the Western intellectual world. At that time it was a juggernaut; in the minds of many it even seemed to be the destiny of the human species. Scholars appeared on track to explain
both the Universe and the meaning of humanity by the laws of science, the latter called at that time natural philosophy. The great branches of learning, Enlightenment scholars believed, can be unified by a continuous network of cause and effect. Then, when built from reality and reason alone, cleansed of superstition, all of knowledge might come together to form what in 1620 Francis Bacon, greatest of the Enlightenment’s forerunners, termed “the empire of man.”
The Enlightenment quest was driven by the belief that entirely on their own, human beings can know all that needs to be known, and in knowing understand, and in understanding gain the power to choose more wisely than ever before.
By the early 1800s, however, the dream faltered and Bacon’s empire retreated. There were two reasons. First, although scientists were generating discoveries at an exponential pace, they were nowhere close to meeting the expectations of the more optimistic Enlightenment thinkers. Second, this shortfall allowed the founders of the Romantic tradition of literature, including some of the greatest poets of all time, to reject the presumptions of the Enlightenment worldview and seek meaning in other, more private venues. Science had no way, and it never would, to touch what people deeply feel and express only through the creative arts. Reliance on scientific
knowledge, many believed and their contemporary successors continue to believe, beggars the human potential.
For the next two centuries and to the present day, science and the humanities went their own ways. Physicists of course no less continue to enjoy playing in string quartets, and novelists write books that marvel at the wonders uncovered by science. But the two cultures—as they came to be called by the middle of the twentieth century—were considered by most to be separated by a permanent chasm built into the mind, perhaps intrinsic to the nature of existence itself.
In any case there was simply no time during the long eclipse of the Enlightenment to think of unification. In order to accommodate the rising flood of information, scientific disciplines were dividing into specialties at a near-bacterial rate—fast then faster and then even faster. The creative arts for their part continued to flower with brilliant and idiosyncratic expressions of the human imagination. There was very little interest in trying to reignite what was perceived as an antique and hopeless philosophical quest. Yet the Enlightenment was never proved to be impossible. It was not dead. It was just stalled.
Is there any value in resuming the quest now, and any chance of achieving it? Yes, because enough is known
today to make it more attainable than during its first flowering. And yes, because the solutions of so many problems of modern life hinge on solutions for the clash of competing religions, the ambiguities of moral reasoning, the inadequate foundations of environmentalism, and (the big one) the meaning of humanity itself.
Studying the relation between science and the humanities should be at the heart of liberal education everywhere, for students of science and the humanities alike. That’s not going to be easy to achieve, of course. Among the fiefdoms of academia and punditry there exists a great variation in acceptable ideology and procedure. Western intellectual life is ruled by hard-core specialists. At Harvard University, for example, where I taught for four decades, the dominant criterion in the selection of new faculty was preeminence or the promise of preeminence in a specialty. Starting with the deliberations of department-level search committees, then recommendations to the dean of the faculty of arts and sciences, and at last the final decision by the president of Harvard, who was assisted by an ad hoc committee drawn from both within and outside the university, the pivotal question asked was, “Is the candidate the best in the world in his research specialty?” On teaching, it was almost always an easygoing, “Is the candidate adequate?” The guiding philosophy overall was that the assembly of
a sufficient number of such world-class specialists would somehow coalesce into an intellectual superorganism attractive to both students and financial backers.
The early stages of a creative thought, the ones that count, do not arise from jigsaw puzzles of specialization. The most successful scientist thinks like a poet—wide-ranging, sometimes fantastical—and works like a bookkeeper. It is the latter role that the world sees. When writing a report for a technical journal or speaking at a conference of fellow specialists, the scientist avoids metaphor. He is careful never to be accused of rhetoric or poetry. A very few loaded words may be used, if kept to the introductory paragraphs and the discussion following the presentation of data, and if added to clarify the meaning of a technical concept, but they are never used for the primary purpose of stirring emotion. The language of the author must at all times be restrained and obedient to logic based on demonstrable fact.
