At the same time, none of these forces can be understood without taking into account the thought processes of flesh-and-blood people. They include the Britons who reanalyzed French words when they absorbed them into English, the children who failed to remember irregular past-tense forms like writhe-wrothe and crow-crew and converted them into regular verbs, the aristocrats who affected fussy pronunciations to differentiate themselves from the rabble, the mumblers who swallowed consonants to leave us made and had (originally maked and haved), and the clever speakers who first converted I had the house built to I had built the house and inadvertently gave English its perfect tense. Language is re-created every generation as it passes through the minds of the humans who speak it.28
External language is, of course, a fine example of culture, the province of social scientists and scholars in the humanities. The way that language can be understood at some half-dozen connected levels of analysis, from the brain and evolution to the cognitive processes of individuals to vast cultural systems, shows how culture and biology may be connected. The possibilities for connections in other spheres of human knowledge are plentiful, and we will encounter them throughout the book. The moral sense can illuminate legal and ethical codes. The psychology of kinship helps us understand sociopolitical arrangements. The mentality of aggression helps to make sense of war and conflict resolution. Sex differences are relevant to gender politics. Human aesthetics and emotion can enlighten our understanding of the arts.
What is the payoff for connecting the social and cultural levels of analysis to the psychological and biological ones? It is the thrill of discoveries that could never be made within the boundaries of a single discipline, such as universals of beauty, the logic of language, and the components of the moral sense. And it is the uniquely satisfying understanding we have enjoyed from the unification of the other sciences—the explanation of muscles as tiny magnetic ratchets, of flowers as lures for insects, of the rainbow as a splaying of wavelengths that ordinarily blend into white. It is the difference between stamp collecting and detective work, between slinging around jargon and offering insight, between saying that something just is and explaining why it had to be that way as opposed to some other way it could have been. In a talk-show parody in Monty Python’s Flying Circus, an expert on dinosaurs trumpets her new theory of the brontosaurus: “All brontosauruses are thin at one end; much, much thicker in the middle; and then thin again at the far end.” We laugh because she has not explained her subject in terms of deeper principles—she has not “reduced” it, in the good sense. Even the word understand— literally, “stand under”—alludes to descending to a deeper level of analysis.
Our understanding of life has only been enriched by the discovery that living flesh is composed of molecular clockwork rather than quivering protoplasm, or that birds soar by exploiting the laws of physics rather than defying them. In the same way, our understanding of ourselves and our cultures can only be enriched by the discovery that our minds are composed of intricate neural circuits for thinking, feeling, and learning rather than blank slates, amorphous blobs, or inscrutable ghosts.
Chapter 5
The Slate’s Last Stand
HUMAN NATURE IS a scientific topic, and as new facts come in, our conception of it will change. Sometimes the facts may show that a theory grants our minds too much innate structure. For example, perhaps our language faculties are equipped not with nouns, verbs, adjectives, and prepositions but only with a distinction between more nounlike and more verblike parts of speech. At other times a theory may turn out to have granted our minds too little innate structure. No current theory of personality can explain why both members of a pair of identical twins reared apart liked to keep rubber bands around their wrists and pretend to sneeze in crowded elevators.
Also up for grabs is exactly how our minds use the information coming in from the senses. Once our faculties for language and social interaction are up and running, some kinds of learning may consist of simply recording information for future use, like the name of a person or the content of a new piece of legislation. Others may be more like setting a dial, flipping a switch, or computing an average, where the apparatus is in place but a parameter is left open so the mind can track variation in the local environment. Still others may use the information provided by all normal environments, such as the presence of gravity or the statistics of colors and lines in the visual field, to tune up our sensorimotor systems. There are yet other ways that nature and nurture might interact, and many will blur the distinction between the two.
This book is based on the estimation that whatever the exact picture turns out to be, a universal complex human nature will be part of it. I think we have reason to believe that the mind is equipped with a battery of emotions, drives, and faculties for reasoning and communicating, and that they have a common logic across cultures, are difficult to erase or redesign from scratch, were shaped by natural selection acting over the course of human evolution, and owe some of their basic design (and some of their variation) to information in the genome. This general picture is meant to embrace a variety of theories, present and future, and a range of foreseeable scientific discoveries.
But the picture does not embrace just any theory or discovery. Conceivably scientists might discover that there is insufficient information in the genome to specify any innate circuitry, or no known mechanism by which it could be wired into the brain. Or perhaps they will discover that brains are made out of general-purpose stuff that can soak up just about any pattern in the sensory input and organize itself to accomplish just about any goal. The former discovery would make innate organization impossible; the latter would make it unnecessary. Those discoveries would call into question the very concept of human nature. Unlike the moral and political objections to the concept of human nature (objections that I discuss in the rest of this book), these would be scientific objections. If such discoveries are on the horizon, I had better look at them carefully.
This chapter is about three scientific developments that are sometimes interpreted as undermining the possibility of a complex human nature. The first comes from the Human Genome Project. When the sequence of the human genome was published in 2001, geneticists were surprised that the number of genes was lower than they had predicted. The estimates hovered around 34,000 genes, which lies well outside the earlier range of 50,000 to 100,000.1Some editorialists concluded that the smaller gene count refuted any claim about innate talents or tendencies, because the slate is too small to contain much writing. Some even saw it as vindicating the concept of free will: the smaller the machine, the more room for a ghost.
The second challenge comes from the use of computer models of neural networks to explain cognitive processes. These artificial neural networks can often be quite good at learning statistical patterns in their input. Some modelers from the school of cognitive science called connectionism suggest that generic neural networks can account for all of human cognition, with little or no innate tailoring for particular faculties such as social reasoning or language. In Chapter 2 we met the founders of connectionism, David Rumelhart and James McClelland, who suggested that people are smarter than rats only because they have more associative cortex and because their environment contains a culture to organize it.
The third comes from the study of neural plasticity, which examines how the brain develops in the womb and early childhood and how it records experience as the animal learns. Neuroscientists have recently shown how the brain changes in response to learning, practice, and input from the senses. One spin on these discoveries may be called extreme plasticity. According to this slant, the cerebral cortex—the convoluted gray matter responsible for perception, thinking, language, and memory—is a protean substance that can be shaped almost limitlessly by the structure and demands of the environment. The blank slate becomes the plastic slate.
Connectionism and extreme plasticity are popular among cognitive scientists at the West Pole, who reject a completely blank s
late but want to restrict innate organization to simple biases in attention and memory. Extreme plasticity also appeals to neuroscientists who wish to boost the importance of their field for education and social policy, and to entrepreneurs selling products to speed up infant development, cure learning disabilities, or slow down aging. Outside the sciences, all three developments have been welcomed by some scholars in the humanities who want to beat back the encroachments of biology.2 The lean genome, connectionism, and extreme plasticity are the Blank Slate’s last stand.
The point of this chapter is that these claims are not vindications of the doctrine of the Blank Slate but products of the Blank Slate. Many people (including a few scientists) have selectively read the evidence, sometimes in bizarre ways, to fit with a prior belief that the mind cannot possibly have any innate structure, or with simplistic notions of how innate structure, if it did exist, would be encoded in the genes and develop in the brain.
I should say at the outset that I find these latest-and-best blank-slate theories highly implausible—indeed, barely coherent. Nothing comes out of nothing, and the complexity of the brain has to come from somewhere. It cannot come from the environment alone, because the whole point of having a brain is to accomplish certain goals, and the environment has no idea what those goals are. A given environment can accommodate organisms that build dams, migrate by the stars, trill and twitter to impress the females, scent-mark trees, write sonnets, and so on. To one species, a snatch of human speech is a warning to flee; to another, it is an interesting new sound to incorporate into its own vocal repertoire; to a third, it is grist for grammatical analysis. Information in the world doesn’t tell you what to do with it.
Also, brain tissue is not some genie that can grant its owner any power that would come in handy. It is a physical mechanism, an arrangement of matter that converts inputs to outputs in particular ways. The idea that a single generic substance can see in depth, control the hands, attract a mate, bring up children, elude predators, outsmart prey, and so on, without some degree of specialization, is not credible. Saying that the brain solves these problems because of its “plasticity” is not much better than saying it solves them by magic.
Still, in this chapter I will examine the latest scientific objections to human nature carefully. Each of the discoveries is important on its own terms, even if it does not support the extravagant conclusions that have been drawn. And once the last supports for the Blank Slate have been evaluated, I can properly sum up the scientific case for the alternative.
THE HUMAN GENOME is often seen as the essence of our species, so it is not surprising that when its sequence was announced in 2001 commentators rushed to give it the correct interpretation for human affairs. Craig Venter, whose company had competed with a public consortium in the race to sequence the genome, said at a press conference that the smaller-than-expected gene count shows that “we simply do not have enough genes for this idea of biological determinism to be right. The wonderful diversity of the human species is not hard-wired in our genetic code. Our environments are critical.” In the United Kingdom, The Guardian headlined its story, “Revealed: The Secret of Human Behaviour. Environment, Not Genes, Key to Our Acts.”3 An editorial in another British newspaper concluded that “we are more free, it seems, than we had realized.” Moreover, the finding “offers comfort for the left, with its belief in the potential of all, however deprived their background. But it is damning for the right, with its fondness for ruling classes and original sin.”4
All this from the number 34,000! Which leads to the question, What number of genes would have proven that the diversity of our species was wired into our genetic code, or that we are less free than we had realized, or that the political right is right and the left is wrong? 50,000? 150,000? Conversely, if it turned out that we had only 20,000 genes, would that have made us even freer, or the environment even more important, or the political left even more comfortable? The fact is that no one knows what these numbers mean. No one has the slightest idea how many genes it would take to build a system of hard-wired modules, or a general-purpose learning program, or anything in between—to say nothing of original sin or the superiority of the ruling class. In our current state of ignorance of how the genes build a brain, the number of genes in the human genome is just a number.
If you don’t believe this, consider the roundworm Caenorhabditis elegans, which has about 18,000 genes. By the logic of the genome editorialists, it should be twice as free, be twice as diverse, and have twice as much potential as a human being. In fact, it is a microscopic worm composed of 959 cells grown by a rigid genetic program, with a nervous system consisting of exactly 302 neurons in a fixed wiring diagram. As far as behavior is concerned, it eats, mates, approaches and avoids certain smells, and that’s about it. This alone should make it obvious that our freedom and diversity of behavior come from having a complex biological makeup, not a simple one.
Now, it is a genuine puzzle why humans, with their hundred trillion cells and hundred billion neurons, need only twice as many genes as a humble little worm. Many biologists believe that the human genes have been undercounted. The number of genes in a genome can only be estimated; right now they cannot literally be totted up. Gene-estimating programs look for sequences in the DNA that are similar to known genes and that are active enough to be caught in the act of building a protein.5 Genes that are unique to humans or active only in the developing brain of the fetus—the genes most relevant to human nature—and other inconspicuous genes could evade the software and get left out of the estimates. Alternative estimates of 57,000, 75,000, and even 120,000 human genes are currently being bruited about.6 Still, even if humans had six times as many genes as a roundworm rather than just twice as many, the puzzle would remain.
Most biologists who are pondering the puzzle don’t conclude that humans are less complex than we thought. Instead they conclude that the number of genes in a genome has little to do with the complexity of the organism.7 A single gene does not correspond to a single component in such a way that an organism with 20,000 genes has 20,000 components, an organism with 30,000 genes has 30,000 components, and so on. Genes specify proteins, and some of the proteins do become the meat and juices of an organism. But other proteins turn genes on or off, speed up or slow down their activity, or cut and splice other proteins into new combinations. James Watson points out that we should recalibrate our intuitions about what a given number of genes can do: “Imagine watching a play with thirty thousand actors. You’d get pretty confused.”
Depending on how the genes interact, the assembly process can be much more intricate for one organism than for another with the same number of genes. In a simple organism, many of the genes simply build a protein and dump it into the stew. In a complex organism, one gene may turn on a second one, which speeds up the activity of a third one (but only if a fourth one is active), which then turns off the original gene (but only if a fifth one is inactive), and so on. This defines a kind of recipe that can build a more complex organism out of the same number of genes. The complexity of an organism thus depends not just on its gene count but on the intricacy of the box-and-arrow diagram that captures how each gene impinges on the activity of the other genes.8 And because adding a gene doesn’t just add an ingredient but can multiply the number of ways that the genes can interact with one another, the complexity of organisms depends on the number of possible combinations of active and inactive genes in their genomes. The geneticist Jean-Michel Claverie suggests that it might be estimated by the number two (active versus inactive) raised to the power of the number of genes. By that measure, a human genome is not twice as complex as a roundworm genome but 216,000 (a one followed by 4,800 zeroes) times as complex.9
There are two other reasons why the complexity of the genome is not reflected in the number of genes it contains. One is that a given gene can produce not just one protein but several. A gene is typically broken into stretches of DNA that code for fragments of protein (exons) sepa
rated by stretches of DNA that don’t (introns), a bit like a magazine article interrupted by ads. The segments of a gene can then be spliced together in multiple ways. A gene composed of exons A, B, C, and D might give rise to proteins corresponding to ABC, ABD, ACD, and so on—as many as ten different proteins per gene. This happens to a greater degree in complex organisms than in simple ones.10
Second, the 34,000 genes take up only about 3 percent of the human genome. The rest consists of DNA that does not code for protein and that used to be dismissed as “junk.” But as one biologist recently put it, “The term ‘junk DNA’ is a reflection of our ignorance.”11 The size, placement, and content of the noncoding DNA can have dramatic effects on the way that nearby genes are activated to make proteins. Information in the billions of bases in the non-coding regions of the genome is part of the specification of a human being, above and beyond the information contained in the 34,000 genes.
The human genome, then, is fully capable of building a complex brain, in spite of the bizarre proclamations of how wonderful it is that people are almost as simple as worms. Of course “ the wonderful diversity of the human species is not hard-wired in our genetic code,” but we didn’t need to count genes to figure that out—we already know it from the fact that a child growing up in Japan speaks Japanese but the same child growing up in England would speak English. It is an example of a syndrome we will meet elsewhere in this book: scientific findings spin-doctored beyond recognition to make a moral point that could have been made more easily on other grounds.
THE SECOND SCIENTIFIC defense of the Blank Slate comes from connection-ism, the theory that the brain is like the artificial neural networks simulated on computers to learn statistical patterns.12
Cognitive scientists agree that the elementary processes that make up the instruction set of the brain—storing and retrieving an association, sequencing elements, focusing attention—are implemented in the brain as networks of densely interconnected neurons (brain cells). The question is whether a generic kind of network, after being shaped by the environment, can explain all of human psychology, or whether the genome tailors different networks to the demands of particular domains: language, vision, morality, fear, lust, intuitive psychology, and so on. The connectionists, of course, do not believe in a blank slate, but they do believe in the closest mechanistic equivalent, a general-purpose learning device.
The Blank Slate: The Modern Denial of Human Nature Page 12