Wonderful Life: The Burgess Shale and the Nature of History by Stephen Jay Gould

A fascinating biological saga somewhat tediously presented

Paleontologist and evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould (1941–2002) wrote many books on natural history and evolution for a popular audience. His book Wonderful Life, published in 1989, focuses on fossils collected from the Burgess Shale, a geological formation in British Columbia, Canada. The remarkably preserved fossils of the Burgess Shale (I saw some in a Toronto museum last week) comprise the best illustration of the Cambrian explosion, when early invertebrate life exhibited a wide diversity of anatomical forms. Eminent paleontologist Charles Doolittle Walcott (1850–1927) discovered the Burgess Shale and for several decades monopolized the interpretation of the fossils. In the 1970s, however, three British paleontologists—Harry Whittington, Simon Conway Morris, and Derek Briggs—re-examined the Burgess Shale fossil record and ascertained that many of Walcott’s findings were erroneous. Walcott “shoehorned” several unique creatures into existing phyla, thus shortchanging the biological diversity and anatomical disparity of the Cambrian explosion. The three Brits revealed that many of the Burgess Shale arthropods belong to newly discovered phyla that led to evolutionary dead ends. Gould uses this scientific saga to illustrate his own theories of evolution and natural historiography.

The centerpiece of the book is a step-by-step recounting of Whittington, Briggs, and Conway Morris’s work with the Burgess Shale fossils. The reader follows along and joins in the excitement as they make new scientific discoveries. One thing Wonderful Life does very well is it really gives laymen like me an idea of what exactly paleontologists do and how they do it. I also learned quite a bit about the anatomy, evolution, and taxonomy of prehistoric arthropods, topics I surprisingly found fascinating.

What I didn’t like about Wonderful Life is the way that Gould continually hammers home his thesis. It reads as if he’s saying: “These three scientists discovered something marvelous, and I discovered them! Now wonder at the revelations I’m about to impart to you!” Gould keeps stressing how groundbreaking this interpretation of the Burgess fossils is, but I never fully grasped the big deal. I never really thought that our present world was any more biodiverse than earlier eras, so in my case that’s one myth Gould didn’t have to bust. Gould does make a good point that evolutionary trees are often drawn in a way that makes it seem like homo sapiens were the teleological god-given foregone conclusion in the process, but it’s not like intelligent science-minded people can’t see around that. Anyone who’s ever done any genealogical research knows that family trees are more like unruly bushes than neatly pruned trees. The same holds true for taxonomical cladograms.

The other half of Gould’s argument is his assertion that contingency plays a big role in evolution. Again, I met this hypothesis with a resounding “Duh!” Contingency, as Gould vaguely defines it, is something like what most of us might call “the butterfly effect.” Small random or haphazard incidents amount to big changes over the course of hundreds of millions of years. Gould states over and over that if we “played back the tape” of evolution with different random catastrophes, then humankind would have never evolved. That seems like a no-brainer, at least to an atheist. What Gould fails to point out is that if humanity never evolved, then there wouldn’t be any humans around to contemplate evolution. Intelligent human life may have been a one-in-a-million chance, but it’s a prerequisite for the very discussion we’re having.

Some other scientists have taken issue with Gould’s arguments here, in whole or in part, such as Richard Dawkins and Richard Fortey. Obviously, I’m not in a position to argue evolution with the late great Stephen Jay Gould. I can, however, say that Fortey is the best writer of the three, while Gould and Dawkins are rather full of themselves. I like the science that Gould presented in Wonderful Life. I just got tired of him telling me how amazed I should be at his conclusions.

Life: A Natural History of the First Four Billion Years of Life on Earth by Richard Fortey

An excellent paleontological overview of our planet’s past

Richard Fortey is a senior paleontologist at London’s Natural History Museum. In addition to his output of academic research, he has written several science books for a general reading audience, including Life, originally published in 1997. In this book, Fortey provides a four-billion-year biography of life on Earth, following the course of evolution from our planet’s first molecules of living matter to we humans today. Fortey has delivered an intentionally nonacademic book with very few footnotes and almost no bibliography, but the subject matter is not drastically dumbed-down for the lay reader. This impressive, engaging, and comprehensive work likely amounts to an undergraduate college course worth of natural history.

Although this book is aimed at a popular audience, Fortey doesn’t just jump right into the crowd-pleasing dinosaurs, mammoths, and cavemen. Much like history itself, the majority of the book is populated by microbes and invertebrates. Fortey, an expert on trilobites, has no problem giving the Precambrian and Paleozoic species their due for having ruled the Earth far longer than we have. His ability to make these earlier, slimier periods of our planet’s history compelling and engaging is quite remarkable. He has a knack for drawing scenes of long-past environments that make the reader feel immersed in a live-action diorama of biological activity. Fortey manages to make Ordovician molluscs every bit as exciting as a museum display of robotic dinosaurs.

I wouldn’t say there were many surprising revelations in this book. Don’t expect a definitive answer to the origin of life, for example. Fortey seems disposed towards the cosmic seeding theory, in which organic molecules were deposited on Earth by comets or meteors. That may very well be possible, but whenever I hear that theory it just seems like a cop out to me, a theoretical passing of the buck. Even if life did came from space, somewhere in the universe, at some time, there had to have been a primordial soup, yet we still can’t come up with a viable explanation of how physics and chemistry created biology.

The cause of the extinction of the dinosaurs, as explained here, is no surprise either. Fortey does, however, provide some very interesting background on how the meteor theory was formulated and the history of resistance against it. That’s pretty indicative of the book as a whole. Most of us already know much about the history of life on Earth from school or science magazines or educational TV programs. Fortey makes the subject more exciting by fleshing out the basics with fascinating details and intriguing examples. He also frequently delves into the history of paleontology as a discipline, highlighting key figures, their momentous discoveries, and the major debates in the field. In addition, Fortey includes anecdotes of his own paleontological field work. The result of all this is like sitting in the study of a distinguished professor as he regales you with his encyclopedic knowledge of nature and evolution in a casual, conversational manner. I not only learned a great deal about natural history from this book, I also gained a much better idea of what exactly paleontologists do and how they work.

I had previously read Richard Dawkins’s The Ancestor’s Tale, which is a book with a similar scope and purpose as this one. Dawkins covers the history of life on Earth by moving backward in time, while Fortey starts at the beginning and moves forward. Of the two, Fortey’s writing is far better. His prose is more engaging, his asides more relevant, and his overall delivery of information more educational. If I had to choose one book to refer to on matters pertaining to paleontology and natural history, Life would be it. It is really an impressive achievement.

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The Evolutionist at Large by Grant Allen

Insightful observations of Darwinism at work

Science writer and novelist Grant Allen was born in Canada but emigrated to England as a teenager, where he remained the rest of his life. As a science writer, Allen was kind of like the Carl Sagan of the late 19th century, but instead of educating the public on astronomy, physics, and Einstein’s relativity, Allen concentrated on biology, evolution, and Darwinism. At that time, the theory of evolution was still relatively new and needed secular evangelists like Allen to make it accessible and palatable to the masses. His book The Evolutionist at Large, published in 1881, proves that Allen still has a thing or two to teach the science-savvy reading public of today.

The Evolutionist at Large consists of 22 short essays that originally appeared as newspaper columns in the St. James’s Gazette. Each brief chapter is written in the first person, and usually starts with Allen and his dog strolling through the English countryside, where they chance upon an interesting specimen of flower, snail, butterfly, or other class of wildlife. From there, Allen elaborates on the specific characteristics of the creature in question and how it illustrates the process of evolution at work. Some of the topics include the differing developmental strategies of fruits and nuts, the scent-based intellect of ants, and the influence of butterfly psychology on the color of flowers. Although I am a firm believer in evolution and consider myself pretty well versed in biological science, Allen’s 140-year-old essays consistently made me view the workings of nature in surprising new ways. His writing calls to mind the work of Sir David Attenborough in his television nature documentaries or his books like The Life of Birds.

Even if you already know everything Allen has to say about evolution, the book is still a beautiful piece of nature writing. Because Allen’s audience is the general reading public, the writing is very clear and accessible. He uses hardly any scientific jargon, except for the occasional Latin species name. He doesn’t dumb down the vocabulary at all, however, so his prose displays the verbal erudition typical of nineteenth-century texts. Allen was one of the Victorian Era’s most outspoken freethinkers and challenged religion and superstition in all of his works, including his fiction. Here he not only trumpets Darwin’s system of evolution but also blatantly illustrates how evolutionary evidence refutes the idea of intelligent design. Allen is very forthright about his atheism, which makes one wonder how he managed to slip these articles into a London newspaper of the 1870s.

The Evolutionist at Large proved a very pleasant surprise. Nineteenth century writing on nature often tends to be very poetic and romantic in nature, emphasizing man’s contemplation of the wild as a sort of spiritual experience. Allen’s take on nature, however, is firmly grounded in science and empirical observation, like a simplified version of the scientific travelogues of Darwin or Alexander von Humboldt. On the other hand, like Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, Allen still manages to convey the wonder and inspiration of the natural environment all around us. Nature lovers and freethinkers alike will enjoy this insightful book.
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The Life of Erasmus Darwin by Charles Darwin and Ernst Krause

The grandfather of evolution

Erasmus Darwin

Before Charles Darwin formulated the theory of evolution by natural selection for his landmark book On the Origin of Species, the Darwin name had already achieved renown in England’s scientific circles due to the work of his grandfather Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802). In February 1879, the German journal Kosmos published a paper written by biologist Ernst Krause on “The Scientific Works of Erasmus Darwin.” Later that year, Krause’s paper, accompanied by a “Preliminary Notice” written by Charles Darwin, was published in book form as The Life of Erasmus Darwin. The Preliminary Notice is more than just a preface, however, and is in fact even longer than Krause’s paper.

Erasmus Darwin was a practicing physician, but he did not limit his scientific pursuits to the field of medicine. His favored discipline was botany, and he published several scientific texts on the subject, the most important being his Zoonomia of 1794. He was also a poet. In the late 18th and 19th century, poetry was a legitimate medium through which to convey scientific and philosophical theories. Such didactic poems were written in verse with extensive footnotes in prose. Erasmus’s poems, such as The Loves of Plants, consist largely of visual descriptions of nature. Through such poems he also articulated his broader system of natural philosophy based largely on materialistic causes, in opposition to the elaborate paeans to intelligent design written by most of the biologists of his era. Erasmus was a founding member of the Lunar Society, a sort of learned illuminati in London. As Charles and Krause describe him, Erasmus comes across as a sort of English Ben Franklin, with whom he corresponded. Like Franklin, Erasmus was also an inventor, though Charles points out that he failed to follow through on many of his ideas.

Leaving the examination of Erasmus’s scientific accomplishments to Krause, Charles provides mostly biographical and genealogical information on Erasmus, as well as a discussion of his career as a physician. Charles strives to give the reader a sense of his grandfather’s personality and values by reproducing Erasmus’s correspondence with friends, professional colleagues, and family members. A friend and colleague of Erasmus’s, Anna Seward, had previously published a biography that was somewhat unflattering. Here Charles refutes Seward’s allegations and even attacks her character. While one does learn quite a bit about Erasmus from Charles’s biographical sketch, there’s definitely a degree of family bias to his account, as well as quite a few tangential digressions that would only be of interest to a Darwin cousin.

Krause is more successful in his essay on Erasmus’s career as a biologist. Probably at least two-thirds of Krause’s essay, however, consists of extensive quotes from Erasmus’s published writings. Krause believes that Erasmus deserves far more recognition for the development of the theory of evolution than he typically receives. He asserts that what we typically think of as Lamarckism, the evolutionary theory of Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, was actually Erasmus Darwin’s idea. To call it Darwinism, however, would certainly be confusing, since Charles Darwin disproved Lamarckian evolution when he discovered the mechanism of natural selection.

Rather than a full biography, The Life of Erasmus Darwin is more of a jumble of facts and opinions about the man. One does, however, learn quite a bit about his contributions to the history of science, and Krause’s essay provides a good overview of his system of natural philosophy.

The Tragic Sense of Life: Ernst Haeckel and the Struggle over Evolutionary Thought by Robert J. Richards

Vindicating evolution’s controversial champion
Charles Darwin may have formulated the theory of evolution, but most people learned about it from Ernst Haeckel. Following the publication of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, Haeckel, a German biologist, became one of the theory’s earliest and most outspoken champions. He spread the gospel of evolution through his popular books, many of which he illustrated himself with beautiful works of zoological art. While Darwin’s revolutionary theory was very controversial for its time, Haeckel’s presentation of it was even more so. Haeckel built an entire atheistic philosophy around evolution and used evolutionary theory to vehemently attack religion. Over the course of his career, Haeckel was accused of overzealously fabricating fraudulent illustrations to support his scientific claims. He has also been posthumously accused of having inspired Nazi ideology. In his 2008 biography of Haeckel, The Tragic Sense of Life, author Robert J. Richards closely examines the life and work of this controversial figure and assesses the validity of the accusations that have been leveled against Haeckel, both during his lifetime and after his death.

While, as the subtitle indicates, much of the book deals with the “Struggle over Evolutionary Thought,” The Tragic Sense of Life is also in fact a true cradle-to-grave biography of Haeckel, and a very good one. The early chapters on Haeckel’s intellectual development are particularly fascinating. Richards elegantly delineates a chain of thought from Kant to Goethe to Humboldt to Darwin to Haeckel, illustrating each figure’s influence on his follower and how the ideals of Romanticism trickled down the chain and filtered into Haeckel’s work. Richards also makes a strong case that events in Haeckel’s personal life, most notably the death of his first wife, altered his philosophical outlook and thus affected the course of his scientific career.

Like most Europeans of the 19th century, Haeckel was a racist, or more specifically, a racialist. When the theory of evolution burst upon the scientific landscape, most biologists believed that the races of mankind were separate species, perhaps even descended from different families of apes. Whites were seen as more highly evolved than the “primitive” or “lesser” races. (Richards cites biologist Friedrich Tiedemann as one exception who did not hold these views.) This racialist view of humanity is evident in Haeckel’s work, an unfortunate relic of the times in which he lived. Richards disproves, however, any assertions that Haeckel was an anti-Semite, demonstrating in fact that he had a very enlightened attitude toward the Jews. Richards addresses the scandal over Haeckel’s “fraudulent” illustrations by weighing the arguments on both sides, concluding the fiasco was more of a stupid mistake than intentional chicanery. The same thorough scrutiny is applied to the accusations of proto-Nazism. There seems little doubt that racialism and a twisted interpretation of evolutionary theory were a part of Nazi ideology, but Haeckel’s atheistic philosophy and favorable attitude towards the Jews make him an unlikely progenitor of the Nazi party line. The Nazis themselves, at one point, officially denied Haeckel as an ideological influence.

This book is a very comprehensive examination of Haeckel’s scientific career and delves quite a bit into 19th century philosophical theory. Nevertheless, though aimed at a scholarly audience it is quite accessible to the general reader and makes a fascinating read for any admirer of Haeckel’s work. The second appendix, however, a lecture on historiography and a recapitulation of the Nazi debate, is aimed strictly at historians and is best skipped by the nonacademic reader.
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On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin

A must-read for any lover of science and nature
Charles Darwin’s scientific treatise, On the Origin of Species, originally published in 1859, is clearly one of the most important books ever published in terms of its influence on science, history, and human thought. As is often pointed out, Darwin didn’t invent the concept of evolution; the idea had been around since ancient times. With On the Origin of Species, however, Darwin put forward his theory of natural selection which explained, for the first time in defendable detail, the mechanism by which species adapt and evolve over time. The following review refers to the sixth edition of 1872, which is often considered the definitive edition. It contains numerous revisions by Darwin as well as his responses to critics of his theory.

The scientific importance of On the Origin of Species is unquestionable, but how does it hold up as a reading experience? The answer is surprisingly very well. Though the scientific concepts Darwin discusses are complex, with the exception of the Latin names of animals and plants there is nothing arcane or obscure about the vocabulary with which he expresses these ideas. One doesn’t need a PhD in biology to understand this book, only an interest in and a love of nature. Darwin’s logically structured argument is easy to follow and admirable for its ingenuity. While he delves into some very technical research, he also occasionally adds an analogy or metaphor that gives an almost literary flourish to the text, like when he compares the tree of life to a genealogy of human languages or the existence of rudimentary organs to the retention of silent letters in the spelling of words. It is a joy to follow Darwin on his intellectual journey as he constructs the path of his argument.

On the Origin of Species is more accessible and engaging than Darwin’s previous well-known work The Voyage of the Beagle, which, despite its elements of adventure memoir was primarily a collection of empirical data. In On the Origin of Species, Darwin combines meticulous observation of nature with theoretical genius. While reading the text, one can’t help but marvel at his encyclopedic knowledge. In addition to having traveled the world observing natural phenomena, he clearly read nearly every work of natural science available to a 19th-century Englishman. He also conducted in-depth research of his own into specific branches of the animal and plant kingdoms. The reader gets a vicarious sense of the thrill of discovery as Darwin relates the results of his experiments, such as counting the seeds in a teaspoon of dirt taken from a duck’s foot, or calculating the length of time seeds of various plants can float in seawater before they lose the ability to germinate.

As many are quick to point out, Darwin didn’t get everything right. While he established natural selection as the means by which evolution is achieved, he didn’t have the necessary knowledge to explain the mechanisms that drove natural selection. DNA had not yet been discovered, even Gregor Mendel’s experiments in genetics were largely unknown, and the idea of mutation didn’t materialize until the early 20th century. Rather than lessening the value of his work, however, this makes Darwin’s achievement all the more remarkable. Given the imperfections in the scientific knowledge at his disposal, not to mention the limitations on travel and scholarly communication, the fact that Darwin was able to conceptualize and clarify the complex forces that govern all life on Earth is just staggering. This is the book that truly defines the phrase “a work of genius.” Today we take the theory of evolution for granted, and we all think we know how it works, but there is still much to be learned from reading the original definitive masterwork on the subject.
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The Autobiography of Charles Darwin

Short but sweet
The Autobiography of Charles Darwin was originally published in 1887. Darwin began writing it in 1876, though the final chapter was not completed until 1881. He explains that he began writing this sketch of his life to satisfy a German editor who requested details on his intellectual development, but his son Francis Darwin, who edited the published version, states that the work was intended as a memento from the great scientist to his children. There are brief parenthetical notes by Francis throughout the text, but they are few and far between and don’t interfere with his father’s narrative voice. The reader can easily imagine himself in a lamplit room of some 19th-century London academic club, filled with wingback armchairs and pipe smoke, as Darwin regales a select few listeners with his tales of yore.

This is a very brief work, consisting of only about 64 pages. For that reason, serious scholars of Darwin’s life and works will likely be disappointed by the lack of detail, but for the general reader with a fascination for the man, the brevity of the piece works to its advantage. Darwin’s concise encapsulation of his life provides surprising insight into his mind and personality. Judging by the short length of the work and its table of contents, I was worried that it would be merely a curriculum vitae of his research accomplishments, but there are plenty of personal anecdotes here that make for a lively read, particularly in the passages where he’s discussing his childhood and youth. This autobiography will be most enjoyable and accessible to those who already have some knowledge of Darwin’s works. It helps to have read The Voyage of the Beagle first, because Darwin pretty quickly glosses over that period—having already written and entire book about it—but he does allude to some of his discoveries from that journey, such as his theory of the formation of coral reefs. The latter portions of the book are less personal and more career-focused, discussing the work that went into his various scientific publications, yet still for Darwin enthusiasts its quite entertaining to hear accounts of his research methodology related straight from the horse’s mouth. The only dull moments in the book are when he’s describing some of his scientific colleagues. He’s so hesitant to characterize anyone in a negative light that the relentlessly polite praise becomes repetitive.

The overwhelming feeling that permeates this text is one of a boundless enthusiasm in scientific discovery and a wonder for the natural world. The period in which Darwin practiced his naturalistic profession was like a scientific Wild West. So much was left to be discovered, that anyone with talent willing to work hard could stake his claim in whatever disciplines he chose, and the opportunity for eureka moments was virtually limitless. This was definitely not the age of specialization, and Darwin’s breadth of knowledge in all matters of natural science is truly staggering. Another quality of the man that comes shining through is his remarkable modesty. When speaking of other scientists, he’s not afraid to say, “I was right; he was wrong,” but when it comes to his general career success he speaks as if the theory of evolution was something that just fell into his lucky lap.

Of course, that’s not the case. Darwin was a singular genius, and his success was the result of a tenacious work ethic. This autobiography is a fitting memorial to this brilliant man and his myriad achievements. Every Darwin admirer should read it.
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The Ancestor’s Tale: A Pilgrimage to the Dawn of Evolution by Richard Dawkins

A frustrating hodgepodge of the elementary and the arcane
First of all, let me make it clear that I agree with Richard Dawkins on most matters religious and political, so I don’t have any axe to grind with him on that score. I admire his championing of science over superstition, and I respect his academic credentials. I just didn’t like this book very much.

In The Ancestor’s Tale, published in 2004, Dawkins imagines a pilgrimage back through time, following the evolutionary branches of the family tree of life. At certain stops along the way, humanity meets up with its cousins as their branches merge with ours. At each of these rendezvous points, Dawkins provides an essay discussing an issue related to evolution, taxonomy, or the scientific method. The chapters don’t necessarily have much to do with the particular species in question. In “The Grasshopper’s Tale,” for example, he talks about racism. “The Redwood’s Tale” discusses various scientific methods of artifact dating. This hodgepodge approach results in a lot of jumping around, which requires constant and tedious references to other chapters. There’s a Canterbury Tales metaphor running throughout the book that’s clever but ultimately serves no purpose. The backwards-through-time approach may be original but it’s not particularly effective in elucidating human origins. Much of the book isn’t really about our ancestors so much as it is about or cousins—that is, the taxonomic diversity that exists today. A linear, chronological approach may not be creative enough to win book awards, but it would have been a more useful and educational way to present this information.

What surprised me most about The Ancestor’s Tale was how little I learned from it. I’m not an evolutionary biologist—just a guy that reads National Geographic and watches Nova on PBS—yet I didn’t find a whole lot of new information here that I hadn’t seen before. Granted, I’m reviewing this book ten years after its publication, but I still find much to learn from century-old books by Darwin or Haeckel. A few passages come to mind as enlightening, like the discussion of the electrical sensory apparatus of the platypus, or the explanation of how the precursor to our spinal cord evolved from a ventral to a dorsal orientation, but such “eureka” moments are few and far between. Despite the fact that many of the topics covered are familiar, that doesn’t stop Dawkins from explaining them in the most complicated manner possible. Concepts like “most recent common ancestor” are not difficult to understand, but he goes on and on, page after page, beating that dead horse until its barely recognizable. At one point he even goes so far as to explain the structure of the atom. Those who don’t know that an electron revolves around a nucleus made of protons and neutrons are probably reading the wrong book, and it’s unlikely they’re going to get an understanding of the subject from Dawkins’ confusing explanation. Perhaps he intends to reach the broadest audience possible by idiot-proofing the text for readers who are novices to science, but the result is a book that’s too elementary for the science-savvy and too arcane for the uninitiated.

I have the utmost respect for Dawkins as a scientist. As a writer, however, he somehow managed to take a subject that fascinates me and bore the heck out of me with it. I agree with him that the natural world, and the process of evolution in particular, inspires an amazement and reverence greater than any religion could arouse, but unfortunately this book mostly inspired weariness.
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Monism as Connecting Religion and Science by Ernst Haeckel

The Riddle in a nutshell
This Kindle file consists of the text of a lecture delivered by German biologist Ernst Haeckel on October 9, 1892. In this speech, Haeckel asserts that the monumental scientific advances of the 19th century, in particular Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution, prove that the most rationally accurate philosophical and religious view of the creation, composition, and fundamental workings of the universe is the monism and pantheism of the 17th-century philosopher Baruch Spinoza. Haeckel would go on to develop the ideas of this lecture further in his excellent 1901 book The Riddle of the Universe, in which he outlines a monistic world view that can serve as a viable cosmology for modern freethinkers, skeptics, pantheists, and atheists.

Like many scientists of his day, Darwin included, Haeckel didn’t get everything right, as one would expect from a work written prior to a thorough understanding of DNA, relativity, or quantum mechanics. Nevertheless, his fundamental philosophical arguments remain valid. One antiquated idea that’s examined in-depth in both works is the concept of “ether”, a term used to describe the medium which exists between the particles of matter in the universe. In the post-Einstein world, this ether could be seen as the very fabric of space-time itself. Nowadays, ether might even be analogous to dark matter. The point is, even though all of Haeckel’s scientific conclusions may not have survived the scrutiny of the past century, it doesn’t change the fact that his application of empirical science to the philosophical questions of the nature of the universe, God, human consciousness, and free will still provides thought-provoking inspiration for rational thinkers looking for answers to such universal riddles.

While The Riddle of the Universe was directed at a general audience, Monism as Connecting Religion and Science is a lecture that was delivered to an organization of scientists. For that reason, the text of this speech is neither as accessible nor as engaging as that of the longer and better book it inspired. If you’ve already read The Riddle of the Universe, you will find little new here. The best purpose this 25-page speech can serve is as an outline or “cheat sheet” of that larger work. If you haven’t read The Riddle, this brief abstract might give you enough idea of the contents of that larger work to help you decide if it’s worth reading. On the other hand, I’d hate to think that the somewhat dry, scholarly prose of this lecture might dissuade readers from endeavoring to tackle the more elegant and eloquent book which followed. My recommendation, therefore, is that unless you’re just really a huge fan of Haeckel, this short work is skippable. By all means, read The Riddle of the Universe instead.
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The Riddle of the Universe by Ernst Haeckel

An essential read for freethinkers
It’s a shame Ernst Haeckel was a racist, because this is an excellent book. Haeckel was a biologist, naturalist, artist, and a vigorous proponent of Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution who, like many European and American men of the 19th century, thought that the white race was more highly evolved than the other, “primitive” races. Thankfully, with the exception of two or three questionable sentences, that racial view is entirely absent from this book. In The Riddle of the Universe, published in 1901, this Renaissance man sums up his life’s work for the general reader. He provides an overview of the state of scientific knowledge at the close of the 19th century and applies that knowledge to such philosophical mysteries as the creation of the universe, the existence of God, the nature of human consciousness, and the question of free will.

Haeckel uses the “Law of Substance” (now called the law of conservation of matter and energy) as the foundation for a monistic conception of the universe. The idea of monism was best developed by the 17th century philosopher Baruch Spinoza. It is opposed to dualism, the prevailing world view of most religions, which envisions the universe as being constructed of two substances—matter and spirit. In monism, the universe is only composed of one substance—matter—and any intelligence or “soul” must be an inherent property of that sole substance. Only by combining into more and more complex structures does this property accumulate into what we recognize as intelligence, from the basic stimulus and response of protozoa to rational human consciousness. The mechanism that accomplishes this is Darwinian evolution. In fact, the entire universe, organic and inorganic alike, can be seen as being in a perpetual state of evolution, and the sharp categorical distinctions we make between living and inanimate things, intelligent and non-intelligent life, matter and space, etc., should be abandoned in favor of more fluid spectra. The religious view that coincides with this monistic cosmology is pantheism, another contribution of Spinoza. Pantheism sees the entire universe itself, the monistic substance, as God. Haeckel acknowledges that pantheism is essentially the same as atheism—the absence of belief in an anthropomorphic God—only looked at from a different perspective. By combining the thought of Spinoza and Darwin into a unified theory of the universe, with help from Schopenhauer and Goethe, Haeckel elucidates a secular cosmology for rational thinkers of the modern world.

Although the text is crammed with scientific and philosophical terminology, the translation by Joseph McCabe is surprisingly easy to read. 21st-century readers will find much of the science elementary. The history of science, on the other hand, is an area most of us could use an education in, and Haeckel provides a good overview, although a German-centric one. Like Darwin, Haeckel didn’t get everything right, but the book’s philosophical value redeems its scientific inaccuracies. The book gradually progresses from scientific matters to religious and ethical issues. There is some anti-Christian, anti-Catholic, and anti-Vatican rhetoric that’s probably unnecessary for today’s audience. Needless to say, readers of a religious persuasion will not like this book, but for freethinkers it’s a must-read. You won’t agree with everything Haeckel says, but you will find many of your own ideas confirmed and gain an understanding of how these ideas can be combined into a cohesive philosophy. After all, what could be more important than establishing your own personal belief system (or lack of belief system, as the case may be)? It is incredibly invigorating to encounter a book that takes on a subject no less than everything in existence and the very nature of existence itself. Perhaps the real riddle of the universe is, why aren’t there more books like this?
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The Darwin Experience: The Story of the Man and His Theory of Evolution by John Van Wyhe

When graphic designers go wild
The Darwin Experience is a memorial tribute to the illustrious scientific genius Charles Darwin and his theory of evolution. It was published in 2008 to commemorate the 150th anniversary of his birth. Much attention and painstaking detail has been given to the graphic design of this book. Though not a lengthy work, this little coffee table book comes in its own slipcase. With only 57 pages of text, it is much more a book to be looked at than to be read.

Despite the emphasis on packaging, the text is actually pretty good. Scientific historian John Van Wyhe gives a commendable, concise summary of Darwin’s life and career that is accessible to readers with little prior knowledge of Darwin, yet filled with enough lesser-known facts to keep the interest of those already somewhat familiar with Darwin’s writings. In such a small space, Van Wyhe is required to be brutally brief in his summations of The Voyage of the Beagle, On the Origin of Species, and The Descent of Man, but he shines a helpful light on some of the more obscure works and areas of research which may not be familiar even to some of Darwin’s most avid admirers.

Each “chapter” of the book is a two-page spread, consisting of an article on a particular period of Darwin’s life or a specific book that he wrote. This is accompanied by two sidebars, usually featuring extended quotes either from Darwin’s work or from someone praising him, along with six or seven illustrations. Unfortunately, all this content is crammed into a package which is terribly overdesigned, and most of the images are poorly reproduced. Although printed on smooth matte paper, each page features a faux background of yellowed, weathered paper. On top of this is often a screened background image of an old engraving. Sometimes on top of that will be a Victorian wallpaper pattern. Then on top of that is the text in tiny six-point type, rendered in a dizzying array of fonts chosen for their antiquated appearance rather than for legibility. Visually, the result is an overindulgent mess.

One of the major selling points of this package is the inclusion of a number of facsimile documents. These are reproductions of Darwin’s letters, pages from his journals, maps or illustrations from his books, and other sundry documents such as a Chilean passport or a ticket to his funeral. These are either strategically affixed to or stuffed into pockets in each page. While the idea is a good one, the problem with these facsimile documents is that without exception they are all poorly reproduced. The scans are blurry, like everything else they are printed on a faux weathered background, and for some reason in almost all cases black lines and letters have been replaced by a hazy light gray. Darwin’s handwriting is hard enough to read, but this design treatment renders it almost totally illegible.

The faults of this book lie not with its author but with its design and production. The attempt to create a sensational artifact has resulted in the making of a disappointing book. The Darwin Experience begs to be judged on the merits of its bells and whistles, and in that respect it fails. Readers with a true reverence for Darwin may nonetheless find some enjoyment in Van Wyhe’s admirable tribute. By all means, look for a used or remaindered copy, because it’s definitely not worth the full price.
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Before Adam by Jack London

An australopithecine delight
Before Adam is a science fiction novel by Jack London, first published in 1907. It is based around Darwin’s theory of evolution and the idea of racial memory. The narrator is a self-described “freak of nature” who has the ability to consciously experience the ancestral memories of a distant progenitor. By day he’s a typical San Francisco gentleman living in the early twentieth century. By night, however, in his dreams, he becomes this prehistoric ancestor, whom he refers to as Big-Tooth. This bygone ancestor was an evolutionary link between ape and man, between tree dweller and ground dweller, who inhabited a primeval wilderness at times idyllic, at times harsh. Big-Tooth is a member of the Cave People, also known amongst themselves simply as the Folk. These creatures are more evolutionarily advanced than their neighbors, the simian Tree People, yet not as advanced as the Fire People, a more human-like species that wears animal skins, builds fires, and hunts with bow and arrow. Through the memories of Big-Tooth, the reader is introduced to other members of the Folk, including his best friend Lop-Ear, his nemesis Red-Eye, and the love of his life, the Swift One. These australopithecine humanoids spend most of their time gathering food and engaging in social play. On rare occasions they may make a ground-breaking discovery like gourds can be used to carry things or logs can be used to float down a river. Big-Tooth and his companions live in a dangerous world, however, and they must be ever vigilant against attacks by saber-toothed tigers, giant snakes, the mysterious Fire People, or each other.

London was fascinated by evolution, and his zealous enthusiasm for the subject really shines through in this novel which must have been a labor of love for him. He constructs a detailed, naturalistic recreation of the daily lives of these early hominids, based upon the latest science of his time, which doesn’t seem to be too far off from what we now know a century later. London also manages to create distinct, memorable characters of these creatures, each with an individual personality, much as he had done previously with dogs in his Klondike novels. From the simple lives of these apemen London crafts an exciting and absorbing story loaded with drama and adventure. The commentary of the modern narrator also adds an interesting perspective to the book, as he uses biological science and evolutionary theory to speculate as to the reason for his bizarre ability to recall these prehistoric memories.

The world of Before Adam is founded on a mixture of sound science and sci-fi speculation. There’s nothing utterly profound about this novel, but it does provide a lively and enjoyable reading experience. The eighteen short chapters breeze by in a flash, and the ending comes all too soon. One really becomes engaged in the simple joys, fears, and loves of these subhuman characters. This novel is a shining example of how London used his prodigious skills as a writer and his vivid, audacious imagination to transcend the typical boundaries of the adventure fiction genre and create original, compelling work that stands the test of time.
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The Voyage of the Beagle by Charles Darwin

The joy of adventure and the thrill of discovery
The Voyage of the Beagle is Charles Darwin’s account of his nearly five-year trip around the world as natural historian on board a British survey ship. Though the book is named after the ship, it contains very little description of life at sea, and concentrates almost exclusively on the details of Darwin’s many excursions on land. Darwin’s voyage on the Beagle is primarily remembered for his discoveries on the Galapagos Islands, but that particularly destination only occupies one short chapter, though it is the most interesting portion of the book from the standpoint of biological science. The large majority of the book’s narrative takes place on the mainland of South America, in the lush jungles of Brazil, the pampas of Argentina, the harsh coasts of Tierra del Fuego, and the deserts of Chile. The itinerary also includes Tahiti, Australia, New Zealand, the Cape of Good Hope in southern Africa, and numerous other islands in the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian Oceans.

One would think that The Voyage of the Beagle, being a first-hand account of world travel, adventure, and discovery, would be more thrilling and engaging than Darwin’s most famous book, the complex scientific treatise On the Origin of Species, but that’s not the case. On the Origin of Species presents a well-structured scientific argument in which each idea builds upon the one before it, creating a snowball effect which captivates and excites the reader. The Voyage of the Beagle, on the other hand, is basically a collection of raw empirical data arranged in roughly chronological order. Occasionally Darwin will use that data to construct a hypothesis, for example in regards to the varying beaks of the Galapagos finches or the formation of the world’s coral reefs, but there’s no overarching theory or argument that unites the book as a whole. The primary value of The Voyage of the Beagle is its contribution as a precursor to the development of On the Origin of Species.

Though Darwin is primarily known as a biologist, he does not limit himself to that field and is equally articulate when expounding on geology, meteorology, anthropology, or even politics. In fact, in this book he probably spends more time discussing geology than he spends on zoology and botany combined. The text represents a combination of scientific research and travel writing. While the scientific portions of the book sometimes take the form of laundry lists of species or natural phenomena, the travel writing is quite good. Darwin eloquently captures the thrill of entering a foreign landscape for the first time, discovering a species never before seen by European eyes, or encountering the unfamiliar inhabitants of a distant land. He shows great respect for the culture of the gauchos of Argentina, and he truly relished the wilderness adventures he shared with them. One of the great benefits of this book is that it gives us insight into Darwin as a human being. It’s a far cry from the image of scientist as lab rat. Yes, he was an erudite scholar who seems to have read everything under the sun, but he was also a man of action who was not afraid to get his hands dirty.

I’m a big fan of the Wordsworth Classics series of paperbacks, and often sing their praises in my reviews, but their edition of The Voyage of the Beagle left me wanting more. The introduction is very good, providing valuable context for the voyage, yet it lacks even the simplest of maps, and if ever a book needed a glossary it’s this one. The copious use of geological terminology and Latin names of species hinder this book’s accessibility to the general reader. The more well-versed you are in the sciences, the more you will enjoy it.
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The Call of the Wild by Jack London

Heed the Call!

This is the novel that made Jack London famous, and rightfully so. The Call of the Wild is a masterpiece that belongs on any top ten list of American literature. Its excellence is made even more remarkable by the fact that its protagonist is a dog. Due to this singular characteristic, or maybe because of the various sanitized versions in print and film aimed at young audiences, many who haven't read the novel erroneously presume it’s a children's book. Though it’s true one could categorize this work in the genre of adventure fiction, any designation as children’s literature could not be further from the truth. It is a brutal and at times frightening story, constructed upon a foundation of deep scientific and philosophical thought.

The dog in question is Buck, a giant Saint Bernard/shepherd mix who leads a comfortable existence on the California ranch of one Judge Miller. The Klondike Gold Rush of the 1890s erupts, creating a demand for quality dogs needed for the difficult work of pulling sleds. Buck, suddenly a very valuable commodity, is stolen from his idyllic home and whisked away to the harsh wilderness of the North, essentially becoming a canine slave. Buck at first resists his captors, but after frequent beatings he realizes his survival depends upon prudent obedience and opportunistic cunning. Once thrust into this world of violence and toil, Buck not only adapts to his harsh new life but learns to thrive on it.

The Call of the Wild is truly a beautiful piece of writing that outshines anything else London produced in the early Klondike period of his career. Each sentence is poetically crafted, and imbued with an almost Emersonian insistence of the dignity and majesty of nature. A love of dogs is not a prerequisite for enjoying this book, but a love of nature may very well be. Buck and the other dogs in this novel are symbols for the myriad ways in which different specimens of mankind react to the conflict between the harsh reality of nature and the comfortable illusion of civilization. Though in some respects the dogs act as surrogates for human behaviors and attitudes, London does not anthropomorphize these animals. The subhuman psychology he relates is based on the sound empiricism of natural observation. With the exception of some brief speculations into Buck’s experiences with ancestral memories, the canine behavior described here does not overstep the boundaries of science.

In The Call of the Wild, London has created the ultimate literary manifestation of Darwin’s theory of evolution. Buck’s world is governed by “the law of club and fang”, a paraphrasing of Darwin’s “survival of the fittest”. There is no good or evil in London’s depiction of nature. The only morality present in this primordial world is Pantheistic and Stoic: Nature is always right. When Buck is removed from civilization, his prehistoric instincts take over, and while the life he lives may be harsh and brutal, the freedom gained is more than reward enough to offset the hardship. Buck is allowed to choose between savage and civilized. Though today that’s a choice few are able to make, London’s masterpiece hearkens back to a more primitive time in humanity’s past, striking a chord with the animal nature buried deep within us that longs to be unleashed.

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