Evolved Human Sociality and Literature

Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 1 of 65 Chapter Thirty Evolved Human Sociality and Literature Joseph Carroll Evolutionary social science has been a cumulative research program for less than fifty years, and evolutionary literary study for only about twenty years (Degler 1991; Pinker 2002; Carroll 2008a). Until the past few years, evolutionary accounts of human behavior have been hampered by imperfect theories of inclusive fitness, human social dynamics, and culture. The standard theory of inclusive fitness restricted concepts of cooperation to kinship and reciprocity (Wilson and Wilson 2007; Pinker 2012). Evolutionary social science, concentrating on basic animal needs and on basic forms of social interaction, tacitly restricted culture to trivial differences in the manifestation of adaptive behaviors that had supposedly reached fixity at some indeterminate point in the Pleistocene (Barkow, Cosmides, and Tooby 1992; Hill 2007; Carroll 2012a). Much of the work done in evolutionary literary study has reflected these limitations in theoretical biology and in evolutionary social science, and it has also failed to register the full range of concepts available within sophisticated interpretations of literature (Carroll 2004a: 187–188; Carroll 2010). Within the past few years, theoretical biology, evolutionary social science, and evolutionary literary study have been correcting basic mistakes, producing new concepts, and reaching a more complete and adequate understanding of human behavior, including cultural and literary behavior. This chapter integrates these new concepts and demonstrates how they can be used to understand specific literary works. Separate sections are devoted to ideas from theoretical biology about the sources of cooperation in all living things, to ideas from the social sciences about human social organization, to ideas from evolutionary aesthetics about the adaptive function of the arts, and to ideas Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 2 of 65 from literary theory about how meaning works in fiction. A section discussing specific literary examples illustrates the way the arts help generate group identity, integrate individuals into groups, and mediate between the needs of individuals and the claims of groups. The Sources of Cooperation: Recent Developments in Theoretical Biology Until the past few years, theoretical biology was dominated by inclusive fitness theory— the gene’s-eye eye view propounded by theorists such as G. C. Williams, W. D. Hamilton, and Richard Dawkins. That theory took all of biology as its scope, but it had clear applications to human behavior. With respect to humans, the moral implications were articulated in Dawkins’s claims that selfish genes make selfish people (Dawkins 1976; Symons 1979; Trivers 1985; Alexander 1987; Carroll 1995: 364–368; Wilson 1999; Pinker 2012; Gintis, forthcoming). Adherents of inclusive fitness theory could deal most effectively with egoistic impulses, mate selection, kin relations, dominance hierarchies, and reciprocity. They could not deal effectively with group identity. For almost all individual people, individual identity is bound up in the sense of belonging to one or more social groups. Those groups do not consist only of kin and closely monitored reciprocators. They include tribes, nation-states states, religions, political parties, social classes, ideologies, clubs, voluntary organizations, and other such groups. Identity within a group directly influences behavior. The role a person takes within such groups and the fate of the group as a whole radically alter the quality of experience. Being a social outcast or a respected leader, sharing in victory or being defeated in war—such conditions profoundly influence the neuro-affective states of individual minds. For some three decades, David Sloan Wilson and other theoretical biologists have challenged inclusive fitness theory and have offered updated versions of “group selection” as an alternative. The debate between advocates of inclusive fitness theory and advocates of group selection has often been confused and unproductively repetitive (Nesse 2012; Pinker et al. 2012), but it has at least drawn attention forcefully to group- Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 3 of 65 level phenomena in human behavior. Recent work in game theory and the theory of major transitions in evolution offer a way out of the impasse between inclusive fitness and group selection. Game theorists offer mathematical analyses of large-scale patterns of “cooperation” and “defection” or “selfishness” in social behavior. Theorists of the major transitions study the evolution of hierarchical complexity in biological organization. Both game theorists and theorists of major transitions identify “cooperation” as a salient principle in their research. Richard Michod, a theorist of major transitions, declares that “the evolution of cooperation is the central problem of social evolution” (Michod 2011: 175). Martin Nowak, a game theorist, argues that cooperation should be included along with mutation and selection as a basic principle of evolution. “From cooperation can emerge the constructive side of evolution, from genes to organisms to language and complex social behaviors” (Nowak and Highfield 2011: xviii). The most important principle that emerges from the work of Nowak and his collaborators is that cooperative individuals can interact selectively with one another. Nowak calls this principle “network reciprocity” and identifies it as one of five main sources of cooperation (Nowak 2006; Nowak, Tarnita, and Antal 2010a; Nowak and Highfield 2011). In network reciprocity, “cooperators prevail because they can form clusters, either in physical space, on networks, in phenotype space or in sets. Individuals within such clusters gain a higher payoff than defectors that try to invade them” (Nowak, Tarnita, and Antal et al. 2010a: 25). The other four principles, already recognized among theoretical biologists, are kin selection, direct reciprocity (mutual back-scratching), indirect reciprocity (extending reciprocity credit, as it were, to individuals known to be cooperators), and group selection (selection operating on competing social groups). Adding network reciprocity to the other sources of cooperation overcomes “the free-rider problem.” In inclusive fitness theory and in earlier forms of game theory, defection had seemed to eliminate the possibility of cooperative effort extending beyond kinship and direct and indirect reciprocity. It seemed that all cooperative interactions would ultimately succumb to defectors who gain advantages from the cooperators and do not pay the price of cooperation. Selection seemed inevitably to favor defection. Since humans do in reality display large-scale cooperation, the theory of inclusive fitness, defined as kin selection supplemented by direct and indirect reciprocity, could not Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 4 of 65 adequately account for human social behavior (Wilson 1999; Boehm 2012). Advocates of group selection concede that defection is a winning strategy within a group but argue that groups with more cooperators would succeed against groups with fewer cooperators. That solution requires that groups proliferate and reproduce at rates exceeding reproduction among members of a group—a solution that severely limits the scope of cooperation (David Sloan Wilson 1997; Sober and Wilson 1998; Wilson and Wilson 2007; Pinker et al. 2012; Wilson 2012). Efforts to get around this problem end up defining “groups” in ad hoc ways that render the concept indeterminate (Nowak 2006; Nowak, Tarnita, and Antal et al. 2010a; Nowak, Tarnita, and Wilson 2010b; Nowak and Highfield 2011). Major transitions theory integrates the idea of cooperation with the idea of hierarchical organization in biological systems. Within an organism, interactions among genes are shaped by the functional structure of the organism. Each cell contains the genome of the whole organism. Protein coding genes are switched on and off through complex networks of regulatory genes that subordinate individual cells to the systemic needs of the organism. In parallel fashion, within social animals, interactions among the individual organisms are shaped by the functional structure of the social group. Gintis (forthcoming) gets this idea into clear focus:. “Just as the genome codes for the patterns of interactions of loci in the genome, so it codes for the characteristic patterns of interactions of loci in two or more carriers; i.e., the genome codes for the social structure of the organisms it creates.” Defection or social cheating is a pervasive feature in human social life. Nonetheless, humans internalize cooperative norms. The norms for specific human social groups vary within limits (Brown 1991, 2000, 2004; Sripada and Stich 2005), but the disposition to internalize norms is part of the evolved genetic heritage of the human race (Boehm 1999; Gintis 2003; Hill 2007; Henrich et al. 2010; Chudek and Henrich 2011; Fukuyama 2011: 339–440; Gintis 2011; Boehm 2012; Buckholtz and Marois 2012; Gintis and vanVan Schaik 2012). People are not merely aggregated individuals; they are dependent parts of a functional social whole. Boehm (2012) argues that pressure to behave in accordance with group norms was a major selective force in human evolution (2012). He designates that force “social selection.” Buckholtz and Marois (2012) identify specifically human cognitive Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 5 of 65 mechanisms produced by social selection—adaptations that bias individuals to internalize group norms and thus to behave in cooperative ways (2012). Chudek and Henrich argue that such adaptations “substantially increase phenotypic assortment and facilitate the spread of self-reinforcing cooperative norms, creating genetic selection for a prosocial psychology” (2011: 219, 220). Phenotypic assortment—the likelihood that similar individuals will interact with one another—structures human populations in such a way that cooperators are more likely to interact with other cooperators. That principle is a specifically human form of what Nowak calls “network reciprocity.” By providing an explanation for human social interaction that cannot be reduced to kin selection, direct reciprocity, indirect reciprocity, or group selection, social selection breaks out of the impasse produced by the debate between proponents of kin selection and proponents of group selection. Humans are not cells in an organism, but neither are they autonomous units interacting competitively with other autonomous units. Describing phases in major transitions in individuality, Simpson (2011) specifies the degree of integration between individuals and social groups in humans. A major transition in individuality consists in the evolution of a new reproductive individual that subsumes smaller individuals. Major transitions include the evolution of replicating molecules, molecules within cells, nucleated cells, multicellular organisms, and social animals. In a major transition, organisms develop means to favor cooperation and punish defection (Michod 2011). Once a major transition is complete, the reproductive capabilities of the components are subsumed within the reproductive capability of an individual at a higher level of hierarchical complexity (Maynard Smith and Szathmáry 1995: 4; Michod 2011). Human social groups represent an approach to a major transition—the creation of a new corporate individual. Simpson identifies three phases in a transition: an aggregate phase, a group phase, and an individual phase: All that is required in the aggregate phase is for membership in an aggregate of other organisms to have an effect on fitness. . . . Groups themselves do not form offspring per se, but they can fragment and form new groups by fission. . . . [For the evolution of individuals,] it is the Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 6 of 65 partitioning of life history into growth and reproduction that is important. (2011: 209, 210, 216) By Simpson’s (2011: 220) criteria, human social groups fall into the middle category, the group phase (Simpson 2011: 220). They are intermediately individuated. Human sexual dyads and their offspring cannot thrive outside of social groups. Human families are embedded within kin groups. Even in ancestral environments, kin groups are embedded in social groups that include non-kin (Hill et al. 2011). In post-agricultural environments, non-kin form the bulk of large-scale groups. Human social groups reproduce generationally. Like a species, they continue in existence as distinct reproductive lineages, outliving their generations, and they sometimes also fission or extend themselves in colonies (Morris 1968; Chagnon 1983; Foley and Gamble 2009). The Evolution of Human Sociality The Current State of Knowledge In theoretical biology, the origins of cooperation for all of life are becoming clear. We now also have a clear understanding about the main causal interactions among the factors—anatomy, physiology, technology, diet, provisioning, mating, parenting, power structures, and symbolic representation—that produced a species-typical behavioral repertory adapted to hunting and gathering (Wrangham and Peterson 1996; Hrdy 2005, 2009; Wade 2006; Kaplan, Gurven, and Lancaster 2007; Lancaster and Kaplan 2007; Burkart, Hrdy, and vanVan Schaik 2009; Foley and Gamble 2009; Hill, Barton, and Hurtado 2009; Hrdy 2009; Kaplan, Gurven, and Winking 2009a; Kaplan, Hooper, and Gurven 2009b; Klein 2009; Wrangham 2009; Burkart and van Schaik 2010; Muehlenbein and Flinn 2011; Gintis and vanVan Schaik 2012). We know that hunters and gatherers display three main forms of cooperation: cooperation among adult males for hunting, war, and defense against predators; cooperation between adult males and females for provisioning each other and their offspring; and cooperation among adult females for care of the young. We know too that humans evolved a unique capacity to combine Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 7 of 65 cooperative effort among adult males with dyadic mating and dual parenting (Geary and Flinn 2001; Flinn, Geary, and Ward 2005; Flinn and Ward 2005). The next step in building an adequate evolutionary model of human social behavior is to bridge the gap between groups organized for hunting and gathering— bands, clans, and tribes—and the larger, more complex societies that have appeared since the invention of agriculture. Fewer researchers have devoted attention to this range of problems than to the problems of hominid evolution, and the explanations are less fully developed. Nonetheless, a usable basic toolkit for social analysis can be constructed from six concepts: (1a) dominance and reverse dominance,; (2b) leadership,; (3c) internalizing norms,; (4d) strong reciprocity or third-party enforcement of norms,; (5e) institutions for the enforcement of norms,; and (6f) legitimacy in the exercise of power. Dominance and reverse dominance define a range in the distribution of power in human social groups. Leaders organize and direct social power. The internalization of norms is the chief means through which individual humans form units within cooperative corporate bodies. Strong reciprocity actively enforces behaviors necessary to sustain cooperative activity. Institutions for the enforcement of norms distinguish complex, hierarchically organized societies from loosely aggregated band-level societies. Legitimacy characterizes institutions that function in accordance with the norms internalized by the members of a community. Dominance and Reverse Dominance Over evolutionary and historical time scales, the broadest and most basic pattern in the development of human social organization consists ofin a sequence of alternations between dominance and reverse dominance. Dominance is the exercise of controlling force on individual members of a social group. In chimpanzee societies, one adult male, or a small coalition of adult males, dominate all other chimpanzees in a band (Wrangham and Peterson 1996; Boehm 1999; de Waal 2005, 2007). All adult males dominate all adult females; all adults dominate all juveniles. Using violence or the threat of violence, dominant males gain first access to prime foods and also to fertile females. Reverse dominance, a term used interchangeably with “egalitarianism,” is a uniquely human form of social organization and is the form prevalent among hunter-gatherer bands. Reverse Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 8 of 65 dominance means that groups of adult males collectively suppress dominance behavior in individual males. Males who assert dominance by bullying or by taking more than their share of food face sanctions extending from shaming tothrough banishment to execution (Boehm 1999, 2012). In the evolutionary history of pre-prehuman and human social organization, alternations of dominance and reverse dominance have passed through four main stages: (1a) chimpanzee-like dominance centered in individual males or small coalitions of males; (2b) hunter-gatherer egalitarianism among adult males; (3c) the resurgence of personal dominance as an organizing principle of post-agricultural societies; and (4d) the resurgence of egalitarianism in liberal democracies. Boehm [[AU:  Please  add  the   year.]]argues that simple chimpanzee-like dominance characterized the behavior of the last common ancestors of hominids and chimpanzees; that hunters and gatherers almost universally practiced reverse dominance; that the hunting and gathering ecology lasted long enough for egalitarianism to be deeply embedded in evolved human social dispositions; and that in human social groups, dispositions for collectively repressing individual dominance have always been held in strong tension with dispositions for individual dominance. Leading theorists of human social evolution have assimilated Boehm’s arguments, and those arguments have also had an impact on evolutionary literary studies (Bowles and Gintis 2004, 2011; Wilson 2007; Wilson and Wilson 2007; Johnson et al. 2008; Bowles and Gintis 2011; Bowles 2012; Carroll et al. 2012a; Gintis and vanVan Schaik 2012; Haidt 2012; Richerson and Henrich 2012; van Vugt and Ronay 2014). Cumulable and defensible resources open up opportunities for renewed assertions of individual dominance. Even in resource-rich pre-agricultural societies with isolable and defensible sources of food, strong males and their followers can sometimes commandeer accumulated resources and use them for coercive subordination (Foley and Gamble 2009; Kaplan, Hooper, and Gurven et al. 2009b). Agriculture makes cumulable and defensible resources readily available and thus alters the egalitarian equilibrium of hunter-gatherer social dynamics. “Material wealth allows aspirants to positions of social dominance to control enough allies and resources to offset the capacity of subordinate individuals to disable and kill them” (Gintis and vanVan Schaik 2012: 34). The Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 9 of 65 resurgence of dominance in post-agricultural societies manifests itself in the prevalence of chiefs in tribal societies and in oligarchies, monarchies, aristocracies, and dictatorships. Reverse dominance resurfaced in Greek city-states states and in the Roman republic but became a worldwide-wide phenomenon only during the past two centuries (Wrangham and Peterson 1996; Roberts 2003; Fukuyama 2011). Leadership The exercise of power in post-agricultural societies combines the dominance hierarchies of our primate heritage with the willing cooperation that characterizes hunter-gatherer societies (van Vugt and Ronay 2014: 13). In an essay summarizing evolutionary research on leadership, vanVan Vugt and Ronay define leadership “in terms of the coordination of the actions of two or more individuals to accomplish joint goals” (2014: 2). The stipulation “joint goals” distinguishes leadership from raw assertions of dominance designed only to benefit the dominant individual or his kin (2014: 13[[AU:  Page  number   does  not  fall  within  the  article  page  range  shown  in  the  references  (74–95).  Please   reconcile.]]). Leadership in hunter-gatherer groups differs from leadershipand in postagricultural societies differ in two main ways: duration and generality. In hunter-gatherer culture, leadership is temporary and specific to some task in which a leader has special expertise—“”hunting, making weapons, or preparing a new campsite” (van Vugt and Ronay 2014: 6[[AU:  Page  number  does  not  fall  within  the  article  page  range  shown  in   the  references  (74–95).  Please  reconcile.]]). Complex modern societies with large populations dedicated to specialized tasks have coordination requirements greater than those in hunter-gatherer bands. To meet those requirements, they create hierarchies in which leaders have power that is more permanent and general than the power delegated to leaders in hunter-gatherer bands. In post-agricultural societies, hierarchies invested with authority are all pervasive. Liberal democracies have relatively high levels of egalitarianism, but they nonetheless have presidents, prime ministers, cabinets, administrative bureaucracies, and hierarchically organized armies, police forces, and judiciaries. In hierarchically organized societies, the exercise of power varies in duration and generality from dictators for life at Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 10 of 65 one extreme to presidents elected for finite periods at the other. But even presidents hemmed in by voters, legislators, and judiciaries have power more lasting and general than the powers delegated to leaders in hunter-gatherer bands. Whether temporary or permanent, chosen for specific tasks or invested with general power, leaders achieve legitimacy by eliciting the willing cooperation of individuals and directing them toward common goals in accordance with community norms. Qualities that have been found to be universally valued in leaders help them fulfill those functions: “integrity, persistence, humility, competence, decisiveness, and vision” (van Vugt and Ronay 2014: 6[[AU:  Page  number  does  not  fall  within  the  article  page   range  shown  in  the  references  (74–95).  Please  reconcile.]]). Internalized Norms, Strong Reciprocity, Institutions, and Legitimacy In both hunter-gatherer groups and complex modern societies, cooperative effort depends on the human ability to internalize norms. That ability manifests itself in strong reciprocity—the willingness to incur costs in order to enforce collective values (Bowles and Gintis 2004, 2011; Buckholtz and Marois 2012). Strong reciprocity gives evidence that individuals care about the systemic logic that sustains a society even when they are not directly harmed by infractions against that logic. Strong reciprocity confirms that the functional structure of a social system has been encoded in the motivational repertory of individual people within that system. Analyzing the mechanisms of social learning that contribute to the human ability to internalize norms, Chudek and Henrich single out “prestige and conformity biases” as particularly important (2011: 219). Prestige bias is a disposition for imitating the behavior of high-status individuals. Conformity bias is a disposition for imitating the behavior of a majority. Both learning biases contribute to “phenotypic assortment,” the likelihood that “regularly interacting individuals resemble one another” (2011: 219). The two biases are prerequisites for specifically human forms of cooperative social interaction, but they have a darker side. Like all adaptations, they can become isolated and, exaggerated, and can produce pathological results. In its pathological extreme, prestige bias produces cults of personality centered on authoritarian leaders like Hitler, Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 11 of 65 Stalin, and Mao (Oakley 2007). Conformity bias can produce mindless adherence to social conventions. As a mechanism for reinforcing group identity, it also contributes to demonizing people who are not members of the group, who do not wear its insignia or speak its dialect. In hunter-gatherer bands, norms are enforced by face-to-face interaction—a perpetual stream of gossip and social monitoring (Boehm 1999, 2012). In larger, more complex societies, face-to-face interaction and direct collective enforcement of norms are not possible. Societies have to develop institutions that enforce social norms. Buckholtz and Marois argue that the codification of “norms into laws, and the attendant establishment of state-administered systems of criminal justice that are charged with norm compliance” are “one of the most important developments in human culture” (2012: 657). Distinguishing states from tribes, Fukuyama argues that states possess a centralized authority backed by “a monopoly of the legitimate means of coercion, in the form of an army and/or police” (2011: 81, 80[[AU:  80–81?]]). Internalizing a norm signifies that a person regards socially enforced standards of behavior as just or legitimate. As Fukuyama puts it, “Legitimacy means that the people who make up the society recognize the fundamental justice of the system as a whole and are willing to abide by its rules” (2011: 42). Haidt also distinguishes legitimate authority from pure coercion:. “Human authority” is “not just raw power backed by the threat of force. Human authorities take on responsibility for maintaining order and justice” (2012: 143). What constitutes legitimate authority? Willing cooperation can be distinguished from pure coercion, but norm compliance is never so perfect that societies can dispense with coercive authority. All societies have a structure of power, and in all societies, that power is used for the enforcement of norms. Even egalitarian hunter-gatherer bands exercise power in collectively suppressing dominance among individual males. If people are to internalize norms, they must also internalize power structures. The problem, then, is to identify the conditions under which people identify a structure of power as right or just. In hierarchical societies with dramatic differences in prestige, privilege, and power, internalizing a power structure could hardly develop among less privileged Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 12 of 65 members of the community unless society satisfied the basic needs of animal life: sustenance, shelter, protection from assault, and opportunities for reproduction, including opportunities for the family life that is integral to the human reproductive system (Geary and Flinn 2001; Bjorklund and Pellegrini 2002; Flinn and Ward 2005; Geary 2005a; Bjorklund 2011; Salmon and Shackelford 2011). Distinguishing human communities from chimpanzee communities, Foley and Gamble observe that “the key development is the addition of social structures both below—families and descent groups—and above— shared political systems, segmentary lineage systems and trade networks” (2009: 3277). “Community” in this usage means a loosely organized band. For community members to recognize power as legitimate, the structures above the level of the loosely organized band would need to be synchronized with the structures below that level. That is, political systems would have to accommodate families and descent groups. Network reciprocity expands community in prosocial ways, but it has not suppressed kinship as a binding force in human life. “Kinship runs like a thread through the course of human evolution, from the beginnings of the last common ancestor through to the present day. The maintenance of kinship through several generations (descent groups) is both a truly unique development and also fundamental to the way in which communities both hold together and ultimately divide” (Foley and Gamble 2009: 3277). Hill et al. dispute the idea that band-level societies are primarily constituted by “close kin,” but by their own reckoning, about three-quarters of contemporary hunter-gatherer bands are linked by genealogical or marital ties ([2011: 1287]). Providing for basic animal needs, including reproductive needs, would reduce impulses for revolt and would offer a positive inducement for participating in a social system. In itself, though, that inducement would not be sufficient to make people assimilate the functional structure of the group to their individual identities, encoding the organization of the society as a whole into their own motivational structures. Humans are conscious and imaginative. Their beliefs and values are crucial parts of their motivational structures. In order to internalize the functional structure of a group, people would have to feel that they have a social role that is valuable and valued within the larger social body and also that the social body itself has some intrinsic value. That kind of feeling is evident whenever a group displays group pride, for instance, when they salute a flag with Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 13 of 65 reverence or voluntarily contribute to the erection of some building or monument dedicated to their religion or their political culture. The categories delineated in this section—dominance and reverse dominance, leadership, internalized norms, strong reciprocity, and legitimacy—can be reduced to four components: power, values, individuals, and groups. Dominance and reverse dominance identify different ways in which social power is exercised, either by individuals or by groups. Leaders are individuals who organize and direct the power latent in groups. Internalized norms are shared values that influence individuals. In strong reciprocity, individuals use power to enforce shared values. Legal institutions are contrivances for delegating strong reciprocity to individuals and groups such as the police and the judiciary. Leaders and members of legal institutions achieve legitimacy by exercising power in accordance with the shared values of the social group. The analytic arguments in the chapter thus presuppose that power, values, individuals, and groups are basic components of human social dynamics. The Social Functions of Literature and the Other Arts To understand how literature functions socially, specifically social functions need to be located within a broader hypothesis about the adaptive functions of literature and the other arts. Multiple alternative hypotheses have been proposed, but the broadest ideas have converged toward a common point: that literature and the other arts affect cognitive and emotional organization, influence motives, and help regulate behavior (Dissanayake 1992, 2011; Deacon 1997; Wilson 1998: ch. 10; Panksepp and Panksepp 2000; Salmon and Symons 2004; Carroll 2008a, 2008b, 2012a; Mar and Oatley 2008; Boyd 2009; Dutton 2009; Carroll et al. 2010a, 2012a; Tooby and Cosmides 2010; Dissanayake 2011; Carroll 2012a; Carroll et al. 2012a; Easterlin 2012, 2013; Gottschall 2012; Easterlin 2013). Basic human motives are channeled into specific cultural norms that are articulated in imaginative form through myths, legends, rituals, images, songs, and stories. Humans universally regulate their behavior in accordance with beliefs and values Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 14 of 65 that are made vividly present to them in the depictions of art, including fictional narratives, dramatic representations, films, and poetic verses. The idea that the arts affect cognitive and emotional organization, influence motives, and help regulate behavior subsumes more particular ideas that the arts can provide practically useful information (Scalise Sugiyama[[AU:  Reference  list  shows   “Scalise”;  please  reconcile.]] 1996, 2001a, 2001b, 2004, 2006), offer game-plan scenarios to rehearse potential adaptive challenges (Pinker 1997), provide means for sexual display (Miller 2000; Dutton 2009), enhance pattern recognition and stimulate creativity (Boyd 2009), and provide a medium for shared social identity (Dissanayake 2000; Boyd 2009). All arguments that the arts have some adaptive function set themselves in contrast to the idea that aesthetic responsiveness is merely a side effect of cognitive powers that evolved to fulfill more practical functions (Pinker 1997, 2007b; Carroll 2012a; Carroll et al. 2012b: ch. 5[[AU:  Carroll  et  al.  2012a?  2012b  is  a  journal   article;  please  advise.]]). The uniquely human need for art derives from unique human powers of cognition. In all animals except humans, narrowly channeled sensory inputs and somatic urges produce a limited range of stereotyped responses. For human minds, in contrast, behavior must adapt to a cognitive field that includes percepts, inferences, causal relations, contingent possibilities, analogies, contrasts, hierarchically organized ideas, hypothetical scenarios, symbolic images, aesthetic structures, evocative depictions, and narrative sequences. High intelligence enables humans to generate plans based on mental representations of complex relationships, engage in collective enterprises requiring shared mental representations, and generate original solutions to the problems of life (Mithen 1996; Potts 1996; Wilson 1998: ch. 10; Geary 2005b; Tomasello et al. 2005; Tomasello and Carpenter 2007; Burkart, Hrdy, and van Schaik et al. 2009). Humans do not operate automatically, but neither do they operate on the basis of purely rational deliberations about means and ends. They operate through the influence of emotionally charged mental images—images of themselves, the worlds they inhabit, the social groups of which they are a part, and their own roles within those groups. The arts, like religions and ideologies, are emotionally valenced. And indeed, religions and ideologies make use of the arts to convey their messages in emotionally persuasive ways. Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 15 of 65 Humans inhabit imagined virtual worlds in which demons, witches, gods, and magic have often been as real as predators, prey, fellow humans, and the weather. The desire for spiritual salvation has sometimes spurred humans to ignore hunger and thirst and to suppress the desire for sex and family. Belief in a cause animated by ideals often leads them to sacrifice their lives. Even in rational and skeptical modern environments, humans still need emotionally charged images to shape their sense of purpose and guide their moral judgments. Hence the passion attached to symbols such as national flags, the swastika, the hammer and sickle, and even the donkey and the elephant. All tribes have myths of origin. Every ethnic group, religious sect, nation, political party, and ideological movement makes itself imaginatively distinct through symbols, historical narratives, monuments, songs, pictorial representations, ceremonies, and aesthetic styles (Brown 1991; Hill, Barton, and Hurtado et al. 2009). Individual humans share in the collective imagination of their social groups, and within those groups, they construct narratives about own individual lives (McAdams 1985, 1993, 2001, 2006, 2008, 2011; McAdams and Ochberg 1988; McAdams 1993, 2001; McAdams and Bowman 2001; De St. Aubin, McAdams, and Kim 2003; McAdams 2006, 2008, 2011). They envision their lives extending into the future, and they look beyond their own individual lives to the continuing life of their descendants and their communities. In contrast to chimpanzees, humans do not live in communities populated solely by the conspecifics with whom they come directly into contact. Their communities include fabled ancestors, generations of the future, and every person, living or dead, who shares beliefs and values that subordinate individuals to some collective body. Literature and the other arts perform an indispensable and uniquely human function. They help build the imaginative virtual worlds in which people live. They are communicative, public, and shared. They form one of the most important media through which collective, shared consciousness binds people into a community. They help generate group identity, integrate individuals into groups, and mediate between the needs of individuals and the claims of groups. Stories, plays, and poems can affirm the legitimacy of power structures or express protest against those structures. They can help individuals internalize the norms of their culture or resist those norms. Fictional narratives can culminate in a marriage within a beneficent social order, depict shattered Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 16 of 65 lives within a pathological social order, or cast individuals as heroic contenders against social injustice. Even when authors adopt a stance of resistance and protest, they appeal to principles of social justice that they anticipate their readers will share. Whether affirming or denying the legitimacy of a given structure of power, authors give voice to a community defined by shared beliefs and values. Political structures interact in reciprocally causal ways with changing material and social conditions—ecological, economic, technological, and military—and also with changing cultural conditions, for instance, the rise or decline of religions or ideologies, and the impact of science on worldviews views. The imaginative virtual worlds of literary works respond to all such conditions, depicting them, reflecting on them, and judging them, whether to celebrate them, protest against them, or guide them toward some better future. Every individual person constructs his or her own imaginative virtual world (McAdams 1993, 2001, 2008, 2011; McAdams et al. 2004; McAdams, Josselson, and Lieblich 2006; McAdams 2008, 2011; Carroll 2012e), but all such worlds are heavily influenced by the imaginative structures available within a given culture. Literary authors are singularly potent agents in constructing imaginative virtual worlds. They are influenced by the beliefs and values current in their communities but also, in turn, influence those beliefs and values (Carroll et al. 2012b). Great authors have powerful minds capable of independent judgment and original creative construction. They thus help shape the imaginative virtual worlds that define their communities. How Meaning Works in Fiction In order to affect beliefs and values, dramatic and narrative fiction must engage readers emotionally and absorb them into an author’s imagined world. An author fabricates imaginary people (characters), their environments (settings), and their actions (plots). In depicting a story, the author envisions readers, organizes the story in ways that engage readers’ minds, and modulates style and tone in ways that convey the author’s attitude toward the characters, settings, and plot. By conveying a sense of his or her own attitude toward the depicted events, the author gives grounds for making intuitive inferences about the author’s temperament, outlook, beliefs, and values. A story can only be presented from within the worldview view of the author. When readers become absorbed Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 17 of 65 in a story, they also necessarily enter into the author’s worldview view. Readers are thus simultaneously engaging in two vicarious experiences. They are sharing in the experiences of the characters in the story,; and they are sharing in the author’s experience of the story being told. Readers have subjective, qualitative sensations that reflect the subjective qualitative sensations of both the characters and the author (Mar and Oatley 2008; Mar et al. 2011; Oatley 2011; Carroll 2012cd, 2012dc, 2012e, 2013b). Imagine a reader is sitting on a park bench and, has just finished reading William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, and still holdingholds the novel in his lap. A stranger sits down on the bench, looks at the book, and says, “Oh, I’ve heard of that novel. What’s it about?” The reader might say something like this: “It’s about a group of English school boys who are being evacuated in the midst of a nuclear war. They are wrecked and stranded on a tropical island, with no adult supervision. At first, they make an effort to behave in a cooperative and responsible way, but some boys split off from the others, become hunters, and revert to savagery. Three of the main characters, Ralph, Piggy, and Simon, try to uphold standards of civilized behavior, but Simon is killed when he stumbles into the midst of a frenzied, savage dance, and Piggy is murdered by one of the hunters. When adults finally appear on the scene, Ralph is being hunted by the savage band and is on the verge of being murdered. It’s a very bleak and disturbing book.” A casual summary of this sort intuitively registers much of what makes up the meaning of a fictional story: the literal subject (characters, setting, and plot), chief thematic concerns (a conflict between civilization and savagery), and a tone or mood (disturbing). The beliefs and values of the author are almost automatically channeled into the summary of events. The contrast between savagery and civilization clearly slants evaluation in favor of civilization. The protagonists, identified by name, favor behaving “in a cooperative and responsible way,” terms that are laden with positive evaluative content. The boys who form a savage band are “frenzied” and are responsible for “murder,” evidently not a good thing. The listener on the bench would naturally assume that sympathy and concern are channeled toward the three boys who try to sustain the values of civilization and that the bad guys, the antagonists, are the boys who “revert to savagery.” In this context, the word “revert” signals degeneration, falling back into a lesser state. Hearing that the protagonists are persecuted and that two of them are Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 18 of 65 murdered, the curious stranger will not be surprised to hear the reader say that “it’s a very bleak and disturbing book.” Moreover, the stranger is likely to register that the negative emotional tone does not refer simply to the unpleasant fact that the protagonists suffer. He would also register also that the book suggests something about the vulnerability of civilization—the ease with which savagery emerges spontaneously and overwhelms the good intentions of well-disposed people. Noting that the story takes place in the context of a nuclear war, he would probably surmise that the story about children on a desert island is intended to also say something also about adult behavior, exposing atavistic passions that can spiral out of control and create havoc on a monumental scale. All of this—the characters, setting, and events;, the attitudes of the implied author;, the reader’s own responses;, and the inferences about thematic implications—is part of the meaning of the story. Social Themes in Plays, Short Stories, and Novels Organization of the Literary Examples This section is designed to give a feeling for how social themes work in plays, short stories, and novels. The examples are organized into the categories delineated in the section titled “The Evolution of Human Sociality.” Separate sections are devoted to dominance and reverse dominance, leadership, internalizing norms, strong reciprocity, institutions for enforcing norms, and legitimacy in exercising social power. The examples are from diverse periods with diverse social structures, and the authors have diverse attitudes toward the societies they depict. All these forms of diversity are subsumed within the general social function of the arts: helping generate group identity, integrating individuals into groups, and mediating between the needs of individuals and the claims of groups. Dominance and Reverse Dominance Many characters in fiction and drama exemplify pure dominance striving. Instances include the title character in Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine, the title character in Shakespeare’s Richard III, Satan in Milton’s Paradise Lost, the title character in Henry Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 19 of 65 Fielding’s The Life and Death of Jonathan Wild, the Great, Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, the lawyer Tulkinghorn in Charles Dickens’s Bleak House, Mrs. Proudie in Anthony Trollope’s Barchester Towers, the renegade Ivory agent Kurtz in Joseph Conrad’s The Heart of Darkness, Sauron in J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, the pigs in George Orwell’s Animal Farm, Jack Merridew, the leader of the savage band of boys in Lord of the Flies, and Voldemort in J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. In all but a very few depictions, dominance striving is negatively valenced. That is, authors adopt a stance of disapproval and dislike toward the dominant individual, and readers readily acquiesce in the author’s feelings. Reading literary depictions activates and reinforces the inherited dispositions for suppressing dominance in individuals. As Western society has shifted from a feudal system founded on ownership of land to a mercantile and industrial economy driven by entrepreneurial effort, the impulses of reverse dominance have articulated themselves as a hegemonic ideology—the ideology of liberal bourgeois democracy. That is the ideology exemplified by Victorian novels. A quantitative study of hundreds of characters in nineteenth-century British novels finds that the novels stigmatize dominance behavior and valorize self-effacing prosociality (Johnson et al. 2008, 2011; Carroll et al. 2009, 2010b,; Johnson et al. 2011; Carroll et al. 2012a, 2012b). Protagonists are typically prosocial and agreeable. They make friends, build coalitions, and help non-kin. Antagonists have a single-minded fixation on attaining dominance—wealth, power, and prestige. They are egoistic isolates, cultivating no social relationships outside relations of dominance. Drawing on Boehm’s research on reverse dominance, the authors conclude that these novels perform a social function like that of gossip in a hunter-gatherer community. The egalitarian ethos that binds hunter-gatherers into a cooperative community binds the reading public into a virtual community. Literacy makes it possible for virtual communities to include millions of readers. Dominance and cooperation are basic components of human social evolution. Consequently, it seems likely that the tendencies at work in Victorian novels would find expression in other periods and other national literatures. Christian ideology, which began in the Middle East 2,000two thousand years ago, exemplifies reverse dominance. At least in theory, Christian doctrine valorizes the poor and meek and stigmatizes the Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 20 of 65 powerful and domineering. Christian forms of egalitarian ideology pervade European literature through the seventeenth century and persist even now in secularized forms. Like Christianity, Marxism and its ideological affiliates are driven by impulses of reverse dominance. Suppressing dominance in individuals produces environments conducive to willing cooperation. Reverse dominance has thus been a chief engine driving the evolution of affiliative social feelings. Expansive egalitarian affiliation helps generate compassion for weak and vulnerable members of society. A combination of compassion for the weak and resentment against dominant members of a social hierarchy animate many novels depicting the plight of the poor. Salient examples include Benjamin Disraeli’s Sybil, or the Two Nations,; Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South and Mary Barton;, Dickens’s Hard Times and Bleak House,; the fairy tales of Oscar Wilde;, George Gissing’s The Nether World,; Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle,; and John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. In the United States, slavery produced a distinct racial variant on the impulse to affirm common humanity. In Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, Jim, a runaway slave, displays love of family, remorse for wrongdoing, gratitude for generosity, and loyalty to his friend Huck. Uncle Tom, the title character in Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, resists the domination of his slave masters not by outright rebellion but by turning the other cheek, forgiving his enemies, and thus indirectly casting moral opprobrium on a social order grounded in domination. Among hunter-gatherers, suppressing dominance means suppressing bullying, boasting, and assertiveness (Boehm 1999, 2012). The equivalent in a civil society translates into manners, codes of politeness designed to avoid the appearance of issuing commands and thus displaying dominance (Pinker 2007a: 380–392; Salter 2008). Novels designed to depict social relations among highly cultivated people are sometimes called “novels of manners.” Preeminent examples include novels by Fanny Burney, Maria Edgeworth, Jane Austen, Anthony Trollope, Elizabeth Gaskell, George Eliot, Margaret Oliphant, William Dean Howells, Edith Wharton, Henry James, and E. M. Forster. Such novels create dramatic tension by filtering urgent animal passions through the restraints imposed by polite codes of speech. In many such novels, characters behave in cruel and Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 21 of 65 treacherous ways but never raise their voices or use intemperate, violent forms of expression. Reverse dominance is a defining feature of liberal ideology in modern bourgeois societies. Kurt Vonnegut’s story “Harrison Bergeron” offers a futuristic dystopian vision of egalitarianism enforced as public policy. In the society depicted in the story, a Handicapper General devises handicaps that cripple any special talent that might allow individuals to rise above the average. Harrison’s father, for example, is highly intelligent. To scatter his thoughts and render his mind mediocre, he is equipped with a mechanism that periodically produces loud, shattering noises inside his head. Harrison himself is a genius and a gifted athlete. He is thus exceptionally laden with handicaps—loud noises to interrupt his thinking, heavy spectacles to render him half blind and give him headaches, three hundred300 pounds of scrap metal to weigh him down, and disfiguring disguises to make him ugly. Even so, he is considered so dangerous that he is kept in prison. He escapes, has a moment of freedom, and is then gunned down by the Handicapper General. Reverse dominance in the government of modern democracies drew inspiration from the model of the Roman Republic. Two of Shakespeare’s Roman plays, Coriolanus and Julius Caesar, take the conflict between dominance and reverse dominance as their central theme. Though Shakespeare is writing in English during the Renaissance, his plays capture the spirit of politics in Ancient Rome. Roman government passed through two main phases: (1) a republic governed by a combination of a patrician senatorial class and leaders of the common people; and (2) an empire governed autocratically by a single man. Coriolanus is set in the republican period and displays the power of a collective egalitarian body to bring down a dominant male. Julius Caesar is set at the moment of transition between the republican period and the emergence of authoritarian rule. In Coriolanus, the title character is a patrician Roman general who despises the common people. Though highly successful as a soldier, the scorn he expresses scorn for the plebeians that renders him so unpopular that he is forced into exile. Enraged by this treatment, he allies himself with enemies of Rome and leads them to the gates of the city. He is dissuaded ultimately dissuaded only by the pleas of his own family members within the city. Having abandoned both loyalty to Rome and then loyalty to the enemies of Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 22 of 65 Rome, he is a man without a country. He is killed by his former allies, but his death is less important, emotionally, than his ultimate isolation. His dominance striving activates reverse dominance in the people of Rome. Caught in this dynamic, stubbornly insisting that his personal superiority gives him a right to dominate, he destroys all the social ties that could give meaning to his life. His passions outrun his judgment. Until it is too late, he fails to register that the claims of family outweigh even the claims of the individual ego, that families are necessarily embedded in a social network, and that no one can make individual dominance a successful long-term strategy in isolation from all social networks. In a hunter-gatherer culture, being expelled from a group because of dominance behavior can amount to a death sentence (Gat 2006; Boehm 2012). That is also the case also with Coriolanus. Rome is a highly militarized society, founded essentially on conquest. In that political environment, the flow of power tends to center at the top of a military hierarchy. Caesar and Caesarism areis an almost inevitable manifestations of that underlying logic. In Julius Caesar, the struggle of Brutus, Cassius, and the other republicans is a spasmodic and ultimately ineffectual effort to suppress dominance in an individual. As Shakespeare presents them, neither Caesar nor the republicans are antagonists. They are media for the working out of a disequilibrium in the relations between political organization and the organization of social power. Hence the peculiarly noble character of the mood that prevails in the play. The speeches of all the main characters, except the Machiavellian manipulations of Marc Antony, resonate with integrity and Stoic fatalism—a quality of tone very different from the tragic anguish of King Lear or Macbeth, and different also from the chilling atmosphere of cunning cruelty in Richard III. Leadership In parallel with the actual exercise of power, literary representations of power occupy a range between two polar extremes: leaders envisioned as directing the energies of spontaneously cooperative individuals, at one extreme, and tyrants envisioned as exercising pure dominance at the other. The middle ground between the extremes is occupied by varying degrees of willing cooperation and coercive power. Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 23 of 65 In Troilus and Cressida, Shakespeare’s play about the Trojan Warwar, the Greek warrior Ulysses articulates an idealized image of the leader as a pure embodiment of the collective will of his people. The Greeks have been stalled for years in their siege of Troy. In a counsel to discuss the situation, Ulysses addresses himself to Agamemnon, the leader of the Greeks: comp: see original ms for indent on first line below Agamemnon, Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our numbers, soul and only sprite [spirit]. In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should be shut up, hear what Ulysses speaks. (Shakespeare 1997: 1.3.54–58) Ulysses follows up this salutation with a speech on hierarchy that is widely regarded as a key to Renaissance ideas about social organization. Ulysses’s term for “hierarchy” is “degree”: Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark, what discord follows! . . . Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides, Should lose their names, and so should justice too. (1.3.109–118) “Justice” is the exercise of power in accordance with publicly accepted standards of right and wrong. In Shakespeare’s history plays, there are two chief ways in which leadership can fail: (1a) through weakness, failing to incorporate the power latent in the state, or (2b) through tyranny, pure dominance devoid of legitimacy. The two ways leadership can fail might seem mutually exclusive, but Shakespeare’s Richard II combines them. Richard alienates the aristocracy by wrongly appropriating the property of Bolingbroke, the future Henry IV. He abuses his power but has not sufficient command over the power of the state to meet the insurrection led by Bolingbroke. Richard is deposed and ultimately executed. He seems less interested in Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 24 of 65 governing than in contemplating the image of himself as king. After being deposed, he wallows in self-pity, stubbornly insists on his “divine right” as an anointed king, but nonetheless articulates an anguished awareness that he is unfit to govern. Shakespeare’s King Lear has a thematic kinship with Richard II. Feeling himself weaken with age, he invests his two oldest daughters with the power and property that appertain to the sovereign, but he still wants to enjoy the prestige and deference accorded a king. Despising the claims of prestige not supported by wealth or power, his daughters mock and humiliate him. One daughter says, “I pray you, father, being weak, seem so” (Shakespeare 1997: 2.4.201). Both Richard II and Lear both become narcissistically absorbed in articulating their inner torments. Neither is ever able fully to reconcile himself to a world in which privilege depends on power and is not automatically conferred on a person simply because that person feels he or she has a right to it. Among Shakespeare’s depicted kings, Henry V most fully exemplifies the spirit of leadership. Henry leads his nation to war in France and achieves success in combat. His success depends in good part on his ability to marshal the enthusiastic cooperation of his subordinates. His speech to his troops at the siege of Harfleur exemplifies the way he presents himself as a medium for directing the best energies of his soldiers: comp: see original ms for indent on first line below On, on, you noblest English. Whose blood is fet [derived] from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, Have in these parts from morn till even fought And sheath’d their swords for lack of argument: Dishonor not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 25 of 65 That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge Cry, “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!” (Shakespeare 1997: 3.1.17–34) Henry appeals to the pride of birth and lineage in the nobles, evoking the martial valor of generations. Though appealing to the nobles’ consciousness of being of finer blood, he also appeals to the pride of the yeomen, lifting them up to a level with the nobles. He attributes their personal worth to the English environment that produced them and then includes England in the final invocation—“”for Harry, England, and Saint George.” Personal pride and pride in group identity are thus blended into one. Henry motivates both nobles and yeomen through pride rather than fear. Both groups respond to the image of themselves as part of a national culture personified in Saint George. Henry’s own role, as he presents it, is the privilege of stimulating and leading men whose valor evokes his genuine admiration. In Henry’s rhetoric, hierarchy is only an instrument for the realization of willing cooperation. In Shakespeare’s plays, kings who seek power for the sake of power alone end up isolated and hated. Macbeth offers a particularly poignant example. Richard III is a psychopath who cares only for power. Losing the love and respect of his followers means little or nothing to him. Macbeth, in contrast, is tormented by guilt at having murdered his king and his friend Banquo, and he feels keenly feels the loss of love and respect among his subjects: I have lived long enough: my way of life Is fall’n into the sear, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath, Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 26 of 65 Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not. (Shakespeare 1997: 5.3.22–28) Receiving love and respect from people one values is a deep psychological need. That need can be reconciled with the exercise of power, but only if a leader acquires legitimate authority by directing collective efforts toward common goals and in accordance with community norms. Kings personify the body politic. Consequently, in plays about kings, personal domination is synonymous with authoritarian rule. In the twentieth century, the expansion of bureaucracy introduced a new kind of authoritarian rule: the totalitarian state. That is the subject of George Orwell’s futuristic dystopian novel 1984. Though collectivist, the totalitarian state, in Orwell’s conception, is motivated by the same atavistic lust for power that animates characters like Tamburlaine, Richard III, and Jack Merridew. That motive is made explicit in a scene of torture and interrogation. The protagonist, Winston Smith, has resisted the state, has been captured, and is being rereeducated by O’Brien, a high party functionary. O’Brien asks, “‘What is our motive? Why should we want power?’” Winston wrongly assumes that O’Brien and the party rationalize their motives. He answers, “‘You are ruling over us for our own good’” (Orwell 1949: part 3, ch. 3). O’Brien instantly twists a dial to inflict severe pain. “‘That was stupid, Winston, stupid!’” The correct answer is that the lust for power is an irreducible motive, an intrinsic good: “The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness: only power, pure power. . . . Power is not a means, it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power.” (part 3, ch. 3) O’Brien has reduced all social interaction to relations of power. That conception eliminates willing cooperation to achieve common goals. Winston is helpless to rebut Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 27 of 65 O’Brien, and Orwell offers no authorial reflections countering O’Brien’s claims. Nonetheless, Orwell can be confident that his readers will respond with revulsion to O’Brien’s vision of a society reduced to sadistic domination and abject subjugation. Emotional responses to the nightmare vision of 1984 draw on the same evolved social dispositions that activate responses to antagonists in Renaissance dramas, Victorian novels, and modern fantasy novels. By activating those responses, Orwell makes the modern totalitarian state emotionally intelligible. Like nightmares that wake us from sleep, and like horror stories about monsters (Clasen 2012b,; 2012c), Orwell’s novel attunes our minds to danger. Internalizing Norms Most human experience takes place in the space somewhere in between the isolated egoistic self and the fully integrated cell within a social organism. Science fiction sometimes envisions alien species that form superorganisms. Peter Watts’s Blindsight gradually reveals that soldiers defending an alien planet from human incursion are actually only cells of the planet itself, which is a single living organism. In depictions of humans, the image of individuals as cells within a superorganism is usually restricted to dystopian nightmare visions like those of Yevgeny Zamyatin’s futuristic dystopian novel We, Orwell’s 1984, and Madeleine L’Engle’s science fiction children’s novel A Wrinkle in Time. In 1984, O’Brien makes the cell-organism conception explicit: “Can you not understand, Winston, that the individual is only a cell? The weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism. . . . Every human being is doomed to die, which is the greatest of all failures. But if he can make complete, utter submission, if he can escape from his identity, if he can merge himself in the Party so that he is the Party, then he is all-powerful and immortal.” (Orwell 1949: part 3, ch. 3) The party forms a single social individual, and that individual adopts a stance of sadistic domination toward all other individuals: “How does one man assert his power over another, Winston?”’ Winston thought. Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 28 of 65 “By making him suffer,” he said. “Exactly. By making him suffer. Obedience is not enough. Unless he is suffering, how can you be sure that he is obeying your will and not his own? Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation.” Though perfectly integrated within itself, in its relations to others, the party is the institutional equivalent of a psychopath. Among individual people, psychopaths come closest to occupying the extreme pole of asocial or antisocial egoism (Hare 1999; Baron-Cohen 2005, 2011; Oakley 2007; Widiger and Smith 2008; Baron-Cohen 2011; Raine 2013). As objects of horrified fascination, psychopaths bulk large in literature. Salient instances include Shakespeare’s Richard III;, Iago in Shakespeare’s Othello;, Daniel Quilp, the malignant dwarf in Dickens’s The Old Curiosity Shop;, the title character in Sheridan Le Fanu’s Victorian novel Uncle Silas;, the title character in Bram Stoker’s Dracula;, Mr. Hyde of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,; the vicious teenage-age thug Alex in Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange;, the renegade Blue Duck in LarryPatrick McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove;, and Patrick Bateman, the sadistic yuppie serial killer in Bret Easton Ellis’s American Psycho. Some few fictional works invite readers to participate vicariously in psychopathic cruelty. The novels of the Marquis de Sade, Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange, and Ellis’s American Psycho fall into that category (Carroll 2012c). But psychopathy is never modal in human society or in literature. In all cultures, specific norms emerge from a core of prosociality. Dispositions for promoting prosociality through cultural means have coevolved with human sociality (Bowles and Gintis 2011). Prosociality is not optional as a social norm. It is a necessary precondition for the existence of any human society. Sensationalistic depictions of psychopathic cruelty can offer titillations at the margins of a culture, but a society of psychopaths would be a contradiction in terms. Since internalizing norms is a crucial part of human nature, plays and novels frequently depict characters gossiping about one another, putting moral pressure on one another, and undergoing the experience of guilt and shame. In romantic comedies, one very common story line involves a protagonist learning a lesson. For instance, in Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, Fitzwilliam Darcy makes a rude and presumptuous Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 29 of 65 proposal of marriage, is rebuked for not behaving like a gentleman, and takes the lesson to heart. In a grimmer and graver tonal range, characters violate moral norms in ways that lead to prolonged agonies of guilt. Salient instances include Macbeth, Claudius in Hamlet, Raskolnikov in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, and Jim in Conrad’s Lord Jim. The bias for conformity—going along with the crowd, doing as others do—is a mechanism for social learning and for internalizing norms (Chudek and Henrich 2011: 219). Since it operates in tension with independent observation and judgment, it offers a rich field for satire in literary representation. Sinclair Lewis’s Main Street depicts a narrow-minded, small-town world in which any distinction or individuality results in ostracism. In Adam Bede, George Eliot preaches the doctrine of loving “my everyday fellow men” (1968: ch. 17), but in Middlemarch her everyday fellow men are for the most part small-minded, conventional people who collectively impede every effort toward higher forms of moral and intellectual life. In Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, written in the McCarthy era, the sinister Captain Black starts a Glorious Loyalty Oath Crusade. The soldiers are soon so busy signing loyalty oaths, pledging allegiance to the flag, and singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” that they have no time for anything else. The title character in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn is a boy who runs away from his abusive father and floats on a raft down the Mississippi River with Jim, a runaway slave. Huck suffers torments of conscience for having helped Jim steal himself from his rightful owner. Jim’s sincere friendship and gratitude ultimately overcome the urgings of Huck’s conscience, and Huck decides he will accept the burden of having committed a mortal sin. “‘All right, then, I’ll go to hell’” (Twain 1999: ch. 31). Twain clearly intends readers to understand that Huck’s sense of guilt is a reflex of conventional values that conflict with his intuitive humanity. Prestige bias—imitating individuals with high status—also operates in tension with independent observation and judgment. When prestige bias and conformity bias are combined and driven to an extreme, they produce societies in which an authoritarian leader seconded by secret police enforces thought control. That toxic combination appears in two major dystopian novels, Zamyatin’s We and Orwell’s 1984. The individuals in We are designated “numbers” and have names that are combinations of a Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 30 of 65 single letter and a set of digits. They eat in vast collective dining halls and masticate in synchronized movements of their jaws (Cooke 2002). Their every thought and movement is directed by the Benefactor. In 1984, Winston’s subjugation to the Party reaches its culmination when he submerges himself in the cult of personality centered on Big Brother, modeled on Stalin. At the end of the novel, Winston is sitting in a café, drinking gin, looking up at a poster of Big Brother: He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother. (Orwell 1949: ch. 23) The cult of personality is in part a reversion to the pure dominance hierarchies that characterize the last common ancestor of humans and chimpanzees (Wrangham and Peterson 1996; Boehm 1999, 2012). In Lord of the Flies, the leader of the savage band, Jack, institutes an authoritarian government based on his charismatic personality. When Jack makes a pronouncement, he has two boys stand forth and declare, “The chief has spoken” (Golding 1954: ch. 8). Human dominance differs from chimpanzee dominance in that humans can at least transiently rise above individuality and merge themselves imaginatively into a single social entity. The members of Jack’s tribe paint themselves with clay and dance and chant in unison. After killing a pig, they chant “Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood” (ch. 4). Moving together in time is a universal means of unifying individuals into a single social body (McNeill 1995). Strong Reciprocity Bowles and Gintis define strong reciprocity as “a predisposition to cooperate and a willingness to punish defectors” (2011: 166). Giving aid to people who display prosocial impulses and punishing antisocial behavior spring from the same adaptive need to form communities. When other members of the aristocracy kill Richard III and Macbeth, they are engaging in the punitive aspect of strong reciprocity. The affiliative aspect of strong Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 31 of 65 reciprocity appears in stories in which characters go out of their way to support prosocial impulses in others. George Eliot’s Middlemarch (20001871–1872) offers scenes illustrating both punitive strong reciprocity and affiliative strong reciprocity. In a punitive episode, word has gotten out that a wealthy banker and philanthropist, Bulstrode, has engaged in dishonorable acts. He attends a council meeting in which one of the council members, speaking for the whole group, denounces Bulstrode and begins the process that will result in Bulstrode being ostracized. The effect is devastating. Bulstrode’s recognition of his public humiliation “rushed through him like the agony of terror which fails to kill, and leaves the ears still open to the returning wave of execration” (2000: ch. 71). A doctor in the town, Lydgate, is mistakenly believed to have been complicit in Bulstrode’s wrongdoing. Eliot’s female protagonist, Dorothea Brooke, comes to Lydgate and asks him to tell her the full story of his relations with Bulstrode. She promises to spread that story to everyone she knows and thus to clear Lydgate’s name. “They would know that I could have no other motive than truth and justice. I would take any pains to clear you. . . . There is nothing better that I can do in the world” (ch. 76). Knowing that Lydgate has money troubles, and believing in his mission as a medical scientist, she also helps him out financially. Dorothea is represented as having a morally refined character, but her behavior is not implausible. Consider that in our own current world, prizes like the Nobel Prize or the MacArthur Prize are designed to offer public recognition of social contributions and also to give material rewards for those contributions. Strong reciprocity confirms the force of social norms in the minds of individuals. It gives evidence that individuals have internalized the principles that shape individuals into a collective entity, a social body. The need to coalesce into a social body can go still deeper than that, can become a primary need independent of the principles of justice that inform strong reciprocity. Shirley Ann Jackson’s “The Lottery,” one of the most frequently anthologized short stories, offers a way into that deeper social dynamic. “The Lottery” is a satiric dystopian horror story set in a small mid-American farming village in the middle of the twentieth century. The townspeople gather for the annual lottery. There is a feeling of general festivity and social goodwill will, with an undercurrent of excitement. The whole community participates in the lottery. Each year, one person Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 32 of 65 draws a slip of paper with a black mark on it. The whole community joins together in stoning that person to death. In the episode depicted in the story, the winner of the lottery is a housewife, Tessie Hutchinson. Her husband and children join in the stoning. The frequency with which this story has been anthologized indicates that it exercises an uncommon fascination, but it is also mysterious, puzzling, a little opaque. What does it mean? Students most often default to the assumption that the lottery represents mindless conventionalism, and there is some evidence for that reading. No one in the story can remember precisely what the lottery is for, and its most fervent supporter, Old Man Warner, is clearly a depiction of reactionary conservatism. But the peculiar thing about this convention is that it has no content. Unlike the convention that Huckleberry Finn violates, no one gains anything tangible from the stoning. A slave owner gets the labor of the slave. That has economic value. Maintaining respect for property is a clearly understood moral norm. Stoning an innocent neighbor to death has no evident material payoff. The payoff is only psychological. The punitive action is not designed to enforce any social norm, but it nonetheless fulfills a psychosocial function. By collectively killing a randomly chosen person, the villagers subordinate individuals and families to the community as a whole. The villagers merge ritualistically into a single social body that manifests its unity by destroying an individual cast out from the group. A similar psychosocial dynamic is at work in the scene depicting Simon’s death in Lord of the Flies. Frightened by a coming storm and an imaginary Beast supposedly lurking in the jungle, Jack’s tribe adapt their pig-killing chant to help ward off their fear. “Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!” (ch. 9). While they are dancing and chanting, Simon comes out of the forest and stumbles into the midst of their group, eager to explain to them that there is no Beast. Caught up in an exalted frenzy, imagining him as the Beast, they stab and beat him to death. The collective social actions that piled up skulls in Aztec temples, burned or hanged witches up through the seventeenth century, staged public executions as mass entertainments up through the eighteenth century, levied death sentences on party members in the Moscow show trials, and produced acres of human bones in the Cambodian killing fields—all these forms of gratuitous social cruelty suggest that Jackson’s story captures something real in human social psychology. Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 33 of 65 “The Lottery” might reasonably be charged with paranoiac exaggeration. An opposite kind of exaggeration, naïve and sentimental, is at work in the principle of “poetic justice.” That term used in reference to plots in novels and plays means that prosocial characters have good outcomes and antisocial characters have bad outcomes. Authors who conform to the convention of poetic justice create plots that give emotional satisfaction to both the positive and punitive impulses at work in strong reciprocity. Christian eschatology, exemplified in Dante’s Divine Comedy, is a cosmic form of poetic justice. It provides an obvious kind of moral satisfaction, suggesting that human concepts of justice are at work in the deeper causal fabric of the universe. That kind of thinking, in secularized form, prevails heavily in the eighteenth century and is exemplified in Alexander Pope’s optimistic pronouncement that “whatever is, is right” (1950: epistle 1, stanza 10). In his novel Candide, Voltaire, satirizing the optimistic philosophy of Leibnitz, depicts his protagonists suffering a series of catastrophes to which the philosopher Pangloss always responds that everything always turns out for the best in this best of all possible worlds. British novelists of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuriescentury are more discreet than Pangloss, but they nonetheless usually conform to the convention of poetic justice. The hero or heroine, despite making mistakes, is basically good-hearted, prosocial; he or she undergoes trials, glimpses the possibility of disaster, and in the end achieves good fortune. The pattern is suggested in one of the first English novels, Richardson’s Pamela, which has as a subtitle, “Virtue Rewarded.” Until the last twenty years or so of the nineteenth century, virtue was rewarded more often than not, and few antagonists escaped some kind of punishment for their misdeeds, but the retaliation often did not come directly from the hands of the protagonist. Punitive acts were left up to third parties or even inanimate objects. The fate of the villain Rigaud in Dickens’s Little Dorrit offers a paradigmatic instance. He is crushed to death inside a house that collapses of its own weight. After about 1880, the strong correlation between prosociality and ultimate good fortune disappears (Carroll et al. 2012a: 132–133). The mood of the later part of the century becomes more bleak, less trusting, less confident that principles of justice permeate the fabric of the universe. Growing skepticism about a beneficent deity and an increasing awareness of the inhuman magnitude of the universe contribute to that shift in Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 34 of 65 mood. Faith in the Christian scheme had been diminishing at least since the seventeenth century. Dryden’s philosophical poem Religio Laici (1682) gives expression to the doubt engendered by the imaginative impact of world exploration, which revealed whole continents outside the Christian dispensation. A similar expansion was at work in astronomy, eliminating the geocentric and heliocentric cosmos. Early in the nineteenth century, anthropological and ethnographic work on the composition of the Bible had shaken faith in the belief that the Bible is the revealed Word of God, and geology had already begun extending time backward into unimaginable eons, further diminishing the imaginative plausibility of a mythic system centered on human affairs. The publication of The Origin of Species in 1859 was in some ways merely a final nail in the coffin for the imaginative plausibility of the Christian myth. Writers such as Hardy and Conrad, who had absorbed the main intellectual currents of the nineteenth century, had to confront a world of harsh realities in which human justice could find a rationale and a satisfaction only within itself, regardless of the good fortunes that might or might not attend prosocial people. Shakespeare remains so central a figure in English literary history in part because he had already accepted responsibility for that kind of moral universe. The eighteenth century could not bear to read King Lear in its original form. The pure and virtuous Cordelia, an embodiment of faithfulness, is hanged. For more than a century, the version of the play that was performed on the stage was a version that had been re-rewritten to conform to the convention of poetic justice (Carroll 2012b). The good are not always rewarded in Shakespeare, but viciousness is usually punished. Antisocial behavior produces a disequilibrium in society, unleashing strong reciprocity. Richard III, Macbeth, Prince John in Much Ado about Nothing, Iago in Othello, Claudius in Hamlet, and in King Lear Edmund, Cornwall, Goneril, and Regan all come to bad ends. For Lady Macbeth, strong reciprocity need not be enforced by external agents. It comes from within. Tormented by guilt for helping her husband murder their king, she commits suicide. That kind of moral support for justice—punishment from without and from within—remains an active force in modern fiction because it conforms to social and psychological reality. Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 35 of 65 Institutions for Enforcing Norms Legal institutions are designed to solve basic problems in the formation of complex societies with large populations and hierarchically organized structures of power. They provide specialized expertise and formal procedures for investigating, judging, and punishing infractions against community norms. By transferring punitive authority to the state and offering an approximation to objectivity in the adjudication of disputes, societies forestall the destructive spiral of blood feuds. Like all contrivances, legal institutions solve some problems but create new ones. Citizens can easily become alienated from complex and impersonal bureaucracies invested with coercive power. They observe that authorities entrusted with the task of inflicting punishment sometimes abuse their powers and that the sadistic desire to inflict punishment can be a motive in itself. They observe that the police and the judiciary incorporate the underlying structure of power in a society and that their policies thus almost inevitably reflect the interests of the ruling classes. They notice too that the police and the judiciary tend to protect their own agents and perpetuate their own activity. Such observations produce fears and resentments that find expression in satiric and dystopian fiction. Countervailing feelings are prompted by the unavoidable necessity, in complex societies, for institutionalizing coercive power. At an emotional extreme opposite to that of satiric and dystopian fiction, in many novels the police and the judiciary exemplify social justice. A dialogue in Conrad’s novel The Secret Agent exemplifies the two extremes. Stevie, a retarded boy, “had formed for himself an ideal conception of the metropolitan police as a sort of benevolent institution for the suppression of evil” (1985: ch. 8). His sister corrects him. “‘Don’t you know what the police are for, Stevie? They are there so that them as have nothing shouldn’t take anything away from them who have’” (ch. 8). In the bulk of plays and novels, the attitudes that govern depictions of the legal system fall somewhere in between these two extremes. In many novels and plays, the legal system is present simply as a fact of life, like a feature of the landscape, a target neither for moral resentment nor for reverential respect. Like fire or gravity, it sets boundaries and creates consequences for human behavior. Because the law is such a Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 36 of 65 prominent feature of human social life, a great many fictional dramas work themselves out around it. Almost unconsciously, characters regulate their behavior with regard to legal constraints. They also sometimes take refuge in the law, finding safety in it, and not infrequently they come into fatal collision with it. In detective stories, protagonists are engaged in ferreting out guilty secrets. The law in such cases is something like a board in a board game; it defines the parameters of play. In its simplest version, a paranoiac vision of legal systems reduces police action to state-sanctioned sadism like that envisioned by O’Brien, the party functionary who tortures Winston Smith in 1984. Images of sadistic police brutality pervade stories of the holocaust and the Soviet Gulag: Alexander Solzhenitszyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, Varlam Shalamov’s Kolyma Tales, Vasily Grossman’s Everything Flows and Life and Fate, and Tadeusz Borowski’s This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. Totalitarianism and global war in the middle of the twentieth century provided an environment in which legal sadism could be plausibly over-overgeneralized. One such over-overgeneralization appears in Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, published in 1955. In a chapter titled “The Eternal City,” the protagonist Yossarian, an American bombardier stationed in Italy, walks through Rome at night, witnessing a series of nightmarish scenes of brutality and horror. In one scene, “a single Italian with books” is being attacked by “a slew of civilian policemen with armlocks and clubs” (1961: ch. 39). As he is being hauled away, the man cries out, “Police! Help! Police!”: Yossarian smiled wryly at the futile and ridiculous cry for aid, then saw with a start that the words were ambiguous, realized with alarm that they were not, perhaps, intended as a call for police but as a heroic warning from the grave by a doomed friend to everyone who was not a policeman with a club and a gun and a mob of other policemen with clubs and guns to back him up. Through Yossarian, Heller tacitly includes America in the scope of this generalization. “Mobs . . . mobs of policemen—everything but England was in the hands of mobs, mobs, mobs. Mobs with clubs were in control everywhere” (ch. 39). In the late sixties in America, that view of the police contributed its emotional force to the riots and Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 37 of 65 demonstrations against the war in Vietnam, —with the police routinely designated “pigs” and America spelled with a “k” instead of a “c”—“”Amerika,” thus mimicking German spelling and evoking fascist militarism. The police and the judiciary form a continuum. The police deliver suspects to the judiciary and enforce the judgments of the court. Even in cases that do not involve criminal action, the power of the court can stimulate dystopian horror stories in the minds of writers prone to distrust government. Dickens is one such writer. In Little Dorrit, the whole of the government is embodied in the Circumlocution Office, designed purposefully to make sure that nothing ever gets accomplished. That same distrust inspires Dickens’s depiction of the Court of Chancery in Bleak House. Chancery is the institution entrusted with resolving disputes over wills and inheritance. As Dickens conceives it, Chancery subsists only to make business for lawyers, with ruinous effects on anyone who gets lost in its labyrinths. One of the main characters in Bleak House becomes absorbed in a case, Jarndyce and Jarndyce, from which he hopes to gain a fortune. The case has dragged on for many generations. “Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how or why” (Dickens 1977: ch. 1). No one understands the case, and it has no hope of ever being resolved legally. It comes to an end only when the whole estate is found to have been consumed in legal costs. The character who has pinned his hopes on the case dies in despair. Dickens’s vision of the judicial system, though based on a real case, has a close kinship with the surrealistic nightmare vision of Franz Kafka’s novel The Trial. The protagonist in the trial, Josef K., is arrested and summoned to court. He is not informed what the charges against him are, or by what authority he is being tried. He gets a lawyer, but the lawyer’s explanations offer no clarification. The lawyer tells him that documents have to be filed, but that no one knows what the documents should contain. That might not matter, since the documents are not usually read, but if the accuser becomes insistent, the court officials say that the documents have to be gone over carefully. By that time, though, the documents have usually been lost. Like Jarndyce and Jarndyce, the process continues interminably, with no end in sight. Someone who knows the court fairly well Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 38 of 65 tells K. that to his knowledge no defendant has ever been acquitted. As in Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce, although there is no legal resolution to the case, there is an end to it. K. is abducted from his room, taken to a quarry, and stabbed to death. All police have coercive power, but not all societies are equally arbitrary, corrupt, or vicious in the exercise of power. Satires of the law like those of Dickens and Kafka tacitly invoke a standard of justice the law is supposed to embody, and for Dickens, at least, one main motive for satire is to put moral pressure on the judicial system so that it will more adequately embody that standard. Orwell’s depiction of the totalitarian state is modeled on Stalinist Russia and has a real historical solidity to it. Yossarian’s impression that all societies except England are ruled by mobs with clubs, in contrast, is a glib sort of cynicism that, when challenged, Yossarian is not himself willing to maintain. In the final chapter of Catch-22, Yossarian has a conversation with Major Danby, who tells him, “This is not World War One. You must never forget that we’re at war with aggressors who would not let either one of us live if they won.” Yossarian reluctantly concedes the point. The necessity of the law is made evident in scenes depicting its absence—for instance, the mob violence depicted in Benjamin Disraeli’s Sybil, or the Two Nations, Dickens’s Barnaby Rudge, and Eliot’s Felix Holt; the sadistic anarchy that reigns in Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian (a historical novel) and The Road (a postapocalyptic novel), the ugly passions animating men in the lynchings depicted in William Faulkner’s “Dry September,” Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, Jean Toomer’s “Blood Burning Moon,” and Walter Van Tilburg Clark’s The Ox-Bow Incident; and the horror of any scene in which psychopathic violence becomes even temporarily a dominant social force, as it does in Richard III, King Lear, Dickens’s Oliver Twist, Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, Conrad’s Nostromo, Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove, McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men, and Ellis’s American Psycho. In Lonesome Dove, two former Texas Rangers hang one of their old comrades, a genial but morally lax man who has inadvertently become associated with a gang of psychopaths. The psychopaths have wantonly murdered innocent people. In a frontier world without active law enforcement, the ex-Rangers enforce a crude and simple code of justice. Hanging their old friend gives them grief, but they have no moral doubt about the Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 39 of 65 necessity of enforcing a simple code of retributive justice. McMurtry does not suggest thatthe he himself has any ironic distance from their view of the matter. In Lord of the Flies, a large sea seashell, a conch, becomes a symbol of the law. When the boys first assemble, they establish a rule for discussion. Whoever holds the conch has the floor and can speak without interruption. After Jack has lured or coerced most of the boys to join his tribe, they attack Piggy in order to steal his glasses, which can be used for starting a fire. The crisis of the story occurs when Piggy and Ralph go to Jack’s fortress in order to demand the return of the glasses. Piggy carries the conch with him in a futile effort to appeal to law. As Ralph and Jack are fighting, Piggy is “still holding out the talisman, the fragile, shining beauty of the shell” (ch. 10). Jack’s sadistic henchman, Roger, above them on a high rock, uses a lever to roll a boulder down on Ralph and Piggy. Ralph ducks, but without his glasses Piggy is too blind to see the danger coming. “The rock struck Piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist” (ch. 10). Piggy is knocked off the cliff and his skull smashed open on a rock below. The phrase “the fragile, shining beauty of the shell” is a literal description of the shell and also a metaphoric description of what the shell represents—the fragile beauty of the law. Moments like this clearly establish Golding’s own judgment about the moral significance of the conflicts depicted in the story. Jack is driven by a lust for power, and Roger is an instrument of that power. Ralph and Piggy resist the reversion to simple dominance. Golding’s evaluative stance is implicit in his symbolic imagery, his evident sympathy with Piggy and Ralph, and his evident dislike of Jack and Roger. In Billy Budd, Sailor, Herman Melville makes the same basic stance explicit in reflective commentary on the story. Billy is a young seaman on board a British war warship during the period of conflict with revolutionary France. The spirit of social revolt has seeped over from France into England and has produced two recent naval mutinies. Billy has a frank and open nature and elicits the dislike of an under-officer, who slanderously accuses him of spreading mutiny. Billy has a stutter that chokes his speech when he becomes emotionally aroused. Enraged at the false accusation and unable to defend himself verbally, Billy strikes the under-officer, who dies from the blow. The attack is a capital offense. The captain of the ship, Captain Vere, believes that Billy is innocent of any Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 40 of 65 mutinous intent and that his accuser is a scoundrel. He nonetheless strictly applies the law, and Billy is hanged. A story of this sort could be written from any number of ideological standpoints, including the generalized distrust and dislike of judicial authority evident in writers like Dickens, Kafka, and Heller. Before recounting the central events of the story, Melville establishes his own unequivocally conservative ideological stance. Describing the mutiny preceding the events of the story, he says that the British common sailors “ran up with huzzas the British colors with the union and cross wiped out; by that cancellation transmuting the flag of founded law and freedom defined, into the enemy’s red meteor of unbridled and unbounded revolt” (1986: ch. 3). There can be little doubt that “founded law and freedom” have a positive valence set in polar opposition to the “unbridled and unbounded revolt” of the French Revolution. Reflecting on the transitory nature of the mutinous impulses in the British navy, Melville suggests that the mutiny “may be regarded as analogous to the distempering irruption of contagious fever in a frame constitutionally sound, and which anon throws it off” (ch. 3). The story is told chiefly from the perspective of Captain Vere, whose perspective evidently corresponds closely to Melville’s own. Vere is an intellectual, a learned and reflective man. He is of aristocratic lineage, but Melville absolves him of petty self-interest in his resistance to French radicalism. “While other members of that aristocracy to which by birth he belonged were incensed at the innovators mainly because their theories were inimical to the privileged classes, Captain Vere disinterestedly opposed them not alone because they seemed to him insusceptible of embodiment in lasting institutions, but at war with the peace of the world and the true welfare of mankind” (ch. 7). In supporting legally constituted authority, Vere is motivated neither by class interest nor by the desire for personal power. “Though a conscientious disciplinarian, he was no lover of authority for mere authority’s sake” (ch. 21). He is motivated by the necessity for maintaining discipline in his fighting force. In a period of mutinous feelings, laxity in enforcing hierarchical subordination could, he fears, lead to anarchic revolt. From Vere’s perspective, and from Melville’s, the case is “a moral dilemma” working to a “tragic” outcome (ch. 21). Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 41 of 65 Legitimacy The legitimacy of a social order would be absolute if the structure of power and the structure of internalized norms in a society were in perfect concord. That is, of course, never the case. Even in biological organisms, cancerous cells defect from the social body. Human societies are much messier, less coherent, than biological organisms. The needs and impulses of individuals usually work in some tension with the demands of society. Individuals are enmeshed in families and kin groups that contain internal conflicts and that also often work in tension with the demands of the larger society (Fukuyama 2011). Individuals and kin groups coalesce into classes, trades, ethnic groups, cities, and geographical regions that have to negotiate conflicting interests. In complex postagricultural societies, all social power structures constitute temporary equilibria among diverse forces pulling in many different directions simultaneously. Legitimacy, therefore, is always a matter of degree. Novels of poverty such as Sybil, Bleak House, North and South, The Jungle, and The Grapes of Wrath raise questions of social legitimacy because they depict societies that fail to provide for the basic physical needs of its members. Questions of legitimacy arise also in novels that depict people deprived of a valued place in society. That kind of problem is most obvious in cases in which racial minorities are reduced to slavery or treated as second-class citizens. Instances include Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, Toni Morrison’s Beloved, and Thomas Keneally’s The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith. The societies depicted in literary dystopias typically eliminate close personal ties, which are necessary for human well-being. In the societies depicted in We and in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, families have been eliminated and all sustained intimate relationships are discouraged. As O’Brien puts it in 1984, “We have cut the links between child and parent, and between man and man, and between man and woman” (Orwell 1949: part 3, ch. 3). Dystopian novels are by definition repudiations of a whole society. Realist novels can also depict societies that, in the view of their authors, fail to provide a worthwhile quality of life. In V. S. Naipaul’s A Bend in the River, an Indian merchant living in the post-postcolonial Congo watches his society slide inexorably into a chaos presided over by a lunatic cult of personality. In that kind of environment, as one character observes, “‘Nothing has any meaning’” (1980: ch. 17). Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 42 of 65 Like authorial attitudes toward legal systems, authorial attitudes toward social legitimacy vary along a continuum, from complete acceptance at one extreme to complete repudiation at another. Jane Austen and Anthony Trollope give little or no evidence of questioning the legitimacy of the social order in which their characters live. Austen’s characters inhabit a hermetic social universe in which servants and members of the lower classes are usually invisible. In Trollope’s fictive world, social forces typically work in concert, even without conscious collective intent, to resolve conflicts and bring about harmonious results in accordance with the principles of poetic justice. In contrast to Austen and Trollope, Dickens frequently expresses outrage over government corruption and the condition of the poor. He is nonetheless as skeptical as Melville about the anarchic forces let loose in the French Revolution. The protagonists of A Tale of Two Cities stand apart from both the arrogant cruelty of the aristocrats and the vindictive cruelty of the revolutionaries. The title character in Eliot’s Felix Holt, the Radical is a politically conscious proletarian intellectual but only the mildest kind of “radical.” He wants voting rights eventually extended to the working class but is more eager to improve their education so that they will be capable of participating responsibly in political life. In the first half of the twentieth century, many American writers gave voice to the discontents of the working class. In his USA trilogy, John Dos Passos envisions heroes of the labor movement struggling against the exploitative and personally corrupting forces of capitalism. John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath has a similar ideological orientation. Before the Second World War, that kind of orientation made some writers sympathetic to an idealized and sanitized image of Soviet Russia. In consequence, they were hostile to Arthur Koestler’s Darkness at Noon, which cast an unwelcome light on the brutality and dishonesty of the Soviet state. Leftist ideology remains a strong force in contemporary American intellectual life, especially among academics but also among some literary authors. In The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen adopts a Foucauldian perspective concordant with that of academic literary radicals. From that perspective, all government control is exploitative and abusive. Franzen’s protagonist spends time in Lithuania during an anarchic meltdown of government. “It warmed his Foucaultian heart, in a way, to live in a land where property ownership and the control of public discourse were so obviously a matter of who had the guns” (2001: 441; Carroll 2013a). This kind of Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 43 of 65 declaration has an evident kinship with Yossarian’s claim that “mobs with guns” are in control everywhere. Franzen and Heller both erase distinctions between fascist dictatorships, totalitarian police states, and liberal democracies. Among literary works that take social legitimacy as their chief theme, Conrad’s Heart of Darkness has a special prominence. Conrad’s embedded narrator, Marlow, tells a story of an adventure that profoundly affected his imagination, still troubles him, and provokes him to meditative effort. The meditation is complex, ironic, elusive, and sometimes contradictory, but it is nonetheless governed by a basic antithesis between savagery and civilization. Because Marlow and Conrad believe in civilization, and regard Africa as a site of savagery, Conrad has sometimes been charged with racism and colonialist presumption (Achebe 1977; Said 1993). In reality, no story animated chiefly by racial chauvinism could maintain a central place in the canon of Western literature, much less in the curriculum of modern English departments. Marlow witnesses savagery among the natives in the Congo—that is, he sees tribal life not dissimilar to the tribal life that prevailed in Britain before the Roman conquest. Marlow’s narrative, told to other men sitting on a boat on the Thames, opens with that declared equivalency. “‘And this also,’ said Marlow suddenly, ‘has been one of the dark places of the earth’” (2011: ch. 1). Civilization distinguishes itself from tribal life through legal institutions designed for the formal enforcement of community norms (Fukuyama 2011). As Conrad and Marlow see it, the whites in the Belgian Congo create only a hideous parody of civilization. They represent “‘a rapacious and pitiless folly’” disguised with absurd pretenses of law and justice (ch. 2). Marlow has a habituated feeling of living in an atmosphere of civilized norms. In Africa, that feeling is assailed by images of savagery on one side and images of a degenerate parody of civilization on the other. Those dual challenges produce a severe psychological strain that results in a hallucinatory intensity of imaginative observation. Everything he sees on his journey takes on a dreamlike symbolic quality. Heart of Darkness has become canonical in part because Marlow effectively communicates the peculiar intensity of the imaginative experience produced by his struggle to sustain his belief in the legitimacy of civilization. The situation of the story is simple. Out of a spirit of curiosity, Marlow takes employment as captain of a river steamer owned by a Belgian company that trades for Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 44 of 65 ivory in the Congo. Marlow is sent deep into the jungle to bring out an agent who has fallen sick. He discovers that the agent, Kurtz, had succumbed to the temptation of assuming absolute power over a savage band. Kurtz had become leader of a native tribe and had conducted raids on other tribes to steal their ivory. But he had not become just an ordinary brigand. He had set himself up as a god to be worshipped and had presided over “certain midnight dances ending with unspeakable rites” that “were offered up to him— do you understand?—to Mr. Kurtz himself” (2011: ch. 2). Those rites probably involve human sacrifice—heads on poles adorn the entrance to Kurtz’s camp. Telling the story to his friends on board a boat in the Thames, Marlow struggles to explain what had gone wrong with Kurtz: “He had taken a high seat amongst the devils of the land—I mean literally. You can’t understand. How could you?—with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbours ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums—how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man’s untrammelled feet may take him into by the way of solitude—utter solitude without a policeman—by the way of silence—utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbour can be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone you must fall back upon your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. . . . your power of devotion, not to yourself, but to an obscure, back-breaking business.” (ch. 2) That obscure, back-breaking business is the work of civilization. As a prelude to his tale, Marlow speaks disparagingly of “the conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves” (ch. 1). Nonetheless, he declares that colonialism can have a genuine moral rationale. “What redeems it is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea—something you can set up, bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to” (ch. 1). The idea is the idea of decency, restraint, Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 45 of 65 constructive work—the effort to create a society in which the structure of power is regulated by internalized norms of justice vested in responsible institutions. In place of that idea, Kurtz sets himself up alone as the object to which men must bow down and offer a sacrifice. That is, Kurtz reverts to pure dominance as a mode of government. On the relation between internalized norms and strong reciprocity, Marlow makes contradictory claims. He claims that strong reciprocity— (“”the whispers of public opinion”) —and the presence of legal institutions— (the police and the gallows) — “”make all the difference.” But he also claims that without those external supports one can still make appeal to one’s “capacity for faithfulness”—that is, to internalized norms. Kurtz succumbs to the temptations of savagery because he is “hollow at the core” (ch. 2). Marlow is not. Conrad lives at the meditative extremes of moral consciousness, sometimes vibrating firmly and passionately with convictions about civilization and honor, sometimes groping in fog and confusion for what he believes, sometimes standing in terror on the brink of moral emptiness. He is often perplexed, but he does ultimately affirm that civilization is a real thing, not just a pretense; it is the indispensable framework within which people of integrity must organize their activity. Heart of Darkness and Lord of the Flies are radically different in manner and style. Lord of the Flies is spare and restrained, sticking closely to objective description. The narrative in Heart of Darkness is delivered from a highly particularized, personal perspective, and the language is rhetorical and reflective to a high degree. Despite these differences, the two works resonate at the same ethical wavelengths. They are both thematically centered on a contrast between savagery and civilization. Kurtz and Jack both revert to savagery. Ralph and Marlow both hold on desperately, with difficulty and confusion, to an ideal of civilization. The “fragile shining beauty” of the conch in Lord of the Flies is a symbol for what Marlow calls “an unselfish belief in the idea—something you can set up, bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to.” What Ralph and Marlow offer a sacrifice to is not just this or that social group, but a social concept—the concept of civilization. Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 46 of 65 Conclusion Readers participate in an imagined virtual world created by an author and also, simultaneously, stand outside that world, encompassing it within their own worldview view. In this respect, authors and readers are like any other people engaged in a communicative transaction. Professional literary critics and scholars are readers who have specialized training and extensive experience in this particular kind of communicative transaction. They evoke the subjective, qualitative sensations expressed in literary works;, analyze the organization of subject, style, and tone that produce those sensations;, articulate their own evaluative responses;, register the responses of other readers;, make comparisons that help define and classify works;, and analyze the relation of literary works to their sources: the lives and minds of authors, the material and social conditions in which a work is produced, and cultural traditions that include religious, philosophical, and literary traditions. All of this critical and scholarly activity can take place only within the mind of the critic and scholar—his or her perceptions, emotions, ideas, beliefs, and values. Emotional and aesthetic responsiveness is heavily dependent on the personality and sensibility of individual readers, but even the most subjective responses are influenced by a reader’s ideas—conceptions about human nature, society, and literature itself. The most objective and scholarly aspects of professional literary study abstract away from variations in individual responsiveness and aim at classification and explanation. Classification is like taxonomy in biology. It is descriptive and analytic but presupposes that certain categories form natural kinds that cut nature at its joints. Explanation presupposes that specific literary works are produced by causes such as human communicative psychology, the material and social conditions in which an author writes, cultural traditions, and the temperament and mind of the author. A scholar’s ideas about the causal forces producing literature thus fundamentally shape his or her commentary on literary works. Until the late 1970snineteen-seventies, most professional literary study used an eclectic mix of ad hoc terms for the purposes of classification and causal explanation (Carroll 2004b). The largest, most general terms used in literary taxonomy are concepts Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 47 of 65 of “genre.” Multiple schemes of genre have been proposed; none has achieved the kind of general acceptance that attends on Linnaeus’s taxonomy of plants and animals (Fowler 1982). In the middle of the twentieth century, Northrop Frye argued that “what is at present missing from literary criticism is a co-ordinating principle, a central hypothesis which, like the theory of evolution in biology, will see the phenomena it deals with as parts of a whole” (1951: 6[[AU:  Page  number  does  not  fall  within  the  article  page  range   shown  in  the  references  (92–110).  Please  reconcile.]]). Frye proposed “myths” and “archetypes” as that central coordinating principle. In Anatomy of Criticism (1957), he produced a taxonomy based on myths and archetypes. Though Frye appealed to evolutionary biology as a model for an explanatory system, he did not appeal to biology as a source of causal explanation. Frye was a Christian minister and a Romantic mystic. His archetypes are autonomous spiritual forces emanating from a transcendental center— that is, from God (Carroll 1995: ch. 10). Since the middle of the twentieth century, no further large-scale efforts at taxonomy have been made. Fashioning taxonomies presupposes the existence of natural kinds, and since the late 1970snineteen-seventies, most literary theorists have repudiated the idea that nature has an inherent structure that can be objectively ascertained. The literary theory current now in the academic literary establishment blends Derridean linguistic epistemology, Marxist social theory, Freudian psychology, radical feminist conceptions of gender, and Foucauldian conceptions of social power (Sommers 1994; Carroll 1995, 2004a, 2011; Headlam Wells 2005; Menand 2005; Boyd 2006, 2009; Wells and McFadden 2006; Gottschall 2008a; Boyd 2009; Carroll 2011; Culler 2011; Carroll et al. 2012a). In this theoretical amalgam, the source theories are assimilated to an overarching belief that culture alone shapes human minds and motivates human behavior. Like Durkheim, Boas, and other seminal theorists in the social sciences, most literary theorists in the current academic literary establishment explicitly repudiate the idea that evolved and genetically transmitted dispositions significantly constrain culture (Freeman 1983; Fox 1989; Degler 1991; Tooby and Cosmides 1992; Carroll 1995; Pinker 2002). In contrast to theorists who identify culture as an autonomous causal force, evolutionary literary theorists or “literary Darwinists” argue that culture is constrained and directed by the evolved and adapted characteristics of the human mind. (Carroll Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 48 of 65 1995, 2004a, 2011, 2012b, 2013a; Storey 1996; Cooke and Turner 1999; Easterlin 2000, 2012; Scalise Sugiyama 2001c; Cooke 2002; Carroll 2004a; Gottschall and Wilson 2005; Headlam Wells 2005; Flesch 2007; Martindale, Locher, and Petrov 2007; Nordlund 2007; Saunders 2007, 2009, 2010, 2012; Gottschall 2008b, 2012; Boyd 2009; Saunders 2009; Boyd, Carroll, and Gottschall 2010; Clasen 2010, 2011, 2012a, 2012b, 2012c; Saunders 2010; Swirski 2010, 2011; Williams 2010; Carroll 2011; Clasen 2011; Swirski 2011; Carroll 2012b; Carroll et al. 2012a; Clasen 2012a, 2012c, 2012b; Easterlin 2012; Gansel and Vanderbeke 2012; Gottschall 2012; Jonsson 2012; Saunders 2012; Carroll 2013a). Because evolutionary biology and the evolutionary social sciences have greater scientific validity than alternative explanations of psychology and society, scholarship that draws on them for taxonomic and explanatory ideas has the potential for giving a more true and adequate account of fictional works. The bulk of current academic literary criticism defaults to analyzing social themes in literary depictions. For decades now, literary criticism has concentrated on three categories: gender, class, and race. For the past thirty years or so, many commentaries on these themes have been conducted within the framework of Michel Foucault’s ideas about social dynamics. Foucault reduces all social interactions to three roles: exploitative elites who control social discourse, a deluded populace, and alienated intellectuals who reveal the insidious machinations of social power (Carroll 1995: ch. 11,; Carroll 2013a). In Foucault’s own words, “Powerpower is always exercised at the expense of the people” (1977: 211). Consequently, “the intellectual’s role” is to engage in “a struggle against power, a struggle aimed at revealing and undermining power where it is most invisible and insidious” (207, 208). Compared with the concepts that currently prevail in the academic literary establishment, concepts based on human life history theory and gene-culture cocoevolution identify a broader range of human concerns and offer a more adequate understanding of social dynamics. A minimal set of basic human concerns would include survival, growing up, mating, parenting, family life, life within a social group, conflict between social groups, and the life of the mind (Carroll 2012e). Most human behavior is embedded in a social context, but not all literary works focus chiefly on social themes. Some works concentrate on the relations between dyadic sexual couples or between Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 49 of 65 parents and children. Some depict protagonists defending themselves against natural dangers, struggling with mental illness, trying to come to terms with God, or seeking intellectual or artistic fulfillment. Some works do clearly take social themes as a central concern, but those themes include more than dominance, subjugation, and resistance. Internalized norms, willing cooperation, and identification with a social body fundamentally shape human behavior and the quality of experience. They are, consequently, major themes in literary depictions. Because literary works are embedded in social contexts, literary scholars draw on the findings of professional historians and also conduct their own historical research. Like literary study, history has lacked any central coordinating principle. Until recently, historians, like literary scholars, either used ad hoc analytic constructs, adopted ideas from contiguous disciplines like economics or sociology, or fabricated their own general systems. A general system like that of Arnold Toynbee has a close parallel with the system of genres fabricated by Northrop Frye (Carroll 1995: 117). Toynbee and Frye were both immensely learned and ingenious, but their systems were embedded in no network of established scientific ideas. They thus failed to establish a paradigm—a conceptual framework within which further research can produce cumulative empirical knowledge integrated with scientific knowledge in other fields. Until the late nineteenth century, human behavior was the province of intuitive folk psychology, speculative philosophy, and literary depiction. It is now the province of evolutionary social science. Theorists of literature and history can now draw on biological concepts that identify natural kinds in human behavior. In this chapter, for instance, life within a human social group has been situated within the systemically integrated phases of human life history, and it has been analyzed using concepts that derive from research into the evolved basis of human social life: dominance, reverse dominance, leadership, internalized norms, strong reciprocity, legal institutions, and legitimacy. Those concepts have been reduced to four basic elements: individuals, groups, power, and values. The interplay of these elements in literary depictions has been assimilated to the idea that literary works help generate group identity, integrate individuals into groups, and mediate between the needs of individuals and the claims of groups. That concept has been lodged within the broader hypothesis that literature and the Turner, Chapter 30 (Paradigm) Page 50 of 65 other arts affect cognitive and emotional organization, influence motives, and help regulate behavior. That hypothesis about the adaptive function of the arts has been closely associated with an implication from the theory of gene-culture coevolution: that cultural imagination is a crucial functional feature of the specifically human adaptive repertory. Using evolutionary concepts makes it possible to see social themes in literary works as “parts of a whole” (Frye 1951: 6[[AU:  Page  number  does  not  fall  within  the   article  page  range  shown  in  the  references  (92–110).  Please  reconcile.]]). Evolution is itself the central coordinating principle necessary to establish literary theory as a genuine paradigm. In recent years, historians and evolutionary scientists have begun to integrate evolutionary ideas with research into specific historical periods (Wilson 2002; Gat 2006; Turchin 2006; Fukuyama 2011; Pinker 2011). These efforts have produced important results but have been limited by the impasse between selfish gene theory and group selection. We can be confident that integrative biocultural historical research will continue, that it will benefit from the recent developments in evolutionary social theory delineated in this chapter, and that future developments in evolutionary social theory will offer new opportunities for analyzing the social dynamics in specific historical societies. Literary scholarship can both draw from this biocultural historical research and contribute to it. Literary works are inspired by the cultural imagination of their times and in turn help shape that cultural imagination (Carroll et al. 2012a; Gottschall 2012). Cultural imagination interacts causally with material conditions and forms of social organization. Findings about social and cultural dynamics in specific historical periods should constrain and stimulate evolutionary social theory. 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