Some are more equal than others

A couple of years ago, I watched a BBC Horizon documentary by Danny Wallace, entitled Chimps are People Too. It made a solid argument that, under the philosophical and scientific definitions of ‘person’, chimpanzees actually fulfilled the criteria more closely than all human children, and even some human adults.

A few weeks ago, the BBC screened a two-part documentary called Super Smart Animals in which scientist Liz Bonnin travelled the world proving that various different species of animals were capable of sophisticated brain function, learning and thought processes previously only credited to humans, such as self-awareness, problem-solving, memory, emotion, language and communication, creativity, deceit, and development and use of tools. She concluded from the results of this extensive research that brain size matters very little, and the gap between human and animal intelligence may be considerably less than we previously thought.

This week, newspapers reported on the annual meeting of the American Association for the Advancement of Science, the world’s largest science convention. The biggest story told of a group of scientists and ethicists who put forward a proposal that whales, dolphins and porpoises, due to their now unquestionable intelligence, should be classified as ‘non-human persons’, and offered rights equal to those of humans in terms of life, liberty and wellbeing.

While I rejoice at the recent trending of this subject, I also can’t believe it’s taken so long for science to discover what I have never doubted - that high levels of intelligence, emotional capacity and individuality exist in other beings. But then we are a species that, after thousands of years of evolution and civilisation, still doesn’t grant equal rights to those of its own kind who might possess the wrong skin colour or genitalia, so it’s hardly surprising. For the most intelligent life form, we can be awfully slow to catch on.

It brings to mind a favourite quote of mine from writer Robert Brault: ‘Man is rated as the highest animal, at least among all animals who returned the questionnaire.’

I’m sure that if we ever did boast the language capacity to distribute said poll to other species, most of them would show similar bias. To me, humans electing themselves most intelligent animal is a bit like the USA’s ‘World Series’ baseball championships always being won by a home team, when everybody knows that no other nations ever compete. We placed ourselves in pole position without any real justification and ran with it, completely ignoring the competition until now.

            As well as the definition of ‘person’, the argument also depends on the similarly tricky definition of ‘intelligence’. The dictionary puts it as simply as ‘the ability to acquire and apply knowledge and skills’. Well, I’m not an expert, but I’ve spent a lifetime living and working closely with numerous species, including humans, dogs, cats, horses, elephants, lions, reptiles and rodents that could all demonstrate those abilities. There is now a significant and growing amount of scientific research, books and natural history programmes which suggest that a whole lot of other species are capable of the same, and we have previously underestimated their capacity for it.

Humans in general also don’t seem to acknowledge that intelligence is relative, and exists in many forms, for many purposes. There is also huge variation of intelligence levels within every single species, humanity included. Learning, complex language and tool use may be what define us now, but we mustn’t forget that it was our comparatively weak senses and physical attributes that made those evolutionary developments necessary. Our chosen lifestyle has now made those qualities essential to our integration and survival, and so we’re exposed to and become proficient in them from a very early age. The observation of any wild animal shows that they each follow the same patterns of using individual skills, adaption, learning and education to ensure their own acceptance and survival in their own world, even though we make those things increasingly difficult for them.

Animals often show great intelligence in the very things that humans view as stupid, simply because our anthropomorphic stance prevents us from understanding them properly. For example, horses will repeatedly jump at sudden movements or unfamiliar objects because they are herbivores with 360-degree vision and a strong flight response that are simply not programmed to behave like us. It would be very stupid and incredibly dangerous for them not to respond in this way.

Scientific research has also taught us, through the numerous bonobos, parrots and dogs that have mastered human language to name but one example, that animals have always been interested in and capable of learning our ways when given the opportunity. Yet it’s only now that humanity is beginning to apply the same attention and credibility to the unique talents of other species.

If all animals received equivalent rights, freedom, protection, personal development, communication and intensive education as civilised humans, I suspect they could surpass our expectations and achievements in ways we couldn’t possibly imagine. Equally, if all human offspring were left to grow up wild, unconditioned and untrained, our species would display language, skills and behaviour far removed from that which we’ve grown to expect. I’ve often wondered what would become of the human race if all of our manufactured comforts, appliances and life-easing luxuries were suddenly taken away and we were forced to return to our natural state. I doubt we would fare so well against the animal kingdom if we were made to fight fair.

           
To be honest, in following Darwin’s widely accepted theories, I have always been baffled as to how the great apes won the evolutionary race in the first place. Of the land mammals, surely the cats, with their intelligence, independence, physical excellence, resistance to manipulation and innate sense of superiority, should have been the frontrunners. If we are to try and compare the incomparable skills and abilities of every species in existence, they are arguably the best all-rounder. The only conclusion I’ve ever been able to reach is that they’re not in charge because they didn’t want to be. Maybe they’re happy with their lot, maybe they’re grateful just to satisfy their needs, maybe they think life is complicated enough without adding to its frustrations, and maybe they’re simply glad to be alive. It makes me think of another quote from one of my favourite writers, the late genius that was Douglas Adams:‎'Man has always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much...the wheel, New York, wars and so on...while all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man...for precisely the same reason.'

            In this debate, I’m wholeheartedly on the side of the dolphins. Human intelligence has achieved a lot. Some of it has been great, amazing even, but overall, haven’t we forgotten what life’s about and merely made everything more difficult for ourselves? Animals have simple aims – to find nourishment, maintain body temperature, procreate, protect the family, etc. Our basic aims are in fact, exactly the same, it’s just that in order to achieve them we are forced to go to school for ten years or more, give our precious time to working long hours in hateful jobs in order to earn money, which we then give to estate agents for shelter, supermarkets for food, and utility companies so that we can keep warm. We even pay for water, a commodity which is as abundant as the air we breathe, yet we think that it must be expensively filled with chemicals and piped to our fingertips before we can drink it. After all that, there’s little time or money left to allow us to do the things we actually want to and fully enjoy our lives.

            Animals live for the moment, they’re not overly concerned with past or future, and they don’t waste time worrying and obsessing about things they have no control over. They learn from their mistakes instead of reliving them and beating themselves up about it. They take only what they need from the Earth, rather than helping themselves to whatever they want, regardless of the far reaching consequences. They don’t care about all the superficial trivialities that we invented, like time, money and outward appearance, and thus escape all the misery they cause us. They are always true to themselves, unless human interference prevents it. They are extremely demonstrative of their emotions at the exact time they feel them, rather than making themselves ill by bottling everything up or taking them out on the wrong thing. They also never forget the importance of playing, and certainly never consider themselves too old to partake in it. I could go on, but I think it's clear that in terms of spirituality and wellbeing, most other animals know the secrets of a happy life far better than us.

           

What perplexes me even more than the automatic assumption of supreme intelligence in our species is the arrogance in thinking that it somehow gifts us ownership and governance of the Earth, and the Godlike authority to dictate which other creatures are deserving of life, liberty and wellbeing, despite being unable to secure our own. It reminds me of another quote, from Victorian journalist and author Ambrose Bierce, who gave his definition of the word ‘ocean’ as follows: ‘A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world made for man – who has no gills.’ 

You have to admit, he has a valid point. Why, if the planet is ours, is more than 70% of it completely inhospitable to us?

Until we massively overpopulated and began trying to control and meddle with it, this planet was a smooth-running, delicately balanced eco-system which supported, and indeed depended upon, all species coexisting. But as rulers, we’ve tipped the scale, and dedicated centuries to inventing new and ingenious ways to kill ourselves and everything else. We’ve torn up the plants and trees that provide our oxygen and replaced them with concrete, smoke-belching monstrosities. We’ve poisoned the air, soil and seas with chemicals that we had no prior concept of the dangers of. We’re still persisting in fighting a hopeless losing battle against nature, which even in its weakened state could easily wipe us out within days. Though natural selection can seem every bit as cruel and unfair as humanity, it is never as calculating, selfish or destructive in its purpose.

Ultimately, humanity is ensuring the premature death of an entire planet and as a direct consequence, its own species, which defeats the main objective of every species - survival. We can’t possibly exist independently of Earth or its billions of other inhabitants, and I fear that eventually, we’ll learn that lesson as we do most others – in the hardest way possible.

So to me, science is only now confirming what was always blatantly obvious if the time had been taken to observe, interact and understand. But then these days, our supposedly intelligent, free-thinking species refuses to believe anything unless scientists prove it absolutely true. That is, until another scientist proves differently further down the line, then we place absolute trust in them instead.

            So, if it makes human people think differently, I sincerely hope that scientists do continue this campaign, maybe extending the rights and recognition of intelligence to include other primates and eventually all sentient species. Maybe in time, humans can become enlightened and compassionate enough to bring an end to the horrendous torture and suffering that we currently deem okay to inflict not only on animals, but also our fellow human beings. Before we staged our takeover coup, rights to life, freedom and equal opportunities came just from being born on Earth, regardless of species. Only humans reached the dubious conclusion that this synchronicity was the wrong way to live, and that doesn't strike me as very clever.

Unfortunately, our inflated egos, insatiable greed for power and complete denial of the responsibility it brings make it unlikely that we will ever be humble enough to acknowledge that there is only one thing we possess that no other creature does, and that's opposable thumbs. Woohoo.

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Tears and Fears

It’s been an enjoyable but emotional week for me where movies are concerned. Last night I cried at a film for the first time in ages. I’m not just talking that raw, swollen throat feeling, coupled with the kind of flimsy tears you can blink away before anybody notices, that happens all the time. Last night was an intense, two-tissue situation, I sobbed for ten minutes like a lost child and that’s most unusual. For me, it’s rare for a film to evoke that level of emotion unless it’s a documentary, so it always impresses me when they do.

I can only think of a handful of others that have had me in such convulsive floods of tears, and they’re a pretty random bunch that would probably make an interesting study for a psychologist. There was My Girl, which held a unique appeal to my pre-teen misfit years, and E.T. which has got me every time I’ve watched it since I was three years old. Then most recently, The Green Mile, which remains an infinite source of mockery for the friend who witnessed the uncharacteristically girly meltdown that the final execution scene caused me.

            Thankfully, this time I was alone, and the culprit was a DVD called Perfect Sense. It’s a love story set in the midst of a global pandemic of an apocalyptic disease. But it’s not the usual flesh eating bacteria, or flesh eating zombies, this virus robs the human race of its sensory perceptions, one by one. Each loss is preceded by a disturbing outburst of extreme emotion, starting with a deep spell of depression that signals the imminent loss of smell. Days or weeks later, an attack of paranoid fear and a ravenous hunger steals the sense of taste. Then, a violent rage brings on deafness, at which point the film becomes completely silent. Finally, an outpour of love is the last thing everyone experiences before they are rendered blind.

It sounds bleak, and I expected it to be, but it actually surprised me by being hauntingly beautiful as well. Rather than focusing solely on the devastation and the obvious difficulties brought about by the disease, it is as much about the human spirit and the human condition, and how life goes on even when the end is nigh. While we are shown coverage of the effects on a worldwide scale, it always comes back to the much more relatable story of two people (the beautiful Eva Green and perfection personified, Ewan McGregor) in backstreet Glasgow and how it affects them, so we see the contrast of the human race falling apart and coming together. When all their abilities are stripped away, all they own becomes useless, and all they do impossible, then all they have is each other. That’s what made me cry. Well, that and the terrible impending doom of knowing they would ultimately lose their sense of touch and the human race would all die the worst imaginable slow, tortuous, dark, silent and lonely death. It’s well worth seeing, but only if you’re prepared for the inevitable breakdown, both in the film and outside of it.

           

I also went to the cinema to see The Woman In Black, a good old fashioned dark, gothic horror designed to scare the pants off its audience rather than reduce them to tears, and it fulfils that aim pretty well. It had no blood or gore whatsoever, but enough eerie suspense, mysterious villagers, spooky settings and jumpy moments to seriously disrupt the heart rate. People in the audience actually screamed at several points, which I’ve never witnessed before and didn’t think really happened. The problem was, it made everyone else laugh, so all the tension and attention on the screen was immediately broken.

I think I’d have enjoyed the unsettling, ‘what’s behind the door?’ nature of it more if I’d watched that by myself too, even though it was the sort of film that makes walking to another room in your own house a testing experience. Unlike Perfect Sense, it had a surprise twist at the end that had everyone shouting ‘Noooo!’ at the screen for a different reason. But it was equally ambiguous in leaving the viewer wondering what would become of the characters that were left facing a grim future. Again, I'd recommend it, but only to the adrenaline junkies, and only if you can avoid a packed auditorium. It’s made me want to read the novel on which it was based, which I imagine will be infinitely scarier.

           All this evocative art has inspired me to experiment with my own writing and strive to achieve the difficult balance of tugging on the collective human heart without it feeling contrived and ruining the effect. One of my proudest moments came when I once made my mum cry with the first draft of a chapter from my book, as it proved that I could do it.  Incidentally, there’s only ever been one book that’s made me blub so pathetically, and that was The Amber Spyglass. If there are any mental health professionals reading, I’d be interested to hear your analysis.

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Romance est mort, Vive romance!

Ah, Valentine’s Day. A celebration of humanity reaching the point where they have to be prompted to treat their someone special like they’re someone special, on one, predetermined day of the year. Surely there is no more conclusive proof that romance is dead.

The blatant, cheese-covered commercialism of occasions like today will ironically provide the final nail in its coffin. Most couples will exchange pricey, mass-produced, publicly-promoted gifts, and cards bearing someone else’s prewritten sentiment. I suppose they could be perceived as romantic if you like that kind of thing, but they could just as easily be thoughtlessly picked up in a petrol station on the way home from work, which is perhaps the least romantic thing in the world. On this day, even the most charming endeavour would lack sincerity and spontaneity, the fundamental principles of the romantic gesture.

‘Romance’ is big business these days – just ask jewellers, florists, greetings card manufacturers, confectioners, lingerie stores, perfumeries, and the many suppliers of ostentatious, overblown weddings. They, along with Hollywood and Disney, insist that the dream can be kept alive if we buy into their cutesy, saccharine version of it, when they’re actually among the assassins prepared to murder it for money.

We seem to have forgotten that it’s not about being needy and greedy, nor about grand gestures and expense. It doesn’t have to cost anything at all. Time, attention and affection are the most precious, irreplaceable things anyone can give or receive, and can’t be bought, even in the most exclusive department stores. It’s far sweeter than any box of chocolates when a suitor or significant other uses their intimate, individual knowledge of you to plan something that they know you’ll appreciate.

Personally, I’d rather go for a picnic in the park or a moonlit walk on the beach than stay on my best behaviour in a fancy restaurant or spend two hours ignoring each other at the cinema. If someone goes to the effort of cooking for me, I’ll value that more than overpriced gourmet food. The most gratefully received romantic gifts I’ve ever given were a sandwich, a poem and a photograph, and when I think back to the moments that have stolen my heart, the most significant were serenades, candlelit bubble baths, or just a few genuine words. Once, while at a concert with an ex-boyfriend, he went to the bathroom and returned having drawn a little portrait of me on a square of toilet paper, and I treasured that. To me it said that he was always thinking of me and missing me, even in those few minutes of functional separation. It really is the thought that counts.

Call me old fashioned and soppy, but I also despair of the selfish, cynical modern attitude to romance and this day seems to have become an ugly reflection of that. It’s fantastic that everyone now has the freedom to live and love however they want, and I’m all for that, but it’s not an easy time for the singles who favour the standards of yesteryear. 

Being a romantic has always had its downsides, it can give people hope where there is none, make them vulnerable to those who melt hearts only to stamp in the puddles they leave behind, and leave them crushed and lonely when disappointed. But this day and age increases the odds of those happening, as meeting people in the urban jungle relies on being agile enough to dodge the increasing amount of often determined, drunken and deceitful predators, without hiding from or growing fearful of everyone else. We’re persuaded that finding your perfect match is now only achievable by advertising, buying tickets to organised dating events, or filling out generic online questionnaires which will number-crunch compatibility for a membership fee, none of which appeal to the serendipitous romantic nature.

Rather than continue to evolve, it sometimes seems as though the human race has regressed to an almost Neanderthal approach, and it’s become the norm for both sexes to make meaningless sexual connections with multiple partners, so the monogamous and those looking for something deeper are ostracised. Don’t get me wrong, I’m wholeheartedly in support of equality, but I do think we’ve had to pay a high price for it with the considerable loss of courtesy, mystery, innocence, loyalty and respect from both sides of the great gender debate.

As hardly anyone expects to woo, be wooed or make a commitment any more, people put in as little effort as possible. Even that usually stops once they’ve got what they wanted, be it sex or a relationship. If the latter, it’s hardly surprising that so many fail when people get together for convenience, give nothing, completely take each other for granted, and cheat or walk away at the first sign of trouble.

True romance may seem like a rose-tinted fairy tale to others, and sometimes even to the believers in this gloomy 21^st century light, but that doesn’t make it a delusion. Happy-ever after or even just happy-for-the-foreseeable-future are easy given the right person, at the right time, in the right circumstances, with the right attitudes. When the right people are such dwindling numbers, the chances of finding and combining all of those factors may be reduced, but it is still attainable. As long as the minority stay strong and keep the faith, romance may yet be resurrected.

As with any endangered species, the planet would be far less beautiful and interesting if the habitat of the few remaining hopeless romantics is destroyed. Their survival requires that love can be given as part of a mind, body and soul package deal, and in the spirit of fair trade, the same is expected in return. They seek an equal who is willing to show love because they feel compelled to, regardless of what date it is or how much it costs, and until they come along, they’d rather remain alone with their fantasies than settle for anything less. If they track down that rare soulmate who shares the same dream, and isn’t afraid to let that dream manifest, then it’s been worth keeping alive in a world that continuously tries to hunt and poach it to extinction.

They’re not hopeless because they’re pathetic, but because they’re stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the wrong company. If they can prevent their hearts from being hardened by the cold outside and keep smelling roses amidst the toxic cloud of pessimism, then they’re really not hopeless at all.

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I am Sherlocked.

I’m not usually an advocate of adaptation from literature to screen. I’ve suffered far too many disappointments, worsened by the fact that I’ve usually read the original first, and find that old cliché of ‘the book is always better’ only too true. But I’m currently reversing my usual method, having become a massive fan of the BBC’s recent modernisation of the Sherlock Holmes series, and this has yielded some unexpected results.

I’ve never seen the famous Basil Rathbone films, and am a little too young to remember the Jeremy Brett TV series’ of the eighties, although I do have vivid memories of visiting the Baker Street set on a trip to Granada Studios as a child, so that obviously made a lasting impression. But it was really Sherlock that served as my introduction to this national treasure, and now I don’t know how or why I left it undiscovered for so long.

As a lifelong avid reader, long term student of literature and Victorian novel enthusiast, I’m ashamed to admit that I have never read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s books before. They’ve always featured on my reading list of good intention but, I think as a result of my disinterest in the crime genre, have been repeatedly shuffled to the bottom in favour of something else. I only promoted them to top of the pile at the beginning of this year, and have been hungrily devouring the four novels and five volumes of short stories devoted to Sherlock Holmes ever since. I’m thoroughly enjoying the clever tales, engaging writing and have developed something of a crush on the hero himself. I’m aware that I would be of little interest to the famously asexual and emotionless consulting detective but, were I able to travel back in fictional time, I could see myself becoming a sycophantic follower as ardent as Dr. Watson himself.

I’m also impressed by how faithful the writers and actors of Sherlock have remained to the source material, especially with regard to making the most of the obvious differences and surprising similarities in the time periods concerned. Bringing it into the 21^st century may upset the purists, but to me it makes perfect sense. Holmes was a man at the cutting edge of forensic science and criminology before they were even recognised practices, and it’s fitting that he should be given the opportunity to utilise technology in furthering his brilliance. If anyone reading this is as slow to catch on as myself, I suggest you watch and read these remarkable pieces of work, I can’t recommend either highly enough.

As well as giving me a new obsession, my current reading material has also reawakened an old one. The Victorian era is probably my favourite ever when it comes to literary and cultural history, and I’ve neglected it for quite a while. In my humble opinion, some of the world’s greatest fiction was born of this fascinating, fast-developing time of immense change, when the British Empire reached its peak, industry was rife, the Pre-Raphaelites reformed art and Darwin challenged everyone’s perception of the origin of our species. It’s also been credited with defining the concept of the novel itself. I could talk about this forever, but I’ll do my best to keep it interesting, brief and to the point as I’d like you to heed my recommendations and come back and read my blog again in the future.

The writing of any time gives a clear reflection of life, and the political and social issues within it, and we need look no further than Dickens to find the stark juxtaposition of society’s richest and poorest, or the Bronte sisters to show how women had begun to seriously elevate their standing. Then there were those who wrote only of the upper classes, but used those characters to perfectly satirise their own flaws. If you have never read Oscar Wilde, stop reading this and go and do that instead. Immediately. The complete works. If The Picture of Dorian Gray doesn’t change your life, then I’m sorry to inform you that you have no soul.

Then there was the gothic revival, which brought some of my most beloved books into the world. Shelley’s Frankenstein, Stoker’s Dracula, Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and the many amazing stories of Edgar Allen Poe. The late Victorian period also saw a resurgence in children’s fantasy fiction, and I would also suggest Kipling’s The Jungle Book and Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland as essential reading for anyone, regardless of age.

There are even some outstanding examples of contemporary fiction set in the nineteenth century which I will happily endorse, such as Sarah Waters’ trilogy, Philip Pullman’s Sally Lockhart mysteries, and the epic The Crimson Petal and the White by Michel Faber. The advantage of these modern books is being able to feature all the murky, scandalous elements of society that couldn’t be discussed at the time, making them all the more compelling. These too have been very well adapted for TV, but if you must watch them, I implore you to read the books as well.

Apart from providing an irresistible window into an exciting phase of human evolution, I think what I love most about all these books are the locations themselves. Victorian London in particular presents a uniquely varied setting, where chimney sweeps, prostitutes, businessmen and bankers alike share its smoggy, cobbled streets, adorned with cloaks, top hats and corsetry, and travelling in steam trains or hackney carriages. By night, upper crust society events can be contrasted with the criminal underworld of opium dens, rippers and whore houses and it all creates such a rich setting for stories and sagas of any genre.

Maybe I’ll write one myself, and mention Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the acknowledgements, for being my muse.

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It’s grim up north.

For me, this is the second worst time of year to live 53 degrees north of the equator. First prize goes to late October, when the sun first abandons us, taking with it large amounts of my energy, health and serotonin. I bravely march out in my wellies and woollies to fight the annual war on weather, all the while giving some serious thought to absconding into hibernation.

By the time we reach the so-called ‘bleak-midwinter’, I’ve had some time to acclimatise and things don’t seem so bad. December often brings a few crisp, clear days with bright sunshine, which is always welcome, despite being so low in the sky that it causes temporary blindness and makes driving an extreme sport. The explosion of happy songs, fairy lights and daytime drinking also does something to improve my nocturnal existence, if only for a few, festive weeks.

But by the time February arrives, the perpetual frosty nightmare does make me start to wonder if I’ve accidentally crossed the border into Narnia. It seems the trees and flowers will never be resurrected and that eventually, the evil, icy tyrant will also force me into suspended animation, frozen forever in some withered statue of surrender.

I am now so sick of sleeping fully clothed, cuddling a hot water bottle under three layers of insulation; only to get up in the dark, spend the precious few daylight hours cooped up inside, then spend the evening battling against my brain’s inclination towards yet more sleep. I’d like to look up at lunchtime and see something other than the moon, assuming even that’s visible behind the thick blanket of grey cloud. Then there are the persistent chapped lips, paralysed hands, numb feet, runny nose and pallid, flaky skin. Even in summer I border on albinism, so by the time I reach the last throes of winter, I’m a curious shade of purple and could probably embark on a career as an extra, specialising in playing corpses and the undead. It would save the make up department a fortune.

I know it’s almost spring and the end’s in sight, but it’s just not close enough, as the TV meteorologists continuously warn us in their forecasts of doom.

Next time, I’m definitely defecting. Hibernation may not be the answer, but perhaps I’ll shed my coat, follow the sun and migrate south for a while. Who says birds are stupid?

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