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AMERICAN CLASSICS: EVOLUTIONARY PERSPECTIVES Evolution, Cognition, and the Arts Series Editor BRIAN BOYD (University of Auckland) Editorial Board STEVEN BROWN (McMaster University) JILL COOK (The British Museum) RICHARD GERRIG (Stony Brook University) SARAH HRDY (University of California, Davis) MARCUS NORDLUND (University of Gothenburg) ALEX C. PARRISH (James Madison University) DAVID SLOAN WILSON (Binghamton University) AMERICAN CLASSICS: EVOLUTIONARY PERSPECTIVES J U D I T H P. S A U N D E R S Boston 2018 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data The bibliographic data for this title is available from the Library of Congress. ©Judith P. Saunders, 2018 ISBN 978-1-61811-765-6 (hardback) ISBN 978-1-61811-592-8 (open access) ISBN 978-1-61811-767-0 (electronic) ISBN 978-1-61811-766-3 (paperback) Book design by Kryon Publishing Services (P) Ltd. www.kryonpublishing.com Cover design by Ivan Grave Published by Academic Studies Press 28 Montfern Avenue Brighton, MA 02135, USA press@academicstudiespress.com www.academicstudiespress.com for Lynne Liddell Doty Table of Contents Acknowledgments#8;vii Glossary#8;viii Introduction#8;x T he Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin:  1. #7; The Story of a Successful Social Animal#8; 1   2. Nepotism in Hawthorne’s “My Kinsman, Major Molineux”#8; 23   3. Biophilia in Thoreau’s Walden#8;37   4. #7; Bateman’s Principle in “Song of Myself ”: Whitman Celebrates Male Ardency#8; 61   5. Maladaptive Behavior and Auctorial Design: Huck Finn’s Pap#8; 78   6. #7; Hell’s Fury: Female Mate-Retention Strategies in Wharton’s “Pomegranate Seed” and Ethan Frome#8;97   7. #7; Male Reproductive Strategies in Sherwood Anderson’s “The Untold Lie” #8; 126  8. The Great Gatsby: An Unusual Case of Mate Poaching#8; 138   9. #7; F emale Sexual Strategies in the Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay#8; 175 10. #7; P hilosophy and Fitness: Hemingway’s “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place” and The Sun Also Rises#8;204 11. #7; P aternal Confidence in Zora Neale Hurston’s “The Gilded Six-Bits”#8; 226 12. #7; T he Role of the Arts in Male Courtship Display: Billy Collins’s “Serenade”#8; 246 Conclusion#8;253 Works Cited#8; 263 Index#8;283 Acknowledgments I   owe a debt to all those who read portions of this book at various stages of its  composition, offering much valued editorial counsel: Joseph Carroll, Anja Müller-Wood, Brian Boyd, Mathias Clasen, Patricia Tarantello, and Jonathan Gottschall. Thanks are due also to Charles Duncan and Robert Funk, organizers of many SAMLA sessions on Darwinian Literary Studies; initial versions of several chapters were first tested in that forum. I am grateful as always to my colleague Victoria Ingalls of the Marist College science faculty. Our ventures in collaborative, interdisciplinary teaching have been a consistent source of intellectual stimulation, refining my understanding of evolutionary biology. Permission to reprint chapters previously published, in whole or in part, by the following journals and presses is gratefully acknowledged: “ #7; Male Reproductive Strategies in Sherwood Anderson’s ‘The Untold Lie.’” Philosophy and Literature 31, no. 2 (2007): 311-22. Reprinted in Short Story Criticism, vol. 142, edited by Jelena Krystovic, 114-19. Detroit and New York: Gale Cengage Learning, 2011. #7;“ The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin: The Story of a Successful Social Politics and Culture Animal.” (Spring 2010): 1-6. https://politicsandculture. org/2010. “ #7; Nepotism in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ‘My Kinsman, Major Molineux.’” In Telling Stories / Geschichsten Erzählen: Literature and Evolution / Literatur und Evolution, edited by Carsten Gansel and Dirk Vanderbeke, 296-309. Berlin and Boston: De Gruyter, 2012. “ #7; Paternal Confidence in Zora Neale Hurston’s ‘The Gilded Six-Bits.’” Evolution, Literature, and Film: A Reader, edited by Brian Boyd, Joseph Carroll, and Jonathan Gottschall, 392-408. New York: Columbia University Press, 2010. #7;“Biophilia in Thoreau’s Walden. ” South Atlantic Review 79, no. 1-2 (2015): 1-24. #7;“The Role of the Arts in Male Courtship Display: Billy Collins’s ‘Serenade.’” Philosophy and Literature 41, no. 2 (October 2017): 264-71. Glossary Adaptation: a change in the structure or functioning of an organism that makes it better suited to its environment (i.e., a heritable characteristic that tends to increase the fitness of individuals possessing it). Adaptive: tending to increase the individual’s fitness (i.e., conferring an advantage in terms of survival and reproduction). Note: any adaptation was, necessarily, adaptive at some point in an organism’s evolutionary history, but changes in environment or ecological niche can reduce the benefits of a formerly advantageous adaptation. Alloparent: an individual other than a biological parent who helps to care for juveniles. Altruism: helping behavior provided at a cost to the performer (See also Selfishness.) Coefficient of relatedness: the percentage of genes, on average, that two individuals share by common descent. The coefficient of relatedness between parent and child, or between full siblings, is .5 (i.e., they share one-half of their genes). That between aunts or uncles and nephews or nieces, or between grandparent and grandchild, is .25 (they share one-fourth of their genes). Fitness: the reproductive success of an individual, commonly expressed in terms of the number of copies of his or her genes an individual succeeds in getting into the next generation. #7;Direct fitness: success resulting from the individual’s personal reproductive efforts. #7;Indirect fitness: success resulting from the reproductive efforts of relatives with whom the focal individual shares genes, weighted according to coefficients of relatedness to the focal individual. #7;Inclusive fitness: The sum of an individual’s direct and indirect reproductive success. (i.e., personal reproductive efforts and reproductive efforts of kin). Genotype: the genetic constitution of an individual organism, i.e., the organPhenotype.) full hereditary information. (See also Glossary    ix Hypergamy: marrying someone superior to oneself, typically measured by social status or material wealth. Hypogamy: marrying someone inferior to oneself, typically measured by social status or material wealth. Intersexual: between or among members of the opposite sex (i.e., intersexual conflict = conflict between men and women). Intrasexual: between or among members of the same sex. Kin selection: selection for genes causing individuals to favor close kin (i.e., selection for behaviors that increase the inclusive fitness of the performer). Nepotism: any discriminative behavior tending to favor an individual’s relatives and hence to contribute to that individual’s inclusive fitness. Parental investment: any investment by a parent in an individual offspring that increases the offspring’s chance of surviving (and of future reproductive success) at the cost of parental ability to invest elsewhere. Phenotype: the manifest nature of an organism, including morphological, physiological, and behavioral attributes. (See also Genotype.) Proximate cause of behavior: the internal reinforcing mechanism (e.g., hormonal or psychological) that triggers a behavior. (See also Ultimate cause.) Reproductive value: an individual organism’s expected future contribution to its own fitness. Residual reproductive value: an individual’s remaining reproductive value, as measured at a given point in time, taking into consideration age, sex, health, environmental conditions, and other pertinent factors. Selfishness: behavior directed toward maximizing the survival and reproductive success of the performer. (See also Altruism.) Strategy: a blind, unconscious behavior program. Ultimate cause of behavior: the reason why a specific reinforcing mechanism (i.e., the proximate cause) evolved; that is, the survival-o ing lasting enmity by reacting 22 Levin, “Puritan Experimenter,” 267. 10     American Classics with knee-jerk hostility to a hostile act perpetrated by a person “of Fortune, and Education,” he concocts a successful scheme to win the man’s regard (84). Clearly he believes that anyone aspiring to rise in status and assume leadership roles needs a strong base of social support. Thus he avoids quarrels, even when provoked, especially with those in more powerful positions than his own. He also avoids being embroiled in hostilities perpetuated by others. He refuses, for example, to print “Libelling and Personal Abuse” in his newspaper, preserving his disengagement from local strife even at the cost of immediate profits (80). Instead of seeking to dominate those around him with exhibitions of temper or hostile threats (a masculine strategy that has proven effective in some social environments), he adopts a strategy of self-control based on long-term calculation of his own best interest. Implicit in his mild-mannered rejection of aggressive methods of self-defense is this message: it may feel good, briefly, to express rage and indulge in righteous resentment, but such behavior is apt to impede efforts to build wide-based community support. Franklin does depict himself yielding to resentment on two memorable occasions. On the first of these, he dunks his friend Collins in the Delaware River for refusing to take his turn at rowing. Franklin’s atypically hostile behavior in this incident expresses his frustration with a friendship that has grown burdensome: unemployed and “sotting with Brandy,” Collins has been borrowing money “continually” (26). Giving way to his resentment decisively and aggressively, as he does, enables Franklin to terminate the friendship. He rids himself of a downwardly mobile companion whose presence in his life has become a social and financial liability. He indulges in rancor again when his courtship of a “very deserving” girl is thwarted by her parents, who refuse to meet his demands for a dowry: “I was forbidden the House, and the Daughter shut up” (55). Since the family had encouraged his suit until this point, he interprets their about-face as manipulative. In his view, they are trying to capitalize on his emotional involvement: they assume that he is “too far engag’d in Affection to retract” and that he will, in consequence, “steal a Marriage,” thus freeing them from any formal financial obligation to the young couple (55). Rejecting the role of pawn to which he suspects he has been assigned, he ends his courtship forthwith and refuses to be “drawn … on again” even when the family shows signs of relenting (56). David Levin interprets this episode as a failure on Franklin’s part to subordinate temper to long-term advantage: “he seems at last to have obeyed his own feelings of resentment rather than the economic interest that might have been served by allowing the girl’s parents Benjamin Franklin’s Autobiography    Chapter 1 11 23 to re-open negotiations.” Levin evidently overlooks the importance Franklin places on integrity in reciprocal transactions. To marry this girl would mean entering into a long-term alliance with her family, an alliance he is unwilling to forge with people who have tried to cheat him. It is not uncontrolled indignation that motivates his behavior, but self-protective caution. Cooperation is so essential to economic and social advancement that it is sometimes necessary, Franklin acknowledges, to bow to the force of numbers or circumstance. When, for instance, his companions in the composing-room at Watts’s printing-house try to collect double payment for the employee “Drink” fund, he learns that he must meet this unfair demand to protect himself from vengeful harassment: “little pieces … of mischief ” directed against him (3637). The fact that he is in the right, or that his supervisor supports his initial refusal to pay, does not matter: his antagonists outnumber him, and they have the power to make his workaday life miserable. He yields to the majority in this case, concluding that it is “Folly” to be “on ill Terms with those one is to live with continually” (37). He bends himself to majority opinion on a much larger scale, throughout most of his adult life, by suppressing his iconoclastic religious views. Disposed to “doubt of Revelation itself,” he becomes a skeptic by the age of fifteen (45). Realizing that his “indiscrete Disputations about Religion” have caused him to be “pointed at with Horror by good People, as an Infidel or Atheist,” however, he gradually begins censoring public expression of his thinking (17). In addition to “avoid[ing] all Discourse that might tend to lessen the good Opinion another might have of his own Religion,” he makes monetary contributions to “whatever … sect” solicits his help (65). Such behavior is calculated to create the socially acceptable image of a man kindly disposed toward the religious institutions flourishing in his immediate environment. There are plenty of hints in his book that the inclination to satirize traditional dogma continued to be strong in him, for example, the “little metaphysical piece” he wrote in London, condemned by his employer as “abominable,” and classified by Franklin as a youthful “erratum” (34). He is forthright about the trouble he courts with his apostasy, and he accurately senses that candor on this topic will mark him out for disfavor in his community, hindering financial and social advancement. It is his “accommodation with religion,” as Seavey observes, that 24 “made his es. Roots of “Walden,” 127-28. 55 Robinson, “Thoreau, Modernity,” 74. Biophilia in Thoreau’s Walden    Chapter 3 51 diversity e merging from underlying unity, he goes on to personify “the earth”: “inwardly” it “labors with the central “idea” of leaf (306). Taking a panoramic view, as if he were looking down at the planet’s surface, he concludes that such a perspective would reveal “still vaster leaves,” with rivers forming the veins (307). The planet as a whole appears to be a macroscopic version of the shape that is everywhere manifest in individual earthly phenomena: “Gaia is simply symbiosis seen from space,” the “global life and environment, the planetary sur56 seen as body rather than place,” Sagan and Margulis similarly contend. Thoreau regards the planet itself as a living entity: “the earth is all alive and covered with papillae” (302). He presents a modern view of the ecosystem, 57 which is “as real, as ultimate, as any genetic self.” Arguing decisively against an anthropocentric approach to existence, Thoreau reminds readers that “the universe is wider than our views of it” (320). Even the planet we inhabit is but one in “a system of earths” (10). From first to last he urges us to make peace with our personal insignificance, to recognize the “somewhat inconsequential roles” humans play “in the larger drama 58 of which they are a part.” Asking us to hoe our beans in the “light” of cosmic vastness (10), he demonstrates a “philosophical humility largely absent from 59 the predominant religions and philosophies of the day.” “All life, he feels, is one, and it is to the All, not merely the small human segment, that he wishes to 60 belong.” The recognition of universal interconnectedness can prove liberating, furthermore, because it reduces the importance of direct fitness. Since so much of the DNA in any one individual, even that in members of now extinct species, is passed on collaterally by all manner of distant relatives, the earth’s inhabitants, past, present, and future, in effect belong to a single, enormous 61 gene pool. Regarded as a multifaceted yet coherent whole, nature manifests an “unequalled fertility,” Thoreau avers, and thus “is likely to outlive all her children” (137, 138). He rejoices in the reproductive success of his multitudinous kin, expressing implicit contentment with the high degree of inclusive fitness that he, like every organism on earth, inevitably enjoys. 56 Sagan and Margulis, “God, Gaia,” 352. 57 Rolston “Biophilia, Selfish Genes,” 396. 58 Robinson, “Thoreau, Modernity,” 80. In her analysis of Thoreau’s response to emerging evolutionary science, Nina Baym comes to different conclusions, arguing that Thoreau discerned and repudiated the negative implications of Darwin’s work: he refused to accept “the irrelevance of man in the universe.” “Thoreau’s View of Science,” Journal of the History of Ideas 26, no. 2(1965), 234. 59 Robinson, “Thoreau, Modernity,” 80. 60 Krutch, Henry David Thoreau, 188. 61 Dawkins, River, 27-29; Wilson, Biophilia 43-44. 52     American Classics Taking this “wider … view” of lineage enables Thoreau to assume a nonchalant attitude toward personal fitness and, significantly, toward ensuing competition in the social arena (320). Struggles to accumulate resources and achieve status may be motivated by proximate goals of various kinds, but the ultimate goals such struggles serve are those of direct fitness: mating and reproduction. Individuals who succeed in building wealth and reputation enjoy enhanced mating opportunities and command means to rear offspring successfully. 62 Thoreau’s indifference to individual reproductive success, which reflects his perception of the extensive kinship network linking all organic life, permits him to reject “the kind of life men praise and regard as successful” (19). He need not seek to acquire elite employment, prestigious alliances, luxurious furniture, imported foods, or fashionable apparel. From the perspective of “ecological and then evolutionary change,” as Wilson observes, moment-by-moment con63 of “biography and political events … shrink steadily in proportion.” The sources of Thoreau’s disaffection with the materialism, technophilia, and professionalism dominating mid-nineteenth-century America are many-stranded, inevitably, but his biocentric analysis of the human condition provides a firm foundation for his stalwart rejection of social rewards and encumbrances. 64 Inevitably, his disparagement of community values includes unstated defiance of typical life-history assumptions: he pays scant attention in Walden to mating and parenthood, issues generally regarded as central to human endeavor. In his encounter with John Field’s large and hungry family, he indicates that his principles for living might well be consistent with providing for 65 dependents, but he does not tackle the question directly. Biographers have sought to account for his silence on this topic, speculating that romantic disappointment, homoerotic yearnings, or sexual squeamishness, for instance, might 66 account for it. Such explanations, whether true or not, fail to place Thoreau’s 62 Buss, Evolution of Desire: 22-27, 46-48, 59, 285-86. 63 Wilson, Biophilia, 144. 64 See discussions of Thoreau’s economic philosophy by Leo Stoller and Michael T. Gilmore. Leo Stoller, After “Walden”: Thoreau’s Changing Views on Economic Man (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1957); Michael T. Gilmore, “Walden and the ‘Curse of Trade,’” in Critical Essays on Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, ed. Joel Myerson (Boston: G.K. Hall, 1988). 65 Krutch notes that “there is no evidence to suggest that Thoreau … advocated universal celibacy.” Thoreau acknowledges that a person with dependents “would need more than he did … but such a man would also … need less than he thought.” Henry David Thoreau, 88. 66 Llewelyn Powys, for one, suggests that Ellen Sewell’s rejection of Thoreau’s marriage proposal “helped to dry up his already somewhat sapless nature.” “Thoreau: A Disparagement,” in Critical Essays on Henry David Thoreau’s “Walden,” ed. Joel Myerson (Boston: G.K. Hall, 1988), 55. Rich e Language of Transcendence,” Walt Whitman Review 5, no. 2 (1987): 2. 68     American Classics of children likely to be “start[ed]” by the self-acknowledged “mate … of all people” (line 137). No demand for long-term investment is anticipated, no curtailment of sexual liberty. The poem celebrates proximate goals (achieving 25 sexual pleasure) rather than ultimate ones (passing on genes via offspring). Outside the fantasyland of “Song,” a man with the sexual history reported by Whitman’s exuberantly promiscuous persona would leave behind him a trail of abandoned children (children with sub-optimal survival potential) and an equally long trail of accusatory mothers, some of whom would be accompanied by irate male relatives wielding weapons. In real-world human communities, certainly, no man could obtain access to such a vast supply of willing female partners. In the absence of committed resources and the related qualities women demand, no man—no matter how potent and attractive—could entice so many into such breathtakingly brief affairs. In “Song of Myself ” Whitman has constructed a world ideally suited to male mating behavior, a world in which there are neither tedious hindrances nor burdensome consequences to copulation. An important corollary is that there are no unwilling partners. He endows a larger-than-life male figure with persistent sexual appetite, “tenacious” and “tireless,” then places him in an environment packed with potential short-term partners who are unable to resist him (line 147). 26 He “cannot be shaken away” and is “not to be denied” (lines 147, 999). Indeed, he is besieged by a host of eager suitors: “my lovers suffocate me,” he exclaims in mock complaint (line 1172). They are “crowding” and “jostling” him, “coming naked” to him “at night,” “calling [his] name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush”; they cover his body with kisses and offer him “handfuls out of their hearts” (lines 1173-79). Even elemental forces desire him. The “crooked inviting fingers” of the incoming tide “refuse to go back without feeling” him (lines 449, 450). Readers must notice yet another unrealistic component to the world Whitman presents in “Song”: there is no competition for mating opportunities. 25 Martin places the “nonprocreative sexual behavior” featured throughout Leaves of Grass in a sociopolitical context, arguing that the poet’s homoerotic vision offers an important challenge to capitalistic productivity, competitive aggressiveness, and power-hungry progress. Homosexual Tradition, 21-22, 69-70. 26 James E. Miller, Jr. discusses the “gigantic” features of Whitman’s protagonist, pointing to descriptions emphasizing literal hugeness, e.g., “my elbows rest in sea-gaps, / I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents” (715-16). Miller argues that these “superhuman proportions” help to delineate an “archetypal New World personality.” Critical Guide, 199. Given the persistent celebration in “Song” of male genitalia, male arousal, and male promiscuity, however, it seems important to supplement this reading. Whatever else they may signal, the “superhuman proportions” of the persona in “Song” represent Whitman’s homage to a larger-thanlife masculinity. Bateman’s Principle in “Song of Myself”    Chapter 4 69 In the context of ordinary life, ardent males must contend with equally ardent rivals. To be chosen as a woman’s partner, even temporarily, a man must offer more—in terms of personal attributes, material resources, or social benefits, 27 for instance—than his competitors can provide. Frequently he must overcome resistance from men defending exclusive sexual access. Amazingly, however, Whitman’s amorous protagonist encounters neither rivals nor prior claims. Even when he decides to displace a young husband from his conjugal pleasures, that is, to “turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride … /  … tighten her all night to [his] thighs and lips,” he does so with impunity (lines 818-19). Here he depicts a new husband on his wedding night, about to reap the rewards of courtship, mate guarding, and commitment—a man who has worked to ensure paternity and is now engaged in the critical process of insemination. The bridegroom’s direct fitness is threatened by a sexual interloper, a circumstance in which men often resort to “lethal violence,” yet he registers no 28 objection and offers no resistance. In this scene, biological adaptations are absurdly suspended. Social and legal forces that support the sexually exclusive privileges of long-term mating similarly fail to become operational. Whitman’s lusty persona enjoys inexplicably universal access to a seemingly endless series of temporary partners. He inhabits a utopian environment that permits uninhibited expression of his erotic desires. Those he woos never measure his attractions against those of other suitors or resent the brevity of his attentions, and he need never defeat or outwit challengers. He is the only sexual aggressor in the universe of the poem. There is no denying that the fantasy-driven environment of “Song,” like the prototypically ardent behavior of its persona, is admirably suited to transmit Whitman’s spiritual and political themes. The pursuit of pantheistic and national connectedness demands an all-inclusive approach. Naturally, the individual soul wishes to achieve a simultaneously material and immaterial oneness with as many phenomena in the cosmos as possible. Naturally, the individual citizen wants to unite with a large and diverse group of compatriots. Equally obviously, those with whom the soul or citizen desires to join will not resist: universal connectedness is, and must be, the highest goal for all. Neither competition nor choosiness would make sense in the spiritual and political realms Whitman presents, since the absolute value of each individual point in the vaster network—whether of divinity or democracy—is rsity Press, 1996), 277, 278. 30 Buss, Evolution of Desire, 103, 102. 116     American Classics witchlike qualities. Although no direct comparison is offered, readers must notice that Zeena corresponds physically to the stereotypical witch: gaunt, 31 wrinkled, toothless, and supremely ugly. Her malicious nature is equally stereotypical, particularly when considered in tandem with her ascendancy over Ethan. In an era when husbands assumed legal and social authority over their wives, Zeena wields a remarkable degree of power in her marriage. Her radical departure from the gentle, compliant, and nurturing behavior associated with womanliness contributes to the impression that she, like Elsie Ashby, has inverted traditional, or socially idealized, husband-wife relationships—another 32 demonic attribute. To Ethan, Zeena’s possessive and commanding presence constitutes “an oppressive reality” (43). His sense of entrapment, reinforced by the harsh climate of Starkfield and by inescapable poverty, is exacerbated by her possessiveness. Secretiveness serves to magnify her manipulative and controlling nature, rendering her mysterious and unknowable: “nobody can tell with Zeena”; “nobody knows Zeena’s thoughts” (102, 193). She has a “way of letting things happen without seeming to remark them, and then, weeks afterward, in a casual phrase, revealing that she had all along taken her notes and drawn her inferences” (43). Her silence is more menacing than her nagging, for it appears “deliberately assumed to conceal far-reaching intentions, mysterious conclusions” (78). Zeena also keeps a cat, and this pet animal functions very much like a witch’s familiar. During her overnight absence from the farm, when Ethan 31 Ammons was among the first to observe that Zeena is “the perfect witch of nursery lore,” complete with “stealthy, destructive” pet cat. Edith Wharton’s Argument with America (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1980), 64. Benjamin K. Fisher similarly points out that Zeena’s “physique” and “psychological make-up” suggest those of a witch or vampire. “Transitions from Victorian to Modern: The Supernatural Stories of Mary Wilkins Freeman and Edith Wharton,” in American Supernatural Fiction: From Edith Wharton to the “Weird Tales” Writers, ed. Douglas Robillard (New York: Garland, 1996), 28. 32 See Singley and Sweeny’s discussion of Elsie’s “oddly masculine traits.” “Forbidden Reading,” 183. Young offers similar comments on Elsie’s “gender-neutrality” and “androgynous” characters in “Repudiation of Sisterhood,” 7. Stuart Clark notes that both “scholarly demonology” and “romantic fiction” emphasize that witches do “everything backwards.” Such “reversal of customary priories” frequently includes an “exchange of sex roles.” “Inversion, Misrule and the Meaning of Witchcraft,” in The Witchcraft Reader, 2nd ed., ed. Darren Oldridge (London and New York: Routledge, 2008), 121. Elaborating on this point, Louise Jackson describes historical examples of women accused of witchcraft for “failure to conform to the accepted norms of female behavior.” The witch was “the stereotypical opposite of the good wife ... asserting her own powers ... to gain financial reward or carry out revenge.” “Witches, Wives and Mothers,” in The Witchcraft Reader, 2nd ed., ed. Darren Oldridge (London and New York: Routledge, 2008), 311, 314. Hell’s Fury    Chapter 6 117 dreams of enjoying a peaceful and potentially romantic evening alone with Mattie, Zeena’s pet persistently reminds the would-be lovers of its missing mistress, apparently exercising watchfulness on her behalf: “the cat, unbidden, jumped between them into Zeena’s empty chair” (90, emphasis added). Later in the evening, when “a counter-current” of erotic tension begins to grow between Ethan and Mattie, the cat again interrupts them by leaping precipitously from Zeena’s chair: “as a result of the sudden movement the empty chair had set up a spectral rocking” (103). Ghostlike, the spirit of the absent wife seems to enter the room, forbidding illicit intimacy: “she’ll be rocking in it herself this time to-morrow,” Ethan reminds himself (103). Repeatedly, the cat demonstrates an ability to conjure Zeena’s presence, effectively restraining the young people’s ardency. The animal’s intervention is particularly important because this unchaperoned evening offers Ethan and Mattie an unprecedented opportunity to avow and consummate their love. It is in Zeena’s interest to prevent such consummation and its potential long-term consequences, most obviously conception and subsequent parental investment from Ethan. Her vigorous efforts to prevent Ethan from driving Mattie to the train station, two days later, similarly evince her concern that privacy may foster intimacy. Her willingness to leave the two young people alone together on this occasion, aware though she is of their mutual attraction, is explained and justified by her pet cat’s uncanny power to intervene for her. With its help, she effectively haunts her husband, 33 projecting her forbidding presence into the home they share. The spectral features of Zeena’s intrusion unnerve Ethan and Mattie even more than do the social strictures her ghostly appearance summons up, repeatedly draining a sexually charged evening of energy and momentum. Narrative details emphasize that both Ethan and Mattie have made lover-like preparations for their evening together, investing anticipatory emotion in this singular opportunity. Ethan acknowledges that he and Mattie had experienced “a thirst for each other in their hearts” on the preceding night, walking home from the village (84). Now “for the first time they would be alone together indoors ... like a married couple.” He revels in “the sweetness of the picture,” which focuses on domestic companionability but also includes lustful components (73). He is surprised and “ashamed,” tellingly, when he experiences a “storm of jealousy” at the suspicion that Denis Eady may be visiting Mattie that afternoon (83). For her part, Mattie goes to extra trouble with her appearance, calling 33 As Ammons notes, Zeena is “almost a sorceress in her ability to control the fates of others, possessed of the power, seemingly, to co York: Viking Press, 1966), 204. All citations refer to this edition. 128    American Classics The stated difference in social standing appears to derive from the two families’ differing records of conduct. Hal’s aggressive propensities seem to be at least in part hereditary. He is “the worst” of three notoriously “bad” brothers, all sired by “a confirmed old reprobate” (203, 202). The father, old Windpeter Winters, is remembered best for the gratuitous violence of his death. Drunk, he drove his team of horses along the railroad tracks straight into the path of an oncoming train, having slashed with his whip at a neighbor who tried to deter him from his suicidal course. His death is described as an act of senseless bravado. Like an Ahab without a cause, he pits himself against a gargantuan opponent, refusing to yield: “They said that old Windpeter stood up on the seat of his wagon, raving and swearing at the onrushing locomotive, and that he fairly screamed with delight when the team, maddened by his incessant slashing at them, rushed straight ahead to certain death” (203). There is no purpose to this insane contest between man and machine, but as a display of male competitive drive it wins old Windpeter a considerable degree of local fame. “Although everyone … said that the old man would go straight to hell and that the community was better off without him, they had a secret conviction that he knew what he was doing and admired his foolish courage” (203). Anderson points out that young men, especially, tend to value the raw, risk-taking aggression inspiring an act like Windpeter’s: “Most boys have seasons of wishing they could die gloriously instead of just being grocery clerks and going on with their humdrum lives” (203). Grotesque, bloody, and pointless, the image of a man going head-to-head with a smoke-belching monster lives as a magnetic moment in the community’s history. The behavioral tendencies prompting Windpeter’s final deed clearly did not profit him much during a lifetime spent in a twentieth-century American small town, but his recklessly combative pursuit of dominance might have paid off hugely in the ancestral environment. The secret admiration posthumously accorded him demonstrates residual respect felt by contemporary humans for qualities that once could have won access to resources, status, and women. The lingering hero-worship surrounding Windpeter Winters’s “unusual and tragic death” furthermore helps to explain why his son Hal, well on his way to establishing a reputation much like his father’s, has been successful in attracting female attention (202). When the story begins, the notoriously ardent Hal has “already been in two or three of what were spoken of in Winesburg as ‘women scrapes’” (204). Young as he is, evidently he has Male Reproductive Strategies    Chapter 7 129 fathered several children, but he has chosen not to invest in them. Instead he has taken advantage of a series of short-term mating opportunities, leaving the resulting offspring to the sole care of their mothers. Appropriately, readers do not learn the fate of the pregnancies for which Hal is said to be responsible; he himself presumably does not know for sure the results of his seduce-and-abandon reproductive strategy. With luck, however, he may at the age of twenty-two already have achieved nearly half the reproductive success of his faithfully investing counterpart, the fifty-year-old Ray. Ray’s current fitness (expressed numerically as the number of copies of his genes he has managed to get into the next generation) may be calculated as 3.0, and Hal’s—with somewhat less certainty—as between 1.0 and 1.5. “As long as his deserted [mates] have any chance of bringing up some of the children,” Dawkins points out in The Selfish Gene, “the philanderer stands to pass on 5 more genes than a rival male who is an honest husband and father.” Even in the face of widespread gossip condemning behavior the community perceives as outrageous, Hal continues to enjoy intimacies with Winesburg women, including some whose social rank is much more “respectable” than his own. When the story begins, he has taken work at the farm employing Ray Pearson simply to be in convenient proximity to a schoolteacher who has “taken his fancy” (204). Already the locals predict Nell Gunther’s probable fate: “He’ll only get her into trouble, you’ll see, was the word that went around” (204). Like the other young women who have accepted Hal’s attentions despite clear risk of abandonment, Nell evidently is willing to sacrifice 6 parental investment for genetic quality. She appears to be exercising what Dawkins calls the “he-man strategy,” rather than the “domestic-bliss strategy” 7 8 in mate selection. Possessing many “predictors of competitive success,” Hal appeals to women in part due to the very traits that foster his “bad” reputation. Bold and swaggering, large and tough, he is careless of rules and unintimidated by authority. His attributes correspond well to those that research has identified as attractive to potential mates: “larger, more muscular and more athletic 9 than … peers, and more dominant in personality.” Getting involved with Hal 5 Dawkins, Selfish Gene, 154. 6 David. M. Buss and David. P. Schmitt, “Sexual Strategies Theory: An Evolutionary Perspective on Human Mating,” Psychological Review 100 (1993): 214, 224. Selfish Gene, 7 Dawkins, 149. 8 Daly and Wilson, Sex, Evolution, 303. 9 Infants, and Natural Selection (New York: Pantheon Books, 1999), 262. The Great Gatsby    Chapter 8 165 his obsessive devotion, even as it censures the woman’s indifference to her d estructive attractions. Daisy drives Gatsby’s life off-course twice by choosing Tom Buchanan over him: his inextinguishable yearning to possess her ends in his destruction. The comparison between Daisy and mythological monsters thus supports auctorial judgments on the novel’s characters. At the same time that they represent deadly danger, paradoxically, sirens embody female preciousness. Calling from a distance, they rely on their singing to telegraph their beauty and so to stimulate male desire. Physical beauty, of course—displaced in the sirens’ case from facial and bodily features to vocal qualities—provides the single most important cue to female reproductive capacity: this is why it triggers an ardent response in men. 58 Men labor and compete to gain access to beautiful (i.e., fertile) women. They will dash themselves upon the rocks, figuratively speaking, in pursuit of the youthful, healthy, facially symmetrical, small-waisted, and wide-hipped females who hold the key to their fitness. Fertile women are dangerous precisely because they are so valuable: the desire to possess them moves men, willy-nilly, to engage in energy-sapping and high-risk behavior. Like the singing of Homeric sirens, the unusually desirable Daisy’s “deathless song” tantalizes suitors seeking immortality for their DNA (75). Gatsby describes her great worth metaphorically—and aptly, given the centrality of wealth to the novel’s setting and plot—when he tells Nick that “her voice is full of money” (94). The many references to the “magic” of Daisy’s voice culminate in this statement, which Nick greets as a revelatory insight: “that was it” (84, 94). The “jingle” of coins men hear when she speaks, the “cymbals’ song” of “a white palace” and a “king’s daughter,” signal wealth and status (94). These augment and underline, via metaphor, the sexual benefits simultaneously conveyed by her voice: that “feverish warmth” and promise of “amour” (94, 61). She is, as Gatsby recognizes from the start, a doubly worthy object of desire. Her biologically attractive qualities (youth, health, beauty) are accompanied by socially attractive ones (material possessions, high status, elite networks, community regard). She offers an ideal combination of intrinsic and extrinsic worth. Gatsby’s fixation on her, which continues even after he becomes well able to woo other, more available and more amenable partners, is grounded in his initial, overwhelming impression of Daisy as “the golden girl,” a top prize in the stakes for fitness (94). For reproductively explicable reasons, she exercises siren-like appeal for him; her very voice spills over with confirmation of her high value. 58 Buss, Evolution of Desire, 52-58. 166    American Classics The most unusual feature, by far, of Gatsby’s pursuit of Daisy Buchanan is the self-deception driving it. Having formulated a three-year plan to seduce another man’s wife, he never admits that he is engaged in an act of mate poaching. Such poaching is, as Buss explains, “a common mating strategy.” “Glamorous, interesting, attractive, socially skilled people” are in short supply, inevitably, because they are identified, courted, and removed from “the 59 marriage market” with great rapidity. Those who fail to secure high-value mates on the first go-round, consequently, often tempt the already-married to make new choices. Gatsby does not admit that his goal is so ordinary, that is, to persuade an especially desirable woman to abandon her marriage in order to form a new bond with him. Instead he explains his goal to himself, to Daisy, and to onlookers in terms of time-travel. Turning back the clock, he and Daisy will find themselves at “the starting place” in 1917, about to begin their life together as a couple (86). They will “be married from her house” in Louisville “just as if it were five years ago” (86). Gatsby intends to “fix everything just the way it was before” (86). His goal is nothing less than to revise history by wiping out a selected piece of the past. His conviction that this is possible, that he actually can undo temporal progression, illustrates with astounding clarity the selfdeceiving powers of the human mind. Except with regard to his relationship with Daisy, moreover, Gatsby’s conception of time is rational and undistorted. He does not assume, for instance, that his hard-won wealth will disappear when he and Daisy start afresh. His false ideation is caused by selective self-deception rather than by pervasive mental derangement. Evolutionary psychology helps to explain the origin and function of his deluded thinking. Robert Trivers neatly sums up self-deception as “the active misrepre60 of reality to the conscious mind.” The principal “reality” Gatsby seeks to misrepresent is Daisy Fay’s marriage to Tom Buchanan. The imaginary do-over, once the clock has been set back, will expunge that union from Daisy’s personal history. Obliterating the Buchanan marriage is vitally important to Gatsby because he views Daisy as belonging to him, in all but the legal sense, by virtue of prior claim. Emotionally “he felt married to her” after their mutual declarations of love and future intent: he “had committed himself ” and has reason to think she has done the same (117, 116). This conviction is the 61 foundation of the “fictitious narratives of intention” he thereafter constructs. 59 Ibid., 265, 264. 60 Robert Trivers, “Self-Deception in Service of Deceit,” in Natural Selection and Social Theory: Selected Papers of Robert Trivers (Oxford: O rformance Art,” 71. 24 Wendy Martin, “Brett Ashley as New Woman,” 51. 216    American Classics c haracterized by “a kind of nothingness at its center, a lack—figured most 25 clearly in Jake’s wound.” A discrete instance of damage wrought by World War I, the maiming of one man’s genitals points implicitly to larger-scale destructive effects: the war has eradicated the source of life itself. All hope of continuity, of regeneration, is lost. On the individual level, Jake suffers the loss of his potential genetic legacy. No replication of his DNA can occur; he will leave no descendents. Evolutionarily, he has been deprived of a future. His situation is echoed in the sense of powerlessness and finality infecting most of the novel’s characters—as well as, presumably, a large proportion of the postwar population. Hemingway’s fictional people inhabit, Michael S. Reynolds observes, “a world not of their own making” a world tainted by “the broken promises of 26 political leaders” and bereft of any sustaining “system of belief.” In one way or another, as Hemingway confided in a letter, “the people [he] wrote of were 27 certainly burned out, hollow and smashed.” Although “life is intrinsically future-oriented,” as Trivers points out, the expatriate drifters in Sun have lost the ability to act on this fact. Thus they are deprived of the benefits associated with “perceived ability to affect an outcome,” 28 including an “optimistic view of the future.” Oppressed by what Jake famously describes as “a feeling of things coming that you could not prevent happening,” a feeling originating in the recent war, they make little effort to shape their personal life histories beyond the immediate present (146). In a world without a future, action is drained of purpose. “Spiritual bankrupts,” as Michael S. Reynolds dubs them, the characters wander from place to place and from drink to drink, leading an alcohol-blurred existence devoid of serious obligation, definitive plan, or 29 optimistic anticipation. Like the old man in “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,” they “utilize” alcohol as an anesthetic to help them “forget, for a moment, the anguish 30 and emptiness at the heart of their existence” (128). The devastation of Jake Barnes’s personal procreative potential serves as vivid correlative to the overriding sense of foreclosed possibilities attributed to the war. 25 George Cheatham, “‘Sign the Wire with Love’: The Morality of Surplus in The Sun Also Rises,” in Ernest Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises”: A Casebook, ed. Linda Wagner-Martin (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 103. 26 Michael S. Reynolds, “The Sun Also Rises”: A Novel of the Twenties (Boston: Twayne, 1988), 7. 27 Ernest Hemingway to Grace Hemingway, 5 February 1927, in Selected Letters 1917-1961, ed. Carlos Baker (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1981), 243. 28 Trivers, “Self-Deception” 285. 29 Reynolds, “The Sun Also Rises” 6. 30 Schmigalle, “‘How People Go to Hell,’” 10. Philosophy and Fitness    Chapter 10 217 The reproductive nada confronting the central couple, Jake and Brett, is a problem that cannot be solved. The novel’s plot defies classic outlines by highlighting a never-to-be-resolved predicament. The persistence of that predicament is reflected in the circular structure of the narrative, which begins and ends with the two characters riding in a taxi, without a destination, discussing their thwarted mutual desire. Their relationship has no procreative potential, a personal manifestation of the lost future. In fact, that potential was blasted even before they met: Brett met Jake in the hospital during her wartime nursing service, after he had sustained his injury. The love they cannot consummate represents, even more conspicuously than any of the other pairings in the novel, a futile expenditure of erotic feeling. Because there is no way out of their difficulty, the novel’s central action is essentially static, creating “that feeling of going through something that has all happened before” (64). Jake cycles through periods of despair, resignation, and bitterness, while Brett gets involved with one man after another. They agree to keep away from each other but continue, despite that intention, to torture themselves periodically with kisses, close body contact (such as dancing), and intimate conversation. Jake’s and Brett’s inability to achieve sexual satisfaction through means other than intercourse is significant. “Isn’t there anything we could do about it?” Jake asks, near the beginning of the narrative, when Brett tells him that her tormented desire for him remains unabated (26). She replies that she doesn’t “want to go through that hell again,” implying that they have tried alternative means of erotic gratification, only to find their frustration exacerbated (26). This insistence that intercourse alone can provide the sought-for release emphasizes the psychological and symbolic centrality of procreation in the novel. It is biological continuity (an ultimate goal) more than sexual passion (a proximate mechanism) that is missing. The suffering caused by unquenched and forever unquenchable erotic desire underlines the sense of futility permeating the book, and the inability of the protagonists to create new life together adds a note of finality to the sweeping depiction of 31 irretrievable waste. As the character whose injury dramatizes the devastating after-effects of war, Jake offers readers considerable access to his emotional responses and 31 Fore analyzes the couple’s sexual difficulties from the perspective of proximal pleasure, pointing out that by using nontraditional means of gratification “Brett and Jake can end their torment and be together in all senses of the work: sex is not impossible between them.” Such a solution to their problems would not, of course, render their n,” 252; Trivers, “Parental Investment and Reproductive Success,” 74. 236    American Classics convince his wife that he will not tolerate sexual transgressions. If he were to offer her quick or easy forgiveness, he would risk licensing future extramarital escapades on her part. In any cooperative alliance, as Dawkins points out in his analysis of tit-for-tat strategies, it is necessary that individuals be 34 “punished for defection” or cheating will become rampant. Another effect of Joe’s behavior is to test the degree of Missie May’s commitment to him. Without resorting to either rudeness or violence, he nevertheless succeeds in making his wife extremely uncomfortable. She has no idea when, if ever, his withholding behavior and silent rebukes will end. By putting up with an extended period of coldness and by suffering the insults represented by the coin, she acknowledges fault, communicates remorse, and affirms loyalty. The longer Joe tests her, the more convincingly she proves that the marriage is valuable to her and that she is willing to endure discomfort to win back his trust. Both partners in the marriage are engaged in a waiting game. Joe is waiting to see whether Missie May will offer adequate proof of ongoing commitment, while she in turn is waiting to see when and if his resentment of her fault will be healed. Psychologically, this waiting makes sense on both sides: the rift caused by Joe’s mistrust can be repaired only gradually, as Missie May’s “displays of fidelity” over time provide persuasive evidence of 35 her renewed commitment to sexual exclusiveness. The plot takes another turn at this point, as Hurston introduces an evolutionarily critical complication: Joe observes that his wife is showing signs of pregnancy. Before the incident with Slemmons, he had been wishing for exactly this state of affairs: “He thought about children. … A little boy child would be about right” (92). Now, of course, his wife’s pregnancy is a source of great ambivalence for him. Whose child is she carrying? Neither Joe nor the reader knows for certain whether Missie May’s affair with Slemmons involved more than the single sexual encounter that Joe interrupts. There is no evidence, certainly, that they were together often or long. It is possible, of course, that conception occurred on the one occasion when Joe found her in bed with Slemmons. His wife’s pregnancy therefore poses a fitness-related dilemma for Joe. If the baby is his, he longs to nurture it and its mother; if it is Slemmons’s baby, he has no such wishes. Joe takes over the heavy chores (“you ain’t got no business choppin’ wood, and you know it,” he avers), a precautionary move to safeguard the health of a fetus that may well be his (96). At the same time, 34 Dawkins, Selfish Gene, 227. 35 Buss, Evolution of Desire, 114. Paternal Confidence in Hurston’s “The Gilded Six-Bits”    Chapter 11 237 h owever, he lets his wife know that he remains wary of investing in this pregnancy. Questioning her assertion that the baby will be sure to resemble him (“You reckon?”), he fingers the gilded coin he still keeps in his pocket. This serves as a deliberate reminder of her infidelity, making his reservations, and their cause, unmistakably plain. From readers’ point of view, it should be noted, there is a frustrating element of imprecision in the timeline of Missie May’s pregnancy. Joe notices the pregnancy at about the three-and-a-half-month mark, since she gives birth “almost six months later” (96). A vague reference to passage of time between the resumption of their conjugal relations and his observation of her condition introduces a slight question as to whether more than nine months elapse between her affair and the birth of the child: “the sun swept around the horizon, trailing its robes of weeks and days” (95-96). Joe’s openly expressed doubts about the child’s paternity offer evidence that readers are expected to interpret those “trailing … robes” of time as a relatively brief period—that is, less than a month. Joe can do the arithmetic for himself, obviously, and his continued worries indicate that numerical calculations alone will not suffice to eliminate Slemmons from the running as father. Quite apart from any nine-month countdown, moreover, the suspicions awakened by his wife’s infidelity work to create a generalized distrust on Joe’s part: a wife guilty on one occasion of sexual disloyalty may prove so again. For the best of reasons Joe’s anxieties about paternity loom large. German reads the “trailing … robes of weeks and days” as a fairly extensive period of time, and he concludes that Joe is sure Slemmons cannot be the 36 baby’s father (10). Such a reading is undermined by Joe’s openly articulated concerns about the child’s paternity; it introduces a further temporal complication, moreover. If the vaguely denoted “weeks and days” represent any amount of time between four and ten weeks, then Joe absolutely cannot be the father, since conception would have occurred during the three-month period of conjugal abstinence. It seems likely, on balance, that the confusion generated by the narrator’s reference to “weeks and days” is accidental and that the more definitely noted time periods (e.g., three months, six months) are those to which readers are expected to attend. Hurston assigns to Joe’s mother the central role in relieving his doubts. Because a man’s relatives also stand to lose if he invests in offspring not his own, it is adaptive for them to maintain Glenn Geher and Geoffrey Miller (New York: Taylor and Francis, 2007). Conclusion A dozen examples of Literary Darwinism at work should suffice to   suggest the wide variety of concerns it can address. A common misperception of the evolutionary approach is that it confines itself to a small number of topics directly connected to mating and reproduction; a related erroneous assumption is that it is limited in practical application and reductive in its interpretive conclusions. Since human physical and mental design is the result of natural selection over time, however, every aspect of human physiological and psychological experience necessarily invites evolutionary examination. Literary investigation based on evolutionary principles encompasses the whole range of human motivation and activity, as does evolutionary science itself. “The idea that the evolutionary causation of behavior would lead to rigid, inflexible behavior is the opposite of the truth,” as research in psychology, ethnography, and cognition 1 has demonstrated. In literature, as in life, “richly contingent systems” for making choices and decisions can be observed operating “in different com2 to elicit a dazzling variety of behavioral responses.” The myriad possible permutations on human behavior are particularly evident in literary art, where the psychological makeup of authors and readers, as well as that of fictional characters, comes into play. There are likely to be at least three distinct mental identities busy observing, assessing, and interpreting any narrative situation: the author’s and the reader’s, plus one or more mental identities embedded in the text as character, speaker, or narrator. Indeed, literature focuses as much on the mind’s interpretive endeavors—often self-deceiving, always self-interested—as much as on events and situations. Ever-recurring human aspirations and problems are situated in particular cultural contexts, 1 Tooby and Cosmides, “Conceptual Foundations,” 13. 2 Ibid., 13, 14. 254    Conclusion moreover: literary works show adaptive strategies and proximate mechanisms responding to pressures exerted by local customs and norms. Tension between individual goals and collectively imposed constraints is a constant in the life of a social animal dependent for survival on varying forms of cooperative enterprise and hierarchical sharing. Behavior that proves adaptive in one time or place may prove less so in another. Consciously and unconsciously, individuals tend to adjust their behavior, and even their avowed motives, so as to wrest maximum advantage from prevailing social conditions. It is not accidental that literary works so often explore conflicts between self and group, including the challenges posed to individual fitness by status struggles, shifting alliances, and community ethos. No matter how exotic the cultural setting (real or imagined) or how eccentric the individual character, in any literary work these are susceptible to evolutionary analysis. Motive and behavior can be traced back to ultimate causes, that is, to the fitness purposes they evolved to serve; obstacles to adaptive behavior can be investigated and strategic conflicts between individual interests identified. The activity of the mind itself can be explored as it responds to external and internal pressures: protracted interior debate; delusional thinking and projection; counterfactual revisions of personal memory and life-history narratives; successful and unsuccessful efforts at mind reading; elaborate construction of alternative realities or excursions into fantasy. Considering the possible evolutionary basis and adaptive significance of settings, actions, crises, and conflicts depicted in literary works, even when these appear to be far removed from reproductive issues, nearly always leads to useful insights into auctorial purpose and design: it illumines the human and aesthetic concerns at stake in a specific story, play, or poem. Evolutionary analysis helps to explain why readers respond as they do to particular characters and their plights: how characters’ seemingly bizarre behavior may serve ultimate ends, how authors allocate sympathy and judgment. Finally, literature provides a forum in which the human mind grapples with impulses and preferences that elude conscious understanding and deliberate choice—impulses and preferences that evolved to serve the replicatory imper3 of genes rather than the contentment of individual “survival machines.” In sum, literary art necessarily addresses universal aspirations and dilemmas, at the same time exploring an extensive repertoire of behavioral responses, in all its “dazzling variety,” to recurring human situations. Numerous works may feature the same or similar pred