The Language Instinct: How the Mind Creates Language

  Hasty dismissals aside, Chomsky raises a real issue when he brings up alternatives to natural selection. Thoughtful evolutionary theorists since Darwin have been adamant that not every beneficial trait is an adaptation to be explained by natural selection. When a flying fish leaves the water, it is extremely adaptive for it to reenter the water. But we do not need natural selection to explain this happy event; gravity will do just fine. Other traits, too, need an explanation different from selection. Sometimes a trait is not an adaptation in itself but a consequence of something else that is an adaptation. There is no advantage to our bones being white instead of green, but there is an advantage to our bones being rigid; building them out of calcium is one way to make them rigid, and calcium happens to be white. Sometimes a trait is constrained by its history, like the S-bend in our spine that we inherited when four legs became bad and two legs good. Many traits may just be impossible to grow within the constraints of a body plan and the way the genes build the body. The biologist J.B.S. Haldane once said that there are two reasons why humans do not turn into angels: moral imperfection and a body plan that cannot accommodate both arms and wings. And sometimes a trait comes about by dumb luck. If enough time passes in a small population of organisms, all kinds of coincidences will be preserved in it, a process called genetic drift. For example, in a particular generation all the stripeless organisms might be hit by lightning or die without issue; stripedness will reign thereafter, whatever its advantages or disadvantages.

  Stephen Jay Gould and Richard Lewontin have accused biologists (unfairly, most believe) of ignoring these alternative forces and putting too much stock in natural selection. They ridicule such explanations as “just-so stories,” an allusion to Kipling’s whimsical tales of how various animals got their body parts. Gould and Lewontin’s essays have been influential in the cognitive sciences, and Chomsky’s skepticism that natural selection can explain human language is in the spirit of their critique.

  But Gould and Lewontin’s potshots do not provide a useful model of how to reason about the evolution of a complex trait. One of their goals was to undermine theories of human behavior that they envisioned as having right-wing political implications. The critiques also reflect their day-to-day professional concerns. Gould is a paleontologist, and paleontologists study organisms after they have turned into rocks. They look more at grand patterns in the history of life than at the workings of an individual’s long-defunct organs. When they discover, for example, that the dinosaurs were extinguished by an asteroid slamming into the earth and blacking out the sun, small differences in reproductive advantages understandably seem beside the point. Lewontin is a geneticist, and geneticists tend to look at the raw code of the genes and their statistical variation in a population, rather than the complex organs they build. Adaptation can seem like a minor force to them, just as someone examining the 1’s and 0’s of a computer program in machine language without knowing what the program does might conclude that the patterns are without design. The mainstream in modern evolutionary biology is better represented by biologists like George Williams, John Maynard Smith, and Ernst Mayr, who are concerned with the design of whole living organisms. Their consensus is that natural selection has a very special place in evolution, and that the existence of alternatives does not mean that the explanation of a biological trait is up for grabs, depending only on the taste of the explainer.

  The biologist Richard Dawkins has explained this reasoning lucidly in his book The Blind Watchmaker. Dawkins notes that the fundamental problem of biology is to explain “complex design.” The problem was appreciated well before Darwin. The theologian William Paley wrote:

  In crossing a heath, suppose I pitched my foot against a stone, and were asked how the stone came to be there; I might possibly answer, that, for anything I knew to the contrary, it had lain there for ever: nor would it perhaps be very easy to show the absurdity of this answer. But suppose I had found a watch upon the ground, and it should be inquired how the watch happened to be in that place; I should hardly think of the answer which I had before given, that for anything I knew, the watch might have always been there.

  Paley noted that a watch has a delicate arrangement of tiny gears and springs that function together to indicate the time. Bits of rock do not spontaneously exude metal which forms itself into gears and springs which then hop into an arrangement that keeps time. We are forced to conclude that the watch had an artificer who designed the watch with the goal of timekeeping in mind. But an organ like an eye is even more complexly and purposefully designed than a watch. The eye has a transparent protective cornea, a focusing lens, a light-sensitive retina at the focal plane of the lens, an iris whose diameter changes with the illumination, muscles that move one eye in tandem with the other, and neural circuits that detect edges, color, motion, and depth. It is impossible to make sense of the eye without noting that it appears to have been designed for seeing—if for no other reason than that it displays an uncanny resemblance to the man-made camera. If a watch entails a watchmaker and a camera entails a cameramaker, then an eye entails an eyemaker, namely God. Biologists today do not disagree with Paley’s laying out of the problem. They disagree only with his solution. Darwin is history’s most important biologist because he showed how such “organs of extreme perfection and complication” could arise from the purely physical process of natural selection.

  And here is the key point. Natural selection is not just a scientifically respectable alternative to divine creation. It is the only alternative that can explain the evolution of a complex organ like the eye. The reason that the choice is so stark—God or natural selection—is that structures that can do what the eye does are extremely low-probability arrangements of matter. By an unimaginably large margin, most objects thrown together out of generic stuff, even generic animal stuff, cannot bring an image into focus, modulate incoming light, and detect edges and depth boundaries. The animal stuff in an eye seems to have been assembled with the goal of seeing in mind—but in whose mind, if not God’s? How else could the mere goal of seeing well cause something to see well? The very special power of natural selection is to remove the paradox. What causes eyes to see well now is that they descended from a long line of ancestors that saw a bit better than their rivals, which allowed them to out-reproduce those rivals. The small random improvements in seeing were retained and combined and concentrated over the eons, leading to better and better eyes. The ability of many ancestors to see a bit better in the past causes a single organism to see extremely well now.

  Another way of putting it is that natural selection is the only process that can steer a lineage of organisms along the path in the astronomically vast space of possible bodies leading from a body with no eye to a body with a functioning eye. The alternatives to natural selection can, in contrast, only grope randomly. The odds that the coincidences of genetic drift would result in just the right genes coming together to build a functioning eye are infinitesimally small. Gravity alone may make a flying fish fall into the ocean, a nice big target, but gravity alone cannot make bits of a flying fish embryo fall into place to make a flying fish eye. When one organ develops, a bulge of tissue or some nook or cranny can come along for free, the way an S-bend accompanies an upright spine. But you can bet that such a cranny will not just happen to have a functioning lens and a diaphragm and a retina all perfectly arranged for seeing. It would be like the proverbial hurricane that blows through a junkyard and assembles a Boeing 747. For these reasons, Dawkins argues that natural selection is not only the correct explanation for life on earth but is bound to be the correct explanation for anything we would be willing to call “life” anywhere in the universe.

  And adaptive complexity, by the way, is also the reason that the evolution of complex organs tends to be slow and gradual. It is not that large mutations and rapid change violate some law of evolution. It is only that complex engineering requires precise arrangements of delicate parts, and if the engineering is accomplished by accumu
lating random changes, those changes had better be small. Complex organs evolve by small steps for the same reason that a watchmaker does not use a sledgehammer and a surgeon does not use a meat cleaver.

  So we now know which biological traits to credit to natural selection and which ones to other evolutionary processes. What about language? In my mind, the conclusion is inescapable. Every discussion in this book has underscored the adaptive complexity of the language instinct. It is composed of many parts: syntax, with its discrete combinatorial system building phrase structures; morphology, a second combinatorial system building words; a capacious lexicon; a revamped vocal tract; phonological rules and structures; speech perception; parsing algorithms; learning algorithms. Those parts are physically realized as intricately structured neural circuits, laid down by a cascade of precisely timed genetic events. What these circuits make possible is an extraordinary gift: the ability to dispatch an infinite number of precisely structured thoughts from head to head by modulating exhaled breath. The gift is obviously useful for reproduction—think of Williams’ parable of little Hans and Fritz being ordered to stay away from the fire and not to play with the saber-tooth. Randomly jigger a neural network or mangle a vocal tract, and you will not end up with a system with these capabilities. The language instinct, like the eye, is an example of what Darwin called “that perfection of structure and co-adaptation which justly excites our admiration,” and as such it bears the unmistakable stamp of nature’s designer, natural selection.

  If Chomsky maintains that grammar shows signs of complex design but is skeptical that natural selection manufactured it, what alternative does he have in mind? What he repeatedly mentions is physical law. Just as the flying fish is compelled to return to the water and calcium-filled bones are compelled to be white, human brains might, for all we know, be compelled to contain circuits for Universal Grammar. He writes:

  These skills [for example, learning a grammar] may well have arisen as a concomitant of structural properties of the brain that developed for other reasons. Suppose that there was selection for bigger brains, more cortical surface, hemispheric specialization for analytic processing, or many other structural properties that can be imagined. The brain that evolved might well have all sorts of special properties that are not individually selected; there would be no miracle in this, but only the normal workings of evolution. We have no idea, at present, how physical laws apply when 1010 neurons are placed in an object the size of a basketball, under the special conditions that arose during human evolution.

  We may not, just as we don’t know how physical laws apply under the special conditions of hurricanes sweeping through junkyards, but the possibility that there is an undiscovered corollary of the laws of physics that causes brains of human size and shape to develop the circuitry for Universal Grammar seems unlikely for many reasons.

  At the microscopic level, what set of physical laws could cause a surface molecule guiding an axon along a thicket of glial cells to cooperate with millions of other such molecules to solder together just the kinds of circuits that would compute something as useful to an intelligent social species as grammatical language? The vast majority of the astronomical number of ways of wiring together a large neural network would surely lead to something else: bat sonar, or nest-building, or go-go dancing, or, most likely of all, random neural noise.

  At the level of the whole brain, the remark that there has been selection for bigger brains is, to be sure, common in writings about human evolution (especially from paleoanthropologists). Given that premise, one might naturally think that all kinds of computational abilities might come as a by-product. But if you think about it for a minute, you should quickly see that the premise has it backwards. Why would evolution ever have selected for sheer bigness of brain, that bulbous, metabolically greedy organ? A large-brained creature is sentenced to a life that combines all the disadvantages of balancing a watermelon on a broomstick, running in place in a down jacket, and, for women, passing a large kidney stone every few years. Any selection on brain size itself would surely have favored the pinhead. Selection for more powerful computational abilities (language, perception, reasoning, and so on) must have given us a big brain as a by-product, not the other way around!

  But even given a big brain, language does not fall out the way that flying fish fall out of the air. We see language in dwarfs whose heads are much smaller than a basketball. We also see it in hydrocephalics whose cerebral hemispheres have been squashed into grotesque shapes, sometimes a thin layer lining the skull like the flesh of a coconut, but who are intellectually and linguistically normal. Conversely, there are Specific Language Impairment victims with brains of normal size and shape and with intact analytic processing (recall that one of Gopnik’s subjects was fine with math and computers). All the evidence suggests that it is the precise wiring of the brain’s microcircuitry that makes language happen, not gross size, shape, or neuron packing. The pitiless laws of physics are unlikely to have done us the favor of hooking up that circuitry so that we could communicate with one another in words.

  Incidentally, to attribute the basic design of the language instinct to natural selection is not to indulge in just-so storytelling that can spuriously “explain” any trait. The neuroscientist William Calvin, in his book The Throwing Madonna, explains the left-brain specialization for hand control, and consequently for language, as follows. Female hominids held their baby on their left side so the baby would be calmed by their heartbeat. This forced the mothers to use their right arm for throwing stones at small prey. Therefore the race became right-handed and left-brained. Now, this really is a just-so story. In all human societies that hunt, it is the men who do the hunting, not the women. Moreover, as a former boy I can attest that hitting an animal with a rock is not so easy. Calvin’s throwing madonna is about as likely as Roger Clemens hurling split-fingered fastballs over the plate with a squirming infant on his lap. In the second edition to his book Calvin had to explain to readers that he only meant it as a joke; he was trying to show that such stories are no less plausible than serious adaptationist explanations. But such blunt-edged satire misses the point almost as much as if it had been intended as serious. The throwing madonna is qualitatively different from genuine adaptationist explanations, for not only is it instantly falsified by empirical and engineering considerations, but it is a nonstarter for a key theoretical reason: natural selection is an explanation for the extremely improbable. If brains are lateralized at all, lateralization on the left is not extremely improbable—its chances are exactly fifty percent! We do not need a circuitous tracing of left brains to anything else, for here the alternatives to selection are perfectly satisfying. It is a good illustration of how the logic of natural selection allows us to distinguish legitimate selectionist accounts from just-so stories.

  To be fair, there are genuine problems in reconstructing how the language faculty might have evolved by natural selection, though the psychologist Paul Bloom and I have argued that the problems are all resolvable. As P. B. Medawar noted, language could not have begun in the form it supposedly took in the first recorded utterance of the infant Lord Macaulay, who after having been scalded with hot tea allegedly said to his hostess, “Thank you, madam, the agony is sensibly abated.” If language evolved gradually, there must have been a sequence of intermediate forms, each useful to its possessor, and this raises several questions.

  First, if language involves, for its true expression, another individual, who did the first grammar mutant talk to? One answer might be: the fifty percent of the brothers and sisters and sons and daughters who shared the new gene by common inheritance. But a more general answer is that the neighbors could have partly understood what the mutant was saying even if they lacked the new-fangled circuitry, just using overall intelligence. Though we cannot parse strings like skid crash hospital, we can figure out what they probably mean, and English speakers can often do a reasonably good job understanding Italian newspaper stories based on similar wo
rds and background knowledge. If a grammar mutant is making important distinctions that can be decoded by others only with uncertainty and great mental effort, it could set up a pressure for them to evolve the matching system that allows those distinctions to be recovered reliably by an automatic, unconscious parsing process. As I mentioned in Chapter 8, natural selection can take skills that are acquired with effort and uncertainty and hardwire them into the brain. Selection could have ratcheted up language abilities by favoring the speakers in each generation that the hearers could best decode, and the hearers who could best decode the speakers.

  A second problem is what an intermediate grammar would have looked like. Bates asks:

  What protoform can we possibly envision that could have given birth to constraints on the extraction of noun phrases from an embedded clause? What could it conceivably mean for an organism to possess half a symbol, or three quarters of a rule?…monadic symbols, absolute rules and modular systems must be acquired as a whole, on a yes-or-no basis—a process that cries out for a Creationist explanation.