Three things happened to yours truly over the last ten days. First, I, along with the rest of humanity, survived past the end of the Mayan calendar. Second, I had the flu. Third, as a result of happenstance 2, I was finally able to finish reading a delightful book: Charles Darwin, Portaint of a Genius by Paul Johnson. It’s a book I’ve been anticipating for a while now: a succinct, learned and extremely polite critical biography of Darwin, written by a heavyweight historian. I’d been expecting such a book because, well, it’s about due.
Not that I have anything against Darwin, mind you. But like a lot of people I’ve become, shall we say, a little tired of the man. Or perhaps to put the point a bit more finely, I’ve gotten tired of the mindless obeisance that’s paid to Darwin in everything from natural history specials to psychology books to business and political essays. The way we throw around terms like “evolution”, “adaptation” and “survival of the fittest” as if a.) we really knew what they meant, b.) they were thoroughly proven, unassailable scientific concepts and C.) Darwin actually invented all of them to begin with.
READ ON