This month, a special issue of Science magazine published over 10 papers, written by a total of 47 authors from 10 countries, covering the discovery of an extraordinary 4.4 million-year-old hominid fossil skeleton known as Ardipithecus ramidus.
Of course, I don't have a whiff of paleoanthropology knowledge to discuss how our ancestors ended up walking on two legs. Still, I must admit, evolution is always a fascinating subject. I've been reading recently about the evolutionary root of our emotional life. I am impressed by the way Daniel Goleman chronicles how our primitive brain evolved to have new layers of brain cells endowed with intellect and emotion. It is not that we have improved a lot in terms of emotional intelligence when compared with our ancestors – trust me, we haven't – but many of us are doing not enough.
An account by a subject in one of the very first scientific studies of anger done in 1899 captures the heart of it:
Once when I was about 13, in an angry fit, I walked out of the house vowing I would never return. It was a beautiful summer day, and I walked far along lovely lanes, till gradually the stillness and beauty calmed and soothed me, and after some hours I returned repentant and almost melted. Since then when I am angry, I do this if I can, and find it the best cure.
Of course, I don't have a whiff of paleoanthropology knowledge to discuss how our ancestors ended up walking on two legs. Still, I must admit, evolution is always a fascinating subject. I've been reading recently about the evolutionary root of our emotional life. I am impressed by the way Daniel Goleman chronicles how our primitive brain evolved to have new layers of brain cells endowed with intellect and emotion. It is not that we have improved a lot in terms of emotional intelligence when compared with our ancestors – trust me, we haven't – but many of us are doing not enough.
An account by a subject in one of the very first scientific studies of anger done in 1899 captures the heart of it:
Once when I was about 13, in an angry fit, I walked out of the house vowing I would never return. It was a beautiful summer day, and I walked far along lovely lanes, till gradually the stillness and beauty calmed and soothed me, and after some hours I returned repentant and almost melted. Since then when I am angry, I do this if I can, and find it the best cure.
The same had certainly happened to me. Once, during my teen years, my mother broke my table tennis racket. That made my hair stand like porcupine quills. Alas, I behaved exactly like what that child did – and, remember, back in 1899. My eyes watered. My heart took flight. I exploded. I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the door: I wasn't coming back. The cooling-down walk left me feeling less angry, not more. The memory of this maiden runaway from home has stayed with me for close to thirty years.
Seeing how the history repeats itself – so much so that the narrative looks exactly the same with my own – speaks to a sense of déjà vu. And let's face it, we are no better than our ancestors a century ago.
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