Soham Chakraborty

This book infuriated me, for more reasons than one. This fury was compounded by the realization that this it's conclusions will successfully appeal to the woolly-mammoth sized prejudices of the average college-educated person. Bergman's sanitized narrative of a idyllic prehistorical utopia is not just inaccurate and simplistic- its is an actively harmful outlook for understanding human nature. Bergman's core argument is that human beings are fundamentally ‘good' (that is, egalitarian, cosmopolitan, feminist, and opposed to violence)—unless or until their minds happened to be poisoned by property ownership or corrupt leaders, which Bregman claims were lacking for most of human history since humans lived in hunter-gatherer societies. To back this core thesis Bergman presents historical and anthropological ‘evidence' that comes badly undone after the most basic amount of topical research on the subject.

Following is an example of why selectively reading your preferred values and rationalizations into history is bad: Bergman claims that “in prehistory women had been free to come and go as they pleased,” and that it was only with the rise of agriculture that we began to see arranged marriages and male control over female sexuality, but this is pure fiction. Among the !Kung hunter-gatherers of the Kalahari, anthropologist Richard Lee—a source Bregman selectively references for his claims about hunter-gatherer's inherent peacefulness–notes that “All first marriages are arranged by parents, and the girls have little say in the matter.” Among the Kaska nomadic foragers of British Colombia, anthropologist John Honigmann writes that, “Ideally a man feels entitled to beat his wife if he suspects that she has been untrue to him,” although “not all men avail themselves of this permitted behavior.” Arranged marriages are customary across the majority of hunter-gatherer societies, and violence, directed towards one's wife and/or another man, is a common male response to actual or suspected infidelity.”

Speaking of “war against the enemy”, Bregman claims that it was the beginnings of sedentism and property ownership that led to the origins of warfare, “Scholars think there were at least two causes. One, we now had belongings to fight over, starting with land. And two, settled life made us more distrustful of strangers. Foraging nomads had a fairly laid-back membership policy: you crossed paths with new people all the time and could easily join up with another group.”

In fact, however, in every region of the world where there is evidence of different nomadic forager groups neighboring each other, there are cases of intergroup violence. This pattern is thoroughly reviewed in a 2012 paper by anthropologists Richard Wrangham and Luke Glowacki, who write that, “External war has been described in each of the areas we reviewed based on evidence of intergroup killing, explicit fear of strangers, and/or avoidance of border zones,” and adding that the “cases of hunter-gatherers living with different societies of hunter-gatherers as neighbors show that the threat of violence was never far away.”

Keep in mind there are a hundred such claims that are easily falsifiable, scattered throughout the book. Moreover they have been carelessly presented for an audience uninterested in probing the opposite case- making the text a mammoth disservice to society.

Tim Marshall paints with broad brush strokes the overwhelming influence of geography on nation building, trade, security and conflict in the international arena. Sometimes, he does overemphasize the geographical limitations and tends to underemphasize how geography works within feedback loops of culture and ethnicity- which results in a bleaker picture than is necessary of global conflict. However he should get credit for succinctly morphing a “intro to geopolitics 101” lecture into a handy book.

Brideshead Revisited is without doubt the glorious English prose at its fullest; it envelops and transforms you with its complexity, like the embrace of a once mighty ocean now resigned to its violent decay. At the center of this violent decay are the Flytes, an aristocratic family of wealthy English Catholics who live in a palatial mansion called Brideshead; with whose dysfunction and romances, the protagonist's (i.e Charles Ryder's) fortunes are inextricably wound up right from his days at Oxford, where he meets Sebastian Flyte and his coterie of fashionable young men, thereby laying the foundations of relationship that defies easy categorization- because beyond its obvious homosexual insinuations, there is a surreal romantic male friendship at the heart of this cultural mosaic. Looming large over the litany of spiritual dysfunction among Flytes, is of course Catholic theology, which is omnipresent in a story precisely in the strange moments when we least expect it to be. Is Brideshead unabashed, unreserved nostalgia for an age of gentle nobility, its myths and social values that it sees slipping away or is it the an honest obituary for the lost prose of cultural delight? The answer, like everything else in Brideshead is complicated.