“Little lamb, Who made thee?”
This latest is vintage Tom Wolfe. As in Radical Chic and The Painted Word, he casts his uniquely probing eye on fashionable orthodoxy and its establishment priests—in this case the strange religious cult of evolution. While evolution may presume, sometimes dubiously, to describe the world, it can explain nothing. Its theory of First Cause in a primordial ooze or Big Bang is an assumption of faith in the same category as the Navajo cosmogony that life began with a dung beetle—only seemingly more sophisticated than Kipling’s account of how the leopard got his spots and a good deal less humane and poetic than Genesis. It does not tell us what we long most to know: Who? Why?
As the author points out, evolution does not meet any of the established criteria of scientific proof. Nobody has ever observed and recorded it. It cannot be replicated. It fails the “falsifiability test.” No firm predictions can be derived from it. Darwin’s best guess on the First Cause was “four or five cells floating in a pool somewhere.”
In particular evolution cannot account for spoken language, which separates humanity from the rest of creation and is the basis of all civilization. It even...