The problem with building a better world through empathy, in the sense of contagion, mimicry, vicarious emotion, or mirror neurons, is that it cannot be counted on to trigger the kind of empathy we want, namely sympathetic concern for others’ well-being. Sympathy is endogenous, an effect rather than a cause of how people relate to one another. Depending on how beholders conceive of a relationship, their response to another person’s pain may be empathic, neutral, or even counterempathic.
In the previous chapter we explored the circuitry of the brain that underlies our tendencies to violence; now let’s see the parts that underlie our better angels. The search for empathy in the human brain has confirmed that vicarious feelings are dimmed or amplified by the rest of the empathizer’s beliefs. Claus Lamm, Daniel Batson, and Jean Decety had participants take the perspective of a (fictitious) patient with ringing in his ears while he got “treated” with an experimental cure consisting of blasts of noise over headphones, which made the patient visibly wince.
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The pattern of activity in the participants’ brains as they empathized with the patient overlapped with the pattern that resulted when they themselves heard the noise. One of the active areas was a part of the insula, the island of cortex that, as we have seen, represents literal and metaphorical gut feelings (see figure 8–3). Another was the amygdala, the almond-shaped organ that responds to fearful and distressing stimuli (see figure 8–2). A third was the anterior medial cingulate cortex (see figure 8–4), a strip of cortex on the inward-facing wall of the cerebral hemisphere that is involved in the motivational aspect of pain—not the literal stinging sensation, but the strong desire to turn it off. (Studies of vicarious pain generally don’t show activation in the parts of the brain that register the actual bodily sensation; that would be closer to a hallucination than to empathy.) The participants were never put in the kind of situation that evokes counterempathy, like competition or revenge, but their reactions were pushed around by their cognitive construal of the situation. If they had been told that the treatment worked, so the patient’s pain had been worthwhile, their brains’ vicarious and distressed responses were damped down.
The overall picture that has emerged from the study of the compassionate brain is that there is no empathy center with empathy neurons, but complex patterns of activation and modulation that depend on perceivers’ interpretation of the straits of another person and the nature of their relationship with the person. A general atlas of empathy might look more or less as follows.
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The temporoparietal junction and nearby sulcus (groove) in the superior temporal lobe assess another person’s physical and mental state. The dorsolateral prefrontal cortex and the nearby frontal pole (the tip of the frontal lobe) compute the specifics of the situation and one’s overall goals in it. The orbital and ventromedial cortex integrate the results of these computations and modulate the responses of the evolutionarily older, more emotional parts of the brain. The amygdala responds to fearful and distressing stimuli, in conjunction with interpretations from the nearby temporal pole (the tip of the temporal lobe). The insula registers disgust, anger, and vicarious pain. The cingulate cortex helps to switch control among brain systems in response to urgent signals, such as those sent by circuits that are calling for incompatible responses, or those that register physical or emotional pain. And unfortunately for the mirror-neuron theory, the areas of the brain richest in mirror neurons, such as parts of the frontal lobe that plan motor movements (the rearmost portions above the Sylvian fissure) and the parts of the parietal lobes that register the body sense, are mostly uninvolved, except for the parts of the parietal lobes that keep track of whose body is where.
In fact, the brain tissue that is closest to empathy in the sense of compassion is neither a patch of cortex nor a subcortical organ but a system of hormonal plumbing. Oxytocin is a small molecule produced by the hypothalamus which acts on the emotional systems of the brain, including the amygdala and striatum, and which is released by the pituitary gland into the bloodstream, where it can affect the rest of the body.
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Its original evolutionary function was to turn on the components of motherhood, including giving birth, nursing, and nurturing the young. But the ability of the hormone to reduce the fear of closeness to other creatures lent itself over the course of evolutionary history to being co-opted to supporting other forms of affiliation. They include sexual arousal, heterosexual bonding in monogamous species, marital and companionate love, and sympathy and trust among nonrelatives. For these reasons, oxytocin is sometimes called the cuddle hormone. The reuse of the hormone in so many forms of human closeness supports a suggestion by Batson that maternal care is the evolutionary precursor of other forms of human sympathy. 30
In one of the odder experiments in the field of behavioral economics, Ernst Fehr and his collaborators had people play a Trust game, in which they hand over money to a trustee, who multiplies it and then returns however much he feels like to the participant.
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Half the participants inhaled a nasal spray containing oxytocin, which can penetrate from the nose to the brain, and the other half inhaled a placebo. The ones who got the oxytocin turned over more of their money to the stranger, and the media had a field day with fantasies of car dealers misting the hormone through their showroom ventilating systems to snooker innocent customers. (So far, no one has proposed spraying it from crop dusters to accelerate global empathic consciousness.) Other experiments have shown that sniffing oxytocin makes people more generous in an Ultimatum game (in which they divide a sum while anticipating the response of a recipient, who can veto the deal for both of them), but not in a Dictator game (where the recipient has to take it or leave it, and the proposer needn’t take his reaction into account). It seems likely that the oxytocin network is a vital trigger in the sympathetic response to other people’s beliefs and desires.
In chapter 4 I alluded to Peter Singer’s hypothesis of an expanding circle of empathy, really a circle of sympathy. Its innermost kernel is the nurturance we feel toward our own children, and the most reliable trigger for this tenderness is the geometry of the juvenile face—the phenomenon of perception we call cuteness. In 1950 the ethologist Konrad Lorenz noted that entities with measurements typical of immature animals evoke feelings of tenderness in the beholder. The lineaments include a large head, cranium, forehead, and eyes, and a small snout, jaw, body, and limbs.
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The cuteness reflex was originally an adaptation in mothers to care for their own offspring, but the triggering features may have been exaggerated in the offspring themselves (to the extent they are compatible with its own health) to tilt the mother’s response toward nurturance and away from infanticide.
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Species that are lucky enough to possess the geometry of babies may elicit the
awwwww!
response from human beholders and benefit from our sympathetic concern. We find mice and rabbits more adorable than rats and opossums, doves more sympathetic than crows, baby seals more worthy of protection than mink and other weaselly furbearers. Cartoonists exploit the reflex to make their characters more lovable, as do the designers of teddy bears and anime characters. In a famous essay on the evolution of Mickey Mouse, Stephen Jay Gould plotted an increase in the size of the rodent’s eyes and cranium during the decades in which his personality changed from an obnoxious brat to a squeaky-clean corporate icon.
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Gould did not live to see the 2009 makeover in which the Walt Disney Company, concerned that today’s children expect “edgier,” more “dangerous” characters, unveiled a video game in which Mick’s features had de-evolved to a more ratlike anatomy.
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As we saw in chapter 8, cuteness is a nuisance to conservation biologists because it attracts disproportionate concern for a few charismatic mammals. One organization figured they might as well put the response to good use and branded itself with the doe-eyed panda. The same trick is used by humanitarian organizations who find photogenic children for their ad campaigns. The psychologist Leslie Zebrowitz has shown that juries treat defendants with more juvenile facial features more sympathetically, a travesty of justice we can attribute to the workings of our sense of sympathy.
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Physical beauty is yet another sympathy-induced injustice. Unattractive children are punished more harshly by parents and teachers and are more likely to be victims of abuse.
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Unattractive adults are judged to be less honest, kind, trustworthy, sensitive, and even intelligent.
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Of course, we do manage to sympathize with our adult friends and relatives, including the ugly ones. But even then our sympathy is spread not indiscriminately but within a delimited circle within which we apply a suite of moral emotions. Sympathy has to work in concert with these other emotions because social life cannot be a radiation of warm and fuzzy feelings in all directions. Friction is unavoidable in social life: toes get stepped on, noses put out of joint, fur rubbed the wrong way. Together with sympathy we feel guilt and forgiveness, and these emotions tend to apply within the same circle: the people we sympathize with are the people we feel guilty about hurting and the people we find easiest to forgive when they hurt us.
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Roy Baumeister, Arlene Stillwell, and Todd Heatherton reviewed the social-psychological literature on guilt and found that it went hand in hand with empathy. More empathic people are also more guilt-prone (particularly women, who excel at both emotions), and it is the targets of our empathy who engage our guilt. The effect is enormous: when people are asked to recall incidents that made them feel guilty, 93 percent involved families, friends, and lovers; only 7 percent involved acquaintances or strangers. The proportions were similar when it came to memories of eliciting guilt: we guilt-trip our friends and families, not acquaintances and strangers.
Baumeister and his collaborators explain the pattern with a distinction we will return to in the section on morality. Sympathy and guilt, they note, operate within a circle of
communal
relationships.
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They are less likely to be felt in
exchange
or equality-matching relationships, the kind we have with acquaintances, neighbors, colleagues, associates, clients, and service providers. Exchange relationships are regulated by norms of fairness and are accompanied by emotions that are cordial rather than genuinely sympathetic. When we harm them or they harm us, we can explicitly negotiate the fines, refunds, and other forms of compensation that rectify the harm. When that is not possible, we reduce our distress by distancing ourselves from them or derogating them. The businesslike quid pro quo negotiations that can repair an exchange relationship are, we shall see, generally taboo in our communal relationships, and the option of severing a communal relationship comes with a high cost.
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So we repair our communal relationships with the messier but longer-lasting emotional glue of sympathy, guilt, and forgiveness.