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A Nobel Prize in Economics a Climate Change Denier Might Love

It has been a scary month in climate science. Hurricane Michael and a frightening report from the U.N. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change underlined the potential costs of human-caused global warming. Then to add insult to injury, William Nordhaus won the economics Nobel Prize. Nordhaus wa...

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A Nobel Prize in Economics a Climate Change Denier Might Love


Monday November 05, 2018

It has been a scary month in climate science. Hurricane Michael and a frightening report from the U.N. Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change underlined the potential costs of human-caused global warming. Then to add insult to injury, William Nordhaus won the economics Nobel Prize.

Nordhaus was recognized for his work developing a model to guide policymakers on how best to address the costs and benefits of limiting greenhouse gases. That’s a noble goal, but Nordhaus’ work has no more helped to defuse the threat of global warming than Neville Chamberlain’s appeasement of Germany prevented World War II. Rather, Nordhaus’ low-ball estimates of the costs of future climate change and high-ball estimates of the costs of containing the threat contributed to a lost decade in the fight against climate change, lending intellectual legitimacy to denial and delay.

In Nordhaus’ 1993 paper, “Rolling the ‘Dice’: An Optimal Transition Path for Controlling Greenhouse Gases,” he wrote: “A growing body of evidence has pointed to the likelihood that greenhouse warming will have only a modest economic impact in industrial countries, while progress to cut [greenhouse gases] will impose substantial costs.” How modest? Nordhaus estimated that a 3 degrees Celsius warming would cost the U.S. economy a miniscule one-quarter percent of national income. He admitted that unmeasured and unquantifiable variables might affect that prediction, but in his view, they might only bring the cost up to about 1% of national income.

Given such a tepid assessment of the threat, it is little wonder that Nordhaus’ biggest cheerleaders have come from the “do nothing about it” crowd. In 1997, for instance, William Niskanen, then chairman of the ultra-conservative Cato Institute, seized on Nordhaus’ estimates to argue before Congress that it was premature to take action on climate change because “the costs of doing nothing appear to be quite small.” Yet four years before his testimony, scientists had discovered that, in the past, climate changed quite abruptly and dramatically, not slowly and moderately as Nordhaus’ model assumed.

The warming we’ve experienced so far allows us to put this in context. Global temperatures are now 1 degree Celsius above pre-industrial levels, but even this increment has accelerated the melting of the ice caps, spurred sea-level rise and increased the frequency and intensity of storms, droughts and floods. It has also spawned myriad derivative impacts: the spread of tree-killing bark beetles that provide fuel for record-setting wildfires in the West, as well as intolerable temperatures and droughts in the Middle East and Africa that have contributed to war in Syria and destablilizing migration.

The IPCC report, released the same day Nordhaus got his Nobel, heightens the award’s absurdity. Nordhaus in 1992 estimated the net economic damage of 3 degrees Celsius of global warming, under a business-as-usual scenario, at $5.6 trillion globally (about $10.2 trillion in today’s dollars). The climate change panel now estimates the damage from 2 degrees’ Celsius warming to be $69 trillion. Even this figure might prove radically conservative.

Four years after climate scientist James Hansen told Congress that global warming was already happening, Nordhaus suggested that the “thermal inertia of the oceans” meant climate change would have a “lag of several decades behind [greenhouse gas] concentrations. That year, 1992, scientists studying ice cores taken from the Greenland Ice Sheet, confirmed that, in the past, climate had undergone huge swings in as little as a few years.

In fairness, Nordhaus has always recognized global warming as a threat. He advocates a tax on carbon, which is a good idea. If the price is right, a carbon tax would push people and industries to cut emissions without cumbersome bureaucracy.

Nordhaus has also revised and updated the model he developed as the IPCC has revised its forecasts, and he and his colleagues have (in their view) gotten a better grip on the variables at work in the interplay of climate and an economy. His most recent work implies an optimum tax on carbon at $31 a ton, which, in real terms, is about three times his too-low 1992 estimate.

Nordhaus and his colleagues concede that even with a $31-a-ton carbon tax, the planet would be on a track for 3 degrees Celsius of warming, but they don’t appear to recognize that such an increase would render much of the world unrecognizable and vulnerable to mass starvation (a number of studies predict yield declines of up to 70% for vegetables if the world warms beyond 2 degrees Celsius). In any event, 26 years after his first publications, the U.S. still doesn’t have a carbon tax, in part because Nordhaus (and others who shared his views) underestimated the cost of doing nothing.

Most economists famously failed to predict the near-collapse of the banking system in 2008, and it may be asking too much that such a “science” ace the far more complicated problem of estimating the impact of climate change. Still, it’s jarring that the same organization that in 2007 gave its Peace Prize to Al Gore and the IPCC for their efforts to come to grips with climate change, would, 11 years later, honor an economist whose work more undermined efforts to deal with the threat than helped them.

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Short Take

In Memorium: Koko the Gorilla

Koko the gorilla died on June 19. She and a female chimpanzee named Washoe (who died in 2007) played an outsized role in changing how we view animal intelligence. Their accomplishments inaugurated deep soul-searching among us humans about the moral basis of our relationship with nature. Koko and Washoe have made it much more difficult for us to treat animals as commodities, in any way we wish.

I knew the two great apes when I was young and they were young, and I”ve closely followed the scientific, philosophical and moral upheavals they precipitated over the last five decades. In the 1960s and ’70s, they learned to use American sign language, and they came to understand that words could be combined to convey new meanings. It threw the scientific world into a tizzy, implying that sentience and languagewere not ours alone, that there was a continuum in higher mental abilities that linked animals and humans.

The problem for science remains unresolved: 3,000 years into the investigation of signal human attributes and we still don’t have rigorous ways to define language and intelligence that are agreed on and can be empirically tested. There remain a number of scientists who don’t think Koko and Washoe accomplished anything at all. Even if a scientist accepts one of the definitions of language that do exist, it’s nearly impossible to test it in animals because what is being examined is inherently subjective, and science demands objective, verifiable results.

Consider how hard it is to prove a lie beyond a reasonable doubt in court. Then consider trying to prove lying in an animal in accord with the much stricter standards of science.

As difficult as proving it may be, examples of apes lying abound. When Koko was 5, I was playing a chase game with her. When I caught her, she gave me a small bite. Penny Patterson, Koko’s lifelong foster parent and teacher, was there, and, in sign language, demanded, “What did you do?”

Koko signed, “Not teeth.”

Penny wasn’t buying it: “Koko, you lied.”

“Bad again Koko bad again,” Koko admitted.

“Koko, you lied.” But what was Koko’s intent — a central issue when it comes to proving a lie. What was actually going on in her head when she made the gestures for “not teeth?” As if that weren’t inscrutable enough, one of the guiding principles of scientific investigations of animal intelligence is what’s known as Morgan’s Canon: Scientists must not impute a higher mental ability if a behavior can be explained by something more primitive, for example, simple error.

Analogously, about 50 years ago, on a pond in Oklahoma, Washoe saw a swan and made the signs for “water” and “bird.” Was she simply noting a bird and water, or was she combining two of the signs she knew to describe an animal for which she had no specific word? The debate continued for decades and was unresolved when she died.

Since Washoe made those signs, there have been many more instances of apes combining words to describe something, but these examples still don’t prove they can combine words to arrive at a novel term, even if it seems obvious that they can. Faced with these ambiguities, many scientists have moved to studying whether animals can accomplish specific cognitive tasks, and a welter of credible findings show sophisticated abilities in animals ranging from crows to elephants.

Although science struggles with questions of general intelligence, language and intent, the public is in the “it’s obvious” camp, readily accepting evidence of animal sentience. The latest objects of fascination are the octopus — a relative of the clam! — and fish. Stories of cephalopod escape and problem-solving regularly go viral, and to the consternation of sushi lovers , John Balcomb’s book, “What a Fish Knows,” provides copious evidence that fish know a lot.

We tend to see animals as either personalities or commodities, or sometimes, both. When I wrote about octopus intelligence, I was amused by one octopus-oriented website that divided its space between stories of smart octopuses and recipes for cooking them. Perhaps the most extraordinary example of our schizophrenic view of animals occurred some years back when a chimp colony that included sign-language-using apes was disbanded and many of these onetime celebrities were shipped to a medical research lab to be used in Hepatitis B and AIDS drug testing.

I knew these chimps too, and visited them in their new environment. They were desperate to communicate with their human captors, but the staff didn’t know sign language. So insistent were Booee and Bruno with their signing that one handler put up a poster outside the cages showing some basic signs to help the humans respond. When I was there, three days after Booee had arrived, he was signing agitatedly for food and drink. But what I think he really wanted was reassurance: If the humans would respond to “gimme drink,” things were going to be OK.

Teaching Koko, Washoe and other animals some level of human and invented languages promised experimenters insight into the animal mind. But the animals seemed to seize on these languages as a way to make their wishes — and thoughts — known to their strange, bipedal wardens, who had no ability or interest in learning the animals’ communication system. For Koko, I believe, sign language was a way to make the best of a truly unnatural situation, and so she signed.

Science doesn’t know if great apes can invent terms or if they tell lies. And the tension between whether we view and treat animals as personalities or as commodities lives on. The truth is, Koko, Washoe and many other animals who have had two-way conversations with the people around them shatter the moral justification for the latter.



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