Know Thyself: The Octopus and Me
I Used to Eat Octopus, But No More, After I Learned Their Cuddly Side on Ecstasy (the Drug)
By MJ Pramik
I used to eat octopus. In fact, I used to love eating octopus — grilled or ceviche — until I learned these soft-bodied mollusks turn amorous on ecstasy. Yes, ecstasy: the drug. Scientists at Johns Hopkins University recently dosed a consortium (collective name for a group of octopus) of the eight-armed creatures with the drug we call methylenedioxymethamphetamine, MDMA, Molly, X, or candy. Researchers discovered that when given a high dose of the drug, the treated invertebrates would huddle alone in a corner of their tank. But when dosed with a small quantity — the equivalent amount to what a human would ingest — that same octopus transformed into an empathetic, cuddly social being.
When placed in an aquarium together, octopuses usually demonstrate aggressive behavior to tank mates. They color shift, turn dark hues, cobalt blue, or ink black. The attacker stands tall on several tentacles, often shooting a solitary appendage towards its adversary, lashing out much like the way they’re depicted in horror films. But ecstasy-treated octopuses sidle up to their fellow cephalopods, slowly exploring the environment, caressing toys, using several arms. These responses strikingly resemble human behavioral changes when on the drug. In people, ecstasy decreases anxiety and inhibitions, generates empathy and compassion, and enriches the physical senses. In octopuses, the investigators witnessed a long-considered aggressive monster of the deep become an affectionate creature, full of touchy-feely strokes for rivals.
After reading the study, I couldn’t help but seek out documentary evidence of these incredible findings. My inner scientist simply had to know what octopus “love behaviors” looked like.
Little did I know that my quick online video search would deter me from ever again eating an octopus. A plethora of films abound of octopus caresses. But I found so much more: an octopus unscrewing a jar, mimicking a flounder, and, most precious of all, pretending to be a piece of coral.
One video showed a rather large golden-brown octopus sliding in the surf along with a family who had rescued this creature the day before. The animal had come back to the same beach and spent an hour with them as they strolled across the sand. Another recording revealed a small octopus being released into the ocean after having been stranded at low tide, then returning to thank the human who released it. The octopod placed its tentacle gently atop the foot of its savior, stayed still for a minute as if in silent prayer, then pushed out to the sea. Heart-rending.
This simple act of connection and cross-species empathy nailed shut the coffin of my octopus-eating days. My throat tightened, stomach clenched, no more. I could never eat octopus again.
My culinary sea change has evolved, as in any evolutionary timetable, over decades. I journey all over the world and enjoy local delicacies as part of my travel writing vocation. How could I renounce octopus, whether served in Greece, Japan, or the Caribbean, where octopus is considered a local delicacy? A friend recently told me about being served “a baby octopus” on her plate while visiting Japan. “So delicious,” she sighed. I wept at this story.
The foundations of my evolutionary change occurred in the fall of 1994, when my then ten-year-old daughter informed me matter-of-factly that she was a vegetarian. Why, I asked? “I don’t want to eat anything with a face.” While I was a bit miffed that I’d have to cook a separate menu for her, my daughter’s announcement set my brain whirring. Should I, too, be feeling bad for eating be-faced creatures? Was my daughter morally superior to me? Would I have to learn how to cook tofu? How would I supply her with protein?
Mainstream culinary culture has taken a quarter century to catch up with my daughter. In 2000, Harvard Law School acceded to student demand and established an animal law course. Many law schools across the United States followed suit. In 2002, Germany amended its constitution to raise the protection of nonhuman animals to a fundamental level.
Over the past several years, I’ve become profoundly grateful that humans — myself included — have become enlightened about the consciousness and feeling of all creatures. On July 7, 2012, the Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness proclaimed a universal proclamation on animal sentience. This group of cognitive and computational neuroscientists had assembled to proclaim that nonhuman animals, including the great apes, dolphins, elephants, birds, and octopuses, possess pathways throughout their brains that show emotional feelings. Just because an animal doesn’t have a neocortex like a human, doesn’t mean they can’t feel. Octopuses have “neurological substrates” shared by Homo sapiens that generate consciousness in spite of the fact that the two species diverged on the tree of life about six hundred million years ago. And look very different to the outside world.
While I fully supported these strides in animal welfare and seriously cut down on my meat consumption, I wasn’t ready to give up on all meats. More significantly, I knew there were still some gastronomies I had yet to encounter.
On my first Greek voyage to the southern Peloponnesus in 2007, I discovered the gastronomic delights of the octopus. Each day at sunrise, I sat in tranquil meditation, gazing over the morning catch of octopuses drying out on the glass lampposts. Their voluptuous forms adorned every streetlamp up and down the embarcadero. A salt-fish smell wafted up into the street cafes from the peaceful blue-green waves lapping over the seawall.
Nearing noon every day, the charcoal fires flickered in front of the tavernas lining the paraliakó diádromo. Smoke swirled upward from the burning coals, enticing the passersby. I was no exception. Previously, I’d despised octopus dishes with a vengeance because of the rubbery consistency that’s ubiquitous in the United States. But in Greece, I experienced an epicurean heaven of soft textured, melt-in-the-mouth, succulent, juicy rings. Each had been cooked to a precise point of perfection.
In Neapoli, Hellenic cooks expertly chopped the mollusks into exacting sections, roasted these morsels with a drizzle of olive oil and a dash of salt. I ate at the same taverna each day with friends, with the same menu: ouzo and charcoal-broiled octopus.
At the time, I unwittingly endorsed Aristotle’s twenty-four-century-old opinion: “The octopus is a stupid creature … for it will approach a man’s hand if it be lowered in the water.” But thankfully, human knowledge has evolved since the time of Aristotle. We now know empirically that the octopus is not the least bit stupid. With three hearts and nine brains, studies of octopus’ acumen continue to reveal new insights into this species. And as my YouTube deep-dive confirmed, when an octopus explores an extended hand, it’s showing curiosity and courage. The octopus does not shrink from learning what the hand represents.
Over the past several years, I’ve become profoundly grateful that humans — myself included–are growing enlightened about the consciousness and feelings of all creatures. In addition to the Cambridge Declaration on Consciousness on animal sentience, we’ve learned that while the octopus’ genome isn’t quite as large as a human’s, it contains a greater number of protein-coding genes — about 33,000, compared to less than 25,000 of these genes in Homo sapiens. This abundance of protein-coding genes allows octopuses to respond quickly to their environment with an aptitude that humans don’t possess. As Stephen Hawking has said about humans, “We are just an advanced breed of monkeys on a minor planet of a very average star. But we can understand the Universe. That makes us something very special.” Special enough to treat our fellow creatures with consideration and compassion. The more I learned about octopuses made me vow never to eat them again.
In “Animal Rights. What Everyone Needs to Know”, Paul Waldau chronicles the time line for human-animal interactions spanning thirty-five thousand years. From the 20,000-year-old cave drawings at Lascaux, France, to the Treaties of Amsterdam and Rome in the late 1990s that set up laws defining nonhuman animals as “sentient beings,” animal rights have gained credence.
During my latest visit to Greece, in 2019, I carried within me a new understanding of this sea creature’s consciousness. I prayed that these beings didn’t have an existential memory of me devouring dozens of their kin on the Neapoli shores and hoped they understood how boldly I now celebrated their intelligence.
On this recent trip, the day before a hosted luncheon at the renowned Hymerovigli Restaurant in Piraeus — renowned for its octopus and squid — I made a pilgrimage to the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. Hoping to breathe in the methane and carbon dioxide vapors that scientists now think allowed female oracles to predict and proscribe the future for ancient Greeks, I meditated on the weighty Greek aphorism, “know thyself”. Inscribed on the pronaos of Apollo’s Temple, this maxim has been ascribed to playwright Aeschylus in Prometheus Bound, to Socrates as he wrote his history Memorabilia, and to Plato, who used his characterization of Socrates for this motivational axiom. Whether it was the ninety-five-degree temperatures in the direct sun of high noon that day at Delphi or the methane miasma seeping up around me, I reaffirmed my resolve. I had to honor my new understanding about and compassion for the octopus.
On the next day of my enlightenment, I decided not to dine on the creatures. At the luncheon at the Hymerovigli, the memories of the potent flavors and softness of texture from thirteen years prior didn’t even tempt me to taste the fragrant grilled slices. In spite of my slight embarrassment at refusing the host’s offerings, I stood strong. As we sat in the open air above Piraeus harbor, yachts and sailboats bobbing in the noon sun sparkling off the bluest water, I was at peace with my decision.
As a garrulous member of our party repeated an outlandish tale about a breakfast smoothie for the third time, all eyes and ears were focused on his lighthearted anecdote. At the other end of the table, I meditated on the serving plate in sadness. The magnificent beings I held in my hands were already dead, and by this logic, there might be no harm in my partaking of the charbroiled meat. But the immobile cuttlefish still looked like cuttlefish, and the squid tentacles splayed about on the plate still seemed to move. Both were cephalopods with neurological substrates of emotions and feeling shared with the octopus. I passed the bier on.
Amid the din of lunchtime laughter and conversation, no one noticed that, at one point, I held the separate platter of grilled octopus in my hands for several minutes. Then a whisper touched an ear.
Know thyself.
As if the Delphic oracle stood nearby.
Know thyself. And know all other creatures.
Socrates’ ghost gusted past my other ear. I was taken aback momentarily.
Their spirits do reside in Greece, I reasoned. The octopus’ sarcophagus weighed heavy in my hands.
In his philosophies, Socrates always emphasized action over words, and all at once I was seized by a fervent notion. I could run to the high-walled street’s edge and upend the plate into the harbor — a burial at sea for these creatures lying prone in my hands.
Instead, I followed my next impulse: I quietly set the oval platter on the edge of the table and gently covered it with the white cloth napkin. The pall had been placed. I entreated past and future Greek gods for the octopuses’ peaceful passage into Poseidon’s realm. I thoroughly enjoyed my delightful Greek salad.
Note: A version of this story appeared in the anthology Wandering in Greece. Athens Islands and Antiquities. Edited by Linda Watanabe McFerrin and Joanna Biggar.
