If I myself were a bowerbird, no courtship ritual would be successful without purple at the heart of the love nest. Sure, I might be enticed by a stage bedecked in emerald, ruby, lapis lazuli, or onyx, but only a theater of purple love could ensure my commitment. Maybe what the birds experience in this moment is the same as when we initially encounter a resonant piece of art or music. Like hearing a song for the first time and feeling, paradoxically, that it is singularly for you—and that it was created by someone who is, in some way, just like you. You cannot manufacture that feeling. It
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