Science for Poets

A long time ago I was tempted to read a book called Physics for Poets. Not because I'm a poet, for heaven's sake, but because I thought the subject might be dumbed down enough that I might get a glimmer of what relativity and quantum mechanics is all about. I never did read it however. I probably realized that no matter how simplified it was, it wouldn't be simple enough for me.

A terrific article by Natalie Angier in yesterday's New York Times -- "Scientists and Philosophers Find That ‘Gene’ Has a Multitude of Meanings" -- reminds me of all this. For one thing, genetics is another one of those things that I don't think I'll ever be able to wrap my brain around. For another, Ms. Angier may or may not be writing for poets, but she sure writes as a poet. Consider a few excerpts:

I owe an apology to my genes. For years I offhandedly blamed them for certain personal defects conventionally associated with one’s hereditary starter pack — my Graves’ autoimmune disease, for example, or my hair, which looks like the fibers left behind on the rim of an aspirin bottle after the cotton ball has been removed, only wispier.

[Genes are] less a “blueprint for life” than one of those disappointing two-page Basic Setup booklets that comes with your computer, tells you where to plug it in and then directs you to a Web site for more information.

Not long ago, RNA was seen as a bureaucrat, the middle molecule between a gene and a protein, as exemplified by the tidy aphorism, “DNA makes RNA makes protein.” Now we find cases of short clips of RNA acting like DNA, transmitting genetic secrets to the next generation directly, without bothering to ask permission. We find cases of RNA acting like a protein, catalyzing chemical reactions, pushing other molecules around or tearing them down. RNA is like the vice presidency: it’s executive, it’s legislative, it’s furtive.

And if canonical genes are too thin a gruel to explain yourself to yourself, you can always reach for the stalwart of scapegoats. Blame it all on your mother, who surely loved you too much or too little or in all the wrong ways.