There were postage stamps to collect and comic books, of course, but also butterflies and ants. Nothing complicated about collecting and studying insects. For a while anyway, they served as my lions and tigers, not exactly big game snared in nets by a hundred native assistants, but nevertheless the real thing. Thus fired up, I put some bottles in a cloth bag and walked over to the nearby woods of Rock Creek Park on my first expedition, venturing into second-growth deciduous woodland crisscrossed by paths. I remember vividly the animals I brought home that day. They included a wolf spider and the red and green nymph of a long-horned grasshopper.
Subsequently I decided to add butterflies as my quarry. My stepmother made me a butterfly net. (I put together a lot of them in the years to follow. In case you would like to do the same, bend a wire coat hanger into a circular loop, straighten the hook, heat the hook until it can burn wood, then push it into the end of a sawed-off broomstick. Finally, sew a net of cheesecloth or mosquito netting around the hoop.)
Thus accoutered, my butterfly collection grew furiously. Early in this career of mine, my best friend Ellis MacLeod, who years later was to be a professor of entomology at the University of Illinois, told me he had seen a medium-sized butterfly, black with brilliant red stripes across both wings, fluttering back and forth around the bushes in front of his apartment building. We found a book on butterflies and identified it as Red Admiral. The book was the beginning of my library on insects. At this point my mother, living with her second husband in Louisville, Kentucky, sent me a larger, beautifully illustrated book on butterflies. It threw me into confusion. The only familiar species I found in it was the Cabbage White, a species accidentally introduced from Europe many years previously. The reason for my confusion, I learned later, was the book was about British butterflies.
My future was set. Ellis and I agreed we were going to be entomologists when we grew up. We delved into college-level textbooks, which we could scarcely read, although we tried very hard. One that we checked out from a public library and worked on page by page was Robert E. Snodgrass’s formidable Principles of Insect Morphology, published in 1935. Only later did I learn that grown-up biologists were using it as a technical reference book. We visited the insect collections on display at the awesome National Museum of Natural History, aware that professional entomologists were curators there. I never saw one of these demigods (one was Snodgrass himself), but just knowing they were there as part of the United States government gave me hope that one day I might ascend to this unimaginably high level.
Returning in 1940 with my family to Mobile, I plunged into the rich new fauna of butterflies. The semitropical climate and nearby swamps were a close realization of my earlier dreams. To the red admirals, painted ladies, great spangled fritillaries, and mourning cloaks characteristic of the more northern climes I added snout butterflies, Gulf fritillaries, Brazilian skippers, great purple hairstreaks, and several magnificent swallowtails—giant, zebra, and spicebush.
Then I turned to ants, monomaniacally determined to find every kind living in the weed-grown vacant lot next to our large family house on Charleston Street. I didn’t know the scientific names of the species, but I do now, and the location of every colony in the quarter-acre space is vivid in my memory: the Argentine ant (Linepithema humile), which nested in the rotting wooden fence at the edge of the lot in the winter and spread out among the weeds during the warm months; large black ants (Odontomachus brunneus) with snapping jaws and vicious stings, which inhabited a pile of roof shingles at the far corner beneath a fig tree; a huge mound-dwelling colony of the red imported fire ant (Solenopsis invicta) that I found at the edge of the lot next to the street; and a colony of a tiny yellow species (Pheidole floridana) nesting beneath an old whiskey bottle.
Three years later, as nature counselor at Pushmataha, I transitioned into a snake period, and began catching as many as I could find of the dozens of species that inhabit southwestern Alabama.
I’ve gone into this boyhood story to make a point that may be relevant to your own career trajectory. I have never changed.
Planned path of the Mars rover Curiosity in Gale Crater. “NASA picks Mars landing site,” by Eric Hand, Nature 475: 433 (July 28, 2011). Modified from photograph by NASA/JPL-CALTECH/ASU/UA.
Nine
ARCHETYPES OF THE SCIENTIFIC MIND
THE BETTER EMOTIONS of our nature are felt and examined and understood more deeply during maturity, but they are born and rage in full intensity during childhood and adolescence. Thereafter they endure through the rest of life, serving as the wellsprings of creative work.
I told you earlier that during the earliest steps to discovery the ideal scientist thinks like a poet. Only later does he work at the bookkeeping expected of his profession. I spoke of passion and decent ambition as forces that drive us to creative work. The love of a subject, and I say it again for emphasis, is meritorious in itself. By pleasure drawn from discovery of new truths, the scientist is part poet, and by pleasure drawn from new ways to express old truths, the poet is part scientist. In this sense science and the creative arts are foundationally the same.
I could say more to you about the metaphorical temple of science, could speak of its infinite chambers and galleries, could offer you additional instructions on how to find your way. But you will learn all that on your own as you progress. Better at this point to explore with you some of the psychology of innovation. I suggest that you examine your inner thoughts in broader terms to locate the kinds of satisfaction you might obtain from a career in science. The value of this exercise in self-analysis applies equally well to professions in research, teaching, business, government, and the media.
Psychologists have identified five components in personality, partly based on differences in genes, on which the inner lives of people are based. My impression is that research scientists are more prone to introversion as opposed to extroversion, are neutral (can go either way) to antagonism versus agreeableness, and lean strongly toward conscientiousness and openness to experience. The circumstances in their lives that bend them toward creative work vary enormously, and the events that spark their interest in particular research opportunities differ by at least as much.
Nevertheless, I will repeat my conviction that you will become most devoted to research in science and technology through images and stories that have affected you early—particularly from childhood to the fringes of post-adolescence, say from nine or ten years of age through the teenage years into the early twenties. Further, the transformative events can be classified into a relatively small number of general images that carry maximum long-term impact. I will call them archetypes, believing they are comparable to the imprinting that makes it easier to learn languages and mathematics at a relatively early age. Archetypes, as scholars have noted, are commonly expressed by stories in myth and the creative arts. They are also powerfully manifested in the great technoscientific enterprise. It will make a difference in your own creative life if you are moved by one or more.
THE JOURNEY TO AN UNEXPLORED LAND. This yearning takes a variety of forms: to search for an unknown island; to climb a distant mountain and look beyond; to journey up an unexplored river; to contact a tribe rumored to live there; to discover lost worlds; to find Shangri-la; to land on another planet; to settle and start life anew in a distant country.
In science and technology, this archetype is expressed variously in the urge to find new species in unexplored ecosystems; to map the microscopic structure of the cell; to locate unsuspected pheromones and hormones that link organisms and tissues together; to view the deepest part of Earth’s seafloor; to travel along and map the contours of the tectonic plates and canyons; to peer on through inner Earth to the core; to see the outer boundary of the universe; to discover signs of life on other planets; to listen for alien messages on the SETI telescopes; to find ancient organisms in fossils that date back to the beginning of life on Earth; and to uncover the remains of our prehuman ancestors and thereby disclose at lo
ng last where we came from and what we are.
SEARCH FOR THE GRAIL. The grail exists in many forms: the powerful formula (or talisman) known to the ancients but lost or kept secret; the Golden Fleece; the symbol of the secret society; the philosopher’s stone; the path to the center of Earth; the incantation that releases evil spirits; the formula for enlightenment of mind and transcendence of soul; the hidden treasure; the key that unlocks the otherwise unassailable gate; the fountain of youth; the rite or magical potion that confers immortality.
Proceeding to the real world and the goals of science, we find equivalents that rouse the spirit in a similar manner. The grail is the discovery of a new and powerful enzyme or hormone; breaking the genetic code; discovering the secret of the origin of life; finding evidence of the first organism that evolved; the creation of a simple organism in the laboratory; the attainment of human immortality; achieving controlled fusion power; solving the mystery of dark matter; detecting neutrinos and the Higgs boson; deducing wormholes and multiverses.
GOOD AGAINST EVIL. Our stronger myths and emotions are driven by war against alien invaders; the conquest of new lands by our own people (who of course we regard as the civilized, the virtuous, the godly, and the chosen against the savages opposing us); the war of God against Satan; the overthrow of an evil tyrant; the triumph of the Revolution against all odds; the Hero, the Champion, or the Martyr vindicated in the end; the inner struggle of conscience between right and wrong; the Good Wizard; the Good Angel; the Magical Force; arrest and punishment of the criminal; vindication of the whistle-blower.
In the real world of science, we are aroused by what we call the war against cancer; the fight against other deadly diseases; the conquest of hunger; the mastery of a new energy source that can save the world; the campaign against global warming; forensic DNA sequencing to capture a criminal.
These several archetypes resonate up from the deep roots of human nature. They are appealing and easily understood. They convey meaning and power to humanity’s creation myths. They are retold in the epic stories of history. They are the themes of great dramas and novels.
Cell-surface receptor activated by a signaling molecule (agonist, top) turns on a G-protein-coupled receptor that activates the G protein (3 G’s, lower half). © Brian Kobilka.
Ten
SCIENTISTS AS EXPLORERS OF THE UNIVERSE
THE EXPLORERS CLUB of New York was founded in 1904 to celebrate the geographical exploration of the world and (later) outer space. Over the years the roster has included Robert Peary, Roald Amundsen, Theodore Roosevelt, Ernest Shackleton, Richard Byrd, Charles Lindbergh, Edmund Hillary, John Glenn, Buzz Aldrin, and other famous adventurers of the twentieth century. The headquarters of the Explorers Club on East Seventieth Street are stuffed with archives and memorabilia of the world’s great wanderers. Also kept there are the famous expedition flags, carried over decades by members who journey to distant and sometimes virtually inaccessible destinations. When the explorer returns, so does the flag, along with an account of what was discovered.
Each year an annual dinner is held by the club at the Waldorf Astoria, a grand edifice evoking an era of great wealth. Dress is formal, and attendees are urged to wear whatever medals they have received in past exploits. It is the only occasion of which I am aware in North America where the latter embellishment is practiced. At dinner the excess of display turns to merriment. For years, until a guest became ill at one of the dinners, the fare was a humorous sample of what the explorer might be forced to eat when supplies run out: candied spiders, fried ants, crispy scorpions, broiled grasshoppers, roasted mealworms, exotic fish, and wild game.
In 2004 I was elected an honorary member, a distinction given only a score of men and women, and in 2009 I received the Explorers Club Medal, the highest award. At first this might be seen as an entirely inappropriate honor, and maybe it was. I had never suffered privation on polar ice, never climbed an unconquered Antarctic mountain, never contacted a previously unknown Amazonian tribe. The reason was science. The board of the Explorers Club had decided to expand its concept of what remains left to explore on our planet. The conventional map of the world had been largely filled in since the time Teddy Roosevelt traveled down an unnamed river in the Amazon and Robert Peary and Matthew Henson conquered the North Pole. Most of Earth’s land surface had been visited on foot or by helicopter. What remained could be examined—even monitored day by day—through satellites to the last square kilometer. What was left of importance to map on the home planet other than the deep sea? The answer is its little-known biodiversity, that variety of plants, animals, and microorganisms that compose the thin layer of Earth called the biosphere. Although most of the flowering plants, birds, and mammals have been found, described, and given a scientific name, the great majority of species in other groups of organisms still remained to be discovered. Biologists and naturalists, both professional and amateur, who set out to find species and map the biosphere, have remained as among Earth’s true explorers.
At the dinner in 2009 on which biodiversity was officially added to the worthy unknown, I had the extraordinary experience of giving the main address. There was much to be excited about that evening, but the memory that first comes to my mind was meeting the son of Tenzing Norgay, who in 1951, with Edmund Hillary, first summited Mount Everest. I reminded him that upon his return from the mountain, when a journalist had asked Tenzing Norgay, “How does it feel to be a great man?” he responded, “It is Everest that makes men great.” To which I may add, to young biologists in particular who dream of combining science with physical adventure, it is the biosphere that offers you opportunities of epic proportion.
On Monday, July 3, 2006, the Explorers Club conducted its first “expedition” to explore biodiversity. It joined the American Museum of Natural History and other local nature-oriented organizations to conduct a bioblitz in New York City’s Central Park. Bioblitzes are events in which experts on every kind of organism, from bacteria to birds, gather to find and identify as many species as possible during a stated short period of time, usually twenty-four hours. The aim on that day was to introduce the public to the concept that even a much-tramped-over urban area teems with the diversity of life. At the end of the day, the 350 registered volunteers had tallied—and mind you, this was in New York City—836 species, including 393 plants and 101 animals, the latter including 78 moths, 9 dragonflies, 7 mammals, 3 turtles, 2 frogs, and 2 microscopic, caterpillar-like tardigrades, the last enigmatic and seldom studied anywhere in the world. The tardigrades were the first ever reported from Central Park. One of the frogs was later determined to be a species new to science and found only in and around New York City.
On Tuesday, July 8, 2003, for the first time during any bioblitz, samples of soil and water were collected for later analysis of bacteria and other microorganisms, the most abundant and diverse of all forms of life. There was even physical adventure of a sort. Sylvia Earle, a leading marine biologist renowned for her dives in oceans around the world, offered to explore the murky slime-filled waters of the small lake next to the Bethesda Fountain, in order to add aquatic creatures to our list. “While I have had no concern,” she observed, “about diving with sharks and killer whales or other creatures in the ocean, I did have reason to be mighty fearful of the microbes in the green pond in Central Park.” She and others brave enough to dive with her produced a substantial list of species. There was one uncertain identification. “I found a snail floating by,” Earle reported. “But I’m not sure if it was a resident or if it was introduced by the nearby restaurant as an escargot.”
Very few places remain on Earth that are not seething with species of plants, animals, or microorganisms. At this time, for all intents and purposes the biological diversity seems almost infinite; and each living species in turn offers scientists boundless opportunities for important original research.
Consider a rotting tree stump in a forest. You and I casually walking past it on a trail would not give it m
ore than a passing glance. But wait a moment. Walk around the stump slowly, look at it closely—as a fellow scientist. Before you, in miniature, is the equivalent of an unexplored planet. What you can learn from the decaying mass depends on your training and the science you have chosen to begin your career. Choose a subject, draw on it from anywhere in physics, chemistry, or biology. With imagination you will conceive original research programs that can be centered on the rotting stump.
Let’s think about this more together. By research specialization I am a student of ecology and biodiversity. So join me in those overlapping domains of science, and let’s ask: What life exists in the stump microplanet?
Start with animals. There may be cavities in the side, or at the base or beneath the roots, large enough to hold a mouse-sized mammal, and if not, surely a frog, salamander, snake, or lizard. Let us next magnify the image to bring in insects and other invertebrates one millimeter to thirty millimeters in length. We can see most of them with unaided vision. They are each distributed according to niches for which millions of years of evolution have adapted them. A large minority are insects. An entomologist trained in taxonomy (as should also be the case for any other scientist who needs to tell one species from another) will point out beetles that live here—members of the taxonomic families Carabidae (common name: ground beetles), Scarabaeidae (scarabs), Tenebrionidae (darkling beetles), Curculionidae (weevils), Scydmaenidae (antlike stone beetles), and several others. More species of beetles are known than any other comparable group of organisms in the world. Yet even though the most diverse, they are not the most abundant in individuals. If the stump is well along in decomposition, ant colonies will be there, resting in the frass beneath the bark and among the roots below. Termites may riddle the heartwood. In the crevice and over the surface can be found bark lice, springtails, proturans, fly and moth larvae, earwigs, japygids, and symphylans. Around them a myriad of other rotting-stump invertebrates other than insects: crustacean pill bugs, tiny annelid worms, centipedes of varying sizes and shapes, slugs, snails, pauropods, and a huge fauna of mites, the numbers of the latter dominated by sluggish spherical oribatids with a sprinkling of wolfish, fast-running phytoseiids. Spiders of many kinds spin webs or hunt widely on foot.
Letters to a Young Scientist Page 6
