More Praise for
THE PLAGUE CYCLE
“Throughout history, infectious diseases have been defeated. Covid-19 will be defeated too. Charles Kenny’s brilliant The Plague Cycle is the book of the hour.”
—Gregg Easterbrook, author of It’s Better Than It Looks
“Kenny has penned a concise, erudite, and highly readable narrative probing humanity’s protracted and Malthusian battle against deadly pathogens from malaria and smallpox to cholera and Covid.”
—Timothy C. Winegard, author of The Mosquito: A Human History of Our Deadliest Predator
“[This] would be fascinating at any time, but during the current pandemic it provides a critical historical and analytic perspective for policy makers, scholars, and interested laypeople thinking about how to address Covid-19.”
—Michael Kremer, professor at Harvard University and winner of the Nobel Prize in Economics
“Splendid… The intellectual strength of The Plague Cycle is its use of thorough historical analysis.… Truly, this is tip-top!”
—Dorothy Porter, author of Health, Civilization and the State
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Preface
A child isn’t too sure about being vaccinated against measles. (Credit: “Not Sure About the Vaccination” by Julian Harneis is licensed under [CC BY-SA 2.0])
The two leading killers worldwide at the start of the twenty-first century are heart attacks and strokes. That is evidence of humanity’s greatest triumph: until recent decades, most people didn’t live long enough to die of heart failure. Rather, they were felled by a range of infectious diseases that picked off the young or swept through whole populations in pandemic catastrophe.
Covid-19 is a terrible reminder that our victory against infection is far from complete—and in all likelihood never will be complete. The cycle of population growth, pandemic, and recovery isn’t nearly as violent as it has been in the past, but it’s still with us. Many more infectious diseases have emerged over the past century than have been eradicated. And the coronavirus has demonstrated the immense costs we bear when people are forced to rely on one of the very earliest responses to infection: running from it.
But although 2020 marked a tragic global reversal, recent progress against infection has been remarkable. In 2015, as I started to think about writing this book, I crowded into a small basement room of the Seattle Westin Hotel with hundreds of doctors, public health workers, and researchers for an event called “Lessons Learned on the Path to Eradication.” The humbleness of the setting aside, the people who were onstage should be world famous for the contributions they’ve made: Jeffrey Mariner, of Tufts University, created a stable vaccine against the cattle disease rinderpest. Pedro Alonso directed the Global Malaria Program at the World Health Organization. Frank Richards, from the Carter Center, battled diseases caused by parasitic worms. Chris Elias, at the Gates Foundation, led his organization’s polio eradication effort. And Bill Foege developed the global smallpox eradication strategy rolled out by the World Health Organization in the 1970s.
Of the infectious killers these five speakers worked to stamp out, two have already been driven to extinction, two are on the verge of eradication, and as for the remaining scourge, wiping it out is a real possibility within our lifetimes. In 1980, the smallpox eradication campaign succeeded. Hundreds of millions died of smallpox in the first eight decades of the twentieth century. But since then only one person, a lab technician, has died of the disease—infected from an accidental release of a scientific sample. Rinderpest was wiped out globally in 2011, ending a disease that killed millions of cattle owned by some of the planet’s very poorest households. Rinderpest was also the likely source of the human mass murderer measles. Unchecked, it could have mutated into a species-hopping version once again. The number of cases of guinea worm (a parasite that causes excruciating blisters, vomiting, and dizziness) has fallen by more than 99.9 percent worldwide over the past two decades. As of April 2020, the wild polio virus (which can cripple and kill) had been limited to two countries. And since 2000, thirty-four countries worldwide, including China, Argentina, and South Africa, have made massive strides toward eliminating malaria, cutting death rates by an average of 87 percent.1
These and earlier victories have been won through the combined efforts of billions of people. Among them are Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who popularized variolation—the first effective protection against smallpox; Edward Jenner, who experimented with cowpox to create the first vaccine; Ali Maow Maalin, the last person to contract smallpox outside the laboratory, who spent the rest of his life fighting polio; and Salma Farooqi, who was tortured and killed by the Taliban for the crime of vaccinating children against that same disease.
I would argue that these people are heroes in a worldwide struggle for better health that has seen massive progress in recent decades, but “hero” and “progress” are both controversial words in a book that discusses history. The concern is perhaps best illustrated by a review of David Wootton’s 2006 book Bad Medicine: Doctors Doing Harm Since Hippocrates. Wootton is a historian at the University of York and his Bad Medicine argues that doctors before the twentieth century did little if anything to improve health outcomes of their patients. Wootton offers explanations as to why that was the case. The book’s reviewer, Harvard historian Steven Shapin, claimed Bad Medicine wasn’t history because it documented and celebrated progress, naming heroes. The job of the historian of science, Shapin argued, isn’t to judge but to interpret and understand the past in its own terms.
Wootton countered that since both he and Shapin agreed there’d been genuine and substantial medical progress, there was nothing wrong in writing a narrative of that progress.2 I agree with Wootton, even if that might alienate some historians.3
And there is something to appreciate in the fact that average life expectancy at birth worldwide has climbed from below thirty in the 1870s to above seventy today. Such innovations as sewer systems, sterilization, vaccination, and use of antibiotics are important reasons why.
In the months I was completing this book, a lot of my thinking and writing was about Covid-19 and possible ways to limit its devastating effect on our health and the economy. The pandemic has elevated a whole new set of heroes in the fight against infectious disease, from nurses and doctors to shelf stockers and delivery staff. Thanks to people like them, I know we’ll continue striking blows against premature death.
CHAPTER ONE Malthus’s Ultimate Weapon
Premature death must in some shape or other visit the human race.
—Malthus
New York today has a population twice as large as the entire world in 10,000 BCE. That is only possible because of victories over infection. (Credit: NASA)
To understand the scale of the health revolution of the last 150 years, we must grasp the magnitude of the trap humanity escaped. It was a trap laid out elegantly (if somewhat inaccurately) by Thomas Robert Malthus in his book An Essay on the Principle of Population.
Robert was the seventh child in his family. He went to Cambridge University and excelled, becoming a fellow at Jesus College. He also joined the Church of England, and it was while he was a curate in Surrey that he wrote his Essay, first published in 1798 during the early stages of Britain’s Industrial Revolution.
&n
bsp; The book presented a grim law of population: given humanity’s capacity to breed, unchecked populations would rapidly expand. As populations multiplied, more people would use the same land for hunting or farming, or begin to work lower-quality land. This would reduce overall output per person—and the amount that each could consume would decline in lockstep. The number of people would continue to increase until their consumption was reduced to a minimum.
If populations continued to rise beyond that, people wouldn’t have enough to eat. That in turn would increase mortality—from disease, famine, or violence. In the end, thanks to a rising death rate, populations would shrink, and output per person remaining would rise. That would bring consumption back to its subsistence level. Scientific progress wouldn’t help escape this vicious cycle: marginal improvements in efficiency and output thanks to technology advances like better tools for hunting, heavier plows, or new seeds would simply be eaten up by the hungry mouths of an expanded population. In short, humanity might rise or fall in absolute numbers, but the bulk of the populace would forever live brutish lives on the edge of subsistence.
Malthus’s theory couldn’t have been more pessimistic. Historically, he maintained, there were only three ways to check population growth: vice, misery, or restraint. For the eighteenth-century parson, vices included prostitution, venereal disease, homosexuality, and birth control.
Misery, the usual alternative to vice, included war, pestilence, and famine. Malthus waxed poetic on this subject:
The power of population is so superior to the power of the earth to produce subsistence for man, that premature death must in some shape or other visit the human race. The vices of mankind are active and able ministers of depopulation. They are the precursors in the great army of destruction, and often finish the dreadful work themselves. But should they fail in this war of extermination, sickly seasons, epidemics, pestilence, and plague advance in terrific array, and sweep off their thousands and tens of thousands. Should success be still incomplete, gigantic inevitable famine stalks in the rear, and with one mighty blow levels the population with the food of the world.1
To avoid vice and misery acting as grim checks to population, the only course was restraint: Malthus’s forlorn hope was that moral purity could help most of humanity raise itself above a life of bare subsistence. To keep populations low meant marrying virginal, late, and frigid. Minimal indulgence in sex would produce very few babies, which would help ensure higher living standards and longer lives for the children that were born. Malthus himself married at thirty-eight, and had only two children. But he had little confidence that the mass of people would follow his lead.
Pessimistic Malthus may have been, but in the years that preceded his analysis, his theory broadly lined up with the facts: populations rose or declined as circumstances changed, but the average person planet-wide consumed so little that they lived considerably below the poverty line of today’s poorest nations. And all three methods outlined by Malthus have played their role in limiting population. In some cases, humans have lowered birth rates—sometimes by methods the good reverend would consider virtuous, often by those he’d consider vice-ridden. In most cases, the misery of war, pestilence, and famine have played the larger part.
In prehistory, infectious disease was widespread enough to play a large role in human evolution. But it still played a comparatively minor role in death, particularly when humans began to migrate out of Africa, outrunning many of the infections of their birthplace.2 What caused infectious disease to begin regaining the upper hand was when farming became a substitute source of sustenance. As it turned out, large-scale infection was the poxed handmaiden of agriculture and civilization. As humanity packed together with animals in crowded cities and villages, for example, influenza jumped from pigs (or possibly ducks) to infect humans. And other microbes leveraged proximity to do their own spreading.
For most of the time civilization has existed, pestilence has wiped out far more lives than famine and violence combined—so much so that Malthus’s proposed final limit of land and resources as the check to human numbers has rarely been approached. Disease has usually kept populations below the levels that could have been supported given agricultural technologies at the time. In Malthus’s language, famine did indeed “stalk in the rear”—not least because infectious diseases become bigger killers as more people share the same space. They’re a self-regulating tool of population control. The expansion of civilization—and, in particular, of cities—was limited by the very diseases it had enabled.
The rise and spread of civilizations, and the growing trade between them, provided parasites with unprecedented reach. As empires rose in Europe and China, and were linked by trade across the Asian steppe, new populations were exposed to diseases. Plague twice brought low much of Eurasia. The first time that occurred, it helped doom the Roman Empire and enabled the rise of Islam in its southern territories. Plague struck again toward the second half of the fourteenth century, when the Black Death wiped out a significant percentage of humanity.
When Europeans discovered the New World, so did their pathogens. Great empires in the Americas were shattered thanks in considerable part to the onslaught of Old World diseases that arrived with Columbus or those who followed him. When Africans were brought in to replace native populations as slaves, they carried with them some of humanity’s oldest infections, including deadlier strains of malaria. The indigenous population of the New World fell to less than one-tenth of its level of 1491 as a result. More than three hundred years after Columbus, Malthus still wrote of the Americas as a place of small populations with an abundance of land. Meanwhile, by removing vast numbers through the violence of slavery and the introduction of new infections by expanding slave trade networks, Europeans also reduced Africa’s population.
But if globalization was a vehicle for the launch of pandemics, it’s also true that it was severely limited by the very same diseases: empire building constantly faltered thanks to plague and tropical fevers. Conquest, colonization, and trade were all severely curtailed by the death rates faced by imperial adventurers in alien disease environments.
By the time of the last great die-offs of populations previously unexposed to Eurasian disease, the world was on the verge of dramatic progress against infection. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, it was still fair to argue that living standards for England’s poorest were little higher than in any previous point in history, and their health possibly worse. The most effective and widespread response to infection remained avoidance—flight, quarantine, and access restrictions. But as the century progressed, Britain (followed by Europe and North America) saw rising population and living standards and, at the same time, falling mortality. Thanks to a revolution in sanitation, infection was on the retreat. And due to a combination of techniques, including some Malthus would have considered unconscionable, birth rates began to fall, too. It was an irony that the Malthusian model started to break down completely just as Malthus was writing his Essay.
In the twentieth century, with a medical revolution that included vaccination and antibiotics, progress against premature death spread worldwide. From the vicious Malthusian cycle of better health guaranteeing poverty, the medical revolution helped create a virtuous cycle of health and productivity reinforcing each other. Everywhere, the reverend’s miseries seemed to be in retreat. Famine, pestilence, and war all reduced their toll in the second half of the century, but the number of people saved by reduced infection was by far the largest.
Global efforts against infection over the past two centuries—from washing hands to constructing sewer systems to making use of penicillin, immunization, and bed nets—have saved billions from premature death and billions more from stunted growth, pain, paralysis, blindness, or a lifetime of recurring fever. Two hundred years ago, almost half of all people born died before their fifth birthday, mostly from infection. Today, that figure is below one in twenty-five.3 And we’ve passed a huge milestone in the last f
ew years—more people worldwide are dying from noninfectious diseases than from infectious ones. For all the suffering and deaths they’ve caused, new pandemics, including Covid-19, haven’t reversed that trend.
The changes wrought by the decline of infectious death have been as seismic as its rise—affecting everything from global power to the nature of home life. Not least, lowered infection risk unleashed urbanization and globalization. Sanitation and the medical revolution have allowed these processes to explode so that ever more of the world’s population lives in globally connected cities.
But the effects of victories against infection have gone far beyond bringing people together. They’re a major factor in declining birth rates, because it turns out child survival is a great preventative when it comes to having further children. From a historical average of six children or more, the average woman worldwide now has between two and three.4 That has led to the global emergence of the nuclear family and the aging of populations. Lower infection and its impacts are also factors behind the explosion in global education (because parents who have fewer children can afford to invest more in those they do have), the emancipation of women (since they’re freed from endless child-rearing), and economic dynamism (because healthy and educated populations are more productive). The end result is a world with a far healthier population some seven times larger than in Reverend Malthus’s day, living on an average income four times greater than that of world-leading Britain in 1775.5
Millions still die every year of easily prevented or cured conditions, but the Malthusian trap has been sprung. The question remains as to whether it will stay open. How the fight against infection progresses will help shape the future of global civilization: how many people will live on the planet, how sustainably, and even how peacefully. If victories against infection have allowed us to get closer, to live with millions and travel worldwide, the coronavirus lockdowns and social distancing are a painful illustration of the psychological, social, and economic costs when we’re pushed apart again by a renewed threat of disease.
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