Walter Isaacson's
The Code Breaker is as interesting as a book — as an object in your hands
— as anything in its contents. Conceived long before the arrival of COVID, the
story that Isaacson planned to tell, one of competition between molecular
biology labs in the development of an amazing new diagnostic tool, was
transformed by the global health disaster from a report on the recent past into
a dispatch from right now — from the day after tomorrow, almost. For the amazing
new diagnostic tool was not only applied to the new virus itself
as a diagnostic tool but, more
amazingly still, exploited as the basis of vaccines to defeat it.
Or, we might say that Walter Isaacson's reasonable expectations of
spending a big part of 2020 on a book tour to promote Code Breaker were
completely upset by the urgency of capturing the latest developments in a
closely-related sequel. The Code Breaker is a book with an earthquake in
the middle of it. This irruption of the virus puts an end to the story that
Isaacson was telling; what follows is a miscellany of news flashes and
reflections. And yet, in spite of all the excitement, the book's real story, the
one narrative aspect that promises something more engaging than a magazine
article, can only be sketched from a distance.
That story is
about the relationship between Jennifer Doudna, an affable, capable, and
competitive American woman who happens to be a scientist, and Emmanuelle
Charpentier, a French scientist of equal or superior talent who happens to be a
woman. Together, they won last year's Nobel Prize for chemistry. I am not
interested in judging one of them to be more remarkable than the other; their
fruitful collaboration around the year 2012 owed everything, I think, to the
intelligent way in which they harnessed their differences. At one point,
Isaacson calls Charpentier "mysterious"; he also describes her as "chic" — one
thinks of Glenn Close discussing scarves in Le Divorce. A more important
difference between Doudna and Charpentier lies in their relation to
institutions, groups, and geography. Once settled at Berkeley in 2002, Doudna
and her lab became figures in a metaphysical landscape whose antipode would be
Cambridge, Massachusetts. Charpentier, in contrast, has been a maverick, moving
about as if she were determined to pollinate every major research institution in
the world. Isaacson does not make much of it, but the two women also appear to
have strongly different ideas about tooting one's own horn. Their relationship,
while it lasted, was productive rather than exciting, but instead of coming to
an end in some misunderstanding or other, it simply faded away. Isaacson is not
to be faulted for failing to make the most of this working friendship. It is
probable that, it they tried to tell their own story, Doudna and Charpentier
would do no better. Perhaps only a novelist could do it justice, but that would
be fiction and not history.
Isaacson, of
course, is a journalist — a former editor of Time Magazine. I have
not read any of his other books, four of which are packaged together as "The
Genius Biographies" (Leonardo, Franklin, Einstein, and Steve Jobs). The problem
with books about geniuses is that they are necessarily addressed to lesser
mortals. How do we ordinary folk assess a great mind's achievements and their
consequences? How can we be sure that the alleged geniuses are so much smarter
than the people around them? And, as the example of Steve Jobs forces us to
wonder, what exactly was the achievement? Even without reading any
biography, I am fairly certain that Jobs was a brilliant packager/marketer:
working backward from potential desires of which the general public was unaware,
Jobs sponsored the development of products that would gratify them. As
astonishing as the smart phone might be for most of us, its great success was
not a surprise to its developer. Far from reminding me of conventional
scientists, Jobs appears most to resemble Alfred Hitchcock, "conducting" the
audience reaction to Psyscho while standing alone in the theatre lobby.
The means by which these men commanded their admirers seems almost beside the
point.
We might at this
juncture ask, what distinguishes journalism from history? Because Isaacson, too,
seems to work backward. He knows his readers. Specifically, he knows how much
information about "science" he can ask a lay audience to swallow. He understands
that readers must be made to believe that they understand what he is talking
about, when the odds are that they can't possibly do anything of the kind, even
in the unlikely event that they want to. What they want — and it is the whole
purpose of journalism to gratify this desire — is to "know something" about a
matter of public, perhaps even of world-historical concern, in this case the
manipulation of genetic information in the struggle against disease and birth
defect. There can be no doubt that this manipulation has opened an entirely new
highway on the terrain of human capability. Many civilians may harbor misgivings
about the haste with which the Moderna and Pfizer vaccines were created and made
available to the public; it used to take a long time, much longer than a year,
to produce a viable vaccine. (A vaccine for HIV has yet to be invented.) Working
faster, however, had little to do with the COVID vaccines. It was a matter of
working entirely differently, exploiting technologies less than ten years old.
This is the story that Isaacson expects, quite reasonably, to grip his readers,
and it is a testament to his journalist virtuosity that he can convey the gist
of it to readers who would, no matter how smart, be paralyzed by the basics of
x-ray crystallography.
The star of The
Code Breaker is the code itself: the special bacterial genetic code that we
now call CRISPR. Never mind what the acronym stands for; it's more than enough
to digest the surprising news that bacteria encode their immunities in their
DNA, apparently as a matter of course. A bacterium that has survived attack by a
new virus will transcribe a portion of the virus's DNA onto its own DNA, in the
form of a CRISPR, thus not only "remembering" it but also conferring immunity on
all bacteria descended from it. This fantastic ability appears to be limited to
prokaryotic life (bacteria, archaea); eukaryotic organisms — plants, animals,
fungi; all the kinds of life that we can see — are not similarly blessed.
Undetected, CRISPRs did their work for billions of years. No sooner did humans
discover them, however, than they learned how to alter them so as to use them to
edit genes of any kind. Just how the CRISPR mechanism works is the discovery for
which Doudna and Charpentier were awarded the Nobel Prize. (Hint: Think RNA, not
DNA.)
But the work
leading up to this discovery was done by many different people, and, in the
final stretch, Doudna and Charpentier were racing against competition from the
Broad Institute in Cambridge. The story of this competition, and how it led to
patent litigation, provided Isaacson with a climax until it was upstaged by
COVID. Even by this point, however, I was wondering why Isaacson put
Jennifer Doudna's name at the head of his subtitle. It's unlikely that I'd have
bought the book otherwise. (The parade of manly change agents constituting
Isaacson's earlier work was hardly an attraction.) Doudna was not only a woman
but an unknown woman, arguably someone who, like Rosalind Franklin, the
notoriously overlooked crystallographer without whose photographs Watson and
Crick might never have cracked DNA, deserved wider renown. The reviews
unanimously presented her as an attractive human being. I must confess that I
fell for the appeal of a nice lady doing major sicence and becoming
famous, if only in her own milieu, for doing so.
Although Doudna
emerges from Isaacson's handling as just such a woman, she does not hold the
spotlight. Yes, she did the work with Charpentier that won the prize, and she
had done important work before that. But her role in this book seems more the
result of Isaacson's dependence on the luster of isolated geniuses, among whom I
doubt Doudna will ever be counted. No one will claim that everyone who has ever
won a Nobel Prize in science or math is a thinker on the level of Albert
Einstein, and I don't think that in the privacy of his own mind Isaacson
inflates Doudna's importance. But his shtick, one fears, requires a singular,
outstanding figure. I've already said that it's CRISPR itself that is the star
of the book, but Isaacson is too much the journalist to expect his readers to
admire, much less to identify with, a string of proteins. His need to put a
single human being at the center of this story distorts it. It certainly
Disneyfies it. The Disney people would have no reason to edit any of Doudna's
quoted remarks, which I found to be disappointingly anodyne.
CRISPR's co-stars, moreover, are institutions, not individuals. It's fashionable to hold that institutions — corporations especially — are made up of actual people, some of whom, perhaps, ought to be held personally accountable for institutional missteps. I wholeheartedly agree. But in a successful institution, individual people deform themselves creatively. They leave their personal problems at home (ideally) and specialize at work in the demonstration of a few highly-developed skills. Successful institutions are vastly more powerful than any individual human being can dream of being — just ask Napoleon or Morgan. Precisely because few if any employees of an institution act professionally as interesting, fully-developed human beings, institutions are hard to write about. (They would probably be absolutely impossible to write about without the hostility of colleagues.) And even when two or more institutions profess to pursue the same ends, they develop, inadvertently or otherwise, differences that are not always insignificant. Another difference between history and journalism is that historians can alter their point of view, looking now closer, now from a greater difference. They can explain, as no mere journalist really can, the difference, say, between Oxford and Cambridge, or the difference between Italy and France — differences that cannot be traced back to specific, photographable individuals. And it is for this, along with other self-inflicted limitations, that journalism is doomed to be a kind of entertainment, and not one of the humanities.
— 23 April 2021
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