The Language of the Genes. Steve Jones

For the first time, it is clear how humans are related to other animals and when they first appeared. The idea that Man did not evolve is open to scientific examination: and although creationism is supported by millions the test proves it wrong. Most people believe that they descend from simpler predecessors but would be hard put to say why. As Thomas Henry Huxley, Darwin’s great protagonist, said of the idea of evolution: ‘It is the customary fate of new truths to begin as heresies and to end as superstitions.’ Genetics has saved Darwinism from that fate. It has killed many old and disreputable superstitions. At last there is a real insight into race, and the ancient idea that the peoples of the world are divided into distinct units has gone for ever. Separatism has gained a new popularity among groups anxious to assert an identity of their own, but they cannot call on genes to support their views.

      It is, though, the essence of scientific theories that they cannot resolve everything. Science cannot answer the questions that philosophers – or children – ask: why are we here, what is the point of being alive, how ought we to behave? Genetics has nothing to say about what makes people more than just machines driven by biology, about what makes us human. These questions may be interesting, but a scientist is no more qualified to comment on them than is anyone else. Human genetics has suffered from its high opinion of itself. For most of its history it failed to understand its own limits. Knowledge has brought humility to genetics, but its new awareness raises social and ethical problems that have as yet scarcely been addressed.

      This book is about what genetics can – and cannot – tell us about ourselves. Its title, The Language of the Genes, points to the analogy upon which it turns, the parallels between biological evolution and the history of language.

      Inheritance is a discourse through time, a set of instructions passed from generation to generation. It has a vocabulary – the genes themselves – a grammar, the way in which the information is arranged, and a literature, the thousands of instructions needed to make a human being. It is based on the DNA molecule, the famous double helix, the icon of the twentieth century. Johann Miescher, the Swiss discoverer of that marvellous substance, himself wrote in 1892 that its message might be transmitted ‘just as the words and concepts of all tongues can find expression in twenty-four to thirty letters of the alphabet.’ A century of science shows how right he was.

      Both languages and genes evolve. Each generation makes errors in transmission and, sooner or later, enough differences accumulate to produce a new dialect – or a new form of life. Just as the living tongues of the world and their literary relics reveal their extinct ancestors, genes and fossils are an insight into the biological past. We have learned to read the language of the genes and it is saying remarkable things about our history, our present condition and even our future.

      The first edition of this book emerged from my Reith Lectures, given on BBC Radio in the early 1990s. Those lectures began with the philosopher Bertrand Russell in 1948 (and, some argue, have gone downhill ever since). I would not dream of comparing myself with my illustrious predecessors but I hope that the series – and the book – can stand on the merits of their subject, the most fascinating in modern science. Perhaps my lectures in their small way helped to show that the BBC can still fulfil its obligations, set forth by its founder Lord Reith, to instruct, inform and entertain. The last might seem an unexpected word to use about science, but it is justified by the number of eccentrics and fools who have graced and disgraced the history of human genetics. They appear sporadically in these pages in the hope of enlivening an otherwise bald narrative.

      Since that first edition, seven years ago, genetics – and public concern – have each exploded. What was then remote is here today. In spite of the complaints of Prince Charles, millions of acres of genetically modified crops have been planted; and Dolly the Cloned Sheep, with her penchant for standing on a trough and bullying her inferiors, has been joined by many other domestic animals born without benefit of sex. Some contain genes that make human proteins, as a statement of the new free trade in DNA which makes it possible to move genes from any part of the world of life to any other. We have, with the exception of a few footnotes, read the book of human inheritance. In 2000 it was announced that the order of the DNA bases for every one of the genes needed to make a human being had been established. The rest (small scraps of the ‘junk’ as it is optimistically called) will be read off within a year or so.

      Nobody should disparage this work. The impossible has become commonplace. To decipher the DNA has been an enormous task. It was, briefly, the privilege of a professor (or his technicians). Then came the time of the postgraduates, with doctorate after doctorate awarded for one or other piece of the genetic jigsaw. Soon, the machines took over – cheaper, less subject to emotional upset, and far faster than even the most dedicated student. Brute force (helped by ingenuity) triumphed and the pace of discovery accelerated in a fashion more associated with computers than with biology. Part of the rush came from the excitement of a science armed with a goal and the technology to reach it, but part emerged from an attempt to make millions from patents and a competing effort to keep the information in the public domain.

      The need for funds and the prospect of fortune has given birth to an era of exaggerated hopes and fears about inheritance. The public is obsessed with genes. In part that is because they come close to questions that lie outside science altogether; issues of sex, identity and fate that have occupied sages since the days of the Old Testament, the first genetics text of all. Genetics is more and more involved with social and political questions such as those of abortion, cloning, and human rights. It puts medical issues into sharp and sometimes uncomfortable focus, with much concern about problems of privacy, blame and the nature of disease. Many inherited illnesses are expensive to treat and hard to cure. They raise unwelcome questions about the balance of responsibility between individuals and populations.

      Much has been spent in the past decade. Those who paid for the map of the genes are anxious for some return. It can be hard to translate theory into practice. Vesalius worked out the anatomy of the heart in 1543; but the first heart transplant was not until 1967. Although it will not take as long before gene transplants arrive, they are further away than most people realise, and one important task that genetics faces (and one of the aims of this book) is to tailor public demands to reality.

      The new genetics sounds (and is) both beguiling and alarming. Some of those involved have been quick to take advantage of public naiveté and have maintained a stream of promises as to what they will soon achieve. Few have been fulfilled; and some will not be. The molecular biology business promotes its wares as well as any other, and the four letters of the genetic code might nowadays well be restated as H, Y, P and E. Even so, in genetics, more than most sciences, fantasy has a habit of turning into reality in unpredictable ways, even as much-heralded breakthroughs do not appear. At the time of my first edition, the idea that inherited disease would be cured with gene therapy was just around the corner, where it remains. At that time, though, the idea that animals – perhaps even humans – might routinely be cloned, or that lengths of DNA could be moved around at will seemed beyond belief. Now, genetic engineering is a business worth billions a year.

      The biggest change in the past seven years has been in attitude. In the public mind, genetics is no longer a science but a faith; a curse or a salvation. It promises or threatens, according to taste. In fact, biology has told us little about human affairs that we did not know before. Both have had plenty of publicity. Dozens of works of exegesis now offer salvation in a molecular paradise or (choose your Church) eternal damnation to those who take the broad path down the double helix to Hell. Some are accounts of the latest advances, but too many are in that weary penumbra of science inhabited by sociologists, who wander like children in a toyshop, playing with devices they scarcely understand. Biochemistry has become a branch of the social sciences and, some say, life will be explained in genetic terms. Many welcome the idea, some are filled with horror, but few pause to consider what, if anything, it means.

      The public needs a fairer statement of what science can and cannot do. Reality is harder to sell than hopes or fears; but DNA deserves more than the Frankensteins and designer babies that fill the press. The problem is, at all levels, one of unreasonable expectation, both positive and negative. In this revised version of The Language of the Genes I try to cover the many advances since its first version; in the map of human DNA, in the genetic manipulation of plants and animals, and in our