WHY DON’T SCIENTISTS ADMIT THEY ARE HUMAN?

W. Furness Thompson

Did you ever read a scientific paper that begins, "For no good reason at all I had a hunch that..." or "I was just fooling around one day when..."? No sir! Seldom does a trace of anything haphazard, anything human, appear in published reports of research experiments. The scientific paper will more likely begin: "In view of recent evidence concerning the Glockenspiel theory, it seemed advisable to conduct...." And the report will go on to describe a carefully thought-out experiment that followed not only a logi­cal but also a chronological order. This was done, this resulted, therefore these conclu­sions were suggested. Scientific tradition demands that scientific papers follow that formal progression: method first, results second, conclusion third. The rules permit no hint that, as often happens, the method was really made up as the scientist went along, or that accidental results determined the method, or that the scientist reached certain conclusions before the results were all in, or that he started out with certain conclu­sions, or that he started doing a different experiment.

Much scientific writing not only misrepresents the workings of science but also does a disservice to scientists themselves. By writing reports that make scientific inves­tigations sound as unvarying and predictable as a pavan, scientists tend to promulgate the curious notion that science is infallible. That many of them are unconscious of the effect they create does not alter the image in the popular mind. We hear time and again of the superiority of the "scientific method." In fact, the word "unscientific" has almost become a synonym for "untrue." Yet the final evaluation of any set of data is an individ­ual, subjective judgment; and all human judgment is liable to error. Thoughtful scientists realize all this; but you wouldn't gather so from reading most scientific literature. A pompous, stilted style too often seizes the pen of the experimenter the moment he starts putting words on paper.

Words direct our lives, after all. And if the words in which we read the scientist's own unfolding story of his science are all cold and calculated, empty of foible or failing, above even mention of mistake, how are we to divine that in the vast majority of moments when he is not writing, the scientist is a genial, sensible, rather humble man? By what occult power are we to recognize that his "objective evaluations" in the scientific journals are actually not magnificent infallibilities but fortunate conclusions of persistently pursued hunches, exhaustively explored intuitions, and unexpected observations?

Editors of scientific publications are not without their reasons for the current style of scientific writing. Their journals aren't rich. Paper and printing are expensive. Therefore, it is expedient to condense articles as much as possible. Under pressure of tradition, the condensation process removes the human elements first. And few scien­tific writers rebel against the tradition. Even courageous men do not go out of their way to publicize their deviations from accepted procedures. Then, too, there is an apparent objectivity and humility attached to the third person, passive voice writing technique adopted in the preparation of most scientific papers. So, bit by bit, the true face of science becomes hidden behind what seems to the outsider to be a smug all-knowing mask. Is it any wonder that in the popular literature the scientist often appears as a hybrid superman-spoiled child?

No small contribution to modern culture could be the simple introduction, into the earliest stage of our public-school science courses, of a natural style of writing about laboratory experiments as they really happen. This is something that could be done immediately with the opening of classes this fall. It requires no preparation except a psychological acknowledgment of the obvious fact that the present form of reporting experiments is a mental strait jacket whose very appearance is calculated to repel the imaginative young minds science so sorely needs.

Dare the local schoolteacher depart from the stereotype imposed by tradition? I think he should. It would be foolish to expect every scientist to become a composite of, say, Pasteur and Hemingway. But the teacher could point out that a writing tradition which removes a portion of humanity is also liable to remove a portion of truth. He could encourage his students to report facts as they see them, including facts that con­vention might regard as "unscientific" and, therefore, out of place in a written report. The giants of science could serve as guides. Let me quote from the article in the June, 1929, issue of the British Journal of Experimental Pathology in which Sir Alexander Fleming, the English bacteriologist, announced the discovery of penicillin: «While working with staphylococcus variants [types of bacteria] a number of culture plates were set aside on the laboratory bench and examined from time to time. In the examination, these plates were necessarily exposed to the air and they became contaminated with various microorganisms. It was noticed that around a large colony of the contaminated mold the staphylococcus colonies became transparent and were obviously undergoing lysis [dissolution]».

This paragraph is far from a literary masterpiece, but it does illustrate a straight-forwardness which is infrequently present in scientific writing. Did Fleming report anything that happened according to plan? Not unless necessary exposure to air is counted as planning. The whole business was an accident, and Fleming said so.

Fleming did not discover penicillin because he was hunting for it. He made the discovery because he was curious about something he saw. He saw the germs on his plates being killed by an air-borne mold. What was the mold and how did it kill?

This penicillin episode is an instructive example of how wrong the popular conception of "scientific method" can be. Even after he isolated penicillin Fleming was unable to make more than a meager quantity of it that was useful. Ten years were to pass before the antibiotic was mass-manufactured, and then the job could not be done in the discoverer's native England. Penicillin did not become a practical reality until Dr. Alfred Newton Richards, Chairman of the National Research Council's Committee on Medi­cal Research in this country, persuaded United States manufacturers to go into speculative development of the drug.

Our firm—Smith, Kline, and French—was one of the companies Richards approached. We were interested. We thought a mushroom outfit might be a good place to grow the mold. I was sent to talk to the mushroom man. As I explained the process of growing molds and extracting penicillin, he paled. He got rid of me as fast as he could. Much later, I found out that mushroom growers plan their science on the principle that all molds are evil and should be destroyed. Only those mushroom men who ignored their own traditional "method" were able to benefit the world, and incidentally, be­come rich themselves, by growing penicillin.

Science, in practice, depends far less on the experiments it prepares than on the preparedness of the minds of the men who watch the experiments. Sir Isaac Newton supposedly discovered gravity through the fall of an apple. Apples had been falling in many places for centuries and thousands of people had seen them fall. But Newton for years had been curious about the cause of the orbital motion of the moon and the plan­ets. What kept them in place? Why didn't they fall out of the sky? The fact that the apple fell down toward the earth and not up into the tree answered the question he had been asking himself about those larger fruits of the heavens, the moon and the planets.

How many men would have considered the possibility of an apple falling up into the tree? Newton did because he was not trying to predict anything. He was just wondering. His mind was ready for the unpredictable. Unpredictability is part of the essential nature of research. If you don't have unpredictable things, you don't have research. Scientists tend to forget this when writing their cut and dried reports for the technical journals, but history is filled with examples of it.

In 1925 William Mason, a mechanical engineer, hit upon the idea of heating wood until it exploded and then using the fibers to make a good inexpensive paper. He was in a factory drying some of the fibers when a friend asked him to lunch. After turning off the steam valve that regulated the heat, Mason left the place. He had a leisurely lunch followed by a few extra cups of coffee. When he returned to the factory he discovered to his horror that the valve he thought he had closed was defective—the heat had remained on all the time he was away. The wood fibers weren't merely dry; they were baked! Mason's first reaction was to throw the fibers away. Before he did so, however, he took a long close look at them. He found a smooth sheet not of paper but of a new very special kind of grainless wood.

Another man made a valuable discovery because he forgot to wash his hands. He knocked off work in a laboratory to eat a roast beef sandwich, took one bite and gagged. The sandwich was sickeningly sweet! In reaching for a glass of water, he noticed his hands were dirty. Could the dirt have anything to do with the unexpected sweetness of that sandwich? He examined the stuff he had been handling in the labora­tory before lunch and thereby discovered saccharin. Serendipity is the high-sounding name for this kind of happy accident.

In talking to some scientists, particularly younger ones, you might gather the impression that they find the "scientific method" a substitute for imaginative thought. I've attended research conferences where a scientist has been asked what he thinks about the advisability of continuing a certain experiment. The scientist has frowned, looked at the graphs, and said "the data are still inconclusive." "We know that," the men from the budget office have said, "but what do you think? Is it worthwhile going on? What do you think we might expect?" The scientist has been shocked at having even been asked to speculate.

What this amounts to, of course, is that the scientist has become the victim of his 16 own propaganda. He has put up the infallible objective front so consistently that he not only believes it himself, but has convinced industrial and business management that it is true. If experiments are planned and carried out according to plan as faithfully as the reports in the science journals indicate, then it is perfectly logical for management to expect research to produce results measurable in dollars and cents. It is entirely rea­sonable for auditors to believe that scientists who know exactly where they are going and how they will get there should not be distracted by the necessity of keeping one eye on the cash register while the other eye is on the microscope. Nor, if regularity and conformity to a standard pattern are as desirable to the scientist as the writing of his papers would appear to reflect, is management to be blamed for discriminating against the "odd balls" among researchers in favor of more conventional thinkers who "work well with the team."

All of us who actually have to do with research know that the "odd ball" often is a 17 more valuable scientist than his well-adjusted colleague. "Odd ball" may be too strong a phrase. I'm not talking about the man who is extremely unusual—who wears a Napoleon hat. No, I mean the man who doesn't conform, who doesn't always think the way most of us are thinking, who doesn't always act the way most of us are acting.

I can remember an extremely valuable senior scientist of ours who made many important contributions to our research program but who apparently did very little work, and who took privileges which were quite conspicuous. He was a flower fancier. He spent so much time growing flowers in his laboratory that it began to look like the be­ginning of a small greenhouse. We were worried about the effect of this man on the morale of those who worked with and for him. But when we looked into the situation we found that our fears were groundless. He was not resented. The others around him realized that if they were contributing as much as he, they too could grow flowers in the lab or design Rube Goldberg apparatus.

At least a large part of the nonscientist's hostility to or fear of the scientist rises from 19 the stereotyped idea of the scientist as a man, the myth that the scientist himself perpetuates. This imaginary person does not quite belong to the same species as other human beings; he lives in a different world; he thinks in a different way.

Actually, the scientist thinks in much the same way that the rest of us do. The problems he encounters in his work are different from our problems, but his method of arriving at solutions is much the same as ours. The scientist is not necessarily smarter or more creative than the nonscientist. The psychological process of creativity—whether a man is creating a new vaccine, a novel, a painting, or a piece of sculpture—is much the same for everybody.

If the scientist, in writing about his work, will present himself as a fellow fallible 21 human, he will lead us all to be receptive of his accomplishments, tolerant of his failures, and far less likely to demand of him more than he can possibly give.

V. GRAMMAR REVISION

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