Category: biography

My favorite biographies

August 30, 2026 • 10:45 am

I noticed, while preparing tomorrow’s Hili Dialogue, that tomorrow is We Love Memoirs Day. Well, I’m not a fan of memoirs so much as of biographies, for memoirs can easily be distorted because the writer is the subject.  That’s not so true of biographies, and it got me thinking about the biographies I’ve loved the most. I’ll mention just four (three of them comprise more than one volume), and I encourage you to note your own selections in the comments.

My criteria are simply that the subject of the biography be an interesting person—or, in the case of the first two, made interesting by the author’s research—and that the book be written very well, so the prose is a pleasure to read.

These are listed in no particular order.

1.)_ The Power Broker: Robert Moses and the Fall of New York by Robert Caro (1974). I read this behemoth (1,336 pages!) soon after it came out, and I couldn’t put it down. One wouldn’t think that Robert Moses, an urban planner who held a number of powerful positions in New York City, would be such an interesting subject for a biography, but Robert Moses made it so.  As Wikipedia notes,

Moses’ construction projects transformed the New York area and revolutionized the way urban areas across the United States were designed and built. His philosophy of urban development influenced a generation of engineers, architects, and urban planners across the United States.

I won’t summarize what he did, as you can read the Wikipedia link to the book above or Moses’s short biography on the site.  It’s a mesmerizing read, although some critics complain it has a number of errors (Moses, who was still alive when it came out, shares that opinion). You can look up these allegations after you read the book, but if you like biography you must read it. It won the Pulitzer Prize for biography in 1975.

Here’s the cover; click to get the Amazon link. At $16.47 for the huge paperback, it’s a great bargain:

2.) What Caro did for Robert Moses—making an unlikely subject seem fascinating—he also did for Lyndon Johnson, in a four-volume work that’s supposed to end at volume five. The Years of Lyndon Johnson (first volume from 1982), currently over 3,000 pages, and is another series of books that are hard to put down.  The first volume covers Johnson’s youth through his first campaign for the Senate, the second up to his successful election to the Senate in 1947, the third his control of the Senate and passage of the Civil Rights act of 1957 (this volume won both the Pulitzer Prize and a National Book Award), and the fourth up to Johnson’s attaining the Presidency after Kennedy’s assassination in 1963.

Unfortunately, the fifth and final volume, up to Johnson’s death, is still in the works, and, like the book below, it’s a race against time as Caro is now 90 and has been saying for several decades that the book is nearly finished. Caro notes that he’s written a lot of the book, and I hope he’ll finish, as the final volume will cover Johnson’s tenure during the Vietnam War and his resignation from the Presidency in 1969.  This is a crucial volume in the set, and we all hope Caro finishes it.

Here’s the set on Amazon, with the boxed hardcover set going for $113 and the paperbacks from $11-14, those being great bargains as well.

3.) The Last Lion: Winston Spencer Churchill by William Manchwster (I am speaking of the first two volumes). Manchester completed two volumes in 1983 and 1988, and I devoured them.  He died  of stomach cancer before the third volume could be completed, so his unfinished manuscript was co-published with Paul Reid as the final volume. I haven’t read it.

You’re drawn into the series by the first chapter of the first book, which simply recounts a day in Churchill’s life as PM at his home in Chartwell, Kent. What a life the man had! Soldier, journalist, prisoner of war and escapee, holder of many big government positions (including First Lord of the Admiralty, during which he was humiliated by the Dardanelles fiasco and had to resign), parliamentarian, Prime Minister (twice), and elder statesman.  He could write very well, was a prolifie author, and his books The Second World War and A History of the English Speaking Peoples won him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1953.  (I can’t think of another British PM who won a Nobel Prize for Literature.)

Unfortunately, the second volume of the biography, Alone, ends just when Churchill takes the reins as Prime Minister during WWII, and I was greatly looking forward to see the account of Churchill helming the UK during that war. But because Manchester died before that volume was published, I never read it, even though it came out with Reid’s help.  Even so, you might read the first two volumes and see if you want to go on to the co-authored third.

Here’s the Amazon link to the trio: another bargain for the hardbacks at $79 (nearly 50% off), with the paperbacks around $15.

4. The two-volume biography of Charles Darwin by Janet Browne, comprising Charles Darwin: Voyaging (1995), and Charles Darwin: The Power of Place (2002). The first book covers Darwin’s life up to 1856, when he was starting On the Origin of Species, and the second his life at Down House, the publication of The Origin and his other books, ending, of course, with his death in 1882.

I may be biased in this selection because it is after all about Darwin, but it’s an extraordinarily well written duo, with a lot about the science.  Janet has now condensed the two books into one, Darwin: A Biography, which just came out on June 30. I haven’t read it, so what I’m recommending is the two-volume set. Do read it. The cover below links to the Amazon site of the first volume

Now it’s your turn, and I look forward to hearing what biographies the readers recommend (I use those as a source of future reading).

A superb book about Gauguin

May 31, 2026 • 9:30 am

Paul Gauguin (1848-1903) and his erstwhile friend Vincent van Gogh, are two of my favorite painters, though I like van Gogh’s work better. But nobody from the post-Impressionist era ever went off to Polynesia like Gauguin, bent on living and depicting what he conceived as the natural life, unspoiled by the trappings of the West.  He produced some marvelous paintings (and sculptures, which he also was good at), though he was largely unappreciated and ignored during his life.

I first saw a lot of Gauguins at the famous Boston Museum of Fine Art’s exhibit in 2004, which displayed more than 150 of the painter’s works. I was mesmerized, not only by the colors and exoticism, but by narrative works like “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?” (see below).

Gauguin is buried on Atuona in the Marquesas Islands, his grave sporting a bronze cast of one of his wood sculptures:

Gauguin’s grave. Attribution: makemake, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I just finished a recent biography of Gauguin: Wild Thing: A Life of Paul Gauguin, written by Sue Prideaux and published by W. W. Norton in May of last year.  You can see the Amazon version by clicking on the cover below, which shows  a photo of the painter.  It’s thorough and well documented but not academic: that is, the narrative is up to date, replenished by recently available sources, and it’s an engaging read. If you have any interest in art, I’d recommend it highly.  Gauguin was an important figure in the history of art, sui generis in his work but influential in the work of painters like Matisse and Picasso.

One could characterize Gauguin’s life as that of the classic “tortured artist”—tortured not by mental illness (as was van Gogh) but by an endless search for a place to escape civilization, a tortuous marriage, an endless search for money to live on, and, in the latter part of his life, severe medical issues. (His heart was bad, he had chronic eye problems, and he suffered from open sores on his legs, the result of a stomping in France by clog-wearing bullies.) That, combined with his love of lots of red wine and an odious diet of tinned food, led to his death at only 54.

Yet he had moments of great joy and beauty, and this is expressed on his canvas. In that way he resembled van Gogh. His most pleasurable moments were at his easel, where he spent a lot of time, and his paintings from Brittany, but especially Tahiti and the Marquesas, are splendid. I show a few below.

Prideaux’s book recounts a tumultuous life, with four years of Gauguin’s infancy spent in Peru (he called himself “the Peruvian savage” for the rest of his life) and later a stultifying stint as a stockbroker in Paris.  He was a self-taught painter who married a Danish woman. Circumstances forced her and their two children to move back to Denmark, where Gauguin joined them on occasion. Money was always an issue, and Gauguin, like van Gogh, simply couldn’t gin up much interest in his paintings. His need to sell his art to buy food, paints, and lodging persisted throughout his life.

In 1888, Vincent van Gogh, obsessed with the idea of starting a colony of artists, invited Gauguin to live with him at the famous “yellow house” in Arles, France.  They didn’t get along well, and it was during this period that, after an argument with Gauguin, van Gogh cut off his own ear and deposited it at a brothel.  After only nine weeks, Gauguin fled, but not before they had painted each other’s portraits. Here is van Gogh’s depiction of Gauguin:

Vincent van Gogh, Paul Gauguin (Man in a Red Beret), 1888, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam:

via Wikimedia Commons
And Gauguin’s portrait of van Gogh as “The Painter of Sunflowers.”  Gauguin really did love and admire van Gogh, but couldn’t tolerate his eccentricities and periods of lunacy; yet for the rest of his life he would sometimes paint a sunflower in honor of his friend, even in Polynesia, where Gauguin planted some (van Gogh committed suicide two years after Gauguin fled Arles).
Public domain via Wikimedia Commons

The rest is history—and in Prideaux’s book.  Gauguin took off for Tahiti in 1891, returned to France for a few years, and set out for his second visit to Tahiti in 1895, where he took up residence with young Tahitian women (13 or 14 was the age of “marriage” for many of them) and produced many canvases. But dissatisfied with the fact that French colonialism was spoiling his “paradise,” Gauguin repaired to the Marquesas in 1901, where he spent the last three years of his life. After becoming integrated into local society, he eventually stopped partying and took seriously to painting. He was found dead in his bed on May 8, 1903.

Here are a few paintings I like from Gauguin’s stay in Polynesia. Click to enlarge them.

Below is his most famous painting. Gauguin captioned it Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?, (1897, oil on canvas, 139 × 375 cm (55 × 148 in), Boston Museum of Fine Arts. It is his vision of the span of life, starting with an infant on the right and moving an old woman on the left. Prideaux explains all the imagery of this and other paintings, which are reproduced in color in her book. 

Paul Gauguin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Maternity, 1899:

Paul Gauguin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Spirit of the Dead Watching 1892, Albright–Knox Art Gallery, Buffalo, NY. This was apparently painted after Gauguin returned home at night, with his young mistress, left in the dark, scared to death.  There is a lot going on here; note the iconography at the bottom and the weird figures at the upper right. 

Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Among the Mangoes (La Cueillette des Fruits), 1887, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam. Gauguin loved color and lots of it; he was always sending back to Europe for more and different paints. 

Paul Gauguin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Tehura (Teha’amana), 1891–3, polychromed pua wood, Musée d’Orsay, Paris

Public Domain, CCo, Wikimedia Commons

Here’s Gauguin about 1891. The book describes him as a handsome man, one who had no trouble attracting ladies either in Europe or Polynesia, where he lived with several women from the islands. But he was often laid low by his many maladies.

Louis-Maurice Boutet de Monvel, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

And here is his last self-portrait, painted only a year before he died. To me this image looks like the middle-aged Eric Clapton:

Paul Gauguin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Below is the NYT review by Jennifer Szalai. Click the headline to read from the NYT site or find it archived here:

As you see, it’s laudatory.  One excerpt from the review:

For much of his life, Paul Gauguin railed against the deadening effects of bourgeois domesticity. But as Sue Prideaux writes in “Wild Thing,” her terrific new biography of the artist, for about a decade early in his career the self-proclaimed “savage from Peru” enjoyed a stint as a happily married stockbroker in Paris. . .

. . . Given how eventful Gauguin’s life was, it’s remarkable how much Prideaux packs into this briskly readable volume, which clocks in at barely 400 pages. She elegantly recounts his artistic struggles and his persistent money worries. She offers lucid re-creations of key moments, like the time Vincent van Gogh, his friend and roommate in the south of France, ran at him with a razor. (The next morning, Gauguin learned that van Gogh had cut off his own ear and handed it to a brothel worker.)

But it’s Gauguin’s experiences in French Polynesia that have understandably become the most notorious. (The last major biography of Gauguin, published in 1995, called him a “syphilitic pedophile.”) By the time he died, at 54, on the tiny island of Hiva Oa in 1903, he had gotten two Indigenous girls — each about 14 years old — pregnant. Prideaux does not deny this fact, reminding us only that in France and the colonies, the age of consent at the time was 13.

“Wild Thing” is not a whitewash of Gauguin’s legacy; instead, Prideaux fills it in with more detail. As a Frenchman in a French colony, he excoriated himself for his moral hypocrisy and became a pamphleteer, taking a job writing for the opposition party’s newspaper. He also helped locals with their petitions against the colonial authorities. In a letter to the inspector of the colonies, he noted the “singular irony” of “the hypocritical proclamation of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity” when it came to “men who are no more than tax fodder in the hands of a despotic gendarme.”

Toward the end of his life, Gauguin — who never fully healed from a nasty leg injury sustained in Brittany when he was almost kicked to death in a melee by a clog-wearing mob — hobbled around his island paradise, subsisting mainly on a calamitous diet of canned food. After his death, the administrator in charge of selling the contents of Gauguin’s home did not believe it would be possible to pay back creditors in full: “The liabilities will considerably exceed the assets, as the few pictures by the late painter, who belonged to the decadent school, have little prospect of finding purchasers.”

Again, I highly recommend Wild Thing.  And tell us below what you’ve read and liked lately.

A short obituary of J. D. Watson in PNAS

February 18, 2026 • 9:45 am

The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences finally published an obituary of J. D. Watson, who died in November of last year. (Nathanial Comfort has written a biography of Watson that will be a good complement to Matthew’s biography of Crick; Comfort’s book will be out at the end of this year or the beginning of 2027.)  You can access the PNAS obituary for free by clicking on the screenshot below, which is a good summary of Watson’s accomplishments (and missteps) if you don’t want a book-length treatment.

Most laypeople, if they know Watson’s name, probably know just two things. First, he and Crick co-discovered the structure of DNA, one of the great findings of biology. Second, Watson was demonized, and fired as director of the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratories, for making racist comments.  Both are true. Yes, Watson was a racist, as I discovered from talking to him for an hour and a half (see below), but he was also a brilliant scientist who did far more than just the DNA-structure stuff. The article describes some of his other accomplishments and I quote:

DNA was not the only structure that Watson solved at Cambridge. Using X-ray crystallography, Watson determined that the coat protein subunits of Tobacco Mosaic virus (TMV) were arranged helically around the viral RNA, although he could not detect the RNA (5). Two years later, Rosalind Franklin, now at Birkbeck College with J. D. Bernal, published the definitive study on the structure of TMV (6).

Watson left Cambridge in 1953 to take up a fellowship with Delbrück at the California Institute of Technology. He joined forces with Alex Rich in Pauling’s laboratory to work on the structure of RNA, but RNA gave fuzzy X-ray diffraction patterns and provided no clues as to what an RNA molecule might look like. Watson was not happy in Pasadena and, with the help of Paul Doty, was appointed an assistant professor in the Department of Biology at Harvard. However, he first spent a year in Cambridge, United Kingdom, before moving to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Watson and Crick teamed up again to study the structure of small viruses and proposed that as a general principle, the outer protein coat of these viruses was built up of identical subunits. Franklin was also studying small viruses, and she and Watson exchanged letters, and she asked Watson and Crick to review drafts of her manuscripts.

At Harvard, Watson, his colleagues, and students made many important findings on ribosomes and protein synthesis, including demonstrating, concurrently with the team of Sydney Brenner, Francois Jacob, and Matt Meselson, the existence of messenger RNA. Watson’s contributions are not reflected in many of the publications from his Harvard laboratory. He did not add his name to papers unless he had made substantial contributions to them, thus ensuring that the credit went to those who had done the work. These papers included the discovery of the bacterial transcription protein, sigma factor, by Watson’s then graduate student Richard Burgess, along with Harvard Junior Fellow Richard Losick. At Harvard, Watson also promoted the careers of women, notably providing support for Nancy Hopkins, Joan Steitz, and Susan Gerbi. He also contributed to the split in the Department of Zoology due to his contempt for those working in the Department who were antireductionists.

 

In his last scientific paper (7), published in 1972, Watson returned to DNA. In considering the replication of linear DNA of T7 phage, he pointed out that the very ends of a linear DNA molecule cannot be replicated, the “end replication problem” which is solved in eukaryotes by telomeres. (Watson’s work was predated by Alexey Olovnikov who had published the same observation in 1971 in a Russian journal.)

Note the contributions Watson made, along with collaborators, at Harvard, and note as well that he did not put his name on publications unless he made “substantial contributions to them.”  I did that, too, and I inherited that practice from my Ph.D. advisor Dick Lewontin, who inherited it from his Ph.D. advisor Theodosius Dobzhansky, who inherited it from his research supervisor at Columbia and Cal Tech, the Nobel Laureate T. H. Morgan.  This is a good practice, and I never suffered from keeping my name off papers, for the granting agencies care only about which and how many papers come from an investigator’s funded lab, not how many his or her name is on.  I’ll digress here to say that this practice has almost died out, as people now slap their name on paper for paltry reasons, like they contributed organisms or other material.  The reason is the fierce competition for funding and credit.

Watson went on to write influential textbooks, trade books (notably The Double Helix) and headed up the Human Genome Project, from which he ultimately resigned. Finally, he ran the Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory, which he did very well until the racism scandal broke, rendering him ineffective.

Witkowski and Stillman don’t neglect the dark side of Watson:

In the late 1990s, Watson gave seminars, notably at the University of California Berkeley, where he expanded on research on the hormone POMC and related peptides and made inappropriate and incorrect observations about women. In October 2007, he made racist remarks about the intelligence of people of African descent, and, damagingly for his fellow employees at CSHL, stated that while he hoped that everyone was equal, “people who have to deal with black employees find this not true.” The CSHL Board of Trustees dissociated the institute from Watson’s comments, and he was forced to step down from his administrative position as Chancellor. The matter resurfaced in January 2019 when Watson was asked if his views on race and intelligence had changed. His answer was unequivocal: “No, not at all.” The Laboratory’s response was immediate, relieving him of all his emeritus titles. Watson and his family, however, continued to live on the CSHL campus.

They conclude this way:

Jim’s remarkable contributions to science and society will long endure—for the scientists using the human genome sequence, for students using Molecular Biology of the Gene and for readers of The Double Helix, and for reviving Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory. He was a most amazing man.

Here’s a photo of Watson and me when he visited Chicago in 2013 to introduce the Watson Lectures that he endowed for our department. Do read the cool story about how those lectures came about in my post “Encounters with J. D. Watson“.

My brief interview of Matthew Cobb about his new biography of Francis Crick

January 7, 2026 • 11:00 am

Matthew Cobb’s new biography of Francis Crick has been out for only a short time, but I’ve never seen a review less than enthusiastic (check out this NYT review). I finished it last week, and was also enthusiastic, finding it one of the best biographies of a scientist I’ve ever read. It concentrates on Crick’s science, but his accomplishments were inseparable from his personality, which focused not only on science but also on poetry (the book begins and ends with a poet), drugs, women, and philosophy (he was, by the way, a hardcore atheist and determinist).

But I digress. I really recommend that if you have any interest in the man and his work, which of course includes helping reveal the structure of DNA, you get this book and read it. It is a stupendous achievement, based on tons of research, sleuthing, and interviews, and only a geneticist could have written it. But it’s not dull at all: Matthew has always written lively and engaging prose. Crick is also a good complement to Matthew’s previous book, Life’s Greatest Secret, about how the genetic code was cracked.

As a complement, a biography of Jim Watson by Nathaniel Comfort is in the works, but hasn’t yet been published.

After I finished the book,  I had a few questions about Crick and his work, and asked Matthew if I could pose them to him and post his answers. on this site  He kindly said “yes,” and so here they are. My questions are in bold; Matthew’s answers in plain text. Enjoy:

What one question would you ask Crick if he could return from the dead? (Perhaps something that you couldn’t find out about him from your research.)

I think I would probably ask him about his view of the state of consciousness research. His key insight, with Christof Koch, was that rather than trying to explain everything about consciousness, researchers should look for the neural correlates of consciousness – neurons that fired in a correlated manner with a visual perception – and ask what (if anything) was special about how they fired, their connections, and the genes expressed within them. Since his death, we have obtained recordings from such neurons, but far from resolving the issue, consciousness studies have lost their way, with over 200 different theories currently being advanced. What did he think went wrong? Or rather, is it time to use a more reductionist approach, studying simpler neural networks, even in animals that might not be thought to be conscious?

 

Why did it take ten years—until the Nobel prize was awarded—for people to appreciate the significance of DNA?

Most people imagine that when the double helix was discovered it immediately made Watson and Crick globally famous and the finding was feted. That was not the case, mainly because the actual evidence that DNA was the genetic material was restricted to Avery’s 1944 work on one species of bacterium (this was contested) and a rather crappy experiment on bacteriophage viruses (this was the famous paper by Hershey and Chase from 1952; the experiment was so messy that Hershey did not believe that genes were made solely of DNA). So although the structure of DNA was immediately obvious in terms of its function – both replication and gene specificity, as it was called, could be explained by reciprocal base pairs and the sequence of bases – there was no experimental proof of this function. Indeed, the first proof that DNA is the genetic material in eukaryotes (organisms with a nucleus, including all multicellular organisms) did not appear until the mid-1970s! Instead, people viewed the idea that DNA was the genetic material as a working hypothesis, which became stronger through the 1950s as various experiments were carried out (eg., Meselson and Stahl’s experiment on replication) and theoretical developments were made (eg Crick’s ideas about the central dogma). Its notable that the Nobel Prize committee awarded the prize in 1962, just after the first words in the genetic code were cracked and the relation between DNA, RNA and protein had been experimentally demonstrated.

 

A lot of the latter part of the book is on Crick’s work on neuroscience (and, later, consciousness). You claim that he made enormous contributions to the field that really pushed it forward. Could you tell us a bit about what those contributions were?

Although he did not make a great breakthrough, he helped transform the way that neuroscience was done, the ideas and approaches it used. From the outset – a 1979 article in a special issue of Scientific American devoted to the brain – he focused attention on one particular aspect of brain function (he chose visual perception), the importance of theoretical approaches rooted in neuroanatomy, the need for detailed maps of brain areas and the promise of computational approaches to neural networks. All these things shaped subsequent developments – in particular the work on neural networks, which he played a fundamental part in, and which gave rise to today’s Large Language Models (he worked with both Geoffrey Hinton and John Hopfield, who shared the 2024 Nobel Prize in Physics for their work on this in the 1980s). And, of course, he made the scientific study of consciousness scientifically respectable, taking it out of the hands of the philosophers who had been tinkering with the problem for three thousand years and hadn’t got anywhere. Later, in a perspective article he published on the last day of the old millennium, he reviewed recent developments in molecular biology and predicted that three techniques would become useful: classifying neurons not by their morphology but by the genes that are expressed in them, using genetic markers from the human genome to study the brains of primates (the main experimental system he advocated using), and controlling the activity of neurons with light by using genetic constructs. All these three techniques – now called RNAseq, transcriptional mapping and neurogenetics – are used every day in neuroscience labs around the world. Indeed, within a few months of the article appearing, Crick received a letter from a young Austrian researcher, Gero Miesenböck, telling him that his lab was working on optogenetics and the results looked promising. During his lifetime, Crick’s decisive leadership role was well known to neuroscientists; now it has largely been forgotten, unfortunately.

 

Is there anything a young scientist could learn from Crick’s own methods that would be helpful, or was he a one-off whose way of working cannot be imitated?

I think the key issue is not so much Crick as the times in which he worked. As he repeatedly acknowledged, he was amazingly lucky. From 1954-1977 he worked for the Medical Research Council in the UK. He did no teaching, no grading, was not involved in doctoral supervision (I’m not even clear how many PhD students he technically supervised – 4? 3? 5? – which highlights that even if he had his name on a bit of paper, he had little to do with any of them). Apart from a couple of periods, he had no administrative duties, and only one major leadership post, at the Salk, which nearly killed him. He wrote one major grant application at the Salk (the only one he ever wrote), but basically he was funded sufficiently well to simply get on with things. And what did he do? ‘I read and think,’ he said. Try getting that past a recruitment or promotions panel today! In a way, the onus for the creation of more Cricks does not lie with young researchers, but with established scientists – they need to allow young people the time to ‘read and think’, and value failure. Most ideas will turn out to be wrong; that’s OK. Or at least, it was to Crick. Many senior researchers (and funders) don’t see things that way. However, even without such changes, young scientists can adopt some of Crick’s habits. Here’s my attempt to sum up what I think were the lessons of his life and work:

  • Read widely and avidly, even engaging with ideas that might seem eccentric or pointless, as ‘there might be something in it’ (one of his favourite phrases).
  • Talk through your ideas with your peers – try to find the weak spots in each other’s arguments.
  • At least in the initial stages of research, don’t get bogged down in the details that might counter your interpretation/theory – Crick and Brenner called this the ‘don’t worry’ approach. They figured that unconnected contrary data points might not undermine their ideas, and would eventually turn out to have specific, varied explanations.
  • Write down your ideas in the form of memos or short documents (keep them short). Writing helps you clarify your ideas and shaped your mind – do not use AI to do this! You can then share your writing with peers, which can be used as a target for discussion and debate.
  • Master the art of clear writing. Avoid jargon, keep your ideas straightforward. Again, the only way to develop this skill is to write – badly at first. So rewrite, edit, recast your writing – it will improve your thinking.
  • Above all, make sure that the science you do is *fun*. That was a word that Crick repeatedly used, and he genuinely got great pleasure from doing science and thinking about it. Seek out an area in which you can have fun and aren’t bogged down by drudgery.

Click below to get the book on Amazon:

More by Matthew on Crick, Watson, and DNA

November 15, 2025 • 10:45 am

Matthew’s biography of Francis Crick just came out, and I’m delighted, as I’m sure he is, with the spate of glowing reviews. I haven’t seen a bad one yet, and some of them rate the book as superlative. It is certainly one of the best science biographies going, and I hope it wins the Royal Society Science book prize.

I’ll finish up my endorsements of the book (the reviews will keep coming, though) by highlighting two more: one in Science and the other in the Times of London. But first you can listen to Matthew talking about J. D. Watson, who just died, on this BBC show (Matthew’s bit, which is the only discussion of biology, goes from the beginning to 9:35). As Matthew says, “This is the most important discovery in biology since Darwin’s theory of evolution by natural selection. It transforms our understanding of heredity, of evolution–of everything to do with biology.”

The American you hear in the interview is from an old interview with Watson himself.

The moderator then wants to discuss the sexism and racism of Watson, and Matthew eventually gets to it. First, though, Matthew discusses the involvement of Maurice Wilkins and Rosalind Franklin in the DNA structure, and says, as he always does, that the history was complicated, that the discovery was more collaborative than people think, but also that Crick and Watson failed to ask Franklin for permission to use her data, which was a scientific boo-boo. Watson’s further accomplishments are discussed (the Human Genome Project, the upgrading of Cold Spring Harbor Laboratories).  The mention of Watson’s personal arrogance, sexism, and racism starts at 6:50, and Matthew manages to decry it (calling it a “terrible legacy”) while not seeming nasty, something he’s good at.

Next, two reviews, the first in Science. It’s very positive, and I’ll give the exerpts (access should be free by clicking on the headline below).

In October 1958, Francis Crick and his wife, Odile, hosted a party at their house in Cambridge to celebrate Fred Sanger’s Nobel Prize in Chemistry. During the festivities, a rocket was launched from the roof terrace, which landed on the roof of a nearby church and necessitated the services of the local fire brigade (1). This otherwise inconsequential event is an apt metaphor for the scientific assault on mysticism and vitalism that the atheist Crick and his contemporaries helped pioneer through their pursuit of a new “chemical physics” of biology—an endeavor that would eventually help describe the nature of life itself. In his magnificent and expansive new biography, Crick: A Mind in Motion, Matthew Cobb forensically explores and electrifies this important chapter in the history of science through the exploits of one of its key protagonists.
Magnificent and expansive! You’ll be seeing those words on the cover.  And some of these, too:

Another intriguing theme Cobb explores is Crick’s friendship with the psychedelic beat poet Michael McClure (6). Crick was so taken by the charismatic poet, in particular, a stanza in McClure’s “Peyote Poem”—“THIS IS THE POWERFUL KNOWLEDGE / we smile with it”—that he pinned it onto a wall in his home. For Crick, the beauty inherent in the solution of a complex scientific problem and the aesthetic euphoria and sense of revelation it created were reminiscent of the perceptual effects of consuming a hallucinogenic compound, such as peyote.

Cobb also touches on Crick’s eugenicist proclamations and details some of his other disastrous forays into the social implications of science, which ultimately led him to permanently abstain from such activities. Crick’s notable lack of engagement with the 1975 Asilomar meeting, which sought to address the potential biohazards and ethics of recombinant DNA technology, was in stark contrast to Watson and biologist Sydney Brenner. Crick never explained his silence on the topic of genetic engineering (7).

Complex, energetic, freethinking, dazzling, and bohemian, Crick was also ruthless, immature, misogynistic, arrogant, and careless. The phage biologist Seymour Benzer noted that Crick was not a “shrinking violet.” Maurice Wilkins described Watson and Crick as “a couple of old rogues,” and Lawrence Bragg more politely observed that Crick was “the sort of chap who was always doing someone else’s crossword.” Cobb, however, has arrived at a somewhat more benign and nuanced interpretation of the events surrounding the discovery of the double helix, the collaborative nature of which, he asserts, was obfuscated by the fictional narrative drama of Watson’s bestseller The Double Helix.

Crick is set to become the definitive account of this polymath’s life and work. We must now wait patiently for historian Nathaniel Comfort’s upcoming biography of James Watson to complement it.

In my view, the phrase “definite account of this polymath’s life and work” is really the most powerful approbation the book could get.

You can see the review from the Times of London by clicking below, or find it archived here:

If the age of the lone scientific genius has passed, was Francis Crick among its last great specimens? His name will for ever be bound to that of James Watson and their discovery in 1953 of the double-helix structure of DNA. Yet it is a measure of Crick’s influence that this breakthrough, transformative as it was, is done and dusted barely 80 pages into Matthew Cobb’s absorbing new biography.

Cobb, a zoologist and historian of science, presents Crick (1916-2004) as the hub round which a mid-century scientific revolution revolved — a researcher and theorist of unstoppable curiosity, who unravelled the secret code behind heredity before helping to reinvent the study of the mind and consciousness. More than 70 years on, it is easy to forget how penetrating Crick’s insights were — how, before he came along, we did not know how life copies itself and the molecular mechanism behind evolution was a mystery.

But Cobb’s book is no hagiography. Briskly paced, it concentrates on Crick’s scientific life, but also offers glimpses, some unflattering, of the man behind the lab bench. The picture it builds is of a brilliant, garrulous and often exasperating individual.

. . . Cobb writes with clarity and a touch of affection for his subject. His Crick is radical in science and conservative in temperament; deeply irreligious yet moved by poetry; a philanderer who adored his wife. Above all he is insatiably curious — a mind in motion, indeed. And yes, he may also represent something that may now be lost: the era when a single intellect could sit at the centre of a scientific revolution. Crick might be best known for his collaboration with Watson and his notorious debt to Franklin. However, in the crowded, collaborative landscape of 21st-century research, where knowledge advances by increments, achieved by vast teams who work with ever growing volumes of data, it is hard to imagine another individual whose ideas will so completely redefine the life sciences.

I’d call that a good review as well. Kudos to Dr. Cobb. I told him he should celebrate by going off on a nice vacation, but I’m betting he won’t.

Matthew on the subject of his latest book: Francis Crick

November 1, 2025 • 11:00 am

As I’ve mentioned several times, Matthew has written what is the definitive biography of Francis Crick, one of the great polymaths of our time. It comes out in the first two weeks of November.

Today you can see an article that Matthew about the book for the Observor, but he and I both urge you to buy the book itself (the publisher’s site is here, a U.K. purchasing site is here, and the U.S. Hachette site, here, gives a 20% discount with the code CRICK20.

Click the headline to read the article for free:

But what is this about poetry?  Here are a few excerpts from the article.

n 1947, aged 31 and with his career in physics derailed by the war, Francis Crick, the future co-discoverer of the DNA double helix, returned to research, focusing on two fundamental biological problems: life and the brain. Over the following half century, he made decisive contributions to both these fields, becoming one of the most significant thinkers of the 20th century. In 1994, the Times hailed Crick as the “genius of our age”, comparing him to Isaac Newton, Mozart and Shakespeare, while after his death in 2004, parallels were drawn with Charles Darwin and Gregor Mendel.

Like Darwin, Mendel and Newton, Crick changed how the rest of us see the world. He drew out the implications of DNA structure, developed new ways of understanding life and evolution, and later convinced neuroscientists to adopt computational and molecular approaches, and to study the nature of consciousness.

Crick’s aim was not just to make discoveries about two fundamental scientific riddles; he also wanted to replace the superstitious and religious ideas that marked these questions. This did not mean he was stuffy or unimaginative – he was fascinated by the flux of perception and emotion he found in poetry, particularly the work of psychedelic Beat poet Michael McClure, who became a close friend. Poetry and science co-existed in his approach to the world.

Once, when I met with Jim Watson during one of his yearly visits to Chicago, he told me that part of the motivation for his and Crick’s attempt to find the structure of DNA was to confirm materialism (aka atheism): they wanted to show, as Watson told me, that the “secret of life” was a molecule that, in the right milieu, could produce a whole organism. More excerpts:

Crick’s scientific achievements have recently tended to be reduced to those few weeks in Cambridge in February 1953, when he and James Watson discovered the structure of DNA. The widely believed story that they stole the data of King’s College London researcher Rosalind Franklin is untrue: Watson and Crick knew of Franklin’s results and those of Crick’s close friend Maurice Wilkins, but they did not provide any decisive insight into the structure of DNA. Franklin knew that the pair had access to her data and bore no grudge; she soon became friendly with both men, and was particularly close to Crick and his wife, Odile.

Watson and Crick subsequently explained that had they not found the structure, then Franklin, or her colleague Wilkins, or someone else, would have done so – it was inevitable. Crick and Watson succeeded because they were lucky, smart, somewhat unscrupulous, and determined

And the poetry:

The imaginative aspect to Crick’s thinking extended to his vocabulary. In 1953, he told a friend that the double helix made him swoon every time he thought of it; this was because of its beauty, a term he often used rather than the word “elegance”, frequently employed by physicists and mathematicians. Biological results are often messy and complex, not elegant. They are nevertheless beautiful, because of their evolutionary roots and the contingent factors that have shaped them.

This sense of beauty, of deep relationships underlying complex phenomena, drove Crick’s scientific work and was linked to his fascination with poetry. As he explained:

“I hope nobody still thinks that scientists are dull, unimaginative people… It is almost true that science itself is poetry enough for them. But there is no effective substitute for the subtle interplay of words and from time to time one becomes wearied by the exact formulations of science and longs for a poetry which speaks to one’s bones.”

But here I disagree with Crick:

Although Crick admired the works of WB Yeats and TS Eliot, by the mid-1960s he had fallen out of love with them because of their mystical views. As he explained in a letter to his friend, the novelist CP Snow, he felt “you can’t be a major poet without a solid foundation of silly ideas (almost everybody thinks Yeats’s ideas silly but to me Eliot’s are just as bad)”.

Yes, Yeats was a mystic, which of course is antiscientific, but both he and Eliot wrote poetry that was non-mystical (think of Yeat’s gorgeous “The Lake Isle of Innisfree“, or Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock“).

. . .That Crick’s otherwise penetrating mind never challenged his old prejudices and could not master political issues highlights that he was not a flawless hero nor – no matter what graffiti in 1960s Cambridge proclaimed – a candidate for the post of God. Instead, he was an extraordinarily clever man with limits to his interests and perception.

Crick’s withdrawal from cultural debates coincided with a series of shifts in his world. He and Odile moved from Cambridge to California, where he worked on neuroscience and consciousness at the Salk Institute in San Diego.

In his 50s, Crick used LSD and cannabis and became fascinated by Michael McClure’s materialist psychedelic poetry, which he admired for what he described as its fury and imagery and for its open embrace of biology: “When a man does not admit that he is an animal, he is less than an animal,” proclaimed McClure. Crick’s friendship with McClure ran through the second half of his life, and he did not see it as being in contradiction with his scientific views.

. . .In 2004, on the day that Crick died after a long illness, McClure completed what he described as his finest poem, dedicated to Crick. Full of the muscular sensation and vivid imagery that Crick appreciated, one stanza seems to represent McClure’s attempt to grapple with his friend’s inevitable end:

PERHAPS WE RETURN TO A POOL

– STEADY AND SOLID;

ready and already completed in fireworks

and lives and non-lives – thin and faint

as powerful odours stirring

my moment’s soul in the mind of place.

Below is a photo of Crick from Wikipedia with the caption, “Francis Crick in his office. Behind him is a model of the human brain that he inherited from Jacob Bronowski.” 

Francis_Crick.png: Photo: Marc Lieberman, per ticket:2015100910022707derivative work: Materialscientist, CC BY 2.5, via Wikimedia Commons

The Wikipedia article also contains these quotes:

Crick referred to himself as a humanist, which he defined as the belief “that human problems can and must be faced in terms of human moral and intellectual resources without invoking supernatural authority.” He publicly called for humanism to replace religion as a guiding force for humanity, writing:

The human dilemma is hardly new. We find ourselves through no wish of our own on this slowly revolving planet in an obscure corner of a vast universe. Our questioning intelligence will not let us live in cow-like content with our lot. We have a deep need to know why we are here. What is the world made of? More important, what are we made of? In the past religion answered these questions, often in considerable detail. Now we know that almost all these answers are highly likely to be nonsense, having sprung from man’s ignorance and his enormous capacity for self-deception … The simple fables of the religions of the world have come to seem like tales told to children. Even understood symbolically they are often perverse, if not rather unpleasant … Humanists, then, live in a mysterious, exciting and intellectually expanding world, which, once glimpsed, makes the old worlds of the religions seem fake-cosy and stale[99]

Crick was especially critical of Christianity:

I do not respect Christian beliefs. I think they are ridiculous. If we could get rid of them we could more easily get down to the serious problem of trying to find out what the world is all about.[100]

Crick once joked, “Christianity may be OK between consenting adults in private but should not be taught to young children.”[101]

Here are the covers, respectively, of the UK and US versions of Matthew’s book. Note the titles and photos are different. I prefer the UK cover with the young Crick pointing at a model of DNA—with a slide rule!

Cobb on Crick: The “Central Dogma”

December 2, 2024 • 9:45 am

As I’ve mentioned several times, Matthew Cobb has written what will likely prove the definitive biography of Francis Crick (1916-2004), co-discoverer of the structure of DNA and a general polymath. While writing it, Matthew came across some Crick material showing that biologists and historians have misunderstood Crick’s “Central Dogma” of molecular biology.

Matthew has corrected the record in the piece below from the Asimov Press. Click the headline, as it’s free to read:

You may have learned this dogma as “DNA makes RNA makes protein,” along with the caveat that it’s a one-way path. But Matthew shows that this was not Crick’s contention. I’ve indented Mathew’s words below:

The Central Dogma is a linchpin for understanding how cells work, and yet it is one of the most widely misunderstood concepts in molecular biology.

Many students are taught that the Central Dogma is simply “DNA → RNA → protein.” This version was first put forward in Jim Watson’s pioneering 1965 textbook, The Molecular Biology of the Gene, as a way of summarizing how protein synthesis takes place. However, Watson’s explanation, which he adapted from his colleague, Francis Crick, is profoundly misleading.

In 1956, Crick was working on a lecture that would bring together what was then known about the “flow of information” between DNA, RNA, and protein in cells. Crick formalized his ideas in what he called the Central Dogma, and his original conception of information flow within cells was both richer and more complex than Watson’s reductive and erroneous presentation.

Crick was aware of at least four kinds of information transfers, all of which had been observed in biochemical studies by researchers at that time. These were: DNA → DNA (DNA replication), DNA → RNA (called transcription), RNA → protein (called translation) and RNA → RNA (a mechanism by which some viruses copy themselves). To summarize his thinking, Crick sketched out these information flows in a little figure that was never published.

Crick’s figure is below. Note that the dogma is simply the first sentence typed in the diagram, implying that information from either DNA or RNA, translated into a protein, cannot get back into the DNA or RNA code again. Thus changes in protein structure cannot go back and change the genetic code (see the bottom part of the diagram).

As you see, the DNA—>RNA—>protein “dogma” is an extreme oversimplification of Crick’s views. And he meant the word “dogma” to mean not an inviolable rule of nature, but a hypothesis. Nevertheless, Crick was widely criticized for using the word “dogma”.

But getting back to the diagram:

The direct synthesis of proteins using only DNA might be possible, Crick thought, because the sequence of bases in DNA ultimately determines the order of amino acids in a protein chain. If this were true, however, it would mean that RNA was not always involved in protein synthesis, even though every study at that time suggested it was. Crick therefore concluded that this kind of information flow was highly unlikely, though not impossible.

Crick also theorized that RNA → DNA was chemically possible, simply because it was the reverse of transcription and both types of molecules were chemically similar to each other. Still, Crick could not imagine any biological function for this so-called “reverse transcription,” so he portrayed this information flow as a dotted line in his diagram.

We now know, though that the enzyme “reverse transcriptase” is used by some RNA viruses to make DNA to insert into their hosts’ genomes.

Here’s what Crick said he meant by the “Central Dogma,” and, in fact, this schema has not yet been violated in nature:

In other words, in Crick’s schema, information within the cell only flows from nucleic acids to proteins, and never the other way around. Crick’s “Central Dogma” could therefore be described in a single line: “Once information has got into a protein it can’t get out again.” This negative statement — that some transfers of information seem to be impossible — was the essential part of Crick’s idea.

Crick’s hypothesis also carried an unstated evolutionary implication; namely, that whatever might happen to an organism’s proteins during its lifetime, those changes cannot alter its DNA sequence. In other words, organisms cannot use proteins to transmit characteristics they have acquired during their lifetime to their offspring.

In other words, there can be no Lamarckian inheritance, in which environmental change affecting an organism’s proteins cannot become ingrained into the organism’s genome and thus become permanently heritable.

Matthew discusses several suggested modifications of Crick’s version of the Central Dogma. Prions, misfolded proteins that cause several known diseases, were thought by some to have replicated themselves by somehow changing the DNA that codes for them, but it’s now known that prions are either produced by mutations in the DNA, or can transmit their pathological shape by directly interacting with other proteins. Prion proteins do not change the DNA sequence.

Some readers here might also be thinking that “epigenetic inheritance”, in which DNA is modified by chemical tags affixed to its bases, might refute the central dogma, as those modifications are mediated by enzymes, which of course are proteins. But as Matthew notes, those modifications are temporary, while the DNA sequence of nucleotides (sans modifications) is forever:

In other cases, researchers have pointed to epigenetics as a possible exception to Crick’s Central Dogma, arguing that changes in gene expression are transmitted across the generations and thus provide an additional, non-nucleic source of information. But still, epigenetics does not violate Crick’s Central Dogma.

During an organism’s life, environmental conditions cause certain genes to get switched on or off. This often occurs through a process known as methylation, in which the cell adds a methyl group to a cytosine base in a DNA sequence. As a result, the cell no longer transcribes the gene.

These effects occur most frequently in somatic cells — the cells that make up the body of the organism. If epigenetic marks occur in sex cells, they are wiped clean prior to egg and sperm formation. Then, once the sperm and eggs have fully formed, methylation patterns are re-established in each type of cell, meaning that the acquired genetic regulation is reset to baseline in the offspring.

Sometimes, these regulatory effects are transmitted to the next generation through the activity of small RNA molecules, which can interact with messenger RNAs or proteins to control gene expression. This occurs frequently in plants but is much rarer in animals, which have separate lineages for their somatic and reproductive cells. A widely-studied exception to this is the nematode C. elegans, where RNAs and other molecules can alter inheritance patterns.

No matter how striking, though, none of these examples violate Crick’s Central Dogma; the genetic information remains intact and the epigenetic tags are always temporary, disappearing after at most a few generations.

That should squelch the brouhaha over epigenetics as a form of Lamarckian evolutionary change, as some have suggested that epigenetic (environmental) modifications of the DNA could be permanent, ergo the environment itself can cause permanent heritable change. (That is Lamarckian inheriance.) But we know of no epigenetic modifications that last more than a couple of generations, so don’t believe the hype about “permanently inherited trauma” or other such nonsense.

And there’s this, which again is not a violation of Crick’s “Dogma”:

. . . enzymes can modify proteins in the cell after they have been synthesized, so not every amino acid in a protein is specified in the genome. DNA does not contain all the information in a cell, but Crick’s original hypothesis remains true: “Once information has got into a protein it can’t get out again.”

Now Matthew does suggest a rather complicated way that the Dogma could be violated, but it’s not known to occur, though perhaps humans might use genetic engineering to effect it. But you can read about it in his piece.

It’s remarkable that Crick’s supposition that information in a protein can’t get back to the DNA or RNA code—made only three years after the structure of DNA was published—has stood up without exception for nearly seventy years. This is a testament to Crick’s smarts and prescience.

And if you remember anything about the Central Dogma, just remember this:

“Once information has got into a protein it can’t get out again.”