Even so, there are those who think that there is a great deal of similarity between the creative processes. The mathematician and cultural analyst Jacob Bronowski spoke of the original thought in art and science having a similar basis. We can question the relationship another way: what has art contributed to science or science to art? In The Artful Universe, John Barrow considers some of science鈥檚 possible contributions to art, in particular the origins of our feeling for beauty.

Barrow is an astronomer, a cosmologist really, who is an excellent writer and is well known for his books popularising physics and cosmology. Here he looks at how the structure of our particular type of universe has affected our aesthetic senses, asserting that our evolutionary history has given us a particular way of perceiving the world.

For example, he thinks that our propensity for recognising order and pattern in our environment both led to the development of 鈥渟cience鈥� and conditioned our artistic appreciation. This account, however, fails to explain why all societies at all times had art of some sort or another, while science flowered just once, in Greece, and all science as we know it comes from that remarkable group of thinkers.

Because the habitat in which humans evolved was that of a tropical African savanna, it is not unreasonable to expect that our aesthetic sense might reflect a preference for such a habitat. There are experiments with photographs that suggest there is an innate preference for savanna landscapes in the very young. But this does not imply that there is a universal aesthetic sense.

Even so, Barrow is quite persuasive when he suggests that there is a clear adaptive advantage for all humans in preferring an environment that offers security. This may be reflected in those satisfying architectural designs that provide beautiful views and cosy inglenooks. By contrast, there is no tradition of an emotional response to the stars. Yet the constellations all have names, and Barrow traces this back to the Babylonians and even earlier.

Analysing how we name colours, Barrow cites a study of 98 languages which showed that there was an almost universal preference for the parts of the light spectrum which have acquired 鈥渃olour鈥� names. It is easy to see how adaptive colour vision is, for example, for attracting attention or giving warning. But, while music has blossomed in all cultures, its adaptive role is far from clear. In what is probably the most novel part of the book, Barrow analyses music from a mathematical perspective. He considers music in relation to both language and mathematics. It seems that we like music that is close to 鈥渇licker noise鈥� in which the sounds are moderately correlated.

Overall, the book is far too discursive and unfocused for my taste. An interesting section on how size affects our lives is scarcely relevant to the main thesis. It contains some dubious biology, such as the suggestion that as organisms become more complex they rely upon more 鈥渃omplex molecular shapes and bonding鈥�. This is not the case: once the cell has evolved, there is virtually no increase in complexity at the molecular level. Other irrelevancies include Barrow鈥檚 explanation of the seasons and the nature of mathematics.

That said, The Artful Universe is full of good things. One of my favourites is this: 鈥淚f a 鈥榬eligion鈥� is defined to be a system of ideas that contains unprovable statements, then G枚del taught us that mathematics is not only a religion, it is the only religion that can prove itself to be one.鈥�

Yes, of course, but there are severe problems. What precisely is it that the enthusiasts want the public to know? It seems clear that most people can live a satisfactory life knowing little or no science, just as they can without knowledge of law or economics. While they will certainly miss out on the pleasure and intellectual excitement that come from knowing how the world works, how much science do they actually need to know to make up their minds about the issues surrounding genetic engineering or global warming? To judge from our politicians, very little.

These concerns lie at the heart of an important book, The Myth of Scientific Literacy by Morris Shamos, who has spent many years in the US trying to communicate science to nonscience students. He has come to the painful conclusion that his efforts have been fruitless. Public literacy in science is a myth, he claims, because there is neither agreement on the meaning of scientific literacy nor a proven means of achieving even low levels in the adult population.

He takes us through changes to the school curriculum in the US that were responses to events such as the launch of the Soviet Sputnik, and the history of the public understanding of science as well as the antiscience movements. He emphasises that scientific ideas go against common sense, which can make science very tough for nonscientists.

At the heart of his analysis is the finding that while many students perform well in school science, this provides no assurance that they will become scientifically literate adults. Few people retain much of the information they learnt in school science lessons. Worse still, it seems that up to 80 per cent of Americans have a completely illusory view of their ability to understand science. There is a huge disparity between what people believe they know and what they actually know.

Whatever view you take of the role of scientific literacy 鈥� practical, cultural, civic 鈥� fostering 鈥渁 grasp of science鈥� is always a basic curriculum requirement. But what does this mean? Most educators think that it requires some understanding of science, yet just how much and of what sort remains controversial. Would it not be better to teach people the skills necessary to obtain good advice on scientific and technical matters? Shamos believes that the modest objective of increasing scientific literacy from the current level of 5 per cent to 20 per cent 鈥� the percentage of the American adult population who are college graduates 鈥� will prove all but impossible.

So he suggests a programme aimed at improving 鈥渟cientific awareness鈥�, with technology as a central theme. His list for the requirements for such a curriculum includes: the purpose of science and technology, the meaning of scientific 鈥渇acts鈥� and 鈥渢ruths鈥�, the role of experiment, the limitations of science, and the role of statistics. As a minimum, the school curriculum would have to make clear what science is and how it is practised. And there鈥檚 the rub. With all the welcome emphasis on relevance and historical storytelling, the blunt truth is that you cannot understand science unless you know a reasonable amount at an appropriate level. Instilling this knowledge is precisely the aim of the traditionalists, of whom Shamos is so critical.

My own aim would be to bring about the public recognition that science is the best way to understand the world. Even so, Shamos has written a valuable, clear and provocative book, essential reading for all those interested in such issues.

Nicolas Bourbaki? There are no portraits of him, nor will you find an accurate description of his life and work in any reliable Who鈥檚 Who of science. For Bourbaki does not exist. It is the nom de plume of a group of excellent French mathematicians who have published their collaborative work under his name. What style 鈥� what scientist could bear to publish his or her work anonymously? However much scientists love their work, wish to improve our knowledge of the world, help humanity and so on, they badly crave recognition by their peers. This is hardly surprising since research can be tedious, difficult and beset with failure, the hours long and the pay poor. Recognition and admiration are some recompense.

The ability of scientists to tolerate anonymity is coupled to the theme of older scientists feeling rejected by their institutions. It is something we have to recognise. For the most part, scientific advances are made by the young, or at least the not-so-old. So the 鈥渆lderly鈥� narrator persuades a theoretician (a woman) to join with an Austrian and a Japanese scientist to take 鈥渞evenge鈥� on the scientific community by working together and publishing under the name of 鈥� Diana Skordylis. The idea that they come up with is PCR. It is also unusual in a novel to have such an idea not only explained but illustrated with several diagrams.

Djerassi knows the scientific world extremely well and writes about it with authority and wit. He has a scholarly knowledge of another, quite different area: French feminism in the 18th century. This is the field of research of the narrator鈥檚 wife-to-be, who plays a key role. She is Diana Doyle-Ditmus, whom the narrator thinks of chemically, as D₃, and this is particularly appropriate since she provides the ingredients for the romantic chemistry. The author likes women. It is also her granddaughter who actually does the experiments that establish PCR under the narrator鈥檚 supervision.

The narrator, if not the author, is something of a foodie, and many scenes take place over meals. Apparently, for example, the National Academy of Sciences serves the best breakfasts 鈥渨ith the freshest bagels I鈥檝e ever tasted, accompanied by cream cheese, lox without a trace of oil and exquisite tiny Danish pastries鈥�. The novel is in one way a sophisticated and delightful dinner party. A party where one obtains insights into many aspects of science, like the special character of Japanese science and Japanese poetry.

There are also numerous asides that ring all too true. Like when the narrator says: 鈥淔or the first time in many years, I found myself paying for a European plane fare out of my own pocket.鈥� Or when the Japanese scientist, talking of the pleasures of science, speaks of the ups and downs of writing up a successful experiment, which he likens to a wave. The worst is when nobody writes or calls about it, the wave has passed and you are left with the backwash.

And how do the famous four make out? Do they keep their anonymity when the prospect of a Nobel prize beckons? Do they maintain cordial relations? The answers are not simple. Read the novel and find out.

Unfortunately, if that kind spirit appeared in front of me offering
to grant me one wish, I regret I might dither. Would I, for example, like
everyone to understand the second law of thermodynamics which C. P. Snow
in his famous 鈥楾wo Cultures鈥� lecture thought was essential for anyone professing
to be cultured? Not really, it is very difficult and doesn鈥檛 seem all that
important these days.

What about Newton鈥檚 laws of motion that govern the movement of every
object we see around us? A triumph of the intellect, but we can run our
daily lives very well even if many of our predictions about moving objects
remain unchallenged. Consider, for example, going with two bullets and a
gun into the middle of a completely flat field (even the curvature of the
Earth is taken into account). Now fire one of your bullets horizontally
and at the same moment drop the other 鈥� both activities taking place from
the same height. Common sense says that the dropped bullet will reach the
ground first, but it is misleading: both reach the ground at the same time.

It is a curious feature of science 鈥� I call it unnatural 鈥� that most,
probably all, scientific ideas go against common sense. The world is just
not built on a commonsense basis. It is also curious that common sense serves
us so well in most day-to-day situations that you can live your life in
our highly technological society quite satisfactorily without knowing any
science at all.

Many people lack that kind of understanding. Of course, such people
are at a disadvantage: they are excluded from the greatest intellectual
achievements of humankind, they cannot enjoy the excitement of science,
and they are excluded from contributing in any serious way to the debate
on the effect science has on our lives.

For example, you cannot appreciate issues relating to gene therapy
or the Human Genome Project without at least understanding the basics of
DNA. It is also very hard, without some scientific background, to make sensible
assessments of risk versus benefit 鈥� whether these relate to car seat belts,
nuclear power, or again, genetic engineering. I would put risk assessment
high on my list of what I would like everyone to understand.

I think it is about the image of science as culture that I would actually
make my wish, culture being defined as 鈥榯he intellectual side of civilisation鈥�.
So my wish would be for science to be recognised as part of our culture,
and for everyone to have some sense of how science progresses, particularly
the young.

My guess is that this involves too many wishes, so I would have to settle
for one: that science can be seen as exciting and fun. I will know that
I have had my wish granted when I see scientists on TV making people laugh
or people chuckling with pleasure when reading science books.

Lewis Wolpert is professor of biology as applied to medicine at University
College London.

The history of medicine cannot fail to fascinate. We all care deeply
about birth, illness and death. In these two wonderful volumes are 72 essays
on an enormous variety of topics that include Chinese medicine, ethics,
women, architecture, economics and literature, as well as traditional subjects
such as pathology and psychiatry. Almost all are crisply written and readable.
They should be essential reading for all medical students, and be at doctors鈥�
bedsides and in all waiting rooms. There is something for everybody here.

I was, for example, horrified to be reminded of the awful rates at which
Native Americans died when the Europeans exported their diseases: up to
90 per cent died in what Kenneth Kiple describes in his essay as 鈥榯he worst
holocaust of disease in the history of humankind鈥�. And I was intrigued
to discover from one of the contributers Robert Olby that Shakespeare, in
describing Caliban in The Tempest, dis-tinguished between nature and nurture.

Sulphuric acid was initially used to treat scurvy on the grounds that
it was an 鈥榓lkaline鈥� disease until James Lind (1716-94) showed its ineffectiveness
in one of the first clinical trials (Kenneth Carpenter). This is an important
story and is echoed in the use of mercury for treating syphilis, which
was probably as damaging as the disease itself but continued well into the
19th century (Allan Brandt). And it is surprising that physical examination
of the patient only became established in the 19th century (Edward Shorter).
In the 18th century, it was rare to even look at those parts of the body
that were covered by clothes or bedclothes.

For most of history, medicine has been more an art than a science It
was only in the 19th century that science had any significant impact on
its practice. This is nicely demonstrated with the history of blood- letting
(Harold Cook). Even William Harvey鈥檚 discovery of the circulation of the
blood didn鈥檛 restrict blood-letting which continued as a general practice
until quite recently. The rationale behind blood-letting lay in Galen鈥檚
image of the body as controlled by the balance of fluids and humours. He
saw it as a means of releasing excess humours from the body. It is fascinating
that ideas based on the four humours had such a strong hold on Western medicine.
Perhaps it fits in some way with everyday experience 鈥� too much wine could
clearly make you ill, so the same might hold for bodily constituents. It
fitted with an image of the fluids in the body acting like water in an irrigation
scheme.

Concepts of health and disease have changed dramatically. In the 19th
century American medical textbooks asserted, with great authority, that
women who enjoyed sexual intercourse, or engaged in masturbation, were ill,
both mentally and physically (Arthur Caplan). And the very concept of life
changed with the establishment of cell theory.

A recurrent theme in the history of medical thought is the role of nonmaterial
factors such as soul and mind. For example, tensions between psychological
and physiological approaches were present in 19th-century Germany (Theodore
Brown). It is a puzzle, however, as to why hysterical conversion, so important
in Freud鈥檚 development of his theories, should now have virtually disappeared.
And if we search for a model for the practice of psychotherapy, Sander Gilman
suggests that we can find it in the sacrament of confession within the Catholic
church.

A major change in medical thinking came about with what has been termed
biomedicine: the insistence on materialism as the grounds for medical knowledge
(Arthur Kleinman). Some people consider the biomedical approach dehumanising
because of its emphasis on physical causes. There can be no doubt that while
it provides the best understanding of illness it might not be satisfying
to the patients who wish to have more control over their own illness.

The allure of modern alternative medicine lies in its ability to link
philosophies of sickness to a wider disaffection with industrial society
and a romantic nostalgia for a return to nature (Roy Porter). The success
of New Age mysticism should come as no surprise. But, despite the criticism
of high-tech hospital care during childbirth, it has probably contributed
significantly to decreased risks for both mother and child according to
Irvine Loudon.

Indeed, it is a bone of contention as to whether medicine and formal
health care had much impact on the increase of longevity in urban populations.
The control of infectious diseases has been of the greatest importance and
together with its impact on family medicine, has had a major impact on the
structure of society (Stephen Kunitz). But an analysis of how scientific
advances have affected medical treatment and so the lives of patients is
still lacking and should be a fertile area for future research.

The Greeks established the role of the environment in causing illness.
Air, food and drink were seen as affecting the humours. And it is not without
some irony that you read here of the emphasis given to food and exercise
two thousand years ago. Perhaps it provides us with one of the few means
by which we think we can control our own health.

Lewis Wolpert is Professor of Biology as Applied to Medicine at University
College, London. His latest book The Unnatural Nature of Science is published
by Faber & Faber.

WHO, one wonders, among the family, teachers and friends of Francis
Crick, recognised that here was an outstanding intellect, the genius theoretical
biologist of our age? Perhaps there was a hint when, after reading Arthur
Mee鈥檚 Children鈥檚 Encyclopedia, he confided to his mother his anxiety that
all the problems would be solved by the time he grew up.

Crick, however, didn鈥檛 do particularly well at school, and managed only
a second-class physics degree at University College, London. When the war
broke out he was doing a really boring research project. A mine destroyed
the apparatus and, after his time at the Admiralty, he decided to do research
in a new field.

Applying his newly discovered gossip test 鈥� what you 鈥榞ossip鈥� about
is your true interest 鈥� he moved into a field which wasn鈥檛 yet there and
which he helped to create: molecular biology. But his first research project,
during which he learnt cell biology, was as unimaginative as his physics
project.

At the age of 30, Crick joined Max Perutz鈥檚 group in Cambridge and started
a PhD on protein structure. Still no sign. Yet within a few years, with
James Watson, he had solved the structure of DNA, made important contributions
to protein structure, and became the dominant figure in molecular biology.

Proteins are the magicians of the cell: enzymes, microtubules, contractile
proteins and so much more. As soon as Crick learnt about their versatility
and subtlety, he realised that one of the key problems in biology was how
they were synthesised.

Even before Frederick Sanger established that the character of a protein
was determined by the sequence of its amino acids, Crick realised, with
amazing prescience, that all a gene had to do was to get the sequence of
the amino acids correct. Once this sequence was established the protein
would fold up itself correctly into the unique three-dimensional structure
that gave it its special properties. Crick鈥檚 work was to show how this could
be done.

Sir Lawrence Bragg, director of the Cavendish Laboratory where Crick
was working, was an important influence. From him, Crick learned the value
of making bold simplifying assumptions, looking at as wide a range of data
as possible, and being critical but not pernickety about the fit between
the model and facts. However, when he offered a new approach to X-ray diffraction
of proteins Bragg, who had founded the subject, was furious. 鈥楥rick,鈥� he
said, 鈥榶ou鈥檙e rocking the boat.鈥�

But what really upset Bragg was that Linus Pauling discovered the a-helix
and not his group. This discovery made a deep impression on Watson and Crick
and they henceforth argued that it was very important not to place too much
weight on a single piece of experimental evidence; it might be mis leading.
Hence Crick鈥檚 notable aphorism: any theory that fits all the facts is bound
to be wrong since some of the facts will be misleading.

Crick emphasises that the path to the double helix was, in a scientific
sense, commonplace. There was nothing special about the techniques used
or the ideas involved. What was important was the molecule itself: DNA.
It is such an important molecule.

There is another point which Crick does not make. There are few, if
any, other cases where knowing the structure of a molecule has at once suggested,
even revealed, so many important aspects of its biological function.

Their success in getting the structure, as compared with that of Maurice
Wilkins and Rosalind Franklin at King鈥檚 College in London, Crick attributes
in part to their experience with the a-helix. Their assumption that the
molecule was helical 鈥� a rash one in Franklin鈥檚 eyes 鈥� made the problem
much simpler.

Also, Crick and Watson were prepared to be bold and build models, whereas
the Kings鈥檚 group did not. A measure of their boldness is, perhaps, that
鈥榠t took over 25 years for our model of DNA to go from being rather plausible,
to being very plaus ible . . . and from there to being virtually certainly
correct.鈥� Crick, rightly, claims the credit for himself and Watson select
ing the right problem and stick ing to it. They alone were prepared to make
the intellectual investment of mastering the large number of disciplines
required.

After the double helix came the genetic code 鈥� how the DNA coded for
proteins 鈥� and Crick describes this in some detail. There is a nice description
of the failure to recognise the existence of messenger RNA for a number
of years.

Of particular interest in What Mad Pursuit are Crick鈥檚 views on the
role of theorist in biology. Because organisms have evolved by natural selection
leading to unlikely and intricate mechanisms, he believes that it is virtually
impossible to arrive at a correct solution by thought alone: 鈥楾he best a
theorist can hope to do is to point an experimentalist in the right direction,
and this is best done by suggesting what directions to avoid.鈥�

Nature is so complex that, in his view, Occam鈥檚 razor should be used
with great caution. Theorists should avoid mixing up a process with the
rather different mechanisms that control it; and avoid believing that a
theory is really a good model rather than a good demonstration. The danger
he sees is that theorists become too fond of their own ideas. From his experience
with the genetic code he draws two conclusions: some problems are not suitable
for theoretical analysis because they arose by historical accident, and
others, like the protein-folding problem, may be computationally intractable.

Crick now lives in California and works on the brain at the Salk Institute,
concentrating on the visual system. He is very sceptical about cognitive
science where it seems that if a computer simulation fits some psychological
process it is thought to be a successful model.

What puzzles him is that no one seems to be concerned that the theory
is very unlikely to be correct. Worse still, there is a neglect of how the
brain is actually put together and structure is largely ignored. His analysis
of how brain function might be tackled is essential reading for all those
interested in neuroscience.

There are only flashes of a more personal nature in the book: it is
not an autobiography. 鈥業 recall a singer in a nightclub in Honolulu telling
me . . .鈥� is the only hint of an aspect of his character, spelled out in
an early Who鈥檚 Who, 鈥楻ecreation: conversation, especially with pretty women.鈥�

Lewis Wolpert, FRS, is Professor of Biology as Applied to Medicine,
University College, London.