What sort of science?

Is science only about finding things out? Or are there problems or puzzles that we are trying to solve? How often do we stop to wonder at what sort of enterprise we are engaged in? We imbibe how to do science over a long period of time beginning at school and going on to various levels at university. After university, it may take other particularly practical forms. If we are involved in a problem or puzzle solving version of science, exactly what is it that we are trying to solve? Engrossed in the practical elements of research, we may sometimes overlook our precise goals.

Consider the puzzles in newspapers or magazines or those in the apps on our smartphones. Some people naturally gravitate towards number puzzles, some to word puzzles others to more strategic puzzles like chess. The variety of considerable. As a species we are ‘solvers’. It is is sometimes suggested that our inquisitiveness is what gave rise to science. I suggest that our desire to ‘solve’ played a large part too.

I have used the words ‘problem’ and ‘puzzle’. In philosophy there is a distinction to be made between them. Problems are substantive by nature and, as a result, carry a certain importance. Puzzles are primarily linguistic by nature and rely on how words are used. (This is further complicated by the fact that a word’s meaning may shift over time.)

Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889-1951) claimed that in philosophy there were only linguistic puzzles. Sir Karl Popper (1902-1994) did not hold that opinion. Popper was asked to address the matter in a paper entitled "Are There Philosophical Problems?" at a meeting of the Cambridge University Moral Sciences Club on 25 October 1946.

At that meeting, he appears to have applied thinking akin to that characteristic of that for which many scientists know him. It may be expressed as follows:

• The question "Are There Philosophical Problems?" is itself a philosophical problem (it is clearly not a linguistic puzzle).
• Thus, there is at least one philosophical problem.
• Therefore, philosophy does not consist of linguistic puzzles alone.

This is a key theme in Edmonds and Eidinow’s book ‘Wittgenstein’s Poker’ first published in 2001 (and which I can highly recommend reading). 

Some puzzles are solved by putting the pieces together. A jigsaw puzzle is an obvious example. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men set out to do something akin to a jigsaw puzzle when trying to put Humpty together again. Since it did not work, that approach was clearly the wrong one. Reconstructing Humpty is problem not a puzzle. 

When trying to understand the human body scientifically, we are engaged in a process of taking the body apart and then not even trying to put the pieces together again. This deconstruction is, of course, done conceptually. Even if we were allowed, we could not take a living organism apart and it put it back together again alive. An organ may be surgically exposed and experimented upon. It is technically possible to remove an organ from the body and return it at another time. But we cannot expect to do this to several organs at once.

If we are going to deconstruct the body conceptually, we must find a way to reconstruct it conceptually, too. One way of doing this may be to move away from simply seeing organs as separate components of specific physiological systems and looking at how they work together with others organs - not least those in other systems.

A simple example is that of the heart and lungs and the way in which they work together. Typically they are addressed quite separately: the heart is described as part of the cardiovascular system and the lungs as part of the respiratory system. A textbook may describe them many pages apart and yet anatomically they are side-by-side and physiologically they have complementary roles with regard to respiratory gas transport. A conceptual linkage of the two is already done by teacher and student in and out of the classroom. There are other possibilities and there is scope for a more formal recognition of this type of thinking by textbooks.

Another diagram of the same - but different

Continuing my theme of diagrams of the circulatory (or cardiovascular) system and how they differ while representing the same thing, here is a picture from an old edition of Grant’s Method of Anatomy. (I think it is the 7th edition from 1965.) This book is still in print - although some diagrams have been modernised. I do not know how this diagram is currently being presented but there is sure to be one. A diagram of the course taken by the blood around the body is (that is, has become at some point) obligatory for textbooks.

To access other pages in this series, click ‘The Circulation’ (or the label of the same name) for the list so far.

As always, observe the similarities and the differences. In short, ‘compare and contrast’ each diagram with the others. You might also like to ask ‘Which diagram best suits my interests or requirements?’ Diagrams must provide sufficient information and not too much.

Improving upon Humpty

Humpty, having fallen from his wall could not be put back together again. Neither, for that matter, could his fragmented parts be reassembled into an alternative, viable Humpty. This is something that the nursery rhyme did not explore. Perhaps it is something nursery cannot do. However, we can at least raise the idea.

This leads, in turn, to the question of whether a new and improved Humpty might be made from his fragments? In some respects, this was the premise behind the 1970s television series ‘The Six Million Dollar Man’ and its sequel ‘The Bionic Woman’. To make such a Humpty requires not only what is left of his original parts but additional artificial parts engineered to exceed ordinary levels of human performance.

Prior to his accident, might we have been able to turn Humpty into a bionic Humpty 2.0? And, if we could, could we do this without removing any of his healthy parts? To remove healthy body parts, even for purposes of personal improvement raises ethical problems.

Organisms have two named aspects: their genotype and their phenotype. Genes get a lot of attention for a range of understandable reasons. We frequently hear of genes if not of genotypes. We almost nothing of phenotype but we are more accustomed to them than to genes. This is because these are what we see of people. We never see a genotype as such but a phenotype is how people are. Phenotype is derived from the Greek φαίνω (phaínō) meaning 'to appear, show'. Our phenotype is how we appear. It is what our bodies look like.

However, as humans our phenotype is not confined or restricted to just our bodily form. Phenotypes are extendable in a variety of ways. Richard Dawkins’ book ‘The Extended Phenotype’, first published in 1982, popularised the idea that phenotypes were more than just bodies. He gave a number of examples from the wild. When trying to attract mates, many animals do not rely on their bodily appearance alone. One classic example was that of the bowerbird and the elaborate habitats it creates. In essence, a bird able to make such an attractive construction must be worth mating with as it will contribute good quality genes to our potential offspring. Genotypes are reflected in the phenotypes they produce. The better the genes, the better the phenotypes. This also applies to the extensions those phenotypes give to themselves.

We are able to extend our phenotypes in other ways - and for reasons unconnected with mate choice. For example, using a walking stick to make up for injury or frailty is a phenotypic extension. Tools are phenotypic extensions. The more one looks the more one finds. Every aid to modern living is a phenotypic extension. Depending upon how we use them, they may indeed improve upon what or how we are.

Typically these are extensions to our phenotypes not replacements for parts of our phenotype. Where joints are replaced surgically the usual aim is restore the function previously enjoyed. It does not seek to exceed it. But why not?

Prosthetic limbs are also engineered primarily to restore lost function although it is possible to include an extended range and style of movement. For example, the wrist joint for a prosthetic hand might be given the ability to rotate a full 360 degrees. Even so, the desire to remove an uninjured hand simply to obtain this functionality is hard to imagine.

Whether this will always be the case is a moot point. If prosthetic hands could be engineered to have all the current functionality of a natural hand and more, might people of the future be tempted?

One way in which Humpty might have been improved upon - that is, guarded against the devastating injuries he suffered in his fall - might be to have given him a 'zorb'-like protective suit.

A Poor Question?

When biology emerged as a distinct science in the early nineteenth century there was a change of focus. Previously the study of living things was undertaken alongside the study of everything to be found in the natural world. This formed the field of natural history.

The phrase is continued in the name of a number of venerable museums. To this day, the displays in museums of natural history encompass things from the whole of the natural environment and sometimes beyond. Meteorites, for example, can also be seen in these museums. Although they have come from outer space, they landed on the Earth and, having entered our natural world, belong to the purview natural historian.

Here the name ‘historian’ should clarified. It does not refer somebody who has studied past events. Many of the exhibits in museums of natural history are about things from the past. Fossil skeletons are popular exhibits. This may give the impression that the ‘history’ in natural history relates to the past. Instead, the word ‘history’ has its origins in the Greek word ‘historia’, which means "inquiry, or knowledge gained from inquiry".

One of the scientific questions that early biologists thought they would be able to resolve was ‘What is Life?’ Attempting to answer this question has yielded a variety of answers and limited dividends as far as that specific question goes. What we have learned from the attempt has been how difficult it is to define. Faced with such a difficulty, the focus of biologists has become directed towards the characteristics and features demonstrated by living things rather than life itself.

But, is the difficulty the question itself? ‘What is life?’ may be a hard question to answer but it may also be a poor question to ask. When asking questions, it is advisable to ask what those questions mean? And to ask, whether they even make any sense? Importantly, we should have a notion of how the question might at least be addressed and where the answer may lie.

At a museum of natural history we can look at exhibits and tell immediately which were once living and which - like meteorites - never were. Yet we cannot provide a formal definition of life. This may also be the fault of what we require of a formal definition.

One may change to more meaningful questions like ‘What is life like?’, ‘What are the common characteristics demonstrated by living things?’ etc. Questions like ‘What is life about?’ do not, on the surface, seem very scientific. However, upon careful consideration may be more scientific than ‘What is life?’

We may address the question ‘What is life about?’ in a materialistic way by suggesting that life is about, what may be called, the Darwinian imperatives: Survival and Reproduction. Organisms strive to survive at least until they have performed a reproductive act. (For some insects, of course, the male is eaten in the act!) This opens up a rich field of intellectual inquiry. How one understands the organism and its component structures is then seen in the light of these twin imperatives and the parts played in survival and reproduction.

There are, of course, other ways of addressing the question ‘What is life about?’ I think of these as complementary, rather than alternative, ways of addressing the question. There is no single way of addressing this question to the exclusion of all others.