Science and language
01/04/16 05:12
I took a basic biology course when I was a freshman in high school. I learned a few things, but I don’t actually remember much of the content of the course. In biology lab, after a few sessions that were aimed at teaching us to measure accurately and use lab equipment, we dissected a worm. Not long after that we dissected a frog. I remember doing a bit of mental math about the number of frogs that have to give up their lives so that high school freshmen around the country are able to dissect them. I remember the smell of formaldehyde, a smell that I recognize in the preparation rooms of funeral homes. Apparently, it takes a considerable amount of death to teach high school students about life.
In college, I didn’t take many science courses. It isn’t that I am opposed to science. I have been the beneficiary of a great deal of advancements that are the direct result of the application of the scientific method. I was simply more drawn to language and words. While my peers were taking chemistry and biology, I was studying the philosophy of science and the rules of logic.
My fascination with words has continued as a life-long passion. We moved from dictionaries to computers and increased the speed with which I can check the etymology of a word. Now that I am much older, and my career path is pretty much set, I continue to be fascinated with science and read books about science, discovery and the methods employed by scientists. Recently, I’ve been reading some of the books by Robin Wall Kimmerer, a professor on the faculty of Environmental and Forest Biology at the State University of New York. Her first book, “Gathering Moss” is fascinating and contains a lot of information for one not schooled in botany.
Still, the fascination with words remains.
I am struck, as I read about the study of plants, that three words commonly used and all coming from the same root have such different meanings. Most people are familiar with biotic: “of, relating to, or resulting from living things, especially in their ecological relations. The word biology comes from the same root adding the concept to study to make it the science or study of life. And most of us are familiar with the term antibiotic: “the class of drug used in the treatment and prevention of bacterial infection.” Chemicals that either kill or inhibit the growth of bacteria have produced one of the major advances in the history of modern medicine. I’m grateful that antibiotics have been discovered and are used to treat illnesses. It is interesting, however, from a linguistic perspective, that the life-giving medicine means the opposite of life. We extend human life by shortening the life of certain bacteria.
There is another, related, though less common term, that shows up in Dr. Kimmerer’s work: anabiosis. There are certain plants and animals that can enter into a state of suspended animation somewhere at the dividing line between life and death. They appear to be dead, showing no signs of life, but when a particular element is added, in many cases water, life returns. After decades of study, scientists have concluded that anabiosis is not a process of death and resurrection, but rather the ability to live in a near-death state, slowing all of the functions of living and decreasing consumption to a level where life can be preserved for restoration at some future point. It seems in biology, the subtle difference between the prefixes “anti” and “ana” is a critical distinction.
That distinction has gotten me to thinking about other words used in scientific study. In the practice of medicine, in addition to the use of antibiotics, another class of medicines are called anesthetics. Anesthetics are medicines that reduce physical sensation, usually resulting in a state of sleep. Anesthetics are administered to manage pain and used to produce a living state where the patient not only experiences pain, but also does not remember the process. Surgeons employ anesthetics to enable them to perform complex operations including incisions, cutting of bone and tissues and making physical repairs to bones, skin and other living tissue.
It is fascinating to me that the word anesthetic means “the opposite of esthetic.” Esthetic is the study of mind and emotions in relationship to beauty. To dull our pain, we literally suspend the ability to experience beauty. Hmm . . . that one gets me to thinking.
Of course all medicines come with side effects and each decision about the use of a particular treatment involves weighing priorities. We have to decide which is worse and which is best. We humans are very complex and messy creatures. The process of living involves pain and the suspension of all pain is not desirable. We don’t want to take away a person’s ability to feel completely. On the other hand we want to alleviate suffering and give relief from pain.
I don’t think I would have made a very good physician. I would have invested far too much energy in the philosophy of medicine, weighing complex decisions about when treatment should be given and when it should be withheld. I would have wanted to dissect words more often than cadavers. I would long to have complex discussions with patients about their philosophy of pain and life before offering treatment options, which would not fit into the typical 15-minute office visit. I probably would offer too much of “on the one hand, this; on the other hand, the other,” to inspire confidence in my patients. Speaking of which, a person would have to be very “patient” in order to put up with my wordiness.
It is, however, fascinating to occupy my position in the community, at the edge of the scientific community looking and listening and being continually fascinated by the choices of language used to describe scientific methods and practices. Once in a while finding just the right word or learning to use a known word in a new way can open up our understanding and provide new insights into the things we do.
In college, I didn’t take many science courses. It isn’t that I am opposed to science. I have been the beneficiary of a great deal of advancements that are the direct result of the application of the scientific method. I was simply more drawn to language and words. While my peers were taking chemistry and biology, I was studying the philosophy of science and the rules of logic.
My fascination with words has continued as a life-long passion. We moved from dictionaries to computers and increased the speed with which I can check the etymology of a word. Now that I am much older, and my career path is pretty much set, I continue to be fascinated with science and read books about science, discovery and the methods employed by scientists. Recently, I’ve been reading some of the books by Robin Wall Kimmerer, a professor on the faculty of Environmental and Forest Biology at the State University of New York. Her first book, “Gathering Moss” is fascinating and contains a lot of information for one not schooled in botany.
Still, the fascination with words remains.
I am struck, as I read about the study of plants, that three words commonly used and all coming from the same root have such different meanings. Most people are familiar with biotic: “of, relating to, or resulting from living things, especially in their ecological relations. The word biology comes from the same root adding the concept to study to make it the science or study of life. And most of us are familiar with the term antibiotic: “the class of drug used in the treatment and prevention of bacterial infection.” Chemicals that either kill or inhibit the growth of bacteria have produced one of the major advances in the history of modern medicine. I’m grateful that antibiotics have been discovered and are used to treat illnesses. It is interesting, however, from a linguistic perspective, that the life-giving medicine means the opposite of life. We extend human life by shortening the life of certain bacteria.
There is another, related, though less common term, that shows up in Dr. Kimmerer’s work: anabiosis. There are certain plants and animals that can enter into a state of suspended animation somewhere at the dividing line between life and death. They appear to be dead, showing no signs of life, but when a particular element is added, in many cases water, life returns. After decades of study, scientists have concluded that anabiosis is not a process of death and resurrection, but rather the ability to live in a near-death state, slowing all of the functions of living and decreasing consumption to a level where life can be preserved for restoration at some future point. It seems in biology, the subtle difference between the prefixes “anti” and “ana” is a critical distinction.
That distinction has gotten me to thinking about other words used in scientific study. In the practice of medicine, in addition to the use of antibiotics, another class of medicines are called anesthetics. Anesthetics are medicines that reduce physical sensation, usually resulting in a state of sleep. Anesthetics are administered to manage pain and used to produce a living state where the patient not only experiences pain, but also does not remember the process. Surgeons employ anesthetics to enable them to perform complex operations including incisions, cutting of bone and tissues and making physical repairs to bones, skin and other living tissue.
It is fascinating to me that the word anesthetic means “the opposite of esthetic.” Esthetic is the study of mind and emotions in relationship to beauty. To dull our pain, we literally suspend the ability to experience beauty. Hmm . . . that one gets me to thinking.
Of course all medicines come with side effects and each decision about the use of a particular treatment involves weighing priorities. We have to decide which is worse and which is best. We humans are very complex and messy creatures. The process of living involves pain and the suspension of all pain is not desirable. We don’t want to take away a person’s ability to feel completely. On the other hand we want to alleviate suffering and give relief from pain.
I don’t think I would have made a very good physician. I would have invested far too much energy in the philosophy of medicine, weighing complex decisions about when treatment should be given and when it should be withheld. I would have wanted to dissect words more often than cadavers. I would long to have complex discussions with patients about their philosophy of pain and life before offering treatment options, which would not fit into the typical 15-minute office visit. I probably would offer too much of “on the one hand, this; on the other hand, the other,” to inspire confidence in my patients. Speaking of which, a person would have to be very “patient” in order to put up with my wordiness.
It is, however, fascinating to occupy my position in the community, at the edge of the scientific community looking and listening and being continually fascinated by the choices of language used to describe scientific methods and practices. Once in a while finding just the right word or learning to use a known word in a new way can open up our understanding and provide new insights into the things we do.