The worst fear of Selby—the only talking dog in Australia (and perhaps the world)—is that if his secret gets out he'll be sent to a laboratory where he'll "have to talk to boring scientists all day"(1). This portrayal of scientists—in a children's book—is by no means unique in popular culture. In fact, 'boring' might be an improvement: the white-coated, bespectacled scientist with poor hygiene and bad fashion sense is usually dangerously mad, or at best well-meaning but ineffectual. The attractive daughter is optional.
Yet other professions do not suffer from similar opprobrium. Lawyers, police, teachers, nurses all have sympathetic portrayals in popular entertainment. Even the sociopathic House, M.D. is a hero. The discrepancy is puzzling: after all, every mother believes her offspring is going to cure cancer—if they show any scientific proficiency at all. But in films scientists are usually either holding the world to ransom, creating unimaginable terrors or just generally stuffing things up. Similarly, the portrayal of science itself is lacking: although we think we have a pretty clear idea of police procedure or what happens in an emergency room, how, when it comes down to it, is science done?
Jennifer Rohn (a researcher at University College London, with a PhD in virology) started the online magazine LabLit.com to examine the portrayal of science and scientists in fiction, the media and popular culture: not so much to increase sympathy for the scientific profession but to raise general awareness.
Her first novel, Experimental Heart (CSHL Press), is firmly in this genre, the story narrated by a scientist whose life and concerns will be recognizable to many scientists and their families, and revealing to everyone else.
The plot is driven by an intrigue worthy of Dan Brown, with countless twists and turns and cleverly revealed clues. But at its heart this is not primarily a book about science, or evil machinations. It is a love story. Fast-paced, but with absorbing detail and wittily observed; from the first chance encounter to the dare-devil denouement it is the uncertainties of human emotion that provide the imperative to read on.
That is not to say the setting is incidental. The science—and there is a lot of it—is dealt with engagingly yet uncompromisingly. It is not for the faint-hearted, but Rohn manages to guide us through the maze of modern scientific endeavour, providing enough detail to satisfy the pedantic biologist while not allowing the laic to feel lost. And more than that: she confides in us, initiates us in the secrets of her trade; teaches without preaching; informs without condescending.
I'd come back upstairs […] around midnight to find poor Helmut slumped at his bench, fast asleep and murmuring vague German phrases about being attacked by molecules.
Andy O'Hara and his colleagues are real people. Helmut, the stereotypical German (whom Rohn never allows to lapse into slapstick), the keen student, the arrogant scientific superstar, the starry-eyed idealist—they're all here and every molecular scientist will recognize them. Similarly, the challenges faced by O'Hara and his colleagues are common to real scientists: including finding good parties and maintaining conversations with arts and humanities students. "Never even admit you're a scientist until the second date," one of his friends advises Andy.
Rohn writes wittily, even beautifully in places. I laughed out loud at the description of an argument—"the sequitur having got increasingly non"—and resonated with Rohn's description of antibodies as molecules that grasp their targets "with a lover's fervour". Arguments about genetic engineering and vivisection are dealt with sensitively and with incisive intelligence. This makes the the rather drawn-out ending and epilogue all the more puzzling, as if an over-zealous agent wanted to add more pages to the book. The back cover-promised abduction is so long in coming that I thought I'd missed it—and then it was so telegraphed it was no surprise.
But this is quibbling. The triumph and despair of the scientific endeavour are explored with fondness, as are other aspects: the almost parental pride and regret of teaching students and watching them become independent; the migratory lifestyle and its effect on relationships. There are strange coincidences—it seems improbable that Andy would discover Ainikka when he did: but this is how science happens. It's not strange or supernatural: as every good scientist knows, the wider you spread your net the more chance there is of that chance meeting that can change everything.
And here Rohn excels. Andy O'Hara is a scientist. He attempts to be rational, he treats his life as an experiment, tries to apply his sceptical and analytical thought processes to his personal life: with mixed results. He annoys the reader because he can not see what is plainly in front of him, will not, in fact, look at the evidence objectively—although he fools himself into thinking he is. This professional cynic's heart is not in it.
But this is the point. We get the sense that scientists are ordinary people, but doing extraordinary jobs. Andy O'Hara is a hero, but a beautifully flawed one. This is what makes the drama compelling. He is inconsistent: brilliant but stupid, rational but illogical: gloriously messy, gloriously human.
PS. One little detail didn't ring true. In our lab in Cambridge we would never use beakers from the wash-up cupboard when celebrating papers or grants. We drank champagne from 100 ml measuring cylinders.
