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Behemoth, bully, thief: how the English language is taking over the planet

The long read: No language in history has dominated the world quite like English does today. Is there any point in resisting?

On 16 May, a lawyer named Aaron Schlossberg was in a New York cafe when he heard several members of staff speaking Spanish. He reacted with immediate fury, threatening to call US Immigration and Customs Enforcement and telling one employee: Your staff is speaking Spanish to customers when they should be speaking English This is America. A video of the incident quickly went viral, drawing widespread scorn. The Yelp page for his law firm was flooded with one-star reviews, and Schlossberg was soon confronted with a fiesta protest in front of his Manhattan apartment building, which included a crowd-funded taco truck and mariachi band to serenade him on the way to work.

As the Trump administration intensifies its crackdown on migrants, speaking any language besides English has taken on a certain charge. In some cases, it can even be dangerous. But if something has changed around the politics of English since Donald Trump took office, the anger Schlossberg voiced taps into deeper nativist roots. Elevating English while denigrating all other languages has been a pillar of English and American nationalism for well over a hundred years. Its a strain of linguistic exclusionism heard in Theodore Roosevelts 1919 address to the American Defense Society, in which he proclaimed that we have room for but one language here, and that is the English language, for we intend to see that the crucible turns our people out as Americans, of American nationality, and not as dwellers in a polyglot boardinghouse.

As it turned out, Roosevelt had things almost perfectly backwards. A century of immigration has done little to dislodge the status of English in North America. If anything, its position is stronger than it was a hundred years ago. Yet from a global perspective,it is not America that is threatened by foreign languages. It is the world that is threatened by English.

Behemoth, bully, loudmouth, thief: English is everywhere, and everywhere, English dominates. From inauspicious beginnings on the edge of a minor European archipelago, it has grown to vast size and astonishing influence. Almost 400m people speak it as their first language; a billion more know it as a secondary tongue. It is an official language in at least 59 countries, the unofficial lingua franca of dozens more. No language in history has been used by so many people or spanned a greater portion of the globe. It is aspirational: the golden ticket to the worlds of education and international commerce, a parents dream and a students misery, winnower of the haves from the have-nots. It is inescapable: the language of global business, the internet, science, diplomacy, stellar navigation, avian pathology. And everywhere it goes, it leaves behind a trail of dead: dialects crushed, languages forgotten, literatures mangled.

One straightforward way to trace the growing influence of English is in the way its vocabulary has infiltrated so many other languages. For a millennium or more, English was a great importer of words, absorbing vocabulary from Latin, Greek, French, Hindi, Nahuatl and many others. During the 20th century, though, as the US became the dominant superpower and the world grew more connected, English became a net exporter of words. In 2001, Manfred Grlach, a German scholar who studies the dizzying number of regional variants of English he is the author of the collections Englishes, More Englishes, Still More Englishes, and Even More Englishes published the Dictionary of European Anglicisms, which gathers together English terms found in 16 European languages. A few of the most prevalent include last-minute, fitness, group sex, and a number of terms related to seagoing and train travel.

In some countries, such as France and Israel, special linguistic commissions have been working for decades to stem the English tide by creating new coinages of their own to little avail, for the most part. (As the journalist Lauren Collins has wryly noted: Does anyone really think that French teenagers, per the academys diktat, are going to trade out sexting for texto pornographique?) Thanks to the internet, the spread of English has almost certainly sped up.

The gravitational pull that English now exerts on other languages can also be seen in the world of fiction. The writer and translator Tim Parks has argued that European novels are increasingly being written in a kind of denatured, international vernacular, shorn of country-specific references and difficult-to-translate wordplay or grammar. Novels in this mode whether written in Dutch, Italian or Swiss German have not only assimilated the style of English, but perhaps more insidiously limit themselves to describing subjects in a way that would be easily digestible in an anglophone context.

Yet the influence of English now goes beyond simple lexical borrowing or literary influence. Researchers at the IULM University in Milan have noticed that, in the past 50 years, Italian syntax has shifted towards patterns that mimic English models, for instance in the use of possessives instead of reflexives to indicate body parts and the frequency with which adjectives are placed before nouns. German is also increasingly adopting English grammatical forms, while in Swedish its influence has been changing the rules governing word formation and phonology.

Within the anglophone world, that English should be the key to all the worlds knowledge and all the worlds places is rarely questioned. The hegemony of English is so natural as to be invisible. Protesting it feels like yelling at the moon. Outside the anglophone world, living with English is like drifting into the proximity of a supermassive black hole, whose gravity warps everything in its reach. Every day English spreads, the world becomes a little more homogenous and a little more bland.


Until recently, the story of English was broadly similar to that of other global languages: it spread through a combination of conquest, trade and colonisation. (Some languages, such as Arabic and Sanskrit, also caught on through their status as sacred tongues.) But then, at some point between the end of the second world war and the start of the new millenium, English made a jump in primacy that no amount of talk about it as a lingua franca or global language truly captures. It transformed from a dominant language to what the Dutch sociologist Abram de Swaan calls a hypercentral one.

De Swaan divides languages into four categories. Lowest on the pyramid are the peripheral languages, which make up 98% of all languages, but are spoken by less than 10% of mankind. These are largely oral, and rarely have any kind of official status. Next are the central languages, though a more apt term might be national languages. These are written, are taught in schools, and each has a territory to call its own: Lithuania for Lithuanian, North and South Korea for Korean, Paraguay for Guarani, and so on.

Following these are the 12 supercentral languages: Arabic, Chinese, English, French, German, Hindi, Japanese, Malay, Portuguese, Russian, Spanish and Swahili each of which (except for Swahili) boast 100 million speakers or more. These are languages you can travel with. They connect people across nations. They are commonly spoken as second languages, often (but not exclusively) as a result of their parent nations colonial past.

Then, finally, we come to the top of the pyramid, to the languages that connect the supercentral ones. There is only one: English, which De Swaan calls the hypercentral language that holds the entire world language system together. The Japanese novelist Minae Mizumura similarly describes English as a universal language . For Mizumura, what makes it universal is not that it has many native speakers Mandarin and Spanish have more but that it is used by the greatest number of non-native speakers in the world. She compares it to a currency used by more and more people until its utility hits a critical mass and it becomes a world currency. The literary critic Jonathan Arac is even more blunt, noting, in a critique of what he calls Anglo-Globalism, that English in culture, like the dollar in economics, serves as the medium through which knowledge may be translated from the local to the global.

In the last few decades, as globalisation has accelerated and the US has remained the worlds most powerful country, the advance of English has taken on a new momentum. In 2008, Rwanda switched its education system from French to English, having already made English an official language in 14 years earlier. Officially, this was part of the governments effort to make Rwanda the tech hub of Africa. Unofficially, its widely believed to be an expression of disgust at Frances role in propping-up the pre-1994 Hutu-dominant government, as well as a reflection that the countrys ruling elite mostly speaks English, having grown up as exiles in anglophone east Africa. When South Sudan became independent in 2011, it made English its official language despite having very few resources or qualified personnel with which to teach it in schools. The Minister of higher education at the time justified the move as being aimed at making the country different and modern, while the news director of South Sudan Radio added that with English, South Sudan could become one nation and communicate with the rest of the world understandable goals in a country home to more than 50 local languages.

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An English class at a government school in Bentiu, South Sudan. Photograph: Roberto Schmidt/AFP/Getty Images

The situation in east Asia is no less dramatic. China currently has more speakers of English as a second language than any other country. Some prominent English teachers have become celebrities, conducting mass lessons in stadiums seating thousands. In South Korea, meanwhile, according to the sociolinguist Joseph Sung-Yul Park, English is a national religion. Korean employers expect proficiency in English, even in positions where it offers no obvious advantage.

The quest to master English in Korea is often called the yeongeo yeolpung or English frenzy. Although mostly confined to a mania for instruction and immersion, occasionally this frenzy spills over into medical intervention. As Sung-Yul Park relates: An increasing number of parents in South Korea have their children undergo a form of surgery that snips off a thin band of tissue under the tongue Most parents pay for this surgery because they believe it will make their children speak English better; the surgery supposedly enables the child to pronounce the English retroflex consonant with ease, a sound that is considered to be particularly difficult for Koreans.

There is no evidence to suggest that this surgery in any way improves English pronunciation. The willingness to engage in this useless surgical procedure strikes me, though, as a potent metaphor for Englishs peculiar status in the modern world. It is no longer simply a tool suited to a particular task or set of tasks, as it was in the days of the Royal Navy or the International Commission for Air Navigation. It is now seen as the access code to the global elite. If you want your children to get ahead, then they better have English in their toolkit.


Is the conquest of English really so bad? In the not-too-distant future, thanks to English, the curse of Babel will be undone and the children of men may come together once again, united with the aid of a common tongue. Certainly, thats what Englishs boosters would have you believe. After all, what a work is English, how copious in its vocabulary, how noble in expression, how sinuous in its constructions, and yet how plain in its basic principles. A language, in short, with a word for almost everything, capable of an infinite gradation of meanings, equally suited to describing the essential rights of mankind as to ornamenting a packet of crisps, whose only defect, as far as I know, is that it makes everyone who speaks it sound like a duck.

Well, not really. (OK, maybe a little English, while not an ugly language, isnt exactly pretty either). Mostly, Im speaking out of bitterness one that is old, and until recently, lay dormant. My first language was Polish. I learned it from my parents at home. English followed shortly, at school in Pennsylvania. I learned to speak it fluently, but with an accent, which took years of teasing and some speech therapy, kindly provided by the state to wear away. That, combined with the experience of watching the widespread condescension towards those who take their time learning English, left me a lifelong English-sceptic. (I admit, also, that a strain of linguistic megalomania runs through many Polish speakers, one best summed up by the novelist Joseph Conrad, who, when asked why he didnt write in his native language, replied: I value too much our beautiful Polish literature to introduce into it my worthless twaddle. But for Englishmen my capacities are just sufficient.)

Its not that English is bad. Its fine! A perfectly nice language, capable of expressing a great many things and with scores of fascinating regional variants, from Scots to Singapore English. But it is so prevalent. And so hard to escape. And so freighted with buffoonish puffery written on its behalf: our magnificent bastard tongue; the language that connects the world. Please. There is no reason for any particular language to be worshipped around the world like a golden idol. There is a pervasive mismatch between the grand claims made on Englishs behalf, and its limitations as means of communication (limitations, to be fair, that it shares with all other languages).

Is English oppressive? When its pervasive influence silences other languages, or discourages parents from passing on their native languages to their children, I think it can be. When you do know another language, its merely constricting, like wearing trousers that are too tight. Thats because while English is good for a great many things, it is not good for everything. To me, family intimacies long to be expressed in Polish. So does anything concerning the seasons, forest products and catastrophic sorrows. Poetry naturally sounds better in Polish. Ive always spoken it to cats and dogs on the assumption that they understand, being simultaneously convinced that raccoons and lesser animals only respond to shouts.

This isnt quite as idiosyncratic as it sounds. Aneta Pavlenko, an applied linguist at Temple University in Pennsylvania, who has spent her career studying the psychology of bilingual and multilingual speakers, has found that speakers of multiple languages frequently believe that each language conveys a different self. Languages, according to her respondents, come in a kaleidoscopic range of emotional tones. I would inevitably talk to babies and animals in Welsh, reports a Welsh-speaker. An informant from Finland counters: Finnish emotions are rarely stated explicitly. Therefore it is easier to tell my children that I love them in English. Several Japanese speakers say that its easier to express anger in English, especially by swearing.

Intuitive though it might be to some, the idea that different languages capture and construct different realities has been a subject of academic controversy for at least 200 years. The German explorer Alexander von Humboldt was among the first to articulate it in a complex form. After studying Amerindian languages in the New World, he came to the conclusion that every language draws a circle around its speakers, creating a distinct worldview through its grammar as well as in its vocabulary. In the 20th century, the American linguists Edward Sapir and Benjamin Lee Whorf elaborated this idea into a broader vision of how language structures thought. Both drew inspiration for their work from their study of North American languages such as Nootka, Shawnee and Hopi.

This idea now usually known as the linguistic relativity hypothesis, or Sapir-Whorf hypothesis has had a checkered history in academia. At different times, it has been hailed by it proponents as foundational insight for modern anthropology and literary theory, and blamed by its detractors as the source of the worst excesses of postmodern philosophy. In recent decades, sociolinguists have arrived at a few startlingly suggestive findings concerning the influence of language on colour perception, orientation and verbs of motion but in general, the more expansive notion that different languages inculcate fundamentally different ways of thinking has not been proven.

Nonetheless, some version of this idea continues to find supporters, not least among writers familiar with shifting between languages. Here is the memoirist Eva Hoffman on the experience of learning English in Vancouver while simultaneously feeling cut off from the Polish she had grown up speaking as a teenager in Krakw: This radical disjointing between word and thing is a desiccating alchemy, draining the world not only of significance but of its colours, striations, nuances its very existence. It is the loss of a living connection. The Chinese writer Xiaolu Guo described something similar in her recent memoir, writing about how uncomfortable she felt, at first, with the way the English language encouraged speakers to use the first-person singular, rather than plural. After all, how could someone who had grown up in a collective society get used to using the first-person singular all the time? But here, in this foreign country, I had to build a world as a first-person singular urgently.

Li
Li Yang teaches students his Crazy English accelerated learning method in Nanjing, China. Photograph: China Photos/Getty Images

In the 1970s, Anna Wierzbicka, a linguist who found herself marooned in Australia after a long career in Polish academia, stood the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis on its head. Instead of trying to describe the worldviews of distant hunter-gatherers, she turned her sociolinguistic lens on the surrounding anglophones. For Wierzbicka, English shapes its speakers as powerfully as any other language. Its just that in an anglophone world, that invisible baggage is harder to discern. In a series of books culminating in 2013s evocatively named Imprisoned in English, she has attempted to analyse various assumptions social, spatial, emotional and otherwise latent in English spoken by the middle and upper classes in the US and UK.

Reading Wierzbickas work is like peeking through a magic mirror that inverts the old how natives think school of anthropology and turns it back on ourselves. Her English-speakers are a pragmatic people, cautious in their pronouncements and prone to downplaying their emotions. They endlessly qualify their remarks according to their stance towards what is being said. Hence their endless use of expressions such as I think, I believe, I suppose, I understand, I suspect. They prefer fact over theories, savour control and space, and cherish autonomy over intimacy. Their moral lives are governed by a tightly interwoven knot of culture-specific concepts called right and wrong, which they mysteriously believe to be universal.

Wierzbickas description of Englishs subconscious system of values hardly holds true for the billion or more speakers of this most global of tongues. But it is also a reminder that, despite its influence, English is not truly universal. Its horizons are just as limited as those of any other language, whether Chinese or Hopi or Dalabon.

For if language connects people socially, it also connects them to a place. The linguist Nicholas Evans has described how Kayardild, a language spoken in northern Australia, requires a speaker to continually orient themselves according to the cardinal directions. Where an English speaker would orient things according to their own perception my left, my right, my front, my back a speaker of Kayardild thinks in terms of north, south, east and west. As a consequence, speakers of Kayardild (and those of several other languages that share this feature) possess absolute reckoning, or a kind of perfect pitch for direction. It also means removing ones self as the main reference point for thinking about space. As Evans writes of his own experiences learning the language, one aspect of speaking Kayardild, then, is learning that the landscape is more important and objective than you are. Kayardild grammar literally puts everyone in their place.

Kayardild and its kin are truly local languages, with few speakers, and modes of expression that are hard to separate from the places in which they are spoken. But that should not lead us to think that they are lesser. The world is made up of places, not universals. To speak only English, in spite of its vast vocabulary and countless varieties, is still to dwell in a rather small pool. It draws the same circle Humboldt described around its speakers as each of the other 6,000 human languages. The difference is that we have mistaken that circle for the world.


Because English is increasingly the currency of the universal, it is difficult to express any opposition to its hegemony that doesnt appear to be tainted by either nationalism or snobbery. When Minae Mizumura published the Fall of Language in the Age of English, in 2008, it was a surprise commercial success in Japan. But it provoked a storm of criticism, as Mizumura was accused of elitism, nationalism and being a hopeless reactionary. One representative online comment read: Who does she think she is, a privileged bilingual preaching to the rest of us Japanese! (Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mizumuras broader argument, about the gradual erosion of Japanese literature and especially, the legacy of the Japanese modernist novel got lost in the scuffle.)

Those of us troubled by the hyperdominance of English should also remember the role it has played in some societies especially multi-ethnic ones as a bridge to the wider world and counterweight to other nationalisms. This was especially keenly felt in South Africa, where Afrikaans was widely associated with the policy of apartheid. When the government announced that Afrikaans would be used as a language of instruction in schools on par with English in 1974, the decision led in 1976 to a mass demonstration by black students known as the Soweto uprising. Its brutal suppression resulted in hundreds of deaths, and is considered a turning point in the anti-apartheid struggle. Similar protests have periodically racked southern India since the 1940s over attempts to enforce official use of Hindi in place of English.

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A sign for English lessons in Nawalgarh, Rajasthan, India. Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

In other parts of the world though, English still carries the full weight of its colonialist past. Since the 1960s, the celebrated Kenyan novelist Ngg wa Thiongo has advocated on behalf of African languages and against the prevalence of English-language education in postcolonial countries. In his landmark 1986 book Decolonising the Mind: the Politics of Language in African Literature, he describes the corrosive effect of English language instruction, comparing it to a form of spiritual subjugation. Colonial education, in which pupils were physically punished for speaking their native languages while at school (something also done to the Welsh into the early 20th century) was necessarily, and deliberately, alienating, like separating the mind from the body.

Since publishing Decolonising the Mind, Ngg has worked to put its dictates into practice. He renounced his baptismal name, James, and with it Christianity, and ceased to write fiction in English. Since the 1980s, he has written all his novels and plays in his native Gikuyu, only using English (and occasionally Kiswahili) for essays and polemics. This last decision is one that many people still question. As he said in a recent interview: If I meet an English person, and he says, I write in English, I dont ask him, Why are you writing in English? If I meet a French writer, I dont ask him, Why dont you write in Vietnamese? But I am asked over and over again, Why do you write in Gikuyu? For Africans, the view is there is something wrong about writing in an African language.

Part of the paradox of Nggs situation is that while he may be the worlds foremost advocate for writing literature in African languages, his novels have won acclaim and gained international recognition through the medium of English. The hegemony of English is now such that, in order to be recognised, any opposition to English has to formulated in English in order to be heard.


Today it is estimated that the world loses a language every two weeks. Linguists have predicted that between 50 and 90% of the worlds 6,000 or so languages will go extinct in the coming century. For even a fraction of these to survive, were going to have to start thinking of smaller languages not as endangered species worth saving, but as equals worth learning.

In most of the world, its already too late. In California, where I live, most of the languages that were spoken before the arrival of Europeans are already extinct. On Americas eastern seaboard, thanks to long proximity to Anglo settlers, the situation is even worse. Most of what we know about many of these vanished languages comes in the form of brief word lists compiled by European settlers and traders before the 19th century. Stadaconan (or Laurentian) survives only from a glossary of 220 words jotted down by Jacques Cartier when he sailed up the St Lawrence River in Canada in 1535. Eastern Atakapa, from Louisianas Gulf Coast, is known from a list of only 287, gathered in 1802. The last fragments of Nansemond, once spoken in eastern Virginia, were collected from the last living speaker just before his death in 1902, by which time he could only recall six words: one, two, three, four, five and dog.

The great Malian historian and novelist Amadou Hampt B once said that in Africa, when an elder dies, a library burns. Today, across the world, the libraries are still burning. In his marvellous book, Searching for Aboriginal Languages: Memoirs of a Field Worker, the linguist Robert MW Dixon describes travelling across Northern Queensland in the 1960s and 70s to record indigenous languages, many of which had already dwindled to a handful of speakers. Its hard to remain an oral language in an increasingly text-dependent world. All the forces of modernity, globalisation, industrialisation, urbanisation and the rise of the nation-state are arrayed against the small and local as opposed to the big and shareable.

In this past century, the Earth has been steadily losing diversity at every level of biology and culture. Few deny this is a bad thing. Too often though, we forget that these crises of diversity depend, to a great extent, on our own decisions. Much of what has been done can also be undone, provided there is the will for it. Hebrew is the most famous case of a language brought back from the dead, but linguistic revitalisation has been proven to be possible elsewhere as well. Czech became a viable national language thanks to the work of literary activists in the 19th century. On a much smaller scale, endangered languages such as Manx in the Isle of Man and Wampanoag in the US have been successfully pulled back from the brink.

Coming face-to-face with the current onslaught of linguicide, I find myself wanting to venture a modest proposal. What if anglo-globalism wasnt a one-way street? What if the pre-contact languages of the Americas were taught in American high schools? What if British schoolchildren learned some of the languages spoken by the actual residents of the former empire? (This is a utopian project obviously. But how much would it actually cost to add a linguistic elective to larger high schools? One jet fighter? A few cruise missiles?)

Current educational discourse is full of talk about the need to bolster childrens cognition. In the culture at large, experts have been trumpeting the cognitive benefits of everything from online brain games to magic mushrooms. Why not try Hopi instead? The point of this education wouldnt necessarily be to acquire fluency in an extinct or smaller language it would be to open a door.

And think of the vistas it might open up. For generations, a huge percentage of philosophy and social science has been conducted in and about English speakers. Humankind, as imagined by the academy, is mostly anglophone. This has even been true in linguistics. Noam Chomskys idea of a universal grammar underpinning all languages was based on a rather narrow empirical base. More recent research into dozens of smaller languages, like Kayardild and Pirah, has been steadily whittling away at his list of supposed universals. We now know there are languages without adverbs, adjectives, prepositions and articles. There seems to be hardly anything that a language needs to be just thousands of natural experiments in how they might be assembled. And most of them are about to be lost.

In some ways, the worst threat may come not from the global onrush of modernity, but from an idea: that a single language should suit every purpose, and that being monolingual is therefore somehow normal. This is something thats often assumed reflexively by those of us who live most of our lives in English, but historically speaking, monolingualism is something of an aberration.

Before the era of the nation-state, polyglot empires were the rule, rather than the exception. Polyglot individuals abounded, too. For most of history, people lived in small communities. But that did not mean that they were isolated from one another. Multilingualism must have been common. Today, we see traces of this polyglot past in linguistic hotspots such as the Mandara mountains of Cameroon, where children as young as 10 routinely juggle four or five languages in daily life, and learn several others in school.

Residents of Arnhem Land in northern Australia routinely speak half a dozen or more languages by the time they are adults. Multilingualism, writes Nicholas Evans, is helped by the fact that you have to marry outside your clan, which likely means your wife or husband speaks a different language from you. It also means that you parents each speak a different language, and your grandparents three or four languages between them.

A resident of another linguistic hotspot, the Sepik region of Papua New Guinea, once told Evans: It wouldnt be any good if we talked the same; we like to know where people come from. Its a vision of Babel in reverse. Instead of representing a fall from human perfection, as in the biblical story, having many languages is a gift. Its something to remember before we let English swallow the globe.

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Charles Krauthammer, Prominent Conservative Voice, Has Died

New York (AP) — Charles Krauthammer, the Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist and pundit who helped shape and occasionally dissented from the conservative movement as he evolved from "Great Society" Democrat to Iraq War cheerleader to denouncer of Donald Trump, died Thursday.

He was 68.

His death was announced by two organizations that were longtime employers, Fox News Channel and The Washington Post.

Krauthammer had said publicly a year ago he was being treated for a cancerous tumor in his abdomen and earlier this month revealed that he likely had just weeks to live.

"I leave this life with no regrets," Krauthammer wrote in The Washington Post, where his column had run since 1984. "It was a wonderful life — full and complete with the great loves and great endeavors that make it worth living. I am sad to leave, but I leave with the knowledge that I lived the life that I intended."

Sometimes scornful, sometimes reflective, he was awarded a Pulitzer in 1987 for "his witty and insightful" commentary and was an influential voice among Republicans, whether through his syndicated column or his appearances on Fox News Channel. He was most associated with Brit Hume's nightly newscast and stayed with it when Bret Baier took over in 2009.

Krauthammer is credited with coining the term "The Reagan Doctrine" for President Reagan's policy of aiding anti-Communist movements worldwide. He was a leading advocate for the Iraq War and a prominent critic of President Barack Obama, whom he praised for his "first-class intellect and first-class temperament" and denounced for having a "highly suspect" character.

Krauthammer was a former Harvard medical student who graduated even after he was paralyzed from the neck down because of a diving board accident, continuing his studies from his hospital bed. He was a Democrat in his youth and his political engagement dated back to 1976, when he handed out leaflets for Henry Jackson's unsuccessful presidential campaign.

But through the 1980s and beyond, Krauthammer followed a journey akin to such neo-conservative predecessors as Irving Kristol and Norman Podhoretz, turning against his old party on foreign and domestic issues. He aligned with Republicans on everything from confrontation with the Soviet Union to rejection of the "Great Society" programs enacted during the 1960s.

"As I became convinced of the practical and theoretical defects of the social-democratic tendencies of my youth, it was but a short distance to a philosophy of restrained, free-market governance that gave more space and place to the individual and to the civil society that stands between citizen and state," he wrote in the introduction to "Things That Matter," a million-selling compilation of his writings published in 2013.

For the Post, Time magazine, The New Republic and other publications, Krauthammer wrote on a wide range of subjects, and in "Things That Matter" listed chess, baseball, "the innocence of dogs" and "the cunning of cats" among his passions. As a psychiatrist in the 1970s, he did groundbreaking research on bipolar disorder.

But he found nothing could live apart from government and the civic realm. "Science, medicine, art, poetry, architecture" and other fields were "fundamentally subordinate. In the end, they must bow to the sovereignty of politics."

Ever blunt in his criticisms, Krauthammer was an "intense disliker" the liberal columnist E.J. Dionne told Politico in

2009. And opponents had words for him. Christopher Hitchens once called him the "newest of the neocon mini-windbags," with the "arduous job, in an arduous time, of being an unpredictable conformist."

He was attacked for his politics, and for his predictions. He was so confident of quick success in Iraq he initially labeled the 2003 invasion "The Three Week War" and defended the conflict for years. He also backed the George W. Bush administration's use of torture as an "uncontrolled experiment" carried out "sometimes clumsily, sometimes cruelly, indeed, sometimes wrongly. But successfully. It kept us safe."

And the former president praised Krauthammer after hearing of his death.

"For decades, Charles' words have strengthened our democracy," George W. Bush said in a statement. "His work was far-reaching and influential — and while his voice will be deeply missed, his ideas and values will always be a part of our country."

Krauthammer was sure that Obama would lose in 2008 because of lingering fears from the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, and foresaw Mitt Romney defeating him in 2012.

But he prided himself on his rejection of orthodoxy and took on Republicans, too, observing during a Fox special in 2013 that "If you're going to leave the medical profession because you think you have something to say, you betray your whole life if you don't say what you think and if you don't say it honestly and bluntly."

He criticized the death penalty and rejected intelligent design as "today's tarted-up version of creationism." In 2005, he was widely cited as a key factor in convincing Bush to rescind the Supreme Court nomination of the president's friend and legal adviser Harriet Miers, whom Krauthammer and others said lacked the necessary credentials. And he differed with such Fox commentators as Bill O'Reilly and Laura Ingraham as he found himself among the increasingly isolated "Never Trumpers," Republicans regarding the real estate baron and former "Apprentice" star as a vulgarian unfit for the presidency.

"I used to think Trump was an 11-year-old, an undeveloped schoolyard bully," he wrote in August 2016, around the time Trump officially became the Republican nominee. "I was off by about 10 years. His needs are more primitive, an infantile hunger for approval and praise, a craving that can never be satisfied. He lives in a cocoon of solipsism where the world outside himself has value — indeed exists — only insofar as it sustains and inflates him."

Trump, of course, tweeted about Krauthammer, who "pretends to be a smart guy, but if you look at his record, he isn't. A dummy who is on too many Fox shows. An overrated clown!"

Krauthammer married Robyn Trethewey, an artist and former attorney, in 1974. They had a son, Daniel, who also became a columnist and commentator.

The son of Jewish immigrants from Europe, Krauthammer was born in New York City and moved with his family to Montreal when he was 5, growing up in a French speaking home. His path to political writing was unexpected. First, at McGill University, he became editor in chief of the student newspaper after his predecessor was ousted over what Krauthammer called his "mindless, humorless Maoism."

In the late 1970s, while a psychiatric resident at Massachusetts General Hospital, a professor with whom he had researched manic depression was appointed to a mental health agency created by President Jimmy Carter. Krauthammer went, too, began writing for The New Republic and was soon recruited to write speeches for Carter's vice president and 1980 running mate, Walter Mondale.

Carter was defeated by Reagan and on Jan. 20, 1981, Reagan's inauguration day, Krauthammer formally joined The New Republic as a writer and editor.

"These quite fantastic twists and turns have given me a profound respect for serendipity," he wrote in 2013. "A long forgotten, utterly trivial student council fight brought me to journalism. A moment of adolescent anger led me to the impulsive decision to quit political studies and enroll in medical school. A decade later, a random presidential appointment having nothing to do with me brought me to a place where my writing and public career could begin.

"When a young journalist asks me today, 'How do I get to a nationally syndicated columnist?' I have my answer: 'First, go to medical school.'"

____

AP Television Writer David Bauder contributed to this report.

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    Do Thundershirts Really Calm Dogs During Fireworks or What?

    The dogs will lose their minds. They always do. Every Fourth of July in America, as children stay up past their bedtime to watch colors explode in the sky and adults sit on the back of pickup trucks drinking beer and marveling at a pyrotechnic technology 12 centuries old, pets across the country panic with every boom.

    Sound phobias are very common for dogs—and cats—making this holiday a nightmare for millions of animals. “Half of the dogs in my practice are dealing with fireworks fear this week,” says veterinarian and animal clinical behavior resident Amy Learn, whose clinic in Richmond, Virginia, sees more than 2,000 clients annually. For many dogs, the nightmare has already begun. A quick search on Twitter shows people across the land complaining about neighbors popping fireworks off early. In Boston, where I live, they first started exploding in the middle of last week. The German shepherd next door has been pacing back and forth every night since, nails skittering across the floor.

    That behavior is typical for dogs with loud noise phobia. Learn says you’ll know if your animal has abnormal fear of loud sounds if they don’t recover from the initial shock of hearing the sound right away. If your dog is pacing, howling, panting, and trying to run as far away from the sound as possible; if your cat is hiding, its ears cocked back, its eyes dilated, they need help. Every year around this date, people flock to Google to search “How to keep a dog calm during fireworks.” One answer that frequently shows up at the top of the results: anxiety shirts or thunder vests.

    These come in two main designs—a spandex T-shirt that’s meant to give an animal a balanced hug, and a vest with straps designed to put pressure on particular parts of the body. “Their job is to squeeze,” Learn says. “It's postulated that it feels like a hug."

    Animal anxiety shirts were directly inspired by research into humans with severe anxiety or autism. The insight that certain kinds of touch and pressure can have a calming effect was first popularized and championed by livestock behavior expert and autism-awareness-advocate Temple Grandin, who invented a “hug machine” for humans with autism after noticing the way a light squeeze calmed cows before slaughter. Grandin’s work is specifically called out on the website for Thundershirt, the major player in the animal anxiety wrap market. Deep Pressure Therapy is now widely used to help calm people with autism, and many different studies suggest the therapy shows real results.

    But the science is less clear about whether pressure therapy really works for dogs.

    Michelle Mullins, an animal behavior expert and board member of the International Association of Animal Behavior Consultants, first learned about animal anxiety shirts two decades ago. But they have only gone mainstream in the last 10 years with companies like Thundershirt. “As we often are wont to do when we look at science, we want to say if it works for humans it will work for our pets. In some cases it's true and in many cases it's not,” Mullins says. “Unfortunately we don’t have a huge amount of scientific studies about this.”

    There’s only been one study to date into the use of anxiety shirts to deal with sound phobias, and it had a small sample size of 18 participants. Published in the Journal of Veterinary Behavior in 2013, the study compared owner-reported anxiety levels before and after prolonged use of anxiety wraps, and found that 89 percent of dog owners felt the shirts helped. Most importantly, the study found that even for those animals who saw no benefit, there were no adverse side effects. But one study is hardly conclusive evidence, and along with small sample size the study is also hindered by relying on self-reporting, which is often highly unreliable.

    That leaves pet owners and people who care for animals to depend on anecdotal experience. “This is one of those things that isn't super scientific," says Learn. "A lot of it is subjective. It's the owner saying, 'Oh, my dog feels better.'" But owners apparently feel that way a lot.

    “I rarely if ever recommend them as a cure all,” says Mullins, “but I have seen many dogs successfully use these as part of their therapy.”

    Both Learn and Mullins report working with animals that appear to be helped by these shirts. They always recommend owners use the shirts in combination with other interventions, like medication or specific behavioral modifications. A hallmark of Mullins' long-term behavioral work with sound-phobic animals is to desensitize the animals by exposing them to loud sounds slowly over time. Clearly, for people searching Google for a solution in the days before the Fourth of July, it’s too late for that. For them, an anxiety shirt may be the easiest option this year. You can get them quickly, and put them on your animal immediately.

    Learn often suggests that people spray “dog-appeasing” pheromones on the anxiety shirts, a treatment that has been more widely studied—though its effectiveness is still up for debate. One study shows dog-appeasing pheromones can calm canine noise-associated anxiety, but two others were inconclusive. Learn reports that she has treated pets who have separation anxiety with only pheromones and found they worked well.

    These results, of course, are also subjective. "It's hard to say to a pet, 'Are you calmer?'" says Learn. Neither anxiety shirts no pheromones is a "golden pill that solves all problems," she adds.

    But Mullins and Learn emphasize that here’s no harm in trying them. Neither has seen any adverse effects, unlike popular anti-anxiety medications—which can cause increased heart rate, lethargy, more stress, and vomiting. The worst that happens with thunder shirts is that animals find it annoying to be dressed. “These are not a miracle pill that you put on and all your problems are solved,” says Mullins. But if you know your dog is going to be scared during Fourth of July, one of these shirts or vests might help.

    A few other things you can do to calm your dog down? First of all, says Mullins, be smart: Don’t bring your dog to the fireworks BBQ. If possible, remove them from anywhere the noise will be particularly loud. She suggests you turn on a fan or a white noise machine to help drown out the explosions. Give your animal something to distract them from the noise, like a kong toy filled with food. Give them a safe space like or a crate or a closet where they can hunker down.

    And the good news is when it’s all over, and the sky has gone dark and the air smells of potassium nitrate, you have the experts' blessing to go ahead and give your dog a real, actual, comforting hug.


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    The Powerful Groups Stonewalling a Greener Way to Die

    This story originally appeared on The New Republic and is part of the Climate Desk collaboration.

    Samantha Sieber’s grandfather had a traditional American burial. His body was embalmed, put in a metal casket, and laid to rest at a cemetery, where the grounds would be perpetually cared for. “It felt good to give him what he wanted,” said Sieber, who herself works in the funeral industry. But, she added, “I think my grandfather’s funeral is going to become extinct.”

    In 2016, cremation became the most common method of body disposal in the US, overtaking entombment for the first time. This shift is often attributed to the high cost of traditional burial and the waning importance of religion. But experts also point to society’s changing views about how dead bodies should be disposed of. The spectrum of what’s morally acceptable is broadening, at the same time that the most common disposal methods are coming under scrutiny for their environmental impact. More than four million gallons of toxic embalming fluids and 20 million feet of wood are put in the ground in the US every year, while a single cremation emits as much carbon dioxide as a 1,000-mile car trip. Thus, the rise in America of “green burials,” where bodies are wrapped in biodegradable material and not embalmed.

    Sieber is a part of this trend, but she doesn’t want a green burial. When she dies, she told me, she wants her body to be dunked in a high-pressure chamber filled with water and lye. That water will be heated to anywhere from 200 to 300 degrees, and in six to twelve hours her flesh, blood, and muscle will dissolve. When the water is drained, all that will remain in the tank are her bones and dental fillings. If her family desires, they can have her remains crushed into ash, to be displayed or buried or scattered.

    This process is known colloquially as water cremation and scientifically as alkaline hydrolysis, or aquamation. It’s the most environmentally friendly method of death care, says Sieber, the vice president of research at Bio-Response Solutions. Founded by her father in 2006, the company manufactures aquamation equipment for funeral homes and crematories throughout North America. “This has no emissions, it’s greener, it’s a clean technology to work with,” Sieber said.

    But Sieber may not get her wish of being aquamated when she dies. Only 15 states allow alkaline hydrolysis for human remains, and Indiana, where Sieber lives and where Bio-Response is based, is not one of them. Casket-makers and the Catholic Church are working to make sure it stays that way.

    Alkaline hydrolysis was patented in the US in 1888, and the process hasn’t changed much since then. The body is submerged in a solution of about 95 percent water and 5 percent alkali—usually sodium hydroxide or potassium hydroxide. The liquid is heated and set at a high pressure to avoid boiling, causing the body to shed its proteins and fats. The decomposition creates a coffee-colored liquid, which contains amino acids, peptides, sugars, and salts. That liquid gets flushed down the drain, and treated like any other type of wastewater. Only bones and metal remain.

    Alkaline hydrolysis was originally marketed as a way to rapidly decompose animal bodies and use their nutrients for fertilizer. It was later adopted by scientific labs to dispose of disease-contaminated bodies, like cow carcasses infected by mad cow disease in the 1990s. Its commercial use for animals began in the early 2000s, Seiber said, as grieving pet owners sought a sentimental disposal option that didn’t require an expensive burial or involve burning Fido to ashes.

    In addition to its gentleness and cost (aquamation for dogs runs anywhere from $150 to $400, while cremation is around $100), veterinarians and pet funeral homes began to market aquamation’s environmental benefits. “Unlike cremation, there are no toxic emissions and no contribution to greenhouse gases,” wrote Jerry Shevik, owner of Peaceful Pets Aquamation in California. “It has a carbon footprint that is only one-tenth of what fire-based cremation produces.” Roughly the same is true for human aquamation, which, according to Staudt’s book, “requires about 90 kwh of electricity, resulting in one quarter the carbon emissions of cremation, consuming one-eighth the energy, while costing the consumer roughly the same amount as cremation.” Environmental issues can arise if the water poured down the drain after a liquid cremation has a pH level above local regulations. If that happens, however, funeral homes can easily treat the water with carbon dioxide before releasing it.

    The growing use of aquamation for pets created more demand for human use. Minnesota was the first state to legalize alkaline hydrolysis for humans in 2003, and other states eventually followed. Oregon and Maine passed bills in 2009; Florida and Kansas in 2010. Ten more states followed, the most recent being California, which passed a bill last year officially deeming aquamation a type of cremation. Funeral homes will be allowed to offer it beginning in 2020.

    Sieber’s business isn’t suffering from the fact that the process isn’t legal in every US state. “We’re selling at the pace we can grow right now,” she said. “It wouldn’t help us if every state was approved.”

    But her family did suffer personally. In March of 2013, two of her grandparents died just one day apart from each other. Each had wanted to be aquamated. Sieber’s family had planned to use the closest funeral home that provided the service—a few hundred miles away, across the state border in Illinois. But the shock of losing two grandparents at once was too much to handle the logistics. “There was so much grief,” Sieber said. “We couldn’t get it done.”

    Angered by their inability to fulfill their loved ones’ wishes, Sieber’s family launched a lobbying effort to get aquamation legalized in Indiana. And after more than a year and $40,000 spent, Sieber said they had gathered enough votes for a bill to pass. When their aquamation legalization bill came to the floor of the state House of Representatives, however, it was derailed by a gruesome speech by a lawmaker who also happened to be a casket-maker.

    Representative Dick Hamm’s speech made national news that day, and not only because of his business interest in keeping human aquamation illegal in Indiana. “We’re going to put [dead bodies] in acid and just let them dissolve away and then we’re going to let them run down the drain out into the sewers and whatever,” Hamm said, comparing the process to “flushing” a loved one. This wasn’t accurate. Aquamation uses lye, not acid, and similar fluids are flushed down the drain during the embalming process. But Hamm’s hyperbole was effective. Though he was the only lawmaker to speak against the bill, it failed in a 34-59 vote.

    The idea that aquamation is unnatural or gross or even immoral has impeded its adoption in other states. A bill to re-legalize it in New Hampshire, where it had been legal for two years before being repealed, was rejected in 2009 after lawmakers gave speeches similar to Hamm’s. “I don’t want to send a loved one to be used as fertilizer or sent down the drain to a sewer treatment plant,” Republican John Cebrowski said. His Republican colleague Mike Kappler added that “he didn’t want to drive by a sewage lagoon where a relative’s liquid remains would wind up.”

    The Catholic Church of New Hampshire came out against that bill as well, and testified against later efforts to re-legalize aquamation in the state in 2013 and 2014. Each testimony said alkaline hydrolysis “fails to provide New Hampshire Citizens with the reverence and respect they should receive at the end of their lives.”

    But those who choose aquamation for their loved ones overwhelmingly do so because they believe it’s a kinder way to treat a body, said Philip Olson, an assistant professor at Virginia Tech and a death studies expert. “Embalming is invasive and violent, and so is fire,” he said. But alkaline hydrolysis, he said, is more like a warm bath. “That’s becoming a more prominent value in American death care, the idea of gentleness,” he said. “That’s why we’ve seen such growth in the home funeral movement—the idea of using your hands is more intimate, of having contact with the body, not mediating your contact through instruments which are hard and cold.”

    The environmental benefits of aquamation are less of a motivating factor. “We thought families would want this because it’s more eco-friendly,” Sieber said. “They like that, but it’s not why they’re choosing it.” That may be a good thing, because alkaline hydrolysis is not an environmental panacea. Its widespread adoption could increase production at industrial chlor-alkali plants, which are known to emit mercury and other pollutants. The process also uses about 300 gallons of water per body, or three times as much as the average person uses in a day. And while replacing cremation with aquamation would have some climate benefits, they wouldn’t be as huge as, say, getting rid of coal-fired power plants—which is perhaps why there are no large environmental advocacy campaigns to change the death care industry.

    Olson sees a more existential value in greening up death care. “The funeral industry has always been about making your body immune to nature, preserving yourself in spite of it,” he said. Processes like aquamation require an acceptance of becoming part of it. “It’s new to think about bodies that way, as a kind of eco-product,” he said. “It demonstrates a shift in how people are thinking about our relationship to the natural world.” If more people respect the planet in death, it bodes well for how they’ll treat it while they’re still alive.

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    How to spot a perfect fake: the worlds top art forgery detective

    The long read: Forgeries have got so good and so costly that Sothebys has brought in its own in-house fraud-busting expert

    The unravelling of a string of shocking old master forgeries began in the winter of 2015, when French police appeared at a gallery in Aix-en-Provence and seized a painting from display. Venus, by the German Renaissance master Lucas Cranach the Elder, to describe the work more fully: oil on oak, 38cm by 25cm, and dated to 1531. Purchased in 2013 by the Prince of Liechtenstein for about 6m, Venus was the inescapable star of the exhibition of works from his collection; she glowed on the cover of the catalogue. But an anonymous tip to the police suggested she was, in fact, a modern fake so they scooped her up and took her away.

    The painting had been placed in the market by Giuliano Ruffini, a French collector, and its seizure hoisted the first flag of concern about a wave of impeccable fakes. Ruffini has sold at least 25 works, their sale values totalling about 179m, and doubts now shadow every one of these paintings. The authenticity of four, in particular, including the Cranach, has been contested; the art historian Bendor Grosvenor said they may turn out to be the best old master fakes the world has ever seen. Ruffini, who remains the subject of a French police investigation, has denied presenting these paintings as old masters at all. To the Art Newspaper, he protested: I am a collector, not an expert.

    The quality of these paintings their faithful duplicity jolted the market. The sums of money at stake in art, never paltry to begin with, have grown monstrous. Thirty years ago, the highest auction price for a painting was $10.4m, paid by the J Paul Getty Museum for Andrea Mantegnas Adoration of the Magi in 1985. In contrast, while the $450m paid for Leonardo da Vincis Salvator Mundi in 2017 counts as an outlier, abstract expressionists and impressionists frequently come, in auctions or private deals, with nine-figure price tags.

    In lockstep, the incentive to be a proficient forger has soared; a single, expertly executed old master knockoff can finance a long, comfortable retirement. The technologies available to abet the aspiring forger have also improved. Naturally, then, the frauds are getting better, touching off a crisis of authentication for the institutions of the art world: the museums and galleries and auction houses and experts who are expected to know the real thing from its imitation.

    What was most unnerving about the alleged fakes sold by Ruffini was how many people they fooled. The National Gallery in London displayed a small oil painting thought to be by the 16th-century artist Orazio Gentileschi a battle-weary David, painted on an electric-blue slice of lapis lazuli; the work is now suspect. A portrait of a nobleman against a muddy background was sold by Sothebys in 2011, to a private collector, as a Frans Hals; the buyer paid 8.5m. Sothebys also sold an oil named Saint Jerome, attributed to the 16th-century artist Parmigianino, in a 2012 auction, for $842,500. With care, the catalogue only ventured that the work was from the circle of Parmigianino an idiom to convey that it was painted by an artist influenced by, and perhaps a pupil of, Parmigianino. But the entry also cited several experts who believed it was by Parmigianino himself.

    The works were full of striking, scrupulous detail. On Jeromes arm, for example, dozens of faint horizontal cracks have appeared; every so often, a clean, vertical split intersects them. In French canvases from the 18th century, cracks in paint tend to develop like spider webs; in Flemish panels, like tree bark. In Italian paintings of the Renaissance, the patterns resemble rows of untidy brickwork. On the Saint Jerome, the cracks match perfectly. Prof David Ekserdjian, one of the few art historians who doubted that the painting was a Parmigianino, said he just didnt feel the prickle of recognition that scholars claim as their gift: the intimacy with an artist that they liken to our ability to spot a friend in a crowd. But I have to be frank, I didnt look at it and say: Oh, thats a forgery.

    When Sothebys sells an artwork, it offers a five-year guarantee of refund if the object proves to be a counterfeit a modern forgery intended to deceive, as its terms specify. In 2016, after uncertainty crackled over the Hals and the Parmigianino, the auction-house sent them to Orion Analytical, a conservation science lab in Williamstown, Massachusetts. Orion was run, and staffed almost solely by, James Martin, who has loaned his forensic skills to the FBI for many art forgery investigations. Within days, Martin had an answer for Sothebys: both the Hals and the Parmigianino were fakes.

    The Hals contained synthetic pigments that the artist, in the 17th century, could not have used. In Saint Jerome, similarly, Martin found phthalocyanine green, a pigment first synthesised four centuries after Parmigianino died. It showed up consistently across 21 paint samples from various parts of the painting a bit like taking the pulse of a corpse 21 times, Martin told the New York Times last year. Sothebys refunded both buyers, and filed suits against the sellers, demanding they return their proceeds from the sales.

    In December 2016, in a signal of how attribution scandals have spooked the market, Sothebys took the unprecedented step of buying Orion Analytical, becoming the first auctioneer to have an in-house conservation and analysis unit. The company had seen enough disputes over attribution to mar its bottom line, its CEO, Tad Smith, said: If you looked at earnings reports from a year or two ago, youd see little blips here and there. These were expenses coming from settlements not a slew, the number was small and statistically insignificant, but theyre expensive. The cost of insurance that covers such settlements was also rising. With Martin in the building, the pictures and other objects moving through Sothebys now have a much higher chance of being checked, Smith said. Last year, Martin analysed more than $100m worth of artworks before they went under the hammer or into private sales. Sothebys employs him, in part, as a conservator, so he ministers to the health of the paintings and sculptures that pass through. But over the past two decades, Martin has also become the art worlds foremost forensic art detective. He has worked so many forgery cases with such success that he also serves Sothebys as a line of fortification against the swells of duff art lapping into the market.


    The first major painting sold by Sothebys was also a Hals a real one: Man in Black, a half-length portrait of a hatted gent. Until 1913, Sothebys had dealt in books for a century or thereabouts; art made up only a wan side business. In that year, though, a Sothebys partner found a Hals consigned to the firm, and rather than forwarding it to Christies, as was often the practice, decided to auction it. After a spirited contest of bids, Man in Black sold for 9,000 a 26% rate of return per annum since Christies had last auctioned the work, in 1885, for around 5. It was the first signal, for Sothebys, that there was profit to be mined from paintings. Last year, it sold $5.5bn worth of art, jewellery and real estate.

    Frans
    The Frans Hals painting, Portrait of a Gentleman, supplied to Sothebys by Mark Weiss. It sold for a reported 8.5m ($10.8m) but was later declared fake. Photograph: Sotheby’s

    For Sothebys, the question of authenticity is not merely, or even primarily, academic. There is more at stake than a satisfying answer to the fundamental conundrum of whether authenticity matters at all a debate that has been fought and refought in the history of western art. If a fake is so expert that even after the most thorough and trustworthy examination its authenticity is still open to doubt, the critic Aline Saarinen once wondered, is it or is it not as satisfactory a work of art as if it were unequivocally genuine? Typically, this debate comes to rest at the same place every time. Of course authenticity matters; to study a false Rembrandt as a true one would be to hobble our understanding of Rembrandt as an artist, and of the evolution of art. Now, however, the questions philosophical whimsy has been replaced by financial urgency. At a time when the art market is synonymous with art itself, a lack of regard for attribution would derail a trade that traffics in the scarcity of authentic Rembrandts.

    Leaving straight forgeries aside, any discussion about the authenticity of an artwork opens suddenly, like a trapdoor, into the murk of semantics. On the sliding scale of attribution that art historians use painted by; hand of; studio of; circle of; style of; copy of each step takes the artist further from the painting. These variations, often subtle, are compounded by the unease about overpainting; Salvator Mundi had been worked over so many times and so heavily, critics argued, that it was less by Da Vinci than by his restorers. Deliberate fakes, misattributions and poor restorations all encroach into the realm of the authentic. In two decades at the Met in New York, Thomas Hoving, the museums director until 1977, must have examined at least 50,000 objects, he wrote in his book False Impressions. I almost believe that there are as many bogus works as genuine ones.

    Like criminals of every stripe, modern forgers have kept easy pace with the techniques that attempt to trap them. The mismatch between the purported age of a painting and the true age of its ingredients is the workhorse of Martins technique. So forgers have grown more rigorous in their harvesting of materials, taking the trouble, for instance, to source wooden panels from furniture they know is dateable to the year of the fake they are creating. (The trick isnt wholly new; Terenzio da Urbino, a 17th-century conman, scrabbled around for filthy old canvases and frames, cleaned them up, and turned them into Raphaels.) Forgers also test their own fakes to ensure theyll pass. Wolfgang Beltracchi, a German artist who served three years in prison for forging paintings worth $45m, surveyed the chemical elements in his works by running them under X-ray fluorescence guns the same handheld devices, resembling Star Trek phasers, that many art fairs now train upon their exhibits.

    Georgina Adam, who wrote Dark Side of the Boom, a book about the art markets excesses, told me that many forgers are sensibly choosing to falsify 20th-century painters, who used paints and canvases that can still be obtained, and whose abstractions are easier to imitate. The technical skill needed to forge a Leonardo is colossal, but with someone like Modigliani, it isnt, she said. Now, scholars will say its easy to distinguish, but the fact is that its just not that easy at all. In January, in a celebrated Modigliani exhibition in Genoa, 20 out of 21 paintings were revealed to be counterfeits.

    As the tide of money in the market has risen, making decisions about authenticity has turned into a fraught venture. Collectors, realising how much they stand to lose, are now happy to take scholars and connoisseurs traditionally the final authorities on the authenticity of a work to court for their mistakes. Realising that their reputations, as well as their bank balances, may wilt under the heat,these experts have begun to subtract themselves from the game entirely.

    The estates of several 20th-century artists had once taken on the duty of resolving doubts over attribution, setting up authentication committees, consisting of experts or the artists former colleagues or friends people expected to know the work best. In 2007, a collector named Joe Simon-Whelan sued the Andy Warhol estates authentication committee, claiming it had twice rejected a Warhol silkscreen he owned because it wanted to maintain scarcity in the Warhol market. Four years later, after spending $7m in legal fees, the estate dissolved the committee. The authentication boards of other modern artists Jean-Michel Basquiat, Keith Haring, Roy Lichtenstein, Alexander Calder have followed. Individual connoisseurs as the art world calls its experts wont always challenge popular identifications, wrote the critic Jerry Saltz in a scorching essay on the vertiginous price of Salvator Mundi. They are reluctant to rock the already splintering institutional boat. As in the wider world, where people sit by for fear of losing position, its no wonder that many old master experts are keeping quiet, not saying much of anything.

    The collapse of these committees feels like a victory of the market over the academy, like a blow to the very cause of trustworthy authentication. (In New York, a small band of lawyers is lobbying for legislation that will protect scholars from being sued merely for expressing their opinion.) In this void of opinion, Martins abilities premised not on the mysterious instincts of connoisseurship, but on the verifiable results of the scientific process have an even higher valence.

    Martin, a tall man with lumber-beam shoulders, has a voice that never surpasses a murmur. He is a consummate nerd; find someone who looks at you the way Martin looks at his Fourier-transform infrared microscope. He trained as a conservator of paintings, but now he assays them: picks out their chemical constituents, inspects pigments and binders, peers under their washes of colour. From a paintings materials, he can extract the vital detail of when it could, or could not, have been created.

    The field of scientific art conservation is not a crowded one; Martin, who set up the first for-profit art lab in the US, has been consulted in nearly every major fraud case in the past 25 years, often working alongside the FBI or other investigators. When he is described as the premier forensic detective working in art today, the accolade comes not only from people such as John Cahill, a New York lawyer who has managed dozens of art transactions, and who called Martin hands-down the best in the business, but also from those on the other side of the fence, so to speak. Beltracchi, the German forger, told me that, after his arrest, he had seen an assortment of technical studies collected by the police and the prosecution. He remembered Martins well. His reports contained the most accurate results. His reports were factually neutral and without unrealistic guesses. By folding Martin into its staff, Sothebys has given itself a muscular chance to stamp out problems of attribution before they flare into spectacular, expensive affairs. But its hard not to feel, at the same time, that it has cornered a precious resource, at a moment when the art world needs him most.


    Martin spent much of last year setting up a new lab in what used to be a photo studio on the fifth floor of the Sothebys headquarters in Manhattan. Soon, he will also have a London facility, in the building where the Beatles once recorded A Taste of Honey for the BBC. The New York lab, one large room, is as white and aseptic as a dentists clinic. Many of the cabinets are still empty, and the desk surfaces often bear nothing apart from one red pack of Martins Dentyne Fire gum. Outside the lab, above the lead-lined double doors, is a warning light; if its on, so to is the giant x-ray fluorescence machine, and no one is allowed in.

    One Friday in mid-February, the room held only two items of art. A carved wooden chair sat on a counter; on a stand was a painting that, for reasons of confidentiality, may be described here only as a late-19th century American work. When a painting checks into the lab, it is first submitted to a visual examination in bright, white light; then the lamp is moved to one side, so that the light rakes over the surface at an angle, showing up restored or altered areas. The canvas in Martins lab was at the next stage; it had been photographed under ultraviolet and infrared, and then under x-rays to discover some of the paintings chemical elements.

    On a computer, one of Martins two colleagues cycled through the images. Under infrared, the paintings browns and yellows and greens turned into shades of grey, but no spectral underdrawings peered back out. (Not that underdrawings would have suggested anything about authenticity one way or another; theyd merely have been a further nugget of information to consider.) Mapped for lead by the x-ray fluorescence unit, the painting looked faded and streaked with dark rust; the streaks betrayed where restorers had perhaps applied touchups with modern, lead-free paint. Mapped for calcium, the painting showed yellow-green splashes where conservators had made repairs with a calcium carbonate filler.

    Not every object needs to move beyond these non-invasive phases. (At Orion, Martin was once able to unmask a fake Modigliani after seeing, under infrared, a faint grid, which had been drawn by a forger who wanted to guide his work.) If Martin has to disturb the painting, he will place it under a stereo microscope and, squinting through the two eyepieces, pick out a grain of paint with a scalpel. He demonstrated with a sample of phthalocyanine blue, a synthetic pigment he picked out of a box that held paint cakes of different colours. Working with the same steady, cautious manner in which he speaks, he teased out a particle smaller than the width of a human hair, flattened it gently, then nudged it on to a slim, small rectangle of metal, where it was held in place between two tiny diamonds.

    You dont drink a lot of coffee before you do this, he said, grimacing.

    Cracks
    Cracks in the surface of a 16th-century painting as seen through Martins microscope. Photograph: Joshua Bright for the Guardian

    The metal plate then goes into the Fourier-transform infrared microscope, like a slide. The spectrometer pumps infrared light through the flecks of pigment; a computer analyses the lights behavior and returns a tidy spectrum graph. Martin has looked at so many of these spectra that he recognises on sight the patterns thrown up by different pigments, but even if he didnt, the computer could rifle through databases of the spectrum patterns of other known chemicals, find the nearest match, and tell Martin what, in this case, he already knew: that his sample was phthalocyanine blue.

    By a system of triage sorting, for instance, for artists with a high incidence of being faked in the past, or for works accompanied by scientific analysis reports that are suspiciously long only a small percentage of the tens of thousands of objects passing through Sothebys is diverted to the lab. Martin thinks of them as patients showing symptoms. Sometimes, like a doctor doing general checkups, he will tour the galleries at Sothebys just before a sale, reading every work with a handheld infrared camera. In the past year, his lab has stopped several lots from going to market, preventing possible disputes after the sale. In one case, a painting valued at $7m was removed from sale after the lab found that it had been completely and irretrievably overpainted by a restorer. An appraiser wouldve said its worthless, Martin said. So it wasnt sold.

    The arduous process of Martins work divorces art from its aesthetic. It reduces compositions of great prestige or high beauty to their very particles; it frees Martin up to think of art as pure matter. In this way, he comes closer to the artist than anyone has before, often becoming only the second person to think as intensely about the materiality of the object, about the chemical nature of its pigments or the physical properties of its canvas. The art he analyses derives its worth from unique, flashing inspiration. His own talent, if anything, has more in common with the forger. It lies in his capacity to be unflashy but diligent to perform a step time after time without a slackening of attention, to never leave a molecule unturned, to never conclude more about a work than what it tells him about itself.


    When Martin turned 13, his father gifted him a microscope, a chemistry kit, and art lessons a splendid piece of foreshadowing. He used them all, but he was particularly attracted to art. The family lived in Baltimore, and whenever they visited Washington DC, Martin spent his time at the National Museum of Natural History, drawing the dioramas, while the others wandered the capital. His father worked in army intelligence. As a child, Im not sure I understood what he did. I do remember being in airports and trying to guess who was a spy, Martin said. He devoured detective stories and loves them still, particularly Patricia Cornwells novels about Kay Scarpetta, the forensic pathologist. We both examine patients that cannot speak their past, he said.

    In a universe a twist away from ours, Martin might have become a forger himself. Late in his teens, he joined an art school where students were taught how to grind their own pigments and stretch their own canvases. For practice, he set up an easel in the Baltimore Museum of Art and copied the works he liked; he grew so accomplished that once, as he was leaving with his copy of William Merritt Chases Broken Jug, the museum director spotted him and asked if he was returning the painting to storage.

    I was very good technically, Martin said, but like most art forgers, I didnt have my own creative way of doing things. He thought hed become an illustrator of medical textbooks, but then heard about a conservation programme at the Winterthur Museum in Delaware. The portfolio he submitted included his copy of the Chase, as well as of other painters all at such a high level of craft, said Richard Wolbers, who taught him at Winterthur, that we were blown away. He was such a good copyist, in fact, that he was almost rejected. Later, I heard that the committee worried that if they trained me to be a conservator and taught me all the science, Id be a natural forger.

    After Winterthur, Martin was hired by the Clark Art Institute, a museum in Williamstown, Massachusetts, to conserve paintings. A couple of years later, he set up the museums first conservation lab, filled with equipment that he bought or begged from chemistry departments in nearby universities. At the time, in 1990, the apparatus of analysis the microscopes, the spectroscopes, the infrared cameras was bulky, expensive and difficult to operate. Few museums had their own labs, Martin said. The Guggenheim, the Brooklyn Museum, MoMA [Museum of Modern Art], the museums in San Francisco none of them had the facilities.

    In getting to know a painting, conservators in these museums relied first on the tactility of their craft listening to the sound of the swab on the canvas, Martin said, or feeling the pull of the swab in the varnish. Most conservation departments owned microscopes, some perhaps even x-ray machines. But if they needed some serious technology Fourier-transform infrared microscopes, say, or scanning electron microscopes they could turn only to the lab in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, or to those in universities. Even then, an expert was still needed to interpret the data. Small museums really didnt have any place to go. Some people took paintings to the vet to get them x-rayed.

    Martins lab began by assisting conservators who had no equipment of their own. If someone was trying to get a varnish off a painting and didnt want to damage it by using a solvent that was too strong, theyd send me a sample, he said. Id tell them: Its polyurethane. Youre not going to get it off. Or: Its shellac. You need to use alcohol. A conservator wondering if the strange sky in a landscape was overpaint paint applied by later restorers could mail Martin a tiny cross-section tweezed out of the work, so that he could examine it under a microscope. Wed see the layers in the cross-section: varnish, varnish, varnish, then blue sky, then more varnish, then more sky. So wed establish that the topmost layer of blue was overpaint.

    In its materials, an artwork holds its biography, so inevitably, Martin became an arbiter of authenticity. Nearly all of the privately owned art labs in Europe and the US have been founded in the past decade not coincidentally, around the time that the worlds multi-millionaires realised how hollow their lives had been without art. But in the 1990s, at Clark, and then again at Orion, which he founded in 2000, Martin was often the sole resource for collectors and merchants.

    James
    James Martin using his stereo fluorescence microscope in his New York lab. Photograph: Joshua Bright for the Guardian

    Some of his stories from these years have the baroque pulpiness of Elmore Leonard plots. Martin narrates these with care; he is alive to the sensational aspects of his work, but by default, he wears an air of studious detachment. There were the two questionable gentlemen from Tel Aviv, who slipped a pair of paintings out of architects tubes, shook them open as if they were rugs, and asked him to confirm that they were Modiglianis. (They werent.) There was the client who sent Martin to test a painting at an auction house, claiming he wished to bid on it, but then also had Martin stop by a warehouse to assess a horrible copy of the same painting. (Martin now thinks the client wanted to know how close the fake was to the genuine work.) There were the two ferocious dogs chained near the front door of a house in Los Angeles, guarding the stolen Chinese sculptures held within. There was the collector who offered to fly Martin to an undisclosed location, have him picked up by a security detail, and bring him in to examine an old Mexican stele, a stone carving supposedly worth $50m. The night before his flight, Martin was unable to sleep, so he Googled the collector and found that he had recently been released from federal prison after serving time on weapons charges.

    Next morning, Martin called the collector and turned down the case.

    Oh, the collector said. Did you read about the murders?

    No, Martin said. What murders? The collector, it turned out, had once been implicated in the killings of two people over a matter of Mexican steles. Martin never got on that plane.

    The FBI first came to Martin in 1994. A suspicious number of works ascribed to the 19th-century artist William Aiken Walker, who often painted black sharecroppers in the American south, were emerging in the market. Theyd sell at really small country auctions for $5,000 or $10,000 so low that nobody would pay for analysis, Martin said. From the paintings, Martin sampled a yellow pigment called PY3, which had been manufactured in Germany and was not available to American artists until the late 1940s, decades after Walker died. Walker also used lead white paint, Martin found; the forger used zinc white. A former vitamin salesman named Charles Heller was eventually indicted for a spree of counterfeiting, but he pleaded guilty to lesser charges and served one year in prison.

    With even a little study, a con artist would know not to use zinc white; some forgers go on to become diligent researchers, accessing technical journals and case studies to learn what experts search for. Martin recalled a painting once referred to him, around 3.5 sq metres in size and dated to 1932. In a first round of study, he discovered nothing amiss. But the works provenance its documented history of ownership was shaky, so he ran a second pass under a microscope. For most of a day, he scanned the painting in dime-sized increments, until his eyes dried up. Was anything embedded in the paint: dust, or hair, or an insect wing? Did the dirt look as if it had been smeared on deliberately? Finally, embedded in a speckle of blue, he found a slim fibre; with a scalpel, he snipped it off and subjected it to infrared spectroscopy. The fibre turned out to be polypropylene. Perhaps someone had worn a polar fleece while painting the forgery?

    For a while, Martin cited this example in a two-day course he taught. Last year, though, he read a translation of Faussaire (or Forger), a French novel written in 2015 and containing a wealth of sound wisdom for forgers. If you want to get hold of antique lead, one character advises another, for instance, then you can just pick up bits of it from the old buildings in Rome. The same character warns of the dangers from microparticles from your clothes You must always work in an old smock. Never nylon or a modern apron. Martin is convinced the detail came from his anecdote; it was one reason he decided to stop teaching his course altogether.

    As a crime, art forgery can seem trifling less a sinister outrage than a half-complete Robin Hood jape that merely robs the rich. After Beltracchis arrest in 2010, the Frankfurter Allgemeine called art forgery the most moral way to embezzle 16m; Der Spiegel noted that, unlike crooked bankers, Beltracchi hadnt swindled the common man. But the crime can have real victims, and Martin has met so many of them that he has developed a gentle bedside manner to break bad news. He has seen people who used the money set aside for their childrens education to buy a painting, only to find it to be fake. So we arent just talking rich people. In some situations, its a persons whole life.


    The inflation of the art market, and its attendant litigiousness, imposes fierce pressures upon anyone called to judge the authenticity of an artwork. Martins harshest experience of this came during the bitter legal battle over the fate of the Knoedler gallery. The Knoedler, once New Yorks oldest gallery, closed in 2011, days after Martin issued a report concluding that a Jackson Pollock it had sold for $17m was fake.

    The bogus Pollock was only the inauguration of a scandal. Over 15 years, Knoedler had sourced and sold 40 paintings ascribed to a range of leading modern artists: Willem de Kooning, Mark Rothko, Richard Diebenkorn and Robert Motherwell, among others, earning roughly $80m in the process. When the ambiguity of the works provenance raised needles of suspicion, 10 buyers sued Knoedler and its director, Ann Freedman; all but one of these lawsuits have been settled out of court. In 2013, investigators learned that the forgeries had been painted by a Chinese immigrant, who was by then 73 years old, in his garage in Queens, and placed with Knoedler by an art dealer who pleaded guilty. Knoedlers executives claimed they had no knowledge of the fraud, and argued that scholars had verified the works before sale.

    In at least four of the lawsuits, which carried on for years, the plaintiffs hired Martin to test the paintings they had purchased. He found them all to be forgeries. A purported Rothko from 1956, which sold for $8.3m, used a ground layer of white paint between the canvas and the oils; through that decade, though, Rothko had used a transparent ground layer. In an apparent Pollock, the artist seemed to have misspelled his own signature as Pollok. Further, in 16 Knoedler paintings he analysed, Martin found the same ground layer of white paint and other anachronistic pigments repeating themselves across the works of several artists, as if Motherwell, De Kooning and Rothko had all travelled forward in time, met in a bar, and swapped tubes of paint.

    A
    A fake Mark Rothko painting is shown to the court during a trial in New York in 2016. Photograph: AP

    Eventually, Martin was proved right; when the FBI raided the Queens garage, it even found the tubs of white that had coated the canvas in the fake Rothko. But, until then, the trials were a torrid experience. Knoedler recruited experts to attack Martin in court. They went after him with a vengeance, saying hed soiled the evidence, accidentally or on purpose, said the lawyer John Cahill, who represented some of Martins clients. Knoedlers attorneys served six subpoenas on Martin, to extract more than 8,000 documents and emails related to the case. Instead of being an expert witness, he was forced to defend himself the care and soundness of his methods, his very character in court.

    When Martin talks about the Knoedler trials, even the memory of the ordeal draws a look of horror on his face. Hes a real boy scout, and his integrity means a lot to him, so he suffered, Cahill said. It was an attempted impeachment of Martins whole career. His entire power relies on being objective, on not being part of the party, said Narayan Khandekar, who runs Harvards Straus Center for Conservation and Technical Studies. He comes under a lot of pressure, because people have a lot of money at stake on the outcome of his analyses. But hes been very, very brave to stand up and stay stolidly on track with what he does.

    Martin had always loved science for its ability to guide him in pursuit of truth, and he felt a deep distress when his objective facts were countered with dirty tricks and personal vilification. In 2016, after his clients settled with Knoedler, Martin found it difficult to return to work. He wanted to never have to provide expert testimony again, and to go away to paint for a while; hed already primed a set of boards.

    It was surreal, what happened to me, he said. No scientist should have to go to through this. When, later that year, negotiations began for Sothebys to buy Orion, Martin was ready to be cocooned within a larger institution. Hed rather probe works before they hit the market, he decided, than go through the acrimonious aftermath of a sale even once more. Above his desk in Sothebys, Martin keeps pinned a pair of sketches of himself from his time in the Knoedler courtroom, as if to remind himself of what he has gratefully left behind.


    In conversation, Martin uses many homespun metaphors, but his favourite is that of the three-legged stool. Deciding the authorship of artworks, he says, relies on connoisseurship, technical analysis and provenance. He values the opinions of connoisseurs, considers them complementary to his own skills; his tests can definitively reveal if a painting is not by Da Vinci or Modigliani, but they are unable to affirm authorship, except in rare cases.

    Science has a habit, though, of showing up the sagacity of scholars. In a 1932 trial in Berlin the first in which a forensic exam was used to scrutinise art two connoisseurs squabbled about the authenticity of a set of 33 canvases, all purportedly by Vincent van Gogh, all sold by an art dealer named Otto Wacker. It took a chemist, Martin de Wild, to trace resins in the paint that Van Gogh had never used, and to prove the paintings fake. Since then, the science has improved, even as human judgment has remained the same, vulnerable to the potential thrill of discovering new work, and to market pressures. During the Knoedler trial, Cahill remembered, one expert admitted that he couldnt tell one Rothko canvas from another, or indeed whether a Rothko had been hung upside-down or right side up.

    In any case, however fond he is of the three-legged stool, Martin may have to think soon of a different item of furniture. The humanities are in decline everywhere; in England, the last art history A-level was cut in 2016. The populace of connoisseurs is thinning out. In British art now, for a major artist like George Stubbs, theres no recognised figure that we can all go to and say: Is this by George Stubbs or not? Because various specialists have died recently, and theres no one to replace them, Bendor Grosvenor, the art historian, said. Meanwhile, researchers at Rutgers University have developed an AI system that, in tests, detected forged paintings with 100% accuracy by scanning and comparing individual brushstrokes. One leg is growing longer, another growing shorter, the stool becoming decidedly imbalanced. And so, if the art market wants to beat back the threats posed by sophisticated forgeries if it wants to preserve its financial vigour, rooted as it is so absolutely in the notion of authenticity it will have to turn more and more to the resources of science.

    As a thought experiment, it is possible to envision the immaculate forgery the one that defeats scientist and connoisseur alike. Our villain is a talented copyist, well practised in the style and the themes of his chosen artist. He is also a resourceful procurer of materials, able to rustle up every kind of age-appropriate canvas and frame, pigment and binder. He fits his forgery neatly into a chain of provenance giving it the title of a now-lost work, or providing false documents to claim that it had been part of a well known private collection.

    In theory, if each of these steps is perfectly performed, there should be no way to expose the painting as fake. It will be a work of art in every way save one. But the world of today, the world in which the forgery is being created, is likely to fix itself in some form within the painting as radioactive dust, perhaps, or as cat hair, or a stray polypropylene fibre. When that happens, only the scientist can hope to nab it.

    Follow the Long Read on Twitter at @gdnlongread, or sign up to the long read weekly email here.

    Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/us

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    Most common childhood cancer ‘partly caused by lack of infection’

    Childhood acute leukaemia is caused by genetic mutations and a lack of childhood infection, scientists say

    Clean modern homes, antiseptic wipes and the understandable desire to protect small babies against any infection are all part of the cause of the most common form of childhood cancer, a leading expert has concluded after more than 30 years of research.

    Childhood acute leukaemia, says the highly respected Prof Mel Greaves, is nothing to do with power lines or nuclear fuel reprocessing stations. Nor is it to do with hot dogs and hamburgers or the Vatican radio mast, as have also been suggested. After the best part of a century of speculation, some of it with little basis in science, Greaves who recently won the Royal Societys prestigious Royal Medal says the cancer is caused by a combination of genetic mutations and a lack of childhood infection.

    The best news, says Greaves, is that the cancer is likely to be preventable. And part of the answer could be to ensure children under the age of one have social contact with others, possibly at daycare centres.

    Greaves, from the Institute of Cancer Research in London, has compiled evidence from decades of work on acute lymphoblastic leukaemia (ALL), which affects one in 2,000 children. In the 1950s and 1960s, it was lethal. Today, 90% of children are cured, although the treatment is lengthy and toxic and can have long-term consequences.

    Greaves describes a triple whammy that he believes is the cause of ALL. One in 20 children, he says, are born with a genetic mutation that puts them potentially at risk. But they will be fine if their immune system is properly set up. For that to happen, they must encounter benign bacteria or viruses in their first year of life.

    Those whose immune systems are not fully functioning because they have not had an early challenge to deal with and who then later encounter an infection such as a cold or flu may develop a second genetic mutation that will make them susceptible to the cancer.

    ALL, he says, is increasing globally at the rate of about 1% a year. Unlike most diseases, it is increasing in more affluent populations. Something about our modern lifestyles has to be involved, Greaves reasoned. Infectious disease tracks with poverty, he said. The problem is not infection. The problem is lack of infection.

    There is a similar story at work in type 1 diabetes, Hodgkins lymphoma, multiple sclerosis and allergies, he says.

    ALL rates are low or non-existent in the poorest countries, where families have lots of children and cross-infection is common. One exception is Costa Rica, which has invested heavily in medical schools and its health system, and brought down family sizes from 7.2 children on average to 2.3. They now have significant levels of Hodgkins lymphoma, type 1 diabetes and ALL.

    In a paper in the journal Nature Reviews Cancer, Greaves has assembled the evidence from his own work and that of colleagues around the world into the genetics, cell biology, immunology, epidemiology and animal modelling of childhood leukaemia.

    That includes experiments in mice that have been modified to have the first gene mutation. Those that were kept in clean and sterile conditions and then later transferred into a dirty environment developed the cancer.

    Greaves and other scientists are anxious that no parents should feel in any way responsible for their childs cancer, pointing out that keeping babies away from any source of infection is very normal behaviour and that there is still an element of chance in developing the two genetic mutations.

    The factors that may decrease a babys risk, says the paper, are going to a day care centre as a small baby, having older siblings who are likely to bring infections into the home, breastfeeding and probably being born via a vaginal delivery rather than a more sterile caesarean.

    Greaves says he hopes the work may lead to some sort of vaccine or drug to prevent childhood leukaemia.

    Chris Bunce, professor of translational cancer biology at the University of Birmingham, called Greaves one of the superstars amongst modern cancer biologists who had demonstrated that the early mutation putting a child at risk occurred in a cell before birth and now presented a compelling model of the way the cancer arises.

    Prof Charles Swanton, Cancer Research UKs chief clinician, said: This research sheds light on how a form of childhood blood cancer might develop, implicating a complex combination of genetics and early exposure to germs, dirt, and illness.

    But he added: We want to assure any parents of a child who has or has had leukaemia that theres nothing that we know of that could have been done to prevent their illness.

    Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/us

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    Saving Baby Boy Green

    Jessica Green was getting impatient. She was 19 weeks pregnant and waiting for her ultrasound images at Whitehorse General Hospital, but it was taking forever. She’d never had to wait this long before. Her fiancé, Kris Schneider, had already headed back to work for the day, and Green wanted to do the same. She told the receptionist that she would pick up the images later and headed out. It was late October in Whitehorse, the capital city of Canada’s northern Yukon Territory, and winter was beginning to set in.

    The ultrasound technician caught up to her in the parking lot. Green couldn’t leave, the tech said. She needed to be admitted, right away. Green remembers responding with some sort of instinctive, mulish refusal: “I can’t.”

    But she knew her pregnancy was considered high-risk: She was 37, she’d conceived via IVF, and she was carrying twins. She followed the tech inside and headed up to the maternity ward, where she learned that her cervix was shortening precipitously, a precursor to labor—it was already down to 1.1 centimeters, less than half of what it should have been. A baby’s lungs and guts take a long time to fully develop in the womb, and her tiny babies still lacked the abilities to breathe or digest food on their own. But the barrier between them and the outside world was fading away.

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    Nik Mirus

    Within a few days, a doctor performed an emergency cervical cerclage—effectively, he sewed her cervix shut—to protect the twins. That procedure came with serious risks: Both twins might die. But doing nothing might also mean losing them, so Green and Schneider had opted for action. After the surgery, Green gritted her teeth through a week of strict bed rest at home, but then pain and heavy bleeding chased her back to the hospital, where she was admitted and given morphine, fentanyl, and laughing gas while the staff waited to see if her labor would hold off. When she began to dilate again, the doctors removed the cerclage sutures before they could tear through her cervix. She and Schneider now lived in her hospital room. Contractions, irregular but powerful, came and went for days.

    All hope of the twins reaching full term was gone. The couple simply hoped to reach what neonatologists call the threshold of viability: the point at which medical science has the ability to keep a premature baby alive outside the womb.

    A full-term human baby can seem helpless at birth, but in comparison to a preemie that baby has an impressive toolkit of skills. Aside from their underdeveloped lungs and guts, babies born too early don’t yet have the reflexes or muscular control to suck and swallow simultaneously. They are prone to cranial hemorrhage, and sometimes a heart duct remains open. Their skin is thin and fragile; the veins glow eerily. They are sensitive to sound, to light, to touch. Their eyelids may still be fused shut, and the tiniest preemies may not yet even have the ability to close a fist around your finger—that essential early act, the moment when they take possession of you.

    Over several decades, doctors and nurses have become better at grappling with all of these obstacles. The threshold still varies widely depending on a baby’s circumstances and on the care available immediately at birth. But advances in drugs, technology, and methods of care have pushed that line earlier and earlier, and today there are preemies growing up, healthy and whole, whose survival would have been unimaginable a generation ago. These days, the line between birth and death generally lies somewhere between 22 and 25 weeks’ gestation. Green and Schneider could only pray that they would get there.

    Jessica and Kris take Owen for a hike through the woods behind their house.

    Kamil Bialous

    Whitehorse is a small city, home to roughly 25,000 people, that sits along the only highway to Alaska. Schneider works for the post office, and Green is self-employed as a massage therapist, acupuncturist, and osteopath­-in-training. The hospital where she lay bearing through jagged contractions was not equipped to deal with preemies younger than 35 weeks. So as they waited and hoped for her labor to subside, they made plans to get to Vancouver, to the neonatal intensive care unit where the very tiniest and sickest babies in British Columbia and Yukon wind up.

    On November 10 one of the amniotic sacs began to leak—the one containing Baby A, who lay on the bottom of the uterus. (These were fraternal twins, so each had their own placenta and sac.) Green and Schneider were loaded onto a small plane and flown more than 1,000 miles south to Vancouver, and in the early hours of November 11, Green was admitted to BC Women’s Hospital. Viability was in sight. They were at roughly 22 weeks—and, after a hard conversation with their physicians, they had agreed that the doctors would attempt to resuscitate the twins if they made it to 23 weeks. The babies’ heartbeats were still strong. Green went to sleep; Schneider crashed out on the floor beside her.

    A few hours later, Green woke up feeling that something was wrong. A nurse came in, took a look, and rushed her to labor and delivery. The umbilical cord attached to Twin A, the girl they’d named Maia, had slipped out of the uterus and into the birth canal. Maia had no heartbeat. Now doctors had to deliver her as fast as possible before her movement through the birth canal triggered labor in Baby B, the boy they called Owen.

    This meant Green had to push, even though she knew Maia wouldn’t survive. She asked the doctors to put her under, to let it happen without her participation, but they couldn’t—a C-section would risk Baby B too. Do it for Owen, someone said to her.

    Maia came out weighing just 12.3 ounces, minuscule and bruised. The nurses handed her to Green and she held the little body against her chest. “I think she’s still alive,” Green said. But Maia was gone. Hospital staff dressed her tiny body in tiny baby clothes, sewn by volunteers. They took her photo, took casts of her feet—collecting mementos that her parents might spurn now but want to have later. Green was anesthetized and her cervix was sewn shut once more.

    For 12 more days she remained in the hospital, enduring regular inspections of her cervix by a pack of doctors who were watching for signs of infection. Every extra day in utero could give Owen a better chance at life, but if the amniotic sac became infected, it could take him. How soon should they induce? How long could they safely wait? It was another seemingly impossible life-or-death decision.

    On November 22, at about 24 weeks gestation, Green spiked a fever. The next day Owen was delivered by emergency ­C-section. Schneider held Green’s shoulders while the delivery team worked on the other side of a raised curtain. They caught a glimpse of their tiny son, wrapped in plastic to trap his body heat, before he was wheeled away in an incubator. At 1.4 pounds, Baby Boy Green was admitted to the neonatal intensive care unit at BC Women’s Hospital. He had a 60 percent chance of survival. The NICU would be his home, and the center of Green and Schneider’s world, for nearly five months.

    Neonatology is a relatively young field. The first incubators for babies were invented in the 19th century, adapted from poultry incubators to create a stable and warm environment intended to simulate the womb. These early incubators were cumbersome creations of glass and metal. To fund them, they were put on public display—with living preterm babies inside them—at exhibitions across Europe and North America. Incubator babies were regular attractions at Coney Island and occasionally on the Atlantic City boardwalk throughout the early decades of the 20th century. A total of 96 preterm babies in incubators were shown to visitors at the 1939–40 New York World’s Fair. (Eighty-six of them survived.)

    By the 1960s and ’70s, neonatology had graduated from carnival sideshow to accepted medical discipline. But the basic nature of the NICU hadn’t changed that much from the Coney Island days: A typical nursery held rows of incubators, a tiny baby lying behind the plastic in each, with parents mere spectators of their day-to-day care.

    Doctors’ abilities to keep preemies alive a half-century ago was limited. Patrick Bouvier Kennedy, the third child of John and Jacqueline Kennedy, was born five and a half weeks premature and died just 39 hours after his birth—today he would be considered only a moderate preterm baby, not in the danger zone at all. Several treatments, often working in combination, have driven that dramatic improvement. Among the most important are the invention, in the 1980s, of an artificial version of a natural lung lubricant that preemies initially fail to produce enough of on their own; antenatal steroids, widely adopted in the 1990s, to jump-start a likely preemie’s lung development even before birth; continual tweaking of the mechanical ventilator and the incubator, which is now far more complex, offering controlled levels of moisture and ambient oxygen in addition to providing heat; and the ability to deliver nutritional solutions intravenously to babies who can’t yet eat.

    When Owen was born, neonatal units around North America were increasingly adopting a family-focused model of care: Parents of preemies and other infants receiving treatment in the NICU were encouraged to join on rounds with the medical staff, to touch and hold their babies more, to change diapers and help with feedings, and to be more involved in decisions—especially life-or-death ones. Ten or 15 years ago, many hospitals had firm rules: They would not agree to resuscitate babies born at or before 23 weeks, say, and they would not recommend the practice before 25 weeks. Now the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists recommends that physicians, with the parents’ input, at least begin to consider resuscitation as an option at 22 weeks.

    Back when Green and Schneider were waiting in Whitehorse, they’d had a tough conversation by phone with Sandesh Shivananda, a senior neonatologist and the medical director of the NICU at BC Women’s. He’d told them that, at 22 weeks, the twins would have less than a 5 percent chance of survival. At 23 weeks, they would have a better chance at life, but high odds of living with severe neurological complications. Even at 24 weeks, they would likely spend several months in intensive care. He’d talked to them about the difference between “active care”—working to save a preemie’s life, and “compassionate” care—easing its way from birth into death. Discussions around extreme preterm births—generally defined as 28 weeks or earlier—are similar to the ones around end-of-life care: What kinds of extraordinary measures will we deploy? For how long? To what end—saving a life, or just prolonging it?

    The policy at BC Women’s is to lay out the potential outcomes for parents and to work with them to form a plan, aiming for realism without being overly discouraging. It’s a delicate dance, and Shivananda’s goal is to give parents as much information and as much control as possible: to give them some ownership, some sliver of power, over their nightmare.

    Kris Schneider at home with Owen in Whitehorse, Canada, 14 months after the baby was born.
    Kamil Bialous

    The N.I.C.U. is both paradise and inferno. It’s a place of modern miracles, where babies whose lungs are too small to draw breath are made to breathe, their tissues forcibly inflated and deflated by tubes connected to machines; where parents burn quietly while they watch each new heartbeat register on the glowing screen above their baby’s incubator, unable to look away, in a slow immolation that can last for days or weeks or months.

    “Off the bat,” Schneider says, “they tell you, ‘He’s going to be a champion for two or three days,’ and then he falls off a cliff.”

    “And then,” Green says, “you fall off a cliff.”

    Owen was immediately diagnosed with extreme prematurity and respiratory distress. He was also vulnerable to sepsis. In other words: He couldn’t breathe and was at risk of a severe infection. He was intubated in the delivery room, and his issues piled up from there. In the first week of his life, he was given drugs to help a valve in his heart close properly, and more drugs for his blood pressure. When he was a few days old, he had what appeared to be a seizure—more drugs. His kidneys were too small and new to function fully—more drugs. He received antibiotics for the possible infection he was born with, and then more for a suspected case of pneumonia, thought to be caused by his ventilator. He had a breathing tube down his throat for 45 days and a feeding tube threaded through his nose for four months. He received a steady supply of morphine to numb the pain of the treatments keeping him alive.

    If someone so much as spoke too loudly near his incubator, his oxygen levels could drop, setting off alarms from the monitors. He received seven blood transfusions in his first two months. “It was just so tenuous,” Schneider says. Green wondered, in those early days, if they had made the right decision for their son. It was an agonizing 22 days before they were allowed to hold him.

    When another baby was having a bad day, its monitors beeping out constant alarms as it struggled to grow and live, the couple felt relief that today was not their bad day—and the awful certainty that their turn would come soon enough.

    The couple moved into Ronald McDonald House, a charity-run residence on the hospital campus reserved for out-of-towners whose children faced life-threatening illnesses. Schneider took leave from his job; Green canceled months of scheduled appointments with her clients. Back home, friends took in their two dogs and raised more than $12,000 to help them make up their lost income. Green was as sleep-deprived as the mother of any other newborn: waking up repeatedly in the night to pump her milk and freeze it for when Owen was strong enough to digest it. She spent her days sitting beside his incubator, reading children’s books to him in a whisper, refusing to allow herself to dwell on anything except his survival. “I remember walking into the NICU and making a choice—my feelings of anger, my feelings of grief, I really tried to keep them out of the NICU because he was so sensitive,” she says. “I swear to God that he could sense the energy you brought in.”

    The nursery was kept as quiet as possible, but Green and Schneider were uncomfortably, intimately aware of the other parents hovering over other incubators nearby. Their feelings about those other parents were complicated. They’ve formed lasting connections with some, but in the NICU, envy and sadness and anger mingled with their solidarity. When another parent’s baby was having a bad day, its monitors beeping out constant alarms as it struggled to grow and live, Green and Schneider felt relief that today was not their bad day—and the awful certainty that their turn would come soon enough. On one of the first days, Green glimpsed twins in side-by-side incubators, and suddenly anger and jealousy—and the pain of her loss—shot through her. One day in late January, a new mom arrived with a daughter, Bronwyn, born at 28 weeks. To Green, the baby seemed so much more stable than Owen. But after nearly 200 days of treatment in the NICU, Bronwyn died.

    Technology is essential to neonatology, but there’s a critical human side to the science of saving preemies too. In the late 1970s, something happened in Bogotá, Colombia, that would begin to bridge the divide between the incubator babies and their parents. A lack of equipment and concern about the risk of hospital infection led doctors at San Juan de Dios Hospital to send stable preemies home with their mothers instead of incubating them. The doctors instructed the mothers to hold the babies continuously, bare skin on bare skin, vertically against their chests, and to feed them only breast milk whenever possible. When mothers started doing this, the area’s low survival rates for larger preterm babies tripled. The close contact seemed, in some ways, to replicate the womb better than an incubator—at least one in an underfunded hospital. This practice is now well known as kangaroo mother care and was written up in the Lancet in 1985. The paper’s authors didn’t endorse the home-care option for babies with access to modern NICUs. “Nevertheless,” they wrote, preemies in a hospital setting “could benefit from similar emphasis on education and motivation of mothers and early skin-to-skin contact.”

    DISCUSSION

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    Three decades later, while Green and Schneider adapted to life in the open NICU, an experiment built in part on the Bogotá breakthrough was unfolding in two rooms down the hall. For the first time in North America, some new mothers could receive their postpartum care in the same private room where their infants received their neonatal care. The same nurse who checked a baby’s oxygen levels and drew blood from his tiny arteries would also be checking his mother’s cesarean incision site or monitoring her for excessive bleeding.

    The program was part of a reimagining of the entire NICU at BC Women’s. Around 2010, hospital administrators had invited past patients to consult on the design for a new building. They gave the former patients a cardboard model of the hospital and a handful of Lego figures. One woman kept moving the mother Lego character next to the baby. Why, she asked, couldn’t she just get her care with her baby nearby? The answer was rote and unsatisfying. It’s just not done that way. Postpartum is postpartum, and the NICU is the NICU.

    But the idea of private rooms where parents could spend more time with their babies had been on the administrators’ minds. “Mothers tell us, and it’s in the literature, that the most stressful event of having a baby in the NICU is being separated from baby,” says Julie de Salaberry, the director of neonatal programs at the hospital. This was about more than just alleviating parental distress too. One research paper, from Sweden in 2010, found that private NICU rooms reduced babies’ hospital stays by an average of five days. In fact, plenty of medical literature now shows that restoring parent-child connections helps improve the lives of the tiniest preemies as surely as the drugs and the tubes and the machines do.

    BC Women’s opened the doors of its new building in late October last year. The new NICU, made up entirely of private rooms (including a dozen built for integrated mom-and-baby care), is intended to safely facilitate breastfeeding and skin-to-skin contact, the most basic human interactions that were once off-limits to sick babies.

    Jessica Green and Owen, who so far has met every developmental benchmark for his corrected age.

    Kamil Bialous

    Even though Owen was at B.C. Women’s before the new building opened, skin-to-skin contact was a part of his life as soon as he was stable enough. In between the rounds of drugs and tests, he’d spend hours curled up on Green’s or Schneider’s bare chest, listening to their heartbeats and their breaths, so much stronger than his own. After about two months, Green and Schneider began to believe that he would make it. Finally on April 7, 2017, after four and a half months of blood tests, of tubes and wires, of constant monitoring of his oxygen levels, Baby Boy Green was discharged. Schneider had flown back to the Yukon a week earlier to get their small townhouse ready; he retrieved the dogs from their long stay with friends; he set up a bassinet in his and Green’s bedroom. He met Green at the airport—his initial amazement of how other people were living their lives free of the hypervigilance and fear of the NICU finally subsiding. Owen slept the whole way home.

    Owen is now 16 months old, and happy almost all the time, smiling and content to roll around on the townhouse floor. He’s pale, blond, and blue-eyed; he makes eye contact and grins at strangers. He can breathe on his own now, but his lungs are fragile; a chest cold could put him back in the hospital. For months after they brought him home, Green and Schneider kept a sign fixed to his carrier that read: “I’m a Preemie! NO TOUCHING! Your germs are too big for me!” They keep hand sanitizer with them at all times, and bottles of it sit on tables and shelves around the house. Early on, they wiped down everything they brought into their home that Owen would come in contact with—bottles, toys, new furniture—with disinfectant. On Christmas Eve, they called ahead to check if anyone at their intended dinner party had a cold; some of Green’s clients will cancel, penalty-free, if they feel a bug setting in. “You want to be normal,” Green says of their protocols, but you have to resist the urge to let things slide.

    The literature now shows that restoring parent-child connections helps improve the lives of the tiniest preemies as surely as the drugs and the tubes and the machines do.

    So far, Owen has met every developmental benchmark for his corrected age—he’s within the expected height and weight, and has the motor skills you would expect in a baby who was born on his mid-March due date, instead of late in the previous November. His only limitation so far is his unwillingness to swallow solid foods—possibly an aversion from the weeks he spent with a tube forced down his throat. Eventually he’s expected to catch up to his chronological age, but a medical team will be monitoring his neurological and motor development (among other things) until he’s 4 and a half years old, to see if any hidden legacies of his early birth and his time in the NICU emerge.

    In November, Green and Schneider marked the first anniversary of Maia’s birth and death—and then, less than two weeks later, they celebrated Owen’s first birthday with friends at a snow-covered cabin outside town. It will always be that way: Every milestone for Owen will be paired, for his parents, with a reminder of what they’ve lost. But Green strives to appreciate her daughter’s short life. She likes to think about what Maia might have experienced or perceived in utero. She would have heard her parents arguing, Green figures. She would have heard the family’s dogs barking. She would have heard laughter. She also wants to find the right way for her son to know that he had a sister, and that they were born on opposite sides of a flexible, shifting line that we are gradually pushing back but whose exact location we might never be able to pin down.

    In the old NICU at BC Women’s, there was a bulletin board with notes and pictures from parents who’d already done their time. Green saw one from a mother who promised the current crop of parents that the fear and anxiety of the NICU would fade with months and years. “I thought, there’s no way,” she says. “How am I ever going to relax again?”

    But it turned out to be true. She has begun to forget the language of hemoglobin and oxygen desaturation and outcomes and odds. She’s forgetting what it felt like to be afraid all the time. She’s forgetting the sound of the monitors beeping, the alarms going off, the glow of the screen as it announces each new heartbeat.

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    Eva Holland (@evaholland) is a freelance writer based in Canada’s Yukon Territory.

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    Please Stop Building Houses Exactly Where Wildfires Start

    Built well, a city should provide a bulwark against disaster. Fundamentally, all cities are fortresses.

    Or at least they should be. If a city is a fortress, where’s the wall? The edges of North American cities today aren’t edge-like at all. Most of them, especially in the West, ooze outward in a gradient, urban to suburban to exurban to rural to wild. Some megacities cycle through suburban and exurban forms without ever manifesting anything that looks like a downtown, much less a high street.

    Which would all be academic, or maybe merely aesthetic, if it didn’t make cities fail at their most important job. Cities like that, researchers are learning, make disasters worse. And they’re not the exception; they’re the norm.

    For example, human construction at what’s called the Wildland-Urban Interface worsens the risk of wildfire. In last year’s insane fire season—not just California’s worst fire year on record, but one that left much of the continent’s boreal forest aflame—the blazes began where high winds connected with fuel (plants) and sparks (downed power lines, open fires, and other trappings of civilization).

    Now guess where people build lots of new houses. Go on—guess.

    According to a new analysis of housing in the WUI, the trend goes up and to the right. According to Census data, between 1990 and 2010 in the continental US, the WUI grew from 224,325 square miles to 297,299 square miles. The number of new houses grew there, too—by 12.6 million. The big quote from the paper: “Even though the WUI occupies less than one tenth of the land area of the conterminous United States, 43 percent of all new houses were built there.”

    The Wildland-Urban Interface got smaller in the western US, but the number of houses and people in it went up.

    Radeloff et al./SILVIS Lab/University of Wisconsin-Madison

    Friends. Friends. Don’t build there. “Houses are being built everywhere,” says Volker Radeloff, a professor of forestry at the University of Wisconsin and the lead author of the new paper. “But a lot of them are still built on the outskirts. That is sprawl.”

    Sprawl causes all sorts of problems, not just wildfires—more invasive species and more domesticated critters like cats and dogs wreaking havoc on local ecosystems. It means air pollution, noise pollution, light pollution. And of course, sprawl makes climate change worse. Not only do denser cities in more temperate areas emit less carbon, but just last week researchers published evidence that suburbs emit more carbon than denser urban areas.

    Even taking into account the 2008 housing crash, housing units in the WUI went up along with its size and population.

    Radeloff et al./SILVIS Lab/University of Wisconsin-Madison

    And climate change makes wildfires more frequent, and worse. “It’s a feedback loop,” says Ethan Elkind, director of the climate program at the Center for Law, Energy, and the Environment at UC Berkeley. “We’ve made it very hard across the country to build in existing urban neighborhoods, which have been shown repeatedly to have lower carbon emission per capita…and we’re subsidizing people living out in sprawling, more vulnerable areas outside cities.”

    Fires aren’t the only problem here. Rainstorms over fire-denuded hillsides cause mudslides. Coastal cities expanding across their floodplains and onto barrier islands become more vulnerable to hurricanes and storm surges. Wide, low cities eventually cover land that was once agricultural. And when it comes to climate change, nothing is local; the carbon emitted by the sprawling urban agglomerations of the Eastern seaboard or the desert southwest exacerbates the climate-driven problems of the coasts.

    The red in boxes 3 and 4 show new WUI in Santa Rosa, California and Gaitlinburg, Tennessee in 2010. Both places experienced wildfires in the last two years.

    Radeloff et al./SILVIS Lab/University of Wisconsin-Madison

    The hills, the forests, the edge of the desert—these are beautiful places. “I understand why people like to live there. In some places they’re the most expensive places to live, like Southern California, but in other places the dense urban areas are not affordable for many folks,” Radeloff says. “There’s a lot of money to be made by building there. My gut feeling is that people know it’s a problem, but walking away from those economic opportunities is hard.”

    In cities across the country, interest groups, activists, and residents are arguing about the construction of infill housing, working on ways to make cities denser, more walkable, more oriented toward transit instead of cars. If you’re the kind of person who likes cities, all those things make cities more likable. They also reduce carbon emissions, which in the end helps keep those cities safe (among other good outcomes). The late-20th century mode of city-building—unplanned, foaming metastasis around big-box stores—is no way to build a fortress. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

    Fires on the Land

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    Process of Elimination

    Karl Campbell is a craftsman bedeviled by bad tools. He’s a middle-aged, medium-size, muscular Australian with a five-day beard and an intense gaze who seems perpetually coiled, even angry, when at rest. He’s smiling and relaxed only when his body is in motion—preferably fixing something, building something, or killing something.

    His craft—and his mission—is saving as many endangered species as he can, in what he reckons the most effective way. It’s a grueling job by which he creates life out of death, preventing the catastrophe of irreversible extinction with a tide of blood. He kills goats and rats and other human-­introduced animals that threaten rare island creatures, but his tools—traps, long-range rifles, and poisons—are brutal, deployable only on a small scale and wildly indiscriminate. To excise the rat, say, from an ecosystem requires a sledgehammer that falls on many species.

    Ecology is complex, even on tiny islands, and things don’t always go according to plan. In 2012, for instance, Campbell, who works for an organization called Island Conservation, helped round up the 60 Galapagos hawks that lived on Pinzón Island, a steep volcanic nubbin in the Galapagos chain, so they wouldn’t eat the rats that Campbell was about to poison. But when the rare raptors were released back into the wild after a couple of weeks, they began dropping like flies. It turned out the poison was lurking in lava lizards—hawk prey.

    Campbell is now preparing for an even riskier maneuver: using a fiercely potent poison for the complete obliteration of rats on a 70-square-mile Galapagos island called Floreana. The island was once home to a chocolate-brown bird with a perky tail called the Floreana mockingbird, but the rats eat its eggs and chicks, so the bird remains on only a couple of islets. Once the rats are gone, the mockingbird could be brought back to the place for which it was named. The rats’ destruction will be brought about by a carpet-­bombing of lethal pellets: Some 300 tons of poisoned cereal will be dumped from helicopters, enough to kill every rat on the island. The problem is that 150 people and their farm animals also live on Floreana.

    On a cool and sunny Monday last August, Campbell and I hopped in a local farmer’s battered Toyota Land Cruiser and headed for the highlands of Floreana. Rats are no friends to farmers either, and Campbell pointed to some corn in Claudio Cruz’s fields that had been nibbled away by sharp rodent teeth. Cruz had stacked two bright-red shipping containers up on blocks—one a gift from Island Conservation, one he bought himself. They will be used to store uncontaminated animal feed when the poison comes, tentatively in 2020. Island Conservation will also build coops, sties, and stables for the island’s chickens, pigs, and horses. It will buy sentinel pigs that will live outside the sties and be slaughtered at intervals so their livers can be tested for poison. The other pigs won’t be able to emerge until the sentinel pigs’ livers are clear. This might take three years. Parents will have to keep close watch over small children lest they eat pellets off the ground. Scores of native animals—likely including finches and short-eared owls—will be captured and held in aviaries both on and off the island. Campbell expects it will take 10 years and $26 million to clear this small island of rats.

    All this is why Campbell has begun pushing for research into a much more precise and effective tool—one you might not associate with nature-loving conservationists. Self-­perpetuating synthetic genetic machines called gene drives could someday alter not just one gene or one rat or even a population of rats but an entire species—of rats, mosquitoes, ticks, or any creature. And this biological technology promises to eliminate these destructive animals without shedding a drop of blood. So Campbell has spent the past few years dividing his time between old-fashioned killing and traveling the world to pitch the gene drive approach to ecologists, ethicists, and prospective donors. He’s not alone in his enthusiasm. Institutions from the US military’s research agency to the Gates Foundation to the government of New Zealand are looking to gene drives as possible solutions for big problems (malaria, Lyme disease, species extinction). But the methods also contain the threat of unleashing another problem: They could change species, populations, and ecosystems in unintended and unstoppable ways.

    Karl Campbell is looking for a better method than poisons to eradicate island rats.

    Jake Stangel

    When Linda Cayot, project coordinator for a Galapagos-based restoration program called Project Isabela, picked Campbell for an internship with the organization back in the late 1990s, she recalls that one of his virtues was a “certain macho army roughness.” Campbell had learned to shoot firearms and repair vehicles in the Australian Army Reserve. He’d spent a few weeks volunteering to catch and arrest antelope poachers in Malawi. He was well suited to the demands of the work on the islands: Once he slashed open his thumb and had a friend stitch it up in the field; another time he came back from a visit to a remote volcano with most of the skin on his feet peeling off. He didn’t bother to mention it.

    Perhaps because of his disdain for comfort, Campbell thrived in the harsh volcanic landscape of the Galapagos, with its strange and wonderful wildlife. Because humans, with their talent for destruction, found these volcanic islands so late in history, 95 percent of the original and unique species remain. There are giant tortoises, marine iguanas that shoot salt snot from their nostrils, and waved albatrosses that glide on 8-foot-wide wings, eyes like black tapioca balls.

    When humans did establish permanent residency on the islands, starting in 1805, they brought beasts of burden, animals for meat, and the clever and voracious rat, hidden in the holds of their ships. The animals of the Galapagos, like island species everywhere, had let down their defenses over evolutionary time and simply could not cope with these bulldozing newcomers. Some had lost their ability to fly away; some had taken up nesting on the ground, with their eggs out in the open; perhaps most dangerously, they had lost their fear. Even when invaders didn’t eat the native fauna, they did damage in other ways. On the Galapagos, goats ate so many plants that one estimate claimed that 60 percent of the Galapagos’ 194 endemic plants were threatened with extinction—not to mention the islands’ giant tortoises, which were starving to death with no plants to eat.

    For Project Isabela, Campbell shot goats with semiautomatic rifles, mostly from helicopters, occasionally on foot with dogs. But he quickly recognized the imperfection of these methods. He came up with a strategy for inducing sexual receptivity in females in order to lure other goats out of hiding, round them up, and shoot them. The resulting “Mata Hari” goats were a big success and propelled Campbell to a kind of fame, but he dismisses the technique as a mere “incremental innovation.” He was looking for a “transformative innovation.”

    In 2006 Campbell went to work for Island Conservation, taking his skills beyond the Galapagos. He has helped rid San Nicolas Island, in California, of feral cats; Choros Island, Chile, of rabbits; and Desecheo Island, Puerto Rico, of rhesus macaques. But every eradication is a grind, and Campbell is vexed by the scale of the problem: There are 465,000 islands on Earth, home to 41 percent of endangered land vertebrates, and most of the islands with endangered species also have introduced species on them. “We are barely scratching the surface,” Campbell says.

    Then, in 2011, Campbell stumbled upon an idea that smelled like the transformative innovation he had been looking for.

    An entomologist at North Carolina State University named Fred Gould had written a paper positing that genetic engineering techniques that had been used with insects were ripe for deployment in other troublesome species like rodents. (Along with driving island species extinct, rats and mice eat enough rice each year to feed 180 million people, and they transmit Lyme disease and hantavirus.) Scientists could use genetic engineering to favor certain traits, Gould pointed out, and push them through wild populations. Normally, for any given gene that comes in different types, an offspring has a 50 percent chance of inheriting the mother’s version and a 50 percent chance of inheriting the father’s version. But some genes have naturally evolved a way to cheat this system—if one parent has the gene an offspring has a virtually 100 percent chance of inheriting that version. That mysterious cheat code is called a gene drive, and if scientists could engineer a synthetic gene drive, they could spread a desired trait through a population and down through generations. To eradicate rats on an island, you might push a gene for infertility that would cause a population to crash once it reached a certain prevalence—no poisons necessary. The rodents would simply fade away, like heirless lords.

    Campbell invited himself for a visit to Gould’s lab in Raleigh. As you do, Gould turned to the internet to figure out who Campbell was. “I was just shocked,” Gould says. “If you look at the Island Conservation website it is all woodsy-greensy.” A lot of passionate environmentalists are opposed to genetic engineering. Gould asked Campbell, “Do you know what you are getting into?”

    Campbell did. But he didn’t care that other conservationists considered genetic engineering too risky to attempt and too unnatural to countenance. He wanted to stop extinctions. Gould liked the man’s pragmatism.

    Gould’s ideas were theoretical. But in 2012 the prospect of making the theoretical real suddenly got a lot better with the discovery of the Crispr technique, a new way to edit genes quickly, cheaply, and precisely. With Crispr, any DNA sequence could be precisely cut and pasted into any location in any genome.

    Kevin Esvelt invented the synthetic gene drive—and then got worried about its potential power.

    Guido Vitti

    About two years later, Kevin Esvelt, a geneticist then at Harvard University, put gene drives and Crispr together. Instead of poking a big fat glass needle loaded up with synthetic DNA into every organism that you want to change, you do it once, with a gene drive that encodes not only the gene you want (or the deactivation of the gene you don’t want) but also instructions to do that same manipulation with the Crispr technique in another genome. So when your altered organism mates, its chromosome gets to work, engineering the chromosome inherited from the mate too. This guarantees that the offspring has the desired change, plus the instructions to make the desired change.

    When the offspring reaches maturity and mates, the process repeats. In a perfect “global” gene drive, 100 percent of offspring have the gene drive carrying the desired trait.

    The possibility was a tantalizing one for conservation. You could start thinking way bigger than Floreana: the Galapagos island of Santa Cruz, with its 12,000 people. Or, hell, Australia—Campbell’s home country, a massive island with dozens of species endangered largely because of introduced cats and foxes. You could fix every island in the world.

    The idea of using gene drives to save species began to hum. Campbell helped organize people from Island Conservation and researchers in the United States, Australia, and New Zealand, as well as the United States Department of Agriculture, to research the approach. The group formalized as the Genetic Biocontrol of Invasive Rodents program, or GBIRd. In June 2016, Paul Thomas, a mouse geneticist from the University of Adelaide, Australia, visited Gould in North Carolina and got fired up. Thomas felt that his lab could be the place to figure out how to make a synthetic gene drive work in rodents. If he could succeed in lab mice, he could succeed with the wild mice and rats that eat the eggs and young of rare species on islands. Thomas joined GBIRd.

    When I visited Paul Thomas’ lab in Adelaide in August, I accompanied a grad student named Chandran Pfitzner to the mouse rooms. Before entering, we put on blue suits, hair nets, and masks. Pfitzner sprayed down my notebook with antiseptic and led me down a warm, hushed hallway to a room full of plexiglass mouse boxes on racks. The rooms were surprisingly quiet, almost muffled, with the merest undertone of animals burrowing and gnawing. The research mice were tiny and smelled like sweet sawdust and salt. Pfitzner, consulting his notes on the cracked screen of his phone, plucked one up by the tail, grabbed a tiny hole punch, and awkwardly excised a tiny circle of skin out of its ear. The mouse didn’t make a sound.

    This mouse was created in another building on campus. There, a fertilized egg was pierced with a glass needle and injected with the necessary ingredients for overriding the random chance of inheritance: the molecular “scissors” used in Crispr engineering, a guiding molecule that tells it where to cut, and a promoter to activate the scissors in the right tissues (see “How to Kill Off a Species, Nicely”). In this case, the Crispr-­snipped gene was not for infertility but for coat color. The idea was to make the synthetic gene drive work first for a trait for which it is easy to check the results of at a glance. If the drive was working, the mouse would be albino. Instead, it was a rather lovely taupe. Pfitzner put the mouse back in the box.

    After we left the mouse room and stripped off our protective gear, Pfitzner popped the little piece of ear skin under a microscope. He wanted to see if the elements of the gene drive were in place. The scientists also had inserted fluorescent proteins next to the “scissors” and other components, and the mouse flesh glowed with two colors, maraschino-cherry red and a neon green, under an inverted fluorescence microscope. All the pieces were there, but the taupe coat was proof that the elements weren’t functioning.

    Out of 30 mice, Thomas and Pfitzner did get three dark-gray mice with patches and sprays of white, suggesting that the drive worked in some, but not all, of their cells. “It is early days,” Thomas said, gazing rather forlornly at a picture of a mosaic mouse that he printed out for me. Science is a long haul, but Thomas has no doubt his team will crack the code. It’s simply a matter of time. He expects the coat-color gene drive to function in the lab by about 2020, and one that could cause infertility shortly thereafter.

    Thomas and some colleagues in applied math modeled how long it would take to eradicate an island mouse population of 50,000 by introducing just 100 mice engineered with an infertility gene drive. The answer was less than five years.

    In the tiny ear-punched mouse, then, was the seed of an unprecedented possibility—that humans could not just change a few mice in an Australian lab but permanently alter all mice, everywhere. The 30-gram wriggler portends a kind of power over nature we’ve never had before: an ability to edit—or to delete—whole species.

    This potential means that Thomas is taking special precautions. He understands that it could be perilous to the environment—and would certainly be perilous for public relations—should a mouse with a drive toward albinism or infertility escape its plexiglass box and start mating with the free mouse population. So the first thing he did was create a dedicated line of mice for these experiments. Thomas’ gene drive will only activate in the presence of a unique chunk of bacterial DNA that was engineered into the hole-punched mouse and its companions. That way, if one of these little mice slips out into the hills around Adelaide and mates with a house mouse, the gene drive won’t kick in.

    Paul Thomas holds one of the lab mice engineered for his gene drive experiments.

    Andrew Cowen

    A new microscope in Thomas’ lab, which is trying to create a mouse that breeds itself into oblivion.

    Andrew Cowen

    About five minutes after Kevin Esvelt invented Crispr gene drives, he freaked out about them. The technology could do plenty of good by preventing the transmission of horrible diseases and controlling animal populations without any killing. But it could also—if used prematurely, greedily, or unilaterally­—drive species extinct and destroy public trust in science.

    Cerebral, willowy Esvelt is now a professor at MIT and looks as much like an indoor person as Campbell looks like an outdoor one. When asked about the promise and peril of his intellectual creation, he brings up Boo, his rescue cat, who lost the tip of its ear to frostbite before being taken in. He envisions a future when a local gene drive could reduce feral cat populations, much in the way that Campbell wants to reduce rats on islands. “The thought of feral kittens freezing and starving to death is just viscerally painful for me,” he says.

    Note that he uses the term “local” gene drive. One of his responses to his freak-out was to come up with ways of containing synthetic gene drives to a set number of generations. He calls one approach a “daisy chain,” which would add a sequence of genetic drivers that must be in place to propel the desired gene change. The first driver in the chain is inherited normally, so when it dies out, the gene drive does too. Tweaking the number of drivers in the chain could theoretically allow you to match the size of the population of creatures you want to get rid of on an island.

    This daisy-chain method is still being tested in the lab, and Esvelt feels that, barring attempts to tackle global health crises like malaria, no one should try a gene drive in the wild until there is a proven local drive. This past November, Esvelt cowrote an essay in PLOS Biology in which he responded to New Zealand’s interest in using gene drives to eliminate introduced predators like rats, stoats, and Australian possums. He called the basic version of a gene drive unsuitable for conservation purposes and warned against its cavalier deployment. “Do we want a world in which countries and organizations routinely and unilaterally alter shared ecosystems regardless of the consequences to others?” he wrote.

    Esvelt has the same concerns about GBIRd’s early and enthusiastic interest in exploring gene drive technology. GBIRd recently said that its members intend to pursue a “precision drive” approach, in which the drive would work only on animals with a specific genetic sequence—kind of like the fail-safe system Thomas is currently using in the lab, but relying on naturally occurring genes rather than introduced bacterial ones. Researchers would have to locate a DNA sequence found only on the target island and nowhere else, a prospect Esvelt thinks is unlikely. “There is a high chance it won’t work out and they are building up hope,” he says. On larger islands, there would be too many genes coming and going from other places for a perfect sequence.

    Although Esvelt supports species conservation, he believes ethical priority must be given to preventing human and animal suffering. “The risk is that you could potentially cause a tragedy in the form of an accidental spread that would delay the introduction of a gene drive to stop malaria,” Esvelt says. “Sorry, I don’t care about endangered species that much.”

    But he says he wants GBIRd to carry on—as openly and carefully as possible, and in consultation with the public—because he does care about the suffering of the invasive animals. The poisons that Island Conservation and other environmental groups typically use on rodents cause a horrible death. The rats bleed from internal organs and sometimes their eyes, nose, gums, and other orifices in the course of about six ­agony-filled days.

    Esvelt himself is working on a project to disrupt the cycle of Lyme disease on Nantucket, Massachusetts. The people on the island objected to using a gene drive, so the current plan Esvelt helped develop would simply swamp the local Lyme-susceptible mice with up to 100,000 mice engineered to be Lyme and tick resistant. The hope is that the resistance genes will spread far enough in the population to make a difference. He is willing to let the community set the pace.

    Three hundred twenty-five miles north of Thomas’ lab in Adelaide is a remote conservation research station called Arid Recovery, where another experiment to save endangered species is going on—this one with no lab mice at all. It is a forbidding landscape: 30,000 acres of red dunes dotted with tough, thorny scrub and divided into huge fenced enclosures stocked with Australian animals, most of which are on the verge of extinction because they are eaten by human-introduced cats and foxes.

    It is so dry in the conservation area that everything left behind simply sits on the sand, seemingly forever, from dead wood to neatly knapped stone tools to the bones of a burrowing bettong (or boodie), something like a cat-sized kangaroo with a huge spherical rump. While the red sand outside the reserve shows prints of rabbits and cats, the dunes inside are inscribed with indigenous tracks: the long heart-shaped back feet of the boodie, the sideways V of the Western barred bandicoot, the distinctive toenail marks of the greater bilby.

    Katherine Mosebey, an ecologist who cofounded the reserve, spent years getting rid of the foxes and cats from these fenced areas so the native animals could thrive. Now she is adding a few cats back into some of the swept-clean areas. The idea is to get the boodies and bilbies used to the cats, so that someday they can be released beyond the fence and not be instantly obliterated by predators they do not know how to fear.

    The experiment has been running for just a few years, but already the bettongs that have to deal with cats are noticeably more wary. On a starry September night, I went out with the three scientists behind this project: Moseby; Mike Letnic, of the University of New South Wales in Sydney; and Daniel Blumstein, of UCLA. We drove in a Toyota HiLux, and Letnic pointed a bright hand-held spotlight out the window. In the 10-square-mile area with the cats, boodies scampered out of the way of the dusty pickup, their butts like furry bouncing balls. Letnic seemed worried that there were too many cats; the eyes of the feral felines shone in the spotlight, and the night seemed full of them. One agile tabby leaped over a saltbush, disappearing behind a dune. If too many cats reproduce in the enclosure, all the native species will be killed. If there aren’t enough, the natives won’t adapt. It is a delicate balance.

    As we passed into the smaller cat-free zone, the boodies seemed noticeably more dim-witted. Several times the truck was forced to stop while someone got out and tried to herd them out of our way. Letnic ran at a couple who gazed at him with mild interest. As he approached, they began running companionably along with him, the man and marsupials looking like three friends out for a jog. In the end, Letnic had to nudge them off the road with the side of his foot. Outside the fence, they would be cat snacks by now.

    The difference between these naive animals and the marginally more wary bettongs in the enclosure next door represents learning, but the team is also interested in using the cats as a kind of evolutionary filter. Smarter, faster, bigger, warier bettongs will survive the cats’ wiles and predations, and reproduce. Over the generations, they should become able to coexist with cats.

    “It might take 100 years,” Moseby says.

    Moseby is working with simple tools—cats, fences, radio collars, and traps—but she’s tentatively interested in the genetic tools on the horizon. A gene drive, if it works, could leapfrog 100 years of learning and evolution and death at the sharp end of a cat’s teeth.

    Human-introduced predators have nearly driven the Floreana mockingbird to extinction.

    Paula Castano/Island Conservation

    Karl Campbell came to the Galapagos as an immigrant and found a home there. He married an Ecuadorian jewelry designer, and they have a daughter. Local people accept him, according to his old boss, Felipe Cruz, formerly deputy executive director of the Charles Darwin Foundation. “People appreciate that he is not one of the passing-by experts.”

    Yet his work there hasn’t been without its critics. There were all those dead hawks on Pinzón Island, for instance. Just a dozen of the birds nest there now. But Campbell points out that baby tortoises have been born—the first in more than 150 years—and he counts the effort on the plus side of the ledger. If a small percentage of native animals die, that’s fine with him, because that’s better than 100 percent going extinct.

    Campbell insists that he and GBIRd are committed to being careful and deliberate. Pretty much voicing Esvelt’s exact fear, he says, “If you screw it up the first time around, you might put it back 30 years.” In the meantime, he waits and keeps poisoning things, hoping to stave off extinctions and make the islands safe for species that remain.

    After visiting the farm on Floreana, Campbell and I had a beer on the beach, watching the sun set. From where we sat, we could see the grave, round heads of sea turtles as they popped above the waves to breathe. Down at the point, sea lions lolled on the sand and crimson Sally Lightfoot crabs scuttled over jet-black lava rocks. The ocean was apricot and silver. Campbell told me that there used to be a crazy-­looking turtle genus on Vanuatu—“with a clubbed tail with spikes.” They all went extinct in the first few hundred years after people discovered the island, 3,000 years ago. Humans have been driving things to extinction for a long time. We know how to do that without even thinking. We have less practice dragging them back from the brink.


    More on Gene Editing


    Emma Marris, the author of Rambunctious Garden, writes about nature from Oregon.

    This article appears in the March issue. Subscribe now.

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    Want Awesome Robots? You’ll Have to Best These Challenges

    We are living in the midst of a profound technological restructuring of human society. The machines that once only frolicked in science fiction have begun to infiltrate our lives. If you don't already work alongside a robot, you may in the near future. Self-driving cars promise to transform our roads, and the first truly sophisticated robots have begun laboring in hospitals and construction sites and even Walmart.

    But behind the autonomous revolution is a mountain of problems. Well, challenges, if you want to be more optimistic. To that end, a panel of roboticists have laid out the 10 biggest challenges for the field in the journal Science Robotics, challenges that touch on a fascinating array of fields. New motors from electrical engineers, new materials from the materials scientists, and even ethical guidelines from the social scientists. Where exactly the robot revolution is headed is unclear, but what’s certain is that it will impact a slew of scientific disciplines.

    “We want to use this as the starting point for such a diverse field of research to bring people together to think different,” says lead author Guang-Zhong Yang, a roboticist at Imperial College London.

    Yang et al.

    Body of Work

    Let’s start with the physical stuff, the hardware. The panel didn’t worry itself with the challenges of specific kinds of robots, like humanoids or collaborative robots. “This was done intentionally,” says Yang, “because we sometimes pay too much attention to embodiments rather than thinking more fundamentally how we can do differently, how we can learn from nature, how we can use new materials.”

    Robots are still for the most part the stilted, unfeeling, kinda stuttering machines, largely because of the limitations of materials. But that’s beginning to change. For one, robots are getting cuddlier. In the aptly named field of soft robotics, engineers are developing squishy machines that, for instance, use the flow of oil to change shape. This could lead to robots that are far safer for humans to work with. First, though, engineers will have to overcome challenges like making sure soft robots can heal themselves if punctured. At the moment, one particular soft robotic hand can heal itself fine, but only when someone applies heat for 40 minutes. Ideally a robot would do this on its own at room temperature.

    This is particularly important when taking inspiration from what nature has already proved works, known as biomimicry. If you want to replicate a human hand, for instance, you may want to develop a soft material that's gentle on real humans, yet can repair itself when damaged. And that's not even the half of it: The hand is a wildly complex instrument packed with muscles and tendons and tiny bones. How might roboticists replicate that to get robots to manipulate with the skill of humans? Well, copying the thing bit-for-bit probably isn't the answer. The challenge, then, is getting dexterity that rivals the human hand without all the intricacy.

    Another good example of biomimicry is a robot named Cassie, which looks like a disembodied pair of bird legs. What’s interesting here is that Cassie’s creators never said, “Oh, bird legs, let’s replicate that.” They worked out what was mathematically most efficient, and that just so happens to look like bird legs. Still, though, the challenge for robots that replicate nature, especially humanoid machines, is also replicating the unparalleled energy efficiency of biological beings. And if you want to mimic something as small as an ant, good luck getting it to move with traditional motors, known as actuators, which tend to be super bulky.

    One way around that problem could be thinking of robots less as one-off actors but parts of a distributed whole. Think tiny robots that work together to, say, construct complex structures. Or agricultural robots that collaborate to harvest. That means figuring out how to engineer machines that may be just a few millimeters long.

    Back to School, Back to School, to Prove to Humans That I'm Not a Fool

    Of course, building tiny interconnected bots also requires algorithms that can coordinate hundreds, if not thousands of machines—which brings us to the software side of the challenges for robotics. While AI is making great strides in the purely digital space, embodying AI is a whole different story.

    For instance, an algorithm can quickly teach itself new skills like recognizing objects by trial and error, known as reinforcement learning. But try to make a robot teach itself something like how to complete a children’s puzzle, and the trial and error could take way longer than the rapid iteration allowed for in a purely virtual world. So going forward, the challenge will be getting robots to manipulate novel objects in the real world.

    Robots have gotten a lot better at that, as sensors like lidar have become both more powerful and less expensive. Still, robots regularly fall into fountains and nearly run down dogs on sidewalks. So that bears improving.

    And that's to say nothing about how the robots get along with humans. Perhaps the most fascinating challenges facing robotics have to do with how humans will interact with the machines, a field known as human-robot interaction. It seems straightforward—stay out of each other’s way, help a robot up if it falls over, etc.—but it gets tricky, fast. Last year, for instance, a security robot got into trouble for allegedly harassing homeless people in San Francisco.

    On the other end of the spectrum, what kinds of bonds will we form with the machines, both emotionally and physically? What if manufacturers exploit these bonds to, say, convince children to buy ever-more-sophisticated robotic dolls? Can you truly love a robot if it is incapable of loving you back? Ethically speaking, the robotic future looks kinda confusing.

    Surely, the majority of human-robot interactions will be more innocent, and indeed they’ll be the norm for many industries. Surgeons already work with robots like the da Vinci system, but in the future the challenge will be handing more and more responsibilities to the machines to do tedious tasks like stitching wounds. That means a truly delicate dance of human-robot interaction, a surgeon working right alongside machines without anyone getting in each other’s way.

    Really, who isn’t going to be involved in robotics in the near future? “If you look at our 10 challenges,” says Yang, “you have materials from materials science, the power from electronic engineering, and the navigation control from computer science, hardware systems from biology.” Oh, and ethicists, and neuroscientists for the brain interfaces, and security folks to make sure your new humanoid robot doesn’t get hacked and go on a rampage. It’s shaping up to be a real family affair.

    Read more: http://www.wired.com/

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