(Read Along as the Book Is Written)
Evolution As It Was Meant To Be

And the Living Narratives That Tell Its Story
Stephen L. Talbott

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“Evolution As It Was Meant To Be — And the Living Narratives That Tell Its Story” is the tentative title of a book-in-progress whose chapters are being made available here (in draft form) as they are written. All this material is part of the Biology Worthy of Life Project. Copyright 2017-2019 The Nature Institute. All rights reserved.

For a summary treatment of certain themes of the book, see the article, Evolution As It Was Meant To Be — An Overview. To preview several paragraphs from the beginning of the article, click here: (show/hide).

Every organism is continually dying in order to live. Breaking-down activities are prerequisites for building up. Complex molecules are synthesized, only to be degraded later, with their constituents recycled or excreted. In multicellular organisms such as vertebrates, many cells must die so that others may divide, differentiate, and proliferate. Many cancers reflect a failure to counterbalance proliferation with properly directed death processes.

You and I have distinct fingers and toes thanks to massive cell death during development. The early embryo’s paddle-like hands give way to the more mature form as cells die and the spaces between our digits are “hollowed out”. In general, our various organs are sculpted through cell death as well as cell growth and multiplication. During development the body produces far more neurons than the adult will possess, and an estimated ninety-five percent of the cell population of the thymus gland dies off by the time the mature gland is formed.

Despite all this life and death, I doubt whether anyone would be tempted to describe the embryo’s cells as “red in tooth and claw”. Nor do I think anyone would appeal to “survival of the fittest” or natural selection as a fundamental principle governing what goes on during normal development. The life and death of cells appears to be governed, rather, by the developing form of the whole in which they participate.

But this has been a truth hard for biologists to assimilate, since it has no explanation in the usual causal sense. One way to register the problem is to ask yourself what you would think if I suggested that organisms in populations thrive or die off in a manner governed by the evolutionary outcome toward which they are headed — that the pattern of thriving and dying off becomes what it is, in some sense, because of that outcome. It is not a thought any evolutionist is likely to tolerate. But perhaps the occasional intrepid researcher will be moved to inquire: “Why not?” After all, we can also ask about the cells populating our bodies: do they thrive or die off in a manner governed by the forthcoming adult form? And here the answer appears to be a self-evident “yes”.

Perhaps, when we have come to accept what we see so clearly in individual development, we will find ourselves asking the “impossible” question about evolutionary development: Does natural selection really drive evolution, or is it rather that the evolving form of a species or population drives what we think of as natural selection? Are some members of an evolving species — just as with the cells of an embryo’s hands — bearers of the future, while other members, no longer being “fit” for the developing form of the species, die out?

What makes this idea seem outrageous is the requirement that inheritances, matings, interactions with predators, and various other factors in a population should somehow be coordinated and constrained along a coherent path of change. Unthinkable? But the problem remains: Why — when we see a no less dramatic, life-and-death, future-oriented coordination and constraint occurring within the populations of cells in your and my developing bodies — do we not regard our own development as equally unthinkable?

Once we are willing to consider them, “unthinkable” ideas may sometimes reveal profound truths. My thesis will be that when we look at how organisms realize their distinctive forms and ways of life — when we look at all the features of biological activity in general, without ignoring the inconvenient ones — we can recognize, in the facts we already have, that evolution has a living, well-organized, well-coordinated, well-directed character analogous to that of individual development. The conclusion isn’t even speculative. It requires no new or unexpected discoveries. It is simply what we find ourselves looking at, if we have not turned our eyes away.

This is not to say that the direction of evolution is owing either to an external guiding power, such as a breeder, or to a conscious “aiming” or planning. Rather, the evolutionary narrative arises from the agency and developmental powers of organisms and communities of organisms, as they express their own character and realize their potentials in the presence of the prevailing environmental challenges and opportunities.

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All the contents listed below are subject to change and reorganization, whether minor or major. This caveat extends to titles and even to the existence of particular chapters. I am discovering the proper shape of the book only as I write it. Please note: the currently available chapters may contain links to chapters not yet written — dead links.

Table of Contents

Preface

Part 1: The Life of Organisms

Chapter 1: Scenes of Life

Read the chapter introduction (+/-)

We in the twenty-first century have inherited a rich and extensive library of descriptive literature about living things, their habitats, and their mutual relations, bequeathed to us over the centuries by dedicated naturalists. Unfortunately, in this age of molecular biology and genetic preoccupation, the vocation of the naturalist has lost a great deal of the scientific prestige it once enjoyed. Today the biologist can easily pass through her schooling and into a pristine laboratory without ever having studied in its natural habitat the animal whose destiny she then proceeds to alter.

The narratives below, culled from various sources, afford only fragmentary glimpses of the larger panorama of life on earth. But they are enough to remind us of the “miracle” that life can so easily appear to be. The reminder is a useful one, especially if it stimulates us toward efforts of understanding that are not unduly constrained by the prevailing wisdom.

Chapter 2: The Organism’s Story

Read the chapter introduction (+/-)

Organisms are purposive (“teleological”) beings. Nothing could be more obvious. The fact of the matter is so indisputable that even those who don’t believe it really do believe it. Philosopher of biology Robert Arp speaks for biology as a whole when he writes,

Thinkers cannot seem to get around [evolutionary biologist Robert] Trivers’ claim that “even the humblest creature, say, a virus, appears organized to do something; it acts as if it is trying to achieve some purpose”, or [political philosopher Larry] Arnhart’s observation that … “Reproduction, growth, feeding, healing, courtship, parental care for the young — these and many other activities of organisms are goal-directed”.

And yet, despite his acknowledgment that we “cannot get around” this truth, Arp again speaks for almost the entire discipline of biology when he tries, with some delicacy, to take it all back: “with respect to organisms, it is useful to think as if these entities have traits and processes that function in goal-directed ways” (his emphasis). This as if is a long-running cliché, designed to warn us that the organism’s purposive behavior is somehow deceptive — not quite what it seems. The goal-directedness is, in the conventional terminology, merely apparent or illusory. Certainly it must not be seen as having any relation at all to human purposive activity — an odd insistence given how eager so many biologists are to make sure we never forget that the human being is “just another animal”.

Others have commented on this strange reluctance to acknowledge fully the purposiveness that is there for all to see. The philosopher of science, Karl Popper, said that “The fear of using teleological terms reminds me of the Victorian fear of speaking about sex”. Popper may have had in mind a famous remark by his friend and twentieth-century British evolutionary theorist, J. B. S. Haldane, who once quipped that “Teleology is like a mistress to a biologist; he cannot live without her but he’s unwilling to be seen with her in public”.

We find — and will later explore further — this same unwilling yet inescapable conviction of purposiveness at the foundations of evolutionary theory. The theory, we are often told, is supposed to explain away the organism’s purposes — “naturalize” them, as those who claim to speak for nature like to say. But at the same time the theory is itself said to be grounded solidly in the fact that organisms, unlike rocks, thunderstorms, and solar systems, struggle to survive and reproduce. If they did not spend their entire lives striving toward an end, or telos, in this way, natural selection of the fittest organisms (those best qualified to survive and reproduce) could not occur. So it is not at all clear how selection is supposed to explain the origin of such end-directed behavior.

This double stance — believing and not believing, acknowledging and explaining away — constitutes, you could almost say, the warp and woof of biology itself. Look for “purpose” in the index of any biological textbook, and you will almost certainly be disappointed. That term, along with others such as “meaning” and “value”, is effectively banned. There is something like a taboo against it. Yet, in striking self-contradiction, those textbooks are themselves structured according to the purposive activities, or tasks, of organisms. Biologists are always working to narrate goal-directed achievements. How is DNA replicated? How do cells divide? How does metabolism supply energy for living activity? How are circadian rhythms established and maintained? How do animals arrive at the evolutionary strategies or games or arms races through which they try to eat and avoid being eaten?

Such questions are endless, and their defining role is reflected on every page of every textbook on development, physiology or evolution. A research question is biological, as opposed to physical or chemical, only when it is posed in one way or another by the organism’s purposive, future-oriented activity. The puzzle is that the answers biologists are willing to offer, on the other hand, are rooted with equal consistency in the assumption that organisms have no purposes. The reigning conviction is that explanations of physical and chemical means effectively remove any need to deal scientifically with the ends that alone could have prompted our search for means in the first place.

My larger argument in this book will be that this conviction about the adequacy of physical and chemical descriptions is misbegotten, with devastating effects upon many fields of biological understanding, and particularly evolutionary theory. It hardly needs emphasizing that if organisms really are purposive beings — if the fact of purposive activity is not an illusion — then a biological science so repulsed by the idea of purpose that its practitioners must avert their eyes at the very mention of it ... well, it appears that these practitioners must feel threatened at a place they consider foundational. And with some justification, for admit to what they actually know about organisms would be to turn upside down and inside out much of the science to which they have committed their lives.

“Purpose” — an idea that will need careful qualification in different biological contexts — gives us but one of several intimately related avenues of approach to what is distinctive about the life of organisms. In the remainder of this chapter I will briefly sketch a few of these avenues.

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Chapter 3: What Brings Our Genome Alive?

Read the chapter introduction (+/-)

Throughout most of the twentieth century, genes were viewed as the “agents” responsible for an organism’s development, activity, and evolution. Their agency was said to lie in their ability to “regulate”, “organize”, “coordinate”, and “control” physiological processes. DNA, the bearer of these genes, became the “Book of Life” — the essential maker of organisms and driver of evolution. And this view remains stubbornly entrenched today, despite many changes in our understanding. A leading behavioral geneticist has recently written a book entitled, Blueprint: How DNA Makes Us Who We Are.

Nevertheless, the idea that genes are the decisive “first causes” of life — and, more generally, that molecules at the “bottom” ultimately explain everything that happens at larger scales — has come in for a great deal of criticism in recent years. This criticism, as we will see, is fully justified. But the issues can be subtle, as is suggested by an apparent paradox. Philosopher of biology Lenny Moss, who wrote the valuable book, What Genes Can’t Do, has remarked:

“Where molecular biology once taught us that life is more about the interplay of molecules than we might have previously imagined, molecular biology is now beginning to reveal the extent to which macromolecules [such as DNA], with their surprisingly flexible and adaptive complex behavior, turn out to be more life-like than we had previously imagined.”

In a similar vein, I myself wrote a decade ago:

Having plunged headlong toward the micro and molecular in their drive to reduce the living to the inanimate, biologists now find unapologetic life staring back at them from every chromatogram, every electron micrograph, every gene expression profile. Things do not become simpler, less organic, less animate. The explanatory task at the bottom is essentially the same as what we faced higher up.

But if all this is true, what are we to make of Harvard geneticist Richard Lewontin’s declaration, itself hardly disputable, that “DNA is a dead molecule, among the most nonreactive, chemically inert molecules in the living world. That is why it can be recovered in good enough shape to determine its sequence from mummies, from mastodons frozen tens of thousands of years ago, and even, under the right circumstances, from twenty-million-year-old fossil plants ... DNA has no power to reproduce itself. Rather it is produced out of elementary materials by a complex cellular machinery of proteins. While it is often said that DNA produces proteins, in fact proteins (enzymes) produce DNA ... Not only is DNA incapable of making copies of itself, aided or unaided, but it is incapable of ‘making’ anything else.”

Many astute observers have echoed Lewontin’s remarks, and I have never seen anyone question them, including those who remain enamored of the “Book of Life”. So which is it? When we peer at DNA, do we see a dead molecule or the secret of life? As it happens, there is a simple answer: if we are looking at a molecule conceived in the usual way as a bit of mindless, inherently inert stuff, then, according to our own conceptions, we see only dead stuff. But if we observe the molecule as a system of forces and energies capable of participating and being caught up in the creative life of the cell and organism, then we can hardly help recognizing — and perhaps even reverencing — the living performance unfolding before our eyes.

Saying this is one thing; making it both meaningful and profound is quite another — and that is one task of the present book. So let us begin.

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Chapter 4: The Sensitive, Muscular Cell

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Throughout a good part of the twentieth century, cell biologists battled over the question, “Which exerts greater control over the life of the cell — the cell nucleus or the cytoplasm?” From mid-century onward, however, the badge of imperial authority was, by enthusiastic consensus, awarded to the nucleus, and especially to the genes and DNA within it. “Genes make proteins, and proteins make us” — this has been the governing motto, despite both halves of the statement being false (which will become ever clearer as we proceed).

The question for our own day is, “Why would anyone think — as the majority of biologists still do — that any part of a cell must possess executive control over all the other parts?” We have already caught our first glimpse of the performances in the nucleus (see Chapter 3), and these hardly testify to domination by a single, controlling agent. Now we will broaden our outlook by making a first approach to the rest of the cell — the cytoplasm, along with its organelles and enclosing membrane.

It would be well to remind ourselves before we proceed, however, that, whatever else it may be, an organism is a physical being. Its doings are always in one way or another physical doings. This may seem a strange point to need emphasizing at a time when science is wedded to materialism. And yet, for the better part of the past century problems relating to the material coordination of biological activity were largely ignored while biologists stared, transfixed, into the cell nucleus. If they concentrated hard enough, they could begin to hear the siren call of a de-materialized, one-dimensional, informational view of life.

The idea of a genetic code and program proved compelling, even though the program was never found and the supposedly fixed code was continually rewritten by the cell in every phase of its activity. So long as one lay under the spell woven by notions of causally effective information and code, problems of material causation somehow disappeared from view, or seemed unimportant. And so, freed from “mere” material constraint, programmatic Information became rather like the Designer of the intelligent design advocates.

Surely, even if they are not the decisive causes usually imagined, genes do connect in some manner with the features they were thought one-sidedly to explain. But this just as surely means they must connect physically and meaningfully, via movements and transformations of substance testifying to an underlying narrative (Chapter 2) — not merely logically, through the genetic encoding of an imagined program. And what we saw in Chapter 3 about the significant movements and gesturings of chromosomes is only the beginning of the story.

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Chapter 5: Context: Dare We Call It Holism?

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The centrality of living wholes within biology seems beyond argument. These have not been “put together” or built by an external agency. They are never the results of a physical activity that starts with non-wholes. Biology gives us nothing but beings that have never existed except as wholes possesssing the formative powers that enable them to pass through further stages of physical development.

The one-celled zygote is already a functioning whole. It does not gain further cells through the addition of “building blocks” assembled by an engineer or designer, but rather through an internal power of reorganization and subdivision in which the entire organism participates. All the parts are orchestrated in a unified performance that yields new cells, and particular kinds of cells, just where they are needed. The orchestrating power of the whole can hardly be determined by the particular parts it is bringing into being and orchestrating.

Where the physicist may prefer unambiguous, isolated, and well-defined “point” causes, the biologist never has such causes to theorize about. A biological whole is never absolute, and never perfectly definable as distinct from its environment. Further, its actions are always multivalent, like the meaning of a sentence in a profound and complex text. Its activities interpenetrate one another, like the events of a story.

The wonderfully insightful twentieth-century botanist, Agnes Arber, captured well the polar tension between organic wholeness, on one hand, and contextual embeddedness, on the other:

The biological explanation of a phenomenon is the discovery of its own intrinsic place in a nexus of relations, extending indefinitely in all directions. To explain it is to see it simultaneously in its full individuality (as a whole in itself), and in its subordinate position (as one element in a larger whole.

Every ecological setting, every organism within that setting, every organ within the organism, and every cell within the organ is a whole providing a context for its own interrelated parts, and at the same time is itself contextually embedded within larger wholes. “Context”, “whole”, and “part” can never be rigid, absolute terms in biology. They are bound up with interweaving spheres of activity.

We need to gain some practice in thinking, not with the single, distinct point-causes of the physicist (or at least the classically minded physicist), but rather with the actual narrative qualities of biological activity. The perplexing issues surrounding attempts at holistic thought may thereby lend themselves more easily to our efforts at understanding.

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Chapter 6: All Genetics Is Epigenetics

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You and I harbor trillions of “sub-creatures” in our bodies. I am not referring to the microorganisms in our guts, but rather the cells we consider our own — the constituents of our muscles and brains, our livers and bones, our lenses and retinas. Each of these cells, embedded in its supportive environment, sustains a dauntingly complex and unique way of life. If we had first discovered such cells floating singly in a pool of water and had observed them through a microscope, we would have judged them to be distantly related organisms. Phenotypically (that is, in visible form and function) one cell type can differ from another as much as an amoeba differs from a paramecium.

All the cells in the human body have descended from a single cell (zygote) with a single genome. And just as hundreds of different cell types have arisen from that one zygote, so, too, have the multicellular, intricately organized entities we know as lung, heart, eye, kidney, and pancreas, along with all our other organs. Supremely interdependent as these are, each is nevertheless a functioning organic world of altogether distinctive character.

For the past century these facts of development have been thought to present a (largely ignored) problem for the gene-centered view of life. The developmental biologist Frank Lillie, who had directed the prestigious Marine Biological Laboratory at Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and would go on to become president of the National Academy of Sciences, remarked in 1927 on the contrast between “genes which remain the same throughout the life history” of an organism, and a developmental process that “never stands still from germ to old age”. In his view, “those who desire to make genetics the basis of physiology of development will have to explain how an unchanging complex can direct the course of an ordered developmental stream.”

This ordered developmental stream, of course, includes generation of the hundreds of different cell types in our bodies. It is hard to understand how a single genomic “blueprint” — or any other way of construing a fixed genetic sequence — could by itself provide the definitive causal basis for these hundreds of radically distinct ways of living. If the blueprint is compatible with all of them, do we have compelling grounds for thinking that it fundamentally determines any one type of cell, or organ, let alone all of them together? One might reasonably expect that other factors direct the developmental process toward particular outcomes of such different sorts.

A more balanced understanding arises when we watch how every cell displays its character through its life as a whole. That character, in all its qualitative richness, somehow seems decisive. DNA is caught up in a seamless and integral way of being. When we grasp this integral nature, we quickly realize that the idea of DNA as the crucial causal determinant of the whole is an impossible one. As a specific kind of liver cell passes through its developmental lineage, it must sustain its entire organization in a coherent and well-directed manner from one cell generation to the next — including, for example, the cytoskeletal and cell membrane organization described in Chapter 4. It must also bring about and orchestrate the elaborate performances of its chromosomes we saw in Chapter 3 — performances that are unique to this type of cell and that chromosomes themselves have no way to set in motion.

Every individual part, including DNA, is shaped by, and gives expression to, the character of a larger whole. As functional participants in diverse physiological processes, our genes do not in fact “remain the same throughout life”. They, like all parts of a cell or organism, gain their identity and meaning only within the context of innumerable, interpenetrating, living narratives (Chapter 2).

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Chapter 7: The Mystery of an Unexpected Coherence

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We heard in “The Organism’s Story” that living activity has a certain future-oriented (“purposive” or “intentional” or end-directed) character that is missed by causal explanations of the usual physical and chemical sort. This is true whether the end being sought is the perfection of adult form through development, or the taking of a prey animal for food.

An animal’s end-directed activity may, of course, be very far from what we humans know as conscious aiming at a goal. But all such activity nevertheless displays certain common features distinguishing it from inanimate proceedings: it tends to be persistent, so that it is resumed again and again after being blocked; it likewise tends to be adaptable, changing strategy in the face of altered circumstances; and the entire activity ceases once the end is achieved.

This flexible directedness — this interwoven play of diverse ends and means within an overall living unity — is what gives the organism’s life its peculiar sort of multi-threaded, narrative coherence. Life becomes a story. Events occur, not merely from physical necessity, but because they hold significance for an organism whose life is a distinctive pattern of significances.

The idea of narrative coherence, like the related idea of a governing context (Chapter 5), is a mystery for all attempts at purely physical explanation. This is why even the explicit acknowledgment of an organism’s striving for life — central as it may be for evolutionary theory — is discouraged whenever biologists are describing organisms themselves. It sounds too much as if one were invoking inner, or soul, qualities rather than material causes — acknowledging a being rather than a thing. And it is true that our physical laws, however combined, nowhere touch the idea of striving.

Biologists much prefer to identify single, definitive causes. The cell nucleus with its genome has long been viewed as the seat of such causation. But, as we saw in our discussion of epigenetics, the single-minded pursuit of genetic causes has forcibly redirected our attention to epigenetics, where we have discovered that genes are circumscribed and given their meaning by the narrative life of the entire cell and organism.

In what follows below we will consider this narrative coherence in a more detailed way — first, in relation to one of the many activities of the cell that can be considered under the heading of “epigenetics”. Then we will look more briefly at a startling phenomenon that, already on its face, renders absurd the idea of central genetic control. In both cases we will be focused on molecular-level activity, which is precisely where we have been most strictly trained to expect the absence of any coherence other than that of “blind mechanism”.

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Chapter 8: The Unmechanical Heart

About this chapter (+/-)

This chapter is not yet written. However, it will be based in part on an article I previously wrote entitled, “On Being Wholehearted”.

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Chapter 9: A Confusion of Causes

About this chapter (+/-)

This chapter is not yet written. For various earlier articles that touch on the problem of causation, see the Explanation / and causation entry in the Biology Worthy of Life topical index.

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Chapter 11: Form and Cause in Biology

About this chapter (+/-)

This chapter is not yet written. It will, however, be substantially based on this earlier article: “How Does an Organism Get Its Shape? The Causal Role of Biological Form

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Chapter 12: From Psyche to Soma and Back Again

Read the chapter introduction (+/-)

[This chapter has not been completed. The following is a draft introduction from the current version of the chapter.]

If every coherent context is bound together by thoughts or ideas (Chapter 5), who shall we say is thinking those thoughts? And if, as we saw in Chapter 2, an organism’s life possesses the purposiveness and directiveness of an ongoing narrative, where, if anywhere, must we look for the narrator? How does a story come about, and how are physical causes made to serve the interests, intentions, and strivings of the story’s protagonists?

Take a moment to look back at Scene 5, “Surgery is war”, and also the paragraph describing the reconnection of severed nerves in “The Organism’s Story”. The incomprehensibly complex damage inflicted upon cells and tissues in such cases is never exactly repeated in all of evolutionary history. Yet the injured organism, responding in the present moment to unique conditions and requirements, intelligently mobilizes whatever resources it may have at the time, and puts them to use. No one will dispute that the ensuing activity is directed toward restoring a dynamic form and functioning that the individual molecules and cells certainly cannot be said to “understand” or “have in view”.

Where then do we find the context and kind of activity that, in whatever sense we choose to think of it, does “have in view” this restorative aim — or, for that matter, can have any view at all? Not an easy question. Yet the achievement is repeatedly carried through; an ever-adaptive intelligence comes into play somehow, and all those molecules and cells are quite capable of participating in and being caught up in the play. We know that the goal of the activity is somehow and in some sense in view, because the organism’s physiological resources are reliably guided toward it.

It is a puzzle — and a puzzle that conventional biologists do not even address, insofar as they allow themselves to think only about physical “mechanisms” rather than the end-directed narratives, such as those of healing, that the physical activity is so wisely made to serve.

This entire book is intended to bring at least some elements of clarity to this puzzle. It will take considerable effort. I begin in this chapter by emphasizing readily identifiable aspects of consciousness that do not at all sit comfortably with the prevailing conviction that somehow or other the brain is the source of thinking and consciousness. Even more fundamentally, I will touch on the impossibility of dividing the world into two incongruent “substances” — mind and matter.

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Chapter 13: Biological Intention Just Is Collective Intention

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Chapter 14: Biological Thinking Without Vitalism

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Technical Supplement to Part 1

Supplement A: How Our Genes Come to Expression

This chapter has not yet been completed, but a draft introduction from the current version is available. Read the chapter introduction (+/-)

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Supplement B: The Nucleosome in the Middle

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Supplement C: Gene Regulation: A Partial Outline

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Following is the bare outline of a rather massive collection of notes I have haphazardly collected during the past decade from the technical literature on gene regulation. That collection is available under the title How the Organism Decides What to Make of Its Genes.

So why supply in this book the mere outline — the headings — under which those notes were collected? The main reason is that it gives the reader at least a vague sense for the remarkable variety of means (more than 250 major topics are listed below) by which the cell and organism decisively determine how their genes shall be used. Here I have in mind not only the general reader (who deserves to be spared all the technical details), but also the molecular biologist and geneticist. For I have found, rather to my surprise, that even these latter tend to be so narrowly focused on their own specialities that they have no clear idea of the full breadth of gene regulatory activity.

You will find various caveats about the original document at the link given above.

A special tip: much of the technical language found here can easily be looked up in the glossary, which you may want to keep open in a separate window as you browse the descriptions below.

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Supplement D: Is the Submicroscopic World Understandable?

About this chapter (+/-)

This chapter is not yet written. I expect it to play off this 1990 paper by Guenter Albrecht-Buehler.

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[Several additional chapters in Part 1, not shown here, will be interleaved with the chapters listed above. Many of the chapters in Part 2 (of which the list below is only a partial sampling) will not be posted for some time. The best way to get a preliminary feel for their content is to read Evolution As It Was Meant To Be: An Overview.]

Part 2: The Evolution of Organisms

Chapter 15: Evolution Writ Small

Chapter 16: Development Writ Large (1)

Chapter 17: Development Writ Large (2)

Chapter 18: Is Natural Selection a Theory of Everything — Or Nothing?

Chapter 19: What Sort of Mutational Stability Is Required for Evolutionary Change?

Chapter 20: Intentional Evolution

End Matter

Glossary

About the Author

Index


Steve Talbott :: Evolution As It Was Meant To Be