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People who write obscurely are either unskilled in writing or up to mischief.
—Peter Medawar
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I once helped a theologian organize a science-and-religion conference. We selected familiar topics—creation, natural theology, biblical interpretation, origin of life—and assigned them to theologians paired with scientists. We wanted to promote interdisciplinary conversation to ease widespread misunderstanding about science and religion.
The meeting unfolded with alternating presentations—religion, science, religion, science—that were strikingly different. The scientists delivered informal presentations, with visual aids, and made use of helpful analogies. Few wore ties. Biologist Darrel Falk, to take one example, created a great analogy using a multi-generational family photo album to show how pseudo-genes establish common ancestry. (The analogy went on to form the basis for chapter 6 in his acclaimed Coming to Peace with Science.) The science squad all took great pains to deliver accessible, popular-level, presentations.
The presentations of the religion scholars were quite different. There were no visual aids. Presenters read papers filled with insider jargon. They made limited eye contact with their audience. They were clearly talking to each other and not to the rest of us. They were also, for the most part, boring. And they all wore ties.
What was going on here? Religion scholars are the caretakers of our most precious knowledge, and yet they seemed lost when asked to share that knowledge with people outside their field. Why were their presentations so different from those of their counterparts from the scientific community?
I was reminded of this puzzle as I read The Oxford Book of Modern Science Writing, an imposing new anthology containing more than 80 examples of "good writing by professional scientists," selected and introduced by that arch-villain Richard Dawkins. Much of the writing is indeed wonderful, filled with evocative imagery, poetic prose, and profound insights into nature. Dawkins, who quarreled with his editor over including any of his own writings in the generous volume (Dawkins won), is probably the most qualified person on the planet for such a task. He is exceptional in being a member of Britain's most élite scientific and literary societies, the Royal Society and the Royal Society of Literature.
The Royal Society, founded in 1660, numbers Isaac Newton among its early members. Current members include such luminaries as Stephen Hawking, James Watson, and John Polkinghorne. The Royal Society for Literature was founded by King George IV in 1820 to "reward literary merit and excite literary talent." When Dawkins signs the roll there he uses either Charles Dickens' quill or Lord Byron's pen and rubs shoulders with the likes of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, J.K. Rowling, and Umberto Eco. Very few scientists have been members of the Royal Society for Literature. This may make sense, as works of science are rarely classified as works of literature; and certainly scientists, who write more or less recreationally, dress like janitors, and have demanding day jobs in laboratories, are not likely to create that rarefied product called "Literature."
As C.P. Snow observed in his famous "Two Cultures" essay, a great gulf divides the traditional intellectual, who tends to be literary, and the scientist, who often is not. They live on separate planets, so to speak, and take very different courses in high school. They are readily distinguished by which section of the SAT they think is irrelevant. They may simply be unaware of each other—unless, as was the case with Dawkins, eloquent and provocative bestsellers put a scientist's name on the bestseller lists, where it can't help but get noticed, even by literati who might wonder what it is doing there.
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