I
last
saw
John Maynard Smith speak in public in May 2002, to a packed lecture
theatre in the Arts buildings at Sussex University. A local outcry had
arisen about race and science: a Sussex professor of computer science
had posted material on his website arguing that racial feelings are
innate. Maynard Smith was one of a number of speakers on the panel at
the meeting which was called to discuss how the university should
respond.
The
occasion
was a dispiriting one. Nobody actually called for the
professor to be silenced, but many of the speakers seemed to feel that
the professor's views should be suppressed one way or another; some
called for his dismissal. John Maynard Smith's contribution was in a
different register to all the others. He presented a clear and simple
critique of the arguments made in the offending article. There was
certainly no question that nature has selected tendencies that
encourage individuals to favour close kin, he said, noting the
"disturbing" evidence among humans that stepchildren suffer higher
rates of abuse than do biological children. But he was sceptical that
nature would select hostile feelings for people who look different from
oneself. "If you do the sums," he said, using a favourite expression of
his, genetic differences would not produce the effects the article had
claimed. He added that there was no reason to believe that the gap in
IQ scores between black and white Americans, to which the article had
also referred, was genetic in origin. (JMS was not impressed by IQ
theory, which revolves around the idea of a factor called g, referring
to general intelligence - or by those he felt overstated its
explanatory power, whom he called "g groupies".) And he insisted that
even if something was natural, it was "nonsense" to say that it was
inevitable.
It
was
hard
to tell what impression his comments had made, for they were not
taken up by other speakers. Many of those present would probably have
been unaware how apt it was that Maynard Smith was there to speak on
the subject; that he was not only Britain's senior evolutionary
biologist, but nearly forty years previously had been among the first
to appreciate new ideas about 'kin selection' which have since
transformed evolutionary theory. Perhaps other speakers felt that he
had said all that needed to be said on the science. But it seemed that
for many, the truth or likelihood of the claims was not the point.
Two
hours
went
by; Maynard Smith looked tired and strained. Yet when his turn
came to make some final observations, he spoke with grace and
generosity, praising some of the contributions and promising to think
about them. The phrase 'elder statesman' comes readily to mind when one
thinks about his place in evolutionary biology; and on this occasion he
behaved as one. He left his audience with a good-humoured but trenchant
statement of principle. There was, he said, a need to defend unpopular
views, and added that if sociobiological professors were not to be
allowed to speak, the University would have had to sack him.
By
that
stage
my own feelings about the debate had given way to a growing
unease that there was something more seriously amiss with JMS than the
burden of the afternoon upon a man of 82. I went up to him afterwards
and asked him how he was. "If you want to have a serious talk with me,
you'd better make it quick," he said. He explained that he had been
given a grave medical diagnosis. His time was being called.
It
wasn't
a
surprise in itself - apart from his age, I had thought something was
up for a while - but the degree of the shock was a surprise. Refusing
to take the hint from the passing years, John Maynard Smith had carried
on going into work every day, continuing his researches, taking his
colleagues to the pub at lunchtime, inspiring his juniors with his kind
and keen interest. Latterly I had shared a little of this, as I met him
and interviewed him for a biographical book about evolutionism and
England. He seemed to defy time not by maintaining the past, but by
being utterly contemporary. When the news came it seemed unfair,
despite the calendar, because it seemed as though he would die young.
I
decided
then
that I would write about that wretched day, on which he had given
up time that, just a week before, he had learned he might have little
left of to give, to do what he saw as his duty; to do it so generously
despite evident physical strain and although, as he told me
subsequently, he had found the occasion depressing. I saw another
reason to admire him: I believe the word is mensch.
I
feared
that
I would be writing about it much sooner, but nearly two years have
passed. Today, a few days after his death was announced, I'm glad that
he was able to carry on going into the university; that he had many
days on which he was able to defy his health; that the last time I saw
him, he was cheerfully surrounded by papers and folders of ongoing
work; that he continued working almost till he died; that he finished
his book on animal signals (with David Harper, whose obituary
of him appeared in the Guardian); that he still went birdwatching. I'm
glad that in my book he is in the present tense, and that he saw the
start of another Sussex spring.
Marek
Kohn
Brighton, 23 April 2004
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