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The Last Day of the Guarantee

A box of prescription drugs sat forgotten in the back closet of a retail pharmacy long enough that some of the pills predated the 1969 moon landing. Sealed bottles, original containers, never opened. Diet pills under brand names nobody has spoken aloud in forty years. Barbiturates. A four-ingredient headache compound. Every one of them was at least twenty-eight years past the date stamped on the label, which meant that under every rule governing American pharmacy, they were garbage. Lee Cantrell, who helps run the California Poison Control System, looked at the box and saw an experiment nobody could afford to run on purpose. He called Roy Gerona at the University of California, San Francisco, a chemist who had grown up in the Philippines watching people take outdated medicine and get better anyway. Gerona ran the contents through liquid chromatography and mass spectrometry. The results were published in the Archives of Internal Medicine on October 8, 2012, under a title that gives away nothing: “Stability of Active Ingredients in Long-Expired Prescription Medications.”

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There, But Not There: The Phantom DNA Effect and the Physics of Absence

A viral video promises a ghost in the machine. The real ghosts of science are stranger, and they had to earn the name. A reader sent me a short video this week with the kind of claim that arrives already glowing. A Russian scientist, the narrator says, shone laser light through a sealed vacuum chamber. Empty, the light scattered at random. Drop in a sample of DNA, and the photons arranged themselves into the shape of a double helix, as if the molecule had taught the light how to hold a form. Then comes the part that makes people forward the video to friends. The scientist removed the DNA, disturbed nothing else, and shone the light again. The helix pattern was still there. The molecule had left a ghost in the empty chamber, an imprint pressed into the quantum field. The narrator calls it the DNA phantom effect and lets the word “amazing” do the rest.

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Six Hundred Million Breaths

The first inhale, the last exhale, and the enormous unexamined middle. A human being spends nine months underwater and then, in a single violent second, becomes an air-breathing animal. We tend to picture that first breath as a natural unfolding, the lungs simply beginning what they were built to do. The reality is closer to a demolition. Before birth the lungs are not empty. They are filled with fluid secreted by the lung tissue itself, and that fluid has to go somewhere before air can enter. Labor begins clearing it. The surge of adrenaline and noradrenaline that accompanies delivery flips the epithelial cells lining the airways from secreting fluid to absorbing it, and sodium channels in those cells begin pulling the liquid back into the tissue and the bloodstream. The mechanical compression of the chest during a vaginal delivery squeezes out more. Even so, at the moment of birth the newborn faces a set of collapsed, wet sacs whose internal surfaces are stuck together by the surface tension of water, and it must pull them open with nothing but the muscles of its own chest and diaphragm.

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DO HARM: The Book That Began with a Word I Did Not Know

I am not a physician. I have never cultured a specimen, read a chest film, or signed a death certificate. I trained as a dramatist at Columbia, in the Oscar Hammerstein II Center, which qualifies me to tell you how a scene builds and not much else about a hospital. So let me get the obvious objection out of the way early, because it is the first thing a serious reader should ask. What business does a playwright have writing a book about hospital-acquired infection? The answer is the whole book, and it starts in a shut room in Newark in 2002.

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One Eighth of an Inch: Julian Jaynes, the Bicameral Mind, and the Bandwidth of God

Start with a measurement, because the measurement is where the famous theory hides its best secret. In The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind, published in 1976, the Princeton psychologist Julian Jaynes had to explain how one half of the brain could hand a finished thought to the other half. He reached for anatomy and found a strip of nerve fiber connecting the two temporal lobes, the anterior commissure, which he measured at slightly more than one eighth of an inch in diameter. That tiny bridge, he proposed, carried the voices of the gods. The width of the channel is the whole argument, and almost everyone who summarizes Jaynes leaves it out.

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The Vacuum Where the Evidence Should Be

Zach Bush, a physician in good standing, sits across from an interviewer and describes the soul, calm and fluent, generous with wonder. He says that every millionth of a second the atoms of your body dissolve and return, that a single fertilized cell organizes itself into a child by reading a map no biologist can locate, and that the map lives in the vacuum, in the electromagnetic field that fills the empty space inside every atom. He calls this the anatomy of the soul. In a 2021 essay on his own website he writes that the body projects itself as a hologram, and that its apparent solidity is an impression made by light. The performance is seductive because the vocabulary is real. Differentiation, migration, electromagnetic field, vacuum: each of those words has a home in a textbook. The trouble begins the moment you check whether they are being used the way the textbooks use them, or whether they have been borrowed to dress an idea that biology and physics both reject.

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The Glass People: The Materials of Madness, from the Glass King to the Simulation

More than six hundred years ago, the King of France stopped letting anyone touch him. Charles VI had iron rods sewn into his clothing and moved through his palace with the stiff care of a man carrying something breakable, because he believed he was carrying something breakable. He believed it was himself. The chronicles of his reign record that the king became convinced his body had turned to glass, and that a careless embrace or an ordinary stumble would shatter him to pieces on the stone floor.

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