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192 pages, Paperback
First published October 2, 2000
Before reaching its limits, the lexicon of the gene had first to be built up, and the history of genetics in the first three quarters of this century offers eloquent testimony to the versatility and strengths of that core concept. Evidence accumulated over the last quarter century, however, provides a different sort of testimony: it shows us that, even in its youth, Johannsen’s little word, so innocently conceived in the early days of this century, had had to bear a load that was veritably Herculean. One single entity was taken to be the guarantor of intergenerational stability, the factor responsible for individual traits, and, at the same time, the agent directing the organism’s development. Indeed, one might say that no load had seemed too great—as long, that is, as the gene was seen as a quasi-mythical entity. But by the middle part of the century, the gene had come to be recognized as a real physical molecule—in fact, just a bit of DNA—and here, at this point in time, the history of genetics takes its most surprising turn. Both the excitement and the triumph of the new science of molecular biology came from the remarkable evidence it provided suggesting that, incredibly enough, the gene, now understood as a selfreplicating molecule of DNA, was a structure equal to its task. Yet, with the maturation of molecular biology, the impracticality (perhaps even impossibility) of that load has become steadily easier to discern.
New kinds of data gathered over the last few decades have dramatically fleshed out our understanding of the parts played by genes in cellular and organismic processes, and in doing so they have made it increasingly apparent how far the weight of such a load exceeds what any one single entity can reasonably be expected to bear, and hence, how appropriate that it be distributed among many different players in the game of life. Indeed, even taking these burdens separately, evolution has apparently seen fit to distribute each of them among a variety of players.
Thus, for example, in Chapter 1, we saw that, by itself, DNA is not capable of guaranteeing its own fidelity from one generation to another—that it needs the help of a complex machinery of editing, proofreading, and repair. Yet more surprisingly, we have seen that such mechanisms not only maintain fidelity but also play an active role in setting the limits of fidelity, by triggering other mechanisms that actively generate genetic variability under conditions of stress. Similarly, in Chapter 2 we looked at a few of the many new phenomena that have vastly complicated not only the early picture of one gene–one trait but also the more recent picture of one gene–one enzyme. We have long known that the rate of protein synthesis requires cellular regulation, but now we have learned that even the question of what kind of proteins are to be synthesized is, in part, answered by the kind and state of the cell in which the DNA finds itself. In higher organisms DNA sequence does not automatically translate into a sequence of amino acids, nor does it, by itself, suffice for telling us just which proteins will be produced in any given cell or at any stage of development. Like the responsibility for maintaining fidelity, this work too is distributed among the many players involved in posttranscriptional regulation. The same can be said regarding the determination of how a protein functions.
Of course, all the protein and RNA molecules participating in such higher-order regulation need themselves to be synthesized and hence must in some sense be “encoded” in the DNA; moreover, awareness of this need is surely what sustains the widespread assumption of a genetic program directing the proceedings. But in Chapter 3, I argued that the assumption of a program inscribed in the DNA also requires rethinking, and I suggested in its place the more dynamic concept of a distributed program in which all the various DNA, RNA, and protein components function alternatively as instructions and as data. Indeed, I argued that the notion of a distributed program accords far better with the picture of cellular regulation and development that has emerged over the last quarter of a century than does the earlier notion of a genetic program.
Finally, in Chapter 4, I explored recent findings of extensive genetic and functional redundancy that fall outside the genetic paradigm and that, in doing so, return us to a problem of central concern to many embryologists in the early part of the century. This is the problem not of genetic stability but of developmental stability—of the conspicuous robustness of developmental processes and their capacity to stay on track despite inevitable environmental, cellular, and even genetic vicissitudes. Can the language of genetics be revised to encompass such effects, or does it need to be supplemented by altogether different concepts and terms? Engineers have developed a conceptual toolkit for the design of systems—like airplanes, for example, or computers—in which reliability is the first and foremost criterion. As such, their approach might be said to be directly complementary to that of geneticists, and I suggest that the latter might profitably borrow some of the concepts and terms developed in the study of dynamic stability to enlarge their own conceptual toolkits. (144-7)