It may seem odd to describe a book about deadly infectious diseases as ‘bright and cheery,’ but that’s what authors Kang and Pedersen have brought to the project. You can almost envision them smiling behind their laptops as they disclose another fun fact (“The largest bioterrorism attack in US history didn’t occur as part of an international military conflict, but in an attempt by a cult to win a local election.”) I’m sure they enjoyed picking out some of the gruesome pictures sprinkled throughout the pages (including people sneezing, which – gross) and had some giggles with their word choices. I already knew a lot of this stuff, but sometimes it’s fun, rather than challenging yourself with new facts, to just let a well-written summary wash over you while you consume pages as mindlessly as devouring potato chips.
About 70% of the book consists of essays of about a dozen pages each, describing diseases that you can acquire from your fellow commuter, your favorite restaurant, your philandering spouse or your beloved pet. Sprinkled throughout are little sidebars and one-pagers describing all sorts of interesting historical tidbits. (What’s even worse than mad cow disease? A specific variant of it that literally prevents you from falling asleep, until you die from insomnia after up to a year of no sleep. Pass the cyanide pills, please…)
I read all but the section on Covid-19, as the reminders of our “leaders” were so infuriating I gave it a miss. Let’s instead talk about Hansen’s disease, more commonly known as leprosy. You may recall that there’s an island in Hawaii called Molokai, and that for decades this was designated as a ‘leper colony’. The visceral dread of leprosy that led to such harsh measures to its sufferers is puzzling, in retrospect. 95% of humanity has a natural immunity to it, and of the 5% who are susceptible, it’s still very difficult to catch, and (nowadays) easy to cure once it’s diagnosed. I learned in this book that Hansen’s sufferers, upon being adjudicated to Molokai, were declared legally dead before boarding the ship for which there would be no return journey.
This book could put a significant dent in Goodreads’ reputation as a teeming morass of casual-sex hookups. The section on syphilis reminds us that, in addition to the chancres, the pustules, the stench, the blindness and insanity, it also incites jingoism, having been known (depending who you ask) as “French Sickness,” “Neopolitan Sickness,” “Spanish Pox,” “Russian Disease” or, in Turkey, “Christian Disease.” In fact, it apparently spread from the Americas to Europe during Columbus’s maiden (sic) voyage. The historical record indicates that, just as in modern times, musicians and artists spent as much time in the sack as in the studio: Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Baudelaire, Dostoevsky, Flaubert, Maupassant, van Gogh, Manet, Goya, Gauguin and Wilde (each trailing a comet of infected rent boys and mistresses, presumably) were all afflicted with this disease. (As were the blameless victims of the Tuskeegee Study, which was harshly and deservedly scathed on p. 200.)
A couple things bugged me. At one point, for example, the authors write of infection rates of “0.35% per 100,000 people,” leading me to wonder whether they meant 0.35 people of 100,000, or 0.35% of people – the statement as written is ambiguous. Also, while I generally cheer their liberal interpretations of history, the statement that Henrietta Lacks “was responsible for saving millions of lives” gets my hackles up. No disrespect to Lacks, who was apparently a good mother before tragically dying of cancer at age 31, but it seems disrespectful to the thousands of researchers who put in millions of hours of hard work to actually make ill-begotten HeLa cells useful to people. Not to mention the many black Americans who suffered far worse breaches of medical ethics, like the afore-mentioned Tuskeegee community. How many of them can you name?
But back to the bioterrorism attack mentioned supra: in 1984, in remote Wasco County of eastern Oregon, a cult of 7000 worshipers of a man named Bahgwan Shree Rajneesh were denied some building permits (perhaps due to their habit of patrolling their grounds with machine-gun mounted jeeps.) So the Rajneeshees decided to get themselves elected to the County Commission so they could legally overturn the decision. But as election day approached, they apparently realized they didn’t have enough votes. Plan B: they brewed up some salmonella and visited the town’s restaurants a few days before the election, dumping the seething mess into the salad dressing of various salad bars, hoping to sicken people to the point where they would not go out and vote. While 750 people did indeed get sick, 45 of whom required hospitalization, they failed to win a single seat on the commission and ultimately traded in their red robes for orange prison jumpsuits. People are weird. This book is fun.