Science writing versus scientists writing for ourselves: Why Walter Gratzer mattered.

Abstract

We are all aware of journalists whose craft is the nontechnical dissection of scientific advances for a broad readership. Two sterling examples for me are Dennis Overbye and Gina Kolata, both writing mostly for the New York Times. There are also engaging biographers of scientists, among whom my favorite is Georgina Ferry. But then there is the phenotype of scientists who themselves write for broader audiences, aside from their primary scientific publications. Notable among them were Thomas Huxley on evolution, Louis Pasteur on vaccination, Carl Sagan on the cosmos, and Steven J. Gould, also on evolution.1 Other domains of biology and medical science were powerfully brought to the public by the scientist-authors Paul de Kruif,2 Lewis Thomas,3 and Oliver Sacks.4 Among the most gifted at work today is the oncologist Siddharta Mukherjee.5 There is a third guild, small in number. These are the scientists who write for scientists themselves, but not just within their domain of expertise. This is perhaps the most daring craft of the three. The science journalists access extensive sources, and scientists writing for the public about their expertise bring that. But for a scientist to write for scientists outside their immediate expertise, well—that takes grit and skill. One of the all-time best at this, Walter Gratzer (Figure 1), died on October 20, 2021, at 89. As is typical of these rare pens, Walter was not afraid of antagonizing those in whatever field he was writing about, and the reason was that he was of extraordinary breadth and erudition. At the journal Nature, he was for years sought out by its editors for his judgment on several manuscripts every week, with their confidence that his grasp was uncommonly broad (and his nose for hyperbole exceptionally acute). But it was in Walter's own writing that many came to know and admire him. He could be rough, but never uninformed. His training was in biophysical chemistry, and his research was mainly on erythrocyte cell biology. But his mind captured everything, and he never forgot anything. One of many examples is the book he wrote on the history of us humans gathering, consuming, and eventually cooking our food.6 His mastery of every facet of this intriguing topic was stunning, and with each sentence crafted with uncommon skill, as in all his writing. Another favorite of mine was his review of a biography of Francis Crick, in which he added so much beyond the book.7 Several years ago, a friend of mine published a biography of the Philadelphia naturalist, Joseph Leidy. I received my signed copy with gratitude but questioned the author about the subtitle: The Last Man Who Knew Everything. I asked him: “How sure can we be about that?” My friend smiled—there was the answer. License was taken, of course. I recently received a copy of an evocative letter sent to Gratzer's widow, containing the line: “I used to suspect Walter knew everything.” I did, too. His friendship and writing elegance inspired me. When we scientists can reach one another, beyond our standard research papers and just within our given specialization, we add to the joyful vibrancy of this wonderful profession we have been lucky enough to find. This is why Walter Gratzer mattered. We shall not see the likes of him anytime soon.