22 | Crazy Old Randolph Kirkpatrick
OBLIVION, NOT INFAMY, is the usual fate of a crackpot. I shall be more than mildly surprised if any reader (who is not a professional taxonomist with a special attachment to sponges) can identify Randolph Kirkpatrick.
On the surface, Kirkpatrick fit the stereotype of a self-effacing, mild-mannered, dedicated, but slightly eccentric British natural historian. He was the assistant keeper of “lower” invertebrates at the British Museum from 1886 until his retirement in 1927. (I have always admired the English penchant for simple, literal terms—lifts and flats for our elevators and apartments, for example. We use the Latin curator for guardians of museum collections; the British call them “keepers.” We, however, have done better in retaining “fall” for their “autumn.”) Kirkpatrick trained as a medical student, but decided on a “less strenuous career” in natural history after several bouts with illness. He chose well, for he traveled all over the world searching for specimens and lived to be eighty-seven. In the last months of his life, in 1950, he continued to pedal his bicycle through London’s busiest streets.
Early in his career, Kirkpatrick published some sound taxonomic work on sponges, but his name rarely appears in scientific journals after the First World War. In an obituary note, his successor attributed this halt in mid-career to Kirkpatrick’s behavior as “an ideal public servant.” “Unassuming to a fault, courteous and generous, he would spare no effort to help either a colleague or a visiting student. It was in all probability his extreme willingness to interrupt whatever he was doing to help others that prevented his completing his work.”
Kirkpatrick’s story, however, is by no means so simple and conventionally spotless. He did not stop publishing in 1915; instead, he shifted to private printing for a series of works that he knew no scientific journal would touch. Kirkpatrick spent the rest of his career developing what has to be the nuttiest of crackpot theories developed in this century by a professional natural historian (and keeper at the staid British Museum, no less). I do not challenge this usual assessment of his “nummulosphere” theory, but I will stoutly defend Kirkpatrick.
In 1912, Kirkpatrick was collecting sponges off the island of Porto Santo in the Madeira group, west of Morocco. One day, a friend brought him some volcanic rocks collected on a peak 1,000 feet above sea level. Kirkpatrick described his great discovery: “I examined them carefully under my binocular microscope and found to my amazement traces of nummulitic disks in all of them. Next day I visited the place whence the fragments had come.”
Now Nummulites is one of the largest forams that ever lived (forams are single-celled creatures related to amoebas, but they secrete shells and are commonly preserved as fossils). Nummulites looks like the object that provided its name: a coin. Its shell is a flat disk up to an inch or two in diameter. The disk is built of individual chambers, one following the next and all wound tightly into a single coil. (The shell looks much like a coil of rope, appropriately scaled down.) Nummulites were so abundant in early Tertiary times (about 50 million years ago) that some rocks are composed almost entirely of their shells; these are called “nummulitic limestones.” Nummulites litter the ground around Cairo; the Greek geographer Strabo identified them as petrified lentils left over from rations doled out to slaves who had built the Great Pyramids.
Kirkpatrick then returned to Madeira and “discovered” nummulites in the igneous rocks there as well. I can scarcely imagine a more radical claim about the earth’s structure. Igneous rocks are the products of volcanic eruption or the cooling of molten magmas within the earth; they cannot contain fossils. But Kirkpatrick argued that the igneous rocks of Madeira and Porto Santo not only included nummulites but were actually made of them. Therefore, “igneous” rocks must be sediments deposited at the ocean bottom, not the products of molten material from the earth’s interior. Kirkpatrick wrote:
After the discovery of the nummulitic nature of nearly the whole island of Porto Santo, of the buildings, winepresses, soil, etc., the name Eozoon portosantum seemed a fitting one for the fossils. [Eozoon means “dawn animal,” more on it in a moment.] When the igneous rocks of Madeira were likewise found to be nummulitic, Eozoon atlanticum seemed a more fitting name.
Nothing could stop Kirkpatrick now. He returned to London, itching to examine igneous rocks from other areas of the world. All were made of nummulites! “I annexed in one morning for Eozoon volcanic rocks of the Arctic and in the afternoon of the same day those of the Pacific, Indian and Atlantic oceans. The designation Eozoon orbis-terrarum then suggested itself.” Finally, he looked at meteorites and, yes, you guessed it, all nummulites:
If Eozoon, after taking in the world, had sighed for more worlds to conquer, its fortunes would have surpassed those of Alexander, for its desires would have been realized. When the empire of the nummulites was found to extend to space a final alteration of name to Eozoon universum apparently became necessary.
Kirkpatrick did not shy away from the evident conclusion:—all rocks on the earth’s surface (including the influx from space) are made of fossils: “The original organic nature of these rocks is to me self-evident, because I can see the Foraminiferal structure in them, and often very clearly indeed.” Kirkpatrick claimed that he could see the nummulites with a low-power hand lens, although no one ever agreed with him. “My views on igneous and certain other rocks,” he wrote, “have been received with a good deal of skepticism, and this is not surprising.”
I hope I will not be dismissed as an establishment dogmatist if I state with some assurance that Kirkpatrick had somehow managed to delude himself. By his own admission, he often had to work very hard in toeing his own line: “Sometimes I have found it necessary to examine a fragment of rock with the closest scrutiny for hours before convincing myself that I have seen all the above-mentioned details.”
But what version of the earth’s history would yield a crust made entirely of nummulites? Kirkpatrick proposed that nummulites had arisen early in the history of life as the first creatures with shells. Hence, he adopted for them the name Eozoon, first proposed in the 1850s by the great Canadian geologist Sir J. W. Dawson for a supposed fossil from some of the earth’s oldest rocks. (We now know that Eozoon is an inorganic structure, made of alternating white and green layers of the minerals calcite and serpentine—see essay 23.)
In these early times, Kirkpatrick speculated, the ocean bottom must have accumulated a deep deposit of nummulitic shells over its entire surface, for the seas contained no predators to digest them. Heat from the earth’s interior fused them together and injected them with silica (thus solving the vexatious problem of why igneous rocks are silicates, while true nummulites are made of calcium carbonate). As the nummulites were squeezed and fused, some were pushed upward and tossed out into space, later to descend as nummulitic meteorites.
Rocks are sometimes classified as fossiliferous and unfossiliferous, but all are fossiliferous…. Really, then, there is, broadly speaking, one rock…. The lithosphere is veritably a silicated nummulosphere.
Kirkpatrick still was not satisfied. He thought he had discovered something even more fundamental. Not content with the earth’s crust and its meteorites, he began to see the coiled form of nummulites as an expression of life’s essence, as the architecture of life itself. Finally, he broadened his claim to its limit: we should not say that the rocks are nummulites; rather, the rocks and the nummulites and everything else alive are expressions of “the fundamental structure of living matter,” the spiral form of all existence.
Nutty, yes (unless you feel that he had intuited the double helix). Inspired, surely. A method to his madness, yes, again—and this is the crucial point. In framing his nummulosphere theory, Kirkpatrick followed the procedure that motivated all his scientific work. He had an uncritical passion for synthesis and an imagination that compelled him to gather truly disparate things together. He consistently sought similarities of geometric form among objects conventionally classified in different cat
egories, while ignoring the ancient truth that similarity of form need not designate common cause. He also constructed similarities out of his hopes, rather than his observations.
Still, an uncautious search for synthesis may uncover real connections that would never occur to a sober scientist (although he may be jostled to reflect upon them once someone else makes the initial suggestion). Scientists like Kirkpatrick pay a heavy price, for they are usually wrong. But when they are right, they may be so outstandingly right that their insights beggar the honest work of many scientific lifetimes in conventional channels.
The cover to Kirkpatrick’s privately published Nummulosphere. Of it, he writes: “The design on the cover represents Neptune on the globe of waters. On one of the prongs of his trident is a piece of volcanic rock in the shape of a nummulitic disk, and in his hand is a meteorite. These emblems signify that Neptune’s domain is enlarged not only at the expense of nether Jove, but also at that of high Jove whose supposed emblem of sovereignty—the thunderbolt—really belongs to the Sea God…Neptune’s bolt is poised ready to be hurled at rash and ignorant mortals of the type of the a priori would-be refuter, daring to dispute the validity of his title-deeds.”
Let us return then to Kirkpatrick and ask why he was on Madeira and Porto Santo in the first place when he made his fateful discovery in 1912. “In September 1912,” he writes, “I journeyed to Porto Santo via Madeira, in order to complete my investigation of that strange organism, the sponge-alga Merlia normani,” In 1900, a taxonomist named J. J. Lister had discovered a peculiar sponge on the Pacific islands of Lifu and Funafuti. It contained spicules of silica, but had an additional calcareous skeleton bearing a striking resemblance to some corals (spicules are the small, needle-like elements forming the skeleton of most sponges). A sober man, Lister could not accept the “hybrid” of silica and calcite; he conjectured that the spicules had entered the sponge from elsewhere. But Kirkpatrick collected more specimens and correctly concluded that the sponge secretes the spicules. Then, in 1910, Kirkpatrick found Merlia normani on Madeira, a second sponge with siliceous spicules and a supplementary calcareous skeleton.
Inevitably, Kirkpatrick unleashed his passion for synthesis upon Merlia. He noticed that its calcareous skeleton resembled several problematic groups of fossils usually classified among the corals—the stromatoporoids and the chaetetid tabulates in particular. (This may seem like a small issue to many, but I assure you that it is a major concern of all professional paleontologists. Stromatoporoids and chaetetids are very common as fossils; they form reefs in some ancient deposits. Their status lies among the classical mysteries of my field, and many distinguished paleontologists have spent entire careers devoted to their study.) Kirkpatrick decided that these and other enigmatic fossils must be sponges. He set out to find spicules in them, a sure sign of affinity with sponges. Sure enough; they all contained spicules. We may be quite sure that Kirkpatrick had deluded himself again in some cases, for he included among his “sponges” the undoubted bryozoan Monticulipora. In any case, Kirkpatrick soon became preoccupied with his nummulosphere theory. He never published the major treatise that he had planned on Merlia. The nummulosphere made him a scientific pariah, and his work on coralline sponges was pretty much forgotten.
Kirkpatrick worked the same way in studying both nummulospheres and coralline sponges: he invoked a similarity of abstract, geometric form to infer a common source for objects that no one had thought to unite, and he followed his theory with such passion that he eventually “saw” the expected form, even where it manifestly did not exist. Yet, I must note one major difference between the two studies: Kirkpatrick was right about the sponges.
During the 1960s, Thomas Goreau, late of the Discovery Bay Marine Laboratory in Jamaica, began to explore the cryptic environments of West Indian reefs. These cracks, crevices, and caves contain a major fauna, previously undetected. In one of the most exciting zoological discoveries of the last twenty years, Goreau and his colleagues Jeremy Jackson and Willard Hartman showed that these habitats contain numerous “living fossils.” This cryptic community seems to represent an entire ecosystem literally overshadowed by the evolution of more modern forms. The community may be cryptic, but its members are neither moribund nor uncommon. The linings of caves and crevices form a major part of modern reefs. Before the advent of scuba diving, scientists could not gain access to these areas.
Two elements dominate this cryptic fauna: brachiopods and Kirkpatrick’s coralline sponges. Goreau and Hartman described six species of coralline sponges from the fore-reef slope of Jamaica’s reef. These species form the basis for an entire new class of sponges, the Sclerospongiae. In the course of their work, they rediscovered Kirkpatrick’s papers and studied his opinion on the relationship between coralline sponges and the enigmatic fossil stromatoporoids and chaetetids. “Kirkpatrick’s comments,” they write, “have led us to compare the coralline sponges described above with representatives of several groups of organisms known from the fossil record.” They have shown, quite convincingly I think, that these fossils are indeed sponges. A major zoological discovery has solved an outstanding problem in paleontology. And crazy old Randolph Kirkpatrick had known it all along.
When I wrote to Hartman to inquire about Kirkpatrick, he cautioned me not to judge the man too harshly on his nummulosphere, for his taxonomic work on sponges had been sound. But I respect Kirkpatrick both for his sponges and for his numinous nummulosphere. It is easy to dismiss a crazy theory with laughter that debars any attempt to understand a man’s motivation—and the nummulosphere is a crazy theory. I find that few men of imagination are not worth my attention. Their ideas may be wrong, even foolish, but their methods often repay a close study. Few honest passions are not based upon some valid perception of unity or some anomaly worthy of note. The different drummer often beats a fruitful tempo.
23 | Bathybius and Eozoon
WHEN THOMAS HENRY Huxley lost his young son, “our delight and our joy,” to scarlet fever, Charles Kingsley tried to console him with a long peroration on the soul’s immortality. Huxley, who invented the word “agnostic” to describe his own feelings, thanked Kingsley for his concern, but rejected the proferred comfort for want of evidence. In a famous passage, since taken by many scientists as a motto for proper action, he wrote: “My business is to teach my aspirations to conform themselves to fact, not to try and make facts harmonize with my aspirations…. Sit down before fact as a little child, be prepared to give up every preconceived notion, follow humbly wherever and to whatever abysses nature leads, or you shall learn nothing.” Huxley’s sentiments were noble, his grief affecting. But Huxley did not follow his own dictum, and no creative scientist ever has.
Great thinkers are never passive before facts. They ask questions of nature; they do not follow her humbly. They have hopes and hunches, and they try hard to construct the world in their light. Hence, great thinkers also make great errors.
Biologists have written a long and special chapter in the catalog of major mistakes—imaginary animals that should exist in theory. Voltaire spoke truly when he quipped: “If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.” Two related and intersecting chimeras arose during the early days of evolutionary theory—two animals that should have been, by Darwin’s criteria, but were not. One of them had Thomas Henry Huxley for a godfather.
For most creationists, the gap between living and nonliving posed no particular problem. God had simply made the living, fully distinct and more advanced than the rocks and chemicals. Evolutionists sought to close all the gaps. Ernst Haeckel, Darwin’s chief defender in Germany and surely the most speculative and imaginative of early evolutionists, constructed hypothetical organisms to span all the spaces. The lowly amoeba could not serve as a model of the earliest life, for its internal differentiation into nucleus and cytoplasm indicated a large advance from primal formlessness. Thus Haeckel proposed a lowlier organism composed only of unorganized protoplasm, the Monera. (In a way, he was ri
ght. We use his name today for the kingdom of bacteria and blue green algae, organisms without nucleus or mitochondria—although scarcely formless in Haeckel’s sense.)
Haeckel defined his moneran as “an entirely homogeneous and structureless substance, a living particle of albumin, capable of nourishment and reproduction.” He proposed the moneran as an intermediate form between non-living and living. He hoped that it would solve the vexing question of life’s origin from the inorganic, for no problem seemed thornier for evolutionists and no issue attracted more rear-guard support for creationism than the apparent gap between the most complex chemicals and the simplest organisms. Haeckel wrote: “Every true cell already shows a division into two different parts, i.e., nucleus and plasm. The immediate production of such an object from spontaneous generation is obviously only conceivable with difficulty; but it is much easier to conceive of the production of an entirely homogeneous, organic substance, such as the structureless albumin body of the Monera.”
During the 1860s, the identification of monerans assumed high priority on the agenda of Darwin’s champions. And the more structureless and diffuse the moneran, the better. Huxley had told Kingsley that he would follow facts into a metaphorical abyss. But when he examined a true abyss in 1868, his hopes and expectations guided his observations. He studied some mud samples dredged from the sea bottom northwest of Ireland ten years before. He observed an inchoate, gelatinous substance in the samples. Embedded in it were tiny, circular, calcareous plates called coccoliths. Huxley identified his jelly as the heralded, formless moneran and the coccoliths as its primordial skeleton. (We now know that coccoliths are fragments of algal skeletons, which sink to the ocean bottom following the death of their planktonic producers.) Honoring Haeckel’s prediction, he named it Bathybius Haeckelii. “I hope that you will not be ashamed of your godchild,” he wrote to Haeckel. Haeckel replied that he was “very proud,” and ended his note with a rallying cry: “Viva Monera.”