Books Do Furnish a Life: Reading and Writing Science

by Richard Dawkins

Science doesn’t need languaging-up to make it poetic. The poetry is in the subject matter: reality. It needs only clarity and honesty to convey it to the reader and, with a little extra effort, to deliver that authentic tingling up the spine which is sometimes thought the prerogative of art, music, poetry, ‘great’ literature in the conventional sense.

Epilogue: To be read at my funeral The title of this epilogue is my only justification for including it. It is extracted and edited from the opening chapter of Unweaving the Rainbow. We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Sahara. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively outnumbers the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here. We live on a planet that is all but perfect for our kind of life: not too warm and not too cold, basking in kindly sunshine, softly watered; a gently spinning, green and gold harvest festival of a planet. What are the odds that a planet picked at random would have these complaisant properties? Imagine a spaceship full of sleeping explorers, deep-frozen would-be colonists of some distant world. Perhaps the ship is on a forlorn mission to save the species before an unstoppable comet, like the one that killed the dinosaurs, hits the home planet. The voyagers go into the deep-freeze soberly reckoning the odds against their spaceship’s ever chancing upon a planet friendly to life. If one in a million planets is suitable at best, an...