Preface

"Vision is the art of seeing things invisible."

Jonathan Swift

In 1972 I took a faculty position in the Biology Department at the University of California, San Diego. To function within a biology department appeared to me to be in keeping with my natural inclination. My training, initially as an undergraduate student at Berkeley, had been in chemistry, and my subsequent Ph.D. thesis work was in the area of structural carbohydrate chemistry. As I noticed myself painlessly follow the path of least resistance, away from the study of "dead" molecules and their test tube transformations and towards the more dynamic study of complex "living" molecules, I recognized my affinity for the latter subject and wondered why chemistry rather than biology had been my initial choice. The explanation seemed to lie in the fact that I had liked my high school chemistry teacher but not my biology teacher. The resultant feelings, transferred from people to subjects must have strongly influenced my decision. It became clear that emotional factors as well as intellectual ones had played an important role.

It was in the same year, 1972, that I became convinced of the probable veracity of Mitchell’s chemiosmotic coupling hypothesis as the explanation of oxidative and photosynthetic phosphorylation. Convincing evidence in favor of chemiosmotic coupling had been available for several years before, however. Why had I previously not been convinced? The answer seemed to lie largely in the nature of my training. As a chemist, it was natural for me to conceive of energy transformations in strictly chemical terms. The fact that two other young faculty in our university, both of whom worked on ion transport, adamantly took stands on opposite sides of the fence, one supporting chemical coupling, the other supporting chemiosmotic coupling, further supported the view that previous exposure rather than logical deduction was of prime importance in the formulation of scientific opinion. In fact, the former person had had solid training in chemistry, and his background was reinforced by his association with chemists, while the latter had been trained in physiology and biophysics, and he tended to associate with scientists of this persuasion. It seemed that each of us had merely emphasized and interpreted data to fit the theory with which we were most comfortable. Our conclusions were at least initially subjective rather than objective, and only when the evidence became overwhelming could we overcome our subjective inclinations. The nature of the scientific process did not seem to correspond to the detached, impersonal process that one reads or hears about!

While working in science over the years, I have noticed that some scientists seem to intuitively understand a biological process, even without the aid of experimental results, while other experienced and seemingly competent scientists consistently interpret their data incorrectly. Moreover, I’ve observed that with what seems to be statistically significant consistency, students of the latter scientists frequently continue to make the same sorts of judgmental mistakes as did their former mentors, even after they have taken independent positions in other, sometimes distant, academic institutions. It seemed that what we equate with intuition in some way must be at least partially learned, and that the intuitive process might actually be an extension of some logical thought process.

These considerations led me to reconsider the scientific process in a new light and to address some of the following questions: To what extent do scientists base their conclusions on objective experimentation, and to what extent are these conclusions based on emotional attachments? If intuition is, in fact, important in science, what is the nature of the intuitive process, and why do some people seem to possess more of this quality than others? If we study the lives of some of our most insightful scientists, can we gain an understanding of the subjective human traits which confer scientific competence; can we understand the factors that combine to generate a creative mind? If we explain scientific ability in terms of innate qualities alone, why do so many people with exceptionally high intelligence quotas never excel, while many of our Nobel Laureates exhibit intermediate IQs? What are the relative contributions of genetic composition and environmental impact, and how do these two all important factors interact to yield the productive scientist or artist? Many such questions might conceivably be answered by examining the lives of those individuals who have most contributed to our cultural development.

The study of Peter Mitchell, his life and work, holds many attractions. He was the brilliant but apparently nutty intellectual dynamo who nearly single-handedly provided conceptual advances which exceeded those of almost any other biologist, living or dead. He revolutionized our ideas about how cells couple oxidative energy-releasing reactions to the synthesis of chemical energy in the form of ATP. He represents to vectorial molecular biology what Einstein represents to nuclear physics and Fischer represents to organic chemistry. As such, he is an important part of science history and therefore worthy of study for his own sake. But there are other reasons for examining the development and accomplishments of this one man. Mitchell was a scientist who was far ahead of his time; it took the scientific community nearly twenty years to acknowledge his contributions properly. What intellectual, psychological and social factors (if any) provided him with uncanny insight into previously unexamined natural processes? In view of this remarkable insight, should he be equated with a "god", or was he fallible? To what extent did his predictions prove to be correct? What can we learn about human nature and the workings of the human mind by examining his intellectual and personal development? By providing answers to these questions, maybe we will gain clues as to how we can positively influence the development of our children, our students and ourselves so as to create more logical, insightful and intuitive individuals who function and contribute more effectively and happily in an increasingly complex world. Perhaps as members of society, we can gain an understanding of the attitudes and conditions which promote (or thwart) the personal development of productive creativity and individuality. Perhaps recognition of the relevant qualities will allow us to develop a better world based on reason, good will and cooperation.

My personal and professional familiarity with Peter and his achievements led me to believe that his life should be shared and valued, not only as a lesson to the peoples of the world, but also as a source of humor and entertainment. His life experiences reflect aspects of a fascinating period of English social history which most of us have never known and others have forgotten. Peter’s own unique and amusing view of society and its institutions will not be readily forgotten. Based on humanistic considerations as well as a thorough understanding of molecular, cellular and organismal interactions, he has developed a personal philosophy which I believe should be aired for the benefit and entertainment of mankind. It was with the hope of realizing some of these multifaceted goals that I began working on this short narration.

During my first sabbatical leave from the University of California, San Diego in the spring of 1980, I took my family to the Glynn estate in Bodmin, Cornwall, the residence of Peter and Helen Mitchell and the site of the Glynn Research Foundation. One reason for going was to allow us to experience, enjoy, and learn from the life style and personality of the remarkable man I had for so many years admired at a distance. We stayed in the seventeenth century stone "Miller’s house", next to the stream and dilapidated mill on the Glynn estate, and gratefully accepted the generous hospitality of our hosts who invited us up to Glynn house for use of the facilities, tea and occasional meals. I asked Peter if he were considering doing an autobiography. "No," he said; "I want to continue doing my creative work and don’t want to become involved with the past. The flesh may be getting old, but the spirit’s still young!" I then discussed the possibility of my writing his biography. He mentioned that others had also approached him on the subject, but that he really wasn’t interested. His many responsibilities prevented him from wasting his time on such matters, and besides, he didn¹t find himself interesting enough to warrant a biography.

In January, 1989, I was invited by the CIBA Foundation to come to London to participate in a private symposium on molecular transport in bacteria, a subject which my laboratory had been investigating for several years. About 25 experts in the field from all over the world had been invited, and I was pleased to note that although he was not scheduled to give a formal presentation, Peter Mitchell was there. After the main speakers had presented their talks, an extended discussion followed with a fair amount of disagreement among the participants on several topics. As the heat of discussion increased and voices became louder, I noticed that Peter had so far said nothing. I looked over at him, our eyes met, and we exchanged smiles. I then addressed the symposium chairman and suggested that since Peter Mitchell had so accurately predicted the correct mechanism of solute:proton symport and its implications many years ago, it would be interesting to hear his views on the processes we had been so animatedly and adamantly discussing. The chairman agreed to this, and for the next 10 minutes we listened to an absolutely stunning, off the cuff presentation in which Dr. Mitchell expressed his opinions on several of the points of contention. An awed silence followed, no further discussion ensuing, and the chairman closed the session by stating that since the study of molecular transport had begun with Mitchell, it seemed appropriate to end it with him. I think everyone agreed!

During the coffee hour that followed, I approached Peter and once again raised the topic of a biography. He smiled and said that his attitude had not changed much. "I’m not very keen on the idea," he said. Then after some thinking he went on, "Well, if you really want to do it....but I don’t want to myself do any of the writing or become heavily involved." He suggested that I should write him regarding the details of my intent and he would consider the matter. This I did, and after three or four months I received a return letter in which he expressed his willingness to proceed with the project.

A year and a half later, on the 18th of May, 1990, I arrived at Glynn house to again become immersed in its unique intellectual atmosphere. The azaleas and rhododendrons were in full bloom; the weather was unexpectedly pleasant, and the full glory of Glynn was upon us. I had already read through over 100 of Mitchell’s publications, and now I began to plow through documents, to initiate the interview/conversations which provided much of the material for this narration, and to organize the material into coherent sections.

Since then, a rough draft of the chapters was completed, and these have undergone extensive revision as a result of input from Peter, Helen, Jennifer Moyle, many of Peter’s past acquaintances, and dozens of helpful friends and students. The first three chapters retrace the phases of Peter’s early life, thus permitting us to gain a better understanding of the physical, social and psychological setting in which he grew personally, artistically and scientifically. Chapters 4-7 emphasize the events, conditions and interactions at Cambridge University and in Edinburgh which led to or accompanied postulation of the essential features of his chemiosmotic hypotheses concerning various aspects of vectorial chemistry. Finally, in the last three chapters we shall see how at Glynn he and Jennifer established the validity of these hypotheses through careful, meticulous experimentation, and how the scientific community, initially unaccepting of his doctrine, came to embrace its essential features as a set of enlightened guidelines for scientific inquiry.

The undertaking of this project has been a thrilling and privileged experience for me, and I hope that at least some of the excitement will be shared by the reader who takes the time to leaf through the pages of this narration.

"Intellectual food is like any other; it is pleasanter and more beneficial to take it with a spoon than with a shovel.

Mark Twain

Dad and Mom