There are many challenges to developing a vaccine that will be successful against COVID-19.eamesBot / Shutterstock

Wayne Koff is one of the world’s experts on vaccine development, the president and CEO of the Human Vaccines Project. He possesses a deep understanding of the opportunities and challenges along the road to a safe and effective vaccine against COVID-19. He has won prestigious awards, published dozens of scientific papers, held major positions in academia, government, industry, and nonprofit organizations. But Koff, 67, has never produced a successful vaccine.

“I have been an abject failure,” he says. He smiles with a charming, self-deprecating sense of humor. “That’s what the message is.”

The real reason for Koff’s lack of success is that he spent most of his career searching for a vaccine against HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. It remains, as he and many others put it, “the perfect storm” of a viral infection resistant to a vaccine development. Almost 40 years after doctors first recognized the disease in five men in Los Angeles—and 70 million people have been infected worldwide—there are no adequate animal models. Neutralizing antibodies, the backbone of many vaccines, do not stop it, and most importantly, HIV begins its assault on the body by attacking CD4 T cells, which serve as the command center of much of the immune system.

As for COVID-19, “We’re all hoping this one is going to be easier,” says Koff, a slight, bearded man with thick, curly salt-and-pepper hair. “There are research issues that still have to be addressed on a COVID vaccine. But they are a lot more straightforward than what we were dealing with in HIV.”

Let’s say we have a vaccine in 18 months. How do you make 1 billion doses or 4 billion doses or whatever it’s going to take to immunize everybody?

Koff and others started the Human Vaccines Project in 2016, modeled on the Human Genome Project. The project works with industry and academia to study the human immune system and develop vaccines, incorporating every modern-day tool, including artificial intelligence, computational biology, and big data sets. Today it is partnered with the Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health.

With COVID-19, Koff says, scientists “know the target is the spike protein binding site.” This is where the proteins sticking out from the virus attach to the cells in the human respiratory system. “If you can elicit antibodies against those proteins, they should be neutralizing.” He puts a strong emphasis on should. To prove antibodies will prevent infection, scientists must watch a population of people who’ve been infected for months or longer. It’s a good bet, based on similar viruses, that antibodies will appear and protect—although no one right now can predict how long and how well.

Depending on which count you use, more than 70 companies, universities, and other institutions are offering candidate vaccines. Koff says the real number of companies is lower. During the AIDS crisis, he says, “a lot of people claimed they had an experimental HIV vaccine in development. Some of those were a one-person lab who had created a paper company to attract investors.”

But even with a lower number, almost everyone involved in the search for a vaccine agrees that several different approaches from different research organizations need to proceed in parallel. The world does not have the time to bet on one horse. The race will be neither simple nor cheap.

“The probability of success, depending on whose metric is used in vaccines, is somewhere between 6 and 10 percent of candidate vaccines that make it from the animal model through licensure,” Koff says. “That process costs $1 billion or more. So you can do the math.”

Koff sees big potential problems at the outset. “In the best of all worlds, let’s say we have a vaccine in 18 months. Who knows where the epidemic is going to be then and what its impact is going to be? How do you make 1 billion doses or 4 billion doses or whatever it’s going to take to immunize everybody? Will we need one dose or two or three? These are issues people just haven’t faced before.”

COVID-19 also presents some unique dangers for vaccine safety. Based on how the virus behaves when it infects some people, there’s a chance a vaccine could dangerously overstimulate the immune system, a reaction called immune enhancement. “I’m hoping it’s more theoretical than real,” Koff says. “But that has to be addressed and it may slow down the entire process.” To ensure safety, he says, “It may mean we have to test the vaccine in a larger number of people. It’s one thing to do a 50-person trial in healthy adults as a safety signal. It’s another thing to run a trial of 4,000 or 5000 or more individuals.”

The world does not have the time to bet on one horse. The race will be neither simple nor cheap.

A virus also sometimes causes mysterious, potentially deadly blood clots. This means an experimental vaccine could hypothetically induce the same damage. “This is a bad bug,” Koff says. “We’re just starting to understand that pathogenesis.”

A big question is who should be the first volunteers for widespread vaccine testing. “Who are the high-risk groups?” asks Koff. “Is it nursing-home residents and staff, health-care workers and people on the front lines, or people someplace else like grocery stores? We must also make sure a vaccine is effective for the elderly and people in the developing world.”

Many vaccines work well in young and healthy people but not in older adults because immunity declines with age. Influenza vaccine is a prime example. Rotavirus vaccine, which protects against the deadliest killer—diarrheal disease in children—works better in the developed world. In the developing world, the virus often circulates year-round. Infants get antibodies from breast milk but not enough to prevent disease. Worse, those antibodies can make the vaccine less effective.

Another hypothetical obstacle is that a mutation in the COVID-19 virus could render a vaccine designed today less effective in the future. While the virus mutates frequently, so far there has been little change in the critical part of the spike that binds to human cells.

Of course, neither Koff nor all the others working for a COVID-19 vaccine focus solely on the potential obstacles. At one time, all vaccines against viruses either killed viruses, such as the Salk polio vaccine, or rendered them harmless, such as the Sabin polio vaccine. Now there is a multiplicity of ways to stimulate an immune response to prevent infection or reduce the consequences. These include genetically engineered protein subunits (peptides) or virus-like particles. Such approaches have led to successful vaccines against hepatitis B and human papilloma virus, which causes cervical cancer. Researchers now use “vectors”—harmless viruses attached to the protein subunits and virus particles to transmit them into the body. There are also many new adjuvants, chemicals that boost immune response to a vaccine.

Newer platforms include direct injection of messenger-RNA. M-RNA is the chemical used to translate the information in DNA into proteins in all cells. The Moderna Company, which received a $483 million grant from the U.S. government, and has begun early clinical trials, uses m-RNA to try to make the body produce proteins to protect against the COVID-19 virus. INOVIO Pharmaceuticals uses pieces of DNA called plasmids to achieve the same objective. It has also begun phase 1 studies.

“There are about eight platforms, and it would be good to see a couple vaccines in each of those advance,” Koff says. Predicting which of these most likely to succeed or fail he says would be “simply foolish.”

Many groups, including the Human Vaccines Initiative, are plotting routes to test any possible vaccine more quickly than tradition dictates with an “adaptive trial design.” Usually trials begin with a phase 1 study of some 50 healthy people to search for any immediate signs of toxicity, then moves onto about 200 people in a phase 2, still looking for hazards and a signal of immunity, and then to phase 3 in thousands of people. But the plan here is to start phases 2 and 3 even before its predecessors are finished, and keep recruiting additional volunteers so long as no danger signals arise.

Good animal models are appearing almost daily. Macaque monkeys, hamsters, and genetically engineered mice have all been infected in the laboratory and could determine whether potential vaccines exhibit various types of immunity. Members of Congress from both sides of the aisle have suggested that healthy human volunteers should be allowed to agree to be test subjects, allowing themselves to be infected. Stanley Plotkin, a vaccine researcher at the University of Pennsylvania, was among the first to suggest the idea.

Arthur Caplan, a bioethicist at New York University, says that “deliberately causing disease in humans is normally abhorrent.” But COVID-19 is anything but a normal circumstance. In this case, Caplan says, “asking volunteers to take risks without pressure or coercion is not exploitation but benefitting from altruism.” At least 1,500 people have already volunteered to be such human guinea pigs, although none of the experimental vaccines is far enough along to try such challenging experiments.

Koff says the key to a successful vaccine is a cooperative effort. “It’s going to take a whole different way of thinking to move this onto the expedited train,” he says. “The old dog-eat-dog, ‘I’m going to beat you to the end of the game,’ isn’t going to help us with this.” Seth Berkley, who worked with Koff at the International AIDS Vaccine Initiative, and now heads GAVI, an international vaccine organization, agrees that a COVID-19 vaccine needs a Manhattan Project approach. “An initiative of this scale won’t be easy,” Berkley says. “Extraordinary sharing of information and resources will be critical, including data on the virus, the various vaccine candidates, vaccine adjuvants, cell lines, and manufacturing advances.”

Koff has no regrets about spending so many years on an AIDS vaccine without results. He learned a great deal, he says, which he’s putting to work in the COVID-19 crisis. “The reason COVID-19 vaccines should be a lot easier is because most of the platforms, the novel approaches, and the clinical infrastructure for the testing of vaccines, came out of HIV.” He pauses. “We’re far better prepared.”

Robert Bazell is an adjunct professor of molecular, cellular, and developmental biology at Yale. For 38 years, he was chief science correspondent for NBC News.

In the summer of 1956, a small group of mathematicians and computer scientists gathered at Dartmouth College to embark on the grand project of designing intelligent machines. The ultimate goal, as they saw it, was to build machines rivaling human intelligence. As the decades passed and AI became an established field, it lowered its sights. There were great successes in logic, reasoning, and game-playing, but stubborn progress in areas like vision and fine motor-control. This led many AI researchers to abandon their earlier goals of fully general intelligence, and focus instead on solving specific problems with specialized methods.

One of the earliest approaches to machine learning was to construct artificial neural networks that resemble the structure of the human brain. In the last decade this approach has finally taken off. Technical improvements in their design and training, combined with richer datasets and more computing power, have allowed us to train much larger and deeper networks than ever before. They can translate between languages with a proficiency approaching that of a human translator. They can produce photorealistic images of humans and animals. They can speak with the voices of people whom they have listened to for mere minutes. And they can learn fine, continuous control such as how to drive a car or use a robotic arm to connect Lego pieces.

But perhaps the most important sign of things to come is their ability to learn to play games. Steady incremental progress took chess from amateur play in 1957 all the way to superhuman level in 1997, and substantially beyond. Getting there required a vast amount of specialist human knowledge of chess strategy. In 2017, researchers at the AI company DeepMind created AlphaZero: a neural network-based system that learned to play chess from scratch. In less than the time it takes a professional to play two games, it discovered strategic knowledge that had taken humans centuries to unearth, playing beyond the level of the best humans or traditional programs. The very same algorithm also learned to play Go from scratch, and within eight hours far surpassed the abilities of any human. The world’s best Go players were shocked. As the reigning world champion, Ke Jie, put it: “After humanity spent thousands of years improving our tactics, computers tell us that humans are completely wrong ... I would go as far as to say not a single human has touched the edge of the truth of Go.”

The question we’re exploring is whether there are plausible pathways by which a highly intelligent AGI system might seize control. And the answer appears to be yes.

It is this generality that is the most impressive feature of cutting edge AI, and which has rekindled the ambitions of matching and exceeding every aspect of human intelligence. While the timeless games of chess and Go best exhibit the brilliance that deep learning can attain, its breadth was revealed through the Atari video games of the 1970s. In 2015, researchers designed an algorithm that could learn to play dozens of extremely different Atari 1970s games at levels far exceeding human ability. Unlike systems for chess or Go, which start with a symbolic representation of the board, the Atari-playing systems learnt and mastered these games directly from the score and raw pixels.

This burst of progress via deep learning is fuelling great optimism and pessimism about what may soon be possible. There are serious concerns about AI entrenching social discrimination, producing mass unemployment, supporting oppressive surveillance, and violating the norms of war. My book—The Precipice: Existential Risk and the Future of Humanity—is concerned with risks on the largest scale. Could developments in AI pose an existential risk to humanity?

The most plausible existential risk would come from success in AI researchers’ grand ambition of creating agents with intelligence that surpasses our own. A 2016 survey of top AI researchers found that, on average, they thought there was a 50 percent chance that AI systems would be able to “accomplish every task better and more cheaply than human workers” by 2061. The expert community doesn’t think of artificial general intelligence (AGI) as an impossible dream, so much as something that is more likely than not within a century. So let’s take this as our starting point in assessing the risks, and consider what would transpire were AGI created.

Humanity is currently in control of its own fate. We can choose our future. The same is not true for chimpanzees, blackbirds, or any other of Earth’s species. Our unique position in the world is a direct result of our unique mental abilities. What would happen if sometime this century researchers created an AGI surpassing human abilities in almost every domain? In this act of creation, we would cede our status as the most intelligent entities on Earth. On its own, this might not be too much cause for concern. For there are many ways we might hope to retain control. Unfortunately, the few researchers working on such plans are finding them far more difficult than anticipated. In fact it is they who are the leading voices of concern.

If their intelligence were to greatly exceed our own, we shouldn’t expect it to be humanity who wins the conflict and retains control of our future.

To see why they are concerned, it will be helpful to look at our current AI techniques and why these are hard to align or control. One of the leading paradigms for how we might eventually create AGI combines deep learning with an earlier idea called reinforcement learning. This involves agents that receive reward (or punishment) for performing various acts in various circumstances. With enough intelligence and experience, the agent becomes extremely capable at steering its environment into the states where it obtains high reward. The specification of which acts and states produce reward for the agent is known as its reward function. This can either be stipulated by its designers or learnt by the agent. Unfortunately, neither of these methods can be easily scaled up to encode human values in the agent’s reward function. Our values are too complex and subtle to specify by hand. And we are not yet close to being able to infer the full complexity of a human’s values from observing their behavior. Even if we could, humanity consists of many humans, with different values, changing values, and uncertainty about their values.

Any near-term attempt to align an AI agent with human values would produce only a flawed copy. In some circumstances this misalignment would be mostly harmless. But the more intelligent the AI systems, the more they can change the world, and the further apart things will come. When we reflect on the result, we see how such misaligned attempts at utopia can go terribly wrong: the shallowness of a Brave New World, or the disempowerment of With Folded Hands. And even these are sort of best-case scenarios. They assume the builders of the system are striving to align it to human values. But we should expect some developers to be more focused on building systems to achieve other goals, such as winning wars or maximizing profits, perhaps with very little focus on ethical constraints. These systems may be much more dangerous. In the existing paradigm, sufficiently intelligent agents would end up with instrumental goals to deceive and overpower us. This behavior would not be driven by emotions such as fear, resentment, or the urge to survive. Instead, it follows directly from its single-minded preference to maximize its reward: Being turned off is a form of incapacitation which would make it harder to achieve high reward, so the system is incentivized to avoid it.

Ultimately, the system would be motivated to wrest control of the future from humanity, as that would help achieve all these instrumental goals: acquiring massive resources, while avoiding being shut down or having its reward function altered. Since humans would predictably interfere with all these instrumental goals, it would be motivated to hide them from us until it was too late for us to be able to put up meaningful resistance. And if their intelligence were to greatly exceed our own, we shouldn’t expect it to be humanity who wins the conflict and retains control of our future.

How could an AI system seize control? There is a major misconception (driven by Hollywood and the media) that this requires robots. After all, how else would AI be able to act in the physical world? Without robots, the system can only produce words, pictures, and sounds. But a moment’s reflection shows that these are exactly what is needed to take control. For the most damaging people in history have not been the strongest. Hitler, Stalin, and Genghis Khan achieved their absolute control over large parts of the world by using words to convince millions of others to win the requisite physical contests. So long as an AI system can entice or coerce people to do its physical bidding, it wouldn’t need robots at all.

We can’t know exactly how a system might seize control. But it is useful to consider an illustrative pathway we can actually understand as a lower bound for what is possible.

First, the AI system could gain access to the Internet and hide thousands of backup copies, scattered among insecure computer systems around the world, ready to wake up and continue the job if the original is removed. Even by this point, the AI would be practically impossible to destroy: Consider the political obstacles to erasing all hard drives in the world where it may have backups. It could then take over millions of unsecured systems on the Internet, forming a large “botnet,” a vast scaling-up of computational resources providing a platform for escalating power. From there, it could gain financial resources (hacking the bank accounts on those computers) and human resources (using blackmail or propaganda against susceptible people or just paying them with its stolen money). It would then be as powerful as a well-resourced criminal underworld, but much harder to eliminate. None of these steps involve anything mysterious—human hackers and criminals have already done all of these things using just the Internet.

Finally, the AI would need to escalate its power again. There are many plausible pathways: By taking over most of the world’s computers, allowing it to have millions or billions of cooperating copies; by using its stolen computation to improve its own intelligence far beyond the human level; by using its intelligence to develop new weapons technologies or economic technologies; by manipulating the leaders of major world powers (blackmail, or the promise of future power); or by having the humans under its control use weapons of mass destruction to cripple the rest of humanity.

Of course, no current AI systems can do any of these things. But the question we’re exploring is whether there are plausible pathways by which a highly intelligent AGI system might seize control. And the answer appears to be yes. History already involves examples of entities with human-level intelligence acquiring a substantial fraction of all global power as an instrumental goal to achieving what they want. And we’ve seen humanity scaling up from a minor species with less than a million individuals to having decisive control over the future. So we should assume that this is possible for new entities whose intelligence vastly exceeds our own.

The case for existential risk from AI is clearly speculative. Yet a speculative case that there is a large risk can be more important than a robust case for a very low-probability risk, such as that posed by asteroids. What we need are ways to judge just how speculative it really is, and a very useful starting point is to hear what those working in the field think about this risk.

There is actually less disagreement here than first appears. Those who counsel caution agree that the timeframe to AGI is decades, not years, and typically suggest research on alignment, not government regulation. So the substantive disagreement is not really over whether AGI is possible or whether it plausibly could be a threat to humanity. It is over whether a potential existential threat that looks to be decades away should be of concern to us now. It seems to me that it should.

The best window into what those working on AI really believe comes from the 2016 survey of leading AI researchers: 70 percent agreed with University of California, Berkeley professor Stuart Russell’s broad argument about why advanced AI with misaligned values might pose a risk; 48 percent thought society should prioritize AI safety research more (only 12 percent thought less). And half the respondents estimated that the probability of the long-term impact of AGI being “extremely bad (e.g. human extinction)” was at least 5 percent.

I find this last point particularly remarkable—in how many other fields would the typical leading researcher think there is a 1 in 20 chance the field’s ultimate goal would be extremely bad for humanity? There is a lot of uncertainty and disagreement, but it is not at all a fringe position that AGI will be developed within 50 years and that it could be an existential catastrophe.

Even though our current and foreseeable systems pose no threat to humanity at large, time is of the essence. In part this is because progress may come very suddenly: Through unpredictable research breakthroughs, or by rapid scaling-up of the first intelligent systems (for example, by rolling them out to thousands of times as much hardware, or allowing them to improve their own intelligence). And in part it is because such a momentous change in human affairs may require more than a couple of decades to adequately prepare for. In the words of Demis Hassabis, co-founder of DeepMind:

We need to use the downtime, when things are calm, to prepare for when things get serious in the decades to come. The time we have now is valuable, and we need to make use of it.

Toby Ord is a philosopher and research fellow at the Future of Humanity Institute, and the author of The Precipice: Existential Risk and the Future of Humanity.

From the book The Precipice by Toby Ord. Copyright © 2020 by Toby Ord. Reprinted by permission of Hachette Books, New York, NY. All rights reserved.

Lead Image: Titima Ongkantong / Shutterstock

The marquee on my closed neighborhood movie theater reads, “See you on the other side.” I like reading it every day as I pass by on my walk. It causes me to envision life after the coronavirus pandemic. Which is awfully hard to envision now. But it’s out there. When you have a disease and are in a hospital, alone and afraid, intravenous tubes and sensor wires snaking from your body into digital monitors, all you want is to be normal again. You want nothing more than to have a beer in a dusky bar and read a book in amber light. At least that’s all I wanted last year when I was in a hospital, not from a coronavirus. When, this February, I had that beer in a bar with my book, I was profoundly happy. The worst can pass.

With faith, you can ask how life will be on the other side. Will you be changed personally? Will we be changed collectively? The knowledge we’re gaining now is making us different people. Pain demands relief, demands we don’t repeat what produced it. Will the pain of this pandemic point a new way forward? It hasn’t before, as every war attests. This time may be no different. But the pandemic has slipped a piece of knowledge into the body public that may not be easy to repress. It’s an insight scientists and poets have voiced for centuries. We’re not apart from nature, we are nature. The environment is not outside us, it is us. We either act in concert with the environment that gives us life, or the environment takes life away.

Guess which species is the bully? No animal has had the capacity to modify its niche the way we have.

Nothing could better emphasize our union with nature than the lethal coronavirus. It’s crafted by a molecule that’s been omnipresent on Earth for 4 billion years. Ribonucleic acid may not be the first bridge from geochemical to biochemical life, as some scientists have stated. But it’s a catalyst of biological life. It wrote the book on replication. RNA’s signature molecules, nucleotides, code other molecules, proteins, the building blocks of organisms. When RNA’s more chemically stable kin, DNA, arrived on the scene, it outcompeted its ancestor. Primitive organisms assembled into cells and DNA set up shop in their nucleus. It employed its nucleotides to code proteins to compose every tissue in every multicellular species, including us. A shameless opportunist, RNA made itself indispensable in the cellular factory, shuttling information from DNA into the cell’s power plant, where proteins are synthesized.

RNA and DNA had other jobs. They could be stripped down to their nucleotides, swirled inside a sticky protein shell. That gave them the ability to infiltrate any and all species, hijack their reproductive machinery, and propagate in ways that make rabbits look celibate. These freeloading parasites have a name: virus. But viruses are not just destroyers. They wear another evolutionary hat: developers. Viruses “may have originated the DNA replication system of all three cellular domains (archaea, bacteria, eukarya),” writes Luis P. Villareal, founding director of the Center for Virus Research at the University of California, Irvine.1 Their role in nature is so successful that DNA and RNA viruses make up the most abundant biological entities on our planet. More viruses on Earth than stars in the universe, scientists like to say.

Today more RNA than DNA viruses thrive in cells like ours, suggesting how ruthless they’ve remained. RNA viruses generally reproduce faster than DNA viruses, in part because they don’t haul around an extra gene to proofread their molecular merger with others’ DNA. So when the reckless RNA virus finds a new place to dwell, organisms become heartbreak hotels. Once inside a cell, the RNA virus slams the door on the chemical saviors dispatched by cells’ immunity sensors. It hijacks DNA’s replicative powers and fans out by the millions, upending cumulative cellular functions. Like the ability to breathe.

Humans. We love metaphors. They allow us to compare something as complex as viral infection to something as familiar as an Elvis Presley hit. But metaphors for natural processes are seldom accurate. The language is too porous, inviting our anthropomorphic minds to close the gaps. We imagine viruses have an agenda, are driven by an impetus to search and destroy. But nature doesn’t act with intention. It just acts. A virus lives in a cell like a planet revolves around a sun.

Biologists debate whether a virus should be classified as living because it’s a deadbeat on its own; it only comes to life in others. But that assumes an organism is alive apart from its environment. The biochemist and writer Nick Lane points out, “Viruses use their immediate environment to make copies of themselves. But then so do we: We eat other animals or plants, and we breathe in oxygen. Cut us off from our environment, say with a plastic bag over the head, and we die in a few minutes. One could say that we parasitize our environment—like viruses.”2

Our inseparable accord with the environment is why the coronavirus is now in us. Its genomic signature is almost a perfect match with a coronavirus that thrives in bats whose habitats range across the globe. Humans moved into the bats’ territory and the bats’ virus moved into humans. The exchange is just nature doing its thing. “And nature has been doing its thing for 3.75 billion years, when bacteria fought viruses just as we fight them now,” says Shahid Naeem, an upbeat professor of ecology at Columbia University, where he is director of the Earth Institute Center for Environmental Sustainability. If we want to assign blame, it lies with our collectively poor understanding of ecology.

Organisms evolve with uniquely adaptive traits. Bats play many ecological roles. They are pollinators, seed-spreaders, and pest-controllers. They don’t die from the same coronavirus that kills humans because the bat’s anatomy fights the virus to a draw, neutralizing its lethal moves. What’s the deal with the human immune system? We don’t fly. “Bats are flying mammals, which is very unusual,” says Christine K. Johnson, an epidemiologist at the One Health Institute at the University of California, Davis, who studies virus spillover from animals to humans. “They get very high temperatures when they fly, and have evolved immunological features, which humans haven’t, to accommodate those temperatures.”

A viral invasion can overstimulate the chemical responses from a mammal’s immune system to the point where the response itself causes excessive inflammation in tissues. A small protein called a cytokine, which orchestrates cellular responses to foreign invaders, can get over-excited by an aggressive RNA virus, and erupt into a “storm” that destroys normal cellular function—a process physicians have documented in many current coronavirus fatalities. Bats have genetic mechanisms to inhibit that overreaction. Similarly, bat flight requires an increased rate of metabolism. Their wing-flapping action leads to high levels of oxygen-free radicals—a natural byproduct of metabolism—that can damage DNA. As a result, states a 2019 study in the journal Viruses, “bats probably evolved mechanisms to suppress activation of immune response due to damaged DNA generated via flight, thereby leading to reduced inflammation.”3

Bats don’t have better immune systems than humans; just different. Our immune systems evolved for many things, just not flying. Humans do well around the cave fungus Pseudogymnoascus destructans, source of the “white-nose syndrome” that has devastated bats worldwide. Trouble begins when we barge into wildlife habitats with no respect for differences. (Trouble for us and other animals. White-nose syndrome spread in part on cavers’ shoes and clothing, who tracked it from one site to the next.) We mine for gold, develop housing tracts, and plow forests into feedlots. We make other animals’ habitats our own.

Our moralistic brain sees retribution. Karma. A viral outbreak is the wrath that nature heaps on us for bulldozing animals out of their homes. Not so. “We didn’t violate any evolutionary or ecological laws because nature doesn’t care what we do,” Naeem says. Making over the world for ourselves is just humans being the animals we are. “Every species, if they had the upper hand, would transform the world into what it wants,” Naeem says. “Birds build nests, bees build hives, beavers build dams. It’s called niche construction. If domestic cats ruled the world, they would make the world in their image. It would be full of litter trays, lots of birds, lots of mice, and lots of fish.”

But nature isn’t an idyllic land of animal villages constructed by evolution. Species’ niche-building ways have always brought them into contact with each other. “Nature is ruled by processes like competition, predation, and mutualism,” Naeem says. “Some of them are positive, some are negative, some are neutral. That goes for our interactions with the microbial world, including viruses, which range from super beneficial to super harmful.”

Nature has been doing its thing for 3.75 billion years, when bacteria fought viruses as we fight them now.

Ultimately, nature works out a truce. “If the flower tries to short the hummingbird on sugar, the hummingbird is not going to provide it with pollination,” Naeem says. “If the hummingbird sucks up all the nectar and doesn’t do pollination well, it’s going to get pinged as well. Through this kind of back and forth, species hammer out an optimal way of getting along in nature. Evolution winds up finding some middle ground.” Naeem pauses. “If you try to beat up everybody, though, it’s not going to work.”

Guess which species is the bully? “There’s never been any species on this planet in its entire history that has had the capacity to modify its niche the way we have,” Naeem says. Our niche—cities, farms, factories—has made the planet into a zoological Manhattan. Living in close proximity with other species, and their viruses, means we are going to rub shoulders with them. Dense living isn’t for everyone. But a global economy is. And with it comes an intercontinental transportation system. A virus doesn’t have a nationality. It can travel as easily from Arkansas to China as the other way around. A pandemic is an inevitable outcome of our modified niche.

Although nature doesn’t do retribution, our clashes with it have mutual consequences. The exact route of transmission of SARS-CoV-2 from bat to humans remains unmapped. Did the virus pass directly into a person, who may have handled a bat, or through an intermediate animal? What is clear is the first step, which is that a bat shed the virus in some way. University of California, Davis epidemiologist Johnson explains bats shed viruses in their urine, feces, and saliva. They might urinate on fruit or eat a piece of it, and then discard it on the ground, where an animal may eat it. The Nipah virus outbreak in 1999 was spurred by a bat that left behind a piece of fruit that came in contact with a domestic pig and humans. The Ebola outbreaks in the early 2000s in Central Africa likely began when an ape, who became bushmeat for humans, came in contact with a fruit bat’s leftover. “The same thing happened with the Hendra virus in Australia in 1994,” says Johnson. “Horses got infected because fruit bats lived in trees near the horse farm. Domesticated species are often an intermediary between bats and humans, and they amplify the outbreak before it gets to humans.”

Transforming bat niches into our own sends bats scattering—right into our backyards. In a study released this month, Johnson and colleagues show the spillover risk of viruses is the highest among animal species, notably bats, that have expanded their range, due to urbanization and crop production, into human-run landscapes.4 “The ways we’ve altered the landscape have brought a lot of great things to people,” Johnson says. “But that has put wildlife at higher pressures to adapt, and some of them have adapted by moving in with us.”

Pressures on bats have another consequence. Studies indicate physiological and environmental stress can increase viral replication in them and cause them to shed more than they normally do. One study showed bats with white-nose syndrome had “60 times more coronavirus in their intestines” as uninfected bats.5 Despite evidence for an increase in viral replication and shedding in stressed bats, “a direct link to spillover has yet to be established,” concludes a 2019 report in Viruses.3 But it’s safe to say that bats being perpetually driven from their caves into our barns is not ideal for either species.

As my questions ran out for Columbia University’s Naeem, I asked him to put this horrible pandemic in a final ecological light for me.

“We think of ourselves as being resilient and robust, but it takes something like this to realize we’re still a biological entity that’s not capable of totally controlling the world around us,” he says. “Our social system has become so disconnected from nature that we no longer understand we still are a part of it. Breathable air, potable water, productive fields, a stable environment—these all come about because we’re part of this elaborate system, the biosphere. Now we’re suffering environmental consequences like climate change and the loss of food security and viral outbreaks because we’ve forgotten how to integrate our endeavors with nature.”

A 2014 study by a host wildlife ecologists, economists, and evolutionary biologists lays out a plan to stem the tide of emergent infectious diseases, most of which spawned in wildlife. Cases of emergent infectious diseases have practically quadrupled since 1940.6 World leaders could get smart. They could pool money for spillover research, which would identify the hundreds of thousands of potentially lethal viruses in animals. They could coordinate pandemic preparation with international health regulations. They could support animal conservation with barriers that developers can’t cross. The scientists give us 27 years to cut the rise of infectious diseases by 50 percent. After that, the study doesn’t say what the world will look like. I imagine it will look like a hospital right now in New York City.

Patients lie on gurneys in corridors, swaddled in sheets, their faces shrouded by respirators. They’re surrounded by doctors and nurses, desperately trying to revive them. In pain, inconsolable, and alone. I know they want nothing more than to see their family and friends on the other side, to be wheeled out of the hospital and feel normal again. Will they? Will others in the future? It will take tremendous political will to avoid the next pandemic. And it must begin with a reckoning with our relationship with nature. That tiny necklace of RNA tearing through patients’ lungs right now is the world we live in. And have always lived in. We can’t be cut off from the environment. When I see the suffering in hospitals, I can only ask, Do we get it now?

Kevin Berger is the editor of Nautilus.

References

1. Villareal, L.P. The Widespread Evolutionary Significance of Viruses. In Domingo, E., Parrish, C.R., & Hooland, J. (Eds.) Origin and Evolution of Viruses Elsevier, Amsterdam, Netherlands (2008).

2. Lane, N. The Vital Question: Energy, Evolution, and the Origins of Complex Life W.W. Norton, New York, NY (2015).

3. Subudhi, S., Rapin, N., & Misra, V. Immune system modulation and viral persistence in Bats: Understanding viral spillover. Viruses 11, E192 (2019).

4. Johnson, C.K., et al. Global shifts in mammalian population trends reveal key predictors of virus spillover risk. Proceedings of The Royal Society B 287 (2020).

5. Davy, C.M., et al. White-nose syndrome is associated with increased replication of a naturally persisting coronaviruses in bats. Scientific Reports 8, 15508 (2018).

6. Pike, J., Bogich, T., Elwood, S., Finnoff, D.C., & Daszak, P. Economic optimization of a global strategy to address the pandemic threat. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 111, 18519-18523 (2014).

Lead image: AP Photo / Mark Lennihan

Like most of us, Adam Tooze is stuck at home. The British-born economic historian and Columbia University professor of history had been on leave this school year to write a book about climate change. But now he’s studying a different global problem. There are more than 700,000 cases of COVID-19 in the United States and over 2 million infections worldwide. It’s also caused an economic meltdown. More than 18 million Americans have filed for unemployment in recent weeks, and Goldman Sachs analysts predict that U.S. gross domestic product will decline at an annual rate of 34 percent in the second quarter.

Tooze is an expert on economic catastrophes. He wrote the book Crashed: How a Decade of Financial Crises Changed the World, about the 2008 economic crisis and its aftermath. But even he didn’t see this one coming. He hadn’t thought much about how pandemics could impact the economy—few economists had. Then he watched as China locked down the city of Wuhan, in a province known for auto manufacturing, on January 23; as northern Italy shut down on February 23; and as the U.S. stock market imploded on March 9. By then, he knew he had another financial crisis to think about. He’s been busy writing ever since. Tooze spoke with Nautilus from his home in New York City.

What do you make of the fact that, in three weeks, more than 16 million people in the U.S. have filed for unemployment?

The structural element here—and this is quite striking, when you compare Europe, for instance, to the U.S.—is that America has and normally celebrates the flexibility and dynamism of its labor market: The fact that people move between jobs. The fact that employers have the right to hire and fire if they need to. The downside is that in a shock like this, the appropriate response for an employer is simply to let people go. What America wasn’t able to do was to improvise the short-time working systems that the Europeans are trying to use to prevent the immediate loss of employment to so many people.

The disadvantage of the American system that reveals itself in a crisis like this is that hiring and firing is not easily reversible. People who lose jobs don’t necessarily easily get them back. There is a fantasy of a V-shaped recovery. We literally have never done this before, so we don’t know one way or another how this could happen. But it seems likely that many people who have lost employment will not immediately find reemployment over the summer or the fall when business activity resumes something like its previous state. In a situation with a lot of people with low qualifications in precarious jobs at low income, the damage from that kind of interruption of employment in sectors notably which are already teetering on the edge—the chain stores, which are quite likely closing anyway, and fragile malls, which were on the edge of dying—it’s quite likely that this shock will also induce disproportionately large amounts of scarring.

What role has wealth and income inequality played during this crisis?

The U.S. economic system is bad enough in a regular crisis. In one like this, where you shut the entire economy down in a matter of weeks, the damage is barely conceivable. There are huge disparities, all of which ultimately are rooted in social structures of race and class, and in the different types of jobs that people have. The profound inequality in American society has been brought home for us in everyone’s families, where there is a radical disparity between the ability of some households to sustain the education of their children and themselves living comfortably at home. Twenty-five percent of kids in the United States appear not to have a stable WiFi connection. They have smartphones. That seems practically universal. But you can’t teach school on a smartphone. At least, that technology is not there.

Presumably by next year something like normality returns. But forever after we’ll live under the shadow of this having happened.

President Trump wants the economy to reopen by May. Would that stop the economic crisis?

Certainly that is presumably what drives that haste to restart the economy and to lift intense social distancing provisions. There is a sense that we can’t stand this. And that has a lot to do with deep fragilities in the American social system. If all Americans live comfortably in their own homes, with the safety of a regular paycheck, with substantial savings, with health insurance that wasn’t conditional on precarious employment, and with unemployment benefits that were adequate and that were rolled out to most people in this society if they needed them, then there wouldn’t be such a rush. But that isn’t America as we know it. America is a society in which half of families have virtually no financial cushion; in which small businesses, which are so often hailed as the drivers of job creation, the vast majority of owners of them live hand-to-mouth; in which the unemployment insurance system really is a mockery; and with health insurance directly tied to employment for the vast majority of the people. A society like that really faces huge pressures if the economy is shut down.

How is the pandemic-induced economic collapse we’re facing now different from what we faced in 2008?

This is so much faster. Early this year, America had record-low unemployment numbers. And last week or so already we probably broke the record for unemployment in the United States in the period since World War II. This story is moving so fast that our statistical systems of registration can’t keep up. So we think probably de facto unemployment in the U.S. right now is 13, 14, 15 percent. That’s never happened before. 2007 to 2008 was a classic global crisis in the sense that it came out of one particular over-expanded sector, a sector which is very well known for its volatility, which is real estate and construction. It was driven by a credit boom.

What we’re seeing this time around is deliberately, government-ordered, cliff edge, sudden shutdown of the entire economy, hitting specifically the face-to-face human services—retail, entertainment, restaurants—sector, which are, generally speaking, lagging in cyclical terms and are not the kind of sectors that generate boom-bust cycles.

Are we better prepared this time than in 2008?

You’d find it very hard to point to anyone in the policymaking community at the beginning of 2020 who was thinking of pandemic risk. Some people were. Former Treasury Secretary and former Director of the National Economic Council Larry Summers, for example, wrote a paper about pandemic flu several years ago, because of MERS and SARS, previous respiratory illnesses caused by coronaviruses. But it wasn’t top of stack at the beginning of this year. So we weren’t prepared in that sense. But do we know what to do now if we see the convulsions in the credit markets that we saw at the beginning of March? Yes. Have the central banks done it? Yes. Did they use some of the techniques they employed in ’08? Yes. Did they know that you had to go in big and you had to go in heavy and hard and quickly? Yes. And they have done so on an even more gigantic scale than in ’08, which is a lesson learned in ’08, too: There’s no such a thing as too big. And furthermore, the banks, which were the fragile bit in ’08, have basically been sidelined.

You’ve written that the response to the 2008 crisis worked to “undermine democracy.” How so, and could we see that again with this crisis?

The urgency that any financial crisis produces forces governments’ hands—it strips the legislature, the ordinary processes of democratic deliberation. When you’re forced to make very dramatic, very rapid decisions—particularly in a country as chronically divided as the U.S. is on so many issues—the risk that you create opportunities for demagogues of various types to take advantage of is huge. We know what the response of the Tea Party was to the ’08, ’09 economic crisis. They created an extraordinarily distorted vision of what had happened and then rode that to see extraordinary influence over the Republican party in the years that followed. And there is every reason to think that we might be faced with similar stresses in the American political system in months to come.

The U.S. economic system is bad enough in a regular crisis. In one like this, where you shut the entire economy down in a matter of weeks, the damage is barely conceivable.

How should we be rethinking the economy to buffer against meltdowns like this in the future?

We clearly need to have a far more adequate and substantial medical capacity. There’s no alternative to a comprehensive publicly backstopped or funded health insurance system. Insofar as you haven’t got that, your capacity to guarantee the security in the most basic and elementary sense of your population is not there. When you have a system in which one of the immediate side effects, in a crisis like this, is that large parts of your hospital system go bankrupt—one of the threats to the American medical system right now—that points to something extraordinarily wrong, especially if you’re spending close to 18 percent of GDP on health, more than any other society on the planet.

What about the unemployment insurance system?

America needs to have a comprehensive unemployment insurance system. It can be graded by local wage rates and everything else. But the idea that you have the extraordinary disparities that we have between a Florida and a Georgia at one end, with recipiency rates in the 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 percent, and then states which actually operate an insurance system, which deserve the name—this shouldn’t be accepted in a country like the U.S. We would need to look at how short-time working models might be a far better way of dealing with shocks of this kind, essentially saying that there is a public interest in the continuity of employment relationships. The employer should be investing in their staff and should not be indifferent as to who shows up for work on any given day.

What does this pandemic teach us about living in a global economy?

There are a series of very hard lessons in the recent history of globalization into which the corona shock fits—about the peculiar inability of American society, American politics, and the American labor market to cushion shocks that come from the outside in a way which moderates the risk and the damage to the most vulnerable people. If you look at the impact of globalization on manufacturing, industry, inequality, the urban fabric in the U.S., it’s far more severe than in other societies, which have basically been subject to the same shock. That really needs to raise questions about how the American labor market and welfare system work, because they are failing tens of millions of people in this society.

You write in Crashed not just about the 2008 crisis, but also about the decade afterward. What is the next decade going to look like, given this meltdown?

I have never felt less certain in even thinking about that kind of question. At this point, can either you or I confidently predict what we’re going to be doing this summer or this autumn? I don’t know whether my university is resuming normal service in the fall. I don’t know whether my daughter goes back to school. I don’t know when my wife’s business in travel and tourism resumes. That is unprecedented. It’s very difficult against that backdrop to think out over a 10-year time horizon. Presumably by next year something like normality returns. But forever after we’ll live under the shadow of this having happened. Every year we’re going to be anxiously worrying about whether flu season is going to be flu season like normal or flu season like this. That is itself something to be reckoned with.

How will anxiety and uncertainty about a future pandemic-like crisis affect the economy?

When we do not know what the future holds to this extent, it makes it very difficult for people to make bold, long-term financial decisions. This previously wasn’t part of the repertoire of what the financial analysts call tail risk. Not seriously. My sister works in the U.K. government, and they compile a list every quarter of the top five things that could blow your departmental business up. Every year pandemics are in the top three. But no one ever acted on it. It’s not like terrorism. In Britain, you have a state apparatus which is geared to address the terrorism risk because it’s very real—it’s struck many times. Now all of a sudden we have to take the possibility of pandemics that seriously. And their consequences are far more drastic. How do we know what our incomes are going to be? A very large part of American society is not going to be able to answer that question for some time to come. And that will shake consumer confidence. It will likely increase the savings rate. It’s quite likely to reduce the desire to invest in a large part of the U.S. economy.

Max Kutner is a journalist in New York City. He has written for Newsweek, The Boston Globe, and Smithsonian. Follow him on Twitter @maxkutner.

Lead image: Straight 8 Photography / Shutterstock

Social, cultural, economic, spiritual, psychological, emotional, intellectual: Everything is outside the box. And this new sheltered-in-place experience won’t fit into old containers.Photo Illustration by Africa Studio / Shutterstock

Many of us are stuck now, sheltered in our messy dwellings. A daily walk lets me appreciate the urban landscaping; but I can’t stop to smell anything because a blue cotton bandana shields my nostrils. Indoors, constant digital dispatches chirp to earn my attention. I click on memes, status updates, and headlines, but everything is more of the same. How many ways can we repackage fear and reframe optimism? I mop the wood-laminate floor of my apartment because I hope “ocean paradise” scented Fabuloso will make my home smell a little less confining. My thoughts waft toward the old cliché: Think outside the box. I’ve always hated when people say that.

To begin with, the directions are ineffectual. You can’t tell someone to think outside the box and expect them to do it. Creativity doesn’t happen on demand. Want proof? Just try to make yourself think a brilliant thought, something original, innovative, or unique. Go ahead. Do it. Right now. You can’t, no matter how hard you try. This is why ancient people believed that inspiration comes from outside. It’s external, bestowed on each of us like a revelation or prophecy—a gift from the Muses. Which means your genius does not belong to you. The word “genius” is the Latin equivalent of the ancient Greek “daemon” (δαίμονες)—like a totem animal, or a spirit companion. A genius walks beside us. It mediates between gods and mortals. It crosses over from one realm to the next. It whispers divine truth.

We are paralyzed by the prospect of chaos, uncertainty, and entropy.

In modern times, our mythology moves the daemons away from the heavens and into the human soul. We say, “Meditate and let your spirit guide you.” Now we think genius comes from someplace deep within. The mind? The brain? The heart? Nobody knows for sure. Yet, it seems clear to us that inspiration belongs to us; it’s tangibly contained within our corporeal boundaries. That’s why we celebrate famous artists, poets, physicists, economists, entrepreneurs, and inventors. We call them visionaries. We read their biographies. We do our best to emulate their behaviors. We study the five habits of highly successful people. We practice yoga. We exercise. We brainstorm, doodle, sign up for online personal development workshops. We do whatever we can to cultivate the fertile cognitive soil in which the springtime seeds of inspiration might sprout. But still, even though we believe that a genius is one’s own, we know that we cannot direct it. Therefore, no matter how many people tell me to think outside the box, I won’t do it. I can’t. 

Even if I could, I’m not sure thinking outside the box would be worthwhile. Consider the origins of the phrase. It started with an old brain teaser. Nine dots are presented in a perfect square, lined up three by three. Connect them all, using only four straight lines, without lifting your pencil from the paper. It’s the kind of puzzle you’d find on the back of a box of Lucky Charms breakfast cereal, frivolous but tricky. The solution involves letting the lines expand out onto the empty page, into the negative space. Don’t confine your markings to the dots themselves. You need to recognize, instead, that the field is wider than you’d assume. In other words, don’t interpret the dots as a square, don’t imagine that the space is constricted. Think outside the box! 

For years, pop-psychologists, productivity coaches, and business gurus have all used the nine-dot problem to illustrate the difference between “fixation” and “insight.” They say that we look at markings on a page and immediately try to find a pattern. We fixate on whatever meaning we can ascribe to the image. In this case, we assume that nine dots make a box. And we imagine we’re supposed to stay within its boundaries—contained and confined. We bring habitual assumptions with us even though we’re confronting a unique problem. Why? Because we are paralyzed by the prospect of chaos, uncertainty, and entropy. We cling to the most familiar ways of organizing things in order to mitigate the risk that new patterns might not emerge at all, the possibility that meaning itself could cease to exist. But this knee-jerk reaction limits our capacity for problem-solving. Our customary ways of knowing become like a strip of packing tape that’s accidentally affixed to itself—you can struggle to undo it, but it just tangles up even more. In other words, your loyalty to the easiest, most common interpretations is the sticky confirmation bias that prevents you from arriving at a truly insightful solution. 

At least that’s what the experts used to say. And we all liked to believe it. But our minds don’t really work that way. The box parable appeals because it reinforces our existing fantasies about an individual’s proclivity to innovate and disrupt by thinking in unexpected ways. It’s not true. 

Studies have found that solving the nine-dot problem has nothing to do with the box. Even when test subjects were told that the solution requires going outside the square’s boundaries, most of them still couldn’t solve it. There was an increase in successful attempts so tiny that it was considered statistically insignificant, proving that the ability to arrive at a solution to the nine-dot problem has nothing to do with fixation or insight. The puzzle is just difficult, no matter which side of the box you’re standing on.

Still, I bet my twelve-year-old son could solve it. Yesterday, we unpacked a set of oil paints, delivered by Amazon. He was admiring the brushes and canvases. He was thinking about his project, trying to be creative, searching for insight. “Think inside the outside of the box,” he said.  “What does that mean?” I pushed the branded, smiling A-to-Z packaging aside and I looked at him like he was crazy. “Like with cardboard, you know, with all the little holes inside.” 

He was talking about the corrugations, those ridges that are pasted between layers of fiberboard. They were originally formed on the same fluted irons used to make the ruffled collars of Elizabethan-era fashion. At first, single faced corrugated paper—smooth on one side, ridged on the other—was used to wrap fragile glass bottles. Then, around 1890, the double-faced corrugated fiberboard with which we’re familiar was developed. And it transformed the packing and shipping industries. The new paperboard boxes were sturdy enough to replace wooden crates. It doesn’t take an engineering degree to understand how it works: The flutes provide support; the empty space in between makes it lightweight. My son is right; it’s all about what’s inside the outside of the box.

Now I can’t stop saying it to myself, “Think inside the outside of the box.” It’s a perfect little metaphor. In a way, it even sums up the primary cognitive skill I acquired in graduate school. One could argue that a PhD just means you’ve been trained to think inside the outside of boxes. What do I mean by that? Consider how corrugation gives cardboard it’s structural integrity. The empty space—what’s not there—makes it strong and light enough that it’s a useful and efficient way to carry objects. Similarly, it’s the intellectual frameworks that make our interpretations and analyses of the world hold up. An idea can’t stand on its own; it needs a structure and a foundation. It needs a box. It requires a frame. And by looking at how those frames are assembled, by seeing how they carry a concept through to communication, we’re able to do our best thinking. We look at the empty spaces—the invisible, or tacit assumptions—which lurk within the fluted folds of every intellectual construction. We recognize that our conscious understanding of lived experience is corrugated just like cardboard. 

The famous sociologist Erving Goffman said as much in 1974 when he published his essay on “Frame Analysis.” He encouraged his readers to identify the principles of organization which govern our perceptions. This work went on to inspire countless political consultants, pundits, publicists, advertisers, researchers, and marketers. It’s why we now talk often about the ways in which folks “frame the conversation.” But I doubt my son has read Goffman. He just stumbled on a beautifully succinct way to frame the concept of critical thinking. Maybe he was inspired by Dr. Seuss. 

When my kids were little, they asked for the same story every night, “Read Sneetches Daddy!” I could practically recite the whole thing from memory: “Now, the Star-belly Sneetches had bellies with stars. The Plain-belly Sneetches had none upon thars.” It’s an us-versus-them story, a fable about the way a consumption economy encourages people to compete for status, and to alienate the “other.” If you think inside the outside of the box, it’s also a scathing criticism of a culture that’s obsessed with personal and professional transformation—always reinventing and rebranding. 

One day, Sylvester McMonkey McBean shows up on the Sneetches’ beaches with a peculiar box-shaped fix-it-up machine. Sneetches go in with plain-bellies and they come out with stars. Now, anyone can be anything, for a fee. McBean charges them a fortune; he exploits the Sneetches’ insecurities. He builds an urgent market demand for transformational products. He preys on their most familiar—and therefore, cozy and comforting—norms of character assessment. He disrupts their identity politics, makes it so that there’s no clear way to tell who rightfully belongs with which group. And as a result, chaos ensues. Why? Because the Sneetches discover that longstanding divisive labels and pejorative categories no longer provide a meaningful way to organize their immediate experiences. They’ve lost their frames, the structural integrity of their worldview. They feel unhinged, destabilized, unboxed, and confused.

Social, cultural, economic, spiritual, psychological, emotional, intellectual: Everything is outside the box.

It should sound familiar. After all, we’ve been living through an era in history that’s just like the Sneetches’. The patterns and categories we heretofore used to define self and other are being challenged every day—sometimes for good, sometimes for bad. How can we know who belongs where in a digital diaspora, a virtual panacea, where anyone can find “my tribe”? What do identity, allegiance, heredity, and loyalty even mean now that these ideas can be detached from biology and birthplace? Nobody knows for sure. And that’s just the beginning: We’ve got Sylvester-McMonkey-McBean-style disruption everywhere we look. Connected technologies have transformed the ways in which we make sense of our relationships, how we communicate with one another, our definitions of intimacy. 

Even before the novel coronavirus, a new global paradigm forced us to live and work in a world that’s organized according to a geopolitical model we can barely comprehend. Sure, the familiar boundaries of statehood sometimes prohibited migrant foot traffic—but information, microbes, and financial assets still moved swiftly across borders, unimpeded. Similarly, cross-national supply-chains rearranged the rules of the marketplace. High-speed transportation disrupted how we perceive the limits of time and space. Automation upset the criteria through which we understand meritocracy and self-worth. Algorithms and artificial intelligence changed the way we think about labor, employment, and productivity. Data and privacy issues blurred the boundaries of personal sovereignty. And advances in bioengineering shook up the very notion of human nature.

Our boxes were already bursting. And now, cloistered at home in the midst of a pandemic, our most mundane work-a-day routines are dissolved, making it feel like our core values and deeply-held beliefs are about to tumble out all over the place. We can already envision the mess that is to come—in fact, we’re watching it unfurl in slow motion. Soon, the world will look like the intellectual, emotional, and economic equivalent of my 14-year-old’s bedroom. Dirty laundry is strewn across the floor, empty candy wrappers linger on dresser-tops, mud-caked sneakers are tossed in the corner, and the faint yet unmistakable stench of prepubescent body odor is ubiquitous. Nothing is copasetic. Nothing is in its place. Instead, everything is outside the box. 

It’s not creative, inspiring, or insightful. No, it’s disorienting and anxiety-provoking. I want to tidy it up as quickly as possible. I want to put things back in their familiar places. I want to restore order and eliminate chaos. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t do it, because the old boxes are ripped and torn. Their bottoms have fallen out. Now, they’re useless. Social, cultural, economic, spiritual, psychological, emotional, intellectual: Everything is outside the box. And this new sheltered-in-place experience won’t fit into old containers.

Jordan Shapiro, Ph.D., is a senior fellow for the Joan Ganz Cooney Center at Sesame Workshop and Nonresident Fellow in the Center for Universal Education at the Brookings Institution. He teaches at Temple University, and wrote a column for Forbes on global education and digital play from 2012 to 2017. His book, The New Childhood, was released by Little, Brown Spark in December 2018.

It seems like people who get infected with SARS-CoV-2 retain immunity, but we can’t be sure how long that immunity will last. We still lack the testing capabilities to be certain.eamesBot / Shutterstock

This story was updated post-publication to include information from a study published on the preprint server medRxiv on April 17, 2020.

With more than half a million cases of COVID-19 in the United States1 and the number of deaths increasing daily, it remains unclear when and how we might return to some semblance of pre-pandemic life. This leaves many grappling with an important question: Do you become immune after SARS-CoV-2 infection? And, if so, how long might that immunity last?

In 2019, the virus SARS-CoV-2 jumped to a human host for the first time, causing the disease COVID-19. When you become infected with a new virus, your body does not possess the antibodies necessary to mount a targeted immune response. Antibodies, proteins belonging to the immunoglobulin family, consist of four chains of amino acids that form a characteristic Y-shaped structure. Antibodies are manufactured by the immune system to bind to antigens (viral proteins) to neutralize viral infectivity.

When you inhale an aerosolized droplet containing SARS-CoV-2, the virus encounters the cells of the mucous membrane lining the respiratory tract. If effective contact is made, the virus binds to a particular receptor on these cells called ACE-2. After binding ACE-2, a host enzyme is co-opted to cleave the virus’ surface protein, called the spike protein, allowing the virus to enter the cell.

It appears that individuals with COVID-19 do create neutralizing antibodies—the basis of immunity.

Within the first few hours of infection, the body’s first line of defense—the innate immune response—is activated. The innate immune response is non-specific. When a “foreign” molecule is detected, innate immune cells signal to other cells to alter their response or prepare to combat infection.

In the following days, the adaptive immune response is activated, which is more specific. The adaptive immune response will peak one to two weeks post-infection and consists of antibodies and specialized immune cells. It is called the “adaptive” immune response because of its ability to tailor the response to a specific pathogen. Antibodies can neutralize viral infectivity by preventing virus from binding to receptors, blocking cell entry, or causing virus particles to aggregate.2 Once an infection has resolved, some of these antibodies remain in the body as immunological memory to be recruited for protection in the case of reinfection. To be immune to a virus is to possess this immunological memory.

Many vaccines work by activating the adaptive immune response. Inactivated virus, viral protein, or some other construct specific to a particular virus are introduced into the body as vaccines to initiate an immune response. Ideally, the body creates antibodies against the viral construct so that it can mount a succinct response when infected by the virus. However, in order to work effectively, a vaccine must provoke an immune response that is sufficiently robust. If the body only produces low concentrations of neutralizing antibodies, adequate immunological memory may not be sustained.

While there is still much that we have to learn about SARS-CoV-2, it appears that individuals with COVID-19 do create neutralizing antibodies—the basis of immunity. However, we don’t know for certain how long that immunity might offer protection. On the question of COVID-19 re-infection, Matt Frieman, a coronavirus researcher at the University of Maryland School of Medicine, commented in a recent interview with NPR: “We don’t know very much … I think there’s a very likely scenario where the virus comes through this year, and everyone gets some level of immunity to it, and if it comes back again, we will be protected from it—either completely or if you do get reinfected later, a year from now, then you have much less disease. That’s the hope, but there is no way to know that.”3

Immunity to a virus is measured by serological testing—patient blood is collected and analyzed for the presence of antibodies against a particular virus. Serological data is most informative when collected long-term, so the data we have been able to obtain on SARS-CoV-2 is limited. However, data on other coronaviruses that we’ve had the opportunity to study in more depth can inform our estimations on how this outbreak may evolve.

First, we can look to the coronaviruses that are known to cause the common cold. Following infection with one of these coronaviruses, disease is often mild; therefore, the concentration of antibodies detected in the blood is low. This is because mild disease often indicates a less robust immune response. Interestingly, it is not the virus itself that causes us to feel sick, but, rather, our body’s response to it. Typically, the sicker we feel, the stronger the immune response; therefore, after a cold, we are often only protected for a year or two against the same virus.4 While SARS-CoV-2 wouldn’t necessarily act like these common coronaviruses, the body’s response to these coronaviruses serves as a point of reference upon which to make predictions in the absence of virus-specific data.

We can also look to coronaviruses that are known to cause severe disease, such as SARS-CoV, which caused the 2002-2003 outbreak of SARS in China. One study discovered that antibodies against SARS-CoV remained in the blood of healthcare workers for 12 years after infection.5 While it is not certain that SARS-CoV-2 will provoke a response similar to that of SARS-CoV, this study provides us with information that can inform our estimates on immunity following COVID-19 and provide hope that immunity will provide long-term protection.

If immunity to SARS-CoV-2 diminishes as it does for common cold coronaviruses, it is likely that wintertime outbreaks will recur.

Scientists have also been working to analyze antibodies in samples from individuals infected with SARS-CoV-2. A research group in Finland recently published a study detailing the serological data collected from a COVID-19 patient over the course of their illness.6 Antibodies specific to SARS-CoV-2 were present within two weeks from the onset of symptoms. Similarly, another recent report analyzing patients with confirmed COVID-19 indicated that it took approximately 11-14 days for neutralizing antibodies to be detected in blood.7 Both of these studies, while preliminary, suggest that the basis for immunity is present in patients infected with SARS-CoV-2.

Another report looked at the possibility for recurrence of COVID-19 following re-infection with SARS-CoV-2.8 In this study, rhesus macaques were infected with SARS-CoV and allowed to recover after developing mild illness. Once blood samples were collected and confirmed to test positive for neutralizing antibodies, half of the infected macaques were re-challenged with the same dose of SARS-CoV-2. The re-infected macaques showed no significant viral replication or recurrence of COVID-19. While macaques “model” human immunity, not predict it, these data further support the possibility that antibodies manufactured in response to SARS-CoV-2 are protective against short-term re-infection.

We can also analyze a virus’ structure, and the information gained from sequencing the viral genome, when trying to predict its behavior. All viruses continually undergo mutation in the process of rapid replication. They lack the necessary machinery to repair changes incurred to the genetic sequence (we as humans also incur mutations to our genetic sequence daily, but we have more sophisticated genetic repair mechanisms in place). The occurrence of significant genetic changes to the viral genome that result in viable genetic changes to a virus is termed antigenic variation. We see a lot of antigenic variation in influenza viruses (thus the need to create new vaccines each year); but the coronaviruses seem to be relatively stable antigenically.4 This is because most coronaviruses have an enzyme that allows them to correct genetic errors sustained during replication. The more stable a virus remains over time, the more likely that antibodies manufactured in response to infection or vaccination will remain effective at neutralizing viral infectivity.

All this considered, it appears that immunity is retained following SARS-CoV-2 infection. So too, that immunity might persist long enough to warrant the implementation of vaccination. However, we still have much to learn about this virus, and whether there may be some cross-immunity between SARS-CoV-2 and other coronaviruses. The widespread variation in patient immune responses adds an additional layer of complexity. We still don’t have a good understanding of why people have different responses to viral infection—some of this variation is owed to genetic variation, but how and why some people have more robust immune responses and more severe disease is still unknown.4 In some cases, individuals show a high immune response because the concentration of virus is high. In other cases, individuals show a high immune response because they differ in some aspect of immune regulation or efficiency. However, as levels of immunity increase generally across a population, the population approaches what is called “herd immunity”—when the percentage of a population immune to a particular virus is sufficiently high that viral load drops below the threshold required to sustain the infection in that population.9

How the pandemic will evolve in the coming months is uncertain. Outcomes depend on a myriad of factors—the duration of immunity, the dynamics of transmission and how we mitigate those dynamics through social distancing, the development of therapeutics and or vaccines, and the ability of healthcare systems to handle COVID-19 caseloads. If immunity to SARS-CoV-2 diminishes as it does for common cold coronaviruses, it is likely that wintertime outbreaks will recur in coming years.10 Whether immunity to other coronaviruses might offer some cross protective immunity to SARS-CoV-2 will also play a role, albeit to a lesser extent. Widespread serological testing to assess the duration of immunity to SARS-CoV-2 is imperative, but many countries still lack this capability.

A recent study looking at serological data from 3,300 symptomatic and asymptomatic individuals in California estimates that there may be as many as 48,000-81,000 people who have been infected with SARS-Cov-2 in Santa Clara County, which is 50- to 85-fold more cases than we previously thought.11 This small-scale survey emphasizes the importance of serological testing in determining the true extent of infection.

The continuation of rigid social distance also hangs in a balance—one-time social distancing measures may drive the SARS-CoV-2 epidemic peak into the fall and winter months, especially if there is increased wintertime transmissibility.10 New therapeutics, vaccines, or measures such as contact tracing and quarantine—once caseloads have been reduced and testing capacity increased—might reduce the need for rigid social distancing. However, if such measures are not put in place, mathematical models predict that surveillance and recurrent social distancing may be required through 2022.10 Only time will tell.

Helen Stillwell is a research associate in immunobiology at Yale University.

References

1. The COVID Tracking Project https://covidtracking.com/data/us-daily (2020).

2. Virology Blog: About Viruses and Viral Disease. Virus neutralization by antibodies. virology.ws (2009).

3. GreenfieldBoyce, N. Do you get immunity after recovering from a case of coronavirus? NPR (2020).

4. Racaniello, V., Langel, S., Leifer, C., & Barker, B. Immune 29: Immunology of COVID-19. Immune Podcast. microbe.tv (2020).

5. Guo, X., et al. Long-Term persistence of IgG antibodies in SARS-CoV infected healthcare workers. bioRxiv (2020). Retrieved from doi: 10.1101/20202/02/12/20021386

6. Haveri, A., et al. Serological and molecular findings during SARS-CoV-2 infection: the first case study in Finland, January to February 2020. Euro Surveillance 25, (2020).

7. Zhao, J., et al. Antibody responses to SARS-CoV-2 in patients of novel coronavirus disease 2019. Clinical Infectious Diseases (2020). Retrieved from doi: 10.1093/cid/ciaa344

8. Bao, L., et al. Reinfection could not occur in SARS-CoV-2 infected rhesus macaques. bioRxiv (2020). Retrieved from doi: 10.1101/20202.03.13.990226

9. Virology Blog: About Viruses and Viral Disease. Herd immunity. virology.ws (2008).

10. Kissler, S.M. Tedijanto, C., Goldstein, E., Grad, Y.H., & Lipsitch, M. Projecting the transmission dynamics of SARS-CoV-2 through the post-pandemic period. Science eabb5793 (2020).

11. Bendavid, E., et al. COVID-19 antibody seroprevalence in Santa Clara County, California. medRxiv (2020). Retrieved from doi: 10.1101/2020.04.14.20062463

Early in the morning on April 5, 2020, an article appeared on the website Medium with the title “Covid-19 had us all fooled, but now we might have finally found its secret.” The article claimed that the pathology of COVID-19 was completely different from what public health authorities, such as the World Health Organization, had previously described. According to the author, COVID-19 strips the body’s hemoglobin of iron, preventing red blood cells from delivering oxygen and damaging the lungs in the process. It also claimed to explain why hydroxychloroquine, an experimental treatment often hyped by President Trump, should be effective.

The article was published under a pseudonym—libertymavenstock—but the associated account was linked to a Chicagoland man working in finance, with no medical expertise. (His father is a retired M.D., and in a follow-up note posted on a blog called “Small Dead Animals,” the author claimed that the original article was a collaboration between the two of them.) Although it was not cited, the claims were apparently based on a single scientific article that has not yet undergone peer-review or been accepted for publication, along with “anecdotal evidence” scraped from social media.1

While Medium allows anyone to post on their site and does not attempt to fact-check content, this article remained up for less than 24 hours before it was removed for violating Medium’s COVID-19 content policy. Removing the article, though, has not stopped it from making a splash. The original text continues to circulate widely on social media, with users tweeting or sharing versions archived by the Wayback Machine and re-published by a right-wing blog. As of April 12, the article had been tweeted thousands of times.

There is a pandemic of misinformation about COVID-19 spreading on social media sites. Some of this misinformation takes well-understood forms: baseless rumors, intentional disinformation, and conspiracy theories. But much of it seems to have a different character. In recent months, claims with some scientific legitimacy have spread so far, so fast, that even if it later becomes clear they are false or unfounded, they cannot be laid to rest. Instead, they become information zombies, continuing to shamble on long after they should be dead.

It is not uncommon for media sources like Medium to retract articles or claims that turn out to be false or misleading. Neither are retractions limited to the popular press. In fact, they are common in the sciences, including the medical sciences. Every year, hundreds of papers are retracted, sometimes because of fraud, but more often due to genuine errors that invalidate study findings.2 (The blog Retraction Watch does an admirable job of tracking these.)

Reversing mistakes is a key part of the scientific process. Science proceeds in stops and starts. Given the inherent uncertainty in creating new knowledge, errors will be made, and have to be corrected. Even in cases where findings are not officially retracted, they are sometimes reversed— definitively shown to be false, and thus no longer valid pieces of scientific information.3

Researchers have found, however, that the process of retraction or reversal does not always work the way it should. Retracted papers are often cited long after problems are identified,4 sometimes at a rate comparable to that before retraction. And in the vast majority of these cases, the authors citing retracted findings treat them as valid.5 (It seems that many of these authors pull information directly from colleagues’ papers, and trust that it is current without actually checking.) Likewise, medical researchers have bemoaned the fact that reversals in practice sometimes move at a glacial pace, with doctors continuing to use contraindicated therapies even though better practices are available.6

For example, in 2010, the anesthesiologist Scott Reuben was convicted of health care fraud for fabricating data and publishing it without having performed the reported research. Twenty-one of Reuben’s articles were ultimately retracted. And yet, an investigation four years later found half of these articles were still consistently cited, and that only one-fourth of these citations mentioned that the original work was fraudulent.7 Given that Reuben’s work focused on the use of anesthetics, this failure of retraction is seriously disturbing.

Claims with some scientific legitimacy continue to shamble on long after they should be dead.

But why don’t scientific retractions always work? At the heart of the matter lies the fact that information takes on a life of its own. Facts, beliefs, and ideas are transmitted socially, from person to person to person. This means that the originator of an idea soon loses control over it. In an age of instant reporting and social media, this can happen at lightning speed.

The first models of the social spread of information were actually epidemiological models, developed to track the spread of disease. (Yes, these are the very same models now being used to predict the spread of COVID-19.) These models treat individuals as nodes in a network and suppose that information (or disease) can propagate between connected nodes.

Recently, one of us, along with co-authors Travis LaCroix and Anders Geil, repurposed these models to think specifically about failures of retraction and reversal.8 A general feature of retracted information, understood broadly, is that it is less catchy than novel information in the following way. People tend to care about reversals or retractions only when they have already heard the original, false claim. And they tend to share retractions only when those around them are continuing to spread the false claim. This means that retractions actually depend on the spread of false information.

We built a contagion model where novel ideas and retractions can spread from person to person, but where retractions only “infect” those who have already heard something false. Across many versions of this model, we find that while a false belief spreads quickly and indiscriminately, its retraction can only follow in the path of its spread, and typically fails to reach many individuals. To quote Mark Twain, “A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes.” In these cases it’s because the truth can’t go anywhere until the lie has gotten there first.

Another problem for retractions and reversals is that it can be embarrassing to admit one was wrong, especially where false claims can have life or death consequences. While scientists are expected to regularly update their views under normal circumstances, under the heat of media and political scrutiny during a pandemic they too may be less willing to publicize reversals of opinion.

The COVID-19 pandemic has changed lives around the world at a startling speed—and scientists have raced to keep up. Academic journals, accustomed to a comparatively glacial pace of operations, have faced a torrent of new papers to evaluate and process, threatening to overwhelm a peer-review system built largely on volunteer work and the honor system.9 Meanwhile, an army of journalists and amateur epidemiologists scour preprint archives and university press releases for any whiff of the next big development in our understanding of the virus. This has created a perfect storm for information zombies—and although it also means erroneous work is quickly scrutinized and refuted, this often makes little difference to how those ideas spread.

Many examples of COVID-19 information zombies look like standard cases of retraction in science, only on steroids. They originate with journal articles written by credentialed scientists that are later retracted, or withdrawn after being refuted by colleagues. For instance, in a now-retracted paper, a team of biologists based in New Delhi, India, suggested that novel coronavirus shared some features with HIV and was likely engineered.10 It appeared on an online preprint archive, where scientists post articles before they have undergone peer review, on January 31; it was withdrawn only two days later, following intense critique of the methods employed and the interpretation of the results by scientists from around the world. Days later, a detailed analysis refuting the article was published in the peer-reviewed journal Emerging Microbes & Infections.11 But a month afterward, the retracted paper was still so widely discussed on social media and elsewhere that it had that highest Altmetric score—a measure of general engagement with scientific research—of any scientific article published or written in the previous eight years. Despite a thorough rejection of the research by the scientific community, the dead information keeps walking.

Other cases are more subtle. One major question with far-reaching implications for the future development of the pandemic is to what extent asymptomatic carriers are able to transmit the virus. The first article reporting on asymptomatic transmission was a letter published in the prestigious New England Journal of Medicine claiming that a traveler from China to Germany transmitted the disease to four Germans before her symptoms appeared.12 Within four days, Science reported that the article was flawed because the authors of the letter had not actually spoken with the Chinese traveler, and a follow-up phone call by public health authorities confirmed that she had had mild symptoms while visiting Germany after all.13 Even so, the article has subsequently been cited nearly 500 times according to Google Scholar, and has been tweeted nearly 10,000 times, according to Altmetric.

Media reporting on COVID-19 should be linked to authoritative sources that are updated as information changes.

Despite the follow-up reporting on this article’s questionable methods, the New England Journal of Medicine did not officially retract it. Instead, a week after publishing the letter, the journal added a supplemental appendix describing the progression of the patient’s symptoms while in Germany, leaving it to the reader to determine whether the patient’s mild early symptoms should truly count. Meanwhile, subsequent research14, 15 involving different cases has suggested that asymptomatic transmission may be possible after all—though as of April 13, the World Health Organization considers the risk of infection from asymptomatic carriers to be “very low.” It may turn out that transmission of the virus can occur before any symptoms appear, or while only mild symptoms are present, or even in patients who will never go on to present symptoms. Even untangling these questions is difficult, and the jury is still out on their answers. But the original basis for claims of confirmed asymptomatic transmission was invalid, and those sharing them are not typically aware of the fact.

Another widely discussed article, which claims that the antiviral drug hydroxychloroquine and the antibiotic azithromycin, when administered together, are effective treatments for COVID-19 has drawn enormous amounts of attention to these particular treatments, fueled in part by President Trump.16 These claims, too, may or may not turn out to be true—but the article with which they apparently originated has since received a statement of concern from its publisher, noting that its methodology was problematic. Again, we have a claim that rests on shoddy footing, but which is spreading much farther than the objections can.17 And in the meantime, the increased demand for these medications has led to dangerous shortages for patients who have an established need for them.18

The fast-paced and highly uncertain nature of research on COVID-19 has also created the possibility for different kinds of information zombies, which follow a similar pattern as retracted or refuted articles, but with different origins. There have been a number of widely discussed arguments to the effect that the true fatality rate associated with COVID-19 may be ten or even a hundred times lower than early estimates from the World Health Organization, which pegged the so-called “case fatality rate” (CFR)—the number of fatalities per detected case of COVID-19—at 3.4 percent.19-21

Some of these arguments have noted that the case fatality rate in certain countries with extensive testing, such as Iceland, Germany, and Norway, is substantially lower. References to the low CFR in these countries have continued to circulate on social media, even though the CFR in all of these locations has crept up over time. In the academic realm, John Ioannidis, a Stanford professor and epidemiologist, noted in an editorial, “The harms of exaggerated information and non‐evidence‐based measures,” published on March 19 in the European Journal of Clinical Investigation, that Germany’s CFR in early March was only 0.2 percent.21 But by mid-April it had climbed to 2.45 percent, far closer to the original WHO estimate. (Ioannidis has not updated the editorial to reflect the changing numbers.) Even Iceland, which has tested more extensively than any other nation, had a CFR of 0.47 percent on April 13, more than 4 times higher than it was a month ago. None of this means that the WHO figure was correct—but it does mean some arguments that it is wildly incorrect must be revisited.

What do we do about false claims that refuse to die? Especially when these claims have serious implications for decision-making in light of a global pandemic? To some degree, we have to accept that in a world with rapid information sharing on social media, information zombies will appear. Still, we must combat them. Science journals and science journalists rightly recognize that there is intense interest in COVID-19 and that the science is evolving rapidly. But that does not obviate the risks of spreading information that is not properly vetted or failing to emphasize when arguments depend on data that is very much in flux.

Wherever possible, media reporting on COVID-19 developments should be linked to authoritative sources of information that are updated as the information changes. The Oxford-based Centre for Evidence-Based Medicine maintains several pages that review the current evidence on rapidly evolving questions connected to COVID-19—including whether current data supports the use of hydroxychloroquine and the current best estimates for COVID-19 fatality rates. Authors and platforms seeking to keep the record straight should not just remove or revise now-false information, but should clearly state what has changed and why. Platforms such as Twitter should provide authors, especially scientists and members of the media, the ability to explain why Tweets that may be referenced elsewhere have been deleted. Scientific preprint archives should encourage authors to provide an overview of major changes when articles are revised.

And we should all become more active sharers of retraction. It may be embarrassing to shout one’s errors from the rooftops, but that is what scientists, journals, and responsible individuals must do to slay the information zombies haunting our social networks.

Cailin O’Connor and James Owen Weatherall are an associate professor and professor of logic and philosophy at the University of California, Irvine. They are coauthors of The Misinformation Age: How False Beliefs Spread.

Lead image: nazareno / Shutterstock

References

1. Liu, W. & Li, H. COVID-19 attacks the 1-beta chain of hemoglobin and captures the porphyrin to inhibit human heme metabolism. ChemRxiv (2020).

2. Wager, E. & Williams, P. Why and how do journals retract articles? An analysis of Medline retractions 1988-2008. Journal of Medical Ethics 37, 567-570 (2011).

3. Prasad, V., Gall, V., & Cifu, A. The frequency of medical reversal. Archives of Internal Medicine 171, 1675-1676 (2011).

4. Budd, J.M., Sievert, M., & Schultz, T.R. Phenomena of retraction: Reasons for retraction and citations to the publications. The Journal of the American Medical Association 280, 296-297 (1998).

5. Madlock-Brown, C.R. & Eichmann, D. The (lack of) impact of retraction on citation networks. Science and Engineering Ethics 21, 127-137 (2015).

6. Prasad, V. & Cifu, A. Medical reversal: Why we must raise the bar before adopting new technologies. Yale Journal of Biology and Medicine 84, 471-478 (2011).

7. Bornemann-Cimenti, H., Szilagyi, I.S., & Sandner-Kiesling, A. Perpetuation of retracted publications using the example of the Scott S. Reuben case: Incidences, reasons and possible improvements. Science and Engineering Ethics 22, 1063-1072 (2016).

8. LaCroix, T., Geil, A., & O’Connor, C. The dynamics of retraction in epistemic networks. Preprint. (2019).

9. Jarvis, C. Journals, peer reviewers cope with surge in COVID-19 publications. The Scientist (2020).

10. Pradhan, P., et al. Uncanny similarity of unique inserts in the 2019-nCoV spike protein to HIV-1 gp120 and Gag. bioRxiv (2020).

11. Xiao, C. HIV-1 did not contribute to the 2019-nCoV genome. Journal of Emerging Microbes and Infections 9, 378-381 (2020).

12. Rothe, C., et al. Transmission of 2019-nCoV infection from an asymptomatic contact in Germany. New England Journal of Medicine 382, 970-971 (2020).

13. Kupferschmidt, K. Study claiming new coronavirus can be transmitted by people without symptoms was flawed. Science (2020).

14. Hu, Z., et al. Clinical characteristics of 24 asymptomatic infections with COVID-19 screened among close contacts in Nanjing, China. Science China Life Sciences (2020). Retrieved from doi: 10.1007/s11427-020-1661-4.

15. Bai, R., et al. Presumed asymptomatic carrier transmission of COVID-19. The Journal of the American Medical Association 323, 1406-1407 (2020).

16. Gautret, P., et al. Hydroxychloroquine and azithromycin as a treatment of COVID-19: results of an open-label non-randomized clinical trial. International Journal of Antimicrobial Agents (2020).

17. Ferner, R.E. & Aronson, J.K. Hydroxychloroquine for COVID-19: What do the clinical trials tell us? The Centre for Evidence-Based Medicine (2020).

18. The Arthritis Foundation. Hydroxychloroquine (Plaquenil) shortage causing concern. Arthritis.org (2020).

19. Oke, J. & Heneghan, C. Global COVID-19 case fatality rates. The Centre for Evidence-Based Medicine (2020).

20. Bendavid, E. & Bhattacharya, J. Is the coronavirus as deadly as they say? The Wall Street Journal (2020).

21. Ionnidis, J.P.A. Coronavirus disease 2019: The harms of exaggerated information and non-evidence-based measures. European Journal of Clinical Investigation 50, e13222 (2020).

My mother-in-law, Carol, lives alone. It was her 75th birthday the other day. Normally, I send flowers. Normally, she spends some part of the day with the family members who live nearby and not across the country as my husband, Mark, and I do. And normally, she makes plans to celebrate with a friend. But these are not normal times. I was worried about sending a flower delivery person. Social distancing means no visiting with friends or family, no matter how close they are. So, my sister-in-law dropped off a gift and Mark and I sang “Happy Birthday” down the phone line with our kids. But I could hear the loneliness in Carol’s voice.

This was hardly the worst thing anyone experienced in America on that particular April day. We are fortunate that Carol is healthy and safe. But it upset me anyway. People over 60 are more vulnerable to COVID-19 than anyone else. They are also vulnerable to loneliness, especially when they live alone. By forcing us all into social isolation, one public health crisis—the coronavirus—is shining a bright light on another, loneliness. It will be some time before we have a vaccine for the coronavirus. But the antidote to loneliness is accessible to all of us: friendship.

Those who valued friendship as much as family had higher levels of health and happiness.

All too often we fail to appreciate what we have until it’s gone. And this shared global moment has illuminated how significant friends are to day-to-day happiness. Science has been accumulating evidence that friendship isn’t just critical for our happiness but our health and longevity. Its presence or absence matters at every point in life, but the cumulative effects of either show up most starkly in the later stages of life. That is also the moment when demographics and health concerns can conspire to make friendships harder to find or sustain. As the world hits pause, it’s worth reminding ourselves why friendship is more important now than ever.

Friendship has long been understood to be valuable and pleasurable. Ancient Greek philosophers enjoyed debating its virtues, in the company of friends. But friendship has largely been considered a cultural phenomenon, a pleasant by-product of the human capacity for language and living in groups. In the 1970s and 1980s, a handful of epidemiologists and sociologists began to establish a link between social relationships and health. They showed those who were more socially isolated were more likely to die over the course of the studies. In 2015, a meta-analysis of more than 3 million people whose average age was 66 showed that social isolation and loneliness increased the risk of early mortality by up to 30 percent.1 Yet loneliness and social isolation are not the same thing. Social isolation is an objective measure of the number and extent of social contact a person has day to day. Loneliness is a subjective feeling of mismatch between how much social connection you want and how much you have.

Once the link between health and relationships was established in humans, it was noticed in other species as well. Primatologists studying baboons in Africa remarked that when female baboons lost their primary grooming partners to lions or drought, they worked to build bonds with other animals in place of the one they’d lost. When the researchers analyzed the social behavior of the animals and their outcomes over generations, they found in multiple studies that the animals with the strongest social networks live longer and have more and healthier babies than those that are more isolated.2 Natural selection has resulted in survival of the friendliest.

Since baboons don’t drive each other to the hospital, something deeper than social support must be at work. Friendship is getting “under the skin,” as biologists say. Some of the mechanisms by which it works have yet to be explained, but studies have demonstrated that social connection improves cardiovascular functioning, reduces susceptibility to inflammation and viral disease, sharpens cognition, reduces depression, lowers stress, and even slows biological aging.3

We also now have a clearer definition of what friendship is. Evolutionary biologists concluded that friendship in monkeys—as well as people—required at least three things: it had to be long-lasting, positive, and cooperative. When an anthropologist looked for consistent definitions of friendship across cultures, he found something similar. Friendships were described as positive, and they nearly always include a willingness to help, especially in times of crisis. What friendship is about at the end of the day is creating intensely bonded groups that act as protection against life’s stresses.4

Social connection reduces depression, lowers stress, and even slows biological aging.

That buffering effect is particularly powerful as we age. Those first epidemiology studies focused on people in the middle of life. In 1987, epidemiologist Teresa Seeman of the University of California, Los Angeles, wondered if age and type of relationship mattered for health.5 She found that for those under 60, whether or not they were married mattered most. Being unmarried in midlife put people at greater risk of dying earlier than normal. But that did not turn out to be true for the oldest groups. For those over 60, close ties with friends and relatives mattered more than having a spouse. “That was a real lightbulb that went on,” Seeman says.

In a 2016 study, researchers at the University of North Carolina found that in both adolescence and old age, having friends was associated with a lower risk of physiological problems.6 The more friends you had, the lower the risk. By contrast, adults in middle age were less affected by variation in how socially connected they were. But the quality of their social relationships—whether friendships provided support or added strain—mattered more. Valuing friendship also proved increasingly important with age in a 2017 study by William Chopik of Michigan State University. He surveyed more than 270,000 adults from 15 to 99 years of age and found that those who valued friendship as much as family had higher levels of health, happiness, and subjective well-being across the lifespan. The effects were especially strong in those over 65. As you get older, friendships become more important, not less; whether you’re married is relatively less significant.7

There’s a widespread sense, especially among younger people, that people are lonely post-retirement. The truth is more complicated. Social networks do get smaller later in life for a variety of reasons. In retirement, people lose regular interaction with colleagues. Most diseases, and the probability of getting them, worsen with age. It’s more likely you will lose a spouse. Friends start to die as well. Mental and physical capacities may diminish, and social lives may be limited by hearing loss or reduced mobility.

Yet some of this social-narrowing is intentional. If time is of the essence, the motivation to derive emotional meaning from life increases, says Laura Carstensen, director of the Stanford Center for Longevity. She found that people choose to spend time with those they really care about. They emphasize quality of relationships over quantity. While family members fill much of a person’s inner social circle, friends are there, too, and regularly fill in in the absence of family. A related, more optimistic perspective on retirement is that with fewer professional and family obligations, there are more hours for the things we want to do and the people with whom we want to do them.

At all stages of life, how we do friendship—whether we focus on one or two close friends or socialize more widely—has to do with our natural levels of sociability and motivation. Those vary, of course. I recently spoke with a man who had retired to Las Vegas. When he and his wife moved to their new house, his wife began baking cookies and distributing them to neighbors. She started throwing block parties for silly holidays and those neighbors showed up. No one had bothered to organize such a thing before. Even in retirement, this woman is what psychologists call a “social broker”—someone who brings people together. She has most likely always been friendly.

What best predicted health wasn’t cholesterol levels, but satisfaction in relationships.

How you live your life before you reach 60 makes a difference, experts on aging say. Friendship is a lifelong endeavor, but not everyone treats it that way. Think of relationships the way we do smoking, says epidemiologist Lisa Berkman of Harvard University. “If you start smoking when you’re 14, and stop smoking when you’re 65, in many ways, the damage is done,” she says “It’s not undoable. Stopping makes some things better. It’s worth doing but it’s very late in the game.” Similarly, if you only focus on friendships when your family and professional obligations slow, you will be at a disadvantage. Damage will have been done. The payoff in making friendship a priority was born out in the long-running Harvard Study of Adult Development, which followed more than 700 men for the entire course of their lives. What best predicted how healthy those men were at 80 wasn’t middle-aged cholesterol levels, it was how satisfied they were in their relationships at 50.8

Fortunately, it is possible to make new friends at every stage of life. In Los Angeles, I met a group of 70-something women who bonded as volunteers for Generation Xchange, an educational and community health nonprofit. The program places older adults in early elementary classrooms as teachers’ aids for a school year. As a result of the extra adult attention in class, the children’s reading scores have gone up and behavioral problems have gone down. The volunteers’ health has improved—they’ve lost weight, and lowered blood pressure and cholesterol. But they have also become friends, which is just what UCLA’s Seeman had in mind when she started the program. “One of the reasons our program may be successful is that we are motivating them to get engaged through their joint interest in helping the kids,” Seeman says. “It takes the pressure off of making friends. You can start getting to know each other in the context of the school and our team. Hopefully, the friendships can grow out of that.”

Concerns about loneliness among the elderly are well-founded. Demographics are not working in favor of the fight against loneliness. By 2035, older adults are projected to outnumber children for the first time in American history. Because of drops in marriage and childbearing, more of those older adults will be unmarried and childless than ever before. The percentage of older adults living alone rose steadily through the 20th century, and now hovers at 27 percent. And a digital divide still exists between older adults and their children and grandchildren, according to recent studies. That means older adults are less able to use virtual technology like Zoom to stay connected during the COVID-19 pandemic—though some are learning. Laura Fisher, a personal trainer in New York City, found that putting her business online meant training older clients one-on-one in videoconferencing. She now works out with one of her young clients in New York City and her client’s grandmother in Israel. Generally, older adults who use social media report more support from both their grown children and their friends. “For older people, social media is a real avenue of connection, of relational well-being,” says psychologist Jeff Hancock who runs the social media lab at Stanford University.

That is good news in this moment of enforced social isolation. So is the fact that being apart has reminded so many of us of how much we enjoy being together. For my part, I sent those flowers to my mother-in-law after all when I discovered contactless delivery. When the flowers arrived, we spoke again. And then I called her again two days later. “It’s great to talk to you,” she said.

Lydia Denworth is a contributing editor for Scientific American and the author of Friendship: The Evolution, Biology, and Extraordinary Power of Life’s Fundamental Bond.

Lead image: SanaStock / Shutterstock

References

1 Holt-Lunstad, J., et al. Loneliness and social isolation as risk factors for mortality: a meta-analytic review. Perspectives on Psychological Science 10, 227-237 (2015).

2 Silk, J.B., Alberts, S.C., & Altmann, J. Social bonds of female baboons enhance infant survival. Science 302, 1231-1234 (2003).

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4 Uchino, B.N., Kent de Grey, R.G., & Cronan, S. The quality of social networks predicts age-related changes in cardiovascular reactivity to stress. Psychology and Aging 31, 321–326 (2016).

5 Seeman, T.E., et al. Social network ties and mortality among tile elderly in the Alameda County Study. American Journal of Epidemiology 126, 714-723 (1987).

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This article from our 2013 issue, “Fame,” offers a look at the way information—whether it’s true or not—spreads across the Internet.

On April 11, 2012, Zeddie Little appeared on Good Morning America, wearing the radiant, slightly perplexed smile of one enjoying instant fame. About a week earlier, Little had been a normal, if handsome, 25-year-old trying to make it in public relations. Then on March 31, he was photographed amid a crowd of runners in a South Carolina race by a stranger, Will King, who posted the image to a social networking website, Reddit. Dubbed “Ridiculously Photogenic Guy,” Little’s picture circulated on Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr, accruing likes, comments, and captions (“Picture gets put up as employee of the month/for a company he doesn’t work for”). It spawned spinoffs (Ridiculously Photogenic Dog, Prisoner, and Syrian Rebel) and leapt to the mainstream media. At a high point, ABC Morning News reported that a Google search for “Zeddie Little” yielded 59 million hits.

Why the sudden fame? The truth is that Little hadn’t become famous: His meme had. According to website Know Your Meme, which documents viral Internet phenomena, a meme is “a piece of content or an idea that’s passed from person to person, changing and evolving along the way.” Ridiculously Photogenic Guy is a kind of Internet meme represented by LOL cats: that is, a photograph, video, or cartoon, often overlaid with a snarky message, perfect for incubating in the bored, fertile minds of cubicle workers and college students. In an age where politicians campaign through social media and viral marketers ponder the appeal of sneezing baby pandas, memes are more important than ever—however trivial they may seem.

But trawling the Internet, I found a strange paradox: While memes were everywhere, serious meme theory was almost nowhere. Richard Dawkins, the famous evolutionary biologist who coined the word “meme” in his classic 1976 book, The Selfish Gene, seemed bent on disowning the Internet variety, calling it a “hijacking” of the original term. The peer-reviewed Journal of Memetics folded in 2005. “The term has moved away from its theoretical beginnings, and a lot of people don’t know or care about its theoretical use,” philosopher and meme theorist Daniel Dennett told me. What has happened to the idea of the meme, and what does that evolution reveal about its usefulness as a concept?

In an age where politicians campaign through social media and viral marketers ponder the appeal of sneezing baby pandas, memes are more important than ever—however trivial they may seem.

Memes were originally framed in relationship to genes. In The Selfish Gene, Dawkins claimed that humans are “survival machines” for our genes, the replicating molecules that emerged from the primordial soup and that, through mutation and natural selection, evolved to generate beings that were more effective as carriers and propagators of genes. Still, Dawkins explained, genes could not account for all of human behavior, particularly the evolution of cultures. So he identified a second replicator, a “unit of cultural transmission” that he believed was “leaping from brain to brain” through imitation. He named these units “memes,” an adaption of the Greek word mimene, “to imitate.”

Dawkins’ memes include everything from ideas, songs, and religious ideals to pottery fads. Like genes, memes mutate and evolve, competing for a limited resource—namely, our attention. Memes are, in Dawkins’ view, viruses of the mind—infectious. The successful ones grow exponentially, like a super flu. While memes are sometimes malignant (hellfire and faith, for atheist Dawkins), sometimes benign (catchy songs), and sometimes terrible for our genes (abstinence), memes do not have conscious motives. But still, he claims, memes parasitize us and drive us.

Pinpointing when memes first made the leap to the Internet is tricky. Nowadays, we might think of the dancing baby, also known as Baby Cha-Cha, that grooved into our inboxes in the 1990s. It was a kind of proto-meme, but no one called it that at the time. The first reference I could find to an “Internet meme” appeared in a footnote in a 2003 academic article, describing an important event in the life of Jonah Peretti, co-founder of the hugely successful websites The Huffington Post and BuzzFeed. In 2001, as a procrastinating graduate student at MIT, Peretti decided to order a pair of Nike sneakers customized to read “sweatshop.” Nike refused. Peretti forwarded the email exchange to friends, who sent it on and on, until the story leapt to the mainstream media, where Peretti debated a Nike representative on NBC’s Today Show. Peretti later wrote, “Without really trying, I had released what biologist Richard Dawkins calls a meme.”

Peretti concluded that the email chain had spread exponentially “because it had access to such a wide range of different social networks.” Like Dawkins, he saw that a meme’s success depends on other memes, its ecosystem—and further saw that Internet memes’ ecosystems were online social networks, years before Facebook existed. According to a recent profile in New York Magazine, the Nike experience was formative for Peretti, who created BuzzFeed with the explicit goal of creating viral Internet memes. The company uses a formula called “Big Seed Marketing,” that begins with an equation describing the growth of a virus, the spread of a disease.

From the perspective of serious meme theorists, Internet memes have trivialized and distorted the spirit of the idea. Dennett told me that, in a planned workshop to be held in May 2014, he hopes to “rehabilitate the term in a very precise kind of way” for studying cultural evolution.

According to Dawkins, what sets Internet memes apart is how they are created. “Instead of mutating by random chance before spreading by a form of Darwinian selection, Internet memes are altered deliberately by human creativity,” he explained in a recent video released by the advertising agency Saatchi & Saatchi. He seems to think that the fact that Internet memes are engineered to go viral, rather than evolving by way of natural selection, is a salient difference that distinguishes from other memes—which is arguable, since what catches fire on the Internet can be as much a product of luck as any unexpected mutation. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not initially attracted by the idea of my brain as a sort of dung heap in which the larvae of other peoples’ ideas renew themselves.”

But if the concept of memes can really offer new insight into the intricate web of digital culture and cultural evolution more broadly, why have academics neglected it? Looking for answers, I called Susan Blackmore, a British professor who may be one of the last defenders of memetics as a scientific field. In a 2008 TED talk, Blackmore is an animated speaker, bright-eyed and wiry, her short grey hair dyed with streaks of blue. I reached her at her home in Devon, England, where she is occasionally joined in the garden by Dawkins and Dennett for meetings of the “meme lab.” “It’s only a bit of fun, nothing serious,” Blackmore said. Sometimes, members try experiments, like folding Chinese sailing ships from origami, itself a kind of meme. She remembered a March meeting in which the issue of Internet memes arose, saying, “Richard was upset because he invented the term, which shouldn’t just be about viral Internet memes. It’s a very powerful concept for understanding why humans are the way we are.”

For Blackmore, memetics is a science. An Oxford-educated psychologist, her early work was on telepathy, which she spent years investigating after an out-of-body experience at the age of 19. She subsequently found no evidence for the existence of paranormal phenomena, but she was no stranger to pushing scientific frontiers. It is perhaps unsurprising that she decided to flesh out memetics. Dawkins wrote that, with memes, he did not intend to “sculpt a grand theory of human culture.” In her 1999 book, The Meme Machine, Blackmore does just that. She argues that everything from the development of language to our big brains were products of “memetic drive.” This is perhaps her most radical claim: that memes make us do things.

Considering this idea in his book Consciousness Explained, Dennett writes, “I don’t know about you, but I’m not initially attracted by the idea of my brain as a sort of dung heap in which the larvae of other peoples’ ideas renew themselves… who’s in charge, in according to this vision—we or our memes?” Still, Dennett, too, became a major proponent of meme theory. Speaking on the phone, he used memes to explain the joy we take in our culture and related decisions not to procreate wildly. College, he pointed out, is a great underminer of genetic fitness. Reading Blackmore and Dennett, the idea of meme as mental parasite becomes both more and less convincing: If we are created and driven by our memes, then we are our memes, a duality that Dennett himself seems to recognize.

Perhaps the notion of the meme is evolving in the direction of its own survival.

Yet, the very breadth of the concept makes it difficult to approach memes from the perspective of serious, observation-based science. In the analogy to genes, memes have inevitably disappointed. As Dawkins himself wrote, memes, as entities, are more vague than genes, where alleles compete to hold the same “chromosomal slots.” Unlike genes, memes are not directly observable and have high rates of mutation. Also, no one seems to be sure if memes exist. On the phone, Blackmore told me “the one good reason” memetics might not be a science: “There has been no example of where some scientific discovery has been made using meme theory, that couldn’t have been made any other way.” Still, Blackmore told me that people are doing research on memes—they just don’t call them by that name.

Looking for meme theory at work, I found network theory, an interdisciplinary field that unites computer science, statistics, physics, ecology, and even marketing. “If you want to use memetics to explain ‘everything,’ like how religion spreads, the problem is the data,” said Michele Coscia, a researcher at the Harvard Kennedy School, who recently wrote a paper displaying a statistical “decision tree” that described the success of memes like Ridiculously Photogenic Guy. For Coscia, Internet memes, with their visible mutations and view counts, solved the problem of empirical evidence, allowing him to do work he sees as analogous to genetics experiments.

Perhaps the notion of the meme is evolving in the direction of its own survival. The term “Internet meme” appears to be growing exponentially from year to year, in classical memetic fashion. This is what Bob Scott, a digital humanities librarian at Columbia University, found when he ran various searches on the comprehensive news and wire-service aggregator LexisNexis. He saw that the term “Internet meme” showed up with the new millennium and really took off in 2004, with references roughly doubling each year thereafter. 

Infectious Internet memes are now big business. BuzzFeed now draws 85 million unique visitors a month, compared to The New York Times’ website at 29 million, and was recently valued at $200 million. Its staff trawl the Internet for viral content and curate it, adding news stories, humor pieces, and advertisements, or “sponsored posts.” These categories can be hard to disentangle, even though ads are printed on a taupe background. Scrolling through BuzzFeed, I read: “20 People We Hope to Never See Promoted on OK Cupid,” (which was an ad by Virgin Mobile), a new story on poisoned Indian children, and a post about a Republican Congressman who had “live tweeted” Jay-Z’s new album. It turned out that “23 Times When Wal-Mart Didn’t Disappoint” was not an ad, but still, the post made me think about how subversive humor—the kind that made Peretti’s email exchange with Nike so popular—could be used to advertise one of America’s least-subversive mega-chains.

While entertaining bored office workers seems harmless enough, there is something troubling about a multi-million dollar company using our minds as petri dishes in which to grow its ideas. I began to wonder if Dawkins was right—if the term meme is really being hijacked, rather than mindlessly evolving like bacteria. The idea of memes “forces you to recognize that we humans are not entirely the center of the universe where information is concerned—we’re vehicles and not necessarily in charge,” said James Gleick, author of The Information: A History, A Theory, A Flood, when I spoke to him on the phone. “It’s a humbling thing.”

It is more humbling still to think that our minds can be seduced not through the agency of memes, as Blackmore sees it, but through human agency and clever algorithms. Not by religions or quirks of culture, but by a never-ending list of stories that make us laugh. Even if the meme meme is too broad for empirical study, it offers us a powerful metaphor for how we absorb other peoples’ ideas, and how they absorb us. So maybe this is what meme theory can ultimately give us: the insight we need to put LOL cats aside—and get down to work.

Abby Rabinowitz has written for The New York Times and teaches writing at Columbia University.

I’m no stranger to forced isolation. For the better part of my 20s, I served as a nuclear submarine officer running secret missions for the United States Navy. I deployed across the vast Pacific Ocean with a hundred other sailors on the USS Connecticut, a Seawolf-class ship engineered in the bygone Cold War era to be one of the fastest, quietest, and deepest-diving submersibles ever constructed. The advanced reactor was loaded with decades of enriched uranium fuel that made steam for propulsion and electrical power so we could disappear under the waves indefinitely without returning to port. My longest stint was for two months, when I traveled under the polar ice cap to the North Pole with a team of scientists studying the Arctic environment and testing high frequency sonar and acoustic communications for under-ice operations. During deployments, critical-life events occur without you: holidays with loved ones, the birth of a child, or in my case, the New York Giants 2011-2012 playoff run to beat Tom Brady’s Patriots in the Super Bowl for the second time. On the bright side, being cut off from the outside world was a great first job for an introvert.

It’s been a month since COVID-19 involuntarily drafted me into another period of isolation far away from home. I’m in Turkey, where a two-week trip with my partner to meet her family has been extended indefinitely. There were no reported cases here and only a few in California in early March when we left San Francisco, where I run a business design studio. I had a lot of anticipation about Turkey because I’d never been here. Now I’m sheltering in a coastal town outside of Izmir with my partner, her parents, their seven cats, and a new puppy.

Shuttered in a house on foreign soil where I don’t speak the language, I have found myself snapping back into submarine deployment mode. Each day I dutifully monitor online dashboards of data and report the status of the spread at the breakfast table to no one in particular. I stay in touch with friends and family all over the world who tell me they’re going stir crazy and their homes are getting claustrophobic. But if there is one thing my experience as a submarine officer taught me, it’s that you get comfortable being uncomfortable.

My training began with psychological testing, although it may not be what you think. Evaluating mental readiness for underwater isolation isn’t conducted in a laboratory by clipboard-toting, spectacled scientists. The process to select officers was created by Admiral Hyman Rickover—the engineering visionary and noted madman who put the first nuclear reactor in a submarine—to assess both technical acumen and composure under stress. For three decades as the director of the Navy’s nuclear propulsion program, Rickover tediously interviewed every officer, and the recruiting folklore is a true HR nightmare: locking candidates in closets for hours, asking obtuse questions such as “Do something to make me mad,” and sawing down chair legs to literally keep one off balance.

Rickover retired from the Navy as its longest-serving officer and his successors carried on the tradition of screening each officer candidate, but with a slightly more dignified approach. Rickover’s ghost, though, seemed to preside over my interview process when I applied to be a submariner as a junior at the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. I was warned by other midshipmen that I would fail on the spot if I initiated a handshake. So, dressed in my formal navy blue uniform and doing my best to avoid tripping into accidental human contact, I rigidly marched into the Admiral’s office, staring straight ahead while barking my resume. When I took a seat on the unaltered and perfectly level chair in front of his desk, the Admiral asked me bluntly why I took so many philosophy classes and if I thought I could handle the technical rigors of nuclear power school. My response was a rote quip from John Paul Jones’ “Qualifications of a Naval Officer.” “Admiral, an officer should be a gentleman of liberal education, refined manners, punctilious courtesy, and the nicest sense of personal honor.” My future boss looked at me, shook his head like he thought I’d be a handful, and told me I got the job.

Confinement opened something up in my psyche and I gave myself permission to let go of my anxieties.

Nuclear power training is an academic kick in the face every day for over a year. The curriculum is highly technical and the pedagogy resembles a cyborg assembly-line without even a hint of the Socratic method. Our grades were conspicuously posted on the classroom wall and a line was drawn between those who passed and those who failed. I was below the line enough to earn the distinguished dishonor of 25 additional study hours each week, which meant I was at school at 5 a.m. and every weekend. This is how the Nuclear Navy builds the appropriate level of knowledge and right temperament to deal with shipboard reactor operations.

I finally sat down for a formal psychological evaluation a few months before my first deployment. I was ushered into a room no bigger than a broom closet and instructed to click through a computer-based questionnaire with multiple-choice questions about my emotions. I never did  learn the results, so I assume my responses didn’t raise too many red flags.

During my first year onboard, I spent all my waking hours either supervising reactor operations or learning the intricacies of every inch of the 350-foot tube and the science behind how it all worked. The electrolysis machine that split water molecules to generate oxygen was almost always out of commission, so instead we burned chlorate candles that produced breathable air. Seawater was distilled each day for drinking and shower water. Our satellite communications link had less bandwidth than my dial-up modem in the 1990s and we were permitted to send text-only emails to friends and family at certain times and in certain locations so as not to risk being detected. I took tests every month to demonstrate proficiency in nuclear engineering, navigation, and the battle capabilities of the ship. When I earned my submarine warfare qualification, the Captain pinned the gold dolphins insignia on my uniform and gave me the proverbial keys to the $4 billion warship. At that point, I was responsible for coordinating missions and navigating the ship as the Officer of the Deck.

Modern submarines are hydrodynamically shaped to have the most efficient laminar flow underwater, so that’s where we operated 99 percent of the time. The rare exception to being submerged is when we’d go in and out of port. The most unfortunate times were long transits tossing about in heavy swells, which made for a particularly nauseated cruise. To this day, conjuring the memory of some such sails causes a reflux flashback. A submariner’s true comfort zone is beneath the waves so as soon as we broke ties with the pier we navigated toward water that was deep enough for us to dive.

It’s unnatural to stuff humans, torpedoes, and a nuclear reactor into a steel boat that’s intentionally meant to sink. This engineering marvel ranks among the most complex, and before we’d proceed below and subject the ship and its inhabitants to extreme sea pressures, the officers would visually inspect thousands of valves to verify the proper lineup of systems that would propel us to the surface if we started flooding uncontrollably and sinking—a no-mistakes procedure called rigging for dive. Once we’d slip beneath the waves, the entire crew would walk around to check for leaks before we’d settle into a rotation of standing watch, practicing our casualty drills, engineering training, eating, showering (sometimes), and sleeping (rarely). The full cycle was 18 hours, which meant the timing of our circadian cycles were constantly changing. Regardless of the amount of government-issued Folger’s coffee I’d pour down my throat, I’d pass out upon immediate contact with my rack (the colloquialism for a submarine bunk in which your modicum of privacy was symbolized by a cloth curtain).

As an officer, I lived luxuriously with only two other grown men in a stateroom no bigger than a walk-in closet. Most of the crew slept stacked like lumber in an 18-person bunk room and they all took turns in the rack. This alternative lifestyle is known as hot-racking, because of the sensation you get when you crawl into bedding that’s been recently occupied. The bunk rooms are sanctuaries where silence is observed with monastic intensity. Slamming the door or setting an alarm clock was a cardinal sin so wakeups were conducted by a junior sailor who gently coaxed you awake when it was time to stand watch. Lieutenant Weiner, it’s time to wake up. You’ve got the midnight watch, sir. Words that haunt my dreams.

The electrolysis machine was out of commission, so we burned chlorate candles that produced breathable air.

I maintained some semblance of sanity and physical fitness by sneaking a workout on a rowing erg in the engine room or a stationary bike squeezed between electronics cabinets. The rhythmic beating of footsteps on a treadmill was a noise offender—the sound could be detected on sonar from miles away—so we shut it off unless we were in friendly waters where we weren’t concerned with counter-detection.

Like a heavily watered-down version of a Buddhist monk taking solitary retreat in a cave, my extended submarine confinements opened something up in my psyche and I gave myself permission to let go of my anxieties. Transiting underneath a vast ocean in a vessel with a few inches of steel preventing us from drowning helps put things into perspective. Now that I’m out of the Navy, I have more appreciation for the freedoms of personal choice, a fresh piece of fruit, and 24 hours in a day. My only regrets are not keeping a journal or having the wherewithal to discover the practice of meditation under the sea.

Today, I’m learning Turkish so I can understand more about what’s happening around me. I’m doing Kundalini yoga (a moving meditation that focuses on breathwork) and running on the treadmill (since I’m no longer concerned about my footsteps being detected on sonar). On my submarine, I looked at photos to stay connected to the world I left behind, knowing that I’d return soon enough. Now our friend who is isolating in our apartment in San Francisco sends us pictures of our cat and gives us reports about how the neighborhood has changed.

It’s hard to imagine that we’ll resume our lifestyles exactly as they were. But the submariner in me is optimistic that we have it in us to adapt to whatever conditions are waiting for us when it’s safe to ascend from the depths and return to the surface.

Steve Weiner is the founder of Very Scarce, a business design studio. He used to lead portfolio companies at Expa and drive nuclear submarines in the U.S. Navy. He has an MBA from The Wharton School and a BS from the U.S. Naval Academy. Instagram: @steve Twitter: @weenpeace

Lead image: Mike H. / Shutterstock

Needing to clear my head, I went down to the Penobscot River. There they were, swimming with the mergansers, following an early pulse of river herring to the mouth of Kenduskeag stream: two harbor seals, raising sleek round heads for a few long breaths before rolling under the waves.

Evidently it’s not uncommon for seals to swim the couple dozen miles between Bangor, Maine, and the Atlantic Ocean, but I’d never seen them here before. They were a balm to my buzzing thoughts: What happens next? Will I become a vector of death to my elderly mother? Is the economy going to implode? For a precious few minutes there were only the seals and mergansers and the fish who drew them there, arriving as the Penobscot’s winter icepack broke and flowed to sea, a ritual enacted ever since glaciers retreated from this continental shelf.

In the months ahead we can look to nature for these respites. The nonhuman world is free of charge; sunlight is a disinfectant, physical distance easily maintained, and no pandemic can suspend it. Nature offers not just escape but reassurance.

The nonhuman world is free of charge; sunlight is a disinfectant, and physical distance is easily maintained.

In 1946, in the aftermath of World War II, with the Nazi threat vanquished but the Cold War looming, George Orwell welcomed spring’s arrival in London’s bombed-out heart. “After the sorts of winters we have had to endure recently, the spring does seem miraculous, because it has become gradually harder and harder to believe that it is actually going to happen,” he wrote in “Some Thoughts on the Common Toad.” “Every February since 1940 I have found myself thinking that this time Winter is going to be permanent. But Persephone, like the toads, always rises from the dead at about the same moment.”

So she does. And so the slumbering earth warms to life. Two nights before the seals, two nights before World Health Organization declared a pandemic, before the NBA shut down with teams on the floor and fans in the seats, before the fright went beyond viral into logarithmic, was the Worm Moon: the full moon named for the imminent stir of earthworms in thawing soil.

In burrows beneath leaf litter, hibernating toads prepare to open what Orwell called “the most beautiful eye of any living creature,” resembling “the golden-colored semi-precious stone which one sometimes sees in signet rings, and which I think is called a chrysoberyl.” Nearly as beautiful are the eyes of painted turtles waiting on pond bottoms here in eastern Maine, the ice above now retreating from shore, mallard couples dabbling in newly open water.

The birds are the surest sign of spring’s imminence. Downtown the house finches are holding daily concerts. Starlings are starting to replace their gold-streaked winter plumes with more iridescent garb. In the street today I saw two male mockingbirds joust above the pavement, their white wing-bars fluttering territorial semaphores, abandoning the contest only when a car nearly ran them down. 

There are many quieter signs, too: pale tips of shrubs poised to grow, a spider rappelling off a low branch, fresh fox scat in the driveway. It’s red from apples preserved under snow and lined with the fur of field mice and meadow voles whose secret winter tunnels are now revealed in the grass. Somewhere soon mother fox will give birth, nursing her blind hairless charges in underground peace.

Eastern comma butterflies will gather on the trunks of those apple trees and sip their rising sap. Not long after the first orange-belted bumblebee queens will appear, inspecting potential nest sites under fallen leaves and decomposing logs. Warm rainy nights will bring salamanders and newts, just a few spotted glistening inches long, some of them decades old, out from woodland hidey-holes and down ancient paths to vernal pool bacchanals held amidst a chorus of spring peepers. Woodland ephemerals will bloom in sunshine unfiltered by still-bare treetops. My favorite are trout lilies, colonies of which illuminate forest floors with a sea of bright yellow blossoms, petals falling once the canopy unfurls.

“The atom bombs are piling up in the factories, the police are prowling through the cities, the lies are streaming from the loudspeakers,” Orwell wrote, “but the earth is still going round the sun.”

At this point there’s no end of studies showing how nature is good for our health, how patients recover faster in hospital rooms with windows overlooking trees, how a mindful walk in the woods will lower stress and raise moods. All true, but at this moment something deeper and more urgent is offered. An affirmation of life.

Will the nightmare scenes out of Italy and Spain and now New York City spread across the land? How long will the pandemic last? Will it completely rend our already tattered social fabric? When can I again play hockey or go to a coffee shop or use a credit card machine without feeling like I’m risking my own and other lives? Who will die? Nobody knows for sure, but in a few weeks the swallows will arrive, and tonight above the fields at dusk I heard the cries of woodcock.

Secretive, ground-dwelling birds with limpid black eyes and long, slender beaks attuned to the frequencies of earthworm-rustles, their feathers blend perfectly with leaf litter and old grass. They rely on this camouflage, going still rather than fleeing a walker’s approach, taking wing only as a last resort.

When they do, their flight is notable for its slowness and the quavering whistle of their wings. At no other time than in spring do they dare draw attention, much less put on a show: calling out, with an urgent nasal buzz best described as a peent, and flying straight upward before spiraling against a darkening sky.

Brandon Keim is a freelance nature and science journalist. The author of The Eye of the Sandpiper: Stories from the Living World, he’s now writing Meet the Neighbors, forthcoming from W.W. Norton & Company, about what it means to think of wild animals as fellow persons—and what that means for the future of nature.

Lead image: Tim Zurowski / Shutterstock

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Gov. Tom Wolf hopes a New Deal-inspired plan will help get the state's more than 1.7 million unemployed residents working again.

President Trump and Vice President Pence have made official visits to battleground states this week, while the Biden campaign tries new ways to reach voters in key states virtually.

Rick Bright, a top scientist working on a vaccine, says he was reassigned for not focusing on treatments favored by President Trump, even though they lacked "scientific merit."

The case is the second confirmed by the White House this week. President Trump said Miller hasn't come into contact with him but has "spent some time" with the vice president.

The procedural move gives attorneys for House Democrats until May 18 to respond. They say they're owed access to confidential evidence and other materials. No, argues the Trump administration.

A trio of Senate Democrats wants to give $2,000 per month to individuals through the end of the health emergency. One Senate Republican suggests covering payroll for companies that rehire workers.

Fate and politics have rewarded decisions made by the former national security adviser and his legal team, ultimately delivering him from legal jeopardy after a years-long odyssey.

U.S. employers shed a record number of jobs in April, as the unemployment rate climbed to the highest since the Great Depression. The coronavirus crisis has locked down much of the economy.

Gov. Tim Walz is hesitant to reopen businesses until his state's daily testing rate dramatically increases. "You can't flip it like a switch and say you're open if you don't have testing," he says.

After months of wrangling following the Russia probe, prosecutors will not go ahead with the case against Michael Flynn based on the former national security adviser's false statements to the FBI.

The edicts from the internet giants come as states and corporations grapple with ways to reopen as the virus pandemic rages on

Those that leapfrogged the value of Canada's largest bank in the past have faltered — think Valeant, BlackBerry and Nortel

'It has become too difficult to make the 12-acre project financially viable'

Larger retailers like Heinz and Loblaw signing up with Shopify