Gilbert Ling and Gerald Pollack

Some years ago, I was taking a physiology course. One chapter is cell physiology. A cell is a tiny battery. Its inside is negatively charged. Its outside is positively charged, mainly by sodium ions. The electric potential is maintained by the sodium pumps. These pumps keep pumping sodium ions across the cell membranes. I thought the way to maintain electric potential is very energy intensive. Is there a more efficient way? (More formally, I have questions about the Hodgkin Huxley theory. I feel a better understanding could unlock some mysteries in life.)

I searched the internet for an answer and came across the name of Gilbert Ling. He proposed an alternative theory. I borrowed several of his books and tried to work out his ideas. I couldn't. Then I found Gerald Polack’s book, The Fourth Phase of Water. He introduced Gilbert Ling’s ideas in a simpler language. The book did not answer my questions. But it is a great book in itself. In the acknowledgment part of the book, Pollack wrote,

Ling has been far ahead of his time. His pioneering work opened the eyes of many scientists to the realization that water is not merely a background carrier of the common molecules of life; it is a central player in all of life’s processes. Sadly, his many contributions have gone unrecognized, and his willingness to challenge science at its core has made him something of a pariah. From the time I first met Gilbert in the mid-1980s, he has continued to inspire me; if anyone is responsible for seeding the creation of this book, that person is Gilbert Ling.

The preface of the book is beautifully written. It is worth reading again and again.  I will copy it extensively in the following.

Thus, the approach I take is unconventional. It does not build on the “prevailing wisdom”; nor does it reflexively accept all current foundational principles as inherently valid. Instead, it returns to the root method of doing science — relying on common observation, simple logic, and the most elementary principles of chemistry and physics to build understanding. … This old-fashioned approach may come across as mildly irreverent because it pays little homage to the “gods” of science. On the other hand, I believe the approach may provide the best route toward an intuitive understanding of nature — an understanding that even laymen can appreciate.

I thought that incrementally adding bits of flesh was the way of science until a colleague turned on the flashing red lights. Tatsuo Iwazumi arrived at Penn when I was close to finishing my PhD. I had built a primitive computer simulation of cardiac contraction based on the Huxley model, and Iwazumi was to follow in my footsteps. “Impossible!” he asserted. Lacking the deferential demeanor characteristic of most Japanese I’d known, Iwazumi stated in no uncertain terms that my simulation was worthless: it rested on the accepted theory of muscle contraction, and that theoretical mechanism couldn’t possibly work. “The mechanism is intrinsically unstable,” he continued. “If muscle really worked that way, then it would fly apart during its very first contraction.”

…

Reluctantly, I had to admit that Iwazumi’s argument was persuasive — clear, logical, and simple. As far as I know, it stands unchallenged to this very day. Those who hear the argument for the first time quickly see the logic, and most are flabbergasted by its simplicity. For me, this marked a turning point. It taught me that sound logical arguments could trump even long-standing belief systems buttressed by armies of followers. Once disproved, a theory was done — finished. The belief system was gone forever. Clinging endlessly was tantamount to religious adherence, not science. The Iwazumi encounter also taught me that thinking independently was more than just a cliché; it was a necessary ingredient in the search for truth. In fact, this very ingredient led to my muscle-contraction dispute with Sir Andrew Huxley (which never did resolve).

Challenging convention is not a bed of roses, I assure you. You might think that members of the scientific establishment would warmly embrace fresh approaches that throw new light on old thinking, but mostly they do not. Fresh approaches challenge the prevailing wisdom. Scientists carrying the flag are apt to react defensively, for any such challenge threatens their standing. Consequently, the challenger’s path can be treacherous — replete with dangerous turns and littered with formidable obstacles.

Obstacles notwithstanding, I did somehow manage to survive during those early years. By delicately balancing irreverence with solid conventional science and even a measure of obeisance, I could press on largely unscathed. Our challenges were plainly evident, but we pioneered techniques impressive enough that my students could land good jobs worldwide, some rising to academia’s highest levels. Earning that badge of respectability saved me from the terminal fate common to most challengers.

During the middle of my career, my interests began expanding. I sniffed more broadly around the array of scientific domains, and as I did I began smelling rats all over. Contradictions abounded. Some of the challenges I saw others raise to their fields’ prevailing wisdom seemed just as profound as the ones raised in the muscle-contraction field.

One of those challenges centered on the field of water — the subject of this book. The challenger of highest prominence at the time was Gilbert Ling. Ling had invented the glass microelectrode, which revolutionized cellular electrophysiology. That contribution should have earned him a Nobel Prize, but Ling got into trouble because his results began telling him that water molecules inside the cell lined up in an orderly fashion. Such orderliness was anathema to most biological and physical scientists. Ling was not shy about broadcasting his conclusions, especially to those who might have thought otherwise.

So, for that and other loudly trumpeted heresies, Ling eventually fell from favor. Scientists holding more traditional views reviled him as a provocateur. I thought otherwise. I found his views on cell water to be just as sound as Iwazumi’s views on muscle contraction. Unresolved issues remained, but on the whole his proposal seemed evidence-based, logical, and potentially far-reaching in its scope. I recall inviting Ling to present a lecture at my university. A senior colleague admonished me to reconsider. In an ostensibly fatherly way, he warned that my sponsorship of so controversial a figure could irrevocably compromise my own reputation. I took the risk — but the implications of his warning lingered.

Ling’s case opened my eyes wider. I began to understand why challengers suffered the fates they did: always, the challenges provoked discomfort among the orthodox believers. That stirred trouble for the challengers. I also came to realize that challenges were common, more so than generally appreciated. Not only were the water and muscle fields under siege, but voices of dissent could also be heard in fields ranging from nerve transmission to cosmic gravitation. The more I looked, the more I found. I don’t mean flaky challenges coming from attention-seeking wackos; I’m referring to the meaningful challenges coming from thoughtful, professional scientists.

Serious challenges abound throughout science. You may be unaware of these challenges, just as I had been until fairly recently, because the challenges are often kept beneath the radar. The respective establishments see little gain in exposing the chinks in their armor, so the challenges are not broadcast. Even young scientists entering their various fields may not know that their particular field’s orthodoxy is under siege.

The challenges follow a predictable pattern. Troubled by a theory’s mounting complexity and its discord with observation, a scientist will stand up and announce a problem; often that announcement will come with a replacement theory. The establishment typically responds by ignoring the challenge. This dooms most challenges to rot in the basement of obscurity. Those few challenges that do gain a following are often dealt with aggressively: the establishment dismisses the challenger with scorn and disdain, often charging the poor soul with multiple counts of lunacy.

The consequence is predictable: science maintains the status quo. Not much happens. Cancer is not cured. The edifices of science continue to grow on weathered and sometimes even crumbling foundations, leading to cumbersome models and ever-fatter textbooks filled with myriad, sometimes inconsequential details. Some fields have grown so complex as to become practically incomprehensible. Often, we cannot relate. Many scientists maintain that that’s just the way modern science must be — complicated, remote, separated from human experience. To them, cause-and-effect simplicity is a quaint feature of the past, tossed out in favor of the complex statistical correlations of modernity.