Lifespan. David Sinclair
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research today is at a similar stage as cancer research was in the 1960s. We have a robust understanding of what aging looks like and what it does to us and an emerging agreement about what causes it and what keeps it at bay. From the looks of it, aging is not going to be that hard to treat, far easier than curing cancer.
Up until the second half of the twentieth century, it was generally accepted that organisms grow old and die “for the good of the species”—an idea that dates back to Aristotle, if not further. This idea feels quite intuitive. It is the explanation proffered by most people at parties.20 But it is dead wrong. We do not die to make way for the next generation.
In the 1950s, the concept of “group selection” in evolution was going out of style, prompting three evolutionary biologists, J. B. S. Haldane, Peter B. Medawar, and George C. Williams, to propose some important ideas about why we age. When it comes to longevity, they agreed, individuals look out for themselves. Driven by their selfish genes, they press on and try to breed for as long and as fast as they can, so long as it doesn’t kill them. (In some cases, however, they press on too much, as my great-grandfather Miklós Vitéz, a Hungarian screenwriter, proved to his bride forty-five years his junior on their wedding night.)
If our genes don’t ever want to die, why don’t we live forever? The trio of biologists argued that we experience aging because the forces of natural selection required to build a robust body may be strong when we are 18 but decline rapidly once we hit 40 because by then we’ve likely replicated our selfish genes in sufficient measure to ensure their survival. Eventually, the forces of natural selection hit zero. The genes get to move on. We don’t.
Medawar, who had a penchant for verbiage, expounded on a nuanced theory called “antagonistic pleiotropy.” Put simply, it says genes that help us reproduce when we are young don’t just become less helpful as we age, they can actually come back to bite us when we are old.
Twenty years later, Thomas Kirkwood at Newcastle University framed the question of why we age in terms of an organism’s available resources. Known as the “Disposable Soma Hypothesis,” it is based on the fact that there are always limited resources available to species—energy, nutrients, water. They therefore evolve to a point that lies somewhere between two very different lifestyles: breed fast and die young, or breed slowly and maintain your soma, or body. Kirkwood reasoned that organisms can’t breed fast and maintain a robust, healthy body—there simply isn’t enough energy to do both. Stated another way, in the history of life, any line of creature with a mutation that caused it to live fast and attempt to die old soon ran out of resources and was thus deleted from the gene pool.
Kirkwood’s theory is best illustrated by fictitious but potentially real-life examples. Imagine you are a small rodent that is likely to be picked off by a bird of prey. Because of this, you’ll need to pass down your genetic material quickly, as did your parents and their parents before them. Gene combinations that would have provided a longer-lasting body were not enriched in your species because your ancestors likely didn’t escape predation for long (and you won’t, either).
Now consider instead that you are a bird of prey at the top of the food chain. Because of this, your genes—well, actually, your ancestors’ genes—benefited from building a robust, longer-lasting body that could breed for decades. But in return, they could afford to raise only a couple of fledglings a year.
Kirkwood’s hypothesis explains why a mouse lives 3 years while some birds can live to 100.21 It also quite elegantly explains why the American chameleon lizard, Anolis carolinensis, is evolving a longer lifespan as we speak, having found itself a few decades ago on remote Japanese islands without predators.22
These theories fit with observations and are generally accepted. Individuals don’t live forever because natural selection doesn’t select for immortality in a world where an existing body plan works perfectly well to pass along a body’s selfish genes. And because all species are resource limited, they have evolved to allocate the available energy either to reproduction or to longevity, but not to both. That was as true for M. superstes as it was and still is for all species that have ever lived on this planet.
All, that is, except one: Homo sapiens.
Having capitalized on its relatively large brain and a thriving civilization to overcome the unfortunate hand that evolution dealt it—weak limbs, sensitivity to cold, poor sense of smell, and eyes that see well only in daylight and in the visible spectrum—this highly unusual species continues to innovate. It has already provided itself with an abundance of food, nutrients, and water while reducing deaths from predation, exposure, infectious diseases, and warfare. These were all once limits to its evolving a longer lifespan. With them removed, a few million years of evolution might double its lifespan, bringing it closer to the lifespans of some other species at the top of their game. But it won’t have to wait that long, nowhere near that. Because this species is diligently working to invent medicines and technologies to give it the robustness of a much longer lived one, literally overcoming what evolution failed to provide.
CRISIS MODE
Wilbur and Orville Wright could never have built a flying machine without a knowledge of airflow and negative pressure and a wind tunnel. Nor could the United States have put men on the moon without an understanding of metallurgy, liquid combustion, computers, and some measure of confidence that the moon is not made of green cheese.23
In the same way, if we are to make real progress in the effort to alleviate the suffering that comes with aging, what is needed is a unified explanation for why we age, not just at the evolutionary level but at the fundamental level.
But explaining aging at a fundamental level is no easy task. It will have to satisfy all known laws of physics and all rules of chemistry and be consistent with centuries of biological observations. It will need to span the least understood world between the size of a molecule and the size of a grain of sand,24 and it should explain simultaneously the simplest and the most complex living machines that have ever existed.
It should, therefore, come as no surprise that there has never been a unified theory of aging, at least not one that has held up—though not for lack of trying.
One hypothesis, proposed independently by Peter Medawar and Leo Szilard, was that aging is caused by DNA damage and a resulting loss of genetic information. Unlike Medawar, who was always a biologist, who built a Nobel Prize–winning career in immunology, Szilard had come to study biology in a roundabout way. The Budapest-born polymath and inventor lived a nomadic life with no permanent job or address, preferring to spend his time staying with colleagues who satisfied his mental curiosities about the big questions facing humanity. Early in his career, he was a pioneering nuclear physicist and a founding collaborator on the Manhattan Project, which ushered in the age of atomic warfare. Horrified by the countless lives his work had helped end, he turned his tortured mind toward making life maximally long.25
The idea that mutation accumulation causes aging was embraced by scientists and the public alike in the 1950s and 1960s, at a time when the effects of radiation on human DNA were on a lot of people’s minds. But although we know with great certainty that radiation can cause all sorts of problems in our cells, it causes only a subset of the signs and symptoms we observe during aging,26 so it cannot serve as a universal theory.
In 1963, the British biologist Leslie Orgel threw his hat into the ring with his “Error Catastrophe Hypothesis,” which postulated that mistakes made during the DNA-copying process lead to mutations in genes, including those needed to make the protein machinery that copies DNA. The process increasingly disrupts those same processes, multiplying upon themselves until a person’s genome has been incorrectly copied into oblivion.27
Around the same time that Szilard was focusing on radiation, Denham Harman, a chemist at Shell Oil, was also thinking atomically,
As far back as Aristotle, scientists and philosophers have struggled to resolve the enigma of aging, the authors wrote. D. Fabian and T. Flatt, “The Evolution of Aging,”
A bat from Siberia set a world record when it reached 41 years of age. R. Locke, “The Oldest Bat: Longest-Lived Mammals Offer Clues to Better Aging in Humans,”
Small colonies of lizards on a series of Caribbean islands were likely to explore islands where there weren’t predators, while less adventurous animals survived better when predators were present. O. Lapiedra, T. W. Schoener, M. Leal, et al., “Predator-Driven Natural Selection on Risk-Taking Behavior in Anole Lizards,”
Richard Dawkins eloquently made this point in
See “The Scale of Things” at the end of this book.
Szilard spent his last years as a fellow of the Salk Institute for Biological Studies in La Jolla, California, as a resident fellow. He lived in a bungalow on the property of the Hotel del Charro and died on May 30, 1964.
R. Anderson, “Ionizing Radiation and Aging: Rejuvenating an Old Idea,”
L. E. Orgel, “The Maintenance of the Accuracy of Protein Synthesis and Its Relevance to Ageing,”