Memories By Julian Huxley (review)

BOOK REVIEW Memories. By Julian Huxley. New York: Harper & Row, 1970. Pp. 296. $8.95. Julian Huxley was born into the aristocracy of learning. His home culture was the way of the intellect. The best schools and opportunities were open to him, and he accepted his advantages. Such are not always a blessing to a child from whom much is expected and no excuses for failure are accepted. The success of Julian Huxley as a naturalist, generalist, organizer, and world leader in scientific humanism was well recognized before he wrote this story of his life. He was born in 1887 well before the end of the Victorian era. The autobiography is deeply personal, for it includes accounts of fears, foibles, depressions, and disappointments as well as interests, ambitions, work, and successes. It also reflects the development of knowledge of natural history and biology. Julian Huxley never developed an absorbing interest in the chemical and physical bases of life but was fascinated by many forms of life and how they behave. As he grew older, he became more and more concerned with the social problems of man. He has been involved in many kinds of enterprises. This first volume of his autobiography ends with the year 1945, when he became head of UNESCO. Some reviewers of autobiographies complain when they judge the narrative to be too personal. To me the extent to which the author bares his or her soul is a parameter of its quality. This personal story of an eventful, fruitful life is thought provoking. I enjoyed it and look foward to the second volume. Dwight J. Ingle University of Chicago 314 I Book Review BUDS IN FEBRUARY When February, with its cold, bright sun, Lures buds on pussy willows, makes them bulge Like pond snails on a stick, I like to cut Some branches, to be brought indoors to grow. With whips of scarlet dogwood, and forsythia, I'll place them in some water where new life Will bring green leaves and golden yellow flowers And soft gray catkins, fit for elfin bowers. I hold these dry bare branches in my hands And ask, what words can help a man to tell The faith of winter buds, where enzymes lie, Tight-coiled about the miracle called life, A force which in a bud is but a prayer, Which I can answer, with a little care? Franklin C. Bing PAIN'S PEOPLE We the tired seed of the great humbler pain wear disheveled masks of what we used to be. Our greatest terror, the malignant metamorphosis of respect turned to pity, of love, lost in grief. All efforts of ego turned inward, toward fighting loss of self. Demands of relationship almost too much for a soul consumed by fear. Infinite loneliness, the awesome climate of birth, now descends in renewal, At death, its fearful counterpart. Farewell life and health, your wealth we now honor. Memories become the actors On this, the stage of our twilight. Peter A. Olsson Perspectives in Biology and Medicine · Winter 1972 | 315 ...