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Here is the code of codes,
Here are the maps of riven fate.
Here is the parting of roads,
Here is the kingdom, here the gate.
Here is the clue of clues,
Here are the paths where none have trod.
Here is the alchemist’s fuse,
Here are the hieroglyphics of God.
Here is the womb of wombs,
Here is the pit where life drew breath.
Here is the coil of dooms,
Here is the cradle of birth and death.
Here is the book of books,
Here is the prisoner, here the cell.
Here are the torturer’s hooks:
Here are the 23 roads to hell.
‘We’ve discovered the secret of life.’
— Francis Crick in The Eagle pub, Cambridge, February 28, 1953.
That he had. Along with James Watson, Crick had made ‘possibly the greatest scientific discovery of all time’— the structure of DNA. Here was the long sought Book of Life, packaged in twenty-three separate pairs of chromosomes, a codebook written in symbols of four chemical letters less than a few trillionths of an inch long. Watson and Crick’s discovery changed everything, for better and for worse, for good and for evil. Nothing could ever now be the same. Our tinkerings in nuclear fission might be compared to the power of DNA to ‘alter everything’ by imagining a Palaeolithic speak hurled at a Stealth bomber. One thing is certain, there will be tears before bedtime, and all the legislation from every court, Parliament, Congress or Diet in the world will be powerless to prevent it.
