by Robert Lanza
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First Principle of Biocentrism: What we perceive as reality is a
process that involves our consciousness. An “external” reality, if it
existed, would—by definition—have to exist in space. But this is
meaningless, because space and time are not absolute realities but
rather tools of the human and animal mind.
Second Principle of Biocentrism: Our external and internal per-
ceptions are inextricably intertwined. They are different sides of the
same coin and cannot be divorced from one another.
Third Principle of Biocentrism: The behavior of subatomic par-
ticles—indeed all particles and objects—is inextricably linked to
the presence of an observer. Without the presence of a conscious
observer, they at best exist in an undetermined state of probability
waves.
Fourth Principle of Biocentrism: Without consciousness, “mat-
ter” dwells in an undetermined state of probability. Any universe
that could have preceded consciousness only existed in a probability
state.
Fifth Principle of Biocentrism: The structure of the universe
is explainable only through biocentrism. The universe is fine-tuned
for life, which makes perfect sense as life creates the universe, not
the other way around. The “universe” is simply the complete spatio-
temporal logic of the self.
Sixth Principle of Biocentrism: Time does not have a real exis-
tence outside of animal-sense perception. It is the process by which
we perceive changes in the universe.
Seventh Principle of Biocentrism: Space, like time, is not an
object or a thing. Space is another form of our animal under-
standing and does not have an independent reality. We carry
space and time around with us like turtles with shells. Thus,
there is no absolute self-existing matrix in which physical events
occur independent of life.
the mAn BehInd
12
the curtAIn
Soon after finishing high school, I made another journey into
Boston. I had been searching for a summer job. I had put in
applications at McDonald’s, Dunkin’ Donuts, even at Corc-
oran’s, the shoe factory downtown. But all the jobs were tied up.
I had some thought of trying to find one at the Harvard Medical
School again. But even while I turned this thought over in my mind,
I got off the train at Harvard Square.
I do not know how I got the idea. When I think it over now, it
occurs to me that I ought to have wondered at doing it, but at the
same time it all seemed quite natural. I had wanted to meet a Nobel
Laureate for some time. I wondered what it would be like. I would
have to introduce myself. “Excuse me, Professor Einstein, my name
is Robert Lanza.” And I tried to fancy what James Watson looked
like, for it flashed across my mind that he was on the faculty at Har-
vard. He had discovered the structure of DNA along with Francis
Crick, and was one of the greatest men in the history of science.
I decided on going to his laboratory at once, but, alas, when I got
there, I found that he had recently taken up the directorship at the
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Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in New York. When I found out I
could not possibly meet him, I sat down, at a loss. Now what?
“Come, there’s no use being sad!” I said to myself. “I’m in Boston
after all.”
And I began thinking of all the Nobel Laureates of which I
knew. “I’m sure Ivan Pavlov, Frederick Banting, and Sir Alexander
Fleming are not at Harvard, for they’re all dead. And I’m sure Hans
Krebs is not, for he’s at Oxford University, and George Wald—yes,
he’s here, I’m certain! He shared the Nobel Prize with Haldan Hart-
line and Ragnar Granit for discoveries on the visual processes of
the eye.”
The corridor was dark and musty-smelling. I was just outside
Dr. Wald’s laboratory when the door opened. A woman came out.
“Excuse me, miss, do you know where I could find Dr. Wald?”
“He’s home sick today,” she said. “But he should be in
tomorrow.”
“That will be too late,” I replied, still struggling with the realiza-
tion that even a Nobel Laureate could get sick. “I’ll only be in Boston
a few more hours.”
“I’ll be speaking with him this afternoon. Can I give him a
message?”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. I thanked the kind woman and left.
It was time to go home. Back to Stoughton. Back to the world of
McDonald’s and Dunkin’ Donuts. So I set out past Harvard Square,
and very soon caught the train. “I wish there were more Nobel Prize
winners here in Boston,” I thought, feeling more melancholy by the
minute. And here I began to ponder anew, for Boston had many other
colleges and universities. Quite a few were nationally known, and
some were internationally famous. Perhaps the most important was
the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. The Institute had recently
broadened the scope of its scholarly work beyond the limits of tech-
nology. Besides technology and engineering, it had made notable
contributions through research in the biological sciences.
And so I got off the train at Kendall Square and made my way to
the MIT campus. It had been so long since I had been there (back in
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my early science fair days with Dr. Kuffler) that I felt lost at first, but
I soon got my bearings.
The first question of course was “Are there any Nobel Prize win-
ners here?” Just up the street was a building of colossal dimensions,
with a huge dome and columns. “MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF
TECHNOLOGY” read the sign. Inside was an information booth.
“Could you tell me, please,” I inquired, “are there any Nobel Lau-
reates at MIT?”
“Of course,” the man said. “There’s Salvador Luria and Gobind
Khorana.”
I had not the slightest idea who they were or what they did either,
but I thought it would be grand to meet them anyhow.
“Who’s the most famous?”
The man said nothing. I dare say he thought it a strange ques-
tion. “Dr. Luria,” said the gentleman who was sitting next to him.
“He’s the Director of the Center for Cancer Research.”
“Do you know where I could find him?”
The man looked in his directory and wrote: “Luria, Salvador E.
Building E17.”
Holding this slip of paper as if it was some sort of official letter of
introduction, I left, excited, and lost no time crossing the campus to
his office. One of his secretaries sat at the front desk, sifting through
some papers. I was scared, so deeply scared I had to look at the slip
of paper again.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Could I please speak to Dr. Salvador?”
“You mean Dr. Luria?”
I managed a lopsided smile (as well as I could, for I felt very stu-
pid). “Yes, of course!”
/> “Do you have an appointment?”
I tried not to act like I was out of place, although she obviously
knew I just a young boy.
“No, but I was hoping I could ask him a quick question.”
“He’ll be in meetings all day.” Then with a wink, she added, “But
you might try to catch him at lunchtime.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I will stop back.”
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There was no time to read all his scientific papers. But I found a
library in a building not a few blocks from his office. I learned that
he and Max Delbrück and Alfred Hershey had just won the 1969
Nobel Prize for discoveries concerning viruses and viral diseases
that provided the foundation for molecular biology.
I’ve often found time slows its passage markedly as I await lunch-
time, but on this day clocks seemed gummed with epoxy. The hours
passed with the speed of tectonic plates.
“I’m back,” said I. “Is Dr. Luria in?”
The secretary nodded. “Yes. He’s in his office. Just knock on the
door.”
“Are you sure?” I asked a little shyly.
“Yes, go ahead. He doesn’t have much time.”
As I knocked, my stomach did a slow rollover that made me feel
so nervous that I was wracked with sudden second thoughts.
“Come in.”
I looked at him, thunderstruck. He was just sitting there, eat-
ing his lunch—it appeared to be a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich.
Was this, then, the cuisine of intellectual giants?
“Who are you?” His voice seemed on the edge of being
perturbed.
I got a feeling exactly like the Cowardly Lion had when he
approached the Wizard of Oz, with the clouds of fire swirling round.
“My name is Robert Lanza.”
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody.”
“You mean you just came in off the street?”
This was not an encouraging start.
I replied, “I—I am looking for a job, sir. I’ve done some work
with Dr. Stephen Kuffler of the Harvard Medical School, and was
wondering if you could use any help.” I thought I might as well men-
tion Dr. Kuffler, as I did not quite know what else to say to him, and
perhaps it might help. I was as yet too young to appreciate fully the
power of name-dropping.
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“Please sit down,” he said, his tone suddenly very courteous.
“Stephen Kuffler? He’s a very good fellow.”
His large eyes shone as we talked. I told him about the experi-
ments I did in my basement, and how I had met Dr. Kuffler some
years ago.
“I don’t do much research anymore,” he said. “It’s mostly admin-
istrative. But I’ll get you a job. I promise.”
I thanked him, not quite fully able to believe that it had been
this easy and this brief.
“Look here,” he said. “I’m a fool to do it.” I didn’t yet realize that
he was putting me, a kid off the street, ahead of a long list of quali-
fied in-school applicants.
As it was, all I could do was to apologize for inconveniencing
him.
When I returned to Stoughton, the sun was setting. Barbara, my
next-door neighbor, was working in her garden. I went running up
to her.
“I got a job,” I said. “Guess where?”
“You got the job at the cinema!” (For, you see, I had very much
wanted to work there, and although I had put in an application, they
never called me back.)
“No! Guess again.”
“Let me think—McDonald’s? Dunkin’ Donuts? I don’t know.”
I told her of my day. When I was done, I was not surprised to
see her clap her hands and exclaim, “Oh, Bobby, I’m so excited. Dr.
Luria is one of my heroes. I heard him speak at a peace rally.”
I went back to MIT the next day. As I passed one of the biology
buildings, I heard my name and looked up. It was Dr. Luria. “Rob-
ert! Hi!” I couldn’t believe he remembered my name. “Come along
with me!”
I followed him through the entrance, down a corridor, and into
an office, in which was—I believe—the director of personnel. What
Dr. Luria said next stunned me: “I want you to give him whatever
job he wants.”
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Then he turned to me and said, “You’re a pain in the ass. There
are a hundred MIT students who want to work here.”
But I got the job, and it changed my life. I worked in the lab-
oratory of Dr. Richard Hynes, who was just an assistant professor
at the time, with just one graduate student and a technician. Dr.
Hynes later went on to succeed Dr. Luria as Director of the Center
(MIT’s Center for Cancer Research) and to become a member of the
prestigious National Academy of Sciences and one of the greatest sci-
entists in the world. Dr. Hynes was studying a new high-molecular-
weight protein, which would later be called “fibronectin.” During
my work there, when I added fibronectin to transformed “cancer-
like” cells, they reverted to a normal morphology. When I showed
Dr. Luria the cells, he said it was the most exciting thing he had
seen all week. The research I did there was eventually published in
the journal Cell, which is among the most prestigious and well-cited scientific journals in the world.
The odd, precarious days of my childhood’s escapes were reced-
ing into a distant memory.
wIndmIlls of
13
the mInd
One does occasionally observe a tendency for the begin-
ning zoological textbooks to take the unwary reader by a
hop, skip, and jump from the little steaming pond or the
beneficent chemical crucible of the sea, into the lower
world of life with such sureness and rapidity that it is
easy to assume that there is no mystery about this matter
at all, or, if there is, that it is a very little one.
—Loren Eiseley
Cosmologists, biologists, and evolutionists do not seem at all
flabbergasted when they state that the universe—indeed the
laws of nature themselves—just appeared for no reason one
day. It would be well perhaps to remember the experiments of Fran-
cesco Redi, Lazzaro Spallanzani, and Louis Pasteur—basic biological
experiments that put to rest the theory of spontaneous generation,
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the belief that life had arisen—pop, shazam—from dead matter (as,
for instance, maggots from rotting meat, frogs from mud, mice from
bundles of old clothes)—and not make the same mistake for the ori-
gin of the universe itself.
But in addition to the bedrock illogic that seems to arise in clas-
sical science when tackling the fundamental questions, an additional,
even more basic, problem arises. It is the dualistic nature of language,
the way we think, and the limits of logic. Just as we cannot properly
perceive what’s going on in the universe without incorporating the
essence of perc
eption itself, that is, consciousness, so too we cannot
adequately discuss and understand the cosmos unless we have some notion of the nature and limitations of the tools used for discussion
and understanding, namely language and the rational mind. After all,
we are at this moment reading, and things will make sense or else
fail to do so only within the matrix of the medium at hand. If the
medium introduces a built-in bias, we should at least know about it.
Few pause to consider the limits of logic and language as the
tools we generally employ in our quest for knowledge. As quantum
theory increasingly gains ascendancy in everyday technological
applications, as when we create tunneling microscopes and quantum-
based computers, those actively working to find applications for its
marvelous facets often confront its illogical or non-rational nature
but ignore it. After all, only the math and technological applications
matter to them. They have a job to do; leave meaning to the science
philosophers. Moreover, one needn’t understand something in order
to enjoy its benefits, as men standing at the altar have realized since
time immemorial.
Still, the more one deals with quantum theory, the more amaz-
ing (meaning counterlogical) it becomes—even beyond the experi-
ments discussed in earlier chapters. To illustrate this, recall that in
everyday life, choices are normally narrowed down to specific pos-
sibilities. If you’re looking for your cat, it is either in the living room
or not in the living room. Or, perhaps, partially in and partially out,
if it is napping in the doorway. Those are the only three possibilities,
and no one can conceive of any others.
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But in the quantum world, when a particle or bit of light has
traveled from point A to point B, and there are mirrors that allow
bounces so that it can reach its destination by either of two routes,
an amazing thing happens.
Careful experiments involving blockable mirrors and such show
that the particle has not taken path A, nor taken path B. It also has
not somehow split itself up and taken both paths, nor has it gotten
there by taking neither path. Because these are the only choices we
can conceive, the electron has defied logic and done something else,
something that we cannot imagine. Particles doing such seemingly