2 of 3
In the chapter "Life on Man," Sachs provides a fascinating description of the bacterial colonization of the human landscape. Just 24 hours after birth, our skin sports one thousand bacteria per square centimeter. At 48 hours, the number jumps to ten thousand. We hit the hundred thousand mark by six weeks. It is this dense forest of one hundred billion friendly bacteria on our skin that guards us from the rare, unfriendly sorts. Fifteen trillion essential bacteria line and protect our empty digestive tracts. We learn that the type and count of bacteria are affected by emotional states and, even more intriguing, that the bacteria can, and do, signal our cells to enhance these symbiotic relationships.
One of the book's strong points is its blend of the highly technical with the everyday. There is enough of the nonscientific to keep all but the most unrepentant technophobes slogging along. Hang on through some subjects that just cannot be made any simpler, and you will be rewarded with stories that no one taught us in med school. For example, in 1959, while filming Cleopatra, Liz Taylor fell ill with a deadly, resistant form of staph pneumonia. An experimental batch of methicillin saved her life. Thousands of her fans and dozens of her husbands owe a debt of thanks to the antibiotic maker. If that's not enough to pique your interest, there is even a lurid description of how bacteria, once thought to be asexual in their reproductive life, have sex. This is one of the mechanisms whereby bacteria transfer antibiotic resistance from one to another and— shockingly—from one species to another.
Transferring and developing resistance to antibiotics is what much of Sachs' book is about. It is a frightening subject that has made many a headline. But the untold side of the story is that many bacteria simply stop being harmful. Strep throat no longer carries the death sentence of resulting rheumatic heart disease and glomerular nephritis that it once did. Smallpox has been eradicated and, for the most part, tuberculosis is no longer the scourge of European cities. For unknown reasons, the plague ceased to be the threat it was even before the advent of antibiotics. There is some good news.
Sherlock Holmes, the fictional invention of a physician, was a clever investigator. He taught his pupils to look for clues; he also taught them that some clues were telling by their absence. If I have one criticism of Good Germs, Bad Germs, it is that one of the great infectious disease tales is missing—that of HIV/AIDS. The disease, the introduction of antiretroviral drugs, emergent resistance to them, and the use of antibiotics in treating immuno-compromised patients: this story, so apt for Sachs' theme, is mysteriously absent from her book.
We come now to what I believe is the single most important story in Good Germs, Bad Germs. In 1986, Michael Zasloff, a researcher at the nih, stumbled upon a chemical that helps frogs fight off bacteria. The substance consists of short chains of amino acids. These antimicrobial peptides also are made by humans. They bathe our eyes and skin with their protective activity. Zasloff realized that the amphibian version of these chemicals was particularly potent.
It seemed that Zasloff had found a safe new form of antibiotic that bacteria could not adapt or mutate to resist. The New York Times lauded the discovery and pronounced, "Dr. Zasloff will have produced a fine successor to penicillin." Zasloff and investors rushed to license the new wonder drug. Despite the approval of the Times editorial staff, the FDA demanded more clinical trials.
share this page
RSS Feed
