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At the Edge of Life

Dead or Alive by Erika Hayasaki. Kindle Singles, $1.99.

Guest review by Jude Isabella

About 42 percent of the way through Erika Hayasaki’s Kindle Single, Dead or Alive, a book about Near Death Experiences (NDEs), I experienced a freaky coincidence. I was in the field with a team of scientists when a member of the crew started telling me about a horrific accident he had been in a year before. I asked him if he still had nightmares. Not as often, he answered, before telling me about the out-of-body experience he had in the operating room, when he suddenly found himself above the action, looking down on his body as doctors and nurses struggled to save his life.

"I don’t know why I’m telling you this," he said. “I’ve told almost no one and I don’t like to talk about it.” The subtext being, he keeps it to himself to avoid either one of two reactions: disbelief or way too much belief.

Hayasaki explores this treacherous territory in Dead or Alive, investigating the science behind NDEs. The story is perfect for the length of a Kindle Single: the study of NDEs is in its infancy and so there's little solid scientific evidence. A longer book would be repetitive, recounting endless anecdotes and relying too heavily on speculation.

Hayasaki opens Dead or Alive with the NDE experienced by her uncle, Richard K. Harris, a lawyer turned writer. It sounds like the typical NDE description familiar to anyone who reads, watches movies, television, or roams the Internet, complete with tunnels, brilliant lights, and the presence of already departed loved ones.

It’s a brave place to start. If not for the fact that Hayasaki is a former reporter for the Los Angeles Times, (where she wrote several articles that inspired this book), I might have rolled my eyes and left Dead or Alive to languish in the “Books” collection of my Kindle. But Hayasaki understands something fundamental about NDEs — the universality of NDE descriptions can make them less credible, since anyone can describe an NDE whether they’ve had one or not. To give the experience some specificity, she focuses on Harris, recounting his experiences before his own brush with death.

By introducing both Harris and his NDE, Hayasaki hooks the reader. It becomes paramount to find out if NDEs can be scientifically explained. Is it just the product of a brain trying to make sense of dying? Or is it possible that a meta-consciousness awaits us all at the end?

Hayasaki delves into past writings about NDEs. In the mid-1970s the psychologist Raymond Moody interviewed 150 people who had been declared dead and were then revived. From the interviews he drew a universal description of NDEs, which, it turns out, have been reported throughout history. Research has accelerated since Moody’s study. A number of studies suggest that a lack of oxygen to the brain may be the cause of NDEs. Hayasaki interviews NDE researchers, even finding a neurosurgeon who experienced an NDE himself.

This is compelling reading. Who does not want to know if science can determine if death is final? (Less compelling is Harris’s story, which Hayasaki weaves into her narrative. Hayasaki never knew her uncle well. He had distanced himself from his family, and he died of cancer soon after they met.) And when it comes to the subject of NDEs, Hayasaki’s timing is impeccable. Baby boomers are reaching the age when their family and friends are starting to die. The cynic in me says the latest research on NDEs is driven by a dominant generation accustomed to questioning the status quo. Boomers, after all, made 40 the new 30 and 50 the new 40. They can’t cheat death, so they’re questioning it through science.

The non-cynic in me says technology is the true driver of this research. It’s easier than ever to study NDEs. Better brain maps courtesy of medical imaging equipment have allowed scientists to stimulate specific parts of the brain with electrodes to induce out-of-body experiences in test subjects, for example. With MRIs scientists can study test subjects’ brains as they recall NDEs. And scientific papers on the topic have turned up in journals like The Lancet and Trends in Cognitive Sciences.

Although studies often focus on the out-of-body experiences associated with NDEs, I didn’t know until reading Dead or Alive that people near death frequently say they feel nothing as they gaze at their corporeal forms, however broken and distressed they might look. When my new acquaintance, the accident survivor, expressed the same sentiment, I hadn’t read far enough into the book to know that about NDEs and I doubt he scoured the Internet looking for lesser known details. This volunteered bit of information, his hasty retreat from the conversation, and reading the book, made me think the NDE experience — brain-based or not — is more real and profound to people than I had previously accepted. 

It’s hard to tell if Hayasaki believes NDEs reside only in the brain or that consciousness lives on despite the body’s death. The balance of probabilities tips toward the brain studies and their conclusions so far. But ultimately no one knows what happens after death and in Dead or Alive I get the sense that Hayasaki is asking us all to keep our minds open. 

 

Jude Isabella writes about science for kids and grown-ups. She has written for The Walrus, New Scientist, Archaeology Magazine, Canadian Geographic, and other publications. Her books, Chit Chat, a Celebration of the World’s Languages will be published fall 2013 by Kids Can Press, and Salmon: a Scientific Memoir in spring 2013 by RMB. Follow her on Twitter.

How a locked-in woman took control of a robot arm

The Electric Mind written by Jessica Benko. The Atavist, 2012. Kindle Singles, The Atavist app , iBooks, and other outlets via The Atavist website.

Reviewed by Ed Yong

Throughout the history of neuroscience, we have gained an inordinate amount of knowledge by studying people with severe brain damage, and watching how they manage to live. HM’s surgically altered brain revealed secrets about how memories are formed – after his death, he was revealed to be an American man called Henry Molaison. KC, a Canadian man whose real name is still unknown, also taught us much about how memory works, following brain damage sustained during a motorcycle accident. SM, a woman with an inherited brain disease, reportedly feels no fear.

These patients are known by abbreviations that preserve their anonymity, but also shroud their contributions. Their hopes, struggles and lives are condensed into patterns of injury and aberrant behaviours, and distilled into pairs of letters. But sometimes, very rarely, we get a privileged opportunity – a chance to unpack the people behind the letters, and to learn not just how they became a part of science, but how science became a part of them.

Jessica Benko’s new story, The Electric Mind, provides just such an insight. It is the latest in an increasingly strong portfolio of stories from The Atavist, a digital publisher that produces stories “longer than typical magazine articles but shorter than books”.

The Electric Mind is the story of Cathy Hutchinson, a woman known in the scientific literature as S3. She’s a mother-of-two who was “always goofing around and singing and dancing”, until a stroke disconnected her brain from her spinal column and left her with an active mind imprisoned in a frozen frame.

For several years, Cathy has been taking part in a groundbreaking experiment called BrainGate – not a sordid cerebral scandal, but a bold project that aims to give paralysed people control over mechanical limbs. The scientists behind the project fitted Cathy with microscopic electrodes that read the neural buzz within her motor cortex – the area of her brain that controls movements. The implant acts like an electronic spine that links Cathy’s brain to a computer or robot, bypassing her own immobilised flesh.

At first, she used the electrodes to control the movements of an on-screen cursor. More recently, she commandeered a robotic arm. As she thought about grabbing a bottle, the electrodes deciphered her mental commands and the arm carried them out. “For the first time in 14 years—indeed, for the first time for any quadriplegic—Cathy was able to reach out into the world.”

The project’s crowning results are published today in the journal Nature, concurrently with the launch of Benko’s story. The paper itself preserves Cathy’s anonymity, and describes her in the starkest of terms. She’s “a 58-year-old woman with tetraplegia caused by brainstem stroke… She is unable to speak (anarthria) and has no functional use of her limbs. She has occasional bilateral or asymmetric flexor spasm movements of the arms that are intermittently initiated by any imagined or actual attempt to move. S3’s sensory pathways remain intact.”

The reality behind these cold, precise words comes through in Benko’s skilful narration. Right from the start, she plunges us into Cathy’s world, as she wakes from a coma to hear the sound of the ventilator beside her bed.

We get to know Cathy through Benko’s eyes, as she tracks down the woman via her son, and meets her for the first time. First-person accounts can break the fourth wall to a distracting extent, and many journalists would balk at inserting themselves so prominently into a story. But Benko earns her place as a protagonist in her own tale, in a way that reminds me of Rebecca Skloot’s The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. The author’s quest becomes an inextricable part of the story itself. Through Benko’s expectations of meeting Cathy, her descriptions of their first meetings, and her difficulties in interviewing a woman who can only communicate via eye-flickers, we learn the extent of Cathy’s disability, and the frustrating complexity of seemingly simple tasks.

Writing about extreme disability (and attempts to overcome it) is not easy. You’re always an adjective away from being mawkish, and an adverb away from being ghoulish. Benko deftly negotiates the tightrope. She cleverly uses essays from other locked-in patients to describe hardships that would sound overwritten from her own hand. And she’s a master of keenly observed but simply delivered prose. When Cathy laughs, for example, it’s “a short burst of air that vibrated across vocal cords she can’t voluntarily control.” No embellishments required. These scenes throw their own punches. Benko just puts you in the ring.

Benko’s eye for detail also elevates her descriptions of experiments that have been reported again and again in the press. We see what Cathy’s nursing home room is like. We learn that the electrodes were fired onto her brain with “a pneumatic device like a tiny air hammer”. We discover that the bottle that Cathy lifted via robot was a thermos full of coffee (she loves coffee), “emblazoned with the initials and insignias of the research team and sponsors”. She finds drama in minutiae. While other reporters rush straight for a snare-drum crash of incredible implications, Benko takes her time with scenes that build to a steady crescendo.

Using Cathy’s story as an anchor, The Electric Mind stretches back in time to look at the historical events that preceded BrainGate (including a horse accident and suspected psychic powers). The story also pulls outwards at other means of reaching the same ends, such as functional electrical stimulation, where electrodes stimulate a patient’s own muscles instead of a robotic limb.

These sections, where we leave Cathy and focus on the field at large, are arguably the weakest elements of the story. Around the two-thirds mark, the tale threatens to veer off course. From rich details about a woman steering a robot arm with difficulty, we’re suddenly plunged into hand-waving speculation about infrared vision, Avatar-like… well…. avatars, and telepathic soldiers (and the irony of reading a journalist’s words about electronic telepathy on a handheld device was not lost on me).

But then, in a rather daring move, it becomes clear that this was exactly the point (keep an eye out for the start of Chapter Seven). All the other characters not involved in BrainGate, from Nicolelis to a ridiculously breathless DARPA spokesperson, serve as foils for Cathy. Their visions are too far removed from the reality of her condition. They remind us about what The Electric Mind could easily have been – a story of technological triumph and glorious futurism. Instead, Benko has treated us to something far better – a story of extreme limitations and what happens when people (and science) run up against them.

*****

Ed Yong is a British science writer who writes the award-winning blog Not Exactly Rocket Science. His work has appeared in Nature, New Scientist, the BBC, the Guardian, the Times, Wired UK, Discover, CNN, Slate, the Daily Telegraph, the Economist and more. He lives in London with his wife. He has never been impregnated by a botfly but he does rather like ants.

When an Autism Diagnosis Comes as a Blessing

Blazing My Trail: Living and Thriving with Autism. Published by the author. Kindle, $7.99.

Reviewed by Steve Silberman

It's fashionable to say that autism has become a fashion.

If you think overweening psychologists are hastily applying labels like Asperger syndrome to quirky nerds who should be perfectly capable of making their way in the world with no special help, assistance, or accommodations, you have plenty of company.  This past January, for example, the New York Times ran two op-eds in one day making that claim, including one by a young novelist named Benjamin Nugent who declared, "Under the rules in place today, any nerd, any withdrawn, bookish kid, can have Asperger syndrome."

The source of his authority on the subject, apparently, was that Nugent himself once received such a diagnosis as a teenager -- at the urging of his mother, a psychology professor -- and appeared in an educational video called Understanding Asperger's in a "wannabe hipster polo shirt." Now, however, Nugent has come to believe that the behavior his mother took for the telltale signs of a developmental disorder was merely his geeky teenage lifestyle, which included spending "a lot of time by myself in my room reading novels and listening to music." He went on to say that the cure for his misdiagnosis was moving to New York City, where he was finally able to meet other formerly bookish kids and schmooze with them in cafés. Having left his dreary foray on the spectrum behind him -- followed by a "long time" of sulking in his mother's presence for having put him through the ordeal -- he's now a professor of creative writing in New Hampshire.

Nugent's glib report surely provided a kind of comfort to some readers, who could return to their lives secure in the knowledge that many of these "Aspies" whom one keeps hearing about are simply "withdrawn, bookish kids" unnecessarily labeled by their histrionic parents with the help of psychologists eager to vault aboard the latest diagnostic bandwagon. After spending the past couple of years interviewing and spending time with autistic people and their families for a book, however, I can tell you that Nugent's experience is the exception, not the rule.

Everyone I've met who has been diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome or other form of autism faces profound challenges in day-to-day life. Even the most "high-functioning" autistic people (a term I now avoid using, because it renders certain forms of cognitive disability harder to see, while obscuring the gifts and competence of those branded as "low-functioning") work tremendously hard to find and sustain friendships; to manage the jarring changes that intrude into the most carefully planned-out schedules; to maintain their composure in noisy sensory environments; to get hired for jobs worthy of their intelligence and skills; and to navigate their way daily through a minefield of unspoken social rules and cues designed by and for people whose brains are wired differently from their own.

That's one reason the revision of the criteria for autism in the upcoming fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders -- the bible of psychiatry used to determine diagnosis, access to services, and reimbursement from insurers -- has become so controversial. Even psychiatrist Allen Frances, who led the task force that developed the criteria in the DSM-IV, has gotten into the act, claiming that spectrum diagnoses have become "faddish." Many autistic self-advocates suspect the American Psychiatric Association is about to pull a diagnostic sleight-of-hand by shaving off a portion of the population that would have been eligible for an Asperger's diagnosis under the DSM-IV criteria, and give them a newly minted diagnosis of Social Communication Disorder, which has no legacy services or support systems. Some fear the APA is trying to finesse the increasing scarcity and overloading of services for autism, when budgets are being slashed in the name of austerity, by manipulating labels to lower demand.

There is no question that people diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome have an authentic need for help, long after they've "aged out" of the meager support provided to kids until they turn 21. Contrast Nugent's breezy anecdotes about pissing off his schoolmates by "trying to speak like an E.M. Forster narrator" with this description of attempting to absorb an ordinary conversation written by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg, one of the most passionate and articulate disability-rights bloggers, and author of a new ebook called Blazing My Trail: Living and Thriving with Autism. "When I hear, I see the spelled-out words in my mind, and I have to internally read and translate those words in order to understand their meanings. As a result, even in quiet environments, I cannot keep up with verbal input for more than five or 10 minutes without falling behind, unless the other person slows down his or her speech and leaves a number of pauses in which I can respond. Pacing is everything."

Or consider this list of activities that Cohen-Rottenberg identifies as particularly challenging:

 Food shopping

Sweeping and mopping the floor

Cooking

Driving

Running errands

Going to appointments

Planning, executing, and transitioning between tasks

Working at a job

Making friends

Autistic people in Cohen-Rottenberg's generation never got the chance to be diagnosed with Asperger's as kids, because the diagnosis didn't exist. It's easy to forget that just 40 years ago, there was no concept of a broad, inclusive spectrum that encompassed accomplished professionals like Temple Grandin and autistic people who may never learn to speak or put on their clothes in the morning without help. (Indeed, Grandin's debut memoir, Emergence, was initially billed as the first book by a "recovered" autistic person, because the idea that an autistic woman could enroll at a university, earn an advanced degree, and become a leader in a demanding field didn't seem possible.)

On websites for parents, an autism diagnosis is often framed as a heartbreaking event, an occasion for grieving the typical child they'd planned for. That's understandable and human, but it's illuminating to read statements like "Don't Mourn for Us" by autistic adults like Jim Sinclair, one of the pioneers who has inspired a generation of self-advocates to view their autism as an essential part of who they are, rather than as a pathology they might be cured of someday.

For Cohen-Rottenberg, who was 50 years old when she was diagnosed, the label arrived as a blessing. She felt she finally understood why she had been relentlessly bullied and teased when she was young; why she found certain environments that other people enjoyed (such as crowded restaurants) unendurable; why her first marriage went off the rails; and why she had to work so hard to parse non-verbal cues that her peers can take for granted. "I was like a person with mobility issues trying to run a marathon every day and keep up with people whose bodies worked differently from mine. Burnout was inevitable," she writes. "In a few short years, I seemed to go from a lifetime of being super-functional to struggling with basic things… It was my lifelong ignorance of being autistic that was catching up with me."

Unlike many of the ebooks reviewed at Download the Universe, Blazing My Trail offers no multimedia bells and whistles; it's just text with a few family photographs. But it represents the promising potential of the form to provide a venue for highly skilled writers who might never have been able to convince a corporate publisher that their message was capable of engaging a mainstream audience.

Cohen-Rottenberg's first ebook, The Uncharted Path, available as a PDF, recounted her difficult upbringing and her path to diagnosis. "My attempts at making contacts always felt a bit like trying to drive a car by gripping the steering wheel with my teeth," she wrote. Blazing My Trail continues the story, and addresses how she and her second husband, Bob, have worked as a team to manage her sensory sensitivities and social challenges while building a happy life together. Her unaffected honesty makes Blazing My Trail an uplifting journey -- not in the usual sense of being a heroic saga of a narrator "overcoming" disability with pluck and guile; but by bearing witness to the power of accepting and celebrating oneself exactly as one is.

Cohen-Rottenberg comes through her writing as a wise elder of her tribe and a role model for young people, as well as a smart critic of social attitudes toward disabilities, both visible and invisible. "If we lived in a society that took human diversity for granted, that made room for difference as a deeply held value, every one of us would benefit," she says. "Our view of one another would become much more expansive, much more respectful, and much more compassionate. Ultimately, we might even see one another as perfectly different and perfectly human."

Steve Silberman is writing a book about autism and neurodiversity called NeuroTribes: Thinking Smarter About People Who Think Differently for Avery/Penguin 2013.  He is a contributing editor of Wired magazine and one of Time's selected science tweeters (@stevesilberman). He lives with his husband in San Francisco.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Artificial Epidemics: You’re Not Really Sick, You’re Overdiagnosed

Artificial Epidemics: How Medical Activism Has Inflated the Diagnosis of Prostate Cancer and Depression, by Stewart Justman. Now and then Reader, 2012. Publisher's site, Kindle,  iBooks, Kobo

Reviewed by SciCurious, guest reviewer

"In the mid-1990s I found myself on a committee charged with reviewing medical expenditures under my university's health plan. Like the rest of the country, the members of the plan had fallen in love with anti-depressants, which accounted for our largest single drug expense-several hundred thousand dollars annually, as I recall. When someone around the table commented that this was a lot of money to be laying out for mood-altering pills, a defender countered, "If they prevent one suicide, they're worth it!" Argument ceased. No one in the room, including myself, was aware that anti-depressants actually increase the risk of suicide, particularly in patients up to twenty-four years of age."

This opening scene from Stewart Justman's Artificial Epidemics sets the stage for a tangled, convoluted tale of two distinct diagnoses--prostate cancer and Major Depressive Disorder--and how intensive screening for these diseases has rendered us all overdiagnosed. Justman, a professor of Liberal Studies at the University of Montana, has made a long study of cancer, publishing several books including Do No Harm: How a Magic Bullet for Prostate Cancer Became a Medical Quandary and Seeds of Mortality: The Public and Private Worlds of Cancer. Artificial Epidemics, a slim, 22-page eBook appears to be an attempt to bring together his previous writing on cancer with another highly-diagnosed and talked about disease: Major Depressive Disorder.

"The campaign against depression and the campaign against prostate cancer both used inflamed arguments and appealed to fixed ideas," Justman writes. He lays the bulk of the blame for the resulting "artificial epidemic" on medical activists, who have taking screening for these diseases to large segments of the population.  Justman also argues the screenings for prostate cancer and depression suffer from an “absence of appropriately discerning methods,” and thus help in the push toward the overdiagnosis of the American population.

His solution? Stop the screening, stop the treatment. We are not sick, we are overdiagnosed.

Justman’s concerns regarding prostate cancer are not particularly new. Prostate-specific antigen (PSA) testing has been controversial since the beginning. As Justman notes, “the same vial of blood divided in two may give different PSA readings.” Medical experts have also voiced criticism about the cut-off points for diagnosis for prostate cancer. Since the treatment for prostate cancer can be invasive, the U.S. Preventative Services Task Force has proposed that when men score an initial PSA that only barely reaches the threshold for cancer, they should not immediately start treatment. Instead, they should undergo so-called "watchful waiting."

Justman sees the same problems with oversensitive analyses and overdiagnosis in Major Depressive Disorder. But his argument also goes beyond against current screening practices. He's against the diagnosis of depression itself.

"The possibility that much 'depression' might not be a disorder at all has been drowned out by medical activism,” Justman writes. He scoffs at the World Health Organization's prediction that depression is soon to become the second leading cause of disability across the globe as “hubristic.” He argues that it's far too easy to diagnose, given that the symtoms include things like feeling tired, overeating, or not finding pleasure in things.  "According to this checklist, I would qualify for a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder if I simply had too little energy and had trouble staying asleep--as in fact I do...In point of fact, my symptoms are not diagnostic of anything." 

What is Justman’s response to these two ‘artificial epidemics’ of prostate cancer and depression? Sit down, relax. "Much of what is called cancer is not destined to cause death-and so too, much of what is considered depression resolves itself without medical intervention." He wants the screenings to stop, and overdiagnosis to end. Justman proposes an appeal to prudence.  "Prudence deems life without sadness a utopian fantasy, silent cancer a tolerable reality, and the medicalization of the human condition an aggressive expansion of professional authority." 

Unfortunately, while Justman’s statements about prostate cancer diagnoses are well researched, his mockery of Major Depressive Disorder is both insulting and ill-conceived. What's more, his arguments for both prostate cancer and depression are made in complete incoherence. The narrative jumps from prostate cancer to depression in the same paragraph. Here he even makes the leap within the same sentence: "Setting a two-month period for allowable grief is like setting the threshold for an abnormal PSA at a figure that trades off a reduction of false negatives with an inflow of false positives."

Justman composes long, run-on sentences in an effort to show how prostate cancer and Major Depressive Disorder diagnoses are similar: "Both PSA testing, which appeals to evidence presumed to exist, and testing for depression, which appeals to diagnostic criteria conceded by the psychiatrist in charge of the composition of the third edition of the DSM to be seriously defective, reveal conflicted attitudes toward evidence-based medicine itself." The net result is an exhaustive and repetitive reading experience. In the end, I’m just confused and beginning to think my prostate has been experiencing depressed mood. 

In this tangle of prostate cancer and depression, the focus of the title is lost. I have yet to read how, exactly, medical activism has influenced clinicians and insurance companies to collude with them in the overdiagnosis of the nation. Instead, the book impresses the idea of overdiagnosis, without offering any clear solution except to stop diagnosing.

Here Justman confuses the ideas of diagnosis and treatment. While it makes sense to delay invasive treatments and track the progress of an already diagnosed disease, stopping screening and diagnosis would merely ignore the problems. Prostate cancer is still the second leading cause of death in men.  Additionally, Justman’s flippant attitude toward Major Depressive Disorder ignores the real suffering of patients, and adds to the stigma these patients experience. But Justman clearly believes depression is not a real problem and most prostate cancers as fine.Just put on a smile, stop wallowing in your emotions. That prostate enlargement probably doesn’t mean anything.  

After spending so much time reading Justman’s incoherent arguments, dismissive delivery, and his final, confusing appeal to “prudence”, my only recommendation is that if you are concerned about issues with prostate cancer or Major Depressive Disorder diagnosis and treatment, go read something else. The writing is bound to be less confusing. After suffering through 22 long pages of this ebook to write this review, I’m afraid my prostate needs an antidepressant.

Scicurious is a PhD in Physiology, and is currently a postdoc in biomedical research. She loves the brain, and so should you. She writes for The Scicurious Brain at Scientific American Blogs and Neurotic Physiology on the Scientopia Network. Follow on Twitter @Scicurious.

 

 

Monet's Ultraviolet Eye

Color Uncovered. Produced by the Exploratorium. Ipad. Free

Reviwed by Carl Zimmer

Late in his life, Claude Monet developed cataracts. As his lenses degraded, they blocked parts of the visible spectrum, and the colors he perceived grew muddy. Monet's cataracts left him struggling to paint; he complained to friends that he felt as if he saw everything in a fog. After years of failed treatments, he agreed at age 82 to have the lens of his left eye completely removed. Light could now stream through the opening unimpeded. Monet could now see familiar colors again. And he could also see colors he had never seen before. Monet began to see--and to paint--in ultraviolet.

We can turn light into vision thanks to the pigments in our eyes, which snatch photons and trigger electric signals that travel to our brains. We have three types of pigments tuned to violet, green, and red light. Birds, bees, and many other animals have additional pigments tuned to ultraviolet light. Ultraviolet vision has led to the evolution of ultraviolet color patterns. In some butterfly species, for example, the males and females look identical to the ordinary human eye. In UV light, however, the males sport bright patterns on their wings to attract the females. Many flowers have ultraviolet colors, often using them to get the attention of pollinating bees.

While each kind of pigment responds most strongly to a particular color, it can also respond more weakly to neighboring parts of the spectrum. The violet-tuned pigment, for example,can respond wealy to ultraviolet light, which has a higher frequency. Most of us don't get to experience that response, because our lenses filter out UV rays.

But Monet did. With his lens removed, Monet continued to paint. Flowers remained one of his favorite subjects. Only now the flowers were different. When most people look at water lily flowers, they appear white. After his cataract surgery, Monet's blue-tuned pigments could grab some of the UV light bouncing off of the petals. He started to paint the flowers a whitish-blue.

I just learned about Monet's super-vision while reading the lovely Color Uncovered, produced recently for the iPad by the Exploratorium of San Francisco, one of the best science museums on Earth. I don't quite know what to call Color Uncovered. Its iTunes page describes it as "an interactive book that features fascinating illusions, articles, and videos." Yet it feels like an elegantly designed museum exhibit poured into an iPad. Making matters more confusing, you have to go to the education category of the app store in iTunes to find it. When it comes to describing what it is we review here at Download the Universe, words often fail us. Sometimes that's a bad thing, because we're reviewing muddled products of muddled minds. In other cases--like this one--it just means that someone is making good use of several different genres, and melding them into something for which there's no good label.