Major Transitions in Evolution

31 October, 2011

The changes we’re starting to go through now are so big that we need to step back and take a very long view to get any sort of handle on them. I’m struggling to do this now. This book has been very helpful:

• Tim Lenton and Andrew Watson, Revolutions That Made the Earth, Oxford U. Press, Oxford, 2011.

There’s a lot in it, and I’d love to tell you about all of it… but for now, let me just list 8 major transitions life on Earth may have gone through:

1. Compartments. This transition takes us from self-replicating molecules to self-replicating molecules in ‘compartments’—membranes of some sort. A compartment separates ‘self’ from ‘other’, and it’s crucial to life as we know it. When did this transition happen? Certainly after 4.4 billion years ago, when the Earth first got a solid crust. Probably after 3.85 billion years ago, when the Late Heavy Bombardment ended. Certainly before 3.3 billion years ago, when the earliest well-established microfossils are found. Probably before 3.8 billion years ago, which is the age of the Isua greenstone belt—a formation that contains graphite specks with less carbon-13 than average, a hint of life.

2. Groups of genes. This transition takes us from independent self-replicating molecules to self-replicating molecules linked into long chains, probably RNA. When did this happen? I have no idea; I’m not sure anyone does. Probably sometime between 4.4 and 3.3 billion years ago!

3. Genetic code. This transition takes us from a world where RNA both stored information and catalyzed reactions to a world where DNA stores the information used to build for proteins, which catalyze reactions. When did this happen? Again, probably sometime between 4.4 and 3.3 billion years ago!

4. Eukaryotes. This transition takes us from prokaryotes to eukaryotes. Prokaryotes, like bacteria and archaea, have relatively simple cells, like this:

Eukaryotes—like animals, plants, fungi and protists—have cells with lots of internal parts called organelles. Here are some things you might see in a eukaryotic cell:

It’s now believed some organelles were originally independent prokaryotes that got swallowed up but survived as symbiotic partners: so-called endosymbionts. The evidence is especially good for mitochondria and chloroplasts, which have their own DNA. When did this transition occur? Some experts say around 1.85 billion years ago. Nick Butterfield has seen fossils of red algae dating back to 1.2 billion years ago, so eukaryotes were definitely around by then. The authors of this book date eukaryotes to “roughly 2 billion years ago, give or take 0.5 billion years.”

5. Sex. This transition takes us from populations of asexually reproducing clones to populations that reproduce sexually. When did this happen? Roughly around the time eukaryotes arose. The authors write:

We would like to know if the evolution of sex is really separate from the evolution of eukaryotes, or whether the two are so closely related that sex co-evolved with the eukaryotic cell. It would help if we knew precisely why organisms bother with sex, but we don’t.

6. Cell differentiation. This transition takes us from single-celled protists to multi-celled animals, plants and fungi where different cells specialize to play different roles. When did this happen? The oldest known animal fossils are some early sponges in the Trezona Formation in South Australia… they go back 665 million years. Plants may go back 1.2 billion years, and fungi perhaps around 1.4 billion years. Just for fun, here’s a typical plant cell:

but of course the point is that thanks to differentiation, different cells in the organism look different!

7. Social colonies. This transition takes us from solitary individuals to social organizations such as colonies of ants, bees and termites, or the somewhat different societies of birds and mammals. Sociality has arisen independently many times, but it’s hard to say when because it’s hard to find fossil evidence! In the early Triassic, about 250 million years ago, we find fossilized burrows containing up to twenty cynodonts of a type known as Trirachodon:

Cynodonts are classified as synapsids, a group of animals that includes mammals but also ‘proto-mammals’ like these. By the late Triassic, there’s also evidence for social behavior among termites. It would be funny if proto-mammals beat the insects to sociality. I bet the insects got there first: the fossil record is not always complete!

8. Language. This is the transition from societies without language (for example, earlier primates) to societies with (for example, us). When did this happen? Alas, it’s even harder to read off the beginning of language from the fossil record than the arrival of social behavior! I’ll just quote Wikipedia:

Some scholars assume the development of primitive language-like systems (proto-language) as early as Homo habilis, while others place the development of primitive symbolic communication only with Homo erectus (1.8 million years ago) or Homo heidelbergensis (0.6 million years ago) and the development of language proper with Homo sapiens sapiens less than 100,000 years ago.

So that’s a list of 8 ‘major transitions’! With each one we get a higher level of organization, while preserving the structures that came before. At least that’s true of the first 7: the last is a work in progress.

In fact, this list was first propounded here:

• Eörs Szathmáry and John Maynard Smith, The major evolutionary transitions, Nature 374 (1995), 227-232.

and these authors expanded on their ideas here:

• Eörs Szathmáry and John Maynard Smith, The Major Transitions in Evolution, Oxford U. Press, Oxford, 1995.

I haven’t read that book yet, alas. Lenton and Watson actually argue for a different, shorter list:

1. The origin of life, before 3.8 billion years ago.

2. The Great Oxidation, when photosynthesis put oxygen into the atmosphere between 3.4 and 2.5 billion years ago.

3. The rise of complex life (eukaryotes), roughly 2 billion years ago.

4. The rise of humanity, roughly 0 billion years ago.

They consider these to be the “truly difficult events that may have determined the pace of evolution”.

Of course the latest revolution, humanity, is not complete. There is no guarantee that it will have a happy ending. Lenton and Watson sketch several alternative futures:

1. Apocalypse.

2. Retreat.

3. Revolution.

I’ll say more about these later. This is what Azimuth is ultimately all about.


The Malay Archipelago

17 September, 2011

I live on the fringes of the Malay Archipelago. At least that’s what the naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace called it. In his famous book of that name, he wrote:

The Malay Archipelago extends for more than 4,000 miles in length from east to west, and is about 1,300 in breadth from north to south. It would stretch over an expanse equal to that of all Europe from the extreme west far into Central Asia, or would cover the widest parts of South America, and extend far beyond the land into the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. It includes three islands larger than Great Britain; and in one of them, Borneo, the whole of the British Isles might be set down, and would be surrounded by a sea of forests. New Guinea, though less compact in shape, is probably larger than Borneo. Sumatra is about equal in extent to Great Britain; Java, Luzon and Celebes are each about the size of Ireland. Eighteen more islands are, on the average, as large as Jamaica; more than a hundred are larger than the Isle of Wight; while the isles and islets of smaller size are innumerable.

Wallace claimed to have fond a line running through the Malay Archipelago that separates islands with Asian flora and fauna from those with plants and animals more like those of Austalia. This is now called the ‘Wallace Line’. It runs between Bali (on the western, Asiatic side) and the lesser-known nearby island of Lombok (on the eastern side).

Why does the Wallace Line run right between these two nearby islands? Wallace had a theory: it’s because the ocean between them is very deep! Even when sea levels were much lower—for example during the last ice age—and many islands were connected by land bridges, Bali and Lombok remained separate. Indeed, all the islands on one side of the Wallace Line have been separate from those on the other side for a very, very long time.

How long? Maybe forever, since Australia used to be down near Antarctica. I don’t really know. Do you? I’ve brought Wallace’s book to read with me, but that’s probably not the best way to find out. It should be easy to look up.

However, everything gets more complicated when you examine it carefully. Now the Wallace Line is just one of several important lines dividing biogeographical regions in the Malay Archipelago:

Sundaland is the land shelf containing the Malay Peninsula, Borneo, Java, and Sumatra. Sahul, also known as Australasia or simply Australia, is the land shelf containing Australia and New Guinea. Wallacea is a group of islands between Sundaland and Sahul—islands that haven’t been haven’t been recently connected to either of these land shelves.

The Wallace line is the western boundary of Wallacea, separating it from Sundaland. The Lydekker line, named after Richard Lydekker, is the eastern boundary of Wallacea separating it, from Sahul.

Wallacea is the red, heart-shaped region here:

The blue line through Wallacea is called the ‘Weber line’. Max Carl Wilhelm Weber argued that this line, not the boundary between Bali and Lombok, mark the major boundary between Asiatic and Australian organisms.

I bet the real truth is even more complicated.

Anyway, today my wife and I are going to Lombok. We’ll say there until the 21st, based in Senggigi; then we’ll go to Bali and stay in the town of Ubud until the 25th. So, we’ll have a good chance to see the difference between Asiatic and Wallacean flora and fauna.


Fool’s Gold

12 September, 2011

My favorite Platonic solids are the regular dodecahedron, with 12 faces and 20 corners:

and the regular icosahedron, with 12 corners and 20 faces:

They are close relatives, with all the same symmetries… but what excites me most is that they have 5-fold symmetry. It’s a theorem that no crystal can have 5-fold symmetry. So, we might wonder whether these shapes occur in nature… and if they don’t, how people dreamt up these shapes in the first place.

It’s widely believed that the Pythagoreans dreamt up the regular dodecahedron after seeing crystals of iron pyrite—the mineral also known as ‘fool’s gold’. Nobody has any proof of this. However, there were a lot of Pythagoreans in Sicily back around 500 BC, and also a lot of pyrite. And, it’s fairly common for pyrite to form crystals like this:


This crystal is a ‘pyritohedron’. It looks similar to regular dodecahedron—but it’s not! At the molecular level, iron pyrite has little crystal cells with cubic symmetry. But these cubes can form a pyritohedron:


(By the way, you can click on any of these pictures for more information.)

You’ll notice that the front face of this pyritohedron is like a staircase with steps that go up 2 cubes for each step forwards. In other words, it’s a staircase with slope 2. That’s the key to the math here! By definition, the pyritohedron has faces formed by planes at right angles to these 12 vectors:

\begin{array}{cccc} (2,1,0) &  (2,-1,0) &  (-2,1,0) &  (-2,-1,0) \\ (1,0,2) &  (-1,0,2) &  (1,0,-2) &  (-1,0,-2) \\ (0,2,1) &  (0,2,-1) &  (0,-2,1) &  (0,-2,-1) \\ \end{array}

On the other hand, a regular dodecahedron has faces formed by the planes at right angles to some very similar vectors, where the number 2 has been replaced by this number, called the golden ratio:

\displaystyle {\Phi = \frac{\sqrt{5} + 1}{2}}

Namely, these vectors:

\begin{array}{cccc} (\Phi,1,0) &  (\Phi,-1,0) &  (-\Phi,1,0) &  (-\Phi,-1,0) \\ (1,0,\Phi) &  (-1,0,\Phi) &  (1,0,-\Phi) &  (-1,0,-\Phi) \\ (0,\Phi,1) &  (0,\Phi,-1) &  (0,-\Phi,1) &  (0,-\Phi,-1) \\ \end{array}

Since

\Phi \approx 1.618...

the golden ratio is not terribly far from 2. So, the pyritohedron is a passable attempt at a regular dodecahedron. Perhaps it was even good enough to trick the Pythagoreans into inventing the real thing.

If so, we can say: fool’s gold made a fool’s golden ratio good enough to fool the Greeks.

At this point I can’t resist a digression. You get the Fibonacci numbers by starting with two 1’s and then generating a list of numbers where each is the sum of the previous two:

1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, …

The ratios of consecutive Fibonacci numbers get closer and closer to the golden ratio. For example:

\begin{array}{ccl}  1/1 &=& 1 \\ 2/1 &=& 2  \\ 3/2 &=& 1.5   \\  5/3 &=& 1.6666..   \\ 8/5 &=& 1.6 \\ \end{array}

and so on. So, in theory, we could use these ratios to make cubical crystals that come closer and closer to a regular dodecahedron!

And in fact, pyrite doesn’t just form the 2/1 pyritohedron I showed you earlier. Sometimes it forms a 3/2 pyritohedron! This is noticeably better. The 2/1 version looks like this:

while the 3/2 version looks like this:

Has anyone ever seen a 5/3 pyritohedron? That would be even better. It would be quite hard to distinguish by eye from a true regular dodecahedron. Unfortunately, I don’t think iron pyrite forms such subtle crystals.

Okay. End of digression. But there’s another trick we can play!

These 12 vectors I mentioned:

\begin{array}{cccc} (\Phi,1,0) &  (\Phi,-1,0) &  (-\Phi,1,0) &  (-\Phi,-1,0) \\ (1,0,\Phi) &  (-1,0,\Phi) &  (1,0,-\Phi) &  (-1,0,-\Phi) \\ (0,\Phi,1) &  (0,\Phi,-1) &  (0,-\Phi,1) &  (0,-\Phi,-1) \\ \end{array}

besides being at right angles to the faces of the dodecahedron, are also the corners of the icosahedron!

And if we use the number 2 here instead of the number \Phi, we get the vertices of a so-called pseudoicosahedron. Again, this can be made out of cubes:



However, nobody seems to think the Greeks ever saw a crystal shaped like a pseudoicosahedron! The icosahedron is first mentioned in Book XIII of Euclid’s Elements, which speaks of:

the five so-called Platonic figures which, however, do not belong to Plato, three of the five being due to the Pythagoreans, namely the cube, the pyramid, and the dodecahedron, while the octahedron and the icosahedron are due to Theaetetus.

So, maybe Theaetetus discovered the icosahedron. Indeed, Benno Artmann has argued that this shape was the first mathematical object that was a pure creation of human thought, not inspired by anything people saw!

That idea is controversial. It leads to some fascinating puzzles, like: did the Scots make stone balls shaped like Platonic solids back in 2000 BC? For more on these puzzles, try this:

• John Baez, Who discovered the icosahedron?

But right now I want to head in another direction. It turns out iron pyrite can form a crystal shaped like a pseudoicosahedron! And as Johan Kjellman pointed out to me, one of these crystals was recently auctioned off… for only 47 dollars!

It’s beautiful:

So: did the Greeks ever seen one of these? Alas, we may never know.

For more on these ideas, see:

• John Baez, My favorite numbers: 5.

• John Baez, Tales of the dodecahedron: from Pythagoras to Plato to Poincaré.

• John Baez, This Week’s Finds in Mathematical Physics, "week241" and "week283".

• Ian O. Angell and Moreton Moore, Projections of cubic crystals, International Union of Crystallography.

To wrap up, I should admit that icosahedra and dodecahedra show up in many other places in nature—but probably too small for the ancient Greeks to see. Here are some sea creatures magnified 50 times:

And here’s a virus:


The gray bar on top is 10 nanometers long, while the bar on bottom is just 5 nanometers long.

The mathematics of viruses with 5-fold symmetry is fascinating. Just today, I learned of Reidun Twarock‘s recent discoveries in this area:

• Reidun Twarock, Mathematical virology: a novel approach to the structure and assembly of viruses, Phil. Trans. R. Soc. A 364 (2006), 3357-3373.

Most viruses with 5-fold symmetry have protein shells in patterns based on the same math as geodesic domes:

 

But some more unusual viruses, like polyomavirus and simian virus 40, use more sophisticated patterns made of two kinds of tiles:

They still have 5-fold symmetry, but these patterns are spherical versions of Penrose tilings! A Penrose tiling is a nonrepeating pattern, typically with approximate 5-fold symmetry, made out of two kinds of tiles:

To understand these more unusual viruses, Twarock needed to use some very clever math:

• Thomas Keef and Reidun Twarock, Affine extensions of the icosahedral group with applications to the three-dimensional organisation of simple viruses, J. Math. Biol. 59 (2009), 287-313.

But that’s another story for another day!



Hierarchical Organization and Biological Evolution (Part 1)

29 August, 2011

guest post by Cameron Smith

Consider these quotes:

My thesis has been that one path to the construction of a non-trivial theory of complex systems is by way of a theory of hierarchy. Empirically, a large proportion of the complex systems we observe in nature exhibit hierarchic structure. On theoretical grounds we could expect complex systems to be hierarchies in a world in which complexity had to evolve from simplicity.Herbert Simon, 1962

(Many of the concepts that) have dominated scientific thinking for three hundred years, are based upon the understanding that at smaller and smaller scales—both in space and in time—physical systems become simple, smooth and without detail. A more careful articulation of these ideas would note that the fine scale structure of planets, materials and atoms is not without detail. However, for many problems, such detail becomes irrelevant at the larger scale. Since the details (become) irrelevant (at such larger scales), formulating theories in a way that assumes that the detail does not exist yields the same results as (theories that do not make this assumption).Yaneer Bar-Yam

Thoughts like these lead me to believe that, as a whole, we humans need to reassess some of our approaches to understanding. I’m not opposed to reductionism, but I think it would be useful to try to characterize those situations that might require something more than an exclusively reductionist approach. One way to do that is to break down some barriers that we’ve constructed between disciplines. So I’m here on Azimuth trying to help out this process.

Indeed, Azimuth is just one of many endeavors people are beginning to work on that might just lead to the unification of humanity into a superorganism. Regardless of the external reality, a fear of climate change could have a unifying effect. And, if we humans are simply a set of constituents of the superorganism that is Earth’s biosphere, it appears we are its only candidate germ line. So, assuming we’d like our descendants to have a chance at existence in the universe, we need to figure out either how to keep this superorganism alive or help it reproduce.

We each have to recognize our own individual limitations of time, commitment, and brainpower. So, I’m trying to limit my work to the study of biological evolution rather than conjuring up a ‘pet theory of everything’. However, I’m also trying not to let those disciplinary and institutional barriers limit the tools I find valuable, or the people I interact with.

So, the more I’ve thought about the complexity of evolution (for now let’s just say ‘complexity’ = ‘anything humans don’t yet understand’), the more I’ve been driven to search for new languages. And in that search, I’ve been driven toward pure mathematics, where there are many exciting languages lurking around. Perhaps one of these languages has already obviated the need to invent new ideas to understand biological evolution… or perhaps an altogether new language needs to be constructed.

The prospects of a general theory of evolution point to the same intellectual challenge that we see in the quote above from Bar-Yam: assuming we’d like to be able to consistently manipulate the universe, when can we neglect details and when can’t we?

Consider the level of organization concept. Since different details of a system can be effectively ignored at different scales, our scientific theories have themselves become ‘stratified’:

• G. L. Farre, The energetic structure of observation: a philosophical disquisition, American Behavioral Scientist 40 (May 1997), 717-728.

In other words, science tends to be organized in ‘layers’. These layers have come to be conceived of as levels of organization, and each scientific theory tends to address only one of these levels (click the image to see the flash animation that ascends through many scales or levels):

It might be useful to work explicitly on connecting theories that tell us about particular levels of organization in order to attempt to develop some theories that transcend levels of organization. One type of insight that could be gained from this approach is an understanding of the mutual development of bottom-up ostensibly mechanistic models of simple systems and top-down initially phenomenological models of complex ones.

Simon has written an interesting discussion of the quasi-continuum that ranges from simple systems to complex ones:

• H. A. Simon, The architecture of complexity, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 106 (1962), 467–482.

But if we take an ideological perspective on science that says “let’s unify everything!” (scientific monism), a significant challenge is the development of a language able to unify our descriptions of simple and complex systems. Such a language might help communication among scientists who work with complex systems that apparently involve multiple levels of organization. Something like category theory may provide the nucleus of the framework necessary to formally address this challenge. But, in order to head in that direction, I’ll try out a few examples in a series of posts, albeit from the somewhat limited perspective of a biologist, from which some patterns might begin to surface.

In this introductory post, I’ll try to set a basis for thinking about this tension between simple and complex systems without wading through any treatises on ‘complexity’. It will be remarkably imprecise, but I’ll try to describe the ways in which I think it provides a useful metaphor for thinking about how we humans have dealt with this simple ↔ complex tension in science.

Another tack that I think could accomplish a similar goal, perhaps in a clearer way, would be to discuss fractals, power laws and maybe even renormalization. I might try that out in a later post if I get a little help from my new Azimuth friends, but I don’t think I’m qualified yet to do it alone.

Simple and complex systems

What is the organizational structure of the products of evolutionary processes? Herbert Simon provides a perspective that I find intuitive in his parable of two watchmakers.

He argues that the systems containing modules that don’t instantaneously fall apart (‘stable intermediates’) and can be assembled hierarchically take less time to evolve complexity than systems that lack stable intermediates. Given a particular set of internal and environmental constraints that can only be satisfied by some relatively complex system, a hierarchically organized one will be capable of meeting those constraints with the fewest resources and in the least time (i.e. most efficiently). The constraints any system is subject to determine the types of structures that can form. If hierarchical organization is an unavoidable outcome of evolutionary processes, it should be possible to characterize the causes that lead to its emergence.

Simon describes a property that some complex systems have in common, which he refers to as ‘near decomposability’:

• H. A. Simon, Near decomposability and the speed of evolution, Industrial and Corporate Change 11 (June 2002), 587-599.

A system is nearly decomposable if it’s made of parts that interact rather weakly with each other; these parts in turn being made of smaller parts with the same property.

For example, suppose we have a system modelled by a first-order linear differential equation. To be concrete, consider the fictitious building imagined by Simon: the Mellon Institute, with 12 rooms. Suppose the temperature of the ith room at time t is T_i(t). Of course most real systems seem to be nonlinear, but for the sake of this metaphor we can imagine that the temperatures of these rooms interact in a linear way, like this:

\displaystyle{ \frac{d}{d t}T_i(t) = \sum_{j}a_{ij}\left(T_{j}(t)-T_{i}(t)\right),}

where a_{ij} are some numbers. Suppose also that the matrix a_{ij} looks like this:

For the sake of the metaphor I’m trudging through here, let’s also assume

a\;\gg\;\epsilon_l\;\gg\;\epsilon_2

Then our system is nearly decomposable. Why? It has three ‘layers’, with two cells at the top level, each divided into two subcells, and each of these subdivided into three sub-subcells. The numbers of the rows and columns designate the cells, cells 1–6 and 7–12 constitute the two top-level subsystems, cells 1–3, 4–6, 7–9 and 10–12 the four second-level sub- systems. The interactions within the latter subsystems have intensity a, those within the former two subsystems, intensity \epsilon_l, and those between components of the largest subsystems, intensity \epsilon_2. This is why Simon states that this matrix is in near-diagonal form. Another, probably more common, terminology for this would be near block diagonal form. This terminology is a bit sloppy, but it basically means that we have a square matrix whose diagonal entries are square matrices and all other elements are approximately zero. That ‘approximately’ there is what differentiates near block diagonal matrices from honest block diagonal matrices whose off diagonal matrix elements are precisely zero.

This is a trivial system, but it illustrates that the near decomposability of the coefficient matrix allows these equations to be solved in a near hierarchical fashion. As an approximation, rather than simulating all the equations at once (e.g. all twelve in this example) one can take a recursive approach and solve the four systems of three equations (each of the blocks containing a‘s), and average the results to produce initial conditions for two systems of two equations with coefficients:

\begin{array}{cccc} \epsilon_1 & \epsilon_1 & \epsilon_2 & \epsilon_2 \\         \epsilon_1 & \epsilon_1 & \epsilon_2 & \epsilon_2\\     \epsilon_2 & \epsilon_2 & \epsilon_1 & \epsilon_1 \\     \epsilon_2 & \epsilon_2 & \epsilon_1 & \epsilon_1        \end{array}

and then average those results to produce initial conditions for a single system of two equations with coefficients:

\begin{array}{cc} \epsilon_2 & \epsilon_2 \\     \epsilon_2 & \epsilon_2    \end{array}

This example of simplification indicates that the study of a nearly decomposable systems system can be reduced to a series of smaller modules, which can be simulated in less computational time, if the error introduced in this approximation is tolerable. The degree to which this method saves time depends on the relationship between the size of the whole system and the size and number of hierarchical levels. However, as an example, given that the time complexity for matrix inversion (i.e. solving a system of linear equations) is O(n^2), then the hierarchical decomposition would lead to an algorithm with time complexity

\displaystyle{ O\left(\left(\frac{n}{L}\right)^2\right)}

where L is the number of levels in the decomposition. (For example, L=4 in the Mellon Institute, assuming the individual rooms are the lowest level).

All of this deserves to be made much more precise. However, there are some potential metaphorical consequences for the evolution of complex systems:

If we begin with a population of systems of comparable complexity, some of which are nearly decomposable and some of which are not, the nearly decomposable systems will, on average, increase their fitness through evolutionary processes much faster than the remaining systems, and will soon come to dominate the entire population. Notice that the claim is not that more complex systems will evolve more rapidly than less complex systems, but that, at any level of complexity, nearly decomposable systems will evolve much faster than systems of comparable complexity that are not nearly decomposable. – Herbert Simon, 2002

The point I’d like to make is that in this system, the idea of switching back and forth between simple and complex perspectives is made explicit: we get a sort of conceptual parallax:

In this simple case, the approximation that Simon suggests works well; however, for some other systems, it wouldn’t work at all. If we aren’t careful, we might even become victims of the Dunning-Kruger effect. In other words: if we don’t understand a system well from the start, we may overestimate how well we understand the limitations inherent to the simplifications we employ in studying it.

But if we at least recognize the potential of falling victim to the Dunning-Kruger effect, we can vigilantly guard against it in trying to understand, for example, the currently paradoxical tension between ‘groups’ and ‘individuals’ that lies at the heart of evolutionary theory… and probably also the caricatures of evolution that breed social controversy.

Keeping this in mind, my starting point in the next post in this series will be to provide some examples of hierarchical organization in biological systems. I’ll also set the stage for a discussion of evolution viewed as a dynamic process involving structural and functional transitions in hierarchical organization—or for the physicists out there, something like phase transitions!


This Week’s Finds (Week 317)

22 July, 2011

Anyone seriously interested in global warming needs to learn about the ‘ice ages’, or more technically ‘glacial periods’. After all, these are some of the most prominent natural variations in the Earth’s temperature. And they’re rather mysterious. They could be caused by changes in the Earth’s orbit called Milankovich cycles… but the evidence is not completely compelling. I want to talk about that.

But to understand ice ages, the first thing we need to know is that the Earth hasn’t always had them! The Earth’s climate has been cooling and becoming more erratic for the last 35 million years, with full-blown glacial periods kicking in only about 1.8 million years ago.

So, this week let’s start with a little tour of the Earth’s climate history. Somewhat arbitrarily, let’s begin with the extinction of the dinosaurs about 65 million years ago. Here’s a graph of what the temperature has been doing since then:

Of course you should have lots of questions about how this graph was made, and how well we really know these ancient temperatures! But for now I’m just giving a quick overview—click on the graphs for more. In future weeks I should delve into more technical details.

The Paleocene Epoch, 65 – 55 million years ago

The Paleocene began with a bang, as an asteroid 10 kilometers across hit the Gulf of Mexico in an explosion two million times larger than the biggest nuclear weapon ever detonated. A megatsunami thousands of meters high ripped across the Atlantic, and molten quartz hurled high into the atmosphere ignited wildfires over the whole planet. A day to remember, for sure.

The Earth looked like this back then:

The Paleocene started out hot: the ocean was 10° to 15° Celsius warmer than today. Then it got even hotter! Besides a gradual temperature rise, at the very end of this epoch there was a drastic incident called the Paleocene-Eocene Thermal Maximum— that’s the spike labelled "PETM". Ocean surface temperatures worldwide shot up by 5-8°C for a few thousand years—but in the Arctic, it heated up even more, to a balmy 23°C. This caused a severe dieoff of little ocean critters called foraminifera, and a drastic change of the dominant mammal species. What caused it? That’s a good question, but right now I’m just giving you a quick tour.

The Eocene Epoch, 55 – 34 million years ago

During the Eocene, temperatures continued to rise until the so-called ‘Eocene Optimum’, about halfway through. Even at the start, the continents were close to where they are now—but the average annual temperature in arctic Canada and Siberia was a balmy 18 °C. The dominant plants up there were palm trees and cycads. Fossil monitor lizards (sort of like alligators) dating back to this era have been found in Svalbard, an island north of Greenland that’s now covered with ice all year. Antarctica was home to cool temperate forests, including beech trees and ferns. In particular, our Earth had no permanent polar ice caps!

Life back then was very different. The biggest member of the order Carnivora, which now includes dogs, cats, bears, and the like, was merely the size of a housecat. The largest predatory mammals were of another, now extinct order: the creodonts, like this one drawn by Dmitry Bogdanov:


But the biggest predator of all was not a mammal: it was
Diatryma, the 8-foot tall "terror bird", with a fearsome beak!


But it’s not as huge as it looks here, because horses were only half a meter high back then!

For more on this strange world and its end as the Earth cooled, see:

• Donald R. Prothero, The Eocene-Oligocene Transition: Paradise Lost, Critical Moments in Paleobiology and Earth History Series, Columbia University Press, New York, 1994.

The Oligocene Epoch, 34 – 24 million years ago

As the Eocene drew to a close, temperatures began to drop. And at the start of the Oligocene, they plummeted! Glaciers started forming in Antarctica. The growth of ice sheets led to a dropping of the sea level. Tropical jungles gave ground to cooler woodlands.

What caused this? That’s another good question. Some seek the answer in plate tectonics. The Oligocene is when India collided with Asia, throwing up the Himalayas and the vast Tibetan plateau. Some argue this led to a significant change in global weather patterns. But this is also the time when Australia and South America finally separated from Antarctica. Some argue that the formation of an ocean completely surrounding Antarctica led to the cooling weather patterns. After all, that lets cold water go round and round Antarctica without ever being driven up towards the equator.

The Miocene Epoch, 24 – 5.3 million years ago

Near the end of the Oligocene temperatures shot up again and the Antarctic thawed. Then it cooled, then it warmed again… but by the middle of the Miocene, temperatures began to drop more seriously, and glaciers again formed on the Antarctic. It’s been frozen ever since. Why all these temperature fluctuations? That’s another good question.

The Miocene is when grasslands first became common. It’s sort of amazing that something we take so much for granted—grass—can be so new! But grasslands, as opposed to thicker forests and jungles, are characteristic of cooler climates. And as Nigel Calder has suggested, grasslands were crucial to the development of humans! Early hominids lived on the border between forests and grasslands. That has a lot to do with why we stand on our hind legs and have hands rather than paws. Much later, the agricultural revolution relied heavily on grasses like wheat, rice, corn, sorghum, rye, and millet. As we ate more of these plants, we drastically transformed them by breeding, and removed forests to grow more grasses. In return, the grasses drastically transformed us: the ability to stockpile surplus grains ended our hunter-gatherer lifestyle and gave rise to cities, kingdoms, and slave labor.

So, you could say we coevolved with grasses!

Indeed, the sequence of developments leading to humans came shortly after the rise of grasslands. Apes split off from monkeys 21 million years ago, in the Miocene. The genus Homo split off from other apes like gorillas and chimpanzees 5 million years ago, near the beginning of the Pliocene. The fully bipedal Homo erectus dates back to 1.9 million years ago, near the end of the Pliocene. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves…

The Pliocene Epoch, 5.3 – 1.8 million years ago

Starting around the Pliocene, the Earth’s temperature has been getting every more jittery as it cools. Something is making the temperature unstable! And these fluctuations are not just getting more severe—they’re also lasting longer.

These temperature fluctuations are far from being neatly periodic, despite the optimistic labels on the above graph saying “41 kiloyear cycle” and “100 kiloyear cycle”. And beware: the data in the above graph was manipulated so it would synchronize with the Milankovitch cycles! Is that really justified? Do these cycles really cause the changes in the Earth’s climate? More good questions.

Here’s a graph that shows more clearly the noisy nature of the Earth’s climate in the last 7 million years:

You can tell this graph was made by a real paleontologist, because they like to put the present on the left instead of on the right.

And maybe you’re getting curious about this “δ18O benthic carbonate” business? Well, we can’t directly measure the temperatures long ago by sticking a thermometer into an ancient rock! We need to use ‘climate proxies’: things we can measure now, that we believe are correlated to features of the climate long ago. δ18O is the change in the amount of oxygen-18 (a less common, heavier isotope of oxygen) in carbonate deposits dug up from ancient ocean sediments. These deposits were made by foraminifera and other tiny ocean critters. The amount of oxygen-18 in these deposits is used as temperature proxy: the more of it there is, the colder we think it was. Why? That’s another good question.

The Pleistocene Epoch, 1.8 – .01 million years ago

By the beginning of the Pleistocene, the Earth’s jerky temperature variations became full-fledged ‘glacial cycles’. In the last million years there have been about ten glacial cycles, though it’s hard to count them in any precise way—it’s like counting mountains in a mountain range:

Now the present is on the right again—but just to keep you on your toes, here up means cold, or at least more oxygen-18. I copied this graph from:

• Barry Saltzman, Dynamical Paleoclimatology: Generalized
Theory of Global Climate Change
, Academic Press, New York,
2002, fig. 1-4.

We can get some more detail on the last four glacial periods from the change in the amount of deuterium in Vostok and EPICA ice core samples, and also changes in the amount of oxygen-18 in foraminifera (that’s the graph labelled ‘Ice Volume’):

As you can see here, the third-to-last glacial ended about 380,000 years ago. In the warm period that followed, the first signs of Homo neanderthalensis appear about 350,000 years ago, and the first Homo sapiens about 250,000 years ago.

Then, 200,000 years ago, came the second-to-last glacial period: the Wolstonian. This lasted until about 130,000 years ago. Then came a warm period called the Eemian, which lasted until about 110,000 years ago. During the Eemian, Neanderthalers hunted rhinos in Switzerland! It was a bit warmer then that it is now, and sea levels may have been about 4-6 meters higher—worth thinking about, if you’re interested in the effects of global warming.

The last glacial period started around 110,000 years ago. This is called the Winsconsinan or Würm period, depending on location… but let’s just call it the last glacial period.

A lot happened during the last glacial period. Homo sapiens reached the Middle East 100,000 years ago, and arrived in central Asia 50 thousand years ago. The Neanderthalers died out in Asia around that time. They died out in Europe 35 thousand years ago, about when Homo sapiens got there. Anyone notice a pattern?

The oldest cave paintings are 32 thousand years old, and the oldest known calendars and flutes also date back to about this time. It’s striking how many radical innovations go back to about this time.

The glaciers reached their maximum extent around 26 to 18 thousand years ago. There were ice sheets down to the Great Lakes in America, and covering the British Isles, Scandinavia, and northern Germany. Much of Europe was tundra. And so much water was locked up in ice that the sea level was 120 meters lower than it is today!

Then things started to warm up. About 18 thousand years ago, Homo sapiens arrived in America. In Eurasia, people started cultivating plants and herding of animals around this time.

There was, however, a shocking setback 12,700 years ago: the Younger Dryas episode, a cold period lasting about 1,300 years. We talked about this in “week304”, so I won’t go into it again here.

The Younger Dryas ended about 11,500 years ago. The last glacial period, and with it the Pleistocene, officially ended 10,000 years ago. Or more precisely: 10,000 BP. Whenever I’ve been saying ‘years ago’, I really mean ‘Before Present’, where the ‘present’, you’ll be amused to learn, is officially set in 1950. Of course the precise definition of ‘the present’ doesn’t matter much for very ancient events, but it would be annoying if a thousand years from now we had to revise all the textbooks to say the Pleistocene ended 11,000 years ago. It’ll still be 10,000 BP.

(But if 1950 was the present, now it’s the future! This could explain why such weird science-fiction-type stuff is happening.)

The Holocene Epoch, .01 – 0 million years ago

As far as geology goes, the Holocene is a rather silly epoch, not like the rest. It’s just a name for the time since the last ice age ended. In the long run it’ll probably be called the Early Anthropocene, since it marks the start of truly massive impacts of Homo sapiens on the biosphere. We may have started killing off species in the late Pleistocene, but now we’re killing more—and changing the climate, perhaps even postponing the next glacial period.

Here’s what the temperature has been doing since 12000 BC:

Finally, here’s a closeup of a tiny sliver of time: the last 2000 years:

In both these graphs, different colored lines correspond to different studies; click for details. The biggish error bars give people lots to argue about, as you may have noticed. But right now I’m more interested in the big picture, and questions like these:

• Why was it so hot in the early Eocene?

• Why has it generally been cooling down ever since the Eocene?

• Why have temperature fluctuations been growing since the Miocene?

• What causes the glacial cycles?

For More

Next time we’ll get into a bit more detail. For now, here are some fun easy things to read.

This is a very enjoyable overview of climate change during the Holocene, and its effect on human civilization:

• Brian Fagan, The Long Summer, Basic Books, New York, 2005. Summary available at Azimuth Library.

These dig a bit further back:

• Chris Turney, Ice, Mud and Blood: Lessons from Climates Past, Macmillan, New York, 2008.

• Steven Mithen, After the Ice: A Global Human History 20,000-5000 BC, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 2005.

I couldn’t stomach the style of the second one: it’s written as a narrative, with a character named Lubbock travelling through time. But a lot of people like it, and they say it’s well-researched.

For a history of how people discovered and learned about ice ages, try:

• Doug Macdougall, Frozen Earth: The Once and Future Story of Ice Ages, University of California Press, Berkeley, 2004.

For something a bit more technical, but still introductory, try:

• Richard W. Battarbee and Heather A. Binney, Natural Climate Variability and Global Warming: a Holocene Perspective, Wiley-Blackwell, Chichester, 2008.

To learn how this graph was made:

and read a good overview of the Earth’s climate throughout the Cenozoic, read this:

• James Zachos, Mark Pagani, Lisa Sloan, Ellen Thomas and Katharina Billups, Trends, rhythms, and aberrations in global climate 65 Ma to present, Science 292 (27 April 2001), 686-693.

I got the beautiful maps illustrating continental drift from here:

• Christopher R. Scotes, Paleomap Project.

and I urge you to check out this website for a nice visual tour of the Earth’s history.

Finally, I thank Frederik de Roo and Nathan Urban for suggesting improvements to this issue. You can see what they said on the Azimuth Forum. If you join the forum, you too can help write This Week’s Finds! I could really use help from earth scientists, biologists, paleontologists and folks like that: I’m okay at math and physics, but I’m trying to broaden the scope now.


We are at the very beginning of time for the human race. It is not unreasonable that we grapple with problems. But there are tens of thousands of years in the future. Our responsibility is to do what we can, learn what we can, improve the solutions, and pass them on. – Richard Feynman


This Week’s Finds (Week 316)

17 July, 2011

Here on this This Week’s Finds I’ve been talking about the future and what it might hold. But any vision of the future that ignores biotechnology is radically incomplete. Just look at this week’s news! They’ve ‘hacked the genome’:

• Ed Yong, Hacking the genome with a MAGE and a CAGE, Discover, 14 July 2011.

Or maybe they’ve ‘hijacked the genetic code’:

• Nicholas Wade, Genetic code of E. coli is hijacked by biologists, New York Times, 14 July 2011.

What exactly have they done? These articles explain it quite well… but it’s so cool I can’t resist talking about it.

Basically, some scientists from Harvard and MIT have figured out how to go through the whole genome of a bacterium and change every occurrence of one codon to some other codon. It’s a bit like the ‘global search and replace’ feature of a word processor. You know: that trick where you can take a document and replace one word with another every place it appears.

To understand this better, it helps to know a tiny bit about the genetic code. You may know this stuff, but let’s quickly review.

DNA is a double-stranded helix bridged by pairs of bases, which come in 4 kinds:

adenine (A)
thymine (T)
cytosine (C)
guanine (G)

Because of how they’re shaped, A can only connect to T:

while C can only connect to G:

So, all the information in the DNA is contained in the list of bases down either side of the helix. You can think of it as a long string of ‘letters’, like this:

ATCATTCAGCTTATGC…

This long string consists of many sections, which are the instructions to make different proteins. In the first step of the protein manufacture process, a section of this string copied to a molecule called ‘messenger RNA’. In this stage, the T gets copied to uracil, or U. The other three base pairs stay the same.

Here’s some messenger RNA:


You’ll note that the bases come in groups of three. Each group is called a ‘codon’, because it serves as the code for a specific amino acid. A protein is built as a string of amino acids, which then curls up into a complicated shape.

Here’s how the genetic code works:

The three-letter names like Phe and Leu are abbreviations for amino acids: phenylalanine, leucine and so on.

While there are 43 = 64 codons, they code for only 20 amino acids. So, typically more than one codon codes for the same amino acid. If you look at the chart, you’ll see one exception is methionine, which is encoded only by AUG. AUG is also the ‘start codon’, which tells the cell where a protein starts. So, methionine shows up at the start of every protein, at least at first. It’s usually removed later in the protein manufacture process.

There are also three ‘stop codons’, which mark the end of a protein. They have cute names:

amber: UAG
ochre: UAA
opal: UGA

UAG was named after Harris Bernstein, whose last name means ‘amber’ in German. The other two names were just a way of continuing the joke.

And now we’re ready to understand how a team of scientists led by Farren J. Isaacs and George M. Church are ‘hacking the genome’. They’re going through the DNA of the common E. coli bacterium and replacing every instance of amber with opal!

This is a lot more work than the word processor analogy suggests. They need to break the DNA into lots of fragments, change amber to opal in these fragments, and put them back together again. Read Ed Young’s article for more.

So, they’re not actually done yet.

But when they’re done, they’ll have an E. coli bacterium with no amber codons, just opal. But it’ll act just the same as ever, since amber and opal are both stop codons.

That’s a lot of work for no visible effect. What’s the point?

The point is that they’ll have freed up the codon amber for other purposes! This will let them do various further tricks.

First, with some work, they could make amber code for a new, unnatural amino acid that’s not one of the usual 20. This sounds like a lot of work, since it requires tinkering with the cell’s mechanisms for translating codons into amino acids: specifically, its set of transfer RNA and synthetase molecules. But this has already been done! Back in 1990, Jennifer Normanly found a viable mutant strain of E. coli that ‘reads through’ the amber codon, not stopping the protein there as it should. People have taken advantage of this to create E. coli where amber codes for a new amino acid:

• Nina Mejlhede, Peter E. Nielsen, and Michael Ibba, Adding new meanings to the genetic code, Nature Biotechnology 19 (2001), 532-533.

But I guess getting an E. coli that’s completely free of amber codons would let us put amber codons only where we want them, getting better control of the situation.

Second, tweaking the genetic code this way could yield a strain of E. coli that’s unable to ‘breed’ with the normal kind. This could increase the safety of genetic engineering. Of course bacteria are asexual, so they don’t precisely ‘breed’. But they do something similar: they exchange genes with each other! Three of the most popular ways are:

conjugation: two bacteria come into contact and pass DNA from one to the other.

tranformation: a bacterium produces a loop of DNA called a plasmid, which floats around and then enters another bacterium.

transduction: a virus carries DNA from one bacterium to another.

Thanks to these tricks, drug resistance and other traits can hop from one species of bug to another. So, for the sake of safe experiments, it would be nice to have a strain of bacteria whose genetic code was so different from others that it couldn’t share DNA.

And third, a bacterium with a modified genetic code could be resistant to viruses! I hadn’t known it, but the biotech firm Genzyme was shut down for three months and lost millions of dollars when its bacteria were hit by a virus.

This third application reminds me of a really spooky story by Greg Egan, called “The Moat”. In it, a detective discovers evidence that some people have managed to alter their genetic code. The big worry is that they could then set loose a virus that would kill everyone in the world except them.

That’s a scary idea, and one that just became a bit more practical… though so far only for E. coli, not H. sapiens.

So, I’ve got some questions for the biologists out there.

A virus that attacks bacteria is called a bacteriophage—or affectionately, a ‘phage’. Here’s a picture of one:

Isn’t it cute?

Whoops—that wasn’t one of the questions. Here are my questions for biologists:

• To what extent are E. coli populations kept under control by phages, or perhaps somehow by other viruses?

• If we released a strain of virus-resistant E. coli into the wild, could it take over, thanks to this advantage?

• What could the effects be? For example, if the E. coli in my gut became virus-resistant, would their populations grow enough to make me notice?

and more generally:

• What are some of the coolest possible applications of this new MAGE/CAGE technology?

Also, on a more technical note:

• What did people actually do with that strain of E. coli that ‘reads through’ amber?

• How could such a strain be viable, anyway? Does it mostly avoid using the amber codon, or does it somehow survive having a lot of big proteins where a normal E. coli would have smaller ones?

Finally, I can’t resist mentioning something amazing I just read. I said that our body uses 20 amino acids, and that ‘opal’ serves a stop codon. But neither of these are the whole truth! Sometimes opal codes for a 21st amino acid, called selenocysteine. And this one is different from the rest. Most amino acids contain carbon, hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen, and cysteine contains sulfur, but selenocysteine contains… you guessed it… selenium!

Selenium is right below sulfur on the periodic table, so it’s sort of similar. If you eat too much selenium, your breath starts smelling like garlic and your hair falls out. Horses have died from the stuff. But it’s also an essential trace element: you have about 15 milligrams in your body. We use it in various proteins, which are called… you guessed it… selenoproteins!

So, a few more questions:

• Do humans use selenoproteins containing selenocysteine?

• How does our body tell when opal is getting used to code for selenocysteine, and when it’s getting used as a stop codon?

• Are there any cool theories about how life evolved to use selenium, and how the opal codon got hijacked for this secondary purpose?

Finally, here’s the new paper that all the fuss is about. It’s not free, but you can read the abstract for free:

• Farren J. Isaacs, Peter A. Carr, Harris H. Wang, Marc J. Lajoie, Bram Sterling, Laurens Kraal, Andrew C. Tolonen, Tara A. Gianoulis, Daniel B. Goodman, Nikos B. Reppas, Christopher J. Emig, Duhee Bang, Samuel J. Hwang, Michael C. Jewett, Joseph M. Jacobson, and George M. Church, Precise manipulation of chromosomes in vivo enables genome-wide codon replacement, Science 333 (15 July 2011), 348-353.


Pessimists should be reminded that part of their pessimism is an inability to imagine the creative ideas of the futureBrian Eno


Operads and the Tree of Life

6 July, 2011

This week Lisa and I are visiting her 90-year-old mother in Montréal. Friday I’m giving a talk at the Université du Québec à Montréal. The main person I know there is André Joyal, an expert on category theory and algebraic topology. So, I decided to give a talk explaining how some ideas from these supposedly ‘pure’ branches of math show up in biology.

My talk is called ‘Operads and the Tree of Life’.

Trees

In biology, trees are very important:

So are trees of a more abstract sort: phylogenetic trees describe the history of evolution. The biggest phylogenetic tree is the ‘Tree of Life’. It includes all the organisms on our planet, alive now or anytime in the past. Here’s a rough sketch of this enormous tree:

Its structure is far from fully understood. So, biologists typically study smaller phylogenetic trees, like this tree of dog-like species made by Elaine Ostrander:

Abstracting still further, we can also think of a tree as a kind of purely mathematical structure, like this:

Trees are important in combinatorics, but also in algebraic topology. The reason is that in algebraic topology we get pushed into studying spaces equipped with enormous numbers of operations. We’d get hopelessly lost without a good way of drawing these operations. We can draw an operation f with n inputs and one output as a little tree like this:

We can also draw the various ways of composing these operations. Composing them is just like building a big tree out of little trees!

An operation with n inputs and one output is called an n-ary operation. In the late 1960s, various mathematicians including Boardmann and Vogt realized that spaces with tons of n-ary operations were crucial to algebraic topology. To handle all these operations, Peter May invented the concept of an operad. This formalizes the way operations can be drawn as trees. By now operads are a standard tool, not just in topology, but also in algebraic geometry, string theory and many other subjects.

But how do operads show up in biology?

When attending a talk by Susan Holmes on phylogenetic trees, I noticed that her work on phylogenetic trees was closely related to a certain operad. And when I discussed her work here, James Griffin pointed out that this operad can be built using a slight variant of a famous construction due to Boardman and Vogt: their so-called ‘W construction’!

I liked the idea that trees and operads in topology might be related to phylogenetic trees. And thinking further, I found that the relation was real, and far from a coincidence. In fact, phylogenetic trees can be seen as operations in a certain operad… and this operad is closely related to the way computational biologists model DNA evolution as a branching sort of random walk.

That’s what I’d like to explain now.

I’ll be a bit sketchy, because I’d rather get across the basic ideas than the technicalities. I could even be wrong about some fine points, and I’d be glad to talk about those in the comments. But the overall picture is solid.

Phylogenetic trees

First, let’s ponder the mathematical structure of a phylogenetic tree. First, it’s a tree: a connected graph with no circuits. Second, it’s a rooted tree, meaning it has one vertex which is designated the root. And third, the leaves are labelled.

I should explain the third part! For any rooted tree, the vertices with just one edge coming out of them are called leaves. If the root is drawn at the bottom of the tree, the leaves are usually drawn at the top. In biology, the leaves are labelled by names of species: these labels matter. In mathematics, we can label the leaves by numbers 1, 2, \dots, n, where n is the number of leaves.

Summarizing all this, we can say a phylogenetic tree should at least be a leaf-labelled rooted tree.

That’s not all there is to it. But first, a comment. When you see a phylogenetic tree drawn by a biologist, it’ll pretty much always a binary tree, meaning that as we move up any edge, away from the root, it either branches into two new edges or ends in a leaf. The reason is that while species often split into two as they evolve, it is less likely for a species to split into three or more new species all at once.

So, the phylogenetic trees we see in biology are usually leaf-labeled rooted binary trees. However, we often want to guess such a tree from some data. In this game, trees that aren’t binary become important too!

Why? Well, here another fact comes into play. In a phylogenetic tree, typically each edge can be labeled with a number saying how much evolution occurred along that edge. But as this number goes to zero, we get a tree that’s not binary anymore. So, we think of non-binary trees as conceptually useful ‘borderline cases’ between binary trees.

So, it’s good to think about phylogenetic trees that aren’t necessarily binary… and have edges labelled by numbers. Let’s make this into a formal definition:

Definition A phylogenetic tree is a leaf-labeled rooted tree where each edge not touching a leaf is labeled by a positive real number called its length.

By the way, I’m not claiming that biologists actually use this definition. I’ll write \mathrm{Phyl}_n for the set of phylogenetic trees with n leaves. This becomes a topological space in a fairly obvious way, where we can trace out a continuous path by continuously varying the edge lengths of a tree. But when some edge lengths approach zero, our graph converges to one where the vertices at ends of these edges ‘fuse into one’, leaving us with a graph with fewer vertices.

Here’s an example for you to check your understanding of what I just said. With the topology I’m talking about, there’s a continuous path in \mathrm{Phyl}_4 that looks like this:

These trees are upside-down, but don’t worry about that. You can imagine this path as a process where biologists slowly change their minds about a phylogenetic tree as new data dribbles in. As they change their minds, the tree changes shape in a continuous way.

For more on the space of phylogenetic trees, see:

• Louis Billera, Susan Holmes and Karen Vogtmann, Geometry of the space of phylogenetic trees, Advances in Applied Mathematics 27 (2001), 733-767.

Operads

How are phylogenetic trees related to operads? I have three things to say about this. First, they are the operations of an operad:

Theorem 1. There is an operad called the phylogenetic operad, or \mathrm{Phyl}, whose space of n-ary operations is \mathrm{Phyl}_n.

If you don’t know what an operad is, I’d better tell you now. They come in different flavors, and technically I’ll be using ‘symmetric topological operads’. But instead of giving the full definition, which you can find on the nLab, I think it’s better if I sketch some of the key points.

For starters, an operad O consists of a topological space O_n for each n = 0,1,2,3 \dots. The point in O_n are called the n-ary operations of O. You can visualize an n-ary operation f \in O_n as a black box with n input wires and one output wire:

Of course, this also looks like a tree.

We can permute the inputs of an n-ary operation and get a new n-ary operation, so we have an action of the permutation group S_n on O_n. You visualize this as permuting input wires:

More importantly, we can compose operations! If we have an n-ary operation f, and n more operations, say g_1, \dots, g_n, we can compose f with all the rest and get an operation called

f \circ (g_1, \dots, g_n)

Here’s how you should imagine it:

Composition and permutation must obey some laws, all of which are completely plausible if you draw them as pictures. For example, the associative law makes a composite of composites like this well-defined:

Now, these pictures look a lot like trees. So it shouldn’t come as a shock that phylogenetic trees are the operations of some operad \mathrm{Phyl}. But let’s sketch why it’s true.

First, we can permute the ‘inputs’—meaning the labels on the leaves—of any phylogenetic tree and get a new phylogenetic tree. This is obvious.

Second, and more importantly, we can ‘compose’ phylogenetic trees. How do we do this? Simple: we glue the roots of a bunch of phylogenetic trees to the leaves of another and get a new one!

More precisely, suppose we have a phylogenetic tree with n leaves, say f. And suppose we have n more, say g_1, \dots, g_n. Then we can glue the roots of g_1, \dots, g_n to the leaves of g to get a new phylogenetic tree called

f \circ (g_1, \dots, g_n)

Third and finally, all the operad laws hold. Since these laws all look obvious when you draw them using pictures, this is really easy to show.

If you’ve been paying careful attention, you should be worrying about something now. In operad theory, we think of an operation f \in O_n as having n inputs and one output. For example, this guy has 3 inputs and one output:

But in biology, we think of a phylogenetic tree as having one input and n outputs. We start with one species (or other grouping of organisms) at the bottom of the tree, let it evolve and branch, and wind up with n of them!

In other words, operad theorists read a tree from top to bottom, while biologists read it from bottom to top.

Luckily, this isn’t a serious problem. Mathematicians often use a formal trick where they take an operation with n inputs and one output and think of it as having one input and n outputs. They use the prefix ‘co-‘ to indicate this formal trick.

So, we could say that phylogenetic trees stand for ‘co-operations’ rather than operations. Soon this trick will come in handy. But not just yet!

The W construction

Boardman and Vogt had an important construction for getting new operads for old, called the ‘W construction’. Roughly speaking, if you start with an operad O, this gives a new operad \mathrm{W}(O) whose operations are leaf-labelled rooted trees where:

1) all vertices except leaves are labelled by operations of O, and a vertex with n input edges must be labelled by an n-ary operation of O,

and

2) all edges except those touching the leaves are labelled by numbers in (0,1].

If you think about it, the operations of \mathrm{W}(O) are strikingly similar to phylogenetic trees, except that:

1) in phylogenetic trees the vertices don’t seem to be labelled by operations of a operad,

and

2) we use arbitrary nonnegative numbers to label edges, instead of numbers in (0,1].

The second point is a real difference, but it doesn’t matter much: if Boardman and Vogt had used nonnegative numbers instead of numbers in (0,1] to label edges in the W construction, it would have worked just as well. Technically, they’d get a ‘weakly equivalent’ operad.

The first point is not a real difference. You see, there’s an operad called \mathrm{Comm} which has exactly one operation of each arity. So, labelling vertices by operations of \mathrm{Comm} is a completely trivial process.

As a result, we conclude:

Theorem 2. The phylogenetic operad is weakly equivalent to \mathrm{W}(\mathrm{Comm}).

If you’re not an expert on operads (such a person is called an ‘operadchik’), you may be wondering what \mathrm{Comm} stands for. The point is that operads have ‘algebras’, where the abstract operations of the operad are realized as actual operations on some topological space. And the algebras of \mathrm{Comm} are precisely commutative topological monoids: that is, topological spaces equipped with a commutative associative product!

Branching Markov processes and evolution

By now, if you haven’t fallen asleep, you should be brimming with questions, such as:

1) What does it mean that phylogenetic trees are the operations of some operad \mathrm{Phyl}? Why should we care?

2) What does it mean to apply the W construction to the operad \mathrm{Comm}? What’s the significance of doing this?

3) What does it mean that \mathrm{Phyl} is weakly equivalent to \mathrm{W}(\mathrm{Comm})? You can see the definition of weak equivalence here, but it’s pretty technical, so it needs some explanation.

The answers to questions 2) and 3) take us quickly into fairly deep waters of category theory and algebraic topology—deep, that is, if you’ve never tried to navigate them. However, these waters are well-trawled by numerous experts, and I have little to say about questions 2) and 3) that they don’t already know. So given how long this talk already is, I’ll instead try to answer question 1). This is where some ideas from biology come into play.

I’ll summarize my answer in a theorem, and then explain what the theorem means:

Theorem 3. Given any continuous-time Markov process on a finite set X, the vector space V whose basis is X naturally becomes a coalgebra of the phylogenetic operad.

Impressive, eh? But this theorem is really just saying that biologists are already secretly using the phylogenetic operad.

Biologists who try to infer phylogenetic trees from present-day genetic data often use simple models where the genotype of each species follows a ‘random walk’. Also, species branch in two at various times. These models are called Markov models.

The simplest Markov model for DNA evolution is the Jukes–Cantor model. Consider a genome of fixed length: that is, one or more pieces of DNA having a total of N base pairs. For example, this tiny genome has N = 4 base pairs, just enough to illustrate the 4 possible choices, which are called A, T, C and G:

Since there are 4 possible choices for each base pair, there are 4^N possible genotypes with N base pairs. In the human genome, N is about 3 \times 10^9. So, there are about

4^{3 \times 10^9} \approx 10^{1,800,000,000}

genotypes of this length. That’s a lot!

As time passes, the Jukes–Cantor model says that the human genome randomly walks through this enormous set of possibilities, with each base pair having the same rate of randomly flipping to any other base pair.

Biologists have studied many ways to make this model more realistic in many ways, but in a Markov model of DNA evolution we’ll typically have some finite set X of possible genotypes, together with some random walk on this set. But the term ‘random walk’ is a bit imprecise: what I really mean is a ‘continuous-time Markov process’. So let me define that.

Fix a finite set X. For each time t \in [0,\infty) and pair of points i, j in X, a continuous-time Markov process gives a number T_{ij}(t) \in [0,1] saying the probability that starting at the point i at time zero, the random walk will go to the point j at time t. We can think of these numbers as forming an X \times X square matrix T(t) at each time t. We demand that four properties hold:

1) T(t) depends continuously on t.

2) For all s, t we have T(s) T(t) = T(s + t).

3) T(0) is the identity matrix.

4) For all j and t we have:

\sum_{i \in X} T_{i j}(t) = 1.

All these properties make a lot of sense if you think a bit, though condition 2) says that the random walk does not change character with the passage of time, which would be false given external events like, say, ice ages. As far as math jargon goes, conditions 1)-3) say that T is a continuous one-parameter semigroup, while condition 4) together with the fact that T_{ij}(t) \in [0,1] says that at each time, T(t) is a stochastic matrix.

Let V be the vector space whose basis is X. To avoid getting confused, let’s write e_i for the basis vector corresponding to i \in X. Any probability distribution on X gives a vector in V. Why? Because it gives a probability \psi_i for each i \in X, and we can think of these as the components of a vector \psi \in V.

Similarly, for any time t \in [0,\infty), we can think of the matrix T(t) as a linear operator

T(t) : V \to V

So, if we start with some probability distribution \psi of genotypes, and let them evolve for a time t according to our continuous-time Markov process, by the end the probability distribution will be T(t) \psi.

But species do more than evolve this way: they also branch! A phylogenetic tree describes a way for species to evolve and branch.

So, you might hope that any phylogenetic tree f \in \mathrm{Phyl}_n gives a ‘co-operation’ that takes one probability distribution \psi \in V as input and returns n probability distributions as output.

That’s true. But these n probability distributions will be correlated, so it’s better to think of them as a single probability distribution on the set X^n. This can be seen as a vector in the vector space V^{\otimes n}, the tensor product of n copies of V.

So, any phylogenetic tree f \in \mathrm{Phyl}_n gives a linear operator from V to V^{\otimes n}. We’ll call it

T(f) : V \to V^{\otimes n}

because we’ll build it starting from the Markov process T.

Here’s a sketch of how we build it—I’ll give a more precise account in the next and final section. A phylogenetic tree is made of a bunch of vertices and edges. So, I just need to give you an operator for each vertex and each edge, and you can compose them and tensor them to get the operator T(f):

1) For each vertex with one edge coming in and n coming out:

we need an operator

V \to V^{\otimes n}

that describes what happens when one species branches into n species. This operator takes the probability distribution we put in and makes n identical and perfectly correlated copies. To define this operator, we use the fact that the vector space V has a basis e_i labelled by the genotypes i \in X. Here’s how the operator is defined:

e_i \mapsto e_i \otimes \cdots \otimes e_i \in V^{\otimes n}

2) For each edge of length t, we need an operator that describes a random walk of length t. This operator is provided by our continuous-time Markov process: it’s

T(f) : V \to V

And that’s it! By combining these two kinds of operators, one for ‘branching’ and one for ‘random walking’, we get a systematic way to take any phylogenetic tree f \in \mathrm{Phyl}_n and get an operator

T(f) : V \to V^{\otimes n}

In fact, these operators T(f) obey just the right axioms to make V into what’s called a ‘coalgebra’ of the phylogenetic operad. But to see this—that is, to prove Theorem 3—it helps to use a bit more operad technology.

The proof

I haven’t even defined coalgebras of operads yet. And I don’t think I’ll bother. Why not? Well, while the proof of Theorem 3 is fundamentally trivial, it’s sufficiently sophisticated that only operadchiks would enjoy it without a lengthy warmup. And you’re probably getting tired by now.

So, to most of you reading this: bye! It was nice seeing you! And I hope you sensed the real point of this talk:

Some of the beautiful structures used in algebraic topology are also lurking in biology. These structures may or may not be useful in biology… but we’ll never know if we don’t notice them and say what they are! So, it makes sense for mathematicians to spend some time looking for them.

Now, let me sketch a proof of Theorem 3. It follows from a more general theorem:

Theorem 4. Suppose V is an object in some symmetric monoidal topological category C. Suppose that V is equipped with an action of the additive monoid [0,\infty). Suppose also that V is a cocommutative coalgebra. Then V naturally becomes a coalgebra of the phylogenetic operad.

How does this imply Theorem 3? In Theorem 3, C is the category of finite-dimensional real vector space. The action of [0,\infty) on V is the continuous-time Markov process. And V becomes a cocommutative coalgebra because it’s a vector space with a distinguished basis, namely the finite set X. This makes V into a cocommutative coalgebra in the usual way, where the comultiplication:

\Delta: V \to V \otimes V

‘duplicates’ basis vectors:

\Delta : e_i \mapsto e_i \otimes e_i

while the counit:

\epsilon : V \to \mathbb{R}

‘deletes’ them:

\epsilon : e_i \to 1

These correspond to species splitting in two and species going extinct, respectively. (Biologists trying to infer phylogenetic trees often ignore extinction, but it’s mathematically and biologically natural to include it.) So, all the requirements are met to apply Theorem 4 and make V into coalgebra of the phylogenetic operad.

But how do we prove Theorem 4? It follows immediately from Theorem 5:

Theorem 5. The phylogenetic operad \mathrm{Phyl} is the coproduct of the operad \mathrm{Comm} and the additive monoid [0,\infty), viewed as an operad with only 1-ary operations.

Given how coproducts works, this means that an algebra of both \mathrm{Comm} and [0,\infty) is automatically an algebra of \mathrm{Phyl}. In other words, any commutative algebra with an action of [0,\infty) is an algebra of \mathrm{Phyl}. Dualizing, it follows that any cocommutative coalgebra with an action of [0,\infty) is an coalgebra of \mathrm{Phyl}. And that’s Theorem 4!

But why is Theorem 5 true? First of all, I should emphasize that the idea of using it was suggested by Tom Leinster in our last blog conversation on the phylogenetic operad. And in fact, Tom proved a result very similar to Theorem 5 here:

• Tom Leinster, Coproducts of operads, and the W-construction, 14 September 2000.

He gives an explicit description of the coproduct of an operad O and a monoid, viewed as an operad with only unary operations. He works with non-symmetric, non-topological operads, but his ideas also work for symmetric, topological ones. Applying his ideas to the coproduct of \mathrm{Comm} and [0,\infty), we see that we get the phylogenetic operad!

And so, phylogenetic trees turn out to be related to coproducts of operads. Who’d have thought it? But we really don’t have as many fundamentally different ideas as you might think: it’s hard to have new ideas. So if you see biologists and algebraic topologists both drawing pictures of trees, you should expect that they’re related.


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 3,095 other followers