EARLY ONE MORNING in August 2012, I groggily stumbled to my laptop, coffee mug in hand, and opened my Gmail account to scour the overnight deliveries. The first thing I saw was a newsletter from an online community said to have “the world’s smartest website.” The site serves as an online storehouse for ideas and conversations of the type shared over dinner parties attended by philosophers, scientists, artists, and public intellectuals, letting those of us who aren’t part of their circle get in on their thoughts.
That morning, the subject line read, “To Bring Back the Extinct. A conversation with Ryan Phelan.” I stared at those words, cozily sandwiched between an email from my mom and a cheap-flight alert. When I clicked on the link, the piercing blue eyes of a blond, rosy-cheeked, professional-looking woman stared back at me. The words under her image said, “One of the fundamental questions here is, is extinction a good thing? Is it ‘nature’s way’? And if it’s nature’s way, who in the world says anyone should go about changing nature’s way? If something was meant to go extinct, then who are we to screw around with it and bring it back?”
I slowly brought up more of the page and halted at a specific line of text: “The big question that I’m asking right now is: If we could bring back an extinct species, should we? Could we? How does it benefit society? How does it advance the science?” Good luck with that, I thought. But I scanned the interview anyway to try to understand what she was talking about. A few scrolls down, I realized that the idea that she was assembling, and that has gripped me since—the plight to bring extinct species back to life—was not just an important thought experiment but also an experiment with real, breathing bodies behind it and a vital story to tell. This book is an attempt to capture some of the major plot points of that story so far, with an emphasis on the many issues raised by this audacious experiment. But it’s worth mentioning that this book does not account for all the de-extinction endeavors that have ever taken place. Rather, I focus on the cases that interest me most, which Phelan’s words first provoked me to look into.
That interview, as though connected by an IV drip straight into my brain, made my mind churn as the notion of resurrecting extinct species sank in. I leafed through reincarnation tales I’d heard before to try to make some sense of the idea—embalming and burial rituals designed to ward off the body’s dilapidation once oxygen ceases to flow, the transhumanist dream to defy death itself and make mortality reversible, the Alcor Life Extension Foundation’s offer to swap the blood from your cadaver with antifreeze fluids before cradling your body in a cryogenic vessel (for a nice price, the company will maintain you in a state of suspended animation with the hope of bringing you back to life at a more technologically advanced time). But none of that was what this was about. Humans have wanted to be brought back to life after death for a very long time, yet no one has figured out how to make it happen. So how could Ryan Phelan possibly be proposing it for an extinct species now?
Phelan is a biotech entrepreneur with an eye on the future. She has created several companies, including DNA Direct, the first company to sell genetic tests to consumers. During her time there, she saw the overhead costs drop dramatically for doing lab work with DNA, particularly DNA sequencing—the process in which the order of bases in a DNA molecule is deciphered, allowing for more precise medical diagnostics, forensic ancestry analyses, and so much more. That falling price point got Phelan thinking about what other areas of science might benefit from the decreasing costs of DNA sequencing. And since then, her thinking has helped launch the revival of a longstanding dream in biotechnological circles to resurrect extinct species—a seasoned trope from science fiction.
But in the interview on the website, Phelan didn’t refer to “resurrection.” Perhaps she was aware of how much trouble that spiritually loaded term could cause in a scientific setting. “We’re using the term ‘resurgence,’” she said, “because as you can imagine, there’s a lot of controversy over if you could bring back an extinct species.” She added examples: “Is it invasive? Would it become an invasive species? And is this a bad thing?”
In the years since Phelan spoke those words, a handful of projects aimed at reviving extinct species have gotten off the ground. What were once mild murmurings of species resurgences have become bold headlines about an advancing movement that goes by several names: resurrection ecology, species revivalism, and zombie zoology are just a few. Related to the idea of zombie zoology is the notion that all of this science might serve only to create charismatic necrofauna—a term used by futurist Alex Steffen to describe the cuddly or majestic creatures people might want to see brought back from the dead while preferring that less charismatic specimens stay in their graves. Of all the available labels, de-extinction is the one people use most. It is also the one that I rely on in this book. But it is not always clear what de-extinction is, or what good—or bad—it might cause . . . not until you look at how different people approach it.
Since 2012, a nonprofit organization called Revive & Restore, which Phelan cofounded with her husband, Stewart Brand, a pioneering environmentalist and technology visionary, has been helping to lay the foundations for de-extinction. The couple has been working hard to turn what was once just a scattering of mad science projects into an emerging field, guided by a concept they call cautionary vigilance—a method of analysis they are developing that invites public debate and deliberation of evidence on controversial aspects of innovations. “As opposed to the precautionary principle, which says do nothing because you don’t know what the unknown consequences are, we say, use cautionary vigilance with transparency and responsibility,” Phelan told me. By biting off only one small chunk of technological risk at a time in the hope of creating a better future, this approach allows Phelan and Brand to iteratively test what is going right and wrong so that they can adapt their projects along the way.
Stewart Brand graduated from Stanford University in 1960 with a degree in conservation biology. During the ’60s he published the first edition of the celebrated countercultural Whole Earth Catalog, which addressed what the world had coming if it continued on in its unsustainable ways. Up to four times a year between 1968 and 1972, the publication explored a gamut of technologies that could be used in the service of the environmental movement. Steve Jobs called it one of the bibles of his generation, and said “it was sort of like Google in paperback form, 35 years before Google came along: it was idealistic, and overflowing with neat tools and great notions.” Its voice was optimistic. The first edition included this bold statement: “We are as gods and might as well get good at it.” Today, accusations that genetic engineers and hands-on futurists are guilty of “playing god” because they manipulate nature with technology—as though that’s a horrible thing—are a dime a dozen. But the accusation is not something Brand has ever shied away from. He’s even updated his catalog’s old tagline to say, “We are as gods and have to get good at it.”
It’s a vast understatement to say that after I learned about the work that Phelan and Brand were doing, I became interested in de-extinction. It’s more accurate to say that I became transfixed. What started with an email subscription turned into hundreds of hours of reporting and writing: a story for New York Public Radio, then a feature documentary for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, and, ultimately, a few years of research that turned into this book. Why? I boil it down to my love of science, which blossomed when I was a biology student in university and became enthusiastic about conservation, a field committed to not only extending but also enriching the lives of other animals. For once, I wasn’t doodling in the margins during lectures but fully listening while my favorite professor told us about the experiments he designed to boost populations of dwindling species across southern Ontario. In the final year of my degree, I made a radio documentary for the residents of nearby Opinicon Lake outlining how they could help the local loon population, whose nests were disappearing, do better in the wild. The understanding that “extinction is forever” was writ large for me then. It drove everything that my classmates and I were considering doing with our lives. We were taught to act smartly and swiftly because there will be no second chance.
For better or for worse, I never did become a conservation biologist. Instead, I started a science radio show as a passion project, went to art school, and headed into public broadcasting to make stories for the airwaves. After some years, I enrolled in a PhD program in science communication and moved from my native Canada to Denmark. Although I’m not a traditional journalist, I do documentary work, and it is often about science. I am still a conservation biology enthusiast and try to keep up with news about the field.
That’s how one day, not long after I’d read Phelan’s interview, I came across a quotation from an esteemed conservation biologist named Stanley Temple that stopped me in my tracks. It read: “De-extinction is essentially a game-changer for the conservation biology movement. It changes one of our principal arguments, that extinction is forever.” Temple, a man I’d long regarded as a scientific authority, was all of a sudden saying that something I’d barely heard of was dismantling the least disputed tenet in my old favorite field. And that’s when it really hit me. Undoing “forever”? De-extincting? Changing the direction that leads to the end? Had science finally found a way to make death reversal real? Spoiler alert: no. But there was something more subtle lurking out there, and I needed to find out what it was.
I MET WITH Stewart Brand on March 15, 2013, in a warm, well-lit room at the end of a labyrinthine set of corridors in the National Geographic Society’s headquarters in Washington, DC. A white-haired fellow of somewhat lanky stature, Brand has a relaxed yet mighty presence. That day, Revive & Restore had organized a public TEDx speakers’ event on de-extinction, bringing a megaphone to their mission for the first time. Talks about the science, ethics, law, policy, history, even photography and art, all wrapped up in de-extinction, were broadcast to screens around the world, and I was there to report on it.
Peering at me through wire-rimmed glasses, Brand told me how the idea for Revive & Restore first got off the ground. “My wife was acquainted with this guy George Church at Harvard,” he says, explaining their connection through her career in biotech. George Church is a professor at Harvard Medical School and MIT, the head of the Personal Genome Project in the U.S.—which Phelan was peripherally involved with, and which aims to make human genomic data publicly available—as well as one of the world’s most accomplished scientists in a variety of areas that touch on genetic engineering. I’m not just talking about an impressive CV: Church’s team smashed the record for how many genes can be edited at once, when they altered sixty-two pig genes in one go. Church also figured out how to encode an HTML version of a book, one he’d cowritten, in a single drop of DNA, through digital biological conversion. And he’s one of the leaders of the Genome Project–Write, an effort to assemble the entire collection of human DNA and that of other species in their own synthetic genomes. He is tall, vegan, and bearded—with a particular style of white facial hair that makes him look somewhat like a cross between Charles Darwin and God. Brand told me he learned through his wife that Church has techniques that allow him to take DNA from extinct animals “and basically swap it into the genomes of living animals, and turn the living animal into the extinct animal to get them back . . .” This, he thought, “has to be pursued, so I pursued it.” The idea quickly took flight.
FOR THOUSANDS OF years, passenger pigeons lived in and flew across much of North America, from the east to the Midwest. They moved in massive flocks, billions of them at a time. It would sometimes take several hours for one flock to pass over any single spot. In a 1947 essay, Aldo Leopold writes of this species, “The pigeon was a biological storm. . . Yearly the feathered tempest roared up, down, and across the continent, sucking up the laden fruits of forest and prairie, burning them in a traveling blast of life.” But by the end of the nineteenth century, the pigeons’ numbers had dramatically dwindled. In less than fifty years, the bird that once turned the blue above black was gone. Then, on September 1, 1914, the very last passenger pigeon—Martha, a roughly twenty-nine-year-old female with a trembling palsy—died in the Cincinnati Zoo. She never in her life laid a fertile egg, but her story since her death has fertilized excitement for the idea that her gene pool might be recreated.
On May 24, 2011, Brand sent an inspired email to George Church, who he knew was interested in passenger pigeons, and to the great evolutionary biologist E.O. Wilson:
Dear Ed and George,
The death of the last Passenger Pigeon—in 1914—was an event that broke the public’s heart and persuaded everyone that extinction is the core of humanity’s relation with nature.
George, could we bring the bird back through genetic techniques? I recall chatting with Ed in front of a stuffed passenger pigeon at the Comparative Zoology Museum, and I know of other stuffed birds at the Smithsonian and in Toronto, presumably replete with the requisite genes. Surely it would be easier than reviving the woolly mammoth, which you have espoused.
The environmental and conservation movements have mired themselves in a tragic view of life. The return of the Passenger Pigeon could shake them out of it—and invite them to embrace prudent bio-technology as a Green tool—instead of menace in this century. . . I would gladly set up a nonprofit to fund the Passenger Pigeon revival . . .
Wild scheme. Could be fun. Could improve things. It could, as they say, advance the story.
And advance it, it did. Church allegedly got back to Brand in less than three hours, detailing how he believed they could return “a flock of millions to billions” of passenger pigeons to North American skies. Excited about the possibility, Brand and Phelan brought researchers from around the world who were interested in de-extinction under the auspices of their new nonprofit.
Since then, Revive & Restore has convened several meetings—large and small, public and private—at prestigious bastions of science like Harvard University’s Wyss Institute for Biologically Inspired Engineering and the National Geographic Society. They host a private online email discussion for those closest to the research and create educational materials for the public so that we can learn about what they’re up to. They spend a lot of their time nourishing connections between experts who work on de-extinction and looking for research funds and donations to get projects they’re interested in off the ground.
They insist that their goal with de-extinction is partially a democratic one: to engage us all in thinking about what the re-creation of extinct species might mean before any wind up in our national parks or zoos. They want those steering scientific projects to be able to adjust direction according to societal concerns and expert criticism. That kind of public engagement kicked off with the TEDxDeExtinction event and coincided with a cover article in the April 2013 issue of National Geographic. From that point on, the idea gained publicity at a faster and faster clip and was soon profiled by features in the New York Times Magazine, The New Yorker, and a flood of other publications. Much excitement and concern, hope and trepidation, support for and anger about de-extinction have been percolating ever since. And when I ask Brand how he expects to deal with the ensuing controversy, he replies, “We’ve got plenty of time to think about it, argue about it, regulate it.” Time is on their side—luckily for them, because each de-extinction project is crawling with issues that require insightful planning.
I commend the gesture toward public engagement but wonder, is it anything more than that? What would public debate really have to look like in order to truly influence a possibly privately supported science? Does the nod to public dialogue establish real tools for society-led regulation, or does it merely tick a box that says, “The public has weighed in and therefore we can proceed”? More importantly, why should we be having a serious debate about all of this anyway? What is it that Revive & Restore really wants de-extinction to do?
The answer to the last question can be found in their mission: “to enhance biodiversity through the genetic rescue of endangered and extinct species.” Traditionally, genetic rescue involves increasing gene flow into populations of animals that are suffering from low genetic diversity, done by directly inserting it through a variety of methods. Revive & Restore thinks of genetic rescue as an umbrella term that captures the multiple potentials of gene-editing, cloning, and selective-breeding techniques to restore impoverished ecosystems. Some of these techniques have more possibilities than others. And they aren’t relevant only for extinct species, but for those that are still living as well. They call their genetic rescue work on extinct species de-extinction, and the work they’re doing on endangered species genetic assistance, but their separation is much more taxonomical than philosophical. “I don’t separate out our de-extinction work from our endangered species work or the work that we might potentially do one day around wildlife diseases to help endangered species,” Phelan later tells me. That’s because their take on genetic rescue is layered, like a cake: you’ve got to cut into it to see what it’s made of.
The first layer is the determination of what is going on with a species at the level of its genes. By collecting and analyzing a species’ genetic information, researchers may be able to identify what made a species vulnerable to extinction in the first place or what is making an endangered species particularly susceptible to a threat in its current environment.
The second layer is the editing of the species’ genome to make it less defenseless against the dangers unveiled by genetic analysis. For example, virus-resistant genes could be inserted in the genome of a species that is dying from an infection, or genetic susceptibility to a disease could be altered with precision gene editing, which we’ll explore.
The third layer is where de-extinction comes to life. Here, as Revive & Restore’s website says, “the trick will be to transfer the genes that define the extinct species into the genome of the related species, effectively converting it into a living version of the extinct creature.” But to effectively convert a living thing into an extinct creature (in the opinion of Revive & Restore, at least), you don’t need to make a carbon copy of the original. If it looks like a duck and acts like a duck, it’s a good enough duck—or passenger pigeon, or woolly mammoth or heath hen or aurochs or great auk, as the case may be. When a species goes extinct, the role it once played in its ecosystem—as a fertilizer, forest disturber, predator, and so on—vanishes along with it. This absence leaves a niche unfilled, which in turn affects a cascade of other life forms that a species is always connected to, from the tiniest of mites to the tallest of trees. Keystone species are those known to crucially affect the overall function of an ecosystem, and they are generally the sort whose functions de-extinction advocates say we should reconstitute now by inserting into existing animals the critical traits that once allowed these species to live out their particular ecologically beneficial role. The emphasis in these proposals is on recognizing, reassembling, and inserting genes that code for those particular lost traits that may be desirable to have back, and not on recreating the exact original species, as if that were even possible.
It’s been suggested that if the resulting animals are “good enough” replicas of the extinct species—largely judged by whether they can function the way the extinct species did in the wild—they should be reintroduced into habitats where they will restore the ecological roles lost with the species. Then the ecosystems will edge happily toward what they used to be like, and beneficial dynamics between the flora and fauna will return to fruition. Maybe. Or perhaps not. That idea may be built on a faulty premise, critics argue, because we still don’t understand everything there is to know about how those past ecosystems functioned. When de-extinction advocates suggest that introducing a recreated species that can live and act like an extinct keystone species will restore an entire ecosystem to what it used to be like, many other crucial biotic factors risk being overlooked. The ecosystem function of a species is going to be dependent on learned behaviors that come from living with other individuals of its kind, not on morphology alone. This could be a problem when an unextinct species is born with the help of a bunch of human minds and laboratory tools instead of a natural herd that it can learn from. Plus, depending on how long ago the ecosystem changed, there are going to be dozens to hundreds of other species that would need to be reintroduced as well—from bacteria to big animals—in order to ensure that the ecosystem gets restored.
These issues can be picked apart in many ways, but first, a clarification. If taken without scrutiny, the term de-extinction as it is widely used suggests that reversing extinction might actually be achievable. That idea, however, is a sham. In no way can we ever undo the erasure of an entire way of life. Take the woolly mammoth, for example.
To create a woolly mammoth today, one that’s identical to the one that traipsed across the Bering Land Bridge between Siberia and Alaska thousands of years ago, a genetically and behaviorally exact copy of the original woolly mammoth would first need to reappear. Artificially selecting or breeding the woolly mammoth’s closest living relatives—which happen to be Asian elephants—to recreate their look and feel wouldn’t work because elephants are too evolutionarily divergent from woolly mammoths and didn’t directly descend from them. If we’re talking about an exactly identical re-creation, editing mammoth genes into elephants is also out of the question: there’d be a slew of elephant genes in the mix. Cloning can get close, but it’s not possible when tissue was not taken from the animal sometime before it died and immediately frozen. Woolly mammoths (and many other extinct creatures) have been gone far too long for any human to have intentionally preserved tissue with the foresight that they might be resurrected one day. And although some researchers are looking for perfectly preserved mammoth cells in order to clone them, no one has been able to find any yet. The technology scientists use now to clone living animals requires cells of the animal that are full and intact, with the DNA neatly packed away inside each cell’s nucleus.
But “full and intact” does not describe the state dead organic things come in, especially when they’ve been exposed to the elements for hundreds or thousands of years. And crucially, the embryo that cloning produces needs to develop somewhere, but when all the females of a species are gone, the embryo must be embedded inside the womb of a surrogate mother from another species or subspecies, or perhaps someday in an artificial womb. All of these options are likely to introduce the developing fetus to a different set of hormonal and microbial interactions with the carrying mother (or machine) than those newborns of the extinct species experienced when they grew inside a mother of their own exact kind. There’s also the issue of mismatching mitochondrial DNA, which I’ll discuss later. My point is, any way you look at it, identical development is just not in the cards.
It is difficult to conceive of a situation in which an exact genetic and behavioral replica of a vanished species could ever reappear. But I think that what is possible is even more interesting than getting the identical original back. Scientists are learning how to cobble important elements of an extinct species into a new life using a few different methods. Various degrees of resemblance to the extinct creature might be achievable, depending on which method or methods are applied. But whatever the choice for how it’s done, the result is a new organism—perhaps even a new species—that can live and act, with varying success, like an extinct species.
Some believe that the human-caused extinction of a species carries a moral imperative that bolsters the case for de-extinction. Brand has said that we should de-extinct species for the same reason that we protect endangered ones: to undo harm that humans have caused. The idea can be traced to this meditation of Gary Snyder’s on a Zen Buddhist verse: “The precept against taking life, against causing harm, doesn’t stop in the negative. It is urging us to give life, to undo harm.” As Revive & Restore sees it, this rehabilitative tenet has been woven into the ideological fabric of de-extinction. “Humans have made a huge hole in nature over the last ten thousand years. Now we have the ability to repair some of the damage,” Brand said in a 2013 TED talk. “Part of ‘do no harm’ is ‘undo harm’. . . Want to try it?” Phelan later nuances her husband’s words for me: “We are not motivated by guilt, which often goes along with undoing harm, but we are committed to trying to make the world a better place.”
A better place? When I tell people I’m writing this book, they often do not see it that way. “We’ve heard this story before,” they’ll say, “and the ending to Jurassic Park was not pretty.”
Jurassic Park, Michael Crichton’s bestselling novel about dinosaur resurrection gone wrong, inspired a series of blockbuster hit movies that have instilled in the public consciousness ideas about the good and evil of human hubris. The moral of Jurassic Park—that chaos will prevail if humans act with self-conceit—played into a story we like to tell about how science has ramifications that can’t be seen from the outset. But Brand has a swift response for people who are quick to compare Jurassic Park with what he and his colleagues are up to. Mainly, it’s that they’re a nonprofit and, according to him, not interested in hiding anything. “What drove the plot of Jurassic Park,” he tells me, “is all this private corporate secret. Maintaining the secrecy of the project is what let it become pathological.”
Beyond the fictional fantasy, what is it about de-extinction that upsets people? To my mind, the potential for recreated animals to become invasive species once they’re out in the wild, the chances of their hybridizing with extant species in ways that could jeopardize the unique genetic properties of those populations, the possibility of patenting and commodifying life forms, welfare issues for the experimental animals—both the ones being created and the ones already living that are used to make de-extinction work—and the idea that de-extinction might make people feel less concerned about species going extinct if it can bring them back at a better time raise serious concerns. I’ll get into all of those and more. But something else has been nipping at my heels while I’ve been writing this book, something that I still can’t fully reconcile.
Familiarity risks breeding fondness, and as people hear more about de-extinction, they may increasingly warm up to the idea that it might work. In that sense, that I am even writing this book is an ethical consideration. Am I merely adding one more narrative to the pile that will get people accustomed to de-extinction when they might otherwise be more opposed to it? Some of the people I interviewed for this book expressed disappointment in me for this very reason. Phelan rightly says that as their de-extinction outreach continues and the technology evolves, pressure will be relieved from the need to understand everything about this uncertain “new scary science.” She expects that over time, people will respond with a shrug when they once might have shuddered, will adopt an attitude of “Well, let’s see what they can do.” I believe that, in all cases, de-extinction requires careful analysis of the pros and cons attached to each project’s goals, and in some cases, there are aspects of de-extinction I can get behind, and am even excited about. But I make no blanket statements of approval here. Whether the candidate in question is a great auk (a black and white flightless bird with a heavy, hooked beak), a gastric-brooding frog (which gave birth to babies out of its mouth), a thylacine (a carnivorous marsupial with striking tiger-like stripes on its backside), a quagga (a coffee-colored relative of the zebra with a non-striped bum), an Irish elk (one of the largest deer to ever live), a woolly mammoth (the iconic proboscidean beast), a passenger pigeon (the bird that once flocked in the billions), an aurochs (the ancestor to all of today’s domestic cattle), or something else, each species has a variety of qualities and requirements that require careful scrutiny from experts and the public alike. That’s why I have written this book: to help people analyze the idea for themselves. But merely by putting a book about de-extinction out there, am I aiding and abetting a movement that I do not wholeheartedly support? Some people have told me that’s exactly what I’m doing—it’s a game of cat’s cradle that I’m still trying to sort out.
Other books have been written about this topic since Revive & Restore was founded. The first was by Beth Shapiro, a leading scientist in the field of ancient DNA research and the codirector of the Paleogenomics Lab at the University of California, Santa Cruz. Her book is called How to Clone a Mammoth, but ironically, it concentrates on how we can’t. When she was asked why she would call the book something so misleading, she said, “I probably should have called the book How One Might Go About Cloning a Mammoth (Should It Become Technically Possible, and If It Were, in Fact, a Good Idea, Which It’s Probably Not), but that was a much less compelling title.”
You might have noticed that the word de-extinction doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. In her book, Shapiro prefers that we call the end product of a de-extinction process an unextinct species rather than a de-extinct or de-extincted one. None of these terms are ideal, but the notion of an “unextinct” species implies that parts of a long-lost group have been revived, whereas a “de-extinct” or “de-extincted” species implies that the overall process of extinction has been reversed. From here on in, to create some consistency, I will use the term unextinct (rather than de-extinct) to describe an animal or species that has resulted from the technologies and plans that are put forth in these pages and de-extinction to refer to the overarching movement, its practices, and its aims.
Shapiro thinks there is much more public fear and resentment about the researchers involved in de-extinction than there would be if people understood how fringe their activities really are. In an attempt to clarify the scale of their work, she once said in an interview, “I think there’s a huge misconception about how much science is actually going on. In the back corner of George Church’s lab [at Harvard] they have a few people who are using a tiny amount of resources that are available to them to attempt to swap out genes in elephant cells which are growing in culture in a dish in a lab. I have a student who’s trying to convince me that it’s a good idea to bring passenger pigeons back to life. There’s a group in Australia who are thinking about the gastric-brooding frog but are stuck because they can’t cause the cells to actually grow up. There’s a group in New Zealand that is thinking about bringing a Moa [an extinct bird] back to life and are working on sequencing the moa genome, which is not de-extinction, in itself. There’s a Spanish group that’s thinking about the bucardo [a subspecies of Spanish ibex that went extinct in 2000], and there’s the backbreeding group for the aurochs [an extinct species of wild cattle] in Holland. That’s it. That’s everything that’s going on in the world right now.” And at the time that I’m writing this, that’s still pretty much the case, with a few exceptions. But it’s not the abundance of research in this area that’s so striking—it’s how well above its weight it punches in the fascinating issues it creates.
That’s partly why this book picks up where a discussion focused on its technical basis would leave off. Although I am captivated by the science and technologies that make this movement possible and do explore them in the pages that follow, my larger focus is on the cultural, ethical, environmental, legal, social, and philosophical issues that de-extinction sets free into our world.
I begin with an overview of the methods used in de-extinction, before exploring topics such as human-caused extinction, the choice of candidate species, de-extinction projects currently underway, the rewilding of ecosystems with recreated animals, protection of reintroduced species, patents on and profits from de-extinction, benefits for endangered species, lessons from species that are already gone, and personal stories from revivalist researchers. To that end, I’ve spent the last few years exploring the labs, lore, and laments of a group of scientists who want to nuance the tenet that “extinction is forever” as well as to help fauna on the brink. This book is a result of uncountable discussions I’ve been fortunate to have with some of those leading the science, as well as with philosophers, ethicists, artists, historians, legal experts, critics, and opposing scientists. It is about the humor and the hope, the application and the absurdity, the elegance and the empiricism that tie this movement together. And it is about why this wild idea may or may not have more meat on its bones than Jurassic Park’s dinosaurs ever did.