Even the Finest Science Writing Draws Inspiration from Ancient Myths

The 15th edition of The Best Australian Science Writing, edited by Zoe Kean and Tegan Taylor, contains 39 essays and stories that “tell tales of the universe that scientists have worked hard to reveal”.

Contributions revolve around pressing issues in the scientific world, such as climate change and ecological crisis, psychology and animal behaviour, the sociology of medicine and data, scientific ethics, and the perils of tech-boosterism.

Review: The Best Australian Science Writing 2025 – edited by Zoe Kean and Tegan Taylor (NewSouth)

But these tales also have a speculative bent. The editors open the anthology with a question: “Gaze into a telescope and what do you see?” They hark back to the Ancient Greek oracle of Delphi, acknowledging foresight as an inherent part of the process of scientific discovery.

The collection unfolds as a homage to the Ancient Greek myths and heroes. It elaborates on the idea that looking to the starry skies can provide the seer with insights into the meaning and value of human life.

The Greek Pantheon

The contributors are largely established journalists, with some from academia and freelance writing backgrounds. But many of them engage with tropes and metaphors rooted in Greek myths.

In his essay Humanoid Robots, for example, Owen Cumming pays homage to the power of classical myths to lend legitimacy to modern inventions. He evokes Talos, the mythical guardian of Crete, as “one of the earliest stories we have about a mechanical being created with human form”.

In the myth, Medea tricks Talos into removing a protective seal on his ankle by promising him immortality. The story reveals the messiness of human-machine hybrids. It invokes the uncanny sensation of simultaneous allure and repulsion that comes from “a robot seeming almost human, but not quite right”.

Other essays don’t make direct reference to Greek myths, but they borrow their themes. Angus Dalton’s contribution remodels the tale of Eros, the Greek god of love, his essay reaching its comedic climax in his description of the rare blooming of the corpse flower “Putricia” at the Royal Botanic Gardens in Sydney.

The necessity of enduring hardship for the fruits of passion and desire is evident in the line: “Putricia’s attendants gaze at her for a moment and, cloaked in the stench of death, do as we always have: hope for new life”.

Amalyah Hart’s contribution on the use of insects in the pursuit of understanding consciousness contains one of the best lines in the collection: “In the insect world, bees have a monopoly on charisma – famously intelligent, admirably cooperative, and cheerfully partnered”.

In Greek mythology, bees are associated with foresight. The god Apollo is said to have received his gift of prophesy from three bee-maidens.

Hart discusses how scientists are experimenting on bees, flies and other insects to understand brain function and the evolution of consciousness. Her contribution shows science mirroring ancient methods, making new discoveries about the nature of our inner world through human-animal interactions.

Olivia Congdon’s contribution tells the tale of lepidopterist Colin Wyatt, who “smuggled approximately three thousand butterfly specimens out of Australian museum collections”. Wyatt’s exploits, evocative of Autolycus, the master thief of Greek mythology, continue to plague the scientific study of butterflies.

Any time a scientist names a new species, they must produce a physical specimen (holotype) for the record. Removing or replacing even one of these foundational specimens, as Wyatt did, can alter the biological record of a an entire species, effectively setting the field back by decades, or even permanently in the case of extinct species.

Read more:
Theft, lies and butterflies: the Englishman who stole thousands of specimens from our museums

Other contributions that echo Greek myths include Belinda Smith’s essay explaining why some venomous snakes can bite and kill even when they’re dead and decapitated, which recalls the multi-headed Hydra.

Promethean essays

Beyond the individual contributions, the anthology as a whole evokes the foundational myth of Prometheus, which describes the birth of human knowledge and technology. Aeschylus’ play Prometheus Bound tells the story of the Titan Prometheus, who was punished by Zeus for stealing fire from the gods and gifting it to humans, along with the power of knowledge, and was punished by Zeus by being chained to a rock for eternity.

Many of the stories in this anthology consider the perils of scientific and technological hubris. Dyani Lewis’ investigation into the use of biometric data derived from Chinese minority groups, for example, emphasises that “ethical concerns are particularly acute in forensic science because the field has close connections with law enforcement”.

The data is often drawn from blood samples, which are useful for forensic identification and paternity testing. But they can also be used by security forces to track and profile Tibetan populations. Other at risk people include Muslim Uyghurs, whose DNA profiles have been used as part of the passport registration process. Profiling also occurs through facial recognition software, which can distinguish the faces of Uyghurs or Tibetans, populations targeted by the Chinese government for surveillance and mass detention.

Linda McIver’s essay on misinformation advocates a sceptical approach to technological progress, artificial intelligence in particular. As in the myth of Prometheus, scientific progress can seem to come bearing gifts, providing the illusion of knowledge, while masking pitfalls or unexpected consequences.

“Technology,” writes McIver, “is also wildly successful at selling us conspiracy theories, lies about health, lies about people, lies about politics, and lies about climate change, among many, many other lies.”

Matthew War Agius’ story Faster Higher Stronger Doper considers the seemingly innocuous European lugworm (Arenicola marina) as a cautionary tale about sports doping. Worm haemoglobin – the protein that transports oxygen in blood cells – has 39 times more carrying capacity than human blood cells. Transfused into an athlete’s blood stream, worm haemoglobin can improve energy levels. It allows significantly higher quantities of blood cells to move more oxygen around the body, creating a greater aerobic capacity.

It seems no recess of natural biology is safe from exploitation in the pursuit of glory. As Agius writes: “where winning and losing are separated by wafer-thin margins – sometimes requiring a photo finish – the dark arts of performance enhancement are seductive”.

Scientific existentialism

The stories in this anthology offer two distinct ways of interpreting the Promethean legacy of scientific progress.

The first is to highlight the dangers of the pursuit of knowledge – the risks of flying, like Icarus, too close to the sun. The second recalls French philosopher Albert Camus’ interpretation of the myth of Sisyphus.

Sisyphus was condemned to toil for eternity, rolling a boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down again. For Camus, the Sisyphean struggle represents the individual’s existential quest for meaning, faced with the essential absurdity of life. Sisyphus, like all of us, must either succumb to nihilism in the face of a meaningless existence, or find a way to accept life’s enduring struggle.

The anthology’s final contribution, written by Tabitha Carvan and titled The Unexpected Poetry of PhD Acknowledgements, is a perfect illustration of this perspective. Her compilation of acknowledgements taken from PhD theses highlights the sheer volume of individuals who make sacrifices in the pursuit of knowledge.

There is a sense of futility to seeing all of these contributions collected together, reduced to a depersonalised mountain of effort. But reading the acknowledgements crystallises the importance of each unique journey, and there are glimpses of universal truths in the expressions of gratitude and loss. “I wish I could be half person you were,” reads one heartfelt acknowledgement. “Words cannot express how much I miss you.”

The cycle continues

The best science writing emphasises the value of the struggle for knowledge ahead of the grandeur of a new discovery.

A good example is the current discourse around the possibility of AGI (artificial general intelligence) and the claims that it will eventually understand, learn and think independently of humans. Much of the commentary is focused on what this will mean for humanity and how to profit from it.

What is more interesting is the extent to which this discourse has created a new desire to understand what it means to be human, to have free will and think independently. People trained in the objective methodologies of the natural and mathematical sciences are grappling with ambiguity, ethics and feeling. Scientists are reentering the subjective realm of the humanities, which they have neglected since the Enlightenment.

To borrow a phrase from novelist Ceridwen Dovey’s story Staying Faithful to Earth, the limits of scientific endeavour necessarily “throw us back upon speculation, symbols, metaphors, visualisations, scientific analogies that work really hard but aren’t quite right”.

Fascination with the gods and heroes of Ancient Greece has persisted across millennia. Modern retellings are attempts to understand the role of wisdom, destiny and power in challenging times. The struggle for scientific knowledge is a human endeavour, one that speaks to the enduring imperative of creating our own meaning from the chaos and indifference of the universe.