The twin saints are considered patrons of medicine, surgeons, and pharmacists, and their life and martyrdom are recorded in the hagiographic collection Legenda Aurea (1260–1275), by Jacobus de Voragine. A Dominican friar, chronicler, and Italian writer of the 13th century, living on the coast of Genoa, Italy, he compiled about 180 lives of saints, organized according to the liturgical calendar, in a literary narrative that described their lives, their virtues, their miracles, and often their martyrdoms. Due to the Dominican tradition, known for its emphasis on preaching and teaching, the work was widely disseminated in medieval Europe, serving as a source for sermons, sacred art, and popular devotion.

In the work it is stated that Saints Cosmas and Damian, “instructed in the art of medicine, received from the Holy Spirit such great grace that they healed all infirmities, not only of men but also of animals, never accepting payment.” These acts of charity aligned with early Christian values, also allowing physicians to use their profession as a form of evangelization, especially during epidemics, when they cared for patients abandoned by pagan doctors.

Voragine described that the brothers were martyred under the reign of Emperor Diocletian, around 287, a time of systematic repression of Christians. He recounts three miracles attributed to them, one of which was that they transplanted the thigh of a recently buried Moor from the cemetery of St. Peter ad Vincula — “praecidentesque coxam infirmi loco ejus coxam Mauri inseruerunt” — replacing the diseased flesh with the healthy one. Upon waking, he was cured, and in the tomb they found his thigh placed where the Moor’s had been.

The life, works, and miracles of the brothers were represented iconographically in paintings, altarpieces, and frescoes by various artists, whom John Paul II described as “passionately dedicated to the pursuit of new epiphanies of beauty.” One of them, Fra Angelico, was proclaimed in 2000 by John Paul II as the patron saint of artists, recognized as a model of the perfect harmony between faith and art.

Fra Angelico, whose baptismal name was Guido di Pietro, was born at the dawn of the Renaissance in the region of Tuscany, Italy. Like Voragine, he was a Dominican and possessed great talent for painting. Profoundly influenced by Dominican theology, rooted in the work of Saint Thomas Aquinas, he received the nickname “Angelico” posthumously, in praise of his piety.

Aquinas’s work emphasized reason, contemplation, and preaching as means of spreading the faith; Fra Angelico, in turn, saw his art as a form of visual preaching, reflecting the Thomistic idea that beauty leads to God (via pulchritudinis), a true fusion of art and faith.

In The Healing of Deacon Justinian by Saints Cosmas and Damian (c. 1438–1440), Fra Angelico depicts the twin saints operating on Deacon Justinian, in a scene considered the first metaphorical reference to a transplant in the West. This tempera painting on wood is part of the predella of the San Marco Altarpiece — a wooden structure placed at the back of altars — and is currently housed in the Museo di San Marco, Florence, Italy.

The work evokes an ethereal and divine atmosphere, in which the twin saints perform a transplant on the gangrenous or cancerous leg of a sacristan of the Church of Rome dedicated to them. This story is posterior to the martyrdom of the saints (3rd century), and they are represented in the scene as “angels,” without legs, symbolizing divine intervention. In it, the newly transplanted black leg contrasts with the fair skin.

Soft light and serene composition are typical of Fra Angelico, with luminous pastel color palettes. The golden background halos symbolize the divine — Gothic characteristics — while the work incorporates the linear perspective and realistic anatomy of the Renaissance, together with the spirituality and delicacy of the artist’s style. He was able to adopt Renaissance humanism while maintaining medieval spirituality.

In the painting, a detail draws attention which, although small, adds a touch of realism that humanizes the scene — the shoes at the bedside. The intentional symbolism of these shoes, an observation first awakened in me by Dr. Cristina Von Glehn, enriches the symbolic interpretation of the work in what it represents: the complexity of transplants.

If one leg was condemned, why two shoes? Why, and who, placed them there?

Placing two shoes at the bedside of a person with a condemned leg is a clear sign of confidence, of optimism that the patient will be ready to walk with both legs. “Walking” may be understood in a literal sense — to walk again — or in a metaphorical sense — to regain the ability to work and live fully. This interpretation resonates with those who placed them there, who prepared everything so that the extraordinary could happen.

In modern transplants, these simple shoes symbolize the health professionals who work behind the scenes: nurses, physicians of other specialties, genetic compatibility laboratory technicians, physiotherapists, nutritionists, organ donation teams, logistics professionals — all fundamental. They reflect humility and silent collaboration.

The contrast in skin color is evident. It is impossible not to notice that it is someone else’s leg. This detail highlights another fundamental point: the importance of organ donors. Anonymous figures who offer part of themselves to save another life.

I believe that this inherent optimism is a hallmark of professionals who choose to follow the path of transplantation, for it is almost a vital and essential trait, especially in such a complex field, with the interaction of various agents, inserted in a challenging system like Brazil’s SUS, where professionals face scarce resources but persist with hope.

Fra Angelico represented the leg transplant as a divine miracle, but the symbolism of the shoes strongly aligns with the reality of contemporary transplants. Debilitated patients regain quality of life without perceiving the complexity of what has happened to them, and this resonates greatly with the teachings of Thomas Kuhn, philosopher of science (1922–1996), who in his The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (1962) described how paradigm shifts that transform our worldview come with scientific advances, sometimes so revolutionary that they evoke a sense of wonder comparable to miracles.

The “extraordinary” of a successful transplant is the result of scientific advances, interdisciplinary collaboration, professional optimism, and the overcoming of logistical and social barriers. Despite the challenges (immunological rejection, organ procurement, infrastructure), transplantation is “extraordinary” for its complexity and transformative impact, giving life back to patients.

Fra Angelico’s shoes suggest faith in success, present and enduring optimism. They are an “Invitation to walk” — not only for the patient, but for society, encouraging organ donation as an act of solidarity.

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on September 27, 2025. You can read the original version here:

The physician must be a friend of the written word, for in the company of the medical chart lies the confessional of clinical practice, where one must describe the key points of therapy, the instituted clinical reasoning, including the nuances of challenges and specificities of the case. One should seek to develop the skill of organizing ideas, connecting clinical data, and justifying decisions—briefly and precisely. The medical chart is an essential part of care, not a bureaucratic task.

Writing, as a manual practice, activates broader neural connections than mechanical typing, promoting active attention, information retention, and cognitive elaboration. This allows writing to become something grander than a record: to articulate, organize, select, and decide. Medical writing has undergone a paradigm shift with the computerization of electronic medical records. In the era of handwritten charts, physicians were compelled—if only by time constraints—to develop the technique of clear and precise writing in clinical records (without delving into the merit of handwriting legibility!). Today, there is a widespread decline in the quality of records due to the “copy and paste” feature, which seems to be inducing a loss of the art of thinking with one’s hands.

Repetition without re-elaboration leads to a reduction in synthesis capacity, perpetuating irrelevant or outdated—if not incorrect—information, resulting in stagnation of clinical reasoning. This is not a senseless defense of handwritten records—for electronic systems offer countless advantages, such as legibility, remote access, and traceability—but rather a focus on the fact that mechanized content replication is generating bloated records, filled with narrative redundancy and lacking clinical focus. There is a clear confusion between quantity and quality of information.

This phenomenon reduces mental effort, limits creativity, and undermines the flexibility of clinical thought. Writing ceases to be the "reflection of ruthless logic and consummate prudence—fundamental characteristics of a concise and sensible chart," as João Manuel Cardoso Martins puts it. In current practice, electronic records—where previous notes are copied, a new detail is added, and rarely anything is deleted or reworked—result in multilayered, confusing, redundant texts, where clinical reasoning does not advance; it merely accumulates. We are not creating electronic records—we are creating digital palimpsests.

The term palimpsest comes from the Greek and means "scraped again" (palin = again; psēstos = scraped). In Antiquity and the Middle Ages, parchment was a scarce and expensive commodity, made through a complex artisanal process using animal skin, such as sheep or goats. There were manuscripts in which an original text was partially removed by scraping or washing, allowing the surface to be reused for new writing.

One of the most notable palimpsests in history is that of Archimedes, the Greek mathematician born in 287 B.C. in the city of Syracuse, located in Sicily, now part of Italy. Most of his life remains shrouded in obscurity. One iconic episode is his excitement upon discovering a mathematical principle while taking a bath, after which he reportedly ran naked through the streets of the city shouting the Greek word: “Eureka! Eureka!” He went beyond the his contemporaries, who merely listed their mathematical results—he wrote about how he arrived at them. His brilliance drew the attention of the Romans, and he was eventually killed by a soldier—apparently unintentionally—during the capture of Syracuse in 212 B.C. It is one of many historical examples of how ignorance can destroy genius.

It is believed that his work was compiled around 530 A.D. in Constantinople. Around the 10th century (c. 950 A.D.), a Greek scribe—also in Constantinople—hand-copied seven of Archimedes' treatises, including two that do not exist in any other known version. In the 12th century, the parchment containing these texts was scraped and reused by a monk, who wrote Christian prayers over them, creating the palimpsest. The manuscript was then bound as a prayer book and stored for centuries.

In 1906, the scholar Johan Ludvig Heiberg found the palimpsest in Constantinople (now Istanbul), photographed it in parts, and recognized fragments of lost texts by Archimedes. The book soon disappeared, entering the black market of art. It only resurfaced in 1998, when it was purchased at auction for two million dollars. The buyer handed it over for restoration and study to the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore, Maryland, USA. Dr. William Noel, born in the UK and Ph.D. in Medieval Studies from the University of Cambridge, described that when he received the manuscript, a chill ran down his spine—he had never imagined that a material bearing witness to the mind of a genius dead for over 2,200 years would one day pass through his hands.

Between 1999 and 2008, Dr. Noel coordinated the project to recover the Archimedes Palimpsest, using multispectral imaging technology, ultraviolet light, and digital processing to recover the only known copy of fundamental works by the mathematician. These works revealed reasoning by the genius involving the equilibrium of forces and center of mass, geometric combinations, the value of Pi, and infinitesimal calculus. These findings confirmed that Archimedes' analytical reasoning was compatible with that of modern mathematicians and physicists.

We should recognize that the Archimedes Palimpsest represents a symbol of memory, traces of the past. In today’s clinical context, where we seek clarity and up-to-date information, the digital palimpsest holds multiple meaningless layers—merely remnants of unconsidered phrases. “Copy and paste” is not merely a technical issue, but also an ethical and cognitive one. Writing ceases to serve reasoning and begins to obscure it, resulting in the loss of professional credibility and the weakening of the physician’s role as a communicator and reflective professional.

In medicine, to write is to think, decide, and take responsibility. What is lost when writing becomes a mechanical function—a Sisyphean punishment—rather than an extension of clinical judgment? The electronic chart has become a modern palimpsest: it reuses the text, but erases the thought.

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on August 2, 2025. You can read the original version here:

To follow the incredible story of the unveiling of a genius's lost thoughts.

The Archimedes Palimpsest, erased by monks in the 12th century, resurfaced centuries later as a scientific treasure. Through cutting-edge technology, it was discovered that Archimedes already intuited concepts of calculus, geometry, and physics long before his time. Watch the documentary and follow the fascinating rescue of this work at the Walters Art Museum:

It seizes me, the distinction between music and poetry; in the former, feeling produces meaning, whereas in the latter, meaning provokes feeling.
This is not a reflection on the manner in which these art forms are generated, but rather, fundamentally, on the effect—or the end—they bring about in their recipients (listeners or readers). Words and verses stand to the poem as musical notes and melodies stand to music. The two expressions of art present an intriguing intuitive contrast, one that may be better understood through the Greek concepts of arkhé (principle) and télos (end), as explained by M. Spinelli: “In the arkhé lies the télos, that is, in the starting point of the process of generation lies the ultimate aim of that which is born, grows, and is fulfilled in itself.” Like a small seed containing within it the grand tree in potential. Without feeling, music has no effect (meaning); without meaning, poetry cannot achieve its aim (feeling).

Loose words, lacking connection in factual or emotional sense, however perfectly harmonious in aesthetic form, produce an empty artifact, null in its effect, for it lacks essence. It is therefore necessary to seize—and why not, to conquer—the reader’s mind, in order to awaken in them the feeling the poet wishes to convey, be it strangeness, joy, sorrow, fear, revulsion, excitement, or even epiphany. In short, all that makes us human. Melodies that evoke no feeling will fail to touch the listener’s consciousness and, as a result, will be unable to reach the perception of meaning—whether intimate and introspective, or evocative of a personal memory.

The Taijitu (tài jí tú) symbol represents the yin–yang concept of complementarity between two opposing forces or entities—fundamentally not antagonistic, for harmony between them requires an interdependent and dynamic equilibrium. Transposing this to the dual or polar relation between meaning and feeling, it becomes clear that one cannot exist without the other, each containing the seed of the other in mirrored essence, whether in music or poetry. There must be balance in the way meaning and feeling interrelate within each art form. Perfect music and poetry, in the Taoist yin–yang conception, hold the meaning–feeling duality in perfect balance, achieving a total art—Taoist, circular as the symbol itself. Meaning and feeling as complementary forces. Meaning and emotion are not rivals; they belong to the same aesthetic coin.

A machine or robot can never be moved by a poem or a musical composition. An artificial intelligence may read poetry, even produce verse, but it cannot feel poetry. One must possess the emotional and sentimental framework within which verses and melodies may echo, rest, and flourish. The final effect generated by music, however, is more direct, for emotion is constructed immediately by the qualities of sounds and their compositions, which dispense with the need for literal rational consciousness; there is a direct link between music and feeling. In modern language, music “hacks” the higher cortical cognitive functions of the brain and accesses in situ the archaic limbic system, including the amygdala (the center of emotions) and the hippocampus (formation of memories), through the auditory cortex in the temporal lobe—producing self-awareness and reverie, fostering introspection, and activating imagination, above all through the Default Mode Network. Each individual who feels music translates it through their own experience; through the filter of their consciousness and life, each musical experience is thus unique to them.

It is impossible to deny the deep interrelation and connection between music and poetry. The blind epic poet wandered the roads of ancient Greece, reciting from memory the verses of the greatest literary work of all time—the Iliad and the Odyssey—in the 7th century BC. Could there be a more musical experience than the great poet singing his own verses? The aedoí, or poet-singers, recited from memory poems of their own composition, over generations before they were set down in writing; the rhapsodoí, by contrast, recited existing poems by other authors. Both were itinerant artists, essential to the transmission and preservation of epic poetry. Homer, a poet whom some have dehumanized—or rather, “ultra-humanized”—became himself a symbol, an idea encompassing the entire culture of archaic Greek civilization, whose work has permeated the centuries.

It is curious to note that there was once speculation about the inability of the ancient Greeks to perceive and distinguish colors as “modern” man does. William Gladstone (1809–1898), four-time British prime minister, went so far as to suggest that Greek civilization at the time lacked a developed sense of color. This was due to Homer’s descriptions in which honey is called “green,” the near absence of the color “blue,” and the ox and the sea as “wine-colored” (oínops)—a tradition not only of Greek culture but also of poetic symbolism, associating dark colors with “maturity” or “vigor.”

One cannot help but marvel at the sheer genius of the poet, creating such vivid and intense imagery despite his blindness—and recall Ludwig van Beethoven composing, millennia later, his Symphony No. 9 in D minor entirely deaf, unable to hear a single note of his masterpiece. In both, we find the highest expression of human capacity to create something universal—thought that transcends, and indeed defies, sensory limitations otherwise fundamental and insurmountable to ordinary individuals—emerging in works that immortalized them. Homer, monumental blind poet; Beethoven, immortal deaf composer—the two joined across centuries by a thread of sensory transcendence, their arts surpassing the limits of the body—arkhé and télos greater than the physical senses. It seems even geniuses are not spared the tragedies of fate, and perhaps they transmuted such tragedy into the very fuel of their art, seized by an urgency to live before fading. There is no time for complacency. “Whether or not there are gods, we are their subjects” wrote Pessoa. It is the irrefutable proof that human genius and grandeur are a divine curse—real or fictional—for while granting us the broadest consciousness, it limits us with supreme irony. As if with one hand it bestowed the spark of eternity, and with the other exacted its price.

Many Greek poems of the Archaic or Classical period are essentially musical works, although their melodies have not reached us intact. The poet, besides writing the poem, composed music for the lyre and flute. The verses were sung and, at times, danced. We can only imagine, as in a distant dream, the poetic force of those sung verses, with their rhythm and reverberation of harmonic color and intensity; there is no rhyme in epic poems, and we must envision them as listeners, not readers. Hellenic orality long allowed—and even demanded—the intimate, rich relationship between poetry and music. We are speaking here of grand works with 24 cantos each, which could be performed over days and nights without pause. The Greek epic verse (dactylic hexameter) is deeply traditional in its measure; the aedoí employed and explored both the sound of the words and their meaning. Modern aedoí, if they existed, would restore to poetry its ancestral orality.

In music, feeling generates meaning. In poetry, meaning generates feeling. Music invades through the pores of emotion, striking the heart before the word. Poetry, on the other hand, demands that the mind open the door—calling for consciousness and entering with its keys of symbolism and metaphor—so that emotion may dwell within. Each contains arkhé and télos, intertwined; the principle of one is the end of the other. Each art is the mirrored version of the other—not antagonistic, but harmonious.

And between the mirrors in duality, facing one another, appears the image of a complete and virtuous human being, multiplied to infinity in potential.

The virtuous human is not perfect, but whole—integral, a friend to himself, reconciled with the ideal of a possible, lived, and concrete man, not an abstract one—sculpting the very essence (ousia) of humanity with freedom, and fulfilling himself therein. Yes, Fernando Pessoa was right to affirm that “the essential in art is to express; what is expressed does not matter.” The beautiful holds value in itself, because it expresses the inner unity and harmony of the excellent human being. Beauty not only as aesthetic, but as a means of fully realizing one’s own humanity, in a balanced and graceful form.

I allow myself to dream of that mythical generation when the boundary between poetry and music was indistinct—a time when they were one; a past adorned in more beautiful colors, when gods interceded, inspiring the heroic deeds of men and women, sung and eternalized in epic verses and melodies.

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on June 28, 2025. You can read the original version here:

Line of Life

A Melodia das Palavras - Ensaio sobre poesia e música

Arrebata-me a distinção entre a música e a poesia; naquela o sentimento produz o sentido ou significado, enquanto nesta o sentido provoca o sentimento…

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9 months ago · 6 likes · Line of Life and Ricardo Teles Schulz

Echoes of reality:

EPIC: The Musical (or EPIC) is a fully sung concept album series created by Puerto Rican artist Jorge Rivera-Herrans, adapting Homer's ancient Odyssey. Running from 2022 to 2024, the project gained popularity on TikTok, combining the narrative of Odysseus on his journey home with inspirations from modern musical genres, anime, and video games. The musical has been praised for its emotional depth and narrative complexity. It's worth a listen!

Is the spectator, and not life, the art really mirrors.

…

All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

The Preface, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde, 1891.

The perfect writer would be an individual who renders himself — and his very essence — entirely and lucidly into words, employing an imperfect instrument, language, to produce perfection in the message. The highest ambition of every writer is to create a work, an aphorism, an idea that is axiomatic and cannot be altered, for it contains within itself the whole of its meaning, lacking neither excess nor deficiency, timeless and universal.

The fetish of the writer is to fail to see himself, leaving only a pair of transparent eyes fully disembodied. What remains is the perfect word, and the author dissolves into it. In truth, the perfect writer is a mathematician.

For mathematics is the desert of absolute exactness in language — universal, timeless. But here lies the dilemma: the closer we draw to mathematical absolute precision, in its linguistic equivalent, the further we stray from the floating, necessary richness of ambiguity — essential not to the transmission of pure information, but of sensations. A zero-sum equation. As Fernando Pessoa wrote: “Zero is the greatest metaphor. Infinity is the greatest simile. Existence the greatest symbol.”

Among metaphors, analogies, and symbols, perfect writing is the refined equation, resolved to its simplest possible solution. The initial equation and the final answer contain the same information, though at different levels of complexity, from the most intricate to the most simple. Yet, unlike mathematics, writing that is superfluous in order to convey the necessary is not complex — it is disastrous. It has nothing to do with the richness of ambiguity in words, concepts, or verses. In writing, true complexity lies in expressing thought with clarity. In poetry especially, emotion justifies the balance and play of words to express the multivalence of feelings, inexact by nature. The impasses of language mirror the ambiguity of subjectivity. Metaphors and analogies will never be perfectly grasped in their entirety; symbols express the existence of the hidden consciousness.

Like a perfect sphere, reflective and reflexive, without any deformities, excesses, or lacks, returning the image of the one who observes it — or reads it — yet transformed by its smooth, curved surface. It is the same observer, but altered by the sphere’s surface, or by the words of verse and prose. Here he may see himself, or imagine himself, in ways different from what he believes himself to be — and the more polished the sphere, the more skilled the writer.

Mediocre writers produce opaque surfaces.

I want verses like jewels that endure in the vastness of the future, as Ricardo Reis once said. A perfect sphere, language cut and polished like a diamond. And when reaching the summit of perfection, beyond the language that reflects the possible reader, transmuted by the essence of ideal and unreal prose or verse, to go further still and see through the reflective surface — the writer ceasing to exist, leaving only his essence transformed in his work. The perfect communion between writer and reader.

And yet, absolute coincidence between the two — in truth, between any two beings — is a mirage, for there is never total communication between entities that never fully reveal themselves, even to themselves. The writer dwells in a fissure, a space between what he wishes to express and the impossibility of saying everything. Yet, though he does so with the certainty of an unreachable result, he still writes, and the foretold, expected failure is illuminated. For there is no mirage without light, in darkness.

He tries, knowing that upon reaching where he hopes to arrive, he will find only aseptic dunes, the vast, relentless desert of meaning, mathematical. The rare oasis of understanding between one and another — even if terrible in the secrets it reveals — is literature.

This failure is literature, our unique and elegant way of facing the fundamental dilemma of language: being blind before subjective experience.

We only ever orbit full understanding, never landing, eternally drawn by the need to be recognized by the other.

We wish to be read, yet we can never be understood at our core. Writing always escapes its subject, even when it appears to capture or conquer it.

The flawed system of language exposes the impossibility of perfect communication.

But writing resists — or rather, it desires. It yearns to perpetuate itself, to carry itself through time, to conquer immortality. Because something is missing, because there is a void, we are always thirsty in the middle of the desert. We are symbolically governed by this need to fill that same void, that same lack.

As in love.

A painful truth, but also the driving force of creation: insatiability. Every writer is insatiable, the difference being that he knows himself to be so, and each word is a painful attempt to outwit impermanence. All writing, like love, is a failed act — the materialization of desire disguised, socially and morally acceptable.

All reading is a mirage.

But it is all we have. And it is the only thing we can possess. And yet — perhaps for that very reason — we persist in writing. I write in the space between two mirrors, one reflecting logic, the other reflecting desire. Philosophically, I seek the perfection of language, though I see the insurmountable fracture between self and other, for the desire of the other is never fully accessible. Aesthetically, we choose lyrical ambiguity as the force to reach where reason cannot.

But writing, even the purest, is translation.

A translation of oneself.

A plagiarism of oneself. For all translation is treason, because it is unattainable. From a being who seeks to demolish, word by word, his own consciousness in order to unveil his essence — attempting to recognize himself as human through the other. It is the subject exiled from himself; we can only feel the fragile surface of the other. He cannot be fully known, only evoked.

Writing is a kind of tragic offering, something that will never be entirely received.

The ideal reader is also a mirage; we write for no one. We invent worlds for people who do not exist. We give what we do not have to someone who is not.

We project a fantasy about what the other feels or understands, or about what we are to the other — as in love. A supposition of completeness. But it is all we have. And it is the only thing we can have.

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on August 16, 2025. You can read the original version here:

Illness is often not a fortuitous event but the result of a complex interaction between genetic, biochemical, and behavioral factors. Smoking, alcohol, physical inactivity, and inadequate diet are risk factors that can lead to a series of diseases which, because they are neither self-limiting nor curable in the strict sense, are deemed chronic.

These chronic diseases carry with them, in varying shades and intensities, many social stigmas and prejudices. Even in the face of the evident interaction of genetic, biochemical, and behavioral factors in the origin of these conditions, it is the behavioral factor that most reverberates in patient care. Stigmas echo, and the notion that we are all fallible falls silent.

Stigmas arise from moralistic views, lack of specific educational training, emotional exhaustion, and cultural and social stereotypes. This stigmatizing bias blames the patient for their condition instead of recognizing dependency—whether on food, alcohol, or drugs—as a chronic, multifactorial disease.

Such stigmatizing segregation, today more subtle and veiled, contrasts with the explicit forms of exclusion seen in the past, when the marginalization of patients was physical and institutionalized. A striking literary example of this practice is the novel The Magic Mountain, by Thomas Mann, set in the Berghof sanatorium in Davos, at the end of the 19th and beginning of the 20th centuries. As I analyzed in How Illness Dehumanizes the Body, an atmosphere of institutional coldness predominates, with rare manifestations of compassion or mercy. Care exists, but it is cold and technicist — only nature’s mercy remains, the merciful narcotic of illness itself, to ease the suffering.

Stigma is often unconscious and may result in therapeutic limitations, cloaked in seemingly technical decisions such as “lack of social support” or “low expected adherence.” The projection of this stigma results from the fading of empathy and mercy.

The ability to understand another’s feelings, to perceive their perspectives, to place oneself in their position, is the definition of empathy. To act with kindness and clemency based on empathy, seeking to alleviate pain or offer a new chance when one has the power to punish or judge, is the definition of mercy.

In the treatment of illnesses with behavioral components, there is broad recognition of a moment—or set of critical moments—when the patient experiences a significant change in trajectory, whether in motivation, self-perception, or treatment engagement. This turning point, this epiphany—often following a “rock bottom” experience—is commonly associated by patients with an empathetic gesture from another person, resonating with the idea of mercy.

The merciful act is an act of restoring human dignity, for the patient, when desacralized, is dehumanized—and as a society, we decline morally. Saint John Paul II, in his encyclical Dives in Misericordia (1980), teaches that “mercy should be understood and practiced unilaterally, as a good done unto others.” By offering mercy, we offer patients the possibility of a “turning point,” where they feel welcomed, with the chance to rebuild self-esteem and engage in recovery. Still in the pope's words: “the one who is the object of mercy does not feel humiliated, but somehow rediscovered and revalued.”

In a therapeutic context, mercy is powerful. Being merciful does not mean ignoring harmful behaviors or allowing manipulation by the patient. It aligns with the imposition of clear boundaries and accountability on the path to recovery.

When conveying the importance of the “turning point” in chronic diseases with behavioral components—as recognized in psychosocial and cognitive-behavioral approaches—and associating it with the concept of mercy, particularly by using the words of a saint, I consciously run two risks.

The first is that acting with mercy may seem Herculean to healthcare professionals, within reach only of very exceptional individuals, almost saints, or something that must be accompanied by pomp and grandeur.

I believe I can refute this first risk by using the visual narrative of a work of art: The Good Samaritan, by Rembrandt van Rijn (1606–1669), exhibited at The Wallace Collection in London.

This image is an etching and burin engraving. Rembrandt conveys a remarkable sense of volume, atmosphere, and movement. First, he would draw on a metal plate covered with varnish, exposing the metal with a needle. The plate was then dipped in acid, which corroded the drawn lines (etching). Afterwards, he used the burin, a carving tool, to reinforce or deepen details, creating contrast and texture.

The Renaissance engraving depicts the Good Samaritan, devoid of pomp, a common man delivering the wounded to the innkeeper. But Rembrandt’s expressiveness and humanity erupt in another detail — the dog defecating — a reminder that compassion is devoid of glory. Mercy, then, is something “impure” yet necessary and ethical. It is “impure” because it does not require spiritual elevation. Being merciful demands no glory or spotlight. It is within everyone's reach. It is unilateral. It is necessary.

The Good Samaritan’s merciful act is not performed by a “special” person and does not necessarily require great effort. In the healthcare routine, the words and actions of all professionals—especially nurses, nurse technicians, and chaplains—who maintain a unique proximity to the patient and are capable of recognizing their humanity without judgment, can promote transformative “turning points.”

The second risk assumed, and perhaps the most challenging, is that a solely religious perception of mercy, seen as a reflection of divine love, may overshadow an ethical and humanistic stance. This perception may be amplified in times of cultural, societal, and individual secularization, or in healthcare environments that falsely dichotomize science and transcendence.

I refer to secularization as, culturally and societally, the diminishing influence of religion on morality and education; and individually, the reduced role of religion in everyday life, decision-making, and personal identity. This process is neither uniform nor linear, but the shift from the medieval Christian world to modernity (Renaissance, Enlightenment, French Revolution) is the historical transformation in which values and practices ceased being subordinate to religion and came to be governed by secular, scientific, or rational logics.

In this way, if the process of secularization aims to govern practices and values through rationalist frameworks, I aim to refute the second risk—considering mercy as solely religious—by drawing on the teachings of Immanuel Kant (1724–1804). Considered one of the greatest philosophers of all time, alongside Aristotle, Plato, and Nietzsche, Kant is the inspiration behind the moral philosophy of the “modern individual,” one detached from a transcendent order governing the world. Kant had the sensitivity to perceive, reflect upon, and ground the rationality of morality while the process of secularization was unfolding.

Kantian ethical flame is centered on the categorical imperative, which teaches us that we must act according to maxims that could be universalized (first imperative) and that treat human beings as ends in themselves, never as means (second imperative). According to these principles—contained in Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals (1785) and Critique of Practical Reason (1788)—moral actions do not depend on feelings or personal inclinations, but rather on duty derived from reason.

Treating all patients with empathy and mercy, regardless of their circumstances (attention to stigma!), is a maxim that can be universalized and thus aligns with the first categorical imperative. This reasoning directly resonates with the second formulation of the categorical imperative: it means recognizing the patient as an end in themselves—a being endowed with inherent dignity, independent of their behavior. These categorical imperatives have direct application in contemporary bioethics, reflected in principles such as beneficence (acting for the patient’s good) and non-maleficence (avoiding harm).

Although Kant subordinated emotions to reason, the introduction of empathy into the clinical context does not weaken moral duty—it enhances it. It humanizes the doctor-patient relationship, transforming it into more than a rational bond.

Returning to Rembrandt, mercy is something impure, but necessary and ethical. The healthcare professional may, according to their personal convictions, understand mercy as an expression of divine love—from a religious perspective—or as a gesture of compassion grounded in secular ethical principles. Or even, one may adopt a synthesis between these views. Regardless of the origin of this motivation, what matters is that mercy represents the recognition of the other’s humanity, free from moral judgment. It is a universal ethical principle. Therefore, the actions of the healthcare professional should not be based on feelings, stigma, or personal preferences, but on a constant moral commitment inherent in the doctor-patient relationship.

If we are imperfect, we must refrain from blaming others through stigma. We, healthcare professionals, by exercising empathy, cannot reproduce the social norm of stigmatizing these chronic diseases with behavioral components and morally exclude patients, turning our institutions into modern Berghofs. To exercise mercy—whether from a religious or secular perspective—can offer patients mechanisms — the space — for a “turning point” in their trajectory. This allows for the restoration of health, dignity, and autonomy. Let us remember: mercy is, at once, an ethical duty and an act of compassion.

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on July 05, 2025. You can read the original version here:

The news of Fausto Silva’s liver transplant and kidney retransplant, after a previous heart transplant, reignited the controversy over transparency and fairness in access to organs for transplantation in Brazil. Public reactions revealed a mix of feelings: skepticism, personal stories of success and dissatisfaction with the system, calls for accountability and investigation, disbelief, and sarcasm. The critical tone prevailed over favorable expressions.

Faustão’s national fame and wealth naturally amplify scrutiny. In a country of marked socioeconomic inequalities, where the Unified Health System (SUS) serves millions with limited resources, suspicions of privileges in organ allocation become almost inevitable. The National Transplant System follows national laws and regulations but is regionalized according to SUS hierarchization, which generates structural variations and different perceptions in public opinion.

In an unequal country like Brazil, it is natural that a transplant for someone rich and famous arouses mistrust, even if the waiting list follows technical rules.

The public perception of injustice arises, in part, from a lack of understanding of the nuances of treatment, but finds support in a factual inequity — inequity related to unequal access to health care and resources, and not to any alteration in organ distribution rules, which remain technical and legal.

The main driving force behind suspicions is the belief in favoritism on the waiting list, something that, in the allocation process, does not occur.

Nevertheless, his financial condition and visibility guarantee access to the best specialists, advanced diagnostics, and more effective maintenance treatments, which influence clinical preparation but do not alter position or grant priority on the transplant list.

This contrasts with the reality of SUS, where diagnostic delays and limited care are common due to budgetary and organizational constraints.

Excellent pre-transplant care — optimized nutrition, dialysis, physical therapy, use of and adherence to the best medications — can improve or optimize the patient’s clinical condition, increasing eligibility for the transplant waiting list. In sum, socioeconomic status influences access to the list, but once included, the distribution of organs is independent of this factor. In the transplant system, everyone on the list follows the same priority rules. But, just like in a race, some arrive at the starting line in better shape — thanks to more complete medical care. This does not change the order of arrival, but influences who manages to complete the race.

In transplantation, the waiting list is the same for everyone, but those with access to better treatment arrive in better condition to wait — a difference linked to the ability to maintain health until the procedure and not to interference in the choice of who will receive the organ.

Multiple transplants are rare because they require highly specialized teams and health infrastructure that does not exist everywhere. In Faustão’s case, access to this type of treatment is also linked to the resources that his financial condition allows, which reflects structural inequalities in the Brazilian health system and not any manipulation of the waiting list.

The point is that, although he receives better health care, this occurs within legality and does not change the order of organ distribution. For those unfamiliar with the system, the difference between deciding who receives the organ — that is, the waiting list and distribution — and preparing the patient for transplantation is confusing and raises doubts.

The order of who receives an organ is defined by medical criteria on the waiting list. Extra resources influence preparation, not priority.

Thus, public perception echoes a real inequity — people know that someone rich and famous can receive better health care, but this extra care does not alter the rules or the order of distribution.

When this nuance is not understood, especially in high-profile cases, the effect is corrosive to the altruistic foundation of organ donation. Distrust can lead to refusal to donate. In Brazil, this phenomenon is known: the states with the highest refusal rates coincide with those with the lowest confidence in the effectiveness of the health system.

Differences in preparation do not mean priority on the list, but when this is not understood, trust in the system falls and donations decrease.

The negative repercussion of Faustão’s transplants, fueled by the perception that the system is biased, invites reflection on how communication could have been better handled. The legislation is clear, the system is consolidated, and the Brazilian Association of Organ Transplantation (ABTO) publishes quarterly reports with data on donations, waiting lists, and transplants. Even so, the reaction of public opinion demonstrates room for improvements in communication.

One reflection would be, in cases of great media exposure, to create a pre-transplant communication protocol in which the medical team would explain, in generic terms, the clinical conditions and priority criteria. Given the patient’s notoriety, this could draw attention and facilitate understanding of the case, reducing mistrust. Evidently, this practice involves ethical issues and can only occur with the express authorization of the patient and their family. Based on this disclosure, ABTO or SUS could promote explanatory campaigns about multiple transplants and prioritization criteria. Such an approach could humanize the process and reduce suspicion, reconciling confidentiality with public interest.

Transparency, when voluntary and planned, can prevent distortions and preserve public trust in the transplant system.

The narrative of privilege has been overshadowing the real medical need of a beloved public figure who marked Sunday afternoons for millions of Brazilians. This perception is understandable in the face of social inequalities, but it does not reflect the technical functioning of organ distribution in the country. Faustão faces a serious and rare combination of diseases and deserves compassion and empathy. A multifaceted approach — with voluntary disclosure previously agreed upon in high-profile cases — could bring public perception closer to medical reality. After all, public trust is not a peripheral detail: it is an essential pillar for the sustainability of the transplant system.

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on August 09, 2025. You can read the original version here:

We write because we want to convey something, information or emotions. At times, we are physician-writers or writer-physicians. In the first, we are allowed to choose between donning prêt-à-porter, haute couture, tailored, or creative clothing; in the latter, we wear the formal attire of the deontological duty (by the Code of Medical Ethics) to educate, promoting reflection and reforms. The crux is that disseminating medical science among physicians — in scientific articles, congresses — is easy; the problem is the transposition from reason to emotion, necessary for non-scientific dissemination. The cognitive tool of interpretation by the lay public is “a long journey that goes not only through logical and analytical reasoning, but mainly through impressions, a territory laden with emotions. Only the rational are convinced by rationality, naturally a small portion of the population. The majority must be reached by emotion, because they act emotionally all the time,” as João Manuel Cardoso Martins affirmed.

The first major goal of the fugitives was to cross the Lena River. Frozen solid, it stretched more than half a mile wide, still running thousands of kilometers to the Arctic Ocean. Overcoming this stage meant leaving the area of the forced labor camp and moving south, aiming to skirt Lake Baikal. Crossing this frozen geographical obstacle was a renewal of confidence, since “in all our minds had been the idea we might never reach the Lena.”

Written language is an imperfect instrument that never captures the full essence of the author or the reader. In The Perfect Writer, Ricardo Schulz reveals how the reader reflects altered in the sphere of writing and that the only way to achieve perfect writing would be to achieve mathematical precision, yet such precision would sacrifice the rich ambiguity of language, essential for conveying sensations and emotions. If Cardoso Martins shows the necessity of the transposition, Schulz teaches us where we must resolve this imbroglio: “The writer inhabits a fissure, a space between what he wishes to express and the impossibility of saying everything.” That fissure is Rawicz’s Lena River — wide, frozen, treacherous — the natural barrier similar to the imperfection of language that creates a division between the communicator (the rational physician) and the receiver (the emotional public).

Writing for human connection is a risk for the physician-writer, a source of danger, for medical themes are not only technical, but charged with explosive potential. Health deals with systems that aspire to perfection or equality but are undermined by inherent imperfections. In Against Stigma, Mercy, we touch upon emotional taboos of shame, vulnerability, and stigmas in mental health; in Faustão, Health and the Waiting List That Is the Same for Everyone, we reveal inequities in the transplant system — not by direct manipulation, but by socioeconomic disparities that affect patient preparedness and can impact trust in the system. In these texts, the danger for the communicator is palpable: by writing with transparency, one exposes oneself to accusations of elitism, reactions of skepticism, criticism from colleagues, and ethical sanctions. As “The Perfect Writer” warns, the ambiguity of language can be misinterpreted, as the public may see in medical revelations a mirror of their own social frustrations — the public becomes irritated by its altered reflection in the sphere of writing. This dynamic is not accidental; it is inherent, for medical themes deal with what is most primal: the fear of death, the hope of cure, and the indignation at injustices.

Reaching the Trans-Siberian Railway and arriving in Mongolia marked the transition from the Siberian winter to the more southern summer, in which heavy fur coats had to be abandoned during the day, though still necessary at night. There they found a good reception from the natives, who offered them nuts, dried fish, barley grains, and oat cakes the size of biscuits, all in equal portions among the members of the fugitive group, along with greetings and wishes of good fortune on the journey, courtesy, generosity, and hospitality. According to Rawicz, “the help received was according to the means of the giver, but that help was always cheerfully given.”

The crossing of the Gobi Desert is one of the most emblematic passages in The Long Walk. For days, the group walked under the scorching sun, without water, tormented by hallucinations and the death of two companions. To survive, they ate snakes and drank from muddy sources, which seemed like divine gifts amid the aridity. Rawicz recalls: “In the shadow of death we grew closer together than ever before. No man would admit to despair. No man spoke of fear.” Finally, they reached Tibet.

The transposition from rational to emotional is, in fact, the heart of the physician-writer’s craft, but it is not enough to recognize the transposition; it is necessary to accept the danger it brings: misunderstandings, criticism, accusations. To avoid exposure to danger, we may resort to three solutions: sculpting perfect, mathematical writing for the transmission of pure and simple information, Schulz’s “zero-sum equation.” The second is the furtive use of semantic stitching techniques, replacing periods with commas, semicolons, or interspersed dashes, in order to prevent the isolation of sentences so that their meaning cannot be modified — techniques of media training. The third would be simply not to touch on sensitive topics. The use of these three solutions results in pasteurizing writing to the point that it becomes a barren plain, an aseptic writing that leads to stagnation and the death of communication, potentially even in the form of self-censorship. In them, the outcome is a mortal desert from the absence of the desire to address relevant themes, or Schulz’s “desert of absolute exactitude of language.” In both deserts — of absolute exactitude or of aseptic relief — we lose the rich ambiguity necessary to convey sensations and emotions; we flirt with the weakness of body and soul and the approach of death, as faced in the desert by the fugitives: “we were all perilously weak and dangerously near death.”

The crossing of Tibet’s rugged territory was populated with encounters with a different culture, with varied types of reception, from the friendliest to suspicious and indifferent. Food and places of rest were offered during the journey, keeping the flame of hope alive. In the peaks of the Himalayas, the narrow passes, the snow-covered summits, and the rarefied air changed the face of the challenge; yet they still found refuge in Tibetan monasteries, where monks offered them food, shelter, and blessings. Even without sharing the language, mutual help pushed them forward. Reaching India was the moment of maximum relief, and as the feeling of security grew, the certainty of achieving freedom seemed surreal, marking the end of the physical journey.

The courage to overcome the vastness of geographical variability was the key piece of this journey to freedom; geographical variability was not an obstacle but the path to freedom. What makes our planet — and writing — wonderful is variability, not uniformity. We cannot create uninhabitable deserts out of self-censorship out of fear; we must incorporate the reliefs into our writing. We must write with courage, accepting that negative reactions are the price of relevance, for the art of communication is that which truly mirrors and transforms.

Given that writing is a “flawed act”, the physician-writer must seek refinement, echoing the idea that total communication is a mirage, but continuous attempts can polish the surface, making it more reflective. Perhaps the “perfect physician-writer” is the one who exposes flaws without pretending to resolve them, inviting us to an imperfect, reflective, honest, non-doctrinaire communion. Perhaps true perfection lies in accepting this flaw as a source of beauty, encouraging us to write not for perfection but for imperfect, human connection.

Exposure is inherent to ethical transparency. Transparent writing can mitigate risks by being balanced, pointing out flaws, and proposing solutions. The catalyst is the transposition, the humanization of data — anchored in scientific evidence, protocols, and professional ethics — using concrete tools to accomplish it: metaphors, narratives, literature.

It is not about diluting facts in sentimentalism, but about polishing the language until it, like a frozen river or a desert crossed, can reflect the reader in a transformative way: cold data gain life through stories, empathy, and human context. This mitigates dangers, fostering dialogue rather than confrontation.

Rawicz’s crossing was of life or death; ours, infinitely smaller, but still necessary. Danger, then, is not a barrier, but a catalyst — a reminder that medical writing, like all art, is “quite useless” if harmless, but vital if provocative. The Long Walk embodies this transcendental realization: freedom is not an easy destination, but a conquest forged in varied suffering.

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on August 23, 2025. You can read the original version here:

For myself, I have my End when I embrace my vision of what I intend to desire—or feign to intend, for my own consolation. A purpose. More than a mere finality.
Without such an End, my eyelids would not open in the morning,
and I would pass the hours of the day as one blind,
without willing, or pretending to will.

I prefer this End to the other, for survival, preservation, and self-indulgence:
the End as the place where we arrive; for this one—if I were to know my fate, my finitude—would reduce my journey to dust
and drain my volitions.

For humankind fears and ignores, by its utmost will, its own ending—
unable to endure its finitude,
until it is far too late. Life would be unbearable were we to grasp it fully, writes the poet Fernando Pessoa.

Perhaps the mysterious instant of revelation—necessary and sufficient for the existential turning point, the conversion, or the seminal change—may pass through it.
A point of hyperreality (see Read Before It Fades), now not external, merely empathic and reflective, but inward, wholly devastating.
Upon ruins and rubble a new being would arise, built anew.

The End from which we set out is a comfort,
for it points toward the uncertain and imaginative future,
yet still present; through it, we live in the now.
The End toward which we go leads to oblivion—
and none can endure non-existence,
foundation of religions and of that primordial science,
also called philosophy.
Though their outcomes differ; for, as Bernardo Soares—one of Pessoa’s heteronyms—wrote:
“the perfect man of the pagan was the perfection of the man who is;
the perfect man of the Christian, the perfection of the man who is not;
the perfect man of the Buddhist, the perfection of there being no man.”

End: a dubious word,
enclosing within itself two opposites—
the smallest possible nominal contradiction, a paradox in miniature.
End, opposite of beginning.
End, origin of purpose. My driving force.

When, at last, my own shall come,
I shall play the poet
and, by some magic, exchange the one for the other.

“We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”

—Excerpt from Little Gidding, T. S. Eliot

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on July 27, 2025. You can read the original version here:

Line of Life

Fim

Se a Esfinge, porventura, me perguntar em tom de desafio — sempre um enigma — “qual será o seu Fim?”, poderei responder-lhe: “Está claro e definido, que do Fim só tenho controle quando assumo TS Elliot”. Por este, o Fim é o lugar de onde partimos. Uma volta eterna que não é regressiva, mas transformadora…

Read more

8 months ago · 5 likes · Line of Life and Ricardo Teles Schulz

Surely most readers will recall that this introduction refers to the story of Jurassic Park (1990), written by Michael Crichton and immortalized in film by Steven Spielberg in 1993.

Science fiction knows no bounds, but it is well known that it must rely on principles that ensure a degree of plausibility with reality—otherwise, it would be pure fantasy. The workings of the code of life, DNA, as described by James Watson and Francis Crick in 1953, can often be difficult to grasp. In The Double Helix (1968), James Watson recounts, with the vivid language of a novel, the paths that were carved toward the scientific discovery later awarded the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1962. Undoubtedly, it is required reading.

Understanding the basics of DNA, the silent author behind every living being, its mechanisms and how it gives rise to life requires a good deal of abstraction. To truly comprehend it, one must dedicate much study and effort, given the vast theoretical and practical field that was presented to us like a spark by Professor Salmo Raskin in our medical school genetics classes.

Imagine an immense library, with shelves stretching to the horizon. Each book is the story of a living being: your father, a tree, myself. Their texts are not written in our alphanumeric alphabet, but in A, T, C, and G. These building blocks of life are combined into genes, the chapters of the books, that tell us how we breathe, our blood type, or the color of our hair. DNA is the guardian of this library. Within the nucleus of each cell, it works like a meticulous librarian, organizing instructions and ensuring they are read and copied correctly when a cell divides or a newborn is formed.

Watson and Crick enabled us to understand the alphabet of life, to read its chapters, to gradually interpret its stories. With that, we’ve learned which diseases are caused by typos in the text or which species were lost with the disappearance of certain books. And, with our inherent ingenuity: why not re-edit a flawed text? Or perhaps try to rewrite a vanished book?

In Jurassic Park, John Hammond sought to rewrite vanished books, to bring back extinct dinosaurs—always confident in an atmosphere of absolute safety and control:

“10,000-volt fences... full 50 miles of perimeter fences… concrete moats… motion-sensor tracking systems… only females, so it’s impossible to breed…”
“Relax, try and enjoy yourself.”

His fantastic endeavor did not go without challenge from Ian Malcolm, mathematician and chaos theorist, portrayed by Jeff Goldblum:

“John, the kind of control you’re attempting is not possible. If there’s one thing the history of evolution has taught us, it is that life will not be contained. Life breaks free, expands to new territories, crashes through barriers—painfully maybe, even dangerously... life finds a way.”

Even more powerful than Jurassic Park’s cloning machinery, imagine a tool capable of rewriting a chapter of a story—or, more precisely, replacing a phrase or a single word. Such a tool has already been built, and its discovery is recounted in The Code Breaker by Walter Isaacson, published in 2021. Jennifer Doudna, a biochemist, had her scientific curiosity sparked during her childhood in Hawaii. The book vividly portrays the foundations that led to her discovery, the influence of Watson’s work, the collaboration and competition among fellow scientists, the vision of potential benefits, and the profound ethical dilemmas raised by the darker uses of the technology. The scientific paper that first described the use of the CRISPR-Cas9 system as a gene-editing tool in humans, published in 2012, marked a biotechnological revolution. This editing technique, developed alongside Emmanuelle Charpentier, was awarded the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 2020.

CRISPR is the magic pen that allows us to rewrite the books of life. Using an RNA molecule as a guide, it can find the exact line, the exact letter that needs to be changed. It directs the Cas9 “scissors,” which cut the DNA with surgical precision. Once cut, DNA—the librarian—diligently attempts to repair itself, and it is precisely in this moment that we can insert a new letter, a new word, or even an entire passage. It’s a technology considered widely accessible, with the potential to change the world—to cure genetic diseases—but also one fraught with countless ethical nightmares.

On April 7, 2025, TIME magazine published a story titled “The Return of the Dire Wolf,” with a cover bearing the word Extinct. The headline announced the creation of three wolves genetically modified to resemble the dire wolf, a species that went extinct 10,000 years ago.

Despite the major media buzz, the term de-extinction used in the article drew criticism, since it wasn’t the cloning of an extinct animal that had taken place. As noted by Salmo Raskin:

“This is gene editing; in other words, they are modifying the genetics of a living animal to give it characteristics of an extinct one.”

As a startup in the field of genetic editing—and therefore in search of funding—Colossal Biosciences ended up using media strategies that often attract this type of criticism. Still, we must recognize its merit as a pioneer in using CRISPR-Cas9 technology to edit multiple points of the DNA simultaneously, in an attempt to insert genetic fragments from extinct species.

In the TIME article, my attention was drawn to several statements by Beth Shapiro, the company’s chief science officer:

“We are an evolutionary force at this point... We are deciding what the future of these species will be...”

The animals live in a secret ecological reserve spanning 20,000 acres, “surrounded by a 10-ft. fence,” equipped with “an extreme-weather shelter,” and featuring “natural dens where the wolves can satisfy their innate desire for a secure retreat.”

In a moment worthy of John Hammond himself, Shapiro continues:

“They’re not capable of living in the wild... They’re not going to be able to get a splinter without us finding out.”

Paige McNickle, the company’s head of animal husbandry, also had her moment of childlike confidence:

“Our protocols ensure that people are never in a situation where the wolves might be frightened or become aggressive toward their caretakers.”

In Jurassic Park, the chaos theorist is gently mocked by the scientists for his concerns about the animals’ reproduction—after all, all the park’s dinosaurs were female. To prevent reproduction among Colossal’s wolves, scientists aim to “monitor the female estrous cycles and separate the animals at key times or employ contraceptive implants that keep the wolves from producing young…”

Malcolm’s response in fiction was:

“Life finds its way.”

Romulus, Remus, and Khaleesi are not copies of the Dire Wolf book from our imagined library. They are modified texts from the Gray Wolf volume—genetic manipulations orchestrated by humans. The original story is not being retold. In this vast library of DNA, the text is not always perfect. Letters may change by mistake—or now, by our intervention. These modifications can be passed from one generation to the next, sometimes bringing benefits, sometimes diseases, or consequences still unknown.

Note the evident intersection between fiction and reality. The competition among groups of scientists, under the auspices of companies or universities: in Jurassic Park, Hammond’s company, InGen, competes with BioSyn. The discovery of CRISPR-Cas9 by Doudna and Charpentier involved competition among several research groups—most notably, Feng Zhang’s. Now, Colossal Biosciences takes the spotlight in the media and in the race for multimillion-dollar venture capital funding.

Colossal’s confidence—"even a splinter will be noticed"—echoes Jurassic Park’s own hubris. The idea that “we have everything under control” is the summary of both fiction and reality. In the film, nature—unpredictable—proves otherwise. Is nature capable of following a script written by humans, or does it write its own story? There is ethical weight in rewriting chapters we do not yet understand, in a narrative nature may choose to write on its own.

These ethical concerns were voiced by Jennifer Doudna throughout her biography, but they also seem to echo other stories—like the lament of Victor Frankenstein, Mary Shelley’s scientist who creates a creature and later fears its uncontrollable power.

Watson and Crick taught us how to read the book of life. Doudna gave us the pen to edit it. Our greatest challenge, it seems, is not technical—but ethical. There is an echo of arrogance in the air. These scientists represent the pinnacle of human skill and capability. But every true scientist knows that scientific truth walks hand in hand with humility.

Where, then, is the boundary between fantasy and fiction, or between fiction and reality?

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on June 7, 2025. You can read the original version here:

Explore more translations in our English Essays section.

Its cultural wealth is boundless, born of a fusion of architecture, painting, sculpture, and color accumulated over centuries of continuous refinement and the elevation of a spirit of grandeur. Whether in its architectural masterpieces — the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella, the Baptistery — its museums — such as the Uffizi Gallery — or its sculptures — like Michelangelo’s David — everything composes a scene of splendid admiration and an acclamation of what truly is the beautiful, that superior form of the sensible.

In the foreground of the photograph above, we observe the Baptistery of San Giovanni (11th–13th century), whose 27.4-meter-wide dome is adorned with paintings, frescoes, and mosaics which, according to Judith Dupré, depict “choirs of angels, stories from Genesis, the lives of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, as well as the life of Saint John, the city’s patron saint.” The sumptuous interior is uniquely complemented by its bronze-carved doors. The south door was sculpted by Andrea Pisano (1330–36), and the north (1402–24) and east (1425–52) doors by Lorenzo Ghiberti. These masterpieces of bronze casting depict various scenes from the New Testament and, as reported in Judith Dupré’s Churches, elicited the following reaction from the genius Michelangelo:

“Oh Divine Work! Oh door worthy of heaven!”

In the middle ground, we see Santa Maria del Fiore, constructed between 1296 and 1436 by various architects, the result of generations of Florentines striving, as Dupré puts it, “to create the largest, most marvelous cathedral in the world.” Its cornerstone was laid “upon a bold structure in which beauty and scale would serve not only as a hymn to God, but also to the ingenuity and discernment of the Florentine people.” Inspired by the form of the neighboring baptistery, a cruciform cathedral was conceived, with an octagonal crossing from which three equally long arms radiate. The exquisite bell tower by Giotto di Bondone has a top resembling that of the nearby Palazzo Vecchio, then the seat of the Florentine communal government, revealing the interconnectedness of Florence’s civic and religious ideals.

Further back in the photograph stands the dome by Filippo Brunelleschi, whose architectural solution earned him immortality. With its base beginning 54 meters above the ground and its height reaching 33 meters, the dome’s very stability was questioned even after construction had begun, to the point that Brunelleschi had to confront opposition directly, even physically, to ensure its continuation. With meticulous care, he oversaw every aspect of the dome’s construction, employing unprecedented techniques drawn from his studies of Roman imperial vaults. The cathedral’s interior, painted by Giorgio Vasari and completed by Federico Zuccari, complements the themes of the Baptistery, echoing the Last Judgment — the largest cycle of Christian frescoes ever created.

In these last paragraphs, I have attempted to describe, in a brief manner and flirting with superficiality, using specialized literature such as the book Churches by Judith Dupré, first to remind those who know these wonders, but also to try to describe, for those who do not, the beauty of a small part of the city.

My intent is to demonstrate the grandeur — which is not possible with such few and feeble words — of works of art that were built over centuries, across generations, resulting in these eternal creations. The goal is to reach a point of reflection, why do we no longer create this kind of expression of the beautiful? Why is the sublime no longer expressed with such sumptuousness?

My first reflection was to link the fading of the beautiful to the process of secularization, whereby moral influence and the education of the individual are shifted from a religious axis to a rational one. Thus, beauty would be the outcome of strong religious influence, to the detriment of reason.

How could we imagine transposing our thinking in order to find justification or understand the reason why the Florentine population was literally able to finance, promote, and construct beauty over so many centuries? How could a society, considered by many modern secular individuals to be backward because it was religious, manage to gift us with such great beauty?

In Florence itself, I believe I have found a point of reflection, drawing from the well of wisdom of a native Florentine, baptized in the Baptistery of San Giovanni, and author of the masterpiece of the Italian language and one of the great works of universal literature, The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri.

Throughout his journey, Dante traverses Hell and Purgatory in the company of the poet Virgil, who represents human reason, classical philosophy, and rationality. Alighieri reveals both his unconditional love for Florence and his explicit criticism of its corruption, political divisions, and moral decay — he was exiled from the city in 1302. A critical turning point occurs upon reaching Paradise: there, Dante can no longer be accompanied by Virgil, but only by Beatrice, his beloved, the embodiment of divine beauty. It is she who takes on the role of Dante’s guide toward Paradise.

During the flourishing centuries of Florence, the city was not led by perfect people. Whether in the political divisions of Dante’s time between the Guelphs and Ghibellines (late 13th and early 14th centuries), or after Dante’s life during the rise of the Medici (late 14th and early 15th centuries), the beauty of the city was built amid a flawed society — Dante criticizes those who accumulate wealth out of vanity or who corrupt society. But it was this flawed society that financed, through the commune of Florence, the guilds, and wealthy families, with greater or lesser importance depending on the economic cycles, the construction of beauty for eternity. Whether these works were built out of devotion, ambition, or the pursuit of prestige matters little, for it was a long-term vision that made possible the creation of a work of enduring greatness.

In today’s secular process, the absence of a narrative of eternity, combined with individualism, a focus on the ephemeral, and cultural fragmentation, redirects wealth toward other ends, often more practical, but less tangible or aesthetically enduring. A striking contrast is that even a secularized society continues to seek transcendent beauty, as evidenced by the millions of tourists who come to Florence each year. These secular individuals seek beauty in Florence, and unconsciously the transcendence of Beatrice.

This realization only reinforces the timelessness of the classics; they are not bound to the era in which they were written. Reason alone may guide us through hell and purgatory, as Virgil guided Dante — but only Beatrice — the beauty can lead us toward transcendence, toward the human capacity to go beyond our limitations. From the narrow secular point of view, of those in whom reason overrides the transcendent, Florence was the result of a short-sighted vision of a deeply religious society, yet these same people seek in Florence the harmony that defies time — the city that transcended its era.

The Florentines were not shortsighted because they were religious — they were rational — and through that quality they crossed the hell and purgatory of an imperfect society, transcending into eternal beauty, an achievement that today’s society does not seem to come close to matching. Are we still capable of building not just what endures, but what transcends?

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on July 19, 2025. You can read the original version here:

Explore more translations in our English Essays section.

And, over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm...

Edgar Allan Poe – The Conqueror Worm

The brutal indifference of reality—no matter how many times I witness it—still shocks and corrodes me. I feel remorse when I see and hear personal tragedies, even as I experience a perverse relief in feeling them only by proxy, through the stories of others and their supporting characters. Empathy, even when exercised, will never be complete. To place oneself in another’s skin is a noble and desirable resource, but one that is fictitious in its entirety.

These are private stories whose essence is universal. The person who, by vocation, always fed the poor, and who, now by illness, can no longer feed herself. The adopted son of an infertile couple, long-awaited and raised with full education, comfort, and affection, who strays and commits parricide. The traumatic, unnamable loss of a child by their parents—an infinite existential void. The illness that slowly takes the patient, as though pruning the branches of a tree. The reversal of logic, of justice, of what is right. I have learned that in nature there is neither mercy nor justice; these are human terms, artificial inventions, concepts crafted by us and for our own benefit, in the attempt to trap the Tiger cub inside a cage in our living room. Nature is amoral and chaotic—Nietzschean.

We are crushed by the vacuum of existence. Helpless, the tragedy of life far surpasses fiction.

The commotion aroused by the occasional—or even merely imagined—overcoming of suffering, when it exists, or its opposite—the immediate emotional shock of tragedy—strikes us deeply and echoes in the depths of a mind already anguished by the possibility of inevitable loss, by the irrational fear of death.

Catharsis—through horror or through art (we may choose the path)—connects us to what we deny, and we try to transgress it by purging our emotions from the comfort of our contemplative and seemingly safe seats.

Safe?

Let us observe the Tiger.

We can only glimpse—like in a dreamlike reverie—the feeling of hopelessness when confronting the demon of depression, which sucks dry and atrophies the patient, chained to himself. And the more he struggles, the more the chains suffocate him, weighing down his limbs, restricting his thoughts. He sees only the shadow, and not the light that casts it.

These are life stories in which we awaken to the abyss of existence, in which we walk—unknowingly—on the edge of a cliff, blindfolded, and feel the breeze on our face, believing it a sign of vitality—believing that the next moment, or next step, will bring the ground under our groping feet.

The tragedies witnessed from the comfort of life's theater tear off our blindfolds, and suddenly—inevitably—we are presented with the vision of the precipice of finitude. We then choose: either to gaze into the absolute void through language and feel the vertigo of destruction consume us, or to face the sublime moment of reality unveiled—stripped of what cannot be said, represented, or fully explained.

Let us feed the Tiger.

The feeling of collapse, even if not our own—just like love—holds the power to grant us vision, or at least a glimpse of the true essence of the matter: first, as our inevitable destiny; second, as the inner abyss of our soul. To deny pain is to imprison ourselves. By rejecting the mortal perspective, we deprive ourselves of the inevitable—we blind ourselves to what cannot be avoided.

The most precious jewel—time—we waste it. By not knowing, or refusing to believe in our final hour, we continue convinced that we shall live forever, all while the limited resource slips away. This illusion of belief in a future that does not exist— a mirage that leaves us thirsting for selfish desires, useless vanities, endless regrets. We waste time as if it were a dropper, on trivial and small things, unaware.

I call these moments in which we witness the collapse of another’s life “points of existential hyperreality”, where attention is irresistibly drawn, like a knife to the neck or a whirlpool, to that specific moment—preventing any shift in focus, such is the tragedy and existential force of the event. It separates what is truly important from what is mere noise in our lives. A moment in which the ego yields to the real, and the psyche—unfiltered—enters either into collapse or into illumination. Can we at least have the luxury of choice? The Self finds its true meaning only in relation to the Other, for whom we are then responsible—and they, for us. We are, after all, responsible for those we have tamed.

“We never disembark from ourselves. We never truly reach the other, except by becoming other through the sensitive imagination of ourselves,” said Fernando Pessoa.

It’s not the experience itself that matters, but the sensitive, limited, critical, and reflective analysis of it—painful though it may be—even if incomplete by nature of empathy, for we shall never feel the pain of the burn as the other does, until we ourselves are burned. There is only representation of suffering—never its full transposition or transplant.

Let us free the Tiger.

Medicine is full of points of hyperreality—when we feel the devastating impact of a tragic plot breaking through the symbolic, when language fails to name the pain, the horror, or the suffering. The raw, absolute real—unrepresentable.

Only silence remains.

We either choose to free the Tiger—or we lock ourselves in the cage.

In a society built on distractions, these are sublime moments of revelation. We feel something powerful, something we try to contain with language, with culture, with detachment—and we fail. The simple contact with the real of finitude and collapse—even if belonging to someone else, even if only reflected—makes us live our own unexamined lives with greater intensity. The Other, as Levinas teaches, is an opening, a crack in the chains that bind us to ourselves. They are windows that allow us to see the light without being blinded—and before it finally goes out.

Read before you fade.

For the Tiger was never truly caged.

All that remains is to ask: Will we tame him?

“Tiger, tiger, burning bright,

In the forest of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

—William Blake, The Tiger

This essay was originally published in Portuguese on July 12, 2025. You can read the original version here:

Explore more translations in our English Essays section.