The Sir William Dunn School of Pathology
Obituary
Henry Harris Cell biologist and pioneer of cell fusion. He was born in Pochep, Russia, on Jan 28, 1925, and died in Oxford, UK, on Oct 31, 2014, aged 89 years. In 1968, reflecting on what he aptly described as his eccentric career, Professor Sir Henry Harris offered this cryptic précis: “I did medicine to become a writer. I did pathology to become a botanist. I did botany to become a regius professor.” Although revealing nothing of his considerable scientific achievements—which included work that paved the way for monoclonal antibodies—this summary does capture the flow of unlikely events by which Harris arrived at and directed the Sir William Dunn School of Pathology at the University of Oxford. Harris’s parents (the surname is an anglicised version of the Russian original) emigrated to Australia when he was still a child. Having studied modern languages at the University of Sydney he then went on to study medicine. He claimed that through reading Anton Chekhov and other physician writers he’d become enamoured of the idea of becoming one of them. Once into the medical course, however, he became interested in medicine for its own sake—but only to an extent. After a year of clinical practice in Sydney he was offered a laboratory job at the University of Melbourne, and pretty much gave up clinical work. The writing, mostly of short stores, continued. Before making the move to Melbourne, Harris met Howard Florey of penicillin fame. Shortly afterwards Florey invited him to Oxford, an opportunity he seized—although 1616
not until 1952, once he’d done his year in Melbourne. Florey then supervised Harris’s DPhil, after which the two fell out over the future direction that Harris’s research should take. He spent a short period it the USA, returning in 1960 to become head of a new department of cell biology at the John Innes Institute, a research organisation concerned not with medicine but with plant science. Although an offbeat appointment it allowed him to pursue his interest in dividing cells. 3 years later this “obscure botanist”, as some malcontents mischievously described him, took over from Florey as Director of Oxford’s Sir William Dunn School of Pathology, and remained in that role until his retirement 31 years later. The work for which Harris is best known, the development of cell fusion, was prompted by his realisation that it would be a way of getting an insight in gene activity. According to Eric Sidebottom, a sometime member of the Dunn scientific staff and a graduate student of Harris, the latter had got the idea while still at the John Innes Institute where a fellow researcher was using viruses to bring about the fusion of fungal cells. On moving to Oxford, Harris tried this with mammalian cells. His method proved to be scientifically productive. “Monoclonal antibodies came out of that technique”, says Sidebottom. “I think Henry should have shared the Nobel Prize.” Harris also played a part in explaining the emergence of malignant tumours. His experiments drew attention to the existence of a class of tumour suppressor genes with the opposite effect to that of the already recognised oncogenes. As with some of his other discoveries and interpretations, acceptance of the idea was neither immediate nor universal. This did not upset him. “He loved an intellectual fight”, says Sidebottom. Chris Pugh, Professor of Renal Medicine at the University of Oxford, agrees that Harris was always his own man. “He would ask penetrating questions, and he would be quite prepared to indicate if he didn’t agree.” Harris’s selection in 1979 as Sir Richard Doll’s successor to Oxford’s Regius Professorship of Medicine also produced the by now familiar raising of eyebrows. Harris was unconcerned. “What he cared about were science and experiments”, says Sidebottom. Harris was very approachable, says Sidebottom, but adds that there could be a price to pay. “If you had ten minutes of his advice you had then to listen to his ideas for another 30. But he was always interesting.” Pugh too recalls Harris with affection. “He went out of his way to be kind to me and others. There was a sense of family about the department. There was a tradition of tea being served at 3 pm each day in the museum, and the rule was you took the next available seat.” Harris was a willing participant in this, happy to mingle with and talk to whoever he happened to be next to. He leaves a wife, a son, and two daughters.
Geoff Watts www.thelancet.com Vol 385 April 25, 2015
Obituary
Henry Harris Cell biologist and pioneer of cell fusion. He was born in Pochep, Russia, on Jan 28, 1925, and died in Oxford, UK, on Oct 31, 2014, aged 89 years. In 1968, reflecting on what he aptly described as his eccentric career, Professor Sir Henry Harris offered this cryptic précis: “I did medicine to become a writer. I did pathology to become a botanist. I did botany to become a regius professor.” Although revealing nothing of his considerable scientific achievements—which included work that paved the way for monoclonal antibodies—this summary does capture the flow of unlikely events by which Harris arrived at and directed the Sir William Dunn School of Pathology at the University of Oxford. Harris’s parents (the surname is an anglicised version of the Russian original) emigrated to Australia when he was still a child. Having studied modern languages at the University of Sydney he then went on to study medicine. He claimed that through reading Anton Chekhov and other physician writers he’d become enamoured of the idea of becoming one of them. Once into the medical course, however, he became interested in medicine for its own sake—but only to an extent. After a year of clinical practice in Sydney he was offered a laboratory job at the University of Melbourne, and pretty much gave up clinical work. The writing, mostly of short stores, continued. Before making the move to Melbourne, Harris met Howard Florey of penicillin fame. Shortly afterwards Florey invited him to Oxford, an opportunity he seized—although 1616
not until 1952, once he’d done his year in Melbourne. Florey then supervised Harris’s DPhil, after which the two fell out over the future direction that Harris’s research should take. He spent a short period it the USA, returning in 1960 to become head of a new department of cell biology at the John Innes Institute, a research organisation concerned not with medicine but with plant science. Although an offbeat appointment it allowed him to pursue his interest in dividing cells. 3 years later this “obscure botanist”, as some malcontents mischievously described him, took over from Florey as Director of Oxford’s Sir William Dunn School of Pathology, and remained in that role until his retirement 31 years later. The work for which Harris is best known, the development of cell fusion, was prompted by his realisation that it would be a way of getting an insight in gene activity. According to Eric Sidebottom, a sometime member of the Dunn scientific staff and a graduate student of Harris, the latter had got the idea while still at the John Innes Institute where a fellow researcher was using viruses to bring about the fusion of fungal cells. On moving to Oxford, Harris tried this with mammalian cells. His method proved to be scientifically productive. “Monoclonal antibodies came out of that technique”, says Sidebottom. “I think Henry should have shared the Nobel Prize.” Harris also played a part in explaining the emergence of malignant tumours. His experiments drew attention to the existence of a class of tumour suppressor genes with the opposite effect to that of the already recognised oncogenes. As with some of his other discoveries and interpretations, acceptance of the idea was neither immediate nor universal. This did not upset him. “He loved an intellectual fight”, says Sidebottom. Chris Pugh, Professor of Renal Medicine at the University of Oxford, agrees that Harris was always his own man. “He would ask penetrating questions, and he would be quite prepared to indicate if he didn’t agree.” Harris’s selection in 1979 as Sir Richard Doll’s successor to Oxford’s Regius Professorship of Medicine also produced the by now familiar raising of eyebrows. Harris was unconcerned. “What he cared about were science and experiments”, says Sidebottom. Harris was very approachable, says Sidebottom, but adds that there could be a price to pay. “If you had ten minutes of his advice you had then to listen to his ideas for another 30. But he was always interesting.” Pugh too recalls Harris with affection. “He went out of his way to be kind to me and others. There was a sense of family about the department. There was a tradition of tea being served at 3 pm each day in the museum, and the rule was you took the next available seat.” Harris was a willing participant in this, happy to mingle with and talk to whoever he happened to be next to. He leaves a wife, a son, and two daughters.
Geoff Watts www.thelancet.com Vol 385 April 25, 2015
