Galton’s records tell us little about Family #72 beyond their height data: a father standing at 5 feet 8 inches, a mother at 5 feet 4 inches, and children ranging from 5 feet 1 inch to nearly 6 feet 6 inches. Yet, this sparse data reduces their lives to mere measurements, abstracting away the personal realities that define human experience.
Before delving into the fictionalized story of Family #72, consider this challenge: Should we aim for a utopia, like the one envisioned in Galton’s novel Kantsaywhere, where lives are engineered to fit a rigid ideal of perfection? Or should we reimagine narratives that embrace the complexities, imperfections, and beauty of real human experiences? Galton’s utopia promised order and progress—but at what cost?
As you meet the Clarke family, reflect on whether stories like theirs—messy, unpredictable, and full of humanity—might bring us closer to understanding the true richness of life than any vision of engineered perfection ever could.
In the grand corridors of King's College, Cambridge, Frank Clarke stood out. Even as a child, he had a knack for getting lost in books, his parents often teasing him, “Frank, what book have you attached to your hand today?” By the time he reached Cambridge, his love for knowledge had blossomed—he was a rising star in mathematics. But it wasn’t just numbers that captured his heart; that honor belonged to Alice Raycroft.
Alice was a scholar of the classics at Girton College, known for her sharp mind and quick wit. She bridged the ancient world with Frank’s modern, analytical one, sparking a connection that transcended academics. What started as intellectual admiration soon deepened, and before long, they were married, intertwining their minds, hearts, and purposes.
Their home was alive with warmth and progress. While Frank delved deeper into academia, Alice championed women's rights in education, refusing to settle for society's limited roles. Together, they raised three children—Amy, Lucy, and John—in a house filled with lively debates and ideas.
But the peace of their life was quietly tested. One of Frank’s students, Simon Jones, a young prodigy in mathematics, became more than just a pupil. Their bond, forged over intense study, awakened something in Frank that he had long suppressed. Nights found him alone, wrestling with a truth he had kept hidden for years. By day, he maintained the image of the composed scholar; beneath it, he felt the weight of secrets growing heavier.
Eventually, Frank could no longer bear the burden. One evening, voice trembling, he opened up to Alice, sharing parts of himself that had remained hidden. It felt like peeling back layers of his soul, exposing his deepest fears and desires.
The air hung heavy as he spoke. He feared it would break them, but Alice listened with quiet understanding. She wasn't shocked; it seemed she had sensed this truth all along. Her acceptance was not a reaction but an acknowledgment of a reality she had already made peace with. This revelation, instead of driving them apart, deepened their connection in ways neither had anticipated.
However, as their relationship evolved, a gap remained. Alice's physical desires, unfulfilled by Frank, left an emptiness she couldn't ignore. Enter Matthew Smith, an old childhood friend—steady and dependable, living a life free from commitments. When Alice re-entered his life, their connection deepened into something filled with both passion and freedom. Together, they had two sons, Matt and Simon, named in honor of the men pivotal to both Alice and Frank’s journey.
Though Frank was not their biological father, Matt and Simon were raised with deep love by both Alice and Frank, growing up with close bonds to their namesakes—"Uncle" Simon and "Uncle" Matthew. The boys symbolized the understanding and connection that held their unconventional family together, nurtured by a love that transcended traditional boundaries.
In the end, theirs was a story of complexity and love in many forms—a life where hearts, though pulled in different directions, remained united by a bond that defied convention. A journey not defined by rules but by the meaning and acceptance they found within each other’s lives.
Not all outliers exist in fiction. Consider Alan Turing—a true outlier whose genius revolutionized modern computing and laid the foundations for artificial intelligence. Yet his brilliance could not protect him from the cruelty of forced conformity to societal norms.
In 1952, Turing was convicted for homosexuality, a crime under British law at the time. Faced with prison or chemical castration, he accepted chemical castration—a punishment rooted in the same eugenic logic that once sought to sterilize those deemed "unfit."
Two years later, Turing died by suicide, a tragic consequence of the physical and psychological torment inflicted upon him. Britain later honored him by placing his face on the £50 note—a hollow gesture that cannot erase the harm done. Society recognized his brilliance only after destroying him.
It’s tempting to believe we would have acted differently in the past—that we would have seen Turing’s worth or resisted eugenic ideology. But what about today?
What systems of categorization are we upholding now that future generations will denounce? Which outliers are we marginalizing, whose contributions could reshape the world if we allowed them to exist as they are?
Karl Pearson’s statistical brilliance expanded the reach of Galton’s methods, embedding them more deeply into science and public policy. His models didn’t just advance science—they legitimized social hierarchies.
Continue reading: Karl Pearson: Galton's Disciple