I sought knowledge of my malfunctioning body wherever I could. But every test just left me deeper in the dark
Some time ago while riding the tube, I came across an advertisement that stood out among the familiar roster of ads for nutritional supplements and blended Tennessee whiskey. This was in the days before the pandemic emptied rail carriages and transformed indoor public spaces into chambers of contagion. Unfolding across several posters, it went like this: “Explore risks that may be common in your family tree.” “See how DNA affects your health.” “Put your worries to test.”
The advertisement was clearly suggesting that the knowledge it sold would be beneficial to the customer, although why and in what ways were questions on which it demurred: not “mitigate” or “minimise” but “explore risks”. The claim seemed to be that knowing about one’s genetic predispositions to disease would be inherently good. Knowledge itself would be improving.
