“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of wife.” This statement, from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, launches James D. Watson’s new memoir, Genes, Girls, and Gamow, which picks up where The Double Helix, his first memoir, left off. Although the title suggests a tripartite focus, the “girls” portion certainly dominates the book and much of the reader’s attention is focused on Watson’s pursuit of a wife from 1953 to 1968.

Watson begins his tale in the aftermath of his co-discovery of the structure of DNA. “The story starts when I was an unmarried 25-year-old and thought more about girls than genes. It is as much a tale of love as of ideas.” Quite an understatement there. Watson reports that there was “only one secretary to stare at” at the coffeehouse on the Caltech campus, that Pasadena “had the highest concentration of women over 60 than any other American city,” that Rachel Morgan’s statement that he “could never be important in her life” caused many sleepless nights. The names of Watson’s many romantic interests grace the pages: Sheila Griffith, Linda Pauling, Rachel Morgan, Mariette Robertson, Margot Schutt, and Belinda Bullard. Most of all, though, Watson speaks about his relationship with Christa Mayr, daughter of Ernst Mayr, a famous biologist at Harvard.

Watson chronicles virtually every meeting with Christa from June 1953 to December 1955. His description of the 17-year-old Christa as a “full-bodied woman, no longer the gangly child of earlier memories” betrays his fascination with nubile youth. Watson reports that “her face and voice made butterflies rumble through [his] stomach,” but such attempts at poetic description usually fall short. Their formal relationship begins in August 1954: “After a long walk down and back the country road beside their house, we started kissing in the darkened hall outside her room…the next day we were quietly a couple.” But the reader soon recognizes Watson’s complete obsession: “Persistent anxieties about Christa, heightened by the tone and decreasing frequency of her letters, were affecting my ability to concentrate either on model-building or preparing for my impending talk at Harvard.” In December 1955, Christa breaks off the relationship, telling Watson that “she was not at all in love with [him] and knew her mind and needs well enough to know that she would always feel this way.” While Watson’s account seeks to inspire compassion for himself as a “jilted” lover, he seems to suffer more from a bruised ego than from a broken heart. The amount of detail he presents is almost excruciating. The relationship occurred nearly five decades ago. Surely, he could have moved on?

The “genes” portion of the title refers to Watson’s search to understand the role of RNA in the transfer of genetic information from DNA to protein. Little background scientific knowledge is necessary: Watson essentially spoon-feeds all relevant information and intersperses these chunks with the arguably more engaging details of his personal life. A helpful “cast of characters” section at the beginning of the book allows the reader to keep track of the many names Watson strews throughout his narrative.

George Gamow, a prominent theoretical physicist, is one recurring figure in the story. Watson describes him as a “six-foot, six-inch giant” who “defied conventional description with his penchant for tricks that masked a mind that always thought big.” With Gamow, Watson founded the RNA Tie Club, a group of twenty scientists—one for each amino acid—who sought to understand the purpose of RNA. Watson’s descriptions of many of these scientists often zero in on their idiosyncracies and help personalize the names now placed on pedestals in introductory biology classes.

Genes, Girls, and Gamow lacks the level of acerbity of the controversial The Double Helix, but still contains considerable bite, considering Watson’s matter-of-fact refusal to sugar-coat his judgments. Even his good friend, Gamow, is described rather unflatteringly as possessing a “high-pitched squeal” which “did not go with his generous bulk.” The Biological Labs of Harvard “reeked of ’30s mustiness,” and Linus Pauling is “a popelike figure.” Watson evidently delights in gossip. He almost gleefully describes Peter Pauling’s predicament after an amorous episode results in a pregnancy, and then a marriage, asking “Would he have ever willingly committed himself to a monogamous institution that he was inherently unsuited for?”

Through fifteen years, Watson himself was thoroughly suited for—or rather, desperately sought—that monogamous institution. In spring of 1967, he met Elizabeth Lewis, a Radcliffe sophomore, and married her in March of 1968, shortly before his fortieth birthday. His sexist pomposity leaks through in a postcard to a friend: “19-year-old now mine.” Despite its readability and lighthearted melodrama, the book is ultimately hurt by Watson’s own egoism. His final description of the woman with enough fortitude to marry him does little to neutralize the sour taste already in the reader’s mouth: “Now, more than thirty years later, she remains very much a sweet peach.”