November 6: Gravity lets you down

Figure 5.

Mr. Faraday continues his lecture on gravity that he began back in May, and I continue to be completely beguiled by the illustrations, as you can see.

It's hard to really form a blistering opinion about gravity -- I think we're all in favor of it, especially those of us who just pile things up on their desks instead of filing them -- so I will note that Faraday uses the word "beautiful" four or five times in the course of this lecture, including these sentences (technically not in the reading):

Hence, we come into this world, we live, and depart from it, without our thoughts being called specifically to consider how all this takes place; and were it not for the exertions of some few inquiring minds, who have looked into these things, and ascertained the very beautiful laws and conditions by which we do live and stand upon the earth, we should hardly be aware that there was any thing wonderful in it.

Here I have what we call a weight [an iron half cwt.]—a thing called a weight because in it the exercise of that power of pressing downward is especially used for the purposes of weighing; and I have also one of these little inflated India-rubber bladders, which are very beautiful although very common (most beautiful things are common), and I am going to put the weight upon it, to give you a sort of illustration of the downward pressure of the iron...

Burnt-out literature professors are a common trope, but are there burnt-out scientists? There must be. But the relatively few science folk I have known (mostly science majors who turned to comedy writing in the vain hope of being cooler) are still geeked on what they study. And maybe that's because for them, as for Faraday, science is an aesthetic pursuit. Only instead of imposing an aesthetic upon the world, they seek to find how the world imposes its principles upon us.

Hey, maybe that's what'll get kids interested in science -- just tell them it's a branch of aesthetic philosophy! Also, a cartoon cat of some sort might be helpful. Like a jaguar or something. Also also, illustrations, like my friend Figure 9 here:

Nuff said!

September 8: Alternate-universe nostalgia

I'm not entirely sure what this photo means (though I don't think it's good), I just find it hypnotic

In my head I dislike nostalgia, because I'm convinced, intellectually, that we should be looking forward into an ever more-glorious future. Otherwise, what's the point of not drinking in the mornings? But often I'm a sucker for its narcotic charms (although I'm doing pretty good at resisting drinking till lunch.)

Today's reading from one of the Science! volumes, Helmholtz on glaciers, manages to evoke two kinds of noncanonical nostalgia -- one for a world I never knew, the other for a world that's still existing, barely.

"The world I never knew" nostalgia comes from the nature of this volume, which consists almost entirely of public lectures. Public lectures! Entertainment for the radio-less! I guess we have the same thing now with TED talks and such, but the idea of gaining knowledge as something to do with your evenings; well, it's hard for the nerd not to feel wistful.

And the other nostalgia, the pre-emptive kind, comes from the fact that its about glaciers, which, of course, we seem to be doing our best to get rid of, because who needs fresh water? Without getting too much into the post, it does remind you of how our planet is an extremely delicate, almost accidental, system:

To this must be added another property of air which acts in the same direction. In a mass of air which expands, part of its store of heat disappears; it becomes cooler, if it cannot acquire fresh heat from without. Conversely, by renewed compression of the air, the same quantity of heat is reproduced which had disappeared during expansion. Thus, if for instance, south winds drive the warm air of the Mediterranean towards the north, and compel it to ascend along the great mountain wall of the Alps, where the air, in consequence of the diminished pressure, expands by about half its volume, it thereby becomes very greatly cooled—for a mean height of 11,000 feet, by from 18° to 30° C., according as it is moist or dry—and it thereby deposits the greater part of its moisture as rain or snow.

And, of course, this, which if it weren't about heat would be chilling:

Our atmosphere is like a warm covering spread over the earth; it is well-nigh entirely transparent for the luminous darting rays of the sun, and allows them to pass almost without appreciable change. But it is not equally penetrable by obscure heat rays, which, proceeding from heated terrestrial bodies, struggle to diffuse themselves into space. These are absorbed by atmospheric air, especially when it is moist; the mass of air is itself heated thereby, and only radiates slowly into space the heat which has been gained.

Hmm. Maybe that morning Scotch is starting to look good after all.

August 25: Science is complified

Figure 126.

Here's a bunch of sentences from today's reading, Kelvin on the tides:

If I were asked to tell what I mean by the Tides I should feel it exceedingly difficult to answer the question.

But I fear I have got into questions which are leading me away from my subject, and as I cannot get through them I must just turn back.

I will not enter into details, as it would be useless for those who already understand the tidal theory, and unintelligible to those who do not.

I would like to explain to you the equilibrium theory, and the kinetic theory, of the tides, but I am afraid I must merely say there are such things...

Kelvin (who, like most scientists, makes us humanities people feel like ignoramuses) was giving this as a public lecture -- this being 1882, before we found ways of filling our evenings that didn't turn us into huge nerds. And, even though he was good at that, and even though tides are something we've all experienced, it turns out to be a subject that's super-tricky to explain.

Kelvin's problem seems to be related to Burke's problem of a couple of days ago -- it's hard to generalize when there are so many particulars that have to be accounted for. In this instance, there's "tide" as a word for "current"; effects of the sun, and the wind, have to be distinguished; and there's math:

The moon attracts the nearest point (B) with a force which is greater than that with which it attracts the farther point (A) in the ratio of the square of 59 to the square of 61. Hence the moon’s attraction on equal masses at the nearest and farthest points differs by one fifteenth part of her attraction on an equal mass at the earth’s centre, or about a 4,320,000th, or, roughly, a four-millionth, of the earth’s attraction on an equal mass at its surface.

The reader may find him or herself back in school, looking up at the ceiling and wondering if an interesting pattern may be derived from the tiles.

The plus side is that, unlike philosophical distinctions, all this distinguishing seems to get us somewhere. At one time we might wonder "Why are there tides?," at another, "What is Beauty?," but we've settled the former question. I think this is why scientists, when they communicate with the general populace, generally seem more excited and happy.

I might also add that a discussion of the tides allows one to use the word "neap," which is an excellent word.

July 11: Newcomb's Restorative Nerve Treatment or, "The Computer Wore Muttonchops"

That's one fine Canadian-American head of hair right there.

As you can see, I was unable to find evidence that Simon Newcomb did, in fact, wear muttonchops. But he was in the great 'chops-wearing era of the late 19th century, where he was one of our leading astronomers, and, according to his biographical note, he did work as a computer -- that is, someone who computes things. Today, of course, we would call such a person a calculator.

And today, straight from Volume 30, the "Miscellaneous Science Stuff" volume of the Harvard Classics (Faraday on electricity, Lord Kelvin on tides, that kind of thing), here he is opining on the extent of the universe. Short answer: he was off a little bit -- he says, "we may state as a general conclusion, indicated by several methods of making the estimate, that nearly all the stars which we can see with our telescopes are contained within a sphere not likely to be much more than 200,000,000 times the distance of the sun." Wikipedia says the universe is actually bigger than that (93 billion light-years), but Newcomb is to be excused since this was written, I believe, in 1906, when so much less was known.

But how he came to the conclusion is in the last, mathy, less interesting part of his paper. The part I want to pull out is where Newcomb is engaged in a phenomenon I always enjoy -- scientists showing how happy they are in their science:

The reader who desires to approach this subject in the most receptive spirit should begin his study by betaking himself on a clear, moonless evening, when he has no earthly concern to disturb the serenity of his thoughts, to some point where he can lie on his back on bench or roof, and scan the whole vault of heaven at one view... The thinking man who does this under circumstances most favorable for calm thought will form a new conception of the wonder of the universe.... When attention is concentrated on the scene the thousands of stars on each side of the Milky Way will fill the mind with the consciousness of a stupendous and all-embracing frame, beside which all human affairs sink into insignificance. ...

Bodily rest may be obtained at any time by ceasing from our labors, and weary systems may find nerve rest at any summer resort; but I know of no way in which complete rest can be obtained for the weary soul—in which the mind can be so entirely relieved of the burden of all human anxiety—as by the contemplation of the spectacle presented by the starry heavens under the conditions just described.

First of all, I like his advice: "You know what would make you feel better? Knowing you're insignificant!" It's just a cosmic version of "this too shall pass," I guess, but the idea that the universe doesn't particularly know or care about you can't be good for the self-esteem. (Unless you've fucked up; then I guess Newcomb's restorative is the ultimate "wanna get away?") However, I shouldn't tease too much because his love of the subject is evident, and that's something a lot of scientists seem to have to a particular degree -- I bet biologists are less likely to get sick of mitochondria than English professors do of Milton.

Secondly, note "weary systems may find nerve rest at any summer resort." Systems -- nerve rest -- summer resort. Like light from Arcturus, these words are sent to us from eras gone by. I think I should try to bring back "nerve rest," though, and the whole idea of nerves and nervous disorders and neurasthenia. Like joining the Masons, I think that would be a good retro thing to do.

Finally, note that, even if you believe in the nerve-soothing effects of Newcomb's restorative it simply isn't possible for most of us, because of all the light pollution. (Even at summer resorts, because of the parking.) Another thing to get on our nerves!

May 2: Science!

Shown here:

Now that looks like science! Get my lab coat!

Just three of the 50 volumes of the Harvard Classics are sciencey, and two are by Darwin. This one, Volume 30, is the third. (I don't count "Wealth of Nations" -- that's social science, brah!) It's understandable, of course, because science keeps changing on us, so it's hard to freeze it, Classics-style. But to me it's comforting, because us Humanities types are always being accused of ignoring science, and, although the accusations are true, it's nice to know that we've been ignoring science for generations.

And so, my fellow B.A.s, come with me now to a Michael Faraday, lecture "delivered before a Juvenile Auditory at the Royal Institution of Great Britain during the Christmas Holidays of 1859–60." Juvenile -- is that all we can handle? Probably:

I WONDER whether we shall be too deep to-day or not. Remember that we spoke of the attraction by gravitation of all bodies to all bodies by their simple approach. Remember that we spoke of the attraction of particles of the same kind to each other—that power which keeps them together in masses—iron attracted to iron, brass to brass, or water to water. Remember that we found, on looking into water, that there were particles of two different kinds attracted to each other; and this was a great step beyond the first simple attraction of gravitation, because here we deal with attraction between different kinds of matter...

OMG, I wonder what they're serving in the cafeteria for lunch today. The lecture is actually quite good, and, as it was a demonstration, is full of stage directions, as it were: "[The lecturer brought his finger near a jet from which gas was issuing, when, after one or two attempts, the spark which came from his finger to the jet set fire to the gas.]" If you have kids, it will remind you of dragging them to science museums and so forth, and of trying to help them with homework when you yourself can't quite remember the relationship between magnetism and electricity, which, sadly, Faraday doesn't elaborate on -- he just demonstrates magnetism, then electricity, and one must imagine how exciting it seemed, there in the very early days of the stuff, before it became the source of blogs and George Foreman grills and stuff.

Faraday's biography, as provided by the Classics, is interesting of itself:

Faraday’s parents were members of the obscure religious denomination of the Sandemanians, and Faraday himself, shortly after his marriage, at the age of thirty, joined the same sect, to which he adhered till his death. Religion and science he kept strictly apart, believing that the data of science were of an entirely different nature from the direct communications between God and the soul on which his religious faith was based.

And you can kind of see that Faraday is the kind of guy who enjoys poking around in Creation, to see how it works. And how do you find out how it works? With things like these:

	10

I really can't get enough of the illustrations, either.