Satchel and Ellory via Liesel at Woodland airfield 1904.21 |
Just a share today.
Happy Easter.
Enraptured by nature, Dickinson spent her days in a sunny bedroom wallpapered with botanical patterns, in a house surrounded by flowerbeds and blooming trees. I wonder if she saw the magnolias the way I do, taken with their bittersweet beauty — for a week or so a year, their blossoms stun with a splendor that vanishes always too soon, as if to remind us that everything we love eventually perishes and yet this perishability is not reason for sorrow but reason to love all the harder.
It is strange the way ideas come when they are needed. I remember it was the same with the idea for my Trinity Fellowship thesis.
In a lovely example of merited pride unmoored from ego and self-satisfaction, he adds:
It is impossible for me to judge at present whether the work is as great as I think it may be. All I know is, it is certainly the best thing I have done yet.
Less than a month after he submitted the paper to the prestigious science journal Physical Review, Dyson received a letter that it had been accepted in its entirety — a highly unusual decision in its rapidity. His paper, one of the longest the journal has ever published, had gone through the peer review process in record time. The first paper to make use of Feynman’s diagrams, it championed their power not merely as a computational tool but as a physical theory, inviting other scientists to appreciate their brilliance and splendor. It was a turning point for the acceptance of Feynman’s unorthodox ideas in the scientific community. Seventeen years later, Feynman and Schwinger would share the Nobel Prize “for their fundamental work in quantum electrodynamics, with deep-ploughing consequences for the physics of elementary particles” — a depth of consequence the twenty-four-year-old Dyson had been the first to demonstrate in a coherent and compelling way after his revelation on the Greyhound bus.
To arrive at the frontiers of physics is like breaking through a crust, after which one finds plenty of room to move in a lot of directions.
Maker of Patterns is a fascinating and deeply rewarding read in its totality, replete with Dyson’s insight into science, creativity, politics, love, and the complexities of being human. Complement this particular portion with Rilke on how inspiration strikes, physicist David Bohm on creativity, and neurologist Oliver Sacks on its three essential components, then revisit Dyson on the future of science and finding meaning in the randomness of life.
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- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1904.21 - 10:10
- Days ago = 1387 days ago
- New note - On 1807.06, I ceased daily transmission of my Hey Mom feature after three years of daily conversations. I plan to continue Hey Mom posts at least twice per week but will continue to post the days since ("Days Ago") count on my blog each day. The blog entry numbering in the title has changed to reflect total Sense of Doubt posts since I began the blog on 0705.04, which include Hey Mom posts, Daily Bowie posts, and Sense of Doubt posts. Hey Mom posts will still be numbered sequentially. New Hey Mom posts will use the same format as all the other Hey Mom posts; all other posts will feature this format seen here.
“How we spend our days is, of course, how we
spend our lives,” Annie Dillard wrote in her abiding insistence on choosing presence over productivity.
But how do we really spend our days? In our era, the average
human lifetime will contain two years of boredom, six months of
watching commercials, 67 days of heartbreak, and 14 minutes of pure joy.
This devastating arithmetic of time wasted
versus time meaningfully spent may seem like a modern problem, but while the
nature of our cultural technologies has undeniably exacerbated the ratio, the
equation itself stretches all the way to antiquity, with only the variables
altered. (Lest we forget, books were derided as a dangerous
distraction in 12th-century Japan.)
That equation, and how to balance it more
favorably toward a life of substance and presence rather than one of waste and
want, is what the great first-century Roman philosopher Seneca examined
at the end of his life in Letters from a Stoic (public library) —
a collection of 124 letters he composed to his friend Lucilius, which also gave
us Seneca on true and false friendship, overcoming fear,
and the antidote to anxiety.
Seneca
Fittingly, the first letter addresses the most
urgent subject haunting human life: time, and more particularly, the
existential calculus of how we spend or waste the sliver of time allotted us
along the continuum of being. Fifteen years after he composed his timeless
treatise on filling the shortness of life with
wide living, Seneca, now in his final years, counsels his friend:
Set yourself free for your own sake; gather
and save your time, which till lately has been forced from you, or filched
away, or has merely slipped from your hands… Certain moments are torn from us…
some are gently removed… others glide beyond our reach. The most disgraceful
kind of loss, however, is that due to carelessness.
The most perilous carelessness, Seneca argues
eighteen centuries before Kierkegaard bemoaned the absurdity of busyness and
Walt Whitman contemplated what makes life worth living,
is that of sliding through life in a trance of expectancy, always vacating the
present moment in order to lurch toward the next — a kind of living death. He
writes:
What man can you show me who places any value
on his time, who reckons the worth of each day, who understands that he is
dying daily? For we are mistaken when we look forward to death; the major
portion of death has already passed. Whatever years lie behind us are in
death’s hands.
Therefore…
hold every hour in your grasp. Lay hold of to-day’s task, and you will not need
to depend so much upon to-morrow’s. While we are postponing, life speeds by.
Nothing… is ours, except time. We were entrusted by nature with the ownership
of this single thing, so fleeting and slippery that anyone who will can oust us
from possession. What fools these mortals be! They allow the cheapest and most
useless things, which can easily be replaced, to be charged in the reckoning,
after they have acquired them; but they never regard themselves as in debt when
they have received some of that precious commodity, — time! And yet time is the
one loan which even a grateful recipient cannot repay.
Art by Ohara Hale from Be Still, Life
Reflecting on how he himself practices what he
is preaching, Seneca writes with Stoic self-awareness:
I confess frankly: my expense account
balances, as you would expect from one who is free-handed but careful. I cannot
boast that I waste nothing, but I can at least tell you what I am wasting, and
the cause and manner of the loss; I can give you the reasons why I am a poor
man… I do not regard a man as poor, if the little which remains is enough for
him. I advise you, however, to keep what is really yours; and you cannot begin too
early. For, as our ancestors believed, it is too late to spare when you reach
the dregs of the cask. Of that which remains at the bottom, the amount is
slight, and the quality is vile.
Art by Lisbeth Zwerger for a special edition of Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland
Complement this particular fragment of the
timelessly rewarding Letters from a Stoic with
Ursula K. Le Guin’s gorgeous ode to time,
Bertrand Russell on the relationship between leisure
and social justice, Margaret Mead on leisure and creativity,
and Emerson on how to live with presence in a
culture of busyness, then revisit Seneca on what it means to be a generous
human being and his Stoic key to peace of mind.
Something strange blankets the city and the soul in the first
days of spring. The weary, the rushed, even the dispossessed surrender to a
certain nonspecific gladness. They smile at you, you smile at them — under the
blessing rays of the vernal sun, we are somehow reminded of what we humans were
always meant to be to each other and to this stunning, irreplaceable planet we
share with innumerable other creatures. In attending to nature at its best and
most buoyant, we suddenly attune to the best of our own nature. This, perhaps,
is why the modern environmental conscience was jolted awake by the terrifying
notion of a silent spring, bereft of
birdsong and bloom.
That vernal exhilaration is what Emily
Dickinson (December 10, 1830–May 15, 1886), poet laureate of nature,
celebrates in a letter to her
brother Austin, composed in the spring of her twenty-third year, just as she
was falling in love with the love of
her life, whom Austin would soon marry. (This beautiful, harrowing
tangle of heartstrings occupies a large portion of Figuring.)
Emily Dickinson at seventeen. The only authenticated photograph
of the poet. (Amherst College Archives & Special Collections, gift of
Millicent Todd Bingham, 1956)
On a May Saturday in 1853, Emily writes to
Austin:
Today is very beautiful — just as bright, just
as blue, just as green and as white, and as crimson, as the cherry trees full
in bloom, and the half opening peach blossoms, and the grass just waving, and
sky and hill and cloud, can make it, if they try… You thought last Saturday
beautiful — yet to this golden day, ’twas but one single gem, to whole handfuls
of jewels.
Enraptured by nature, Dickinson spent her days in a sunny bedroom wallpapered with botanical patterns, in a house surrounded by flowerbeds and blooming trees. I wonder if she saw the magnolias the way I do, taken with their bittersweet beauty — for a week or so a year, their blossoms stun with a splendor that vanishes always too soon, as if to remind us that everything we love eventually perishes and yet this perishability is not reason for sorrow but reason to love all the harder.
Pages from Emily Dickinson’s herbarium.
This eternal dance of love and loss animated
Dickinson since the earliest age. Most of the flower specimens in the astonishing herbarium of
her girlhood — an elegy for time and the mortality of beauty at the
intersection of poetry and science — were collected in the spring, then
meticulously pressed and arranged onto the pages of this curious catalogue of
imagined immortality and bulwark against impermanence. This inescapable
interplay between beauty and perishability, which lends life so much of its
sweetness, is at the heart of Dickinson’s vast body of work — nowhere more
intensely than in this poem devoted to spring, composed in the autumn of her
life:
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here
A
Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It
waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then
as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —
A
quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.
Photograph by Maria Popova
Complement with Dickinson on making sense of loss and
her ode to resilience, then
revisit Neil Gaiman’s stirring poem paying
tribute to the ecological and cultural legacy of Silent Spring.
“Invention,” Frankenstein author
Mary Shelley wrote in contemplating how creativity works, “does
not consist in creating out of void, but out of chaos” — the chaos of
existing inspirations, properly comprehended and reconfigured into something
new. Einstein termed this reordering “combinatory play.” But
it is a process mostly unconscious, the product of which — the creative
breakthrough we call originality — cannot be willed. It arrives unbidden, with
an abruptness that often startles the very mind to which it alights — an
exhilarating startlement the French polymath Henri Poincaré called “sudden illumination.” It
constitutes the third stage in Graham Wallas’s pioneering 1926 guide to the four stages of the
creative process — a moment Wallas described as “the
culmination of a successful train of association, which may have lasted for an
appreciable time, and which has probably been preceded by a series of tentative
and unsuccessful trains.”
A captivating account of one such moment of
creative breakthrough comes from the great physicist Freeman Dyson (b.
December 15, 1923) in Maker of Patterns: An
Autobiography Through Letters (public library).
Freeman Dyson in his late twenties. (Photograph by Verena
Huber-Dyson.)
At twenty-two, Dyson was elected Fellow at
Trinity College — a position Newton had held a quarter millennium earlier.
During his time at Trinity, where he lived in a room just below Wittgenstein’s,
Dyson was awarded a Commonwealth Fellowship that sent him to the United States
in pursuit of a doctorate in physics. He landed at Cornell, where he quickly
befriended Richard Feynman, not yet
thirty himself. At the time, Feynman was working on a then-radical formulation
of quantum electrodynamics based on his now-famous diagrams. His method was in
rivalry with another, devised by Julian Schwinger. “The two ways of
explaining the experiments looked totally different,” Dyson
recalls, “Feynman drawing little pictures and Schwinger writing down
complicated equations.”
Edward Tufte’s steel sculptures of Feynman’s
diagrams.
In the spring of 1948, Dyson took a
cross-country road trip with Feynman. They filled the time and distance with
fiery conversation about physics punctuated by Feynman’s bittersweet memories
of the love of his life,
who had died three years earlier. Upon his return, Dyson headed to Ann Arbor to
spend six weeks studying with Schwinger. He left Michigan for another
cross-country trip, this time traveling by himself, with Feynman’s and
Schwinger’s ideas swirling and bobbing around his head on the long bus journey.
He was the only person to have been in close direct contact with both QED
formulations and the minds of their originators.
Suddenly, in what Dyson terms a “flash of
illumination on the Greyhound bus,” everything fell into place — he saw the
equivalence of the two competing formulations with a clarity that had evaded
everyone else, including Feynman and Schwinger themselves.
In a sentiment physicist and novelist Alan
Lightman would come to echo decades later in his beautiful account of the out-of-body experience of
creative breakthrough, Dyson writes in a letter from September 14,
1948:
On the third day of the journey a remarkable
thing happened; going into a sort of semistupor as one does after forty-eight
hours of bus riding, I began to think very hard about physics, and particularly
about the rival radiation theories of Schwinger and Feynman. Gradually my
thoughts grew more coherent, and before I knew where I was, I had solved the
problem that had been in the back of my mind all this year, which was to prove
the equivalence of the two theories. Moreover, since each of the two theories
is superior in certain features, the proof of equivalence furnished a new form
of the Schwinger theory which combines the advantages of both. This piece of
work is neither difficult nor particularly clever, but it is undeniably
important if nobody else has done it in the meantime. I became quite excited
over it when I reached Chicago and sent off a letter to Bethe announcing the
triumph. I have not had time yet to write it down properly, but I am intending
as soon as possible to write a formal paper and get it published. This is a
tremendous piece of luck for me, coming at the time it does.
Reflecting on this striking feat of
unconscious processing — the same unconscious processing to which Bob
Dylan attributes his best songwriting —
Dyson adds:
It is strange the way ideas come when they are needed. I remember it was the same with the idea for my Trinity Fellowship thesis.
Illustration by Vladimir Radunsky for On a Beam of Light: A Story of
Albert Einstein by Jennifer Berne. Einstein believed that
his best ideas came during his violin breaks, when he ceased thinking
consciously about the physics problems he was tackling.
In a testament to Rilke’s conviction
that “everything is
gestation and then bringing forth,” Dyson incubated his insight
for the next two weeks before bringing it forth formally. Upon returning to
Cornell, he sat down to distill his Greyhound bus illumination in a paper. In a
letter from September 30, he reports his feat of creation with his
characteristic warm wit:
I was for five days stuck in my rooms, writing
and thinking with a concentration which nearly killed me. On the seventh day
the paper was complete, and with immense satisfaction I wrote the number 52 at
the bottom of the last page.
In a lovely example of merited pride unmoored from ego and self-satisfaction, he adds:
It is impossible for me to judge at present whether the work is as great as I think it may be. All I know is, it is certainly the best thing I have done yet.
Less than a month after he submitted the paper to the prestigious science journal Physical Review, Dyson received a letter that it had been accepted in its entirety — a highly unusual decision in its rapidity. His paper, one of the longest the journal has ever published, had gone through the peer review process in record time. The first paper to make use of Feynman’s diagrams, it championed their power not merely as a computational tool but as a physical theory, inviting other scientists to appreciate their brilliance and splendor. It was a turning point for the acceptance of Feynman’s unorthodox ideas in the scientific community. Seventeen years later, Feynman and Schwinger would share the Nobel Prize “for their fundamental work in quantum electrodynamics, with deep-ploughing consequences for the physics of elementary particles” — a depth of consequence the twenty-four-year-old Dyson had been the first to demonstrate in a coherent and compelling way after his revelation on the Greyhound bus.
Dyson concludes the letter with a sentiment
that captures the abiding thrill of the human impulse to conquer the unknown:
To arrive at the frontiers of physics is like breaking through a crust, after which one finds plenty of room to move in a lot of directions.
Maker of Patterns is a fascinating and deeply rewarding read in its totality, replete with Dyson’s insight into science, creativity, politics, love, and the complexities of being human. Complement this particular portion with Rilke on how inspiration strikes, physicist David Bohm on creativity, and neurologist Oliver Sacks on its three essential components, then revisit Dyson on the future of science and finding meaning in the randomness of life.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
- Bloggery committed by chris tower - 1904.21 - 10:10
- Days ago = 1387 days ago
- New note - On 1807.06, I ceased daily transmission of my Hey Mom feature after three years of daily conversations. I plan to continue Hey Mom posts at least twice per week but will continue to post the days since ("Days Ago") count on my blog each day. The blog entry numbering in the title has changed to reflect total Sense of Doubt posts since I began the blog on 0705.04, which include Hey Mom posts, Daily Bowie posts, and Sense of Doubt posts. Hey Mom posts will still be numbered sequentially. New Hey Mom posts will use the same format as all the other Hey Mom posts; all other posts will feature this format seen here.
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