Science

Downward Causation

Reading about emergence and reductionism and free will and determinism has led me to finally confront a concept I had vaguely heard about but never really looked into before: downward causation, a term that came to prominence in the 1970’s. (Some other views: here, here, here.) I think it’s a misguided/unhelpful notion, but this is way outside my area and I’m happy to admit that I might be missing something.

Physicists are well aware that there are different vocabularies/models/theories that we can use to describe the same underlying reality. Sometimes you might want to talk about a box of gas as a fluid with pressure and velocity, other times you might want to talk about it in terms of atoms and molecules. Philosophers and psychologists might want to talk about human beings as autonomous agents who do things for reasons, while admitting that they can also be thought of as collections of cells and tissues, or even once again as atoms and molecules. The question is: what is the relationship between these different levels? In fluid mechanics/kinetic theory things are pretty clear, but in the mind/body problem things begin to get murky. (Or at least, there are people who take great pleasure in insisting that they are murky.)

Reductionism notes that some of these descriptions are more complete, and therefore arguably more fundamental, than others. In particular, some descriptions are in terms of entities that are literally smaller than the others; atoms are smaller than neurons, which are smaller than people. The smaller-level descriptions tend to have a wider range of validity; we can imagine answering certain questions in the atomic language that we can’t answer (correctly) in the fluid language, like “what happens if we divide the box in half, and then divide that in half, and so forth a million times?” It therefore seems natural to arrange the descriptions vertically: “lower” levels refer to small-scale descriptions, while “higher” levels refer to macroscopic objects. The claim of reductionism is, depending on who you talk to, that the lower-level description is either “always more complete,” or “capable of deriving the higher-level descriptions,” or “the right way to think about things.”

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Five Books on Relativity and Cosmology

A website called The Browser has been doing a fun collection of interviews, where they ask experts in different fields to recommend five books, either starting points for non-experts or books that they were influenced by themselves. Read Randall Grahm on wine, Jim Shepard on short stories, Deborah Blum on science and society, or Qiu Xiaolong on classical Chinese poetry.

They asked me about relativity and cosmology, and I decided it would be more helpful to pick recent books that would bring people up to date rather than go for the classics I was reading back in the 70’s. Some of these books aren’t light reading, but it’s a matter of dedication rather than preparation; I think an interested and intelligent person who didn’t know anything about relativity or cosmology could read these and come away with some deep insights.

Image of The Fabric of the Cosmos: Space, Time, and the Texture of Reality Image of The Inflationary Universe Image of Einstein's Telescope: The Hunt for Dark Matter and Dark Energy in the Universe Image of Black Holes and Time Warps: Einstein's Outrageous Legacy (Commonwealth Fund Book Program) Image of The Black Hole War: My Battle with Stephen Hawking to Make the World Safe for Quantum Mechanics

For more thoughts, check out the full interview.

Update: for obvious reasons, it wouldn’t be considered quite kosher to recommend one’s own books in an interview like this. This has led to the misimpression that I think my books are less than the very best. Not so!

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The Effective Field Theory of Everyday Life, Revisited

For some reason Nature News was inspired to tweet about my old blog post on Seriously, The Laws of Physics Underlying Everyday Life Are Completely Understood. Which I mentioned on Facebook, which led to an interesting comment, which I then mentioned on Google+… but now it’s substantive enough that I feel like I am neglecting our loyal blog readers! So here is a copy of my G+ comment, and a lament that I suck at proper use of the internet.

Not sure what brought this back to life. Like the Lord of the Rings, this is part of a trilogy; don’t miss the first installment, or the exciting conclusion.

As Michael Salem points out on an alternative social-media site (rhymes with “lacebook”), some of the resistance to this really quite unobjectionable claim comes from a lack of familiarity with the idea of a “range of validity” for a theory. We tend to think of scientific theories as “right” or “wrong,” which is hardly surprising. But not correct! Theories can be “right” within a certain regime, and useless outside that regime. Newtonian gravity is perfectly good if you want to fly a rocket to the Moon. But you need to toss it out and use general relativity (which has a wider range of validity) if you want to talk about black holes. And you have to toss out GR and use quantum gravity if you want to talk about the birth of the universe.

Just because there is something we don’t understand about some phenomenon (superconductivity, cancer, consciousness) does not imply that everything we think we know might be wrong. Sometimes we can say with confidence that certain things are known, even when other things are not.

Not only do theories have ranges of validity, but in some cases (as with the Standard Model of particle physics) we know what the range is. Or at least, we know where we have tested the theory and where we can be confident it is valid. The Standard Model is valid for all the particles and interactions that constitute our everyday existence.

Today we think of ourselves and the stuff we see around us as made of electrons, protons, and neutrons, interacting through gravity, electromagnetism, and the nuclear forces. A thousand years from now, we will still think precisely that. Unless we destroy the planet, or are uploaded into computers and decide that the laws of physics outside the Matrix aren’t that interesting any more.

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Chirality and the Positron’s Mustache

Woke up this morning to the happy news that my post “The Fine Structure Constant is Probably Constant” walked away with the Charm Quark (i.e., tied for third place) in this year’s 3QuarksDaily science blogging prizes. Many thanks to Lisa Randall for judging and Abbas Raza and the 3QD crew for hosting. And of course congrats to the other winners:

  1. Top Quark: SciCurious, Serotonin and Sexual Preference: Is It Really That Simple?
  2. Strange Quark: Anne Jefferson, Levees and the Illusion of Flood Control
  3. Charm Quark: Ethan Siegel, Where Is Everybody?

I already have a great nominee for next year’s contest. One of the most confusing things in particle physics is the notion of “chirality.” The related notion of a particle’s “helicity” is relatively easy to explain — is the particle spinning in a left-handed or right-handed sense when compared to its direction of motion? But a massive particle need not have a direction of motion, it can just be sitting there, so the helicity is not defined. Chirality is the same as helicity — left-handed or right-handed — for massless particles moving at the speed of light, but it’s always defined no matter how the particle is moving. It had better be, since the weak interactions couple to particles with left-handed chirality but not ones with right-handed chirality! (And the opposite for antiparticles.)

It all gets a bit heady, and you can’t give a real explanation without going beyond simple pictures and actually talking about the quantum wave function. But Flip Tanedo at Quantum Diaries has given it an heroic effort, which I insist you go read right now. I don’t want to reproduce the whole thing — Flip was more careful and thorough than I ever would have been, anyway — but I will tease you with this one picture.

Isn’t that the cutest pair of elementary particles you’ve ever seen? I smell a Quark in this lepton’s future.

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Why We Need the Higgs, or Something Like It

In the comments to the previous post, Monty asks a perfectly good question, which can be shortened to: “Is the Higgs boson really necessary?” The answer is a qualified “yes” — we need the Higgs boson, or something like it. That is, we can’t simply take the Standard Model as we know it and extend it to arbitrarily high energies without new physics kicking in.

The role of the Higgs field is to break the symmetry of the electroweak interactions, as discussed here. We think that there is a lot of symmetry underlying particle interactions, but that much of it is hidden from our low-energy view. In technical terms, the electroweak theory of Glashow, Weinberg and Salam posits an “SU(2)xU(1)” symmetry, that somehow gets broken down to “U(1).” That unbroken symmetry gives us electromagnetism, a force carried by a massless particle, the photon. The broken symmetries are still there, but their force-carrying particles become massive when the symmetry breaks — those are the W+, W, and Z0 bosons.

There’s no question that something breaks the symmetry. The question that is worth asking is: “Can we imagine breaking the symmetry without introducing any new particles?”

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D0 Decides to be Debbie Downers

Alliterative title stolen shamelessly from the lovely and understanding Jennifer Ouellette, who blogs background about the hunt for new particles at Discovery News.

So here we have science, marching on. Just last week we heard that CDF, one of the big experiments at the Tevatron at Fermilab, had collected more data relevant to a mysterious bump they had previously reported around 150 GeV in collisions that produced a W boson and two jets. The new data (7.3 inverse femtobarns, up from 4.3 fb-1 previously) made the bump look even more prominent, rather than watching it regress back down to the mean. The discrepancy is now more than 4 sigma, giving license to get just a wee bit excited that new physics might be on the loose.

Now D0, the other big experiment at the Tevatron, is ready to weigh in — and the “D” stands for “damper,” it appears. Here’s a blog post at symmetry, a link to the technical paper, and a webcast for a talk that will happen this afternoon at 4:00pm Central Time. You knew that Jester would be on the case, and he is.

But this picture tells you all you need to know.

With 4.3 fb-1 of data analyzed, the CDF bump should be just barely visible, as indicated by the dotted line labeled “Gaussian.” But there doesn’t seem to be anything there. And it’s not just you; the collaboration estimates that the probability that there is really a bump there is less than 10-5. Not very encouraging, really.

But still — it does seem to be there in the CDF data. So what’s going on? At this point, it’s not clear. Both experiments are extremely mature and well-understood, and the collaborations are good at what they do, so it is likely to be something very subtle at work. It still could be new physics, that is somehow playing games with us, but certainly the prospects don’t look as good today as they did yesterday. Look like science is going to have to march on a bit more before everything is clear.

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DNA Takes Square Roots

Around these parts we’ve been known to discuss whether it makes any sense to say that the universe is a computer. There’s little doubt, of course, that parts of the universe are computer-like. And in case you are wondering, you can now officially remove DNA from your personal list of “things I suspect are not computers.”

Caltech researchers Lulu Qian and Erik Winfree have managed to coax 130 strands of DNA into performing what is unquestionably a calculation: taking the square root of a number. (Ars Technica post; Science paper behind paywall; open-access background paper.) Not a big number: we’re talking about four-digit binary numbers, so 15 at the biggest. And not very efficiently: with prodding, the calculation took eight hours. Moore’s Law isn’t really in danger here.

Still, pretty cool stuff. Mostly it’s interesting because it seems scalable: the authors claim that this kind of circuit architecture could be made much larger. It’s not the first biochemical circuit; RNA and bacterial colonies have been made into logic gates. But it’s the first to do something as elaborate as taking a square root.

Best of all, the authors decided to illustrate their method for a wide audience by means of a … whimsical YouTube video! Let’s hope this idea catches on.

The seesaw magic book: the computational power of DNA molecules

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Anomaly at the Tevatron Might Be Something Real?

The Tevatron, Fermilab’s mighty but ancient (as these things go) particle accelerator, is scheduled to be shut down at the end of this year. But the old beast might have a trick or two left yet.

Way back in April we talked about a couple of lingering anomalies in the Tevatron data that had risen to the level where theorists were intrigued enough to start building models. One of these — a forward/backward asymmetry in top-quark interactions — had been around for a while, and was taken seriously by a number of people. The other — a tiny bump near 150 GeV in the total number of events that produce a W boson and two jets — was relatively new, and was greeted by a bit of scoffing. The bump credibility took another hit when it was pointed out that it could be explained away by a simple (although completely hypothetical) systematic error — a miscalibration of the jet energies. Bump-hunting is hard, and experiments near the end of their lifetimes are more willing to share their anomalies than they would be if they knew they were going to keep going, since there’s little hope that new data will solve the problem.

But there’s some hope. The real reason to be patient rather than excited by the bump at 150 GeV was that it was a 3-sigma effect, in a game where most 3-sigma effects go away. In particle physics, we generally take a solid 3-sigma result as “evidence for” something, and require 5 sigma — a much greater deviation from the expected numbers — to declare something a “discovery.”

More data are now in! This is from the CDF experiment at Fermilab, as reported in a conference talk by Giovanni Punzi (pdf), and shared worldwide by Jester at Résonaances. There’s a reason why I mentioned Résonaances among the physics blogs above — it’s unquestionably the go-to place for new results in particle physics.

And the anomaly is now — almost five sigma! It didn’t go away with more data, it became more prominent. It would be very hard at this point to simply attribute it to an energy miscalibration or something like that; if it is a systematic error, it’s a subtle one. But it doesn’t look like an error; it looks like a signal.

Of course, it’s still very possible that it will go away. These things usually do. But when an interesting result is pushing five sigma, it’s perfectly okay to get a bit excited and start wondering what’s going on. One of the nice things about this bump is that it’s not very hard to come up with models that can explain it — all you need is a neutral boson, similar to the well-known Z boson of the weak interactions, with a mass near 150 GeV. This kind of idea is so well-known in the trade that it already has a name — the Z’ boson, imaginatively enough.

Except it’s not that simple, of course — where would be the fun? When you start mindlessly adding new particles to the Standard Model, you have to check consistency with all sorts of experimental constraints. In particular, a naive Z’ boson would sometimes decay into leptons as well as quarks (the jets mentioned above). In that case, it would have been seen long ago in LEP, the electron-positron collider at CERN that previously lived in what is now the LHC’s tunnel. So what you really need is a “leptophobic” Z’, one that decays into quarks but not into leptons.

Or something along those lines, or something completely different. See Résonaances once again for the lay of the theoretical land. Yes, there are possible explanations within supersymmetry; and yes, there are explanations that have nothing to do with supersymmetry.

If this is real — still a very, very, big if — it’s the beginning of the “beyond the Standard Model era” in collider particle physics. Things aren’t going to snap into place overnight; there will be false starts, mysteries, and sudden epiphanies. That’s where the real fun is in science.

Update: Note that the very preliminary word from the LHC is that they don’t yet see the same bump that CDF does. But from a glance at the figure it doesn’t look like they have nearly as much data yet, so that’s probably not surprising. The LHC has seen incredible jumps in luminosity recently, however, so they should be able to do a proper check before too long.

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Are Many Worlds and the Multiverse the Same Idea?

When physicists are asked about “parallel worlds” or ideas along those lines, they have to be careful to distinguish among different interpretations of that idea. There is the “multiverse” of inflationary cosmology, the “many worlds” or “branches of the wave function” of quantum mechanics, and “parallel branes” of string theory. Increasingly, however, people are wondering whether the first two concepts might actually represent the same underlying idea. (I think the branes are still a truly distinct notion.)

At first blush it seems crazy — or at least that was my own initial reaction. When cosmologists talk about “the multiverse,” it’s a slightly poetic term. We really just mean different regions of spacetime, far away so that we can’t observe them, but nevertheless still part of what one might reasonably want to call “the universe.” In inflationary cosmology, however, these different regions can be relatively self-contained — “pocket universes,” as Alan Guth calls them. When you combine this with string theory, the emergent local laws of physics in the different pocket universes can be very different; they can have different particles, different forces, even different numbers of dimensions. So there is a good reason to think about them as separate universes, even if they’re all part of the same underlying spacetime.

The situation in quantum mechanics is superficially entirely different. Think of Schrödinger’s Cat. Quantum mechanics describes reality in terms of wave functions, which assign numbers (amplitudes) to all the various possibilities of what we can see when we make an observation. The cat is neither alive nor dead; it is in a superposition of alive + dead. At least, until we observe it. In the simplistic Copenhagen interpretation, at the moment of observation the wave function “collapses” onto one actual possibility. We see either an alive cat or a dead cat; the other possibility has simply ceased to exist. In the Many Worlds or Everett interpretation, both possibilities continue to exist, but “we” (the macroscopic observers) are split into two, one that observes a live cat and one that observes a dead one. There are now two of us, both equally real, never to come back into contact.

These two ideas sound utterly different. In the cosmological multiverse, the other universes are simply far away; in quantum mechanics, they’re right here, but in different possibility spaces (i.e. different parts of Hilbert space, if you want to get technical). But some physicists have been musing for a while that they might actually be the same, and now there are a couple of new papers by brave thinkers from the Bay Area that make this idea explicit.

Physical Theories, Eternal Inflation, and Quantum Universe, Yasunori Nomura

The Multiverse Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics, Raphael Bousso and Leonard Susskind

Related ideas have been discussed recently under the rubric of “how to do quantum mechanics in an infinitely big universe”; see papers by Don Page and another by Anthony Aguirre, David Layzer, and Max Tegmark. But these two new ones go explicitly for the “multiverse = many-worlds” theme.

After reading these papers I’ve gone from a confused skeptic to a tentative believer. This happened for a very common reason: I realized that these ideas fit very well with other ideas I’ve been thinking about myself! So I’m going to try to explain a bit about what is going on. However, for better or for worse, my interpretation of these papers is strongly colored by my own ideas. So I’m going to explain what I think has a chance of being true; I believe it’s pretty close to what is being proposed in these papers, but don’t hold the authors responsible for anything silly that I end up saying. …

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Physics and the Immortality of the Soul

[Cross-posted at Scientific American Blogs. Thanks to Bora Z. for the invitation.]

The topic of “Life after death” raises disreputable connotations of past-life regression and haunted houses, but there are a large number of people in the world who believe in some form of persistence of the individual soul after life ends. Clearly this is an important question, one of the most important ones we can possibly think of in terms of relevance to human life. If science has something to say about, we should all be interested in hearing.

Adam Frank thinks that science has nothing to say about it. He advocates being “firmly agnostic” on the question. (His coblogger Alva Noë resolutely disagrees.) I have an enormous respect for Adam; he’s a smart guy and a careful thinker. When we disagree it’s with the kind of respectful dialogue that should be a model for disagreeing with non-crazy people. But here he couldn’t be more wrong.

Adam claims that “simply is no controlled, experimental[ly] verifiable information” regarding life after death. By these standards, there is no controlled, experimentally verifiable information regarding whether the Moon is made of green cheese. Sure, we can take spectra of light reflecting from the Moon, and even send astronauts up there and bring samples back for analysis. But that’s only scratching the surface, as it were. What if the Moon is almost all green cheese, but is covered with a layer of dust a few meters thick? Can you really say that you know this isn’t true? Until you have actually examined every single cubic centimeter of the Moon’s interior, you don’t really have experimentally verifiable information, do you? So maybe agnosticism on the green-cheese issue is warranted. (Come up with all the information we actually do have about the Moon; I promise you I can fit it into the green-cheese hypothesis.)

Obviously this is completely crazy. Our conviction that green cheese makes up a negligible fraction of the Moon’s interior comes not from direct observation, but from the gross incompatibility of that idea with other things we think we know. Given what we do understand about rocks and planets and dairy products and the Solar System, it’s absurd to imagine that the Moon is made of green cheese. We know better.

We also know better for life after death, although people are much more reluctant to admit it. …

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