Words

David Foster Wallace

David Foster Wallace died last night. He was found at home by his wife — apparently he hanged himself. It’s a terrible tragedy for American literature.

Wallace’s big, famous book was of course Infinite Jest, but among his other words was a quirky history of the concept of infinity, Everything and More. Like everything he wrote, it was sprawling and inventive and chock full of discursive footnotes. One such footnote now seems especially poignant:

In modern medical terms, it’s fairly clear that G. F. L. P. Cantor suffered from manic-depressive illness at a time when nobody knew what this was, and that his polar cycles were aggravated by professional stresses and disappointments, of which Cantor had more than his share. Of course, this makes for less interesting flap copy than Genius Driven Mad By Attempts To Grapple With ∞. The truth, though, is that Cantor’s work and its context are so totally interesting and beautiful that there’s no need for breathless Prometheusizing of the poor guy’s life. The real irony is that the view of ∞ as some forbidden zone or road to insanity — which view was very old and powerful and haunted math for 2000+ years — is precisely what Cantor’s own work overturned. Saying that ∞ drove Cantor mad is sort of like mourning St. George’s loss to the dragon; it’s not only wrong but insulting.

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The Thousand Best Popular-Science Books

Over at Cocktail Party Physics, Jennifer has cast a baleful eye on the various lists of the world’s greatest books, and decided that we really need is a list of the world’s greatest popular-science books. I think the goal is to find the top 100, but many nominations are pouring in from around the internets, and I suspect that a cool thousand will be rounded up without much problem.

We played this game once ourselves, but like basketball, this is a game that can be enjoyed over and over. So pop over and leave your own suggestions, or just leave them here. To prime the pump, off the top of my head here is a list of books I would nominate. A variety of criteria come into play; originality, readability, clarity, and influence — but just because a work appears here doesn’t mean that it scores highly on all four counts.

  • Guns, Germs, and Steel, Jared Diamond
  • Godel, Escher, Bach, Douglas Hoftstadter
  • Cosmos, Carl Sagan
  • Einstein’s Clocks and Poincare’s Maps, Peter Galison
  • How the Universe Got Its Spots, Janna Levin
  • Chronos, Etienne Klein
  • The Language Instinct, Steven Pinker
  • Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman, Richard Feynman
  • The Mismeasure of Man, Stephen J. Gould
  • Lonely Hearts of the Cosmos, Dennis Overbye
  • The Inflationary Universe, Alan Guth
  • The Elegant Universe, Brian Greene
  • Warped Passages, Lisa Randall
  • The Astonishing Hypothesis, Francis Crick
  • The Double Helix, James Watson
  • Prisoner’s Dilemma, William Poundstone
  • The Blind Watchmaker, Richard Dawkins
  • One, Two, Three… Infinity, George Gamow
  • Warmth Disperses and Time Passes, Hans Christian Von Baeyer
  • Time’s Arrow and Archimedes’ Point, Huw Price
  • A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking
  • At Home in the Universe, Stuart Kauffman
  • Einstein’s Dreams, Alan Lightman
  • Black Holes and Time Warps, Kip Thorne
  • The First Three Minutes, Steven Weinberg
  • The Mathematical Experience, Davies and Hersh
  • The Periodic Table, Primo Levi
  • Beamtimes and Lifetimes, Sharon Traweek
  • The Diversity of Life, E.O. Wilson
  • The Emperor’s New Mind, Roger Penrose
  • Longitude, Dava Sobel
  • The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, Thomas Kuhn
  • Flatland, Edwin Abbott
  • The Fabric of Reality, David Deutsch
  • Nobel Dreams, Gary Taubes

I didn’t peek at anyone else’s lists, but I admit that I did peek at my own bookshelves.

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Spiritual Menu

Currently reporting from a tiny, hip hotel at an undisclosed location on the West Coast. Of the various ways in which this establishment brands itself as edgy and unconventional, there is no standard-issue Gideon Bible tucked in a drawer somewhere in each room. Instead, one is presented with a small laminated Spiritual Menu — a list of texts that can be fetched up to your room by a quick call to the front desk. Options include:

  • Bhagavad Gita: A New Translation
  • Book of Mormon
  • Buddhist Bible
  • KJV Gift and Award Bible: Revised Edition, King James Version
  • The Koran
  • New American Bible
  • Tao Te Ching
  • The Torah: The Five Books of Moses, Standard Edition
  • Book on Scientology

Probably, like me, you are wondering why there aren’t any options available for atheists. (Tedious explanatory note, since this is the internet: I am not really serious. Therefore, please to not respond with a lecture on why, when faced with a “Spiritual Menu,” the proper response for an atheist is simply to fast.) I mean, there have to be more of us than Scientologists, right? Although perhaps not among people who matter.

On the other hand, it’s not clear what would constitute an appropriate choice, as atheists have never been very big on sacred texts. I can think of a few possibilities. Something like The God Delusion wouldn’t be right, regardless of its various warts and charms, as it’s essentially reactive in nature — talking about why one shouldn’t believe in God, rather than celebrating or elaborating how to live as a cheerful materialist. Something like On the Origin of Species or Galileo’s Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems would be interesting choices, although they are too specialized to really fit the bill. You could make a very good case for a modern post-Enlightenment book like Richard Rorty’s Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity, as a serious (if not especially systematic) attempt to figure out how we should deal with a contingent world free of any guidance from outside.

But I would probably vote for Lucretius‘s De Rerum Natura (On the Nature of Things). As good empiricists, we should recognize that a classic text doesn’t have to get everything right, as our understanding continues to be revised and improved. So why not go for a true classic? Writing in the first century BCE, Lucretius (a Roman admirer of the Greek philosopher Epicurus) took materialism seriously, and thought deeply about the place of human beings in a world governed by the laws of nature. He advocated skepticism, dismissed the idea that life continued after death in any form, preached personal responsibility, and thought hard about science, especially the role of atoms and statistical mechanics. (Slightly ahead of his time.) And the book itself comes in the form of an occasionally-inscrutable poem, originally in Latin. Which adds a certain gravitas, if you know what I mean.

And, verily, those tortures said to be
In Acheron, the deep, they all are ours
Here in this life. No Tantalus, benumbed
With baseless terror, as the fables tell,
Fears the huge boulder hanging in the air:
But, rather, in life an empty dread of Gods
Urges mortality, and each one fears
Such fall of fortune as may chance to him.

It’s far from a perfect book — when it comes to sexuality, in particular, Lucretius stumbles a bit. But I’ll take it over any of the Spiritual Menu offerings, any day.

Shall we take up a collection to leave copies of Lucretius in hotel rooms around the world?

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And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name

Too much science on this blog, it’s getting stuffy around here. How about a poem from John Ashbery?

You can’t say it that way any more.
Bothered about beauty you have to
Come out into the open, into a clearing,
And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you
Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange
Of you, you who have so many lovers,
People who look up to you and are willing
To do things for you, but you think
It’s not right, that if they really knew you …
So much for self-analysis. Now,
About what to put in your poem-painting:
Flowers are always nice, particularly delphinium.
Names of boys you once knew and their sleds,
Skyrockets are good — do they still exist?
There are a lot of other things of the same quality
As those I’ve mentioned. Now one must
Find a few important words, and a lot of low-keyed,
Dull-sounding ones. She approached me
About buying her desk. Suddenly the street was
Bananas and the clangor of Japanese instruments.
Humdrum testaments were scattered around. His head
Locked into mine. We were a seesaw. Something
Ought to be written about how this affects
You when you write poetry:
The extreme austerity of an almost empty mind
Colliding with the lush, Rousseau-like foliage of its desire to communicate
Something between breaths, if only for the sake
Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you
For other centers of communication, so that understanding
May begin, and in doing so be undone.

If you would like to understand him (and then perhaps desert him for other centers of communication), Slate explains How to Read John Ashbery. Or you could just listen to him directly:

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The Black Hole War

Lenny Susskind has a new book out: The Black Hole War: My Battle with Stephen Hawking to Make the World Safe for Quantum Mechanics. At first I was horrified by the title, but upon further reflection it’s grown on me quite a bit.

Some of you may know Susskind as a famous particle theorist, one of the early pioneers of string theory. Others may know his previous book: The Cosmic Landscape: String Theory and the Illusion of Intelligent Design. (Others may never have heard of him, although I’m sure Lenny doesn’t want to hear that.) I had mixed feelings about the first book; for one thing, I thought it was a mistake to put “Intelligent Design” there in the title, even if it were to be dubbed an “Illusion.” So when the Wall Street Journal asked me to review it, I was a little hesitant; I have enormous respect for Susskind as a physicist, but if I ended up not liking the book I would have to be honest about it. Still, I hadn’t ever written anything for the WSJ, and how often does one get the chance to stomp about in the corridors of capitalism like that?

The good news is that I liked the book a great deal, as the review shows. I won’t reprint the thing here, as you are all well-trained when it comes to clicking on links. But let me mention just a few words about information conservation and loss, which is the theme of the book. (See Backreaction for another account.)

It’s all really Isaac Newton’s fault, although people like Galileo and Laplace deserve some of the credit. The idea is straightforward: evolution through time, as described by the laws of physics, is simply a matter of re-arranging a fixed amount of information in different ways. The information itself is neither created nor destroyed. Put another way: to specify the state of the world requires a certain amount of data, for example the positions and velocities of each and every particle. According to classical mechanics, from that data (the “information”) and the laws of physics, we can reliably predict the precise state of the universe at every moment in the future — and retrodict the prior states of the universe at every moment in the past. Put yet another way, here is Thomasina Coverley in Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia:

If you could stop every atom in its position and direction, and if your mind could comprehend all the actions thus suspended, then if you were really, really good at algebra you could write the formula for all the future; and although nobody can be so clever as to do it, the formula must exist just as if one could.

This is the Clockwork Universe, and it is far from an obvious idea. Pre-Newton, in fact, it would have seemed crazy. In Aristotelian mechanics, if a moving object is not subject to a continuous impulse, it will eventually come to rest. So if we find an object at rest, we have no way of knowing whether until recently it was moving, or whether it’s been sitting there for a long time; that information is lost. Many different pasts could lead to precisely the same present; whereas, if information is conserved, each possible past leads to exactly one specific state of affairs at the present. The conservation of information — which also goes by the name of “determinism” — is a profound underpinning of the modern way we think about the universe.

Determinism came under a bit of stress in the early 20th century when quantum mechanics burst upon the scene. In QM, sadly, we can’t predict the future with precision, even if we know the current state to arbitrary accuracy. The process of making a measurement seems to be irreducibly unpredictable; we can predict the probability of getting a particular answer, but there will always be uncertainty if we try to make certain measurements. Nevertheless, when we are not making a measurement, information is perfectly conserved in quantum mechanics: Schrodinger’s Equation allows us to predict the future quantum state from the past with absolute fidelity. This makes many of us suspicious that this whole “collapse of the wave function” that leads to an apparent loss of determinism is really just an illusion, or an approximation to some more complete dynamics — that kind of thinking leads you directly to the Many Worlds Interpretation of quantum mechanics. (For more, tune into my Bloggingheads dialogue with David Albert this upcoming Saturday.)

In any event, aside from the measurement problem, quantum mechanics makes a firm prediction that information is conserved. Which is why it came as a shock when Stephen Hawking said that black holes could destroy information. Hawking, of course, had famously shown that black holes give off radiation, and if you wait long enough they will eventually evaporate away entirely. Few people (who are not trying to make money off of scaremongering about the LHC) doubt this story. But Hawking’s calculation, at first glance (and second), implies that the outgoing radiation into which the black hole evaporates is truly random, within the constraints of being a blackbody spectrum. Information is seemingly lost, in other words — there is no apparent way to determine what went into the black hole from what comes out.

This led to one of those intellectual scuffles between “the general relativists” (who tended to be sympathetic to the idea that information is indeed lost) and “the particle physicists” (who were reluctant to give up on the standard rules of quantum mechanics, and figured that Hawking’s calculation must somehow be incomplete). At the heart of the matter was locality — information can’t be in two places at once, and it has to travel from place to place no faster than the speed of light. A set of reasonable-looking arguments had established that, in order for information to escape in Hawking radiation, it would have to be encoded in the radiation while it was still inside the black hole, which seemed to be cheating. But if you press hard on this idea, you have to admit that the very idea of “locality” presumes that there is something called “location,” or more specifically that there is a classical spacetime on which fields are propagating. Which is a pretty good approximation, but deep down we’re eventually going to have to appeal to some sort of quantum gravity, and it’s likely that locality is just an approximation. The thing is, most everyone figured that this approximation would be extremely good when we were talking about huge astrophysical black holes, enormously larger than the Planck length where quantum gravity was supposed to kick in.

But apparently, no. Quantum gravity is more subtle than you might think, at least where black holes are concerned, and locality breaks down in tricky ways. Susskind himself played a central role in formulating two ideas that were crucial to the story — Black Hole Complementarity and the Holographic Principle. Which maybe I’ll write about some day, but at the moment it’s getting late. For a full account, buy the book.

Right now, the balance has tilted quite strongly in favor of the preservation of information; score one for the particle physicists. The best evidence on their side (keeping in mind that all of the “evidence” is in the form of theoretical arguments, not experimental data) comes from Maldacena’s discovery of duality between (certain kinds of) gravitational and non-gravitational theories, the AdS/CFT correspondence. According to Maldacena, we can have a perfect equivalence between two very different-looking theories, one with gravity and one without. In the theory without gravity, there is no question that information is conserved, and therefore (the argument goes) it must also be conserved when there is gravity. Just take whatever kind of system you care about, whether it’s an evaporating black hole or something else, translate it into the non-gravitational theory, find out what it evolves into, and then translate back, with no loss of information at any step. Long story short, we still don’t really know how the information gets out, but there is a good argument that it definitely does for certain kinds of black holes, so it seems a little perverse to doubt that we’ll eventually figure out how it works for all kinds of black holes. Not an airtight argument, but at least Hawking buys it; his concession speech was reported on an old blog of mine, lo these several years ago.

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Waiter, There’s a Derivative in my Cereal

You can learn a lot by reading scientific papers. For example, I’ve known for a while now that the Hubble parameter tells you how fast the universe is expanding — it’s the (conveniently normalized) first derivative of the scale factor, for you calculus-philes out there. The deceleration parameter tells you how fast the universe is decelerating — it’s the second derivative, telling us how the expansion rate is changing with time. (Of course now we know that it’s really accelerating, but we didn’t know that back when the phrases were introduced.)

Less well known, but more amusing, is that the third derivative — how is the acceleration changing as a function of time? — is characterized by the “jerk.” Makes sense, when you think about it — when you jerk at something, you are not just pulling it (causing acceleration), but pulling at it faster and faster. It nevertheless leads to fun if predictable jokes, with this person or that being labeled a “cosmic jerk.”

Do we really need a name for the fourth derivative, telling us how the jerk is changing with time? Apparently we do, as it has been denoted the “snap.” I just learned this from this new paper:

Cosmic Jerk, Snap and Beyond
Authors: Maciej Dunajski, Gary Gibbons

Abstract: We clarify the procedure for expressing the Friedmann equation in terms of directly measurable cosmological scalars constructed out of higher derivatives of the scale factor. We carry out this procedure for pure dust, Chaplygin gas and generalised Chaplygin gas energy-momentum tensors. In each case it leads to a constraint on the scalars thus giving rise to a test of General Relativity. We also discuss a formulation of the Friedmann equation as unparametrised geodesic motion and its connection with the Lagrangian treatment of perfect fluids coupled to gravity.

The best part is this footnote:

The analogous expressions involving 5th and 6th derivatives are known as crackle and pop. This terminology goes back to a 1932 advertisement of Kellogg’s Rice Crispies which `merrily snap, crackle and pop in a bowl of milk.’

I suppose there is also some interesting science in there. But now I really want to write a paper that makes use of the 5th time derivative of the scale factor. The words are too delicious to resist.

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The Books of Our Time

Entertainment Weekly, clearly nostalgic for the orgy of millenarian list-making, has come up with a list of the 100 Greatest Books of the Last 25 Years. (They have the 100 Greatest Movies, too.) Here are the top 20:

1. The Road , Cormac McCarthy (2006)
2. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, J.K. Rowling (2000)
3. Beloved, Toni Morrison (1987)
4. The Liars’ Club, Mary Karr (1995)
5. American Pastoral, Philip Roth (1997)
6. Mystic River, Dennis Lehane (2001)
7. Maus, Art Spiegelman (1986/1991)
8. Selected Stories, Alice Munro (1996)
9. Cold Mountain, Charles Frazier (1997)
10. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami (1997)
11. Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer (1997)
12. Blindness, José Saramago (1998)
13. Watchmen, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons (1986-87)
14. Black Water, Joyce Carol Oates (1992)
15. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers (2000)
16. The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood (1986)
17. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez (1988)
18. Rabbit at Rest, John Updike (1990)
19. On Beauty, Zadie Smith (2005)
20. Bridget Jones’s Diary, Helen Fielding (1998)

Of these 20, I have read precisely half. And my favorite among those 10 would be Bridget Jones. Draw whatever conclusions you will.

It’s a provocative list, as such lists are intended to be, as the point is more to begin discussion than to conclude it. There are a few non-fiction works that somehow poked their way in there (Stephen King, Barbara Ehrenreich, Malcolm Gladwell) — they would have been better off leaving those out entirely, as there is a lot more worthy non-fiction that could easily have made the final cut, and the apples/oranges comparisons aren’t very illuminating.

Perhaps any such list that ignores Mason & Dixon but somehow finds room for The Da Vinci Code should just be dismissed out of hand. But looking over the list, or for that matter just thinking about a lot of contemporary literature, I can’t help but succumbing to the bloggy temptation to pronounce a grand theory on the basis of two minutes of thought and a teaspoonful of anecdotal evidence. To wit: if the literary spirit of our age would be summed up by a single word, it would be “passivity.”

Not all of the 100 books fit my theory, of course, not by a long shot. But when I think about today’s serious fiction and compare it to yesterday’s, there seem to be a lot more books featuring relatively helpless protagonists, swept along by the currents of fate/society/circumstance rather than heroically altering them. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the novels are more inward-focused, concentrating on the personal struggle of the protagonist with their own attitudes more than on their attempts to change the external situation.

Either way, I get the feeling that the Zeitgeist views individual people as very small and the world as very big. It doesn’t seem to be much of a time for heroes, Harry Potter notwithstanding. (Or maybe I’m just reading the wrong books.)

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Wishes of the Dead

Vladimir Nabokov had requested that his last work, fragments of an unfinished novel The Original of Laura, be destroyed after his death. But it won’t be, as his son Dmitri has (after tortuous deliberation) decided to go against his father’s wishes and publish the work. Via Marginal Revolution, which has several previous discussions.

Tom Stoppard, whose opinion is worth listening to, thinks it should be destroyed:

It’s perfectly straightforward: Nabokov wanted it burnt, so burn it. There is no superior imperative. The argument about saving it for the “greater good” of the literary world is null, as far as I’m concerned. There are parallel universes, might-have-been worlds, full of lost works, and no doubt some of them would have been masterpieces. But our desire to possess them all is just a neurosis, a completeness complex, as though we must have everything that’s going and it’s a tragedy if we don’t. It’s nonsense, an impossible desire for absoluteness. At best, it’s natural curiosity – personally, I’d love to read Nabokov’s last work, but since he didn’t want me to read it, I won’t – and it’s hardly modest to make one’s own desire more important than his.

Stoppard is right about the neurosis, and ultimately I agree with his conclusion, but I can’t quite buy his reasoning. Hard-nosed, unsentimental materialist that I am, I don’t think that the wishes of dead people should carry much weight in and of themselves. They’re dead, they don’t care any more.

However, live people do count, and they are faced with subtle and competing interests (as various MR commenters have pointed out). On the one hand, sure, we might be curious about Nabokov’s last work. However, there is some degree to which the moral control over the disposition of a manuscript accrues to the family or whoever survives the author. If they felt strongly that they would be happier knowing that the author’s wishes had been respected, that would be a perfectly valid reason for carrying them out. But that doesn’t seem to be the case here; after thinking through the issues very carefully, Dmitri Nabokov came down on the side of letting it become public, even concocting a little story to excuse the apparent contravenance of his father’s instructions:

From his winter home in Palm Beach, Dmitri justified his decision by saying, “I’m a loyal son and thought long and seriously about it, then my father appeared before me and said, with an ironic grin, ‘You’re stuck in a right old mess – just go ahead and publish!'”

But there is one more set of interests to be accounted for: those of authors and creators who are not yet dead, but someday will be. (Most of us, I imagine.) If I create something right now, I certainly have the right to destroy it. But I might also want to have the confidence that, if I leave instructions that it should be destroyed, they will be carried out. Otherwise I might be tempted to destroy it ahead of time, and regret it later. More generally, if we treat the stated wishes of the deceased as strictly irrelevant in the calculation of social goods, wills and other sorts of legacies will become relatively meaningless. It’s not just about respecting the wishes of the dead; it’s about letting living people live with some confidence that their reasonable requests will be carried out once they’re gone.

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When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced

April is Poetry Month, just like it was last year. We’re celebrating with Shakespeare’s Sonnet 64, about the Second Law of Thermodynamics.

When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

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