My freshman year at Cornell was something I can only describe as magical—above all because of the wonderful people I met. But it was also the time when I first began to grapple with the universe, and I was seduced by her intoxicating beauty and all the secrets she kept. Inspired by Richard Feynman's charm and Julius Sumner Miller's impassioned and slightly creepy television lectures on things like gravity—physics was indeed his business—I tried my best to immerse myself in the world.
This was when I came to understand how deeply satisfying and life-affirming the pure pleasure of thinking could be, and I would argue that the purity of the experience—the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of knowledge alone—is the best thing about it. "What are you gonna do with it?" people like to ask us. "What's the point of learning about that? Are you ever gonna use it?" There's something criminal about these questions, which seem to imply that something is worth learning only if we necessarily go beyond the mere learning of it. Why can't it be enough to view knowledge as something beautiful in itself, something that enhances life and adds color to the world?
On my way to class I would imagine those towering figures of the physics world walking through Rockefeller Hall and Space Sciences. In one instance, it was not my imagination at all. I remember sitting down for an astronomy lecture one afternoon and glancing across the hall to see Mr. Bill Nye roaming around in an austere office furnished with little more than a desk and a chair. I walked across the hall to say hello. And yes, he is just as tall and cartoonish as he appears on television. But just as fun and engaging, too.
One of my favorite professors was Dr. James Houck, who taught introductory astrophysics (Astro 211). He was that old-school thinker who never lost sight of the big picture. Rather, he emphasized back-of-the-envelope calculations to pin down the machinery of the universe (most astrophysicists really like envelopes). His was a dry humor, and he would often quietly throw us witty phrases and observations I would write down in the margins of my notebook. I still have the notebook, and I still read it from time to time. "We oughta break and have a turkey or something," he said matter-of-factly just as class was ending before Thanksgiving break. I have no idea why I remember this.
His relaxed attitude at the chalkboard belied his brilliance. But if you paid attention in class, you quickly understood that he had important things to say about physics and life. He spiced up his lectures with anecdotes of legendary physicists and astronomers who had worked or were still working at Cornell—Richard Feynman, Hans Bethe, Edwin Salpeter. And Dr. Houck had brushed shoulders with many of them, which made the anecdotes come alive. These scientists were inhabiting the stratosphere of human knowledge, and they were as close as humans could get to being masters of the universe. And when you walked down the same halls they had walked down, you couldn't help feeling connected to them in some odd way. Maybe even a little invincible.
I remember attending an evening dinner and lecture by Dr. Bethe when I was a sophomore. The talk was on energy generation in stars, and he used transparencies and an overhead projector during the lecture. His wife was by his side to keep the transparencies in order. Unfortunately he talked so low that I couldn't understand a word he said. But it didn't bother me at all. I was completely thrilled to be in the same room as Hans Bethe (Hans Bethe!?). As he spoke, I pictured him competing with Dr. Feynman to see who could calculate faster in his head. Thinking about these two titans trying to intellectually outmaneuver the other was as much as my brain could handle, and perhaps it was just as well that I couldn't hear a word of Dr. Bethe's lecture. Anyway, I'll never forget that evening.
During one lecture, Dr. Houck mentioned Dr. Salpeter, who at that moment was probably a few floors above us working hard on something related to the universe. Who was this person? I wanted badly to know. Dr. Houck sparked my curiosity by making references to Dr. Salpeter's collaboration with Dr. Bethe. But his work went beyond astrophysics—he appeared to float seamlessly through different intellectual worlds, leaving his mark in all of them.
I walked by Dr. Salpeter's office in Space Sciences on numerous occasions. I always wanted to stop in, but I never did. One early evening in the fall of 2000, I happened to encounter him walking by Bailey Hall and decided to introduce myself. I was immediately struck by his modesty and how easy it was to talk with him. At one point he mentioned that his wife had just passed away, and so he was spending most of his time continuing her research in neurobiology, which included the study of neuromuscular disorders. It was clear that this man—this exceptional man—could set camp just about anywhere he wanted—be it the cosmos or the human body—and he was equally at home everywhere.
I opened my Astro 211 notebook this evening and took a look at some of Dr. Houck's thoughts on the world. Oddly enough, I didn't remember what is perhaps the most important one—the one I recorded at the top of page one during the first lecture. It says: "Based on 4,000 years of experience, we're wrong."
It's tough for us to admit this. We don't like to think we're wrong. We like to think we're right, and very often we impede progress by clinging to our models and refusing to admit we got it wrong somewhere along the way. But it turns out that progress doesn't happen this way. Progress happens when we realize how little we know about the world and how far we have left to go. The pure act of thinking about the world may be intoxicating, but it turns out there are other reasons to do it. After all, it is only by understanding the world that we can make it better. Dr. Salpeter understood this. When his wife was returned to the universe, he grieved, of course, but he got on with it. Because he knew there was still work to be done.
What Dr. Houck said on the first day of class is something we ought to remember. In fact, it might be something we must remember if we care at all whether those born tomorrow will be able to look up in the sky on a clear summer night—with the sound of breezy leaves and the smell of freshly cut grass bathing the balmy air—hold their children close, and say, "How great this gift we call the world; how lucky we are to be here at all."
(I publish this piece this evening with a heavy heart and a profound feeling of emptiness, having just heard of Christopher Hitchens' passing from Graydon Carter, Hitchens' friend and editor at Vanity Fair. "Your corporeal existence, O Hitch, derives from the elements released by supernovae, by exploding stars," Martin Amis once wrote of his best friend. "Stellar fire was your womb, and stellar fire will be your grave: a just course for one who has always blazed so very brightly." In the spirit of the stars I dedicate this essay to him.)
This was when I came to understand how deeply satisfying and life-affirming the pure pleasure of thinking could be, and I would argue that the purity of the experience—the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of knowledge alone—is the best thing about it. "What are you gonna do with it?" people like to ask us. "What's the point of learning about that? Are you ever gonna use it?" There's something criminal about these questions, which seem to imply that something is worth learning only if we necessarily go beyond the mere learning of it. Why can't it be enough to view knowledge as something beautiful in itself, something that enhances life and adds color to the world?
On my way to class I would imagine those towering figures of the physics world walking through Rockefeller Hall and Space Sciences. In one instance, it was not my imagination at all. I remember sitting down for an astronomy lecture one afternoon and glancing across the hall to see Mr. Bill Nye roaming around in an austere office furnished with little more than a desk and a chair. I walked across the hall to say hello. And yes, he is just as tall and cartoonish as he appears on television. But just as fun and engaging, too.
One of my favorite professors was Dr. James Houck, who taught introductory astrophysics (Astro 211). He was that old-school thinker who never lost sight of the big picture. Rather, he emphasized back-of-the-envelope calculations to pin down the machinery of the universe (most astrophysicists really like envelopes). His was a dry humor, and he would often quietly throw us witty phrases and observations I would write down in the margins of my notebook. I still have the notebook, and I still read it from time to time. "We oughta break and have a turkey or something," he said matter-of-factly just as class was ending before Thanksgiving break. I have no idea why I remember this.
His relaxed attitude at the chalkboard belied his brilliance. But if you paid attention in class, you quickly understood that he had important things to say about physics and life. He spiced up his lectures with anecdotes of legendary physicists and astronomers who had worked or were still working at Cornell—Richard Feynman, Hans Bethe, Edwin Salpeter. And Dr. Houck had brushed shoulders with many of them, which made the anecdotes come alive. These scientists were inhabiting the stratosphere of human knowledge, and they were as close as humans could get to being masters of the universe. And when you walked down the same halls they had walked down, you couldn't help feeling connected to them in some odd way. Maybe even a little invincible.
I remember attending an evening dinner and lecture by Dr. Bethe when I was a sophomore. The talk was on energy generation in stars, and he used transparencies and an overhead projector during the lecture. His wife was by his side to keep the transparencies in order. Unfortunately he talked so low that I couldn't understand a word he said. But it didn't bother me at all. I was completely thrilled to be in the same room as Hans Bethe (Hans Bethe!?). As he spoke, I pictured him competing with Dr. Feynman to see who could calculate faster in his head. Thinking about these two titans trying to intellectually outmaneuver the other was as much as my brain could handle, and perhaps it was just as well that I couldn't hear a word of Dr. Bethe's lecture. Anyway, I'll never forget that evening.
During one lecture, Dr. Houck mentioned Dr. Salpeter, who at that moment was probably a few floors above us working hard on something related to the universe. Who was this person? I wanted badly to know. Dr. Houck sparked my curiosity by making references to Dr. Salpeter's collaboration with Dr. Bethe. But his work went beyond astrophysics—he appeared to float seamlessly through different intellectual worlds, leaving his mark in all of them.
I walked by Dr. Salpeter's office in Space Sciences on numerous occasions. I always wanted to stop in, but I never did. One early evening in the fall of 2000, I happened to encounter him walking by Bailey Hall and decided to introduce myself. I was immediately struck by his modesty and how easy it was to talk with him. At one point he mentioned that his wife had just passed away, and so he was spending most of his time continuing her research in neurobiology, which included the study of neuromuscular disorders. It was clear that this man—this exceptional man—could set camp just about anywhere he wanted—be it the cosmos or the human body—and he was equally at home everywhere.
I opened my Astro 211 notebook this evening and took a look at some of Dr. Houck's thoughts on the world. Oddly enough, I didn't remember what is perhaps the most important one—the one I recorded at the top of page one during the first lecture. It says: "Based on 4,000 years of experience, we're wrong."
It's tough for us to admit this. We don't like to think we're wrong. We like to think we're right, and very often we impede progress by clinging to our models and refusing to admit we got it wrong somewhere along the way. But it turns out that progress doesn't happen this way. Progress happens when we realize how little we know about the world and how far we have left to go. The pure act of thinking about the world may be intoxicating, but it turns out there are other reasons to do it. After all, it is only by understanding the world that we can make it better. Dr. Salpeter understood this. When his wife was returned to the universe, he grieved, of course, but he got on with it. Because he knew there was still work to be done.
What Dr. Houck said on the first day of class is something we ought to remember. In fact, it might be something we must remember if we care at all whether those born tomorrow will be able to look up in the sky on a clear summer night—with the sound of breezy leaves and the smell of freshly cut grass bathing the balmy air—hold their children close, and say, "How great this gift we call the world; how lucky we are to be here at all."
(I publish this piece this evening with a heavy heart and a profound feeling of emptiness, having just heard of Christopher Hitchens' passing from Graydon Carter, Hitchens' friend and editor at Vanity Fair. "Your corporeal existence, O Hitch, derives from the elements released by supernovae, by exploding stars," Martin Amis once wrote of his best friend. "Stellar fire was your womb, and stellar fire will be your grave: a just course for one who has always blazed so very brightly." In the spirit of the stars I dedicate this essay to him.)
