Field of Science

A book burning in Palo Alto

This is my latest monthly column for 3 Quarks Daily. As a book lover it wasn't easy for me to write this, but it also made me realize how bad it can get when it gets really bad, and how much we should fight tooth and nail to prevent this kind of scenario - or even partial elements of it - from becoming reality. One point I want to get across is how everyone can be complicit in these developments, including people who detest them. The biggest danger is not in government or corporations taking control of our lives; it's in us willingly ceding control to these entities through self-censorship and self-denial, all done under the name of some innocent ideology.

The flames crackled high and mighty, scalping the leaves from the oak trees, embracing bark and beetles in their maw of carbonized glimmer. The remains of what had been lingered at the bottom, burnt to the sticky nothingness of coagulated black blood. The walls of the stores and restaurants shone brightly, reflecting back the etherized memory of letters and words flung at them. Seen from the branches of the trees, filtered through incandescent fire, the people below were mere dots, ants borne of earthly damnation. A paroxysm of a new beginning silently echoed through the cold air. Palo Alto stood tall and brightly lit tonight.

Bell’s Books, a mainstay of the town for a hundred years, projected its ghostly, flickering shell across the square, its walls stripped of everything that ever dwelt on them, now pale shadows of a dimming past. A few months back they had come to the store, crew cuts and stiff ties, smiles of feigned concerns cutting across the room like benevolent razors. As a seller of used and antiquarian books Bell’s posed a particular problem, riddled through and through as it was with undesirables. The owner, an old woman who looked like she had been there since the beginning of time, was told quietly and with no small degree of sympathy how they did not want to do this but how they needed to cart out most of her inventory, especially because of its historical nature.

“We’re sorry, ma’am, but ever since they passed the addendum our directives have grown more urgent. And please don’t take this personally since yours is not the only collection to be cataloged: over the last few weeks we have repeated this exercise at most of the area’s stores and libraries. To be fair, they are offering healthy compensation for your efforts, and you should be hearing back from the grievances office very soon.”

With that, three Ryder trucks filled with most of the books from Bell’s had disappeared into the waning evening, the old woman standing in the door, the wisps of sadness on her face looking like they wanted to waft into the air and latch on to the gleaming skin of the vehicles. What happened to her since then, where she went and what she did was anybody’s guess. But the space where Bell’s stood had already been sold to an exciting new health food store.

Addendum XIV to the First Amendment had passed three months ago with almost unanimous approval from both parties. In an age of fractured and tribal political loyalties, it had been a refreshingly successful bipartisan effort to reach across the aisle. In some sense it was almost a boring development, since large parts of the First dealing with the right to peaceably assemble had been left unaltered. The few new changes added some exceptions to the hallowed Constitutional touchstone; these included an exception for public decency, another one for offending group sensibilities, and a third one for protection of citizens from provocative or offensive material. That last modification had been solidly backed by data from a battery of distinguished psychologists and sociologists from multiple academic centers, hospitals and government agencies who had demonstrated in double blind studies how any number of literary devices, allusions and historical references produced symptoms especially among the young that were indistinguishable from those of generalized anxiety disorder. Once the Surgeon General had certified the problem as a public health emergency, the road to determined political action had been smoothed over.

Most importantly, Addendum XIV had been a triumph of the people’s will. Painless and quick, it was being held up as an exemplar of representative democracy. The change had been catalyzed by massive public demonstrations of a magnitude that had not been seen since the last war. These demonstrations had begun in the universities as a response against blatant attacks on the dignity of their students, marshaled through the weaponization of words. The fire had then spread far and wide, raging across cities and plains and finally setting the hearts and minds of senators and congressmen ablaze; whether through fear or through common sense was at this point irrelevant. In what was a model example of the social contract between elected public officials and the people, much of the final language in Addendum XIV had been left almost unchanged from drafts that emerged from spirited and productive town hall meetings. It was grassroots government at its best. After years of being seen as almost a pariah, the country could again expect the world to look at it with renewed admiration as a nation of laws and decent people.

The police had put a perimeter around the fire, cordoning it off and trying their best to prevent spectators from approaching too close. But they were having a hard time of it since the whole point of the event was as a community-building exercise where the locals contributed and taught each other. An old cherry picker had been recruited to drop its cargo into the fire from top, but the real action belonged to the people. Children and old alike were cautiously approaching the bright burning flames and tossing in their quota and the younger crowd was flinging everything in quite enthusiastically. Parents who were trying to carefully keep their gleeful children from getting too close were simultaneously balancing the delicate act of teaching their kids how to do their part as civic-minded citizens. A mother was gently helping her four-year-old pick a slim volume and toss it into the gradually growing conflagration while the father stood nearby, smiling and returning the child’s eager glances. It was hard to contain the crowd’s enthusiasm as they obeyed the overt guidelines of the government and the silent dictates of their conscience. The police knew that the people were doing the right thing, so they finally became resigned to occasionally helping out the crowd rather than trying to prevent them from being singed by the heat. An officer took out his pocketknife and knelt to help a man cut the recalcitrant piece of twine that was tying his sheath of tomes together.

Based on the official state and federal guidelines, everyone had filled up their boxes and crates and SUVs and driven here. Driven here from Fremont and Berkeley — hallowed ground of the movement’s sacred origins — and some from as far as Livermore and Fresno, even braving the snaking line of cars on the Dumbarton Bridge to the East. They cursed under their breath for not being allowed to organize similar local events in their own cities, but the government wanted to build community spirit and did not want to dilute the wave of enthusiasm that had swept the nation. Rather than have several small events, they wanted to have a few big ones with memorably big attendance. Palo Alto afforded a somewhat central meeting point as well as a particularly convenient one because of its large repository of used bookstores and university libraries. The Ryder Company had helpfully offered generous discounts for use of their trucks. Stanford and Berkeley had been particularly cooperative and had contributed a large chunk of the evening’s raw material; as torchbearers of the movement, they had had no trouble gathering up enough recruits. Berkeley especially had the White House’s blessing and federal funding had once again started to flow generously to the once cash-strapped institution. Now University Avenue was backed up with Ryder trucks stretching back all the way to Campus Drive, mute messengers of information overflow relived to be offloading their tainted cargo.

As with most events like this, the restaurants were working overtime, offering happy hour deals and competing with each other for the attention of the diverse crowd. The $12.99 double slider special at Sliderbar had been sold out, and Blue Bottle Café in HanaHaus was going crazy trying to cater to their hyper-caffeinated consumers who especially relished the buzz from the establishment’s famous Death Valley Cold Brew. Groups of students could be seen working in relay teams; as one group helped unload the trucks and consign the contents to the flames, the other went back and brought back coffee and donuts for renewed energy. A family stood outside Palo Alto Creamery, the children squealing with delight as their ice cream melted quicker between their fingers in the glare of the heat. The parents watched with familiar exasperation, especially since there were three more bags to take care of. The extra generators at the creamery were having a hard time keeping up, but the huge size of the crowd seemed to please the crews even though they had been working since 3 AM.

To facilitate the transition, the government had mandated paid vacation for one day so that they could deploy agents who would visit homes and take stock of the inventory. Just like they did for jury duty, they sent out letters to everyone confirming the date and time. I had to postpone once since I had still not finished counting up my collection. I wanted to postpone again, but the second letter made the urgency of the matter a bit more clear. Two boyish-looking agents had stopped by and efficiently noted down everything as they gently took volumes out of my shelves and kept them back. Once they were sure about the total they had handed me a piece of paper confirming the number, along with information on the date of the event in Palo Alto. “We appreciate your help in this, Sir; you have no idea how some people have offered resistance to even such a simple call to community service. It’s especially absurd since it was their own friends and family members who had gone out of their way to come to all those town hall meetings and demand this! In any case, we’ll see you on the 27th. You have a nice day now.” I nodded wearily.

I had been reluctant to commit myself to that first milestone. There was another day late in November when those who couldn’t make it for some reason the first time around could go. I decided to go to the October event all the same; I had had nothing much to do in the evenings ever since all the bookstores had been either closed or reduced to selling meager, uninteresting fare.

They were offering discount parking in the lot on Waverley Street, so I parked there and took a right on University Avenue. As I turned a blast of hot air hit me, as if trying to wash away memories of an unwanted past. At the end of the street, flanked by shadows of the moving crowd, was the conflagration. The crowds around me were moving to and fro between the end of the street and the businesses along the sides, although the overall movement seemed to be toward the amorphous, flaring yellow shape shifter in the distance. I suddenly saw a familiar face at the side. It was Sam from HanaHaus; the establishment had opened an extra counter on the sidewalk to quell the crowds inside. “Hey, how’s it going? Some crowd huh?” waved Sam. I waved back but Sam’s hand quickly dissolved in the flurry of hands grabbing coffee cups and placing orders. I kept on walking and quickly reached the police perimeter. “Hi, do you have anything to donate?”, asked an officer. I told him that I was going to take advantage of the extended deadline. That’s ok, he said; based on the conversations he had had, people had such large collections that many of them were going to be forced to come back anyway. As a family with three young kids approached with their bags, he requested me to stand back so he could help them.

As I stepped back I took in the scene. The fire was gleefully lofting paper and pages up in a whirlwind of nihilistic ecstasy, the frayed, burning edges of pages proclaiming their glowing jaggedness, their silent letter-by-letter obliteration. Nearby, one group of children was dancing in a circle with others, enjoying the momentary dizziness induced by the motion. Their parents were keeping a close watch on them as they went on with their routine. Occasionally a child would quickly run to his or her parents’ side, pick up a volume and toss it laughing and screaming, even as the other children yelled about the interruption. They would then join the circle again and continue the dance, their own movements alternating with the movements of the soot as it went round and round the pyramid of burning paper.

It was then that I saw some of the names; it was odd that I shouldn’t have recognized them before, but it might simply have been because they were so ubiquitous that they had been rendered invisible. There were Lee and Kafka, Baldwin and Joyce, Ovid and Atwood, Plato and Melville, Rushdie and Russell, Twain and Conrad, Rhodes and Faulkner, Pynchon and Sagan, Woolf and Dostoyevsky, McCarthy and Stein. They were there because they were too colonial, too non-colonial, too postcolonial, too offensive, too profane, too sensitive, too traumatic, too objective, too white, too black, too egalitarian, too totalitarian, too maverick, too orthodox, too self-reflective, too existential, too modern, too postmodern, too violent, too bucolic, too crude, too literary, too cis, too trans, too religious, too secular, too nihilistic, too meaningful, too anarchist, too conformist, too feminist, too masculine, too languid, too unsettling, too horrific, too boring, too much ahead of their times, too much relics of the past, too much, simply. They were there because sensibilities had been offended, because words had been weaponized.

Most of them were lined up in bag after bag next to the fire, gagged and bound, silently screaming against the passions of men. The ones that had already made it into the void were gone, ideas becoming null, breath turned into air, but some had stumbled back from the high pile with various parts charred and curled up in half- dead configurations, painfully trying to remain part of this world. Some of the names were partially gone, formless echoes being slowly stuffed back into the grave. The ones which had photos of their authors had these photos metamorphosed into things begging to be obliterated: a woman with only her smile burnt off, looking like a gargoyle without a mouth; a man with his eyes masterfully taken out by well-placed glowing embers; another one where the heat had half-heartedly engraved dimpled plastic bubbles on the face of a female novelist known to have a pleasing countenance, now looking like a smallpox victim with a jaw left hanging.

It was then that I noticed another breed of spectator rapidly moving through the crowd. Photographers hired by both government and private agencies were canvassing the scene like bounty hunters looking for trinkets of a fractured reality which they could take back to their studios and immortalize in its isolated desolation. One of them was the noted photographer Brandon Trammel, from the California Inquirer. I could see him now on the other side of the fire, his body and the shimmering flames appearing to coalesce into one seamless disintegration. At a certain temperature human beings and paper become indistinguishable, guilt-ridden souls shredded apart into their constituent atoms, sons and daughters of the whims of men consumed by fire and fury. Trammel was taking photos of the men and women and children around the fire, etching their cries of glee and solemn duty into permanent oblivion.

Moving around the fire like a possessed man furiously scribbling down the habits of an alien civilization, he came over to my side. I caught sight of a half-burnt title on the ground. It was a familiar volume from another era, an era now looking like the world in a snow globe, eroding now through the obscuring glow of time. “Hey”, I yelled at him, “Here, let me pose for you”. I picked up the book and threw it at the red wall with all my might. I heard a click, but at the last moment the charred remains of its edges had disintegrated in my hands and it fell short by a few feet. I desperately looked around. Another one was within sight. I hastily scampered over, picked it up and looked at Trammel, eager and wild-eyed. “Again!”, I screamed at the top of my voice, and cast it into the fire.

Note: Perspicacious readers may have noticed that I have modeled the ending here on the last part of Raymond Carver's short story "Viewfinder". Very few writers could do quiet desperation as well as Carver.

A terrible year for academic organic chemistry

In the last one year, academic chemistry has lost Jack Roberts, Jerome Berson, George Olah, Gilbert Stork and now Ron Breslow. The last two in just one week. 

It's been a terrible loss. All these chemists were world-renowned pioneers in their areas who laid the foundations of much of what graduate students now learn in their textbooks and what professional chemists apply in their laboratories. They were the last torch bearers of the golden age of organic chemistry, the age which laid the foundations of the three pillars of organic chemistry: structure, reactivity and synthesis.

Jack Roberts pioneered NMR spectroscopy in the United States. He should really have received a Nobel Prize for this contribution in my opinion. But in addition to this, he was also one of the foremost practitioners of molecular orbital theory and made very significant contributions to conformational analysis and carbocation chemistry.

Jerome Berson was another important physical organic chemist who also wrote what I consider to be a very unique contribution to the history of science - a book titled "Chemical Creativity", that traces creativity in the work of leading chemists, from Hückel to Woodward.

George Olah was the father of modern carbocation chemistry and an inventor of superacids that allow us to stabilize carbocations. He contributed massively to work that is used in the petrochemical industry and, along with Martin Saunders, delivered the coup de grace that settled the famous non-classical cation controversy for good.

Gilbert Stork about whom much has been written since he passed away just a few days ago was one of the most original synthetic organic chemists of the 20th century. His work on enamine alkylations, radical cyclizations and other key reactions is now part of the textbooks, and so are his several elegant natural product syntheses.

And now Ronald Breslow. Primarily known as a physical organic chemist, Breslow was one of the most versatile chemists of the 20th century whose contributions ranged across the entire chemical landscape. He is famous for many things; for discovering the simplest aromatic system - the cyclopropenium ion, for d-orbital conjugation, for very intriguing work on chemistry in aqueous solvents, for building artificial enzymes, for inventing the marketed drug SAHA (the first histone deacetylase inhibitor) and for exploring the origin of chirality during the origin of life. How many chemists can claim that kind of oeuvre?

Breslow received pretty much every award for science there is out there except the Nobel Prize - the National Medal of Science, membership in the National Academy of Sciences and presidency of the ACS among others. He also saw his share of controversies, although the chemical community always came out wiser for learning from them. 

Most notably, in an age when senior professors are often criticized for using graduate students and postdocs as cheap labor, Breslow was an extraordinary educator. Among his students and postdocs are Robert Grubbs, Robert Bergman and Larry Overman. There is probably not a continent on which some student of his is not doing chemistry. More than once during his talks, he made a pitch for hiring the student or postdoc who had done the work. Breslow belonged to an older, more gentlemanly generation of professors who would make calls to get their students jobs.

I last heard Breslow speak only one year ago at an ACS meeting. Before that I had heard him speak at an ACS meeting about ten years ago. The remarkable thing is that between those ten years he did not seem to have aged, displaying the same boyish enthusiasm and curiosity for chemistry that was always his hallmark. When he received the Priestley Medal in 1999, one of his students said the same thing: "He just doesn't seem to age, certainly not intellectually. Talking to him now is like talking to him 30 years ago. He's got the same enthusiasm, the same excitement about chemistry."

We are all poorer for the loss of Breslow and these other pioneers, but the best thing is that they will be part of the textbooks as long as there is a science of chemistry.

Interpreting Kafka’s Metamorphosis in the Digital Age

I re-read Kafka’s “Metamorphosis”, wondering if it presented parallels for our age of mute communication enabled by the Internet. The Metamorphosis deals with themes of social alienation (often self-imposed) and existential anxiety. It’s worth understanding the context in which the story was written. This context involves Kafka’s own life and personality. Kafka held himself in low self-esteem and thought himself inadequate socially and sexually; he seems to have had several relationships with women but also visited prostitutes. Most importantly in the context of “The Metamorphosis”, he feared that people would find him physically and mentally repulsive and seems to have suffered from an eating disorder.
These qualities of self-loathing are inherent in the story. The protagonist Gregor Samsa finds himself transformed into a giant insect who his parents and sister naturally find repellant. He also starts hating most food, including even the rotten food that his loving sister tearfully puts in his room. It is clear that the insect loathes himself and understands why his own family would loathe him and wish him gone. It’s also significant that while Samsa can perfectly understand what his family is saying about him, his own speech is now grotesquely that of an insect and incomprehensible to them. Torn between an inability to communicate and a perfect ability to understand, the insect naturally feels both alienation and existential angst.
We should not have to look too far to find parallels in the digital age for most of Kafka’s afflictions. Technology and especially social media has sequestered us away from human contact in the same way that Samsa’s fundamental transformation shut him out. We spend hours on the Internet in our home, and yet can legitimately claim to have no real, human connection to the world outside. This is reflected in our “friendship” with hundreds of people on social media which translates to nihilistic friendlessness outside this medium. We also think that we can perfectly understand what people outside are saying, but just like the insect, keep on banging on the walls of our self-imposed prison because we cannot make ourselves heard above the din outside. We make a lot of noise, but very little sound.
A lot of the existential anxiety which we feel results from this dissonance between the clear, one way-mirror of the outside world and the opaque prison of the inside, a prison which nevertheless occasionally gives us the illusion of being able to communicate before the whole façade regularly comes tumbling down. Just like the giant insect, our minds are torn between wanting to communicate and wanting to believe that we can.
Most deaf are the technology companies which in our age seem to play the role of Samsa’s family; they claim to know what we are saying and even pretend to love us, but what they are offering us is a diet of information addiction and distraction which is being force fed to us. Like Samsa, we find ourselves in a love-hate relationship with these companies; on one hand we want to reject their sustenance, but on the other we find ourselves increasingly unable to survive without it. We hate ourselves for craving the food that the tech companies send our way, and we pity ourselves if we don’t have it.
The role of Samsa’s parents can also be ascribed to the global internet community which pretends to be our friend but whose main function is to publicly shame, vilify and abandon us the moment we say something they disagree with. The sense of alienation which Samsa feels partly comes from not being able to communicate with his parents and partly from their anger and disgust at his transformation. Similarly, the global internet community pretends to care about us because we are part of the same digital ecosystem, while being able to turn on us in disgust and indignation in a moment when we undergo our own transformation, a transformation perhaps to an unpopular social or political viewpoint. Veering away from the community and tech companies’ groupthink will be our version of the Metamorphosis. Is is therefore not surprising that we find ourselves suffering extreme feelings of alienation, facing censure, ostracism and indifference from a community that from the outside seems to look just like us but which really is so different as to be an actual alien species, again like Samsa’s giant insect.
The end of “The Metamorphosis” involves Samsa becoming infected and rueful and finally dying from shame, neglect and self-imposed starvation. A similar fate would likely befall the Gregor Samsas of today’s globally connected world, signified perhaps by these modern day vermin turning into brainwashed internet addicts who have completely surrendered their privacy, creative potential and personal dignity to both Internet companies and the global social media community. The original Gregor Samsa died, but this kind of complete surrender of mind and body would likely be a fate worse than death, perhaps not appreciated fully by the victims because of their delusional state, but real nonetheless.
However it need not be so. Gregor’s mistake was in pretending that his family would want a normal relationship with him even after his transformation. While it would have been difficult, it would not have been impossible for him to be proactive in severing his connections with them, perhaps running away into the sewers or streets and starting an independent existence as a free insect. Such a lifestyle would have been challenging to say the least, but it would have led to a strange and exhilarating kind of freedom from dependence on his parents’ approval and love.
The metaphor for our Internet age would be freedom from both the tech companies’ and the digital community’s feigned love toward us. The more we keep craving their approval, the more we will keep on becoming a victim of our own self-imposed existential angst. That way would lie catastrophe. Severing the bond with these two entities would not be easy and I don’t know what the best way to do it is. But there have certainly been some opinions offered toward achieving this goal.
What I do know is that when a Gregor Samsa from this world decides to escape, even into the sewers, he or she would find it much easier if other Gregor Samsas are already waiting in there.

Einstein: A Hundred Years of Relativity

Andrew Robinson’s compendium on all things Einstein is a lavishly illustrated treat which I read with great pleasure in one sitting. It consists of contributions from Robinson himself as well as from a variety of writers, scientists and philosophers on various aspects of Einstein’s life, work and the times he lived in. There are scores of photos of Einstein with everyone from Niels Bohr to Charlie Chaplain to Rabindranath Tagore. Robinson himself is a measured and very engaging guide to Einstein’s life, treading methodically and evenly over all major events in his life. The book consists of introductory essays by Robinson followed by chapters on specific topics. All the chapters on Einstein’s work are drawn from past writings on Einstein by leading thinkers and scientists; Stephen Hawking, Steven Weinberg, Freeman Dyson, Max Jammer, Philip Anderson and Philip Glass. It is especially illuminating to read Glass’s essay in which Glass talks about how Einstein inspired his opera, “Einstein on the Beach”. Each of these writers talks about a particular triumph and folly of Einstein’s, or how he influenced their own work. The volume also contains a reprint of a revealing interview with Einstein by Bernard Cohen, conducted only two weeks before his death.

Although Einstein is known for relativity – and both general and special relativity receive an extended treatment here - he contributed to many other important parts of physics. He was one of the fathers of quantum theory, a fact of perpetual irony given his vociferous later opposition to the meaning of the theory. In 1905 which is regarded as his annus mirabilis, he published papers on the sizes of atoms, on diffusion through different media and of course, on special relativity. Even after putting the finishing touches on relativity in 1915, Einstein made at least two major contributions to science. One was his work with Satyendranath Bose predicting what are called Bose-Einstein condensates; it took until the 1990s for these novel forms of matter to be created in the laboratory. The other was his contribution in explaining the process of stimulated emission which led to the laser. Another of Einstein’s lesser-known works was a practical one – the Einstein-Szilard refrigerator which he invented as a safe refrigerator with his friend Leo Szilard, the same Szilard who encouraged him to write the famous letter to president Roosevelt warning of the discovery of fission.

The book is roughly chronological; starting with Einstein’s rebellious days as a student and trailblazer at the Swiss patent office, as deep thinker and revolutionary when he was a professor in Berlin, as pacifist during World War 1, as one of the most famous men in the world after World War 2, as target of anti-Semitic propaganda, as world-famous émigré in Princeton and as pacifist, tongue-wagging celebrity-sage again after World War 2. One of the themes that constantly emerges through these different periods of Einstein’s life is that of stubbornness and rebellion combined with an unusual tolerance for unorthodox thinking and unconventional people. One of the significant myths about Einstein that the volume demolishes is that of an introverted, lonely, deep thinker. Throughout his life Einstein was surrounded by close friends who he kept in touch with either in person or through letters; his personal and professional correspondence with famous as well as common folk number in the thousands. During his young days he was a lusty, vivacious and joyful man filled with dry humor and cheekiness, and these qualities endured late into his life.

Robinson’s volume is also very good at exploring the paradoxes of Einstein’s life. Einstein was a wise, avuncular figure to strangers and the world at large, but he was often terribly cruel and indifferent to his family; he was an adulterer who womanized regularly even after being married twice, and he was estranged from both of his sons. Much of this revelation was hidden from the public and only became apparent with the discovery of Einstein’s letters to his wife in the 1990s. As with most other people, Einstein had trouble being consistent in his morality. His pacifism was perhaps one of the most consistent qualities in him, although he wisely cast it off once Hitler came to power.

Scientifically Einstein’s life presents even more interesting paradoxes. Freeman Dyson opens the volume with an essay talking about what was perhaps Einstein’s biggest scientific failure; his inability to imagine a universe without black holes. As I described in a post, both Einstein and Oppenheimer played foundational roles in the discovery of black holes; they were a logical result of Einstein’s field equations of general relativity. Yet both men essentially abandoned their scientific creations, staying utterly indifferent to them for the rest of their lives. Einstein even wrote a paper in 1939 that supposedly refuted black holes, but it was fatally flawed in its assumptions of static spacetime around these inherently dynamic objects. Today black holes are recognized as the engines which fuel the birth and death of the universe. Einstein also made a mistake when he inserted a cosmological constant in his equations to keep the universe from expanding or contracting. However to his credit, he immediately got rid of this constant once he learnt of Edwin Hubble’s discovery of the expanding universe. Ironically, as the expansion of the universe was found to be accelerating, the cosmological constant was resurrected.

Einstein’s reliance on beauty and mathematics was also paradoxical. As the physicist Philip Anderson describes, many still think of Einstein as primarily a mathematical physicist. But all his early advances in relativity were fueled not by abstract mathematics but by practical thought experiments in physics. He always stayed close to experiment and let the data guide his thinking. His time in the patent office in Bern had given him a real taste for mechanical contraptions. However, as described by Steven Weinberg, when developing general relativity, Einstein did have to take advantage of the novel field of Riemannian geometry which he learnt from his friend Marcel Grossmann. Weinberg speculates that perhaps Einstein got so enamored with mathematics during this time that it led to his isolation from the mainstream of physics during the last few decades of his life when he kept on trying to develop a unified field theory without paying attention to real advances in physics. Sadly, Weinberg finds that almost everything that Einstein did after 1925 was irrelevant in terms of real contributions to physics. The one exception was the debate with Niels Bohr and others about quantum entanglement which he sparked in 1935, and even in that debate he finally ended up on the losing side.

Einstein remains of great interest to a new generation, not because he was a genius but because – as this volume illustrates - he was human. Ultimately when we strip away the trappings of myth and fame from his scientific contributions, what remains is a human being in all his honest clarity. That is what makes him a topic of enduring interest.

Fine-tuning the future: A review of Aldous Huxley's "Brave New World"

Before there was ‘The Matrix’ and ‘Bladerunner’, before there was even ‘1984’, there was Brave New World. It is astonishing that Aldous Huxley wrote this tale of technological dystopia in 1932. The social elements from the story are similar to those in Orwell and Kafka and others, namely a society of obedient sheep run by the state and benevolent dictators through brainwashing and groupthink. But what’s striking about the novel is how it so astutely anticipates a society taken over by benevolent technocrats rather than politicians, a scenario that appears increasingly likely in the age of AI and genetic engineering. 

Huxley came from an illustrious scientific family with social connections. His grandfather was Thomas Henry Huxley, Darwin’s close friend, publicist and “bulldog”, whose famous smack down of Bishop Samuel Wilberforce has been relished by rationalists fighting against religious faith ever since. His brother was Julian Huxley, a famous biologist who among other accomplishments wrote a marvelous tome on everything that was then known about biology with H. G. Wells. Steeped in scientific as well as social discourse, possessing a deep knowledge of medical and other scientific research, Aldous was in an ideal position to write a far-reaching novel.

This he duly did. The basic premise of the novel sounds eerily prescient. Sometime in the near future, society has been regimented into a caste system where people are genetically engineered by the state in large state-run reproductive farms. Anticipating ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’, only a select few women and men are capable of providing fertile eggs and sperm for this careful social engineering. The higher castes are strong, intelligent and charismatic. The lower castes are turgid, obedient and physically weak. They don’t begrudge those from the upper castes because their genetic engineering has largely removed their propensity toward jealousy and violence. Most notably, because reproduction is now the responsibility of the state, there is no longer a concept of a family, of a father or mother. There is knowledge of these concepts, but it’s regarded as archaic history from a past era and is met with revulsion.

How is this population kept under control? Not shockingly at all, through sex, drugs and rock and roll. Promiscuity is encouraged from childhood onwards and is simply a way of life, and everyone sleeps with everyone else, again without feeling jealousy or resentment (it was this depiction of promiscuity that led the book to be banned in India in the 60s). They flood their bodies with a drug called soma whenever they feel any kind of negative emotion welling up inside and party like there’s no end. They are brainwashed into believing the virtues of these and other interventions by the state through subliminal messages played when they are sleeping; such unconscious brainwashing goes all the way back to their birth. People do die, but out of sight, and when they are still looking young and attractive. Death is little more than a nuisance, a slight distraction from youth, beauty and fun.

Like Neo from ‘The Matrix’, one particular citizen of this society named Bernard Marx starts feeling that there is more to the world than would be apparent from this state of induced bliss. On a tryst with a particularly attractive member of his caste in an Indian reservation in New Mexico, he comes across a man referred to as the savage. The savage is the product of an illegitimate encounter (back when there were parents) between a member of a lower caste and the Director of Hatcheries who oversees all the controlled reproduction. He has grown up without any of the enlightened instruments of the New World, but his mother has kept a copy of Shakespeare with her so he knows all of Shakespeare by heart and frequently quotes it. Marx brings the savage back to his society. The rest of the book describes the savage’s reaction to this supposed utopia and its ultimately tragic consequences. Ultimately he concludes that it’s better to have free will and feel occasionally unhappy, resentful and angry than live in a society where free will is squelched and the population is kept bathed in an induced state of artificial happiness.

The vision of technological control in the novel is sweeping and frighteningly prescient. There is the brainwashing and complacent submission to the status quo that everyone undergoes which is similar to the messages provided in modern times by TV, social media and the 24-hour news cycle. There are the chemical and genetic interventions made by the state right in the embryonic stage to make sure that the embryos grow up with desired physical or mental advantages or deficiencies. These kinds of interventions are the exact kind feared by those wary of CRISPR and other genetic editing technologies. Finally, keeping the population preoccupied, entertained and away from critical thinking through sex and promiscuity is a particularly potent form of societal control that has been appreciated well by Victoria’s Secret, and that will not end with developments in virtual reality.

In some sense, Huxley completely anticipates the social problems engendered by the technological takeover of human jobs by robots and AI. Once human beings are left with nothing to do, how does the state ensure that they are prevented from becoming bored and restless and causing all kinds of trouble? In his book “Homo Deus”, Yuval Harari asks the same questions and concludes that a technocratic society will come up with distractions like virtual reality video games, new psychoactive drugs and novel forms of sexual entertainment that will keep the vast majority of unemployed from becoming bored and potentially hostile. I do not know whether Harari read Huxley, but I do feel more frightened by Huxley than by Harari. One reason I feel more frightened is because of what he leaves out; the book was published in 1932, so it omits any discussion of nuclear weapons which were invented ten years later. The combination of nuclear weapons with limitless societal control through technology makes for a particularly combustible mix.

The biggest prediction of Huxley’s dystopia, and one distinctly different from that made by Orwell or Kafka, is that instead of a socialist state, people’s minds are much more likely to be controlled in the near future by the leaders of technology companies like Google and Facebook who have formed an unholy nexus with the government. With their social media alerts and Fitbits and maps, the tech companies are increasingly telling us how to live our lives and distracting us from free thinking. Instead of communist regimes like the Soviet Union forcibly trampling on individual choice and liberty, we are already gently but willingly ceding our choices, privacy and liberties to machines and algorithms developed by these companies. And just like the state in Huxley and Orwell’s works, the leaders of these corporations will tell us why it’s in our best interests to let technology control our lives and freedom, when all the while it would really be in their best interests to tell us this. Our capitulation to their inventions will look helpful and voluntary and will feel pleasurable and even noble, but it will be no less complete than the capitulation of every individual in “Brave New World” or “1984”. The only question is, will there be any savages left among us to tell us how foolishly we are behaving?

Cryo-electron microscopy, scientific convergence and - again - why we need to fund basic science

Cryo-electron microscopy has won the Nobel Prize for chemistry this year, and while I did not expect it to make it quite so fast, nobody can deny the importance of the technique. As I wrote two years ago, it's a prime example of a tool-driven scientific revolution. And it has charted completely new vistas in the determination of the structure of biological molecules; entire protein assemblies, viruses, proteins too unruly to be symmetrically crystallized using x-ray crystallography.

But it's also an example of what we can call scientific and technological convergence. Often when a prize is awarded for a discovery or invention, it makes it sound like that discovery or invention stands on its own. But as the saying goes, no scientific advance is an island.

One of the most important things to realize about cryo-EM is how many fields had to co-evolve for it to become a reality. There was the long development of microscopy, of course, but two other inventions were absolutely critical in making the technique possible: detectors and computers. Computing power enabled by Moore's Law and cheap hardware combined with key advances in image-processing software have revolutionized a lot of fields in the last few years, from facial recognition to photography. 

And cryo-EM is not an exception. Joachim Frank who is one of this year's winners made his mark in the 80s and 90s by developing image processing software and mathematical techniques that could combine 2D microscopy images into a composite 3D picture. As important as the image processing was the development of detectors; one key invention made in 2013 that allowed much better signal-to-noise ratio and spatial resolution really seems to have pushed the method into a new realm of possibility (it's worth noting that a Nobel Prize was awarded for CCDs a few years ago - another very important technological advance). Finally, there had to be a way to introduce water into the experimental setup; this seemingly mundane process took quite some time to, well, crystallize.

So, computers, electronics and lab technique: all scientific tools, modern versions of string-and-sealing-wax science, all enabling groundbreaking new chemistry and biology. It's quite clear that the failure to advance on any of these fronts would have crippled the development of cryo-EM. 

Why is it important to realize this? For two reasons. Firstly, it really underscores how no scientific advance stands by itself, how it piggybacks on not just other developments in the same field but on those in other fields. The Wright brothers' rickety plane was a marvel of their innovative thinking, but it was also a marvel of, among other fields, materials science, aerodynamics and mechanical engineering.

Secondly and perhaps more importantly for our times, this recognition shows why it's crucial to support and fund basic science in multiple areas because it's only their co-evolution that can lead to an invention like cryo-EM. Simply funding the 'hottest' fields is not enough, because even the hottest fields have emerged from the nexus of several other fields. Scientific convergence is the answer to the question perpetually asked by lawmakers: "What is this good for?". A few decades ago they could have asked that question about some esoteric mathematical image processing technique, they could have asked it about new software, and they could have asked it about new ways to freeze biological samples. By themselves these were interesting phenomena, but nobody could have predicted their convergence in cryo-EM. That is why funding research across the board is so important, because it's all connected.

We have no idea whether politicians in the current climate will understand this interdependence of different fields that makes a major scientific advance possible, but a Nobel Prize for cryo-EM should at least help us make our case.

The Madness of J. Robert Oppenheimer: A poem

The day you were born, the world died.
Died in glitter and grist, in skeletons and slogans.

Scenic Riverside Drive which bequeathed you to us.
Sparkling New York lent us its sordid dreams
To trample underfoot, like so many lost souls.
You were born of a merchant;
Of loathsome success,
Of a hurried past,
Whose pogroms pushed him into the future.

Precious, precocious little one
You lit up your mother's eyes.
Her arm you were coy about,
Gloved as it stayed, seemingly hiding
The misfortune of your future mischief.
Never to be spoken of
In that household of labored repute.

You went to the Ethical Culture School,
Where they taught the holy gospel.
A man is known not by his creed but by his deed.
A reformed Jew would know this, they said.
But what consequences that deed had,
Free floating things, of dubious character,
They never said
Or thought respectable to do so.

A mind of formidable power and reach,
That everyone knew from the beginning.
Painfully aware, plumbing minerals and poetry.
Grandpa Ben from the old German country,
Hands you a set of stones; birefringent, languidly green and blue.
I want to be good at many things, you say,
And still see the world through a tear-stained countenance.

At twelve you read Katherine Mansfield and Plato.
Sink deeper in your chair.
Ponder what men do when they make poetry and figure out politics.
You say, "Ask me a question in Latin, and I will answer.
In Greek."
You freak.
You're an unctuous, repulsively good little boy.

A gift to Ethical you are.
Driven by a chauffeur,
Waiting for the elevator.
Can your son please not, they plead,
Hold up the class.

They had their revenge, the boys from proper households,
Who, out in a camp in the Catskills, painted your genitals green,
Locked you in an icehouse.
Silently you bore the frigid embarrassment,
Out to prove yourself a man, embarrassed of your parents who rescued you,
For not giving you a normal, healthy way
To be a bastard.

Holding a valedictory flame, you set forth.
Ethical's motto, "Fiat lux", you take to heart,
Your light will set everything aglow,
In its own private, luminous agony.

An unholy constriction of the innards,
Sends you into bouts of pale melancholy,
The cavalry comes in the disguise
Of your English teacher, Herbert Smith,
To elevate you with mountains and air.

Go west, young man, away from those "bizzness" men,
To New Mexico, where the old ones speak.
To pueblos and horses and the sunset ablaze.
Joy alternating with conscious self-hatred,
An endearing quality all your life.
Smith asks you to fold a shirt,
"The tailor's son would know, won't he".

Harvard beckons, the Harvard of Ivy and anti-Semitism.
You raid the library, swallow Eliot and Baudelaire.
Exhaust yourself with Russell and Whitehead and Kant,
Pound the streets of Cambridge
With unrequited longings for girls and gentiles.
To prove you are still alive.

You write letters and poetry,
Solid efforts at vaporous endeavors,
Undertaken with disembodied spirituality.
Science is reassuring, tangible,
A refuge, a corner of your own.

Chemistry solidifies its hold over you,
The capacity for change and renewal.
Easy, you ask, for salt and sulfur.
Why does it escape human beings?

The golden age of physics is upon the world,
Bohr and Einstein and Rutherford; names in books.
What will they say, when you show them your wares?
Chemistry becomes physics, physics becomes soma.

In Cambridge, the New Zealand lion roars.
Sets you upon a gloriously numbing task,
Something to do with thin films of a metal oxide.
Splendid, you say, while your heart weeps.

Months of lugubrious effort in the lab.
You are clumsy at women and workmanship.
Gazing into the inky blackness of the Cam,
How wonderful it would be, you ask,
To bump myself off.

Your toils fail in the wilderness of error.
With old Cambridge friends you undertake
A voyage to Corsica.
Southern comfort for the wounded soul.
You travel over mountains and rivers,
Shielded by horses in the rain, violent vistas out there.
Assaulted by pangs of hunger, you light up.
Feels good, you say. I think I will keep the habit.
Suddenly you remember, you must go back.
There is the trivial matter, of ambition and murder,
A poisoned apple you kept on your tutor's desk,
Must be disposed of, before it causes a minor inconvenience.

Feverishly they send for the New Yorkers, who rush with great concern.
You will no longer try to poison your tutor, they promise the university,
In return for silence and a shrink,
Who diagnoses you with dementia praecox.
Friday finds you walking at a furious clip,
Contemptuous of the man, what kind of psychobabble?
Does he dabble in? I understand my own troubles better.

The Great Dane visits his favorite son,
Master of Theory meeting Master of Experiment.
Casually he comes over and asks,
"Are your difficulties experimental or conceptual"?
"I don't know".
"That's bad", he says.
But his avuncular, insipid sweetness perseveres.
The clog starts clearing up.

Eagerly you go to Göttingen, to the tutelage of Max Born.
Born; of thin skin, shrinking fear and complete mastery.
With Heisenberg he invented quantum theory,
Reduced the world to waves of probability.
"The point can be made more simply thusly", you say,
Grasping the chalk from Born's hands,
While he cowers in fear of your untutored cleverness.

Göttingen unfurls the colors of your creative soul.
Mathematics and equations come tumbling out.
So do Dante and Goethe and Nietzsche.
Glowing embers of the intellect,
Surrounded by international scientists
And national socialists.

From the world over come savants and penniless wanderers,
To dive into the depths of the alien world.
They come from Rome and Cambridge, Leiden and Warsaw.
Benighted, intellectual altar boys, eyes full of wonderment.
Arguing, calculating, wandering among scenic streets and mountains.
Parked in a land nursing old wounds, creeping toward the precipice.

You befriend most; they regard you with jealousy and admiration.
The most austere one, Dirac, regards your crisscrossings with impatience.
How can you work, he asks, at both poetry and physics?
In physics we try to explain something that was not clear before.
In poetry it is the exact opposite.
You pity Dirac's exact mind; how could it fathom
The part where the humans who create science matter.

Triumphant from your glorious explorations you come home.
King of the atomic realm; a thicket of papers; the old guard calling.
Harvard and Princeton, Caltech and Berkeley, you feign considered respect.
Berkeley sounds interesting, a desert in the middle of civilization, you call it.
Your mission, should you choose it, is to bring physics to the barbarians.

You make your bed, you sleep here.
Should civilization come undone, as it seems to be,
This is where you make your last stand,
Among partial differential equations and scattering matrices.
You buy a fast steed, name it Garuda, for the Hindu god of speed,
It terrifies your friends; the speed of your own mind awes them.

The universe is your playground, physics alone never satisfied you.
Arthur Ryder, old soul with a laconic mind, infused with Eastern philosophy.
With him you read the Bhagavad Gita in the original.
Princes and duty, detachment and effort,
The fire in your heart glows brighter every day.

Gradually the world takes notice, the center of physics starts shifting.
You get a new friend with a pragmatic, earthy mind.
Aw shucks, says Ernest Lawrence; he works sixteen-hour days,
As his new cyclotron accelerates particles to the end of kingdom come.
Lawrence and you, you make a fine team, politics aside.
What does politics have to do with beauty, purity and truth anyway?

They come to you as they came to Born.
Eager schoolboys burning with intellectual thirst.
Living on cat food, from depression-ridden Oklahoma and Philadelphia.
You introduce them to an unfamiliar life.
Spicy food and martinis, Beethoven and Sanskrit.
Late night ruminations reverberating against the silent hills.
Mesmerizing sermons on truth and quantum electrodynamics.
The cigarette always lit, the mind finishing others' sentences.
Your wealthy father's trust fund allowing you to feign asceticism.

The brilliance marked by casual cruelty,
The Beastliness, you call it. An old friend.
Generously offered, seldom controlled.
You cut them down to size;
They learn at your feet.

With your students you gaze upwards into cosmic rays
And downwards into the vacuous space
Inside collapsing stars.
You Trump the Europeans at their own game,
The world beats a reluctant path to your door.
They will no longer have to make pilgrimages
To Göttingen and Cambridge.
Home is where the good stuff is.
You have put America on the map.

And yet you don't always pursue
Your soaring ideas to their logical ends.
Later others will say you hesitated;
A first rate mind which could have achieved more.
You remain enamored with detachment.
Perhaps you should have studied the Talmud after all.

The world around you collapsing,
Communism the one fond hope.
Parched minds begging to be watered,
Looking for redemption from
The wretchedness of self-interest.
You plunge in yourself,
While never making sense of Communist dogma.
But the die has been cast.

One parched mind belongs to Jean Tatlock.
Lithe, with a smoldering passion
For ideas and depressive thoughts,
John Donne living rent free inside her head.
A tumultuous relationship, simmering,
At the edge of sanity, sometimes.

Your own brother, sometimes soulmate,
The one you lectured on the virtue of discipline,
Discipline undertaken for its own sake.
Feckless Frank joins the party.
You dissuade and dissemble,
In the prison of your own uncertainty.

The unstable Jean discourages you,
You seek succor in other arms.
Kitty Harrison, twice divorced,
Cradling the lost memory of her husband,
Killed fighting Franco in Spain,
A good communist.
It all adds up, the stars aligned.
You become a family man,
You could get used to encroaching normalcy.

Events overtake the best-laid plans.
War and peace, but war always wins.
A dingy laboratory in Berlin
Steals a secret from Nature's bosom.
A squadron of grinning pilots
Carpet an island with death and blood.

When can you stop, asks Lawrence,
This political nonsense?
Truth and honesty being a small price,
To pay for fame and fortune.
We want you.
We want you to save the world.

The future calls with its crooked smile,
Will you come join our little project?
Will the King don his armor,
And fulfill the goal destiny has thrust on him?
The verdict of his grandchildren be damned.

You team up with a gruff general. Blistering efficiency.
The house of principles is a house of cards.
Sure I'll be a commissioned officer, you say,
Until cooler heads threaten to resign.
Your friends remain important to you.
For now.

A millennial weapon, as yet unshaped.
A figment of men's wild imagination.
Would it end a madman's jackbooted visions?
They ask for an isolated place.
Where a bang will sound like a whimper.
You thought it a pity physics and desert country
Could never be combined.
You were wrong.

A great city arises in the middle of the desert,
Untamed, wrung out of infant uncertainty.
Coated with the gloss of brutal aspirations.
Barbed wire, secrecy, the gnarled green of the army.
Did we leave Berlin and come here for this, ask the refugees?
Thankfully, they say in thick European accents,
Soon there may be no Berlin.

Until then, the mountains provide solace.
The desert air stirs something elemental in you.
You take over with a whirlwind of enthusiasm,
Entrust the initiation to your close associate with the lisp.

You have wrested free discussion from the general
With great effort and cloying pleas.
You are a good soldier.

"The object of this project
Is to create a practical weapon in the form of a bomb."
Leave behind your particles and fields,
Except as precision instruments of mass murder.
And spare me your talk of morality,
Says famous, friendly Fermi,
When it's all superb physics.

A constellation of egghead geniuses, diverted from their life's goals.
Fleeing from a world gone half mad to the crucible of freedom.
In which they now forge this weapon which can end freedom.
Brainstorming neutrons and diffusion,
Lenses and implosion.
The mechanics of annihilation
Never embodied such fine craftsmanship.

Dancing, devilish dervish Edward Teller,
Visions of megatons in his head.
Just let me know how big you want it,
I can make it so.
Quickly though, I have to get back to my piano,
And raise Bach from the dead.
My neighbors' sleep be damned,
The world really needs to wake up now.

Gently you soothe these rumpled egos,
Feynman and Groves and even terrible Teller;
They call you the best director they have seen.
Everything has a home in your mind;
The problems of pregnant women.
The high fertility rate.
The height of detonation.
How to turn humans to embers.

The Great Dane arrives one March,
His presence a reassurance
That you may be able to redeem yourself after all.
This could be the weapon to end all wars, says Bohr,
If mankind gets tired of killing, that is.
But whatever else transpires between
The devil and angel of fate,
Don't forget, until then,
It's all superb physics.

There is no solution without a test.
You know where it has to happen.
A desolate scrub of land at the end of time,
The Jornada del Muerto, the Journey of Death,
Which never looked so full of promise.
The name should be logical; Trinity.
In deference to the mystical Donne
And his disciple Jean Tatlock.
Poor, wretched Jean,
Who could not blind the demons in her mind,
Until they were immersed in a tub full of water.

What burdens men's hearts may bear,
Are drowned out in the din of a downpour,
Trying to desperately wash away the vulgarities,
About to be visited on this primeval landscape.

The cigarettes have started to show their power.
The chronic cough racks up your inner desires.
The Gita speaks to you; convenient balm for your sins.
You tell everyone that in the middle of javelins and arrows,
The good that men do sustains them.
Philosophy can perhaps wipe away the stain of physics.

The lever thrown, the sunglasses donned,
The future triggered irrevocably,
Set in murderous motion.
At the chosen hour the heavens rumble,
Nuclei split, the elemental light shines.
It bores and pounces,
Tracelessly drills into your conscience,
Proclaims obscenity,
In a boiling cauldron of neutrons.
Invented by the one species,
Capable of shaping its future,
Which having worshipped the sun,
Now strives to create its own.

The hand tears away from the face,
Streaked with tears.
You always wanted to be the man
Who saw the world through a tear-stained countenance.
At first, Donne.
"Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you 
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; 
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend 
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new." 

Then Krishna, inaugurating death in our times.
"I am become death, destroyer of worlds."
"I am time, destroyer of worlds."
It must feel mighty good to be Krishna.

Then silence, jubilation, indifference to the ghost in the machine.
The best compliment, from a man named Bainbridge.
"We are all sons of bitches."
You have finally found a healthy way
To be a bastard.

The war is over; the scientists are going home.
They have been good soldiers, dutiful sons.
But you have tasted power
And spat out the morsels of fame.
It feels good.
The thread constricts you tighter.

What does it matter
That a hundred thousand souls
Were burnt, beaten, and irradiated to death.
War does these things to men.
They killed ours, we killed theirs.
A simple moral calculus.
Maybe we will finally stop killing
Because of this great adventure we took part in.
What a marvelous time it was.

A great power rises to the East,
Fuelled by similar ambitions,
To enslave the dirt of humanity,
Through the precise application of science.
You plead with the leader of the free world,
Confess your guilt.
A crybaby scientist, he says.
The blood is on his hands, not yours, he says.
Get him out of here, he says.

Hostile men, enamored with power,
Resentful of your silver tongue and fame.
You are too clever for your own good.
Goading them, mocking them,
Making them aware
Of their own frailties.
They wait and watch.

An even bigger force of nature looms,
Engineered by devilish dervish Teller.
Having raised Bach from the dead,
He now raises Hell about the new danger.
He's paranoid, shaped by childhood trauma.
His scheme will make your invention
Look like a parlor trick.
Fusion instead of fission,
Coming together instead of breaking apart,
Will rent the world asunder.

The Eastern promise claims its own morbid authority.
The laws of nature are not privy only to the West.
Paranoia sweeps through the land
Like a miasma extolling urgent action.
You despair, you warn.
Answering in kind
Only breeds more hatred.
You would know.
You started it.

The paranoia claims its victims.
Mob justice ignoring reason.
Your own pupils fall prey to it.
But what are old bonds
Compared to new horizons.
And when they come for your pupils,
You betray them to save your hide,
Call them radicals,
Ignoring your own radical past.
And who will speak for you
When they come for you?

They come swiftly and surely,
Embattled, resentful, seeing treason.
Your position of privilege rattled,
Your loyalties questioned,
Your past newly scrutinized.
They say you are the Mandarin
Who with his silver tongue and powers of persuasion,
Is striking a blow against his country's monopoly,
On its exclusive capability to kill other human beings.

You decide to fight.
You are the good soldier.
An unctuous, repulsively good little boy.

On trial you go,
Warped arguments digging up past indiscretions,
Of friends betrayed, lies and equivocations.
It didn't matter before, but the world has changed.
You were the man who changed it.

Men of the law running roughshod over it, hiding evidence used against you.
No chauffeur to drive you to school this time.
You remember the character of Karna from the Mahabharata.
At the opportune moment his knowledge of weapons deserts him.
What happened to your quick mind? Its dazzling sweep?
At this time it seems more appropriate
To lie catatonic on the couch.

Your friends come to your aid,
And the devilish dervish Teller damns you.
But no friend can save you from
The moral morass you created,
Which clutches souls in its tentacles,
And averts the gaze of history
By distracting it with visions of glory.

The axe falls swiftly,
Expertly wielded by the man of the law.
"Doctor, why did you lie?", he asks.
"Because I was an idiot", you say.
You were an idiot.
You were a son of a bitch.
We are all sons of bitches.

You are done, you are spent,
You lie sprawling on the battlefield
Wrapped in the robes of self-inflicted sin,
Your role in history subverted by the unrelenting
Machinery of maniacal power.

Men and women still come to you, seeking advice and attention,
Wanting to let some of your bloodied wisdom
Sprinkle on themselves.
They want you to lick your war wounds,
To wring your hands
In their presence.
But you won't.
Not when you know
You did your duty with detachment.

They still try to string up your liver
On the hard wire of original guilt.
And you say to them;
Yes, I gave you Hiroshima,
But you gave us Guernica and Dresden,
And Hamburg and Tokyo,
Manmade death borne of the same mother,
And you call me Father of the Bomb.

Your intellect still commands
Wide attention and benign admiration,
But you cannot help but think of yourself
As a cast off piece of wood.
Once supporting a mighty house,
Now drifting silently on the waves.

Now your body is beaten.
The puff that quieted those hunger pangs
Has finally caught up with you.
The cancer spreading rapidly,
Claiming territory cell by cell.
It's all fields and particles in the end.

You wait with bated breath for the end to come.
Your body weakens, your spirit strengthens.
Eyes sunken, bones visible, frame invisible.
And as mind and body fail, you still think of Donne.
And Eliot.
And Krishna.
And Eliot and Krishna.
You think of those fragments from your life
That you have shored against your ruins.
May those fragments give you peace,
May those fragments give you Shantih.

Shantih, shantih, shantih.

My latest column for 3 Quarks Daily.