Chaos - James Gleick [15]
At the time, though, few could see it. Lorenz described it to Willem Malkus, a professor of applied mathematics at M.I.T., a gentlemanly scientist with a grand capacity for appreciating the work of colleagues. Malkus laughed and said, “Ed, we know—we know very well—that fluid convection doesn’t do that at all.” The complexity would surely be damped out, Malkus told him, and the system would settle down to steady, regular motion.
“Of course, we completely missed the point,” Malkus said a generation later—years after he had built a real Lorenzian waterwheel in his basement laboratory to show nonbelievers. “Ed wasn’t thinking in terms of our physics at all. He was thinking in terms of some sort of generalized or abstracted model which exhibited behavior that he intuitively felt was characteristic of some aspects of the external world. He couldn’t quite say that to us, though. It’s only after the fact that we perceived that he must have held those views.”
Few laymen realized how tightly compartmentalized the scientific community had become, a battleship with bulkheads sealed against leaks. Biologists had enough to read without keeping up with the mathematics literature—for that matter, molecular biologists had enough to read without keeping up with population biology. Physicists had better ways to spend their time than sifting through the meteorology journals. Some mathematicians would have been excited to see Lorenz’s discovery; within a decade, physicists, astronomers, and biologists were seeking something just like it, and sometimes rediscovering it for themselves. But Lorenz was a meteorologist, and no one thought to look for chaos on page 130 of volume 20 of the Journal of the Atmospheric Sciences.
Revolution
Of course, the entire effort is to put oneself
Outside the ordinary range
Of what are called statistics.
—STEPHEN SPENDER
THE HISTORIAN OF SCIENCE Thomas S. Kuhn describes a disturbing experiment conducted by a pair of psychologists in the 1940s. Subjects were given glimpses of playing cards, one at a time, and asked to name them. There was a trick, of course. A few of the cards were freakish: for example, a red six of spades or a black queen of diamonds.
At high speed the subjects sailed smoothly along. Nothing could have been simpler. They didn’t see the anomalies at all. Shown a red six of spades, they would sing out either “six of hearts” or “six of spades.” But when the cards were displayed for longer intervals, the subjects started to hesitate. They became aware of a problem but were not sure quite what it was. A subject might say that he had seen something odd, like a red border around a black heart.
Eventually, as the pace was slowed even more, most subjects would catch on. They would see the wrong cards and make the mental shift necessary to play the game without error. Not everyone, though. A few suffered a sense of disorientation that brought real pain. “I can’t make that suit out, whatever it is,” said one. “It didn’t even look like a card that time. I don’t know what color it is now or whether it’s a spade or a heart. I’m not even sure what a spade looks like. My God!”
Professional scientists, given brief, uncertain glimpses of nature’s workings, are no less vulnerable to anguish and confusion when they come face to face with incongruity. And incongruity, when it changes the way a scientist sees, makes possible the most important advances. So Kuhn argues, and so the story of chaos suggests.
Kuhn’s notions of how scientists work and how revolutions occur drew as much hostility as admiration when he first published them, in 1962, and the controversy has never ended. He pushed a sharp needle into the traditional view that science progresses by the accretion of knowledge, each discovery adding to the last, and that new theories