Genius_ The Life and Science of Richard Feynman - James Gleick [159]
Oppenheimer’s Surrender
With Bethe’s blessing Dyson moved to the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton in the fall of 1948. Oppenheimer had taken over as director the year before. Dyson was eager to impress him, and he immediately sensed he was not alone. “On Wednesday Oppenheimer returns,” he wrote his parents. “The atmosphere at the Institute during these last days has been rather like the first scene in ‘Murder in the Cathedral’ with the women of Canterbury awaiting the return of their archbishop.”
He did not wait for Oppenheimer’s blessing, however, before mailing off to the Physical Review a manuscript representing a cathartic outpouring of work during the last days of the summer. He proudly told his parents that the concentration had nearly killed him. Inspiration came most snappily on the fifty-hour bus ride east to Princeton, he told colleagues. (When Oppenheimer heard this he retorted with a sarcastic allusion to the lightning-from-the-blue legend of Fermat’s last theorem: “There wasn’t enough room in the margin to write down the proof.”) Dyson had found the mathematical common ground he was sure must exist. He, too, created and reshaped terminology to suit his purpose. His chief insight was to focus on a so-called scattering matrix, or S matrix, a mustering of all the probabilities associated with the different routes from an initial state to a given end point. He now advertised “a unified development of the subject”—more reliable than Feynman and more usable than Schwinger. His father said that Feynman-Schwinger-Dyson reminded him of a clause in the Athanasian Creed: “There is the Father incomprehensible, and the Son incomprehensible, and the Holy Ghost incomprehensible, yet there are not three incomprehensibles but one incomprehensible.”
It occurred to Dyson that he was rushing into print with accounts of theories not yet published by their inventors and that the inventors themselves might take offense. He visited Bethe, temporarily in New York visiting Columbia, and they took a long walk in Riverside Park as the sun set over the Hudson River. Bethe warned him that there could be problems. Dyson said it was Schwinger’s and Feynman’s own fault that they had not published “any moderately intelligible account”: Schwinger, he suspected, was polishing obsessively, while Feynman simply couldn’t be bothered with paperwork. It was irresponsible. They were retarding the development of science. By publicizing their work Dyson was performing a service to humanity, he argued. He and Bethe ended up agreeing that Feynman would not mind but that Schwinger might, and that it would be poor tactics for an ambitious young physicist to irritate Schwinger. “So the result of all this,” Dyson wrote his parents,
is that I am reversing the tactics of Mark Antony, and saying very loud at various points in my paper, “I come to praise Schwinger, not to bury him.” I only hope he won’t see through it.
Still, he made his judgment clear. The distinctions he drew and the characterizations he set down soon became the community’s conventional wisdom: that Schwinger’s and Tomonaga’s approach was the same, while Feynman’s differed profoundly; and that Feynman’s method was original and intuitive, while Schwinger’s was formal and laborious.
Dyson well understood that he was reaching out to an audience that wanted tools. When he showed a Schwinger formula with commutators threatening to subdivide like branches on a tree and remarked that “their evaluation gives rise to long and rather difficult analysis,” he knew that his readers would not suspect him of overstating the difficulty. Ease of use was the Feynman virtue he stressed. To “write down the matrix elements” for a certain event, he explained, one need only take a certain set of products, replace them by sums of matrix elements from another equation, reassemble the