For many purposes, books are no longer necessary. That is, for entertainment or learning one need not find or carry around a pile of bound paper. The internet contains a vast landscape of information and e-books are ubiquitous. So do will still need places to borrow paper books from—libraries? Or librarians?
Life was more complicated in the old days. Not only were many things more difficult and tedious to accomplish, often you had to work out which of several methods you should use depending on what you really needed done. It’s much easier now. Really.
Here on the 100th birthday of General Relativity our science consultants were pondering why Relativity and Quantum Mechanics were so easy for them to accept but so hard for people a century ago. Certainly it’s not because we’re more insightful or brighter scientists–quite the opposite. Nor is it that we’re better at math; again the opposite is true, and these are highly mathematical subjects. We finally concluded that we’re comfortable with the theories because we were told the stories, word-descriptions of what the math means, from an early stage and so the theories never seemed impossibly strange. The stories are important. But it’s also important for both scientists and laymen to understand their limitations.
While attending to his regular workout in the Five Colors S&T exercise room, our astronomer was reminded of his High School geometry class. (We’ll explain the connection later; it has nothing to do with the angles at which his various muscles were applying force.) Everyone was required to take geometry (and pass it), and most were required to do the same with algebra. Yet it’s a truism that very few people actually use those subjects later on, and most forget them immediately. Why, then, do we bother with teaching and learning them? There are several possible answers, to which we’ll add one of our own.
Our astronomer has often found himself traveling on public transport and occasionally eating alone at crowded restaurants. This means he has overheard many a conversation, unintentionally to be sure (he lacks the gossip gene, or alternatively the instincts of the spy). Many of them have been very irritating to him, and at least he sat down to work out why.
Our chief consultant writes:
We’ve all had it happen: some unexpected, unusual occurrence, and someone asks: “What were the odds against that happening?” As an exclamation, an alternative to the pedestrian, “That’s unusual,” this is fine. Language should have flexibility and the freedom of metaphor. This becomes a problem, however, when the unusual event is taken to imply unknown laws of physics or perhaps sinister forces at work.
Actually working out probabilities in any but the simplest cases can be pretty tedious, and we’re not about to get into that here. But it’s easy to make basic mistakes in setting up this kind of question (respected scientists have done so); we present two rules to help keep you out of trouble, even if you’re not going to punch any numbers into your computer.
Our chief consultant writes:
Science is a part of our culture. It’s not just that the products of science are all around us, in our hands and in our lives; no less, the discoveries of scientists are covered in the mainstream news media (not always well) and the concepts widely known (not always accurately). It’s clear enough by comparing our world with that of other cultures, say in the particular case of astronomy. We have cosmology (the Big Bang and all that); the ancient Greeks, a series of stories about gods and Titans.
Studying humans, even as amateurs, one seeks out similarities across cultures, and so we see cosmology equated to cosmic mythology. This leads to assertions like, “Cosmology is only our way of explaining the universe to ourselves, exactly the same way other cultures use other explanations.” This is just true enough to be seriously misleading.
Our astronomer writes:
Now and then I come across an interview of some Nobel prize-winning (or otherwise distinguished) scientist with the inevitable question, “What got you started on your path to fame?” Almost always it was an inspiring teacher or mentor, a person who imparted a love of or excitement in doing science. Somewhere in the years between High School and Grad School, between the time when our differences were mostly potential and the time we’re on our way in a particular direction, someone lit a fire. Often there’s a quote something like, “He/She showed me that [insert science here] is more than just a set of results in a dusty textbook, but something that I really enjoyed doing.”
Similarly, in accounts of some part of the history of science it’s almost inevitable that I encounter a sentence like, “so science proceeds in sometimes a roundabout and uncertain fashion, not at all as the textbooks tell you.” Textbooks are not often held up as good examples.
The message, sometimes explicit but often implied, is that our job as teachers and scientists is to inspire and excite. Trying to impart “textbook results” is deprecated. Well, this time I am standing up for the textbook and the type of learning it represents. There is a time when it is just what we should be teaching. We need to ask the question: what are we trying to do? What is the outcome we want in our students?