Last night, I watched a NOVA special from 2003 taken from Brian Greene’s famous book, The Elegant Universe. Toward the end, Brian Greene asks whether string theory will turn out to be “the one true theory.” It struck me as an odd turn of phrase for a science show. It’s a phrase you hear almost exclusively in the context of religion—the one true faith. But the more I thought about it, the more apt it appeared to be.

For those who have been living under a scientific rock, we’ll take a quick historical tour of string theory. Or should I say “theories.” After the quantum revolution, scientists had a problem. Einstein’s theories of relativity perfectly described the macro world while quantum mechanics perfectly described the very micro world—but the two theories were incompatible. Einstein would spend the rest of his life searching for the Theory of Everything or TOE. Spoiler alert: He failed.

Although originally proposed in the 1970s along with supersymmetry, it wasn’t until the 1980s that string theory—a previously demolished idea—came bursting out of the gate. So much so, that we ended up with five string theories, which meant the TOE was really more like a foot. In the mid-1990s, another breakthrough would unify the five theories by adding another dimension and be called M Theory. M, it seems, stands for membranes. (Perhaps the single coolest idea in all of theoretical physics, but worth exploring in a different post, I think.)

The quick version of the theory is that tiny vibrating strings—some open and some closed in a ring—function to combine quantum mechanics and gravity by allowing interactions at zero distance and explain the probabilistic wave functions Schrödinger’s cat found so troubling.

Here’s the fun part: there is no proof for string theory. It is purely a theoretical explanation of the universe that caught fire in the scientific world because of its beauty, if not its simplicity. Yet, all the predictions made by string theory have yet to pan out. Fermi Lab didn’t find the graviton. Cern thinks they might have found the Higgs-Boson, a.k.a. the God Particle, but nothing definitive has been released yet.

And so, I am left to think that string theory as the “one true theory” may have been an appropriate allusion after all. Now, you may be saying that religion and science are far apart. After all, string theory isn’t turtles all the way down. And I couldn’t agree more. Science makes predictions that theoretically verifiable. Religion is taken on faith—the very absence of proof or predictions.

But what about when we lack the science to test the very predictions made by the theories? After all, where does religion meet atheism meet philosophy meet metaphysics meet scientific theories without the technical ability to test its predictions?

An article came out in Slate this weekend that made me cringe, discussing how hard it is to be an atheist in middle America. It pointed to polling that people would be happier voting for a Mormon than an atheist. Aside from it being poorly written and researched (including a stunningly ignorant statement on the First Amendment’s religion clauses), it lacked any self-awareness surrounding what the difference between atheism and religion may be. Instead, it focused on persecution similar to the gay and lesbian communities. I wonder if string theorists have similar support groups?

Liebniz’s metaphysical writings on the Monadology come to mind as well. In it, Leibniz posits that matter is unreal. The indivisible parts of the universe—he refers to as monads—are not bound by space or time like atoms but are computational rather than physical. The monads perceive the state of every other monad in the universe and is capable of changing its state based on the intrinsic rule governing that monad. In the end, minds and cognition are the ultimate reality, leaving a plethora of possible worlds.

What is interesting is that this was pure metaphysics at the time—a derogatory term for a scientific philosophy without a basis in reality. Of course, what sounded crazy at the time has now come full circle. Certainly Einstein’s theories show that spacetime is not absolute, but bendable at the least. And experiments have shown that electrons communicate information about their quantum spin faster than the speed of light. Just like the monads.

As it turns out, many of Liebniz’s ideas come together in the main TOE rival for string theory: Loop Quantum Gravity, which posits that space and time are emergent properties that result from interactions between more basic structures.  Even string theory posits a multiverse made of a potential infinite number of membranes containing possible worlds. So maybe its turtles all the way down, after all.

And then, of course, there’s the problem of whether time exists at all. In the Wheeler-DeWitt Equation, which provides a possible framework for unifying relativity and quantum mechanics, time simply melts away such that all points in time we experience exist simultaneously. Much the same way that He “make[s] known the end from the beginning, from ancient times, what is still to come” because “God is from everlasting to everlasting.” And so we end up with Calvinism having the same beliefs as Drs. Wheeler and Dewitt.

My point, I hope you can see, isn’t that science is simply a religion that is deluding itself. It clearly is not. Rather, it is to point out that as humans we are all trying to make sense of our world and have been doing so since the beginning of recorded time. As we struggle and preserve in different directions, we would be wise to find comfort in the knowledge that we do so as a species. And, unlike politics or sexual orientation or race, it is a question with an answer and an answer that unites us on our tiny planet. Who are we? Why are we here?

I just watched Moneyball tonight. Since Stand and Deliver, has any movie made math look this hot?

[Note: I liked the movie, but I still think Three Nights in August is the better book.]

On February 8, 1672, the Royal Society received a letter from a “Mr Issac Newton of Cambridge, concerning his discovery of the nature of light, refractions, and colour.” Newton had refracted sunlight using two prisms, which showed that light was not homogenous but comprised a rainbow of colors.

What happened next won’t be surprising to anyone who has ever watched a debate on Fox News or MSNBC.

Robert Hooke, an original member of the Society, wrote a critique of Newton’s discovery a few days after the letter had been received. He claimed to have already run such experiments and assurred his fellow Society members that “light is a pulse in the ether and that a prism adds colour to the whiteness.” Hooke brought in a candle the next week to show that a continuous stream of ether rose up distinct from the air, smoke, or flame. He used a soapy bubble next to the same effect. Hooke concluded that “colour is nothing but the disturbance of light.”

If Newton and Hooke had lived in an age like ours where the media feels pressure to give equal weight to each side without regard to truth and where radical ideas are often not represented at all, would we still think that light was “a pulse in the ether”?

(Quotes taken from Bill Bryson’s Seeing Further)

If movies are the ultimate catharsis, we should always be able to garner insight into the psychology of a generation through what the current blockbusters say about their hopes and fears. Today, I’m more interested in the fears.

The psychology of fear goes back as far as we do; it goes to the very base of our humanity and brain stems. We may be a long way from the days of being chased by lions, but our brains aren’t.  Fear produces our strongest memories by causing our hippocampus to generate new neurons, making sure the memory stays with us for years to come whether we’d like it to or not. It is why you remember perhaps imperfectly, as other studies have shown) where you were on 911.

Even a slight disorder of these neurons can cause PTSD, depression, and anxiety. It is why so many best sellers take up the trauma of the author’s past and why so many talk shows provide cathartic relief to viewers.

Our brains have to find a way to work out the fear experienced in our real lives through our dreams or through our imaginations. One researcher has suggested that we have imaginations (the ability to imagine what has not yet happened) as a higher level learning to prepare for new threats and new fears in advance. Our imaginations, then, are part of our most primal instinct to survive.

Movies, therefore, should reflect our common fears.  For example, every young person in the 1990’s at some point watched one or all of Independence Day (1996), Armageddon (1998), Deep Impact (1998), and Men in Black (1997). Looking back around 1995, I think it is safe to say the economy was good, the world felt like a fairly safe place (unless you were Chechen, Albanian, or Tutsi…but luckily for them, they weren’t), and the biggest problems seemed to be the President’s libido and OJ’s bloody glove.  So what were their brains trying to tell us?

In all of these movies, the beginning scenes reflected what many Americans were feeling—a lack of fear.  Only a few characters would figure out that doom was lurking as the camera flicked over to scenes of everyone else nonchalantly heading to work and playing in the yard. Characters in these movies were never evil. The main actors always decided to let the rest of the world continue their blissful ignorance until all were united as a world (lead by America, of course) to fight against this outside threat.

It is clear that these movies describe a generation no longer afraid of one another—that we had conquered all the true evil in the world and the rest were skirmishes of misunderstanding. Everyone in the world wanted the same things and was, at their core, united by their common humanity. If our primal imaginations constantly require us to think of our next greatest threat, this generation had to turn somewhere other than a foreign enemy (Indiana Jones throughout the 80s and Top Gun in 1986), technological advances gone awry (Terminator 2 in 1991 and Jurrasic Park in 1993), or even home invaders as the crime rate dropped so precipitously (Home Alone in 1990). So they turned to the one place they had left—outer space.

Too soon, our brains had a more terrestrial fear on which to depend. On a normal Tuesday morning, just as in these movies and with our coffee in hand during our morning commute, the world changed at 8:45am. Not with asteroids falling out of the sky, but planes. And, suddenly, our brains didn’t need any more movies about aliens and distant threats.

Instead, our top grossing movies were about unlikely heroes and the magic needed to win the day against impossible odds and a larger than life threat—Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Spider Man.

And so, it is by way of this background that I wonder, why is it that the new, highest grossing Batman of all time (starring in the 10th highest grossing movie of all time) is so brooding and psychology besieged compared to previous iterations?  Even the Joker is less of a joke, and Harvey Dent is less scared by acid than by the loss of innocence in seeing the failure of good to triumph over evil. And I ask this question because, as a member of the target generation more or less, I was struck by how much I preferred this Batman too.

Batman isn’t the only one to undergo such a transformation to the Paxil life.  On the other side of the imaginary pond, 007 has certainly become a more flawed and depressed creature (same rock hard abs, though) since Daniel Craig took over the role. Even Harry Potter got darker as the sequels progressed.

What in my generation’s psychology demanded such flawed heroes and grey tones; this kind of Gestalt shift from the asteroid-busting 90s? A hero who kills the bad guy outright rather than allow for the bad guy to get killed through his own arrogance or accident?  A hero who can be cruel or scared or tormented while also being selfless and heroic and clever?

The writing for Batman Begins began in 2003.  In the previous two years, Americans had watched as a man out of our military’s reach had managed to kill over 3,000 of their fellow citizens, as an unknown killer sent anthrax through the mail, as two men in a nondescript white van shot people for no apparent reason around the DC area. At the same time, we were fighting two wars in places we had been before, rehashing in our national consciousness the mistakes made the first time.

Then one must consider the target audience for most major blockbusters: young men ages 15 to 24.  The world they entered after high school was much different than the world they had been promised in elementary school. An entire generation woke up on 9/11 to find their parents didn’t have the answers and quickly figured out why.  There were no answers for that kind of evil.

It was also the age of men who were rotating through deployments on the ground in countries where the bad guys weren’t identifiable by their uniform and who didn’t fly an enemy flag. The tribal leaders in Afghanistan had the complicated task of protecting their village by allowing the Taliban to rule, while wishing the Americans would win. The bad guys were all around and nowhere. Bombs might be be under the road they drove or strapped to the child coming to talk to them. At the same time, if they saw the bomb first, they were forced to shoot that child to save themselves.

And so my generation’s brains needed to comprehend a world with less black and white. More grey. More fear. Even though it was less clear from where the fear was coming. Perhaps because it was coming from everywhere. Hence, the need for a very dark knight indeed.

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The next question is what this means for a generation that is coming of age in a time so devoted to cynicism. Snark is the new black. The presidential candidate who promised change we could believe in is a President who just believed in himself being elected. Our government institutions run massive debts that anyone who’s ever had an allowance can see are unsustainable.

Other people are buying homes they knew they couldn’t afford and the people who were supposed to serve as gatekeepers just helped themselves as they helped the same homeowners off the cliff. And after a lifetime of helicopter parenting, we’re asking these kids to go out and find jobs in the worst economy since the Great Depression. No wonder they are protesting while holding their ipads and starbucks lattes.

What will their movies tell us about them?

The word “polymath” reentered our culture lexicon with the passing of Christopher Hitchens last month. If the subjects of his writings don’t quite provide you with a succinct definition, you’ve already got it. Wikipedia defines polymath as “a person whose expertise spans a significant number of different subject areas.”

Benjamin Franklin is perhaps our country’s most famous polymath although Thomas Jefferson is surely close behind. The citizen scientist was, for the most part, the only kind of scientist until the late 19th Century and so the fields of geology, paleontology, and botony—to name a few—were all created by amateurs who were far from amateur.  But as our culture began to celebrate the niche with the rise of cable tv and the end of water cooler episodes like “Who Killed JR,” have we killed off our polymaths as well?

As Malcolm Gladwell told us in Outliers, it takes 10,000 hours to be an expert at something. The underlying assumption being that The Expert is the highest and best achievement in today’s society. After all, Bill Gates, the wealthiest man in America, certainly wears The Expert moniker. Even the liberal arts education, once the gold standard of higher learning, quietly tells our students that expertise is required as students declare majors earlier and hard science requirements are fulfilled through AP tests in high school to allow even more time to build one’s expertise in college.

And perhaps this is all for good reason.  Without a landed aristocracy, what is today’s polymath to do? That rare person who can speak to the amoeba and to Ambrose Burnside.  Someone who knows how many delegates Guam gets in the Republican presidential race and how many years it takes to properly rotate a sorghum crop.  Those with a conversational knowledge of string theory and the multiverse may impress their friends at cocktail parties, but they hardly have the time to win the Field’s Medal proving the Poincaré conjecture.  Has human knowledge, to some extent, evolved beyond the polymath?

The half a million patent applications filed last year might suggest that the amateur inventor is alive and well.  Then again, if one looks to the field of IP litigation, perhaps not.  Or are our polymaths hiding in plain sight?  It might just be the case that high finance—the folks that brought us that delightful national roller coaster ride of 2008—figured out how to monetize polymathematics by learning how to bet on everything from the XL Pipeline to the likelihood of the collapse of Greece. Then again, a well-rewarded gambling addiction may just belie one’s claim to polymath status.

Of course, we will always have writers who, by their very profession, are required to be at least passable in the language of the polymath.  David Foster Wallace had 388 footnotes in Infinite Jest, many of which required a formidable knowledge of probability and combinatorics, just to prove how multidimensional a work of fiction can be whose title is nonetheless cribbed from Shakespeare.  David Brooks at the New York Times provides a multi-disciplinary flare to all of his work, though I think he might be too modest to adopt the polymath mantle just yet.  It is also hard to say how much actual expertise a writer has in any given subject since he gets to pick his subjects in advance.  Does it count if you already know all the questions on the exam?

But I think the answer may be simpler than we’d like to admit.  According to the latest Neilson survey, 44 percent of us have a polymath with us at dinner every night, whether it’s a meal with elite thinkers in Washington or a family of four in Spokane.  The ubiquity of the smartphone has made us all polymaths as long as we have 3G service and passing understanding of Wikipedia.  Although crowdsourcing is, at the microscopic level, the opposite of polymathematics, it has created the ultimate polymath in the form of the internet.

And if that’s the case, should we be pleased that a graduate degree in classics can be bought at the Apple store for $199?  Or should we mourn the loss of this genre of human intelligence the way that a previous generation mourned the onslaught of spell check and calculators?  Knowledge cannot just be surfed, a term that already implies a superficial level of thought. One may easily be able to look up any g

iven law, but it is a well-worn cliché that law schools teach one how to “think like a lawyer.”  The internet, then, is full of facts but has no way to translate them into a way of approaching a given discipline. And so we are left metaphorically with a lot of people who can look up the law, but nobody to go to court.

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Yet, here we are and so we should plan to make the most of this brave new world.  This blog, therefore, may not reach the level of polymath that, say, an Albert Schweitzer did, but it will attempt to avoid a single niche nonetheless.  And in that way, I hope, it will have found its niche after all.