Read Online The Pot Thief Who Studied Einstein by J. Michael Orenduff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J. Michael Orenduff
Ads: Link
example, Hubie.”
“O.K., forget the rutabagas. Just think of a rock. If you throw a rock, the path it takes is determined by the direction you throw it and how hard you throw it. If you’re good at throwing rocks, you can even make a sort of intuitive calculation and hit something you aim at.”
“So?”
“Well, subatomic particles evidently don’t work like that. If you throw one, you have no idea where it might go.”
“I don’t think you can throw an electron, Hubert.”
“I know that. What the book is trying to do, I think, is contrast the predictability of the path of a rock and the path of an electron. Or a tennis ball. That’s a better example. You’ve seen those machines they use to shoot tennis balls at you so you can practice?”
She nodded.
“Well, you can aim them, and I assume you can set the speed, so if you want to practice returning hard serves with your backhand, you crank up the speed and aim the thing to your right.”
“Only because you’re left-handed, Hubie. Most people would aim it to their left.”
“Whatever. The point is that once you have it aimed, it isn’t suddenly going to shoot a ball straight up in the air or into the net. Where the ball goes is predictable.”
“And where an electron goes isn’t?”
“Exactly. They have things called electron guns that shoot out a stream of electrons, but where each one goes is unpredictable. That’s why they call it the uncertainty principle.”
“Other than teeny little subatomic people playing tennis with electrons, why should anyone care about this?”
I shrugged. “Intellectual curiosity.”
I could see she’d heard enough, and I’d already said everything I knew about it, so she told me about her date with Chris Churgelli. They had attended a poetry reading at the University. After it was over, they walked across Central to a coffee place on Harvard where they met some other people who had been at the reading.
In case you’re wondering, there are also streets in that neighborhood named Columbia, Dartmouth, and Yale. I guess the founders of my alma mater wanted it to have some connection, however tenuous, with prestigious eastern schools.
“So you drank coffee and talked about the poetry?”
“That’s what Chris and the others did. I just sat there staring at him.”
“Handsome, huh?”
“Beyond belief. A face like Michelangelo’s David , skin the color of almond biscotti, hair with the luster of Tuscan leather, eyes the color of pinot grigio grapes—”
“He has red eyes?”
“Pinot grigio grapes are green, Hubert.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, he’s a pleasure to look at and a pleasure to listen to.”
“He knows a lot about poetry?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t understand a word he said.”
“A really thick accent, huh?”
“Not really. He has just enough of an accent to sound romantically European. And a great vocabulary. He knows a lot more words in English than I do.”
“Then why couldn’t you understand him?”
“Because he uses words in funny ways. Not in a wrong way, exactly. Just … oddly.”
“Like?”
“Well, he described one line of a poem as ‘Fragrant with intentionality’.”
“Sounds like typical academic jargon to me.”
“Here’s a better example. He didn’t like one of the poems because it was ‘Fulminating in a wide arc’.”
“I see what you mean. But how is he in normal conversation when you’re not talking about poetry?”
“About the same. He said we should eat at La Hacienda – we’re going there this Friday – and when I asked him why La Hacienda , he said he heard it was ‘A luminary for its fabrication of local repasts’.”
I started laughing.
“It’s not funny, Hubert. This is a seriously handsome guy, and he seems to be a nice person, too. He’s a gentleman, he looks at me when I talk to him, he never brags or does all the other stupid things men do, he seems very comfortable around people. But I don’t know if I can
“O.K., forget the rutabagas. Just think of a rock. If you throw a rock, the path it takes is determined by the direction you throw it and how hard you throw it. If you’re good at throwing rocks, you can even make a sort of intuitive calculation and hit something you aim at.”
“So?”
“Well, subatomic particles evidently don’t work like that. If you throw one, you have no idea where it might go.”
“I don’t think you can throw an electron, Hubert.”
“I know that. What the book is trying to do, I think, is contrast the predictability of the path of a rock and the path of an electron. Or a tennis ball. That’s a better example. You’ve seen those machines they use to shoot tennis balls at you so you can practice?”
She nodded.
“Well, you can aim them, and I assume you can set the speed, so if you want to practice returning hard serves with your backhand, you crank up the speed and aim the thing to your right.”
“Only because you’re left-handed, Hubie. Most people would aim it to their left.”
“Whatever. The point is that once you have it aimed, it isn’t suddenly going to shoot a ball straight up in the air or into the net. Where the ball goes is predictable.”
“And where an electron goes isn’t?”
“Exactly. They have things called electron guns that shoot out a stream of electrons, but where each one goes is unpredictable. That’s why they call it the uncertainty principle.”
“Other than teeny little subatomic people playing tennis with electrons, why should anyone care about this?”
I shrugged. “Intellectual curiosity.”
I could see she’d heard enough, and I’d already said everything I knew about it, so she told me about her date with Chris Churgelli. They had attended a poetry reading at the University. After it was over, they walked across Central to a coffee place on Harvard where they met some other people who had been at the reading.
In case you’re wondering, there are also streets in that neighborhood named Columbia, Dartmouth, and Yale. I guess the founders of my alma mater wanted it to have some connection, however tenuous, with prestigious eastern schools.
“So you drank coffee and talked about the poetry?”
“That’s what Chris and the others did. I just sat there staring at him.”
“Handsome, huh?”
“Beyond belief. A face like Michelangelo’s David , skin the color of almond biscotti, hair with the luster of Tuscan leather, eyes the color of pinot grigio grapes—”
“He has red eyes?”
“Pinot grigio grapes are green, Hubert.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, he’s a pleasure to look at and a pleasure to listen to.”
“He knows a lot about poetry?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t understand a word he said.”
“A really thick accent, huh?”
“Not really. He has just enough of an accent to sound romantically European. And a great vocabulary. He knows a lot more words in English than I do.”
“Then why couldn’t you understand him?”
“Because he uses words in funny ways. Not in a wrong way, exactly. Just … oddly.”
“Like?”
“Well, he described one line of a poem as ‘Fragrant with intentionality’.”
“Sounds like typical academic jargon to me.”
“Here’s a better example. He didn’t like one of the poems because it was ‘Fulminating in a wide arc’.”
“I see what you mean. But how is he in normal conversation when you’re not talking about poetry?”
“About the same. He said we should eat at La Hacienda – we’re going there this Friday – and when I asked him why La Hacienda , he said he heard it was ‘A luminary for its fabrication of local repasts’.”
I started laughing.
“It’s not funny, Hubert. This is a seriously handsome guy, and he seems to be a nice person, too. He’s a gentleman, he looks at me when I talk to him, he never brags or does all the other stupid things men do, he seems very comfortable around people. But I don’t know if I can
Similar Books
