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Authors: José Carlos Somoza
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her.
At
first, she didn't recognize him. Then she saw his graying hair and
big gray mustache. She felt a chill, as if her body were full of
holes and a gust of cold wind had just blown through her.
Maldonado
drove off. Another car drove by. Then another one. Then the street
was empty, and the man was still standing there. I must
be confused. This man isn't wearing the same clothes.
Suddenly,
he turned and walked around the corner.
Elisa
stood staring at the spot where he'd been just a few seconds ago. That
must have been another guy; they just looked the same.
Nevertheless,
she was sure that this man, too, had been watching her.
05
"THIS is
not going to be a fun class," David Blanes said. "We're not
going to talk about amazing, extraordinary things. We're not going to
answer any questions. If you're looking for answers, go to church or
back to school." Nervous laughter. "What we're going to see
here is reality, and reality has no answers, and it's not
particularly amazing."
He
stopped abruptly when he got to the back of the room. Must
have realized he can't walk through walls, Elisa
thought. She stopped looking at him when he turned back around, but
she was hanging on his every word.
"Before
we get started, I want to clear something up."
Taking
just two steps, Blanes strode over to the slide projector and turned
it on. Three letters and a number appeared on the screen.
"There
you have it: E = mc 2 .
Probably the most famous equation physics has ever produced. The
relativistic energy of a particle at rest."
He
clicked to the next slide. A black-and-white photograph of a young
Asian boy, his left side destroyed. You could see his teeth through
his cheek. People whispered. Someone said, "Jesus." Elisa
couldn't move. She shuddered in horror at the image. She was also
riveted.
"This,
too, is E = mc 2 ,
as they know in every Japanese university."
He
switched off the projector and turned to face the class.
"I
could have shown you one of Maxwell's equations and the electric
light of an operating room where someone is being saved, or the
Schrodinger wave equation and a cell phone, which enables a doctor to
save the life of a suffering child. But instead I chose Hiroshima,
which is slightly less optimistic."
When
the murmuring died down, Blanes went on.
"I
know what a lot of physicists think about our profession, not just
contemporary physicists, and not just bad ones, either: Schrodinger,
Jeans, Eddington, Bohr—they all agreed. They thought all we
worried about were symbols. 'Shadows,' Schrodinger used to call them.
They think that differential equations are not reality. Hearing some
colleagues speak, it's as though theoretical physics was just playing
house with plastic building blocks. This absurd idea has gained
currency, and now people seem to feel that theoretical physicists are
little more than dreamers locked away in ivory towers. They think our
games, our little houses, bear no relation to their everyday worries,
their interests, their problems, or their welfare. But I'm going to
tell you something, and I want you to take it as a ground rule for
this course. From now on, I will be filling this board with
equations. I'll start in one corner and end in another, and I promise
you I'll make good use of the space because I have small
handwriting." People laughed, but Blanes wasn't joking. "And
when I'm done, I want you to do the following: look at those numbers,
all those little numbers and Greek letters on the board, and repeat
to yourselves, 'This is
reality,' repeat it over and over..." Elisa swallowed. Blanes
added, "Physics equations are the key to our happiness, our
fears, our lives, and our deaths. Don't forget it. Ever."
He
jumped up onto the dais and raised the screen, grabbed a piece of
chalk, and began scribbling on the left-hand side of the board, just
as he'd promised. And for the rest of the class, he made no mention
of anything besides complex noncommutative algebraic abstractions and
advanced
At
first, she didn't recognize him. Then she saw his graying hair and
big gray mustache. She felt a chill, as if her body were full of
holes and a gust of cold wind had just blown through her.
Maldonado
drove off. Another car drove by. Then another one. Then the street
was empty, and the man was still standing there. I must
be confused. This man isn't wearing the same clothes.
Suddenly,
he turned and walked around the corner.
Elisa
stood staring at the spot where he'd been just a few seconds ago. That
must have been another guy; they just looked the same.
Nevertheless,
she was sure that this man, too, had been watching her.
05
"THIS is
not going to be a fun class," David Blanes said. "We're not
going to talk about amazing, extraordinary things. We're not going to
answer any questions. If you're looking for answers, go to church or
back to school." Nervous laughter. "What we're going to see
here is reality, and reality has no answers, and it's not
particularly amazing."
He
stopped abruptly when he got to the back of the room. Must
have realized he can't walk through walls, Elisa
thought. She stopped looking at him when he turned back around, but
she was hanging on his every word.
"Before
we get started, I want to clear something up."
Taking
just two steps, Blanes strode over to the slide projector and turned
it on. Three letters and a number appeared on the screen.
"There
you have it: E = mc 2 .
Probably the most famous equation physics has ever produced. The
relativistic energy of a particle at rest."
He
clicked to the next slide. A black-and-white photograph of a young
Asian boy, his left side destroyed. You could see his teeth through
his cheek. People whispered. Someone said, "Jesus." Elisa
couldn't move. She shuddered in horror at the image. She was also
riveted.
"This,
too, is E = mc 2 ,
as they know in every Japanese university."
He
switched off the projector and turned to face the class.
"I
could have shown you one of Maxwell's equations and the electric
light of an operating room where someone is being saved, or the
Schrodinger wave equation and a cell phone, which enables a doctor to
save the life of a suffering child. But instead I chose Hiroshima,
which is slightly less optimistic."
When
the murmuring died down, Blanes went on.
"I
know what a lot of physicists think about our profession, not just
contemporary physicists, and not just bad ones, either: Schrodinger,
Jeans, Eddington, Bohr—they all agreed. They thought all we
worried about were symbols. 'Shadows,' Schrodinger used to call them.
They think that differential equations are not reality. Hearing some
colleagues speak, it's as though theoretical physics was just playing
house with plastic building blocks. This absurd idea has gained
currency, and now people seem to feel that theoretical physicists are
little more than dreamers locked away in ivory towers. They think our
games, our little houses, bear no relation to their everyday worries,
their interests, their problems, or their welfare. But I'm going to
tell you something, and I want you to take it as a ground rule for
this course. From now on, I will be filling this board with
equations. I'll start in one corner and end in another, and I promise
you I'll make good use of the space because I have small
handwriting." People laughed, but Blanes wasn't joking. "And
when I'm done, I want you to do the following: look at those numbers,
all those little numbers and Greek letters on the board, and repeat
to yourselves, 'This is
reality,' repeat it over and over..." Elisa swallowed. Blanes
added, "Physics equations are the key to our happiness, our
fears, our lives, and our deaths. Don't forget it. Ever."
He
jumped up onto the dais and raised the screen, grabbed a piece of
chalk, and began scribbling on the left-hand side of the board, just
as he'd promised. And for the rest of the class, he made no mention
of anything besides complex noncommutative algebraic abstractions and
advanced
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