In physics, say, a small elite of European and American initiates accepted and acclaimed Einstein’s General Theory long before the confirming observational data was in. The Theory, which Einstein presented to the world in nineteen fifteen and sixteen, made the proposition, offensive to common sense, that gravitation was simply an effect caused by the curvature of space-time wrought by matter and energy. It was predicted that light would be deflected by the gravitational field of the sun. An expedition had already been mounted to the Crimea to observe an eclipse in nineteen fourteen to test this out, but the war intervened. Another expedition set out in nineteen nineteen to two remote islands in the Atlantic. Confirmation was flashed around the world, but inaccurate or inconvenient data was overlooked in the desire to embrace the theory. More expeditions set out to observe eclipses and check Einstein’s predictions, in nineteen twenty-two in Australia, in twenty-nine in Sumatra, in thirty-six in the USSR and in forty-seven in Brazil. Not until the development of radio astronomy in the fifties was there incontrovertible experimental verification, but essentially these years of practical striving were irrelevant. The Theory was already in the textbooks from the twenties onwards. Its integral power was so great, it was too beautiful to resist.
This is one of the
reasons why I don´t like teaching the scientific method as a recipe or as an
inflexible guide that scientifics strictly follow. Things work in another way
because we know that intuitions exist and even tricks to get where you
want. Something typical of human beings,
indeed.
Ian McEwan always
talks about Science in his novels. We´ve
already posted here about Saturday and Solar. In my head, I have an outline of the
analogy between the structure of McEwan´s novels and Sabina´s songs, which both
of them repeat again and again. But I admit that I´m not ready to develop it
yet
