Cobweb Frost

Lucretius' Prescience--Part 2

Greenblatt chronicles the miraculous rediscovery of Lucretius’ tome On the Nature of Things, 15 centuries after he wrote it—literally pointing humanity once again in the direction of truth. It blows my mind when I think about how much more knowledge we could have today about the reality of the universe, if not all this time had been lost.

Not all of Lucretius’ theories of the workings of nature were accurate. For example, his ideas on vision were quite off base, but his descriptions of the basic properties of matter are astonishingly on target.  

Several Lucretius’ theories on spirituality remain controversial. They touch on concepts such as the nature of the soul, the existence of an afterlife, the nature of free will, and the influence of organized religions in the world. These ideas were what brought him into disfavor with both the religious beliefs of Greece and Rome in his time, as well as those of Christianity that followed. In fact, I think that some of these postulates may never be proven right or wrong, since they tread into the realm of the supernatural.

So let’s stick to the natural world, and to the theories he proposed, that science has subsequently verified—to demonstrate how prescient his insights were:

1.    Everything is made of an uncountable number of “invisible particles.” (He tended to avoid the word “atom.”)

2.    These particles are limited in their variety (sort of like just so many kinds of Legos blocks or letters of the alphabet) and each kind will combine with only a limited type of others (just as there are only so many letter combinations that make useful sounds).

3.    The particles are capable of forming an unlimited number of material objects (just as we can form an unlimited number of words from a limited alphabet).

4.    The particles (i.e., atoms) are eternal, but the things they form are constantly coming into being and then disintegrating (just as a tree or person is born and then later dies and decomposes back into their constituent atoms). These first four ideas correspond very closely to chemistry, as we understand it today.

5.    Nature ceaselessly experiments and, in the process, creates some living beings or plants that will quickly perish and others that will succeed and endure. This is an ancient insight into the process of evolution.

6.    Humans are not unique. We are much like any other animal. We have awakened to this truth only in the last few decades.

7.    Our early human ancestors lived a difficult life. They struggled to survive and did so primarily by cooperating with one another.

8.    Humans today are different from long ago. We are constantly changing and evolving.

All these ideas were described in a very long poem—over 2000 years ago! How could anyone have conceived of such an accurate picture of reality that long ago? I have a suggestion that I cannot prove, but seems logical to me: The truth about the nature of the universe and the details of how things are, exist independent of the human mind; they don’t just sit around, ever since the Big Bang, waiting for us to uncover them or for us to draw up laws that explain them. The universe just is; and we slowly discover its qualities.

It’s as if there is a conscious ether that permeates all space and contains the complete truth of everything. Some people might call it the mind of God, but I wish to avoid the inevitable and controversial dogma that follows such a call. I prefer to view it simply as an unnamable, inconceivable cloud of knowing that the human mind is capable of tapping into, either by dint of spiritual maturity (through plain, hard work) or by grace. In any case, our individual consciousness is, I think, capable of connecting to and getting glimpses of the truth from this universal consciousness. It is as if it was The Complete Book of Knowledge, just waiting for us to wake up and explore. We don’t create it or formulate it; we simply tune into it.

From time to time, we can receive insights and ideas from this ultimate-knowledge reservoir. When we “discover” something, we are often inclined to think that these ideas are ours, that we own and created them—when in fact, they’ve been around all along. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for Lucretius’ fantastic insights as to the reality of the universe: On the Nature of Things. Whatever the truth is, it's an amazing accomplishment.

Snowy Creek

Lucretius' Prescience

Nearly 2100 years ago—a generation or two before Jesus was born—a Roman poet created an astounding work of art and science. Although it was regarded at the time as an achingly beautiful poem, it was also a prescient description of the workings of this universe—literally a scientific treatise that would require nearly 2000 years to prove its veracity. The Roman author of the work was Titus Lucretius, and he titled it De rerum natura in Latin, which translates to On the Nature of Things. It’s an extensive work, running some 7400 lines of verse, grouped into six books.

Lucretius based his insights on earlier Greek schools of thought, some of which taught that everything in the universe is made of invisible building blocks, which they called atoms, from the Greek word atomos, which means “indivisible.” The notion of the existence of atoms had originated over 400 years before Lucretius came along. It began with ancient Greeks such as Leucippus, Democritus, and Epicurus. These atomistic ideas competed with several other theories of matter, but eventually faded; losing out to the Greek schools headed by more wealthy and aristocratic scholars—particularly Aristotle. In addition, the concepts promulgated by Aristotle and his cohorts fit more comfortably with religious teachings of the time, and then were embraced by the Christian Church, after it came to power.

Lucretius expanded upon the teachings of the early Greek atomists and incorporated several other ideas, laying out an astoundingly accurate description of the physical world, long before humans had the scientific instruments to prove the truth of his writings.

Science has historically developed its understanding of how the universe behaves in two contrasting ways: via intuition and by experimentation (as well as by some combination of the two). Those who made intuitive discoveries usually puzzled over some natural phenomenon for a lengthy period, before an insight suddenly came to them. Einstein brooded about relativity for years—nearly losing his mundane job because of his daydreaming—and then the elegant answers suddenly came to him, almost like in a dream. Isaac Newton had escaped London’s black plague and for months sat scribbling safely at his country desk, before realizations came to him of the nature of forces and their effects on bodies.

Both of these men’s insights were expressed through elegant descriptions and mathematics. It was many years before other scientists could conduct the necessary experiments that could verify their theories—either because the necessary instruments had not yet been invented or no one had even conceived of such experiments.

The second principle way of scientific exploration is by experimentation. With instruments in hand, an experiment is conducted, that explores some aspect of the natural world, and often leads to some new understanding of how nature works.

What is astounding about Lucretius’ On the Nature of Things is that he was two millennia ahead of his time—rather than just a couple of decades, as in Einstein’s case. It fascinates me that, strictly through mental effort, Lucretius and his cohorts could have had such profound insight, so far ahead of their time. How could they have anticipated that everything in the universe is composed of endless combinations of tiny building blocks that were far beyond their ability to see or touch? Not only that, but Lucretius also anticipated evolution (1800 years before Darwin!) and expounded a philosophy that touched on spiritual matters. His thoughts in these areas are amazingly modern in tone.

A just-published book by Stephan Greenblatt (The Swerve) describes how Lucretius’ book barely escaped being lost to history; it was remarkably discovered in a German monastery some 1500 years after he had penned it. His insights had lain dormant until the 15^th century, and, when rediscovered, played a major role in fueling the scientific achievements of the Renaissance, and giving modern science its kick-start.

Why had Lucretius’ prescient ideas not become the foundation of scientific understanding during his time? Primarily because they clashed with the philosophical and religious beliefs that came to prominence in the centuries after the early flourishing Greek culture. For centuries—up to and throughout the so-called dark ages—the Western world based its views of the natural world on dogma that stifled scientific discovery.

More on Lucretius’ insights next time…

Icy crystals

Reincarnating the Pond--Part 2

It dawned on me that my actions had now made me the main person responsible for the caretaking of the pond. I had brought about the refill and the critters seemed to enjoy it, but what had I started? Pretty soon the pond began to look a little scummy from algae growth. Weren’t there fish in it before it drained? Don’t fish maybe eat algae and keep the water clear?

After heavy rains, the pond water—now no longer having access to a drainpipe—would threaten to crest the dam. Oh-oh, was this leading to the possible failure of the dam embankment, allowing a tsunami to sweep down the holler towards our house? Had I opened Pandora’s Pond?

Luckily, I have a buddy who previously worked for Uncle Sam’s soil conservation service, who once made a living by advising farmers how to build a dam to store water and control flooding. I asked Roger to come by and give me his professional advice on whether or not I’d dived in over my head. After the obligatory period of pulling my chain a couple of times, he got serious and told me, “That’s a damn strong dam… not to worry.” That advice helped enormously!

I also consulted him on the spreading algae scum. His advice was to get some koi, release them into the pond, and they’d be happy to keep it clean. He had a similar pond next to his house that he’d stocked with koi, and he enjoyed watching them swim in the clear water. Koi is the Japanese word for carp—a large ornamental fish that is bright orange, with white and black splotches. I called the local pet store; to find out that koi were quite pricey. I hesitated at running an experiment of tossing $30 worth of fancy foreign fish into the pond, only to watch them die off.

Then it occurred to me that goldfish are also a type of carp—and they cost only 25 cents apiece, rather than $3-4. I bought a dozen one-inch long goldfish and released them into what I fervently hoped would become their happy home. The next season, pausing by the pond one day, I peered into the water and cheered when I spotted a small school of goldfish—now a couple of inches long! Over the next year or so the algae disappeared and I watched the goldfish grow into sizeable carp—some approaching a foot long!

Victory is often short lived, it seems. Over the last couple of years, I have seen no goldfish. Many a time I’ve stood at pondside, gazing hopefully into the depths, but have seen no slinky golden forms. Were they still down there, but playing koi (err… coy)? Did something eat them? They had no way of knowing that their flashy gold color stood starkly out and that hawks might decide to dine on them. Would the pond now algae over again? What had I gotten myself into?

It seems that I have become involved with yet another ongoing experiment with Mother Nature. I have interfered and started something. Every move we make, we enter into some kind of dance with the natural world, in which we disturb the balance of the environment, and cause ripples that flow outward. We have minimal understanding of the complexity and entanglement of nature’s worldwide web. If we try to make our actions benign and do them with care, our disturbances may be harmless, or even helpful. If our actions are harsh and careless, we can do lasting damage. It behooves us to step cautiously… we’re meddling with the sacred.

Sunset