We Are All Stardust by Stefan Klein by Stefan Klein - Read Online
We Are All Stardust
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Editor’s Note

“Great minds…”Summer is a great time to reacquaint yourself with the mysteries of nature. This collection of conversations with today’s foremost scientists is an exploration of the inspirations that lead to discoveries that shape our understanding of the world.
Scribd Editor


“What distinguishes scientists, in your eyes?”—Stefan Klein

“First and foremost, curiosity.”—Roald Hoffmann, Nobel Prize–winning chemist

When Stefan Klein, an acclaimed journalist, sits down to talk with 18 of the world’s leading scientists, he finds they’re driven by, above all, curiosity. When they talk about their work, they turn to what’s next, to what they still hope to discover. And they see inspiration everywhere: From the sports car that physicist Steven Weinberg says helped him on his quest for “the theory of everything” to the jazz musicians who gave psychologist Alison Gopnik new insight into raising children, they reveal how their paradigm-changing work entwines with their lives outside the lab. We hear from extraordinary natural and social scientists, including:

Evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins on ego and selflessness Primatologist Jane Goodall on chimpanzee behavior Neuroscientist V. S. Ramachandran on consciousness Geographer Jared Diamond on chance in history Anthropologist Sarah Hrdy on motherhood And cosmologist Martin Rees on how “ultimately we ourselves are stardust.”
Published: The Experiment an imprint of Workman eBooks on
ISBN: 9781615191536
List price: $1.99
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On the courage to spend a lifetime searching

SCIENCE DEFINES OUR LIVES AS NEVER BEFORE. And yet we don’t know much about the people who change our world with their research. It can’t be that they have nothing to share. Many of the scientists I met for the conversations in this book look back on astonishing life stories. They have unusual interests and think far beyond the horizons of their respective fields. In short, as people they are just as interesting as the actors, professional athletes, or politicians whose inner lives we hear about in minute detail.

Yet we still tend to picture all scientists as Einstein, the genius who is inept at life and sticks his tongue out at the world. This lingering perception is partly scientists’ own doing: They try to deny their personal side. Science aims to be objective; the self is to be kept out of it. In a scientific publication, to use the word I is sacrilege. And because scientists, of course, crave recognition as much as anyone else, they help construct the myth that surrounds them. Scientists may be discouraged from expressing their individual personalities too strongly in their professional world, but they can at least flatter themselves that they are scholars who hover above everyday things.

But there’s another, deeper reason that the thoughts and feelings of scientists are unknown to the public: Our society views science with tunnel vision. Scientific research is rightly perceived as a source of prosperity; it has brought us effective medications, computers, and thousands of other amenities. The work of scientists in their laboratories is clearly useful, even if we don’t always understand it. But in the eyes of most people, it has nothing to do with what really moves us, with the existential questions of our lives.

To think that way, however, is to overlook the fact that science is part of our culture—like our books, our music, our movies. From its beginnings, science has explored the mysteries of our existence. And particularly in recent years, scientists have gained many insights that help us see more clearly who we are, where we come from, and what it means to be human.

For this book I have met some of the women and men to whom we owe such insights. With two exceptions, my interviews with scientists—from Europe, the United States, India, and Australia—took place between 2007 and 2012. I was encountering almost all my subjects for the first time. Usually I arranged to meet with them on two consecutive days, always in a place of their choosing. Often we spoke in their offices, but we also occasionally conversed on long walks or in restaurants, museums, or their houses. The one thing I demanded in advance from the scientists was time; generally our dialogues—some conducted in German, some in English—lasted five hours.

The interviews collected here are distilled from those conversations, edited and significantly condensed to include the most interesting passages. All but one first appeared in the magazine supplement to Die Zeit, the German weekly newspaper, and many interviews went on to be included in a prior German edition of this book. These interviews thus took an indirect path to their English-language publication here (in many cases, after having been translated into German for Die Zeit, and now translated back again). To ensure nothing has been lost in the process, every interview in this book has been reviewed and approved (and sometimes lightly updated) by the interviewee. For several conversations, I decided to take this opportunity to revisit the original, voluminous transcripts. Working directly from those, I have been able to bring to light many revealing passages not included in the former newspaper versions.

All my conversation partners enjoy a worldwide reputation in their fields, and all have made a mark by placing their research in a broader context. They include a winner of the Nobel Prize in Chemistry who has made a name for himself as a poet, a cosmologist who publicly wagers on the fate of the world in the next decades, and a physiologist who at the same time investigates the origins of civilizations in the jungles of Papua New Guinea. I have tried to give representatives of a wide variety of scholarly interests a chance to speak: A geographer, a philosopher, a social scientist, an economist, and an anthropologist offer perspectives from the humanities and social sciences. Incidentally, the selection is unabashedly subjective. I’ve talked to people I wanted to meet—because their lives and scientific contributions struck me as extraordinary.

The objection that in this collection white men are disproportionately represented is undeniable: Only five of my conversation partners are women, and only three are not from Europe or the United States. But this assortment is a snapshot of our time. I sought scientists with far-reaching lifetime achievements and broad perspectives, which are typically attained in the second half of a career. Among researchers of that age, women as well as people from Asia, Latin America, or Africa are still rare. Today the young talent in the laboratories is fortunately more diverse, and thus the assortment of my conversation partners would look different two decades from now.

In the conversations, I pursued two simple goals: to learn who my conversation partners are and what they do. For me, those are really just two ways of phrasing a single question, for I have never believed in the myth that scientists can disregard their personal side in their work. It seems to me almost self-evident that their life stories, not to mention their cultural roots, shape their interests. But for most of those I spoke with, my approach was extremely unfamiliar. As the neuroscientist Hannah Monyer put it, In science, the individual doesn’t count. It was astonishing, in light of her comment, how many of them opened up about themselves once we had developed a level of trust. Had they felt burdened by the need to inhibit themselves?

Not all of them were completely at ease with me, however. World-renowned scholars occupying the highest academic posts, who give lectures all the time in front of their students and at conferences, suddenly lost all their eloquence when it came time to talk about themselves. Still, they did enjoy the opportunity for a little self-expression. Only they clearly felt guilty about it—as if I had inveigled them into something unseemly. The fear of revealing a weakness through an ill-considered remark was too deep-seated.

I wasn’t surprised that the conversations with Nobel laureates—their reputations secure—were among the most relaxed. At the same time, especially before the meeting with the physicist Steven Weinberg, I was more than a little nervous, as this almost legendary scientist had, with his essays and books, been a significant presence for a good twenty years of my career. There are probably few physicists of my generation the whole world over who would not revere Weinberg as a supreme authority. So I shot frenetically on my rented bike across the campus of the University of Texas at Austin, passing his department several times before I finally sat across from him, sweaty and late. After we greeted each other, I confessed to feeling intimidated. I told him how much and how early in my career his works had influenced me—and was immediately embarrassed by my words, which I feared he must have heard a thousand times before. But Weinberg’s eyes lit up: That’s very pleasing to hear. From that point on, the spell was broken. Rarely have I met anyone less pretentious—and rarely anyone who so candidly admitted their own mistakes, lapses, and doubts. When you have achieved everything, you have nothing left to prove.

Each of the scientists I met commanded my respect. What inspired my admiration, however, was not so much their outstanding intelligence, which is so often ascribed to eminent scientists. Certainly I was dealing with women and men of extremely keen intellect, but there were few whose mental powers struck me as beyond reach. Nobel Prize winners are not smarter than other people, the chemist Roald Hoffmann, who is one himself, suggested in our conversation. I would add: And if they nonetheless attain heights that are impossible for others, it is not because they were born with superior brains, but because they better train their gray matter. Their intelligence was never a given; it had to be developed on a path that all my conversation partners pursued. They had dedicated their lives to the goal of discovering a few puzzle pieces of the world. It was this capacity for devotion, which shone through in each conversation, that I admired and that often moved me. Devotion can bring people the highest moments of happiness, but it exacts a heavy toll. In this series of conversations, however, the only scientists to acknowledge the cost of their commitment to cutting-edge research were the women. The fact that they alone—and none of the men—addressed this subject seems hardly a coincidence.

While the media report only the news of scientific successes, very few outsiders know the vast price in failure and disappointment at which every single triumph comes. The mysteries of nature are like a labyrinth: The solution appears only after every wrong path has been tried at least once. And even someone who, without knowing it, is on the right track must toil painstakingly for years, sometimes decades, before solving a fundamental problem. It’s not intelligence that is the most important trait of a scientist, but persistence—a determination bordering on obstinacy to contend with setbacks, self-doubt, even monotony. The geneticist Craig Venter acknowledged that behind every science experiment  . . . there’s a lot of tedium. He described to me an experiment of his that required isolating an adrenaline receptor as boring and frustrating—and yet, to him, thrilling. There is truly nothing more exciting, he said, than having an idea, thinking about a way to test that idea, and getting an answer that gives you new information about the world around us. It’s a remarkable attitude to have, especially since, as Venter admits, most science crawls along.

What, then, brings people to scientific research? What keeps them doing it? Just as no scientist is born brilliant, no one is born a scientist. On the contrary, almost all my conversation partners told me how they arrived at their current field of interest and ultimately found success largely by chance: Sarah Hrdy was doing research for a debut novel she planned to write about the Maya people when she discovered anthropology and stuck with it. Ernst Fehr, today one of the most influential economists in the world, had intended to become a priest. And Raghavendra Gadagkar might never have risen to prominence as a leading animal behavior researcher had his attention not been aroused by the ubiquitous wasps in his college dorm in India. For others, it was the encounter with a charismatic teacher that gave their life a completely new direction. In light of these biographies, the hope that careers can be planned turns out to be unfounded. It was not farsighted thinking that helped these now-accomplished scientists get ahead but their self-confidence to overcome obstacles and go their own way.

They have retained that courage to this day. But it’s not the audacity to defy the gods; rather, it’s a willingness to spend a lifetime searching. Thus many of the scientists I met displayed a peculiar mixture of personality traits—strong egos that at the same time allowed them to embrace uncertainty. Beyond the vanity, beyond the desire to immortalize one’s own name with a groundbreaking discovery, an impulse seemed to be at work in all of them: a pleasure in being on the way and knowing well that they will never arrive.

One of the best answers to the question of what motivates scientists is also one of the oldest. It comes from Leonardo da Vinci, who as the forefather of the modern natural sciences gives this book a historical perspective with an interview composed of quotations from his writings. For Leonardo, the thirst for knowledge was a form of love of nature and thus of life: Love of anything is the offspring of knowledge; the more certain the knowledge, the more fervent the love. What we really understand we come to value. And because by looking closely we ultimately change ourselves, Leonardo regarded literally every object as worthy of intense engagement—the current around a pebble in a stream as much as the course of the stars.

Leonardo was a pioneer on an unknown continent. He investigated particular phenomena, each individually—the relationships between them he could at best intuit. In more than five hundred years of natural research since then, scientists have learned to see many connections; they know, for example, that the laws of the current around a pebble in a river also determine the emergence of stars in the cosmos. Thus each small-scale insight points beyond itself, the way a crack in a wooden wall can open up a view of a whole landscape. Several of my conversation partners described such an experience in almost identical words as that wonderful moment when suddenly everything clicks. Often the most unspectacular problems lead to a much bigger mystery—and sometimes they even provide the key to solving it. Big questions hiding in small ones lie at the heart of the conversations collected here.

We Are All Stardust


Martin Rees

on the beginning and end of the world

MARTIN REES IS THE LAST EUROPEAN court astronomer. He is Astronomer Royal to the House of Windsor and adviser to Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, in astronomical and scientific matters. Rees, born in 1942 in York, England, studied mathematics at Cambridge and has been professor of astronomy there since 1973. Over his more than forty-year career, however, Rees has sat at a telescope only in his free time; he has made a name for himself primarily as a theorist, not least with his ingenious speculations. As if the post of Astronomer Royal weren’t enough, he served for five years as president of the Royal Society, the oldest learned society in the world. The Queen elevated him to Baron Rees of Ludlow, so that he could also play a political role in the House of Lords. Rees receives his visitor at Carlton House Terrace, the home of the Royal Society, in the immediate vicinity of Buckingham Palace. Over his desk hangs a huge oil painting of Sir Isaac Newton, who was once president of the society as well. There is tea.

Professor Rees, what does an Astronomer Royal do?

Oh, that’s just an honorary title. It dates back to 1675, when the Astronomer Royal ran the Royal Observatory of Greenwich. Today the duties of the post are so limited that you could actually hold it posthumously.

Your investigations of quasars have yielded key evidence of the big bang. Have you ever explained to the Queen what a quasar is?

We’ve never talked about it. If I had the opportunity, I would tell her that they’re huge black holes in the centers of galaxies that suck in gas, and before the gas plunges into the black hole, it shines more intensely than anything else in the cosmos—brighter than trillions of suns.

And what does that have to do with the big bang?

We were faced with the question of why we find more quasars the farther away from the earth we look. With my colleague Dennis Sciama I was able to show that the big bang theory provides the correct answer: Most quasars were formed in the early universe, and as the universe expands, they grow increasingly far away from us. We made this discovery in 1965.

Today we know that quasars are actually among the oldest visible objects in outer space: Recently quasars were discovered that were formed at least thirteen billion years ago. What do you find so fascinating about this phenomenon?

The physics at the edge of a supermassive black hole is really interesting. We can test Einstein’s theory there, and remarkable effects occur. Above and below the gas vortex, streams of matter are thrust into the universe at enormous speed. The late Arthur C. Clarke, who wrote the science fiction novel 2001: A Space Odyssey, once asked me whether those jets could be the product of a highly developed civilization.

Galactic beacons?


But if the quasars were formed shortly after the birth of the universe, a civilization living in their vicinity would have barely had time to develop.

That’s a problem. But other, more recently formed supermassive black holes shoot out jets as well.

Did you always want to investigate the universe?

Not at all. I began as a mathematician, but then I realized that I didn’t want to pursue mathematics for its own sake. So I looked for a field where I could apply what I had learned. I was within an inch of becoming an economist! But after a year or so, quasars, which had just been discovered, turned out to be a good choice.

I once considered becoming an astrophysicist myself. But with my twenty-five years at the time, the stars seemed to me too far away—while there are so many astonishing things to explore right under our noses.

The stars are much closer to us than you might have thought. They’re governed by the same natural laws as everything on earth, only under extreme conditions. After all, the cosmos is our environment. With all human beings who have ever lived we share the same view of the stars. And ultimately we ourselves are stardust.

Like everything on earth, we consist of the vestiges of long-extinguished celestial bodies.

Exactly. All the elements were formed in the stars out of hydrogen and helium through nuclear fusion. If you’re less romantically inclined, you can call human beings stellar nuclear waste.

These must be exciting times for anyone probing the mysteries of the universe. Cosmology is undergoing a revolution, your colleague Charles Bennett has declared.

Absolutely. Thanks to new telescopes, as well as the processing power of supercomputers, we can now trace the development of the universe back at least twelve billion years. That has helped us understand how the first stars and galaxies emerged from an unstructured state, and how they evolved up to the present. What I find even more exciting is that over the past ten years or so we have been discovering one planet after another outside our solar system. I hope we will soon find an earthlike planet.

With that very goal NASA plans to launch the space probe Kepler into space next February.*

That will open up new perspectives. The current instruments detect only giant planets, roughly the size of Jupiter. True, there could be life there too, but even more interesting would be a planet with conditions resembling those on earth at the time when life began.

What are the odds?

We might well find planets like ours, but I doubt that in the next twenty years we’ll have enough evidence to prove that they have biospheres. Still, I would bet on life somewhere in the Milky Way—and even more on life in other galaxies.

Even the best telescopes can’t penetrate into most regions of the cosmos, which are so far away that their light hasn’t had enough time since the origin of the universe to travel to us.

It’s like when you climb the mast of a ship on the high seas. You can see only to the horizon, but you have to assume that the ocean beyond it extends much farther.

According to the data provided by the two satellites COBE and WMAP in recent years, we have to assume that the universe is many thousand times larger than the small area we can see. What might be going on in those hidden regions?

Satellite measurements suggest that beyond the horizon things remain the same as in the visible cosmos for a very long time. But of course we can’t be certain.

How can anyone doubt the existence of extraterrestrial life in the face of those dimensions? The probability of life sprouting up somewhere might be infinitesimal. But if you consider the countless solar systems of the cosmos, it seems almost sure to have happened repeatedly.

You’re right. And in the next two decades we’ll hopefully learn more through biological experiments about how life emerges from nonliving matter. Still, it’s not logically out of the question that we’re alone in our galaxy.

You once said that you would prefer that. Why?

Because it would deprive us of some cosmic self-confidence if there were others out there. On the other hand, a Milky Way inhabited by life would of course be much more interesting.

But is humanity mature enough to cope with the news of having cosmic company?

I don’t think the experience would have to be that traumatic. The cultural impact might roughly equal that of the discovery of America.

Do you like science fiction?

I find many ideas in it really stimulating. That’s why I advise my students to read first-rate science fiction rather than second-rate scientific publications.

In Stanisław Lem’s novel Solaris, scientists discover a strange ocean on a distant planet. It turns out to be an intelligent organism, but the scientists find no way to communicate with it. The differences between humans and that life form are too great—a plausible