Scientific imagination
I have asked you to imagine these electric and magnetic fields. What do you do? Do you know how? How do I imagine the electric and magnetic field? What do I actually see? What are the demands of scientific imagination? Is it any different from trying to imagine that the room is full of invisible angels? No, it is not like imagining invisible angels. It requires a much higher degree of imagination to understand the electromagnetic field than to understand invisible angels. Why?  Because to make invisible angels understandable, all I have to do is to alter their properties a little bit—I make them slightly visible, and then I can see the shapes of their wings, and bodies, and halos. Once I succeed in imagining a visible angel, the abstraction required—which is to take almost invisible angels and imagine them completely invisible—is relatively easy. So you say, “Professor, please give me an approximate description of the electromagnetic waves, even though it may be slightly inaccurate, so that I too can see them as well as I can see almost invisible angels. Then I will modify the picture to the necessary abstraction.” I’m sorry I can’t do that for you. I don’t know how. I have no picture of this electromagnetic field that is in any sense accurate. I have known about the electromagnetic field a long time—I was in the same position 25 years ago that you are now, and I have had 25 years more of experience thinking about these wiggling waves. When I start describing the magnetic field moving through space, I speak of the $\FLPE$- and $\FLPB$-fields and wave my arms and you may imagine that I can see them. I’ll tell you what I see. I see some kind of vague shadowy, wiggling lines—here and there is an $E$ and $B$ written on them somehow, and perhaps some of the lines have arrows on them—an arrow here or there which disappears when I look too closely at it. When I talk about the fields swishing through space, I have a terrible confusion between the symbols I use to describe the objects and the objects themselves. I cannot really make a picture that is even nearly like the true waves. So if you have some difficulty in making such a picture, you should not be worried that your difficulty is unusual. Our science makes terrific demands on the imagination. The degree of imagination that is required is much more extreme than that required for some of the ancient ideas. The modern ideas are much harder to imagine. We use a lot of tools, though. We use mathematical equations and rules, and make a lot of pictures. What I realize now is that when I talk about the electromagnetic field in space, I see some kind of a superposition of all of the diagrams which I’ve ever seen drawn about them. I don’t see little bundles of field lines running about because it worries me that if I ran at a different speed the bundles would disappear, I don’t even always see the electric and magnetic fields because sometimes I think I should have made a picture with the vector potential and the scalar potential, for those were perhaps the more physically significant things that were wiggling. Perhaps the only hope, you say, is to take a mathematical view. Now what is a mathematical view? From a mathematical view, there is an electric field vector and a magnetic field vector at every point in space; that is, there are six numbers associated with every point. Can you imagine six numbers associated with each point in space? That’s too hard. Can you imagine even one number associated with every point?  I cannot! I can imagine such a thing as the temperature at every point in space. That seems to be understandable. There is a hotness and coldness that varies from place to place. But I honestly do not understand the idea of a number at every point. So perhaps we should put the question: Can we represent the electric field by something more like a temperature, say like the displacement of a piece of jello? Suppose that we were to begin by imagining that the world was filled with thin jello and that the fields represented some distortion—say a stretching or twisting—of the jello. Then we could visualize the field. After we “see” what it is like we could abstract the jello away. For many years that’s what people tried to do. Maxwell, Ampère, Faraday, and others tried to understand electromagnetism this way. (Sometimes they called the abstract jello “ether.”) But it turned out that the attempt to imagine the electromagnetic field in that way was really standing in the way of progress. We are unfortunately limited to abstractions, to using instruments to detect the field, to using mathematical symbols to describe the field, etc. But nevertheless, in some sense the fields are real, because after we are all finished fiddling around with mathematical equations—with or without making pictures and drawings or trying to visualize the thing—we can still make the instruments detect the signals from Mariner II and find out about galaxies a billion miles away, and so on. The whole question of imagination in science is often misunderstood by people in other disciplines. They try to test our imagination in the following way. They say, “Here is a picture of some people in a situation. What do you imagine will happen next?” When we say, “I can’t imagine,” they may think we have a weak imagination. They overlook the fact that whatever we are allowed to imagine in science must be consistent with everything else we know: that the electric fields and the waves we talk about are not just some happy thoughts which we are free to make as we wish, but ideas which must be consistent with all the laws of physics we know. We can’t allow ourselves to seriously imagine things which are obviously in contradiction to the known laws of nature. And so our kind of imagination is quite a difficult game. One has to have the imagination to think of something that has never been seen before, never been heard of before. At the same time the thoughts are restricted in a strait jacket, so to speak, limited by the conditions that come from our knowledge of the way nature really is. The problem of creating something which is new, but which is consistent with everything which has been seen before, is one of extreme difficulty.  While I’m on this subject I want to talk about whether it will ever be possible to imagine beauty that we can’t see. It is an interesting question. When we look at a rainbow, it looks beautiful to us. Everybody says, “Ooh, a rainbow.” (You see how scientific I am. I am afraid to say something is beautiful unless I have an experimental way of defining it.) But how would we describe a rainbow if we were blind? We are blind when we measure the infrared reflection coefficient of sodium chloride, or when we talk about the frequency of the waves that are coming from some galaxy that we can’t see—we make a diagram, we make a plot. For instance, for the rainbow, such a plot would be the intensity of radiation vs. wavelength measured with a spectrophotometer for each direction in the sky. Generally, such measurements would give a curve that was rather flat. Then some day, someone would discover that for certain conditions of the weather, and at certain angles in the sky, the spectrum of intensity as a function of wavelength would behave strangely; it would have a bump. As the angle of the instrument was varied only a little bit, the maximum of the bump would move from one wavelength to another. Then one day the physical review of the blind men might publish a technical article with the title “The Intensity of Radiation as a Function of Angle under Certain Conditions of the Weather.” In this article there might appear a graph such as the one in Fig. 20–5. The author would perhaps remark that at the larger angles there was more radiation at long wavelengths, whereas for the smaller angles the maximum in the radiation came at shorter wavelengths. (From our point of view, we would say that the light at $40^\circ$ is predominantly green and the light at $42^\circ$ is predominantly red.)  Now do we find the graph of Fig. 20–5 beautiful? It contains much more detail than we apprehend when we look at a rainbow, because our eyes cannot see the exact details in the shape of a spectrum. The eye, however, finds the rainbow beautiful. Do we have enough imagination to see in the spectral curves the same beauty we see when we look directly at the rainbow? I don’t know. But suppose I have a graph of the reflection coefficient of a sodium chloride crystal as a function of wavelength in the infrared, and also as a function of angle. I would have a representation of how it would look to my eyes if they could see in the infrared—perhaps some glowing, shiny “green,” mixed with reflections from the surface in a “metallic red.” That would be a beautiful thing, but I don’t know whether I can ever look at a graph of the reflection coefficient of NaCl measured with some instrument and say that it has the same beauty.  On the other hand, even if we cannot see beauty in particular measured results, we can already claim to see a certain beauty in the equations which describe general physical laws. For example, in the wave equation (20.9), there’s something nice about the regularity of the appearance of the $x$, the $y$, the $z$, and the $t$. And this nice symmetry in appearance of the $x$, $y$, $z$, and $t$ suggests to the mind still a greater beauty which has to do with the four dimensions, the possibility that space has four-dimensional symmetry, the possibility of analyzing that and the developments of the special theory of relativity. So there is plenty of intellectual beauty associated with the equations.