Archive for the Biographical Category

Cranks Anonymous

Posted in Biographical, Books, Talks and Reviews, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , , on September 22, 2009 by telescoper

Sean Carroll, blogger-in-chief at Cosmic Variance, has ventured abroad from his palatial Californian residence and is currently slumming it in a little town called Oxford where he is attending a small conference in celebration of the 70th birthday of George Ellis. In fact he’s been posting regular live commentaries on the proceedings which I’ve been following with great interest. It looks an interesting and unusual meeting because it involves both physicists and philosophers and it is based around a series of debates on topics of current interest. See Sean’s posts here, here and here for expert summaries of the three days of the meeting.

Today’s dispatches included an account of George’s own talk which appears to have involved delivering a polemic against the multiverse, something he has been known to do from time to time. I posted something on it myself, in fact. I don’t think I’m as fundamentally opposed as Geroge to the idea that we might live in a bit of space-time that may belong to some sort of larger collection in which other bits have different properties, but it does bother me how many physicists talk about the multiverse as if it were an established fact. There certainly isn’t any observational evidence that this is true and the theoretical arguments usually advanced are far from rigorous.The multiverse certainly is  a fun thing to think about, I just don’t think it’s really needed.

There is one red herring that regularly floats into arguments about the multiverse, and that concerns testability. Different bits of the multiverse can’t be observed directly by an observer in a particular place, so it is often said that the idea isn’t testable. I don’t think that’s the right way to look at it. If there is a compelling physical theory that can account convincingly for a realised multiverse then that theory really should have other necessary consequences that are testable, otherwise there’s no point. Test the theory in some other way and you test whether the  multiverse emanating from it is sound too.

However, that fairly obvious statement isn’t really the point of this piece. As I was reading Sean’s blog post for today you could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw my name crop up:

Orthodoxy is based on the beliefs held by elites. Consider the story of Peter Coles, who tried to claim back in the 1990’s that the matter density was only 30% of the critical density. He was threatened by a cosmological bigwig, who told him he’d be regarded as a crank if he kept it up. On a related note, we have to admit that even scientists base beliefs on philosophical agendas and rationalize after the fact. That’s often what’s going on when scientists invoke “beauty” as a criterion.

George was actually talking about a paper we co-wrote for Nature in which we went through the different arguments that had been used to estimate the average density of matter in the Universe, tried to weigh up which were the more reliable, and came to the conclusion that the answer was in the range 20 to 40 percent of the critical density. There was a considerable theoretical prejudice at the time, especially from adherents of  inflation, that the density should be very close to the critical value, so we were running against the crowd to some extent. I remember we got quite a lot of press coverage at the time and I was invited to go on Radio 4 to talk about it, so it was an interesting period for me. Working with George was a tremendous experience too.

I won’t name the “bigwig” George referred to, although I will say it was a theorist; it’s more fun for those working in the field to guess for themselves! Opinions among other astronomers and physicists were divided. One prominent observational cosmologist was furious that we had criticized his work (which had yielded a high value of the density). On the other hand, Martin Rees (now “Lord” but then just plain “Sir”) said that he thought we were pushing at an open door and was surprised at the fuss.

Later on, in 1996, we expanded the article into a book in which we covered the ground more deeply but came to the same conclusion as before.  The book and the article it was based on are now both very dated because of the huge advances in observational cosmology over the last decade. However, the intervening years have shown that we were right in our assessment: the standard cosmology has about 30% of the critical density.

Of course there was one major thing we didn’t anticipate which was the discovery in the late 1990s of dark energy which, to be fair, had been suggested by others more prescient than us as early as 1990. You can’t win ’em all.

So that’s the story of my emergence as a crank, a title to which I’ve tried my utmost to do justice since then. Actually, I would have liked to have had the chance to go to George’s meeting in Oxford, primarily to greet my ertswhile collaborator whom I haven’t seen for ages. But it was invitation-only. I can’t work out whether these days I’m too cranky or not cranky enough to get to go to such things. Looking at the reports of the talks, I rather think it could be the latter.

Now, anyone care to risk the libel laws and guess who Professor BigWig was?

Also Sprach Zarathustra

Posted in Biographical, Music, Poetry with tags , , , , on September 8, 2009 by telescoper

Today is the 60th anniversary of the death of the great composer Richard Strauss in 1949. I’ve already used up the music which is probably the most appropriate for this occasion, so I thought I’d mark it instead with a clip from the work that is probably most familiar to my likely readership, Also Sprach Zarathustra, as used in the closing stages of Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece 2001: A Space Odyssey.

This little clip is from the final stages of the film, though the music itself is from the opening segment of the Strauss work, the part that represents the Sunrise.

For people of my age, this music is inextricably linked not only with the film, but also with the TV coverage of the moon landings that happened about the same time as its release, about 40 years ago, and for which it also provided the theme music. I don’t know which came first. I’d love to be able to say that these events are behind what made me become an astrophysicist but, as I’ve explained before, the truth is somewhat different.

Anyway, the theme of transfiguration and rebirth depicted in the movie  seems to me to be one more closely related to Strauss’ earlier work Tod und Verklärung,  and it always makes me think of the following lines from East Coker, the second of the Four Quartets by TS Eliot:

Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

Flame Academy

Posted in Biographical, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , , , , , on September 2, 2009 by telescoper

I heard on the radio this morning from that nice Mr Cowan that today is the anniversary of the start of the Great Fire of London which burned for four days in 1666. That provides for a bit of delayed synchronicity with yesterday’s post about the dreadful fires in the outskirts of Los Angeles and a similar conflagration in Athens (which now thankfully appears to be under control).

Fires are of course terrifying phenomena, and it must be among most people’s nightmares to be caught in one. The cambridge physicist Steve Gull experienced this at first hand when his boat exploded and caught fire recently. I’ll take this opportunity to wish him a speedy recovery from his injuries.

But frightening as such happenings are, a flame (the visible, light emitting part of a fire) can also be a very beautiful and fascinating spectacle. Flames are stable long-lived phenomena involving combustion in which a “fuel”, often some kind of hydrocarbon, reacts with an oxidizing element which, in the case of natural wildfires at any rate, is usually oxygen. However, along the way, many intermediate radicals are generated and the self-sustaining nature of the flame is maintained by intricate reaction kinetics.

The shape and colour of a flame is determined not just by its temperature but also, in a complicated way, by diffusion, convection and gravity. In a diffusion flame, the fuel and the oxidizing agent diffuse into each other and the rate of diffusion consequently limits the rate at which the flame spreads. Usually combustion takes place only at the edge of the flame: the interior contains unburnt fuel. A candle flame is usually relatively quiescent because the flow of material in it is predominantly laminar. However, at higher speeds you can find turbulent flames, like in the picture below!

Sometimes convection carries some of the combustion products away from the source of the flame. In a candle flame, for example, incomplete combustion forms soot particles which are convected upwards and then incandesce inside the flame giving it a yellow colour. Gravity limits the motion of heavier products away from the source. In a microgravity environment, flames look very different!

All this stuff about flames also gives me the opportunity to mention the great Russian physicist Yakov Borisovich Zel’dovich. To us cosmologists he is best known for his work on the large-scale structure of the Universe, but he only started to work on that subject relatively late in his career during the 1960s.  He in fact began his career as a physical chemist and arguably his greatest contribution to science was that he developed the first completely physically based theory of flame propagation (together with Frank-Kamenetskii). No doubt he used insights gained from this work, together with his studies of detonation and shock waves, in the Soviet nuclear bomb programme in which he was a central figure.

But one thing even Zel’dovich couldn’t explain is why fires are such fascinating things to look at. I remember years ago having a fire in my back garden to get rid of garden rubbish. The more it burned the more things  I wanted to throw on it,  to see how well they would burn rather than to get rid of them. I ended up spending hours finding things to burn, building up a huge inferno, before finally retiring indoors, blackened with soot.

I let the fire die down, but it smouldered for three days.

Audio Video Disco

Posted in Biographical, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , on August 26, 2009 by telescoper

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This scary picture is taken from an interactive exhibit in the Weller Galleries of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, which opened in 2007. The exhibit, I mean, not the Royal Observatory. I remember going down there to record the video segments, but had forgotten all about it until somebody found this image on the net and drew my attention to it.

The exhibit consists of a series of display screens with various astronomical and cosmological concepts and questions on them, along with appropriate images. Visitors touch the screens to bring up the video segments in which distinguished astronomers (or me) attempt to provide explanations.

The lady to the bottom right is probably providing a sign language translation of my contribution. Or she could simply be screaming and waving her hands in terror. Wouldn’t you?

PS. If you want an explanation of the title of this blog post, I’ll translate Audio Video Disco from the latin for you. It means “I hear, I see, I learn”. Since they have to touch the screen, I might have added “I touch” which would be Tango….

Music 101

Posted in Biographical, Music with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 17, 2009 by telescoper

Regular readers of this blog will know that I’m a very laid-back kind of guy, unlikely to take an irrational dislike to anything or anyone and in possession of an easy-going and tolerant nature not disposed to any form of grumpiness.

However, I’ve decided to celebrate the fact that I’ve finished marking all my resit examinations by letting my hair down a bit and giving you a list of my musical pet hates. The title is an allusion to  George Orwell’s 1984, wherein Room 101 was a personalised torture chamber containing a prisoner’s own worst nightmare. Here I’ve confined myself to music. I was going to include rap but, as I said, I’ve decided to confine myself to music.

Brass Bands. I don’t mind brass bands – particularly colliery bands and the Salvation Army band – at Christmas or for singing hymns to, but I’ve put them on my list for the excruciating brass-band arrangements of classical or jazz that make my skin crawl. You wouldn’t want to play Jimi Hendrix on the banjo, and you shouldn’t let a brass band play Wagner.

Elvis Presley. His music was largely nicked from much more talented black musicians, and his inferior versions became popular simply because he was white and (when he was young) good-looking. He wasn’t even average as a singer. During his later years he became a monument to extreme self-indulgence and dreadful Las Vegas Kitsch, a bloated laughing-stock in a sequinned jumpsuit. I like a lot of Rock’n’Roll, but Elvis was the pits.

Brahms & Liszt . Where the majestic journey of the Germanic romantic tradition veered off into a tedious cul-de-sac. Turgid and impenetrable on the one hand, flowery and overwrought on the other. But what about Brahms’ German Requiem? I’m with George Bernard Shaw, who said that it was a work to be “patiently borne only by a corpse”. When invited to hear the work for a second time, he declined. “There are are some sacrifices which should not be demanded twice from any man; and one of them is listening to Brahms’ Reqiuem.” I could have added Schumann to this too, but then I would have lost the reference to Cockney rhyming slang.

Period Instruments My heart always sinks when I pick up a CD of a much-loved piece only to read the dreaded words “played on period instruments”. Read “played on inferior instruments (and probably out of tune too)”. Why on Earth would anyone prefer the buttock-clenchingly awful scraping sound made by a baroque cello or viola da gamba to a proper instrument? And as for the so-called “natural trumpet”, words fail me.

I’ve added this from Anton, which makes the point better than I could!

periodinstruments

Barbershop Quartets Close-harmony singing can be wonderful to listen to – I’m a great admirer of Welsh male voice choirs, for example. However, the whining fake joviality of a Barbershop quartet is quite unendurable. Cut my throat with a razor rather than make me listen to one!

The Four Seasons I’m prepared to accept that Antonio Vivaldi might have written a reasonably competent piece of music in The Four Seasons. After all, he wrote so many little concerti that he’d be expected to come up with one half-decent one just by chance. The problem is that I’ve heard it so many times, in lifts, shops and, worst of all, at the other end of a telephone call centre line – and usually in very badly played versions – that I think I’ll commit murder the next time I hear it. And don’t get me started on Nigel Kennedy either.

Pan Pipes I dream of the day when it is possible to walk along a British high street without my ears being assaulted by faux Andean tootling to the accompaniment of overamplified muzak. Those guys may dress like Incas but they’ve probably never been closer to South America than Weston-super-mare. And do they think people can’t tell they’re miming?

Hector Berlioz Revoltingly overblown bombastic nonsense from a man whose ego exceeded his talent by as large a factor as you can find. My music teacher at School loved Berlioz, with the result that his vacuous splurgy ramblings were inflicted on me and my classmates lesson after lesson. The normally generous Giuseppe Verdi said that Berlioz “was a poor, sick fellow, full of fury against the world at large, bitter and spiteful.” Perhaps he couldn’t come to terms with his own mediocrity.

Folk Singers I like a lot of folk music, but don’t like English folk singers,  especially those that sing in a made-up west country accent and stick their fingers in their ears as they do so. If we have to listen to their irritating nasal droning, then at least they should have the courtesy to unblock their ears and suffer with the rest of us.

Harpsichords I could have included these under “period instruments”, but I think they deserve to be singled out for special mention. There might have been an excuse for playing a harpsichord in the days before the pianoforte was invented, but they should now all be destroyed to save us from the hideous plinky-plonky jingly-jangly noise they make. “Like two skeletons copulating on a tin roof” was how Sir Thomas Beecham described them, and who am I to disagree? Nothing was ever written for the harpsichord that didn’t sound better when played on the piano.

So there you are. That’s my list. If you feel like relieving a bit of stress feel free to add your own via the comments box. But please keep your contributions as measured and reasonable as mine.

Da Capo

Posted in Biographical with tags , , on August 15, 2009 by telescoper

Last week was a most momentous week, a milestone in the continuing advance of my professional career. I have tasted power. Capo di Tutti Capi!

But only for three days.

Actually it wasn’t that great. All I had to do one sign one form, with the costings for a search grant for one of our physics professors. There was nothing to it. I didn’t even have to read it, and a pen was provided too.

The point is that almost everyone was away last week and, although I was off Monday and Tuesday touring with my folks, for the latter part of the week I was designated Head of School (in the absence of the actual Head, the Deputy Head, the Director of Undergraduate Studies, and the School Manager..). I’m clearly quite a long way down the line of inheritance.

One of the reasons everyone is taking their leave now is that the A-level results are due in next week and quite a few folks will have to be back for that, to deal with next academic year’s undergraduate admissions procedures. I’m not involved directly in this process but it’s very important for the School of course.

I always think the admissions system for Universities (UCAS) is very strange. If you were going to set up a system from scratch you certainly wouldn’t have made it the way it is. Universities are given quotas of students by the government (via the funding Councils) and this is passed on to each department as a recruitment target. The departments organize interviews, open days, and all the rest of the paraphernalia of admissions practice. They then make offers to selected students in terms of A-level grades. The students, for their part, do this for several universities, getting several offers, from which they accept one as their first-choice “Firm” offer and another, usually lower, as a second-choice  “Insurance”  offer. The students then wait for their A-level results to see if they get into either of their selected departments.

Although each department has a fixed target number to recruit, it is impossible to know exactly how many will make the grades that are offered. Departments generally make more offers than they have places because some will not make the grades. However, if the success rate is higher than expected (or, as the government would put it,  if educational standards continue to rise) the department has to take too many students in. If not enough students make their grades, near- misses might be accepted but generally it’s difficult to make up a shortfall at this late stage except by going into Clearing, a pool of applicants who didn’t make it into either of their two choices.

According to today’s Guardian, the government’s recent decision to put the brakes on university expansion, combined with an increased number of applicants for university places generated by the economic recession, means that many students are unlikely to get a place at all this year.

In physics nationally there has been a substantial increase in the number of applicants over the past few years, and my own department at Cardiff University is set to meet its quota quite comfortably and is unlikely to take any students from clearing. Applications are buoyant here, at least partly because Cardiff is such an interesting place to live and offers such a vibrant social scene for students. We’re also in a special position because we get many applications from prospective students inside Wales who want to remain here to study. Cardiff University is one of only three insitutions in Wales that offer physics degrees (Aberystwyth and Swansea being the other two).

We would like to be able to increase the number of students we recruit in order to finance expansion of our staff numbers, but given the freeze on funded places from the government we would have to take quota from other departments to do so. Whether the University will allow us to do this is not at all clear, although there are departments that struggle to fill their existing quotas. Whatever happens in future years, I hope there aren’t too many disappointments in store for prospective students next week when their A-level results land on their doormat.

Anyway, the fact that we’ve reached this time of year reminds me that the start of the new academic year is not far off, and the cycle of academic life is soon to start again.  Once more, from the top!

Along the bent and Devon-facing seashore

Posted in Biographical with tags , , , , on August 14, 2009 by telescoper

I’ve been off for a few days because my folks have been visiting from Newcastle. The good weather (on Tuesday, at least) gave us the opportunity to go for a drive around the Gower peninsula to the west of Swansea, seeing  some of the sights. I don’t think I’m very good at travelogues, but here are a few memories of the trip.

Along the north coast first: Penclawdd, Crofty and Llanrhidian. Weobley Castle stands decaying and forlorn, overlooking a salt marsh grazed by sheep and horses. In the distance, over the estuary, a nondescript town. Through binoculars I see they’re building a new Asda. What was there 700 years ago when they built the Castle?

Rossili Bay, at the western end of the peninsula. Beaches and dunes under cliffs. Caravans as far as the eye can see. Impatient surfers waiting in wet-suits for the tide to come in. Don’t they check the tide tables? The smell of Fish and Chips fails to lure us.

We drive south. White cottages shining bright in the sunshine, then down steep hills into cool dark tunnels formed by trees either side of the narrow roads, their leaves meeting overhead. I wonder what it’s like down here when it’s raining: the road must turn into a torrent. Then up on top again. Bright sunshine, a small airport and more caravans.

Driving south we come again to the jagged coast and see  Devon  along the horizon in front of us. I’m surprised it is so clear, as it must be at least 30 miles away. It’s dark and solid, a featureless granite wall. It reminds me of Dylan Thomas Reminiscences of Childhood ..

There was another world where with my friends I used to dawdle on half holidays along the bent and Devon-facing seashore…

I had always thought he just knew that Devon was there, not that he had actually seen it. I decide I like the word “dawdle”.

Port Eynon, at the southernmost tip of the Gower. A small beach between two headlands with a larger beach to one side. Fish and Chips and hot tea offer themselves. This time we accept. Inside the café (“The Captain’s Table”) an old newspaper in a frame on the wall tells stories of smuggling and wreck sales. Another, dated 1916, says that three lifeboat men had drowned while trying to rescue a ship that had foundered off the headland where the derelict oyster pans lie.

The sand dunes behind the beach are covered in wild flowers and they are covered in turn with vividly coloured beetles and butterflies. The tide is still out and it’s too far to walk over the rocks to get to the sea to have a paddle.  It’s not difficult to imagine a boat coming to grief in this place. There are flags all over warning about the dangers of the current. It must be a desolate place in the winter.

I think about retirement.

We pass a church with a memorial to the brave men who lost their lives that day in 1916. The lifeboat station was moved in 1919 because the place was too dangerous. Stopping to read the inscription, I’m almost run over on the narrow road by a big van carrying surfers and their gear. I wonder why they’re in such a hurry when the tide is out.

We try to avoid getting snarled up in traffic in Swansea on the way home. We fail.

As an afterthought, we head for The Mumbles, park the car and walk. Ambling along the curved promenade in the evening sunshine, a large and lumpy lady waddles towards us with sweat running down  pale pink arms;  her voluminous black dress conceals a hefty bosom that makes me think of two sacks of Tyne coal. It turns out The Mumbles is named after the French Mamelles – meaning breasts – although it takes its name from the shape of two small islands off Mumbles Head rather than from some distant ancestor of the lady I’ve just seen.

The long promenade sweeps along the side of Swansea bay to the pier and a lighthouse. The tide is still out. It seems miles to the sea, over nasty rocks that look like cinder. No beach. On the esplanade dozens of boats lie stranded, like befuddled whales that have run aground to their doom.

Dogs carry sticks and people carry ice-creams.

It’s evening now and I wonder why the tide seems to have been out everywhere we’ve been since morning.

On the inland side of the Mumbles there is a hotch-potch of closed-down pubs  and up-market bistros, next door to one another, an amusement hall and, next to it, tennis courts. The inevitable Fish and Chips. Nearer the pier  there’s an open-air Café called Verdi’s. It’s packed and doing a roaring trade in ice-creams. The waiters are very handsome but I’m not convinced they are Italian. A man sings “Just one Cornetto” and laughs loudly, but nobody else does.

Back to the car, through the centre of Swansea, and then home in less than an hour. Pimms and Lemonade in the garden before going to the pub for dinner.

Oratorio

Posted in Biographical, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , on July 16, 2009 by telescoper

T.D.1.jpg_copyBlogging about graduation ceremonies yesterday, I was reminded that a few years ago I had to deliver an oration on behalf of a very famous physicist who was awarded an honorary doctorate at the University of Nottingham. The recipient was TD Lee (shown left) who, together with CN Yang, won the Nobel Prize for Physics in 1957 for his work on parity violation. I thought you might find it interesting to  read the text of the oration, which I just found on my laptop this morning:

PROFESSOR TSUNG-DAO LEE

ORATION DELIVERED BY PROFESSOR PETER COLES

ON MONDAY 17 JULY 2006

Chancellor, Vice-Chancellor, Ladies and Gentlemen, it is both a pleasure and a privilege to present Professor Tsung-Dao Lee for the award of an honorary degree.  Professor Lee is a distinguished theoretical physicist whose work over many years has been characterized, in the words of Dr J Robert Oppenheimer, by “a remarkable freshness, versatility and style.”

Tsung-Dao Lee was born in Shanghai and educated at Suzhou University Middle School in Shanghai.  Fleeing the Japanese invasion, he left Shanghai in 1941.  His education was interrupted by war.  In 1945 he entered the National Southwest University in Kunming as a sophomore.  He was soon recognized as an outstanding young scientist and in 1946 was awarded a Chinese Government Scholarship enabling him to start a PhD in Physics under Professor Enrico Fermi at the University of Chicago.  He gained his doctorate in physics in 1950 with a thesis on the Hydrogen Content of White Dwarf Stars, and subsequently served as a research associate at the Yerkes Astronomical Observatory of the University of Chicago in Williams Bay, Wisconsin.

Astronomy is a science that concerns the very large, but it was in the physics of the very small that Professor Lee was to do his most famous work.  After one year as a research associate and lecturer at the University of California in Berkeley, he became a fellow of the Institute of Advanced Study in Princeton and, in 1953, he accepted an assistant professorship position at Columbia University in New York.  Two and a half years later, he became the youngest full professor in the history of Columbia University.  During this time he often collaborated with Chen Ning Yang whom he had known as a fellow student in Chicago.  In 1956 they co-authored a paper whose impact was both immediate and profound.  Only a year later, Lee and Yang were jointly awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics.  Professor Lee was thirty-one at the time and was the second youngest scientist ever to receive this distinction.  (The youngest was Sir Lawrence Bragg who shared the Physics Prize with his father in 1915, at the age of twenty-five.)

It is usually difficult to explain the ideas of theoretical physics to non-experts.  The mathematical language is inaccessible to those without specialist training.  But some of the greatest achievements in this field are so bold and so original that they appear, at least with hindsight, to be astonishingly simple.  The work of Lee and Yang on parity violation in elementary particle interactions is an outstanding example.

Subatomic particles interact with each other in very complicated ways.  In high energy collisions, particles can be scattered, destroyed or transformed into other particles.  But governing these changes are universal rules involving things that never change.  The existence of these conservation laws is a manifestation of the symmetries possessed by the mathematical theory of particle interactions.

Lee and Yang focussed on a particular attribute called parity, which relates to the “handedness” of a particle and symmetry with respect to mirror reflections.  Physicists had previously assumed that the laws of nature do not distinguish between left- and right-handed states: a left-handed object when seen in a mirror should be indistinguishable from a right-handed one.  This symmetry suggests that parity should be conserved in particle interactions, as it is in many other physical processes.  Unfortunately this chain of thought led to a puzzling deadlock in our understanding of the so-called weak nuclear interaction.  Lee and Yang made the revolutionary suggestion that parity is not conserved in weak interactions and consequently that the laws of nature must have a built-in handedness.  A year later their theory was tested experimentally and found to be correct.  Their penetrating insight led to a radical overhaul of the theory of weak interactions and to many further discoveries.  Physicists around the world said “Of course!  Why didn’t I think of that?”

This classic “Eureka moment” happened half a century ago, but Professor Lee has since made a host of equally distinguished contributions to fields as diverse as astrophysics, statistical mechanics, field theory and turbulence.  He was made Enrico Fermi Professor at Columbia in 1964 and University Professor there in 1984.  With typical energy and enthusiasm he took up the post of director of the RIKEN Research Center at Brookhaven National Laboratories in 1998.  He has played a prominent role in the advancement of science in China, including roles as director of physics institutes in Beijing and Zhejiang.

Professor Lee has received numerous awards and honours from around the world, including the Albert Einstein Award in Science, the Bude Medal, the Galileo Galilei Medal, the Order of Merit, Grande Ufficiale of Italy, the Science for Peace Prize, the China National-International Cooperation Award, the New York City Science Award, the Pope Joannes Paulis Medal, Il Ministero dell’Interno Medal of the Government of Italy and the New York Academy of Sciences Award.  His recognition even extends beyond this world, for in 1997 Small Planet 3443 was named in his honour.

Chancellor, Vice-Chancellor, to you and to the whole congregation I present Professor Tsung-Dao Lee as eminently worthy to receive the degree of Doctor of Science, honoris causa.

Graduandi Graduati

Posted in Biographical with tags , , , on July 15, 2009 by telescoper

Today was the day of the graduation ceremony for Cardiff  University‘s School of Physics & Astronomy, which took place in the fine surroundings of St David’s Hall. It’s a proud day for the students and their parents so, before anything else, let me offer my congratulations to all those who graduated today. Congratulations and well done to you all!

I put on my robes in the Green Room and was in the academic staff procession at the beginning and end of the ceremony. I also sat on stage during the conferment of degrees and the speech by the University’s President, Lord Kinnock. Some of the proceedings were conducted in Welsh – including the actual degree award – but it was comprehensible enough for all foreigners (even the English) to follow what was going on.

Graduation ceremonies are funny things. With all their costumes and weird traditions, they do seem a bit absurd. On the other hand, even in these modern times, we live with all kinds of  rituals and I don’t see why we shouldn’t celebrate academic achievement in this way.

Graduation is a grammatical phenomenon too. The word “graduation” is derived from the latin word gradus meaning a step, from which was eventually made the mediaeval latin verb graduare, meaning to take a degree. The past participle  of this is formed via the supine graduatus, hence the English noun “graduate” (i.e. one who has taken a degree). The word graduand, on the other hand, which is used before and during the ceremony to describe those about to graduate is from the  gerundive form graduandus meaning “to be graduated”. What really happens, therefore, is that students swap their gerundives for participles, although I suspect most participants don’t think of it in quite those terms…

The academic procession is quite colourful because staff wear the gown appropriate to their highest degree. Colours and styles vary greatly from one University to another even within the United Kingdom, and there are even more variations on show when schools contain staff who got their degrees abroad. Since I got my doctorate from the University of Sussex, which was created in the 1960s, the academic garb I have to wear on these occasions  is actually quite modern-looking. With its raised collar, red ribbons and capped shoulders it’s also more than a little bit camp. It often brings  a few comments when I’m in the procession, but I usually reply by saying I bought the outfit at Ann Summers.

Graduation of course isn’t just about education. It’s also a rite of passage on the way to adulthood and independence, so the presence of the parents at the ceremony adds another emotional dimension to the goings-on. Although everyone is rightly proud of the achievement – either their own in the case of the graduands or that of others in the case of the guests – there’s also a bit of sadness to go with the goodbyes. The new graduates were invited back to the School for a reception after this morning’s ceremony, along with parents and friends. That provided a more informal opportunity to say goodbye. Some, of course, are continuing their studies either at Cardiff or elsewhere so I’ll be seeing at least some of them again.

Although this was my first attendance at the Cardiff University graduation, I’ve been to  graduation ceremonies at several universities as a staff member. They differ in detail but largely follow the same basic format. Compared to others I’ve been at, the Cardiff version is very friendly and rather informal. For one thing, the Vice-Chancellor actually shakes hands with all the graduands as they cross the stage. At Nottingham University, for example, where I was before moving here, the V-C just sat there reading a book and occasionally nodded as they trooped across in front of him.

The venue for Cardiff’s graduation is also right in the city centre, so all day you can find students in their regalia wandering through the town (sometimes with their doting parents in tow). I like this a lot because it gives the University a much greater sense of belonging to the city than is the case when everything happens on a campus miles out of town.

The most remarkable thing  I noticed in the ceremony was not to do with Physics & Astronomy, but with Cardiff’s School of Psychology which is much larger and in which at least 90% of the graduates were female. In our School the proportions aren’t exactly reversed but are about 75% male to 25% female.

I’ve also been through two graduations on the other side of the fence, as it were. My first degree came from Cambridge so I had to participate in the even more archaic ceremony for that institution. The whole thing is done in Latin there (or was when I graduated) and involves each graduand holding a finger held out by their College’s Praelector and then kneeling down in front of the presiding dignitary, who is either the Vice-Chancellor ot the Chancellor. I can’t remember which. It’s also worth mentioning that although I did Natural Sciences (specialising in Theoretical Physics), the degree I got was Bachelor of Arts. Other than that, and the fact that the graduands walk to the Senate House from their College through the streets of Cambridge,  I don’t remember much about actual ceremony.

I was very nervous for my first graduation. The reason was that my parents had divorced some years before and my Mum had re-married. My Dad wouldn’t speak to her or her second husband. Immediately after the ceremony there was a garden party at my college, Magdalene, at which the two parts of my family occupied positions at opposite corners of the lawn and I scuttled between them trying to keep everyone happy. It was like that for the rest of the day and I have to say it was very stressful.

A few years later I got my doctorate (actually DPhil) from the University of Sussex. The ceremony in that case was in the Brighton Centre on the seafront. It was pretty much the same deal again with the warring factions, but I enjoyed the whole day a lot more that time. And I got the gown.

Why the Big Bang is Wrong…

Posted in Biographical, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , on July 7, 2009 by telescoper

I suspect that I’m not the only physicist who has a filing cabinet filled with unsolicited correspondence from people with wacky views on everything from UFOs to Dark Matter. Being a cosmologist, I probably get more of this stuff than those working in less speculative branches of physics. Because I’ve written a few things that appeared in the public domain (and even appeared on TV and radio a few times), I probably even get more than most cosmologists (except the really  famous ones of course).

I would estimate that I get two or three items of correspondence of this kind per week. Many “alternative” cosmologists have now discovered email, but there are still a lot who send their ideas through regular post. In fact, whenever I get a envelope with an address on it that has been typed by an old-fashioned typewriter it’s usually a dead giveaway that it’s going to be one of  those. Sometimes they are just letters (typed or handwritten), but sometimes they are complete manuscripts often with wonderfully batty illustrations. I have one in front of me now called Dark Matter, The Great Pyramid and the Theory of Crystal Healing. I might even go so far as to call that one bogus. I have an entire filing cabinet in my office at work filled with things like it. I could make a fortune if I set up a journal for these people. Alarmingly, electrical engineers figure prominently in my files. They seem particularly keen to explain why Einstein was wrong…

I never reply, of course. I don’t have time, for one thing.  I’m also doubtful whether there’s anything useful to be gained by trying to engage in a scientific argument with people whose grip on the basic concepts is so tenuous (as perhaps it is on reality). Even if they have some scientific training, their knowledge and understanding of physics is usually pretty poor.

I should explain that, whenever I can, if someone writes or emails with a genuine question about physics or astronomy – which often happens – I always reply. I think that’s a responsibility for anyone who gets taxpayers’ money. However, I don’t reply to letters that are confrontational or aggressive or which imply that modern science is some sort of conspiracy to conceal the real truth.

One particular correspondent started writing to me after the publication of my little book, Cosmology: A Very Short Introduction. I won’t gave his name, but he was an individual who had some scientific training (not an electrical engineer, I hasten to add). This chap sent a terse letter to me pointing out that the Big Bang theory was obviously completely wrong.  The reason was  obvious to anyone who understood thermodynamics. He had spent a lifetime designing high-quality refrigeration equipment  and therefore knew what he was talking about (or so he said).

His point was that, according to  the Big Bang theory, the Universe cools as it expands. Its current temperature is about 3 Kelvin (-270 Celsius or therabouts) but it is now expanding. Turning the clock back gives a Universe that was hotter when it was younger. He thought this was all wrong.

The argument is false, my correspondent asserted, because the Universe – by definition –  hasn’t got any surroundings and therefore isn’t expanding into anything. Since it isn’t pushing against anything it can’t do any work. The internal energy of the gas must therefore remain constant and since the internal energy of an ideal gas is only a function of its temperature, the expansion of the Universe must therefore be at a constant temperature (i.e. isothermal, rather than adiabatic, as in the Big Bang theory). He backed up his argument with bona fide experimental results on the free expansion of gases.

I didn’t reply and filed the letter away. Another came, and I did likewise. Increasingly overcome by some form of apoplexy his letters got ruder and ruder, eventually blaming me for the decline of the British education system and demanding that I be fired from my job. Finally, he wrote to the President of the Royal Society demanding that I be “struck off” – not that I’ve ever been “struck on” – and forbidden (on grounds of incompetence) ever to teach thermodynamics in a University.

Actually, I’ve never taught thermodynamics in any University anyway, but I’ve kept the letter (which was cc-ed to me) in case I am ever asked. It’s much better than a sick note….

This is a good example of a little knowledge being a dangerous thing. My correspondent clearly knew something about thermodynamics. But, obviously, I don’t agree with him that the Big Bang is wrong.

Although I never actually replied to this question myself, I thought it might be fun to turn this into a little competition, so here’s a challenge for you: provide the clearest and most succint explanation of why the temperature of the expanding Universe does fall with time, despite what my correspondent thought.

Answers via the comment box please, in language suitable for a nutter non-physicist.