My copy of Neal Stephenson's Confusion, the new, enormous sequel to Quicksilver, arrived in the mail yesterday before I left for Turin, and it's in my suitcase, waiting for me. Quicksilver was a remarkable book, a triumphant combination of Stephenson's trivia-obsessed, research-intensive approach to the precursors of the information age (viz. Snow Crash's Nam-Shub of Enki and Cryptonomicon's Bletchley Park sequences) and his gift for sprawling, braided stoorylines that combine slapstick action scenes with intense, emotional passages.
Salon's running a double feature on Stephenson today: a long interview with Neal, and a review by Andrew Leonard. Both are highly recommended — I can't wait to sink my teeth into this book.
Science was new and they didn't know how to do it yet. Science was and is a somewhat contentious thing. Someone's got a theory and they promulgate that theory and then something else comes along and alters, improves on or even flatly contradicts it. Now that we've got 350 years of perspective on this, scientists understand that this is how it's done and there's a mechanism in place for how to do it. It's refereed journals and it's become institutionalized. They didn't have that perspective on it. They couldn't stand back and say, Well, my theory may get contradicted here and there, but this guy who's contradicting it will get contradicted in turn. They didn't have that expectation. They didn't have journals. The first two journals were the Journale de Savants, which was about 1665, and the Proceedings of the Royal Society, which was right about the same time. Leibniz had to found his own journal in order to publish his own work. They were kind of banging around in the dark trying to figure out how to do this.
Hooke, for example, when he figured out how arches work, published it as an anagram. He condensed the idea into this pithy statement: "The ideal form of an arch is the form of a chain hanging, flipped upside down." Then he scrambled the letters to make an anagram and published it. That way, he wasn't giving away the secret, but if somebody came along a few years later and claimed that they'd invented it, he could just unscramble what he'd published. He was establishing precedence.
Hooke squabbled with [Christiaan] Huygens over a bunch of clock-related inventions. This kind of thing was just rife. It came to a head in a grotesque way in the priority dispute over [who invented] the calculus. That was so embarrassing to the whole institution of science and people were so nauseated by it that it taught everyone a lesson. After that, no one would dream of doing what Newton did, which was to invent something really important and then sit on it for 30 years.
