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| Surely You're Joking, Mr. Collins |
| 05.11.04 (8:37 am) [edit] |
Sometimes an observation, a thought or a theory can literally change the world. Some idea can change how you look at things, and when that happens the world is entirely different than before. Richard Feynman was a master at changing the world in just such a way.
Richard Feynman was a theoretical physicist. He won a Nobel prize for his work on "Feynman Diagrams", but it is generally conceded that he could have won several more Nobels, as he made many other important contributions in various areas of physics. He was briefly famous among the general public for his role in the investigation of the disaster of the space shuttle Challenger. When people were wondering where the modern day Einstein was, many in the physics community would have pointed to Feynman.
It can seem at times that the gap between a Feynman or an Einstein and the rest of us is huge. Sometimes it doesn't even seem like a gap, but rather that the genius among us is of another species. Some sort of space alien dropped among us, with superhuman powers of observation and a thought process that seems to come straight from God himself. Leave it to Feynman to shatter this worldview and create a new one.
I found this insight in an interesting book, Feynman's Rainbow, by Leonard Mlodinow. The book describes a time in Mlodinow's life when he was searching his way in the field of theoretical physics, and lands in an office just a few doors down from Feynman. Being professionally lost, Mlodinow seeks out Feynman, and many others, to try and get some idea of where to go next and how to survive in the rarified air of the field of theoretical physics.
One day he and Feynman are talking and Mlodinow expresses admiration for what he sees as the superhuman thought processes of an Einstein -- or a Feynman. But Feynman will have none of it. "I don't see that what we do is so different from other people," Feynman begins. "We just look at nature and try to extract the patterns that are there." He goes on to describe how anyone might figure out where Aunt Minnie might be if she is not home by knowing something about her schedule and habits. "Same thing," Feynman concluded.
As Feynman himself entitled his autobiography, you might be tempted to say, "Surely you're joking, Mr. Feynman." Mlodinow says almost as much in the conversation, continuing to insist that there must be a gulf between ordinary people and Feynman. But again, Feynman would have none of it. The only difference he could come up with was that he had the luxury (and let's be honest, the tenacity) to think about the same problem over and over again. Thinking about one problem for days, weeks or even years was all he did, according to Feynman. "It's really a form of insanity," Feynman concluded in a flourish of typical self-deprecation. And at that moment the light went on.
Feynman had re-write disease. If something bothered him, he just couldn't leave it alone. Suddenly I saw Einstein, thinking over and over and over again about what would happen if his bike could travel at the speed of light. Like a dog gnawing on a bone, turning the problem over and over again, gnawing and chewing until finally it cracked. Feynman had done it: seeing a universal law that connected Einstein to the likes of me. We were all human after all. As usual, Mr. Feynman was not joking at all.
Now, don't get me wrong, I realize I am no Einstein. While Einstein and Feynman were working on the fundamental principles of the universe, I am working on how to apologize to my friend, why baseball is so darn interesting and how to make better spaghetti sauce. However, it is very comforting to think that my mind works according to the same fundamental principles as Einstein's. You, me, Einstein and Feynman, using facts and evidence, turning it over and over to explain and possibly improve our world. Dogs gnawing on a big ole bone.
So where does Billy Collins come into all of this? He is not a physicist, but a poet. Poets and physicists are supposed to be polar opposites in the academic world, but lately their worlds have eerily overlapped. That is not the connection, though. In the same way that Feynman made me feel, for just a moment, that anyone could be the next Einstein, Collins makes me feel that anyone can be a poet.
Now, I am no expert in poetry. I know nothing about it and almost never read it. Most poetry just makes me feel stupid, because I know the author must be trying to say something, but I have no earthly idea of what it might be. Most poetry bounces off my eyeballs as if it were written in ancient Greek. My bad (as they now say) I am sure, but still there is no communication happening. Then I picked up Billy Collins.
Now, Billy Collins might be a terrible poet. But he is published and he is the Poet Laureate of the United States. Hopefully it was Laura that had more to do with selecting him, rather than George. Anyway, someone thinks his writings are valuable and that they are in fact poetry. Reading Mr. Collins's work I had a startling revelation. Poems are just words. Whoa! Whoda thunk it? Poetry just words -- what a concept! Collins uses words to paint pictures, describe scenes and feelings. His images are earthy and of common experiences. Just words. But those words are beautiful, concise and at times achingly perfect. Words that were chosen, discarded, moved, erased, trashed, rearranged, buffed and shined, and then gently lowered into place. Sort of like a dog gnawing on a bone.
So you could be a poet. Or a physicist. Or damn near anything you want, if you just keep gnawing.
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