The iDeal Reader Jacob Bronowski,"The ©The McGraw-Hil Nature of Scientific Companies,2000 Reasoning" and what he took from the ancients was not their theory but something richer, their image:the atom.Much of what was in Dalton's mind was as vague as the Greek notion,and quite as mistaken.But he suddenly gave life to the new facts of chem- istry and the ancient theory together,by fusing them to give what neither had:a coherent picture of how matter is linked and built up from different kinds of atoms. The act of fusion is the creative act. All science is the search for unity in hidden likenesses.The search may be on a 8 grand scale,as in the modern theories which try to link the fields of gravitation and electromagnetism.But we do not need to be browbeaten by the scale of science.There are discoveries to be made by snatching a small likeness from the air too,if it is bold enough.In 1935 the Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa wrote a paper which can still give heart to a young scientist.He took as his starting point the known fact that waves of light can sometimes behave as if they were separate pellets.From this he reasoned that the forces which hold the nucleus of an atom together might sometimes also be observed as if they were solid pellets.A schoolboy can see how thin Yukawa's analogy is,and his teacher would be severe with it.Yet Yukawa without a blush calculated the mass of the pellet he expected to see,and waited.He was right;his meson was found, and a range of other mesons,neither the existence nor the nature of which had been suspected before.The likeness had borne fruit. The scientist looks for order in the appearances of nature by exploring such like-9 nesses.For order does not display itself of itself;if it can be said to be there at all,it is not there for the mere looking.There is no way of pointing a finger or camera at it;order must be discovered and,in a deep sense,it must be created.What we see, as we see it,is mere disorder. This point has been put trenchantly in a fable by Karl Popper.Suppose that 10 someone wishes to give his whole life to science.Suppose that he therefore sat down, pencil in hand,and for the next twenty,thirty,forty years recorded in notebook after notebook everything that he could observe.He may be supposed to leave out noth- ing:today's humidity,the racing results,the level of cosmic radiation and the stock- market prices and the look of Mars,all would be there.He would have compiled the most careful record of nature that has ever been made;and,dying in the calm certainty of a life well spent,he would of course leave his notebooks to the Royal Society.Would the Royal Society thank him for the treasure of a lifetime of obser- vation?It would not.The Royal Society would treat his notebooks exactly as the English bishops have treated Joanna Southcott's box.It would refuse to open them at all,because it would know without looking that the notebooks contain only a jum- ble of disorderly and meaningless items. Science finds order and meaning in our experience,and sets about this in quite 11 a different way.It sets about it as Newton did in the story which he himself told in his old age,and of which the schoolbooks give only a caricature.In the year 1665, when Newton was 22,the plague broke out in southern England,and the University of Cambridge was closed.Newton therefore spent the next 18 months at home, removed from traditional learning,at a time when he was impatient for knowledge and,in his own phrase,"I was in the prime of my age for invention."In this eager, boyish mood,sitting one day in the garden of his widowed mother,he saw an appleThe iDeal Reader Jacob Bronowski, ‘‘The Nature of Scientific Reasoning’’ © The McGraw−Hill Companies, 2000 and what he took from the ancients was not their theory but something richer, their image: the atom. Much of what was in Dalton’s mind was as vague as the Greek notion, and quite as mistaken. But he suddenly gave life to the new facts of chem￾istry and the ancient theory together, by fusing them to give what neither had: a coherent picture of how matter is linked and built up from different kinds of atoms. The act of fusion is the creative act. All science is the search for unity in hidden likenesses. The search may be on a grand scale, as in the modern theories which try to link the fields of gravitation and electromagnetism. But we do not need to be browbeaten by the scale of science. There are discoveries to be made by snatching a small likeness from the air too, if it is bold enough. In 1935 the Japanese physicist Hideki Yukawa wrote a paper which can still give heart to a young scientist. He took as his starting point the known fact that waves of light can sometimes behave as if they were separate pellets. From this he reasoned that the forces which hold the nucleus of an atom together might sometimes also be observed as if they were solid pellets. A schoolboy can see how thin Yukawa’s analogy is, and his teacher would be severe with it. Yet Yukawa without a blush calculated the mass of the pellet he expected to see, and waited. He was right; his meson was found, and a range of other mesons, neither the existence nor the nature of which had been suspected before. The likeness had borne fruit. The scientist looks for order in the appearances of nature by exploring such like￾nesses. For order does not display itself of itself; if it can be said to be there at all, it is not there for the mere looking. There is no way of pointing a finger or camera at it; order must be discovered and, in a deep sense, it must be created. What we see, as we see it, is mere disorder. This point has been put trenchantly in a fable by Karl Popper. Suppose that someone wishes to give his whole life to science. Suppose that he therefore sat down, pencil in hand, and for the next twenty, thirty, forty years recorded in notebook after notebook everything that he could observe. He may be supposed to leave out noth￾ing: today’s humidity, the racing results, the level of cosmic radiation and the stock￾market prices and the look of Mars, all would be there. He would have compiled the most careful record of nature that has ever been made; and, dying in the calm certainty of a life well spent, he would of course leave his notebooks to the Royal Society. Would the Royal Society thank him for the treasure of a lifetime of obser￾vation? It would not. The Royal Society would treat his notebooks exactly as the English bishops have treated Joanna Southcott’s box. It would refuse to open them at all, because it would know without looking that the notebooks contain only a jum￾ble of disorderly and meaningless items. Science finds order and meaning in our experience, and sets about this in quite a different way. It sets about it as Newton did in the story which he himself told in his old age, and of which the schoolbooks give only a caricature. In the year 1665, when Newton was 22, the plague broke out in southern England, and the University of Cambridge was closed. Newton therefore spent the next 18 months at home, removed from traditional learning, at a time when he was impatient for knowledge and, in his own phrase, “I was in the prime of my age for invention.” In this eager, boyish mood, sitting one day in the garden of his widowed mother, he saw an apple 8 9 10 11