The Rage to Know Horace Freeland Judson (1980) Para.1:Certain moments of the mind have a special quality of well-being.A mathematician friend of mine remarked the other day that his daughter,aged eight,had just stumbled without his teaching onto the fact that some numbers are prime numbers-those,like 11 or 19 or 83 or 1023,that cannot be divided by any other integer (except,trivially,by 1)."She called them 'unfair'numbers,"he said."And when I asked her why they were unfair,she told me,'Because there's no way to share them out evenly.""What delighted him most was not her charming turn of phrase nor her equitable turn of mind(seventeen peppermints to give to her friends?)but-as a mathematician-the knowledge that the child had experienced a moment of pure scientific perception.She had discovered for herself something of the way things are. Para.2:The satisfaction of such a moment at its most intense-and this is what ought to be meant, after all,by the tarnished phrase "the moment of truth"-is not easy to describe.It partakes at once of exhilaration and tranquility.It is luminously clear.It is beautiful.The clarity of the moment of discovery, the beauty of what in that moment is seen to be true about the world,is the fundamental attraction that draws scientists on. Para.3:Science is enormously disparate-easily the most varied and diverse of human pursuits.The scientific endeavor ranges from the study of animal behavior all the way to particle physics,and from the purest of mathematics back again to the most practical problems of shelter and hunger,sickness and war. Nobody has succeeded in catching all this in one net.And yet the conviction persists-scientists themselves believe,at heart-that behind the diversity lies a unity.In those luminous moments of discovery,in the various approaches and the painful tension require to arrive at them,and then in the community of science, organized worldwide to doubt and criticize,test and exploit discoveries-somewhere in that constellation, to begin with,there are surely constants.Deeper is the lure that in the bewildering variety of the world as it is there may be found some astonishing simplicities. Para.4:Philosophers,and some of the greatest among them,have offered descriptions of what they claim is the method of science.These make most scientists acutely uncomfortable.The descriptions don't seem to fit what goes on in the doing of science.They seem at once too abstract and too limited.Scientists don't believe that they think in ways that are wildly different from the way most people think at least in some areas of their lives."We'd be in real trouble-we could get nowhere-if ordinary methods of inference did not apply,"Philip Morrison said in a conversation a while ago.(Morrison is a theoretical physicist at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.)The wild difference,he went on to say,is that scientists apply these everyday methods to areas that most people never think about seriously and carefully. The philosophers'descriptions don't prepare one for either this ordinariness or this extreme diversity of the scientific enterprise-the variety of things to think about,the variety of obstacles and traps to understanding,the variety of approaches to solutions.They hardly acknowledge the fact that a scientist ought often to find himself stretching to the tiptoe of available technique and apparatus,out beyond the frontier of the art,attempting to do something whose difficulty is measured most significantly by the fact that it has never been done before.Science is carried on-this,too,is obvious-in the field,in the observatory,in the laboratory.But historians leave out the arts of the chef and the watchmaker,the development at the bench of a new procedure or a new instrument."And making it work,"Morrison said.The Rage to Know Horace Freeland Judson (1980) Para. 1: Certain moments of the mind have a special quality of well-being. A mathematician friend of mine remarked the other day that his daughter, aged eight, had just stumbled without his teaching onto the fact that some numbers are prime numbers—those, like 11 or 19 or 83 or 1023, that cannot be divided by any other integer (except, trivially, by 1). “She called them ‘unfair’ numbers,” he said. “And when I asked her why they were unfair, she told me, ‘Because there’s no way to share them out evenly.’” What delighted him most was not her charming turn of phrase nor her equitable turn of mind (seventeen peppermints to give to her friends?) but—as a mathematician—the knowledge that the child had experienced a moment of pure scientific perception. She had discovered for herself something of the way things are. Para. 2: The satisfaction of such a moment at its most intense—and this is what ought to be meant, after all, by the tarnished phrase “the moment of truth”—is not easy to describe. It partakes at once of exhilaration and tranquility. It is luminously clear. It is beautiful. The clarity of the moment of discovery, the beauty of what in that moment is seen to be true about the world, is the fundamental attraction that draws scientists on. Para. 3: Science is enormously disparate—easily the most varied and diverse of human pursuits. The scientific endeavor ranges from the study of animal behavior all the way to particle physics, and from the purest of mathematics back again to the most practical problems of shelter and hunger, sickness and war. Nobody has succeeded in catching all this in one net. And yet the conviction persists—scientists themselves believe, at heart—that behind the diversity lies a unity. In those luminous moments of discovery, in the various approaches and the painful tension require to arrive at them, and then in the community of science, organized worldwide to doubt and criticize, test and exploit discoveries—somewhere in that constellation, to begin with, there are surely constants. Deeper is the lure that in the bewildering variety of the world as it is there may be found some astonishing simplicities. Para. 4: Philosophers, and some of the greatest among them, have offered descriptions of what they claim is the method of science. These make most scientists acutely uncomfortable. The descriptions don’t seem to fit what goes on in the doing of science. They seem at once too abstract and too limited. Scientists don’t believe that they think in ways that are wildly different from the way most people think at least in some areas of their lives. “We’d be in real trouble—we could get nowhere—if ordinary methods of inference did not apply,” Philip Morrison said in a conversation a while ago. (Morrison is a theoretical physicist at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.) The wild difference, he went on to say, is that scientists apply these everyday methods to areas that most people never think about seriously and carefully. The philosophers’ descriptions don’t prepare one for either this ordinariness or this extreme diversity of the scientific enterprise—the variety of things to think about, the variety of obstacles and traps to understanding, the variety of approaches to solutions. They hardly acknowledge the fact that a scientist ought often to find himself stretching to the tiptoe of available technique and apparatus, out beyond the frontier of the art, attempting to do something whose difficulty is measured most significantly by the fact that it has never been done before. Science is carried on—this, too, is obvious—in the field, in the observatory, in the laboratory. But historians leave out the arts of the chef and the watchmaker, the development at the bench of a new procedure or a new instrument. “And making it work,” Morrison said