Stuart Clark (2) (1967–)

Clark’s book combines a basic survey of cosmology with, in its final chapters, introductions to some of the unsolved problems. Those final chapters give a pretty good rundown of how we got ourselves into difficulties for which very jarring and disruptive ideas, like dark matter and dark energy, appear as theoretical solutions. Clark’s emphasis, rightly I think, is on the problems or mysteries to which those ideas are purported answers rather than to the sensationalism of the ideas show more themselves. This is in keeping with his wary attitude toward mathematical or theoretical “discoveries” for which we, at least for now, lack observational evidence.

As science books go, this is a very quick read. That’s not to say that the topics discussed are simple. But the treatment is quick. Clark keeps everything at a conceptual level — you won’t find equations, or much mathematical talk of any complexity at all.

Within those constraints, I think he does well. He doesn’t go deeply into topics, but he does provide the basis from which someone, even a relative novice, could explore farther, armed with a big picture understanding.

Clark has a “great scientist” way of telling the story of cosmology. I don’t think he’s committed to a “great man” theory so much as to an appealing way to tell the story. He will go from scientist to scientist — James Bradley, Hippolyte Fizeau, Michael Faraday, James Clerk Maxwell, Albert A. Michelson, Albert Einstein, . . . — telling of each one’s part in the bigger story. The trick is to weave those people into a coherent, continuous story, and I think he does that pretty well.

One thing I have to say the book lacks is any illustrations or diagrams. For example, Clark provides an interesting discussion of various historical methods for measuring the speed of light, but I found myself sketching my own diagrams to gain clarity. His explanations are relatively clear, but a diagram would help a great deal. Michelson-Morley’s method is a good example, but also Fizeau’s spinning cogwheel method — something I wasn’t familiar with at all.

One theme that Clark pursues throughout the book is that of theoretical vs. observational physics (and astronomy). He identifies Arthur Eddington’s construction of a theory of how stars produce energy, in response to James Jeans’ position that answering the question was beyond the reach of observation. Instead, as Clark says, Eddington “reverse-engineered” a solution — he built a model of what we cannot observe to explain what we can observe.

Such an approach is not entirely new. You could cast Kant’s explanation of how the solar system formed — his “nebular hypothesis” (also described by Clark) — as a similar modeling of what is beyond observation. But I think Clark’s point may be that the approach is rampant in contemporary physics and cosmology. Physicists regularly theorize about such things as dark matter, and then go to look for them. Rather than following the path of old fashioned scientific method — observe and then theorize — physicists routinely reverse the order — theorize and then observe.

In fact, that approach has had some very significant successes. The recent detection of gravitational waves confirmed their long-thought theoretical existence. Black holes were discovered mathematically long before actually being observed.

And the relationship between theorizing and observing is, in reality, much more complex. Often observations produce surprising results — for example, recent observations of the rate of the universe’s expansion. Those observations defied expectations, providing evidence that the universe’s expansion is speeding up rather than slowing down, as had been thought due to straight-forward considerations of gravity. Then the theorizing begins — what could explain the surprising results? And the theorizing posits unobserved mechanisms, or forces, e.g., dark energy. And then, in turn, we have to ask what telltale observations would support the theory, and observation kicks back in.

But there is of course a danger of severing the tie between theorizing and observing, taking theoretical derivations, like dark energy or dark matter, to be bona fide discoveries of real phenomena regardless of the lack of any actual observations. And Clark warns of that tendency in contemporary cosmology.

I’ve gone into a little more depth than I might have. I don’t want to give the impression that this is a difficult, academic book. Clark is a clear writer, and readers of a pretty wide range of previous knowledge of cosmology will get a lot out of this book. show less

Galileo Galilei’s scrape with the Roman Catholic Church is well known.

His suggestion that the Earth spins on its axis and orbits around the Sun was an afront to scripture that got him branded as a heretic and almost burnt at the stake. How he first became aware of the full peril of his situation is less well known: on a rooftop in Rome, eavesdropping whilst taking a pee behind a bush.

Maybe that’s how it happened, maybe not – either way, the Earth won’t stop turning.

But it’s through show more these touches of imaginative license: sometimes humorous, sometimes tragic, on occasion disturbingly vivid, that Stuart Clark breathes life into the characters of his first novel, The Sky’s Dark Labyrinth.

The title comes from an episode in the book, where Galileo explains the hopelessness of trying to understand the universe without the correct language – mathematics; to do so is to “wander about lost in the dark labyrinth of the sky.” But don’t panic, it’s an equationless drama.

In this first part of a trilogy that reaches from the sixteenth to the twentieth century, we follow the lives of the astronomers Tycho Brahe (1546-1601), Johannes Kepler (1571-1630) and Galileo Galilei (1564-1642) as they challenge the religiously inspired orthodoxy of the times: an Earth-centered universe with the Sun and planets orbiting around in perfect circles – just as God intended.

Each astronomer has special skills and his own ideas about the cosmos:

Tycho, the meticulous naked-eye observer, happy for the Sun to orbit the Earth, yet convinced the other planets revolve around the Sun.

Galileo, arguably the father of evidence-based thinking, points his telescope skyward to see mountains on the moon, satellites around Jupiter, moon-like phases on Venus and Mercury, and spots on the Sun (Clark reminds us Galileo didn’t actually invent the telescope) – each observation a blow to the accepted model of the universe and Aristotle’s concept of a perfect heaven.

And Kepler, obsessed with geometry, turns a rigorous mathematical eye to his compatriots’ data to derive a model of eliptical planetary motion that, relativistic effects aside, is valid to this day.

On the journey, we share starry rooftop nights with Tycho and his armillary spheres and sextants; and with Galileo and his telescope. We encounter scientific concepts, painlessly embedded in the story, from stellar parallax to Kepler’s defining relationship for a planet’s distance and period round the Sun.

We meet the landmark publications that captured these ideas: Kepler’s discussion of perfect polygons Mysterium cosmographicum, his treatise on Mars: the Astronomia nova, and the Rudolphine Tables of star positions; Galileo’s telescope observations in Sidereus Nuncius and his more troublesome endorsement of Copernican ideas in Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems.

The whole is delivered through a pacey narrative that switches back and forth through time and space. One moment we’re in Rome, then Prague, then Florence, then Rome again. Thus Clark weaves his factually-based interplay of lives and ideas.

As in any drama, characters are developed in contexts that resonate with our personal experience: relationships, families, squabbles, births, marriages and deaths – as far as that’s possible 400 years on. Is that illusory? Can we ever really see from behind 16th century eyes? No, we can’t. But how else to share Kepler’s wonder as he steps out onto the observatory roof, or taste Tycho’s not-so-scientific bon vivre lifestyle and lordly pride, or feel Galileo’s chill dread as he anticipates what a rabid Inquisition has in store?

And that, in a nutshell, is Clark’s proposition.

It’s one where he’s shown due respect for the underlying history, reflected perhaps in a favouring of credible human vignettes over elaborate manufactured sub-plots. So, lots of expansion on the meetings, schemes, and conflicts that must have taken place but would never be recorded – scenes that can be directed and embellished to divert and entertain without compromising the main account.

In this regard, it’s a very different book to, say, Edward Rutherfurd’s London, where the main story lines are totally fictional. Clark’s work comes over as based on historical record and scientific fact. It’s important, as historians of science in particular can, understandably, take issue with inaccurate or controversial portrayals; I’m thinking of a recent defence of Nevil Maskelyne, the 18th century Astronomer Royal, demonised in the film version of Dava Sobel’s Longitude.

The Sky’s Dark Labyrinth begins in Rome, where a defiant Giordano Bruno, comfortable only with his conscience, waits in a cell to be burnt at the stake for heresy.

Johannes Kepler, an outcast Lutheran, arrives in Bohemian Prague to join the service of Tycho Brahe, and get a first sniff of the observational data he’ll one day build into a planetary model. He also hears about one Galileo Galilei of Padua, and the wonderful discoveries he’s made with his telescope (before long Kepler will have one of his own).

And all the time the Roman Catholic Church is watching, keeping tabs on these dangerous individuals, their troubling independence and inconvenient appeal to evidence. Kepler is spyed on – his mail intercepted. Galileo, at first encouraged by the Pope, is told in no uncertain terms to leave theological interpretation to the Church; but his thoughts are already committed to print. Thus the slippery slide to persecution, recantation, and repression is joined.

The plot moves between the bloody war-torn streets of Prague and the red robed intrigue of Vatican corridors. Current events in Reformation Europe are dominated by the struggle between an increasingly Jesuit-influenced Catholic Church and a rising tide of Lutherism. And our astronomers are in the thick of it.

Far from being godless atheists, they aim to explain God’s works – not undo them. Yet a Catholic Galileo and a Lutheran Kepler still each grapple to rationalise their ideas to themselves and to a world of dogmatic orthodoxy. A world where political, theological, and philosophical considerations hold sway over rationalism; where solidarity of belief and allegiance to the group is prized over individual will, conscience, or even physical proof; where mathematical descriptions are acceptable as professional tricks, but will never define truth; where witchcraft is a burning issue, and astronomy is inseparably tied up with the superstition of astrology.

Indeed, Kepler makes a good living drawing up horoscopes for wealthy patrons and courtly sponsors – a trade he revisits as the need arises (Clark actually credit’s him with a rather modern pragmatism on these issues).

Reformation Europe is also a great background for some of Clark’s more vivid visualisations, reminiscent of a Terry Gilliam movie in their medievalism. I love the “gobs of some thick unguent” Kepler spies clinging at the margins of Tycho’s prosthetic nose when they first meet, and the mood-setting ‘unpleasant tang of tallow’ in Kepler’s study.

Life is dirty, smelly, and not a little dangerous.

On the downside, I occasionally lose track in the switching interplay of events and locations, feeling the need to draw little timeline diagrams – lest I get totally lost in the labyrinth. And oblivious to any description or other literary signposting, I only ever thought of our heros as bearded old men. I’ll call it William Shakespeare syndrome- there just aren’t enough ‘before they were famous’ portraits out there.

But none of that detracted from The Sky’s Dark Labyrinth as a thoroughly entertaining and recommended read.

In capturing that essential excitement of the night sky, unchanged over the centuries, Clark has created a work accessible to all comers, and one that astronomers and history fans in particular will doubtless lap up.

I look forward to meeting Isaac Newton, Albert Einstein and Edwin Hubble in future installments.

Stuart Clark’s website is at stuartclark.com show less

A very nicely done survey of astronomy, physics, and cosmology, focusing largely on history and personalities, but with enough science that I'd probably have done better to read with my eyes and not my ears! As usual with the science books I choose to listen to while I walk my goofy dog, the narrator inevitably was explaining some complicated space-time-particle-curve thing at the moment my poor dog spotted a toddler (they're all really golden retriever devouring aliens, in disguise, doncha show more know?) and bolted in terror, dragging me in his wake, and causing me to lose track of quarks, light years, etc. Still, even allowing for the bits I got lost at, and the author really does present the “big picture” without cluttering things up with math and chemistry, so it truly is my dog's fault (or, possibly, mine) that I got lost at all, this is a very enjoyable look at theories of time, space, the origins and fate of the universe, and everything, from early days up to the present. show less

An astonishingly beautiful look into the things that are all around us and yet so far away: nebulae, stars, supernovas, planets, galaxies. Books like these really put us on perspective, and I think this one in particular should mandatory reading for whenever you feel a little too self-involved or woe-is-me. The photographs are full-page, and the book itself is massive (in terms of height and width) and spellbinding. Highly recommended for people of all ages.