Dava Sobel

Sobel has told a complex story very clearly, staying with the toplc closely and without straying into related events and issues - although she does include many fascinating snippets from history. It is focused on the central character of John Harrison and his achievement of inventing a chronometer that would determine longitude. Her admiration is clear. I pitied Harrison, who spent his life on the job yet parliamentarians were reluctant to award the £20,000 Longitude prize. Thanks to show more Sobel's writing ability, this short book is a wonderful story, skillfully told. show less

What a great book! Dava Sobel writes about the 9 planets (yes, Pluto is included - this was written in 2006 after all), plus the sun and the moon, in a way that is both lyrical and scientific. I learned a lot about the origins and compositions of the celestial bodies of our solar system while at the same time gaining an understanding about the absolutely bananas way scientists, astronomers, and explorers figured out what the heck was going on in our universe with super basic tools and show more knowledge. Sobel could have just written about these things like in a textbook, but instead she brings a creative non-fiction style that enabled me to just blaze through this; she explores the origins of Mercury through mythology, the composition of Venus through the poets who rhapsodized about her beauty, the understanding of Earth through cartography, the evolution of Mars as "told" by an actual Martian rock that fell to Earth, and the song of Saturn's rings through music. I love space and the beauty of the written word, and this book combines the best of both! show less

Dava Sobel’s A More Perfect Heaven has called attention to Copernicus’ historic scientific findings and the events leading to their publication. Unfortunately, her account is marred by inclusion of a "play" that obscures the relevant history while portraying events that never happened. In a monumental blunder, she has her fictional Rheticus engage in child abuse while her fictional Copernicus turns a blind eye to his malfeasance. Her misguided attempt to entertain her readers is an show more astonishing lapse of judgement that irreparably harms the book.

The play in question is not an afterthought, but the main rationale for the book. As Sobel reveals in the book’s introduction, she had written an 80 page play to dramatize how she imagined a key event in Copernicus’ life. The rest of this book was written as a vehicle for the play. While the blending of fact and fiction is controversial in its own right, Ms. Sobel’s attempt is clumsy, amateurish, and a gross libel on the names of two eminent scientists.

The centerpiece of Ms Sobel’s account is the historic collaboration between Copernicus and the young mathematician Georg Joachim Rheticus. The latter had heard of the unpublished work of the aging Copernicus, and in spring of 1539 traveled to Poland to become his student. Rheticus published a “First Account” of Copernicus’ theory in 1540, and over the next two years of studying with him, convinced him to publish his full account. Following Rheticus’ final departure, Copernicus arranged to have his book sent to Nuremberg to be printed under Rheticus’ supervision. The famous De Revolutionibus was published prior to Copernicus' death in 1543. According to legend, a copy was delivered to the dying Copernicus, who awoke from a coma, looked at his book, and expired.

Sobel presents a serviceable recounting of the major events, told with style. She excels at presenting the historical events in the context of the political and religious turmoil of 16th century Europe. As a resident of Lutheran Germany, Rheticus risked his freedom (if not his life) in traveling to Catholic Poland to work with the famed astronomer. Given the role that Rheticus played in assisting Copernicus to publish, the reader is forced to wonder whether Die Revolutionibus would have ever come to light without the young mathematician’s help.

As for the play, which occupies the central 1/3 of the book, it is an amateurish farce that simplifies, conflates, and ignores the very historical events Sobel took pains to recount elsewhere. In her imagined account, Rheticus is hardly a pupil -- rather, he guides a great scientist more than 40 years his senior in how to write his work and advises him on how to ensure it passes muster with the political authorities. In Scene xv, Rheticus is being forced to leave, and literally tries to wrestle the book away from Copernicus in order to take it to be published. At Copernicus’ resistance, he assents to taking a portion away – presumably this is to become the 1540 “First Account.” The scene ends with Copernicus suffering a stroke. The next scene, the final one, has Copernicus on his deathbed, comatose from his stroke, but reviving in time to receive a copy of his published book. The play misrepresents the events, because years must pass between these two scenes. During this time, Rheticus travels back to work with Copernicus for another two years, followed by his final departure. And so, three years are constricted into a few months, the successive publication of aspects of Copernicus' work is ignored, and events are invented wholesale for entertainment purposes.

And then there’s the unavoidable issue of character assassination. First, to spice things up, Sobel gives Copernicus a mistress. Second, over the course of scenes 9 through 15, Sobel has her fictional Rheticus engage in the pederastic seduction of a 14 year old houseboy named Franz. After episodes of embracing and bottom- fondling , the subplot culminates in the two being discovered in bed together, unclothed and kissing, by Copernicus himself. Little Franz scampers away in fear.

Rheticus: You’ve known all along, haven’t you?
Copernicus: I wasn’t sure.
R: But you suspected.
C: I prayed that my suspicions were unfounded.
R: Now you know the truth
C: Yes.
R: And you despise me
C: No Joachim. Neither do I judge you.
R: You needn’t pretend to understand.
C: But I can no longer protect you.
R: From myself?....
C: You’ve got to get out of here. Go now, before anything else happens.

What is there to say? Even for historical fiction this is far beyond the pale. The reader, if his critical facilities are not too numbed by disgust and outrage at the libel of Rheticus, will note that Sobel’s Copernicus (a canon in the Catholic church) adopts a 21st century tolerance of homosexuality, seeks to protect the perpetrator of child abuse, and gives no thought to the young victim. Historical anachronism is the least of her errors. To view her account as an ironic commentary on institutionalized pederasty of the contemporary church is certain to give the author far more credit than she deserves.

This is surely one of the most ill-conceived literary devices of our time. The so-called "play" contained in this work violates minimal standards of acceptability for a respectable work of history. It irreparably damages what could have been a serviceable historical account.

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Note: Many years later, following a mental breakdown, Rheticus was accused by a person of having had carnal relations with a 17-18 year old male. A male of that age was considered to be a man. Whether or not Rheticus was involved in the alleged, consensual activity is not known and never will be. The claim should have no bearing on the libelous, fictional episode of child abuse invented by the author. show less

I can understand why Dava Sobel's "Longitude" was an absolute commercial smash: it made the stakes involved in finding an accurate way of measuring longitude clear to the reader and then, in language that might suit a thriller, set about describing the race to come up with a reliable solution to this problem. "Galileo's Daughter" is, in many ways, a more difficult proposition. It's longer, slower, and features the complete text of the letters that Suor Maria Celeste, Galileo's favorite show more daughter, wrote to him. While "Galileo's Daughter" is still a work of popular fiction — most of this won't be news to readers deeply invested in Renaissance history or the history of science — this one can sometimes be a struggle to read.

Which isn't to say that it doesn't have its charms. As a person who, shamefully enough, knew Galileo as the guy proved that a feather doesn't fall faster than a ball of lead and who insisted, after being convicted by the Catholic Church, that it yet moved, Sobel does a good job of explaining to readers exactly why Galileo's methods and ideas were so revolutionary. This is especially since he certainly wasn't the first to propose that the Sun, and not the Earth, was the center of our solar system, an idea that thinkers from Pythagoras to Aristarchus to Copernicus had, each in their own time, advocated for. The author makes it clear that in a age in which Aristotle's opinions trumped empirical observation both for the Catholic Church and for many scientists, Galileo's insistence on the paramount importance of observational and experimental science seems truly revolutionary. I came away from this book understanding exactly why Galileo's name is synonymous with scientific brilliance.

Of course, there are probably lots of books out there that will describe Galileo's place in the history of science to their readers. The real attraction of "Galileo's Daughter" — and the aspect of it that I enjoyed the most — was its meticulous description of life in seventeenth century Italy. Sobel's narrative encompasses numerous aspects of the Italy of Galileo's time, from its patronage system to its byzantine papal intrigues to its medical and agricultural practices to the complexity of family life during this period. Sobel, in other words, does a good job of describing the texture of this particular place at this particular time. Even if you aren't particularly interested in science — and, honestly, I prefer other subjects myself — this book's varied perspectives make it worth a read.

The real heart of this book, though, is the great man's relationship with his favorite daughter whose letters paint of a picture of a woman with a sharp mind who, despite living a highly restricted life as a cloistered nun took initiative and expressed her opinions where and when she could. Her letters will likely strike modern readers as too flowery, too self-abnegating, and too excessively deferential, but Suor Maria Celeste's love for her father — and for the God and the religious tradition to which she devoted her life— cannot be denied. Readers will also likely be appalled at the living conditions in the convent in which Maria Celeste lived. The food that the "Poor Clares" ate barely sustained them, their living conditions were wretched, and they worked, prayed, and observed their religious practice with such intensity that they hardly had a moment to themselves. Today, it would be easy to compare this sort of lifestyle to that of a cult. But Maria Celeste's love for her fellow sisters, for her God, and for her father shines through: she seems, during her life, to have achieved a sort of hard-won grace. This can also be seen in the many favors she did for her father and in the gifts that she gave him, from mending an sewing clothes and sheets to sending him his favorite foods. Galileo was, if you hadn't heard, very fond of candied fruits. In her letters, she constantly worries about his health and counsels him to take care of himself. While we do not have Galileo's half of this correspondence, their mutual affection is obvious. And this, in its way, is important. Even history's giants have personal lives, and "Galileo's Daughter" is, in a sense a portrait of the sort of emotionally sustaining relationship that everyone, even geniuses, need to make it through life. This one is perhaps too long and is far from an easy read, but it's recommended to those readers with a special interest in the more personal and cultural aspects of history. show less