The gospel according to Tolkien

Markus Davidsen, a Ph.D. candidate in Religious Studies at Leiden University in the Netherlands, thought he'd write his dissertation about people who believe that the Jedi religion, made famous by Star Wars, is real.  But after he began his research, he seems to have decided that that was just too silly a topic to research, so he changed his mind.

And decided to research people who believe that the religious schema from J. R. R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings is real, instead.

Yes, we're talking Elves, and the whole Valar and Maiar thing from The Silmarillion.  And that there have been a series of massive cataclysms, including the one caused by Fëanor forging the Silmarils (a battle which "reshaped Middle-Earth"), and one that sank the continent of Númenor, not to mention the more famous Battle of Five Armies (from The Hobbit) and Battle of the Pelennor Fields (from The Return of the King).  All of which, mysteriously, have left no archaeological traces whatsoever.

But that's not all.  Many of these people think that they are Elves.  Or descended from the Valar.  And there are enough such folks that Davidsen was inundated with requests to participate in his research.  When asked how he found Latter-Day Elves, Davidsen responded, "Actually, they found me.  My graduation thesis on Jedis won a prize and that generated lots of publicity in Mare [the official newspaper of Leiden University] too.  As a result, those people got in touch with me: one group of Tolkien followers would put me in touch with another and it snowballed from there. The groups turned out to be quite diverse too, so I could compare them to each other."

[Image licensed through the Creative Commons Giorgio Minguzzi from Italy, Elf, Tolkien (5503256855), CC BY-SA 2.0]

Allow me to emphasize; these were not some folks playing role-playing games, a sort of Middle-Earth version of the Society for Creative Anachronism.  These people are serious.

And of course, what would a religion be without schisms and squabbling?  "There are those who swear that they themselves are descended from Elves and accordingly have Elvish genes," Davidsen says.  "That’s some claim, and taking it too far for the people who only claim to have Elvish souls and who dissociate themselves from that group."

Others, Davidsen says, go right to the top, worship-wise.  "Yet another group say they not remotely related to Elves, but that there is another world in which the Valar exist," he said.  "They use rituals to try and contact the Valar.  Some draw a circle on the ground, spiritually cleanse it and then evoke the Valar while others go on a kind of shamanic journey with their spirits travelling to another world."

Right.  Okay.  Because it's not like Tolkien made the whole thing up, or anything.

Davidsen, fortunately, agrees.  On the other hand, he says, "This kind of religion isn’t any dafter than other faiths, we’re just used to that particular madness.  We think it’s normal for Catholics to consume the flesh and blood of their God, but when the modern vampire movement says they draw powers from blood, we think they’re loonies.  It’s not really fair.  Buddhism dictates that some people have a Buddha nature, which is not essentially different from the Tolkien-esque idea of having an Elvish nature."

Which is spot-on, even if predictably I think it's all a lot of lunacy.  I tend to agree with Stephen F. Roberts, who said the following to a devout Christian: "I contend we are both atheists.  I just believe in one fewer god than you do.  When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why I dismiss yours."

Now, understand, as religions go, Tolkienism (or whatever it's called) at least has one selling point; it's got a beautiful narrative.  If I was forced to choose a fictional world to live in, Middle-Earth would come near the top.  It's got a grandeur, a breadth of scope, like no other fantasy world I've ever read about, and (best of all) the good guys win.

Which is more than you can say for the world of, say, the Lovecraftian mythos.  There, you do everything you can to worship Yog-Sothoth, or whoever, and for your devotion you get your arms ripped off and your face melted.  That's one fictional religion I'm glad isn't real.

**********************************

Have any scientifically-minded friends who like to cook?  Or maybe, you've wondered why some recipes are so flexible, and others have to be followed to the letter?

Do I have the book for you.

In Science and Cooking: Physics Meets Food, from Homemade to Haute Cuisine, by Michael Brenner, Pia Sörensen, and David Weitz, you find out why recipes work the way they do -- and not only how altering them (such as using oil versus margarine versus butter in cookies) will affect the outcome, but what's going on that makes it happen that way.

Along the way, you get to read interviews with today's top chefs, and to find out some of their favorite recipes for you to try out in your own kitchen.  Full-color (and mouth-watering) illustrations are an added filigree, but the text by itself makes this book a must-have for anyone who enjoys cooking -- and wants to learn more about why it works the way it does.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

The swing of a pendulum

 Physicists have a serious problem.

Back in the mid-1970s, astrophysicist Vera Rubin made an interesting discovery.  She had initially been interested in quasars, but moved away from that because the subject was "too controversial" -- and landed herself in the midst of one of the biggest scientific controversies to hit the field since the discovery of the quantum nature of reality back in the 1920s and 1930s.

She was looking at the rotation rates of galaxies, and found something curious; based on what was known about gravitational interactions between massive objects, the outer fringes of every galaxy she studied were moving at the "wrong" velocity.  The outermost stars were moving far faster than the model predicted, suggesting there was some unseen mass increasing the gravitational field and whirling the edges of the galaxy around faster than the visible matter could have.

And it wasn't by a small margin, either.  Rubin's calculations suggested that there was five times the unseen stuff as there was all of the visible matter in the galaxy put together.  This was way too much to be accounted for by something like diffuse dust clouds or other agglomerations of non-luminous, but completely ordinary, matter.  Rubin nicknamed the invisible stuff dark matter, more or less as a placeholder name until the physicists could figure out what the stuff was, something most researchers figured would be accomplished in short order.

Almost fifty years later, we still are hardly any further along.  Better measurements have confirmed that there is way more dark matter than ordinary matter; Rubin's estimate was spot-on, and current data indicates that 27% of the universe's total mass is dark matter, as compared to only 5% ordinary matter.  (The other 68% is an even more mysterious thing called dark energy, about which the astrophysicists are even more completely, um, in the dark.)

Every attempt to figure out the nature of dark matter -- or even to detect it by anything else but its gravitational effects on the galactic scale -- has resulted in failure.  The leading candidate, called weakly interacting massive particles (WIMPs), has been the subject of repeated detection attempts, and every single one of them has generated "null results."

Which is science-speak for "bupkis."

At some point, you have to wonder if the scientists are going to give the whole thing up as a bad job.  The problem is, if that happens you have 95% of the universe made of stuff we can't account for, which isn't a state of affairs anyone is happy with.

So a team at the National Institute of Standards and Technology is giving dark matter one more chance to show itself, using the only way in which we're certain it interacts with ordinary matter -- gravity.

The trouble is, gravity is a really weak force.  It's only a big player in our lives because we live on a massive chunk of rock, big enough to have a significant gravitational field.  Of the four fundamental forces -- gravity, electromagnetism, and the weak and strong nuclear forces -- gravity is weaker than the next in line (electromagnetism) by a factor of 10 to the 36th power.

So gravity is 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 times weaker than the electromagnetic force that holds molecules together, generates static electricity, and toasts your bread in the morning.

How on earth could you detect something that small, when even a trace of a stray electrical field could overwhelm it by many orders of magnitude?  The NIST scientists think they have the answer: an array of over a billion tiny, incredibly sensitive pendulums, each only a millimeter long, shielded and then cooled to near absolute zero to minimize interference from other forces.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Ben Ostrowsky, Foucault's Pendulum, CC BY 2.0]

There are four possibilities of what could happen to the array:

• Nothing.  Then we're back to the drawing board.
• Motion of one or two pendulums only.  This is probably due to interaction with an ordinary matter particle, which would hit a pendulum and stick, causing it to swing but leaving the ones around it unaffected.
• Chaotic or random movement in a number of the pendulums.  This "noise" would most likely be caused by a fluctuation in an electric field -- i.e. the array wasn't well enough shielded.
• A coordinated "ripple" passing through the detector, setting more or less a straight line of the pendulums swinging.  This, the researchers say, would be the signal of a dark matter particle zooming through the array, and its gravitational ripple streaking across in a specific direction.

Of course, even if the best possible outcome -- option #4 -- occurs, it still doesn't tell us what dark matter is.  After all, Vera Rubin's research in the 1970s showed that it interacts gravitationally with ordinary matter (i.e., we already knew that).  But at least we'll have a demonstration that it exists, that we're not looking at something like the nineteenth century's luminiferous aether, the mysterious substance that supposedly was the medium through which light waves propagated, and was shown not to exist by the Michelson-Morley interferometer experiment (and the nature of light propagation ultimately explained by Einstein and others, decades later).

So I'll be eagerly awaiting the outcome.  Right now, the array is still in development, so it will be a while before we can expect results.  But if it generates positive results, it'll be the first conclusive demonstration that we're talking about something detectable right here on Earth, not just by its effects on distant galaxies.

Of course, that still leaves us with the other 68% unknown stuff to explain.

**********************************

Have any scientifically-minded friends who like to cook?  Or maybe, you've wondered why some recipes are so flexible, and others have to be followed to the letter?

Do I have the book for you.

In Science and Cooking: Physics Meets Food, from Homemade to Haute Cuisine, by Michael Brenner, Pia Sörensen, and David Weitz, you find out why recipes work the way they do -- and not only how altering them (such as using oil versus margarine versus butter in cookies) will affect the outcome, but what's going on that makes it happen that way.

Along the way, you get to read interviews with today's top chefs, and to find out some of their favorite recipes for you to try out in your own kitchen.  Full-color (and mouth-watering) illustrations are an added filigree, but the text by itself makes this book a must-have for anyone who enjoys cooking -- and wants to learn more about why it works the way it does.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Knots, twists, and meaning

One of the most curious relics of the past, and one which is a persistent mystery, is the quipu (also spelled khipu) of Andean South America.

A quipu is a linked series of knotted, dyed cotton strings, and were apparently some kind of meaningful device -- but what their meaning was is uncertain, thanks to the thoroughness and determination of Spanish priests in the sixteenth century to destroy whatever they could of the "pagan" Inca culture.  The result is, there are only 751 of them left, which is a pretty small sample if you're interested in decipherment.

An Incan quipu in the Larco Museum, Lima, Peru [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Claus Ableiter nur hochgeladen aus enWiki, Inca Quipu, CC BY-SA 3.0]

A number of attempts have been made to understand what the patterns of knots meant, but none of them have really panned out.  Some of the possibilities are that they were devices for enumeration, perhaps something like an abacus; a literary device for recording history, stories, or genealogies; or census data.

In fact, the jury's still out on whether they encode linguistic information at all.  An anthropologist named Sabine Hyland has suggested that they do; the color, position of knots, and even the ply of the string combine in 95 different ways to represent a syllabic writing system, she says, and claims that they were intricate family records.  If she's right, the burning of the Incan quipus represents a horrific eradication of the entire cultural history of a people -- something the invading Europeans were pretty good at.

The reason the topic comes up is because of a paper that came out last week in Nature Communications that has a striking parallel to the quipu.  The paper, titled "Optical Framed Knots as Information Carriers," by Hugo Larocque, Alessio d'Errico, Manuel Ferrer-Garcia, and Ebrahim Karimi (of the University of Ottawa), Avishy Carmi (of Ben-Gurion University), and Eliahu Cohen (of Bar Ilan University), describes a way of creating knots in laser light that could be used to encode information.  The authors write:

Modern beam shaping techniques have enabled the generation of optical fields displaying a wealth of structural features, which include three-dimensional topologies such as Möbius, ribbon strips and knots.  However, unlike simpler types of structured light, the topological properties of these optical fields have hitherto remained more of a fundamental curiosity as opposed to a feature that can be applied in modern technologies.  Due to their robustness against external perturbations, topological invariants in physical systems are increasingly being considered as a means to encode information.  Hence, structured light with topological properties could potentially be used for such purposes.  Here, we introduce the experimental realization of structures known as framed knots within optical polarization fields.  We further develop a protocol in which the topological properties of framed knots are used in conjunction with prime factorization to encode information.

"The structural features of these objects can be used to specify quantum information processing programs," said study lead author Hugo Larocque, in an interview in Science Daily.  "In a situation where this program would want to be kept secret while disseminating it between various parties, one would need a means of encrypting this 'braid' and later deciphering it.  Our work addresses this issue by proposing to use our optical framed knot as an encryption object for these programs which can later be recovered by the braid extraction method that we also introduced.  For the first time, these complicated 3D structures have been exploited to develop new methods for the distribution of secret cryptographic keys.  Moreover, there is a wide and strong interest in exploiting topological concepts in quantum computation, communication and dissipation-free electronics.  Knots are described by specific topological properties too, which were not considered so far for cryptographic protocols."

A few of the research team's knotted beams of light

I have to admit that even given my B.S. in physics, most of the technical details in this paper went over my head so fast they didn't even ruffle my hair.  And I know that any similarity between optical framed knots and the knots on quipus is superficial at best, but even so, the parallel jumped out at me immediately.  Just as the Incas (probably) used color, knot position and shape, and ply of the string to encode information, these scientists have figured out how to encode information using intensity, phase, wavelength, polarization, and topological form to do the same thing.

Which is pretty amazing.  I know the phrase "reinventing the wheel" is supposed to be a bad thing, but here we have two groups independently (at least, as far as I know) coming up with analogous solutions for the same problem -- how to render information without recourse to ordinary symbology and typography.

Leaving me awestruck, as always, by the inventiveness and creativity of the human mind.

**********************************

Have any scientifically-minded friends who like to cook?  Or maybe, you've wondered why some recipes are so flexible, and others have to be followed to the letter?

Do I have the book for you.

In Science and Cooking: Physics Meets Food, from Homemade to Haute Cuisine, by Michael Brenner, Pia Sörensen, and David Weitz, you find out why recipes work the way they do -- and not only how altering them (such as using oil versus margarine versus butter in cookies) will affect the outcome, but what's going on that makes it happen that way.

Along the way, you get to read interviews with today's top chefs, and to find out some of their favorite recipes for you to try out in your own kitchen.  Full-color (and mouth-watering) illustrations are an added filigree, but the text by itself makes this book a must-have for anyone who enjoys cooking -- and wants to learn more about why it works the way it does.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

After the collapse

When you start looking into black holes, there's a lot to be fascinated by.

As you probably know, a black hole is one type of collapsed star.  The ultimate fate of a star depends on its initial mass.  When the collapse begins at the end of a star's life, it continues until it meets a force strong enough to counteract the gravitational pull of its mass.  In low-mass stars like the Sun, that oppositional force is the mutual repulsion of the negatively-charged electrons in its constituent atoms.  This leaves a dense, white-hot blob called a white dwarf, slowly radiating its heat away and cooling.  More massive stars -- between ten and twenty-five solar masses -- have such a high gravitational pull that once they start collapsing the electrostatic repulsion is insufficient to stop it.  The electrons are forced into the nuclei, resulting in a neutron star, a stellar core so dense that a matchbox-sized chunk of its matter would weigh three billion tons.

Above twenty-five solar masses, however, even the neutron degeneracy pressure isn't enough to halt the collapse.  Supergiant stars continue to collapse, warping space into a closed form that even light can't escape.

This is the origin of a black hole.

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of NASA/JPL]

Black holes are seriously odd beasts.  Let's start with what we can infer from the upshot of Einstein's General Theory of Relativity, that gravitational fields and accelerated frames of reference are indistinguishable.  (To clarify with an easy example; if you were in a box with no windows, and were being accelerated at a rate of 9.8 m/s^2, you would have no way of knowing you weren't simply in Earth's gravitational field.)  So as weird as it sounds, the same relativistic weirdness would occur in a powerful gravitational field as occurs when you move at a high velocity; time would slow down, mass increase, and so on.  You might recall this from the movie Interstellar.  The crew of a spaceship stranded on a planet orbiting a black hole experiences time dilation -- while a year passes for them, a hundred years passes for people out in the more ordinary reaches of the universe.

This is only the start of the weirdness, though.  You may have heard about spaghettification -- yes, that's really what it's called -- when an object falls into a black hole.  Usually the example given is an astronaut, but that kind of seems cruel; spaghettification would be as unpleasant as it sounds.  What happens is that the falling object would be ripped apart by tidal forces.  A tidal force occurs when one part of an object experiences a different gravitational pull than another part of the same object, and the result is that the object is stretched.

There actually is a tidal force on your own body right now; assuming you're not doing a headstand, your feet are closer to the Earth's center of mass, so they're being pulled a little harder than your head is.  The difference is so small that we're unaware of it.  But with an object near a black hole, the gradient of gravitational pull is so large that when the object gets close -- how close depends on the black hole's mass -- the tidal forces rip it apart, stretching it in a thin filament of matter (thus the "spaghetti" in "spaghettification").

The reason all this comes up is a paper published this week in Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society that contains observational data of a star getting sucked into a black hole and spaghettified.  "When an unlucky star wanders too close to a supermassive black hole in the centre of a galaxy, the extreme gravitational pull of the black hole shreds the star into thin streams of material," said study co-author Thomas Wevers, a European Southern Observatory Fellow in Santiago, Chile, in an interview with Science Daily.  "As some of the thin strands of stellar material fall into the black hole during this spaghettification process, a bright flare of energy is released, which we can detect."

That's not the only reason that black holes were in the news last week.  In a paper in Nature Communications Physics, scientists describe their observations of a rare event -- the merger of two black holes.  When this happens, the coalescence causes such a powerful shift in the warped gravitational field surrounding it that it sends ripples out through the fabric of space.  These gravitational waves travel outward from their source at the speed of light, and the ones from something as cataclysmic as a black hole merger are so powerful they can be detected here on Earth, thousands of light years away.

"The pitch and amplitude of the signal increases as the two black holes orbit around their mutual center of mass, faster and faster as they approach each other," said Juan Calderón Bustillo, of the University of Hong Kong.  "After the collision, the final remnant black hole emits a signal with a constant pitch and decaying amplitude -- like the sound of a bell being struck."

So that's our excursion into the bizarre and counterintuitive world of collapsed stars.  The whole thing makes me realize what a violent and hostile place much of the universe is, and glad we're relatively safe down here on our comfortable little planet orbiting an ordinary star in the outer spiral arms of an ordinary galaxy.

Boring as it can seem sometimes, it beats being spaghettified by a significant margin.

***************************************

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is brand new, and is as elegiac as it is inspiring -- David Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet: My Witness Statement and a Vision for the Future.

Attenborough is a familiar name, face, and (especially) voice to those of us who love nature documentaries.  Through series such as Our Planet, Life on Earth, and Planet Earth, he has brought into our homes the beauty of nature -- and its desperate fragility.

At 93, Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet is a fitting coda to his lifelong quest to spark wonder in our minds at the beauty that surrounds us, but at the same time wake us up to the perils of what we're doing to it.  His message isn't all doom and gloom; despite it all, he remains hopeful, and firm in his conviction that we can reverse our course and save what's left of the biodiversity of the Earth.  It's a poignant and evocative work -- something everyone who has been inspired by Attenborough for decades should put on their reading list.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

A linguistic labyrinth

It's funny the rabbit holes fiction writers get dragged down sometimes.

This latest one occurred because of two things that happened kind of at the same time.  First, in my work-in-progress, a fall-of-civilization novel called In the Midst of Lions that in the current national and global situation is seeming to cut a little close to the bone, one of the characters is a linguist who saw what was coming and wrote a conlang -- a constructed (invented) language -- so he could communicate with people he trusted without it being decipherable by enemies.

So of course, to make it authentic, I've had to write the language, following in the footsteps of the Star Trek folks with Klingon and J. R. R. Tolkien with Quenya and Sindarin (two of the languages of the Elves).  My MA is in linguistics (yes, I know, I spent my career teaching biology; it's a long story) so I know a good bit about language structure, and I wanted to make the language different enough from the familiar Indo-European languages to seem (1) an authentic language, not just a word-for-word substitution, and (2) something a smart linguist would think up.  Unfortunately, my specialty is Indo-European languages, specifically Scandinavian languages.  (My wife gives me grief about having studied Old Norse.  My response is that if the Vikings ever take over the shipping industry, I'm gonna have the last laugh.)

A sample of Quenya script, with the English transliteration.  It translates to, "Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind, long years numberless as the wings of trees!"  [Image is in the Public Domain]

So I started out with a pair of blinders on.  There are a lot of rules specific to Indo-European languages that we tend to take for granted, which was exactly what I didn't want to do with my conlang.  But in order to identify those, you have to somehow lift yourself out of your own linguistic box -- which is awfully hard to do.

The second thing, though, was a nice kick in the rear that came from a question on Quora that asked, "What is the hardest language to learn to speak fluently?"  By "hardest" most people assumed "for speakers of English," which went right to what I was interested in -- finding out what would seem odd/counterintuitive (and therefore difficult) for English speakers.

Well, this is what led me directly into the research labyrinth, literally for hours.

One respondent answered that the hardest ones would be the Northwest Caucasian languages of Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia -- a group made up of Abaza, Abkhaz, Adyghe, Kabardian, and Ubykh -- the last-mentioned of which became extinct in 1992 when the last native speaker died of old age.  These languages form an isolate family, related to each other but of uncertain (but undoubtedly distant) relationship to other languages.

So naturally, I had to find out what's weird about them.  Here's what I learned.

Let's start out with the fact that they only have two vowels, but as many as 84 consonants depending on exactly how finely you want to break them up based on the articulation.  They use SOV (subject-object-verb) word order, plopping the verb at the end of the sentence, but that's hardly unique; Latin does that, giving rise to the old quip that by the time a Roman got to the verb in his sentence, his listeners had forgotten who all he was talking about.

But in the parlance of the infomercial, "Wait, there's more!"  The Northwest Caucasian languages use agglutination -- gluing together various bits and pieces to make a more specific word -- but only for verbs.  In these languages, a verb is actually a cluster of parts called morphemes that tell you not only what the core verb is, but the place, time, manner of action, whether it's positive or negative, and even the subject's and object's person.

Then, there's the fact that they're ergative-absolutive languages.  When I hit this, I thought, "Okay, I used to know what this meant," and had to look it up.  It has to do with how the subject and object of a sentence are used.  In English (a nominative-accusative language), the subject has the same form regardless of what kind of verb follows it; likewise, the object always is the same.  So the subject of an intransitive verb like "to walk" is the same as the subject for a transitive verb like "to watch."  (We'd say, "she walked" and "she watched [someone or something];" in both cases, you use the form "she.")  The object form of "he" is always "him," regardless of any other considerations in the sentence.

Not so in the Northwest Caucasian languages, and other ergative-absolutive languages, such as Tibetan, Basque, and Mayan.  In these languages, the subject of an intransitive verb and the object of a transitive one have the same form; the subject of a transitive verb is the one with the different form.  (If English was an ergative-absolutive language, we might say "He watched her," but then it'd be "her walked.")

So there are lots of things that seem normal, obvious even, which in fact are simply arbitrary rules that we've learned are universal to English, but which are hardly universal to other languages.  It always puts me in mind of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, which is that the language you speak shapes your cognitive processes.  In other words, that speakers of languages differently structured from English literally perceive the world a different way because the form of the languages force different conceptualizations of what they see.

I've gone on long enough about all this, and I haven't even scratched the surface.  There are tonal languages like Thai, where the pitch and pitch change of a syllable alter its meaning.  There are languages like Finnish and Japanese where vowel length -- literally, how long you say the vowel for -- changes the meaning of the word it's in.  There are inflected languages like Greek, where the ending of a word tells you how it's being used in the sentence (e.g., in the phrases "the cat walked," "she pet the cat," "it's the cat's bowl," "give the food to the cat," and "the dog is with the cat," the word "cat" would in each case have a different suffix).

So I have some work to do to make my conlang something that would be believable to a linguist.  Or, in the context of the story, something an actual linguist would invent.  Of course, being that it's only one small piece of the story, in the end I'll probably use something like a dozen phrases total from the language, so it'll be a lot of work with very little useful result.

But hey, if J. R. R. Tolkien did it, who am I to criticize?

***************************************

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is brand new, and is as elegiac as it is inspiring -- David Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet: My Witness Statement and a Vision for the Future.

Attenborough is a familiar name, face, and (especially) voice to those of us who love nature documentaries.  Through series such as Our Planet, Life on Earth, and Planet Earth, he has brought into our homes the beauty of nature -- and its desperate fragility.

At 93, Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet is a fitting coda to his lifelong quest to spark wonder in our minds at the beauty that surrounds us, but at the same time wake us up to the perils of what we're doing to it.  His message isn't all doom and gloom; despite it all, he remains hopeful, and firm in his conviction that we can reverse our course and save what's left of the biodiversity of the Earth.  It's a poignant and evocative work -- something everyone who has been inspired by Attenborough for decades should put on their reading list.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Life at the center

Appeal to Authority is simultaneously one of the simplest, and one of the trickiest, of the fallacies.

The simple part is that one shouldn't rely on someone else's word for a claim, without some demonstration of evidence in support.  Just saying "Neil de Grasse Tyson said so" isn't sufficient proof for a conjecture.

On the other hand, there are times when relying on authority makes sense.  If I claimed that Neil de Grasse Tyson was wrong in the realm of astronomy, the likelihood of my being wrong myself is nearly 100%.   Expertise is worth something, and Tyson's Ph.D. in astrophysics certainly gives his statements in that field considerable gravitas.

The problem is that when confronted with a confident-sounding authority, people turn their own brains off.   And the situation becomes even murkier when experts in one field start making pronouncements in a different one.

Take, for example, Robert Lanza, a medical researcher whose work in stem cells and regenerative medicine has led to groundbreaking advances in the treatment of hitherto incurable diseases.  His contributions to medical science are undeniably profound, and I would consider his opinion in the field of stem cell research about as close to unimpeachable as you could get.  But Lanza hasn't been content to stay within his area of specialization, and has ventured forth into the fringe areas of metaphysics -- joining people like Fritjof Capra in their quest to show that quantum physics has something to say about consciousness, souls, and life after death.

Let's start with Lanza's idea of a "biocentric universe," which is defined thusly:

Biocentrism states that life and biology are central to being, reality, and the cosmos— life creates the universe rather than the other way around.  It asserts that current theories of the physical world do not work, and can never be made to work, until they fully account for life and consciousness.  While physics is considered fundamental to the study of the universe, and chemistry fundamental to the study of life, biocentrism claims that scientists will need to place biology before the other sciences to produce a theory of everything.

Which puts me in mind of Wolfgang Pauli's famous quote, "This isn't right. This isn't even wrong."  Biocentrism isn't really a scientific theory, in that it makes no predictions, and therefore de facto isn't falsifiable.  And Lanza's reception on this topic has been chilly at best.  Physicist Lawrence Krauss said, "It may represent interesting philosophy, but it doesn't look, at first glance, as if it will change anything about science."  Physicist and science writer David Lindley agrees, calling biocentrism "a vague, inarticulate metaphor."

And if you needed further evidence of its lack of scientific rigor, I must also point out that Deepak Chopra loves biocentrism.  "(Lanza's) theory of biocentrism is consistent with the most ancient wisdom traditions of the world which says that consciousness conceives, governs, and becomes a physical world," Chopra writes.  "It is the ground of our Being in which both subjective and objective reality come into existence."

As a scientist, you know you're in trouble if you get support from Deepak Chopra.

And there's a further problem with venturing outside of your field of expertise.  If you make unsupported claims, then others will take your claims (with your name appended to them, of course) and send them even further out into the ether.  Which is what happened recently over at the site Learning Mind, where Lanza's ideas were said to prove that the soul exists, and death is an illusion:

(Lanza's) theory implies that death simply does not exist.  It is an illusion which arises in the minds of people. It exists because people identify themselves with their body.  They believe that the body is going to perish, sooner or later, thinking their consciousness will disappear too. 

In fact, consciousness exists outside of constraints of time and space.  It is able to be anywhere: in the human body and outside of it.  That fits well with the basic postulates of quantum mechanics science, according to which a certain particle can be present anywhere and an event can happen according to several, sometimes countless, ways.  

Lanza believes that multiple universes can exist simultaneously.  These universes contain multiple ways for possible scenarios to occur.  In one universe, the body can be dead.  And in another it continues to exist, absorbing consciousness which migrated into this universe.  This means that a dead person while traveling through the same tunnel ends up not in hell or in heaven, but in a similar world he or she once inhabited, but this time alive.  And so on, infinitely.

Which amounts to taking an untestable claim, whose merits are best left to the philosophers to discuss, and running right off a cliff with it.

As I've said more than once: quantum mechanics isn't some kind of fluffy, hand-waving speculation.  It is hard, evidence-based science.  The mathematical model that is the underpinning of this description of the universe is complex and difficult for the layperson to understand, but it is highly specific.  It describes the behavior of particles and waves, on the submicroscopic scale, making predictions that have been experimentally supported time after time.

[Image is in the Public Domain]

And that's all it does.   Quantum effects such as superposition, indeterminacy, and entanglement have extremely limited effects on the macroscopic world.  Particle physics has nothing to say about the existence of the soul, the afterlife, or any other religious or philosophical claim.  And even the "Many Worlds" hypothesis, which was seriously put forth as a way to explain the collapse of the wave function, has largely been shelved by everyone but the science fiction writers because its claims are completely untestable.

To return to my original point, Appeal to Authority is one of those fallacies that seem simpler than they actually turn out to be.  I have no doubt that Robert Lanza is a genius in the field of regenerative medicine, and I wouldn't hesitate to trust what he says in that realm.  But his pronouncements in the field of physics appear to me to be unfalsifiable speculation -- i.e., not scientific statements.  As such, biocentrism is no better than "intelligent design."  What Adam Lee, of Daylight Atheism, said about intelligent design could be applied equally well to biocentrism:

(A) hypothesis must make predictions that can be compared to the real world and determined to be either true or false, and there must be some imaginable evidence that could disprove it.  If an idea makes no predictions, makes predictions that cannot be unambiguously interpreted as either success or failure, or makes predictions that cannot be checked out even in principle, then it is not science.

But as such, I'm sure biocentrism is going to be as popular amongst the woo-woos as ID is amongst the fervently religious.  For them, "unfalsifiable" means "you can't prove we're wrong."

"Therefore we're right. q.e.d. and ha ha ha."

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This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is brand new, and is as elegiac as it is inspiring -- David Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet: My Witness Statement and a Vision for the Future.

Attenborough is a familiar name, face, and (especially) voice to those of us who love nature documentaries.  Through series such as Our Planet, Life on Earth, and Planet Earth, he has brought into our homes the beauty of nature -- and its desperate fragility.

At 93, Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet is a fitting coda to his lifelong quest to spark wonder in our minds at the beauty that surrounds us, but at the same time wake us up to the perils of what we're doing to it.  His message isn't all doom and gloom; despite it all, he remains hopeful, and firm in his conviction that we can reverse our course and save what's left of the biodiversity of the Earth.  It's a poignant and evocative work -- something everyone who has been inspired by Attenborough for decades should put on their reading list.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Out in the ozone

If you were going to try to pick out the all-time stupidest practice from the alt-med crowd, you'd have a lot of contenders for the top prize.  You have your homeopathic water.  You have your "quantum downloadable medicines."  You have your health benefits of breathing air that bees have flown around in.  You  have your recommendations to take all your clothes off and expose your butthole to direct sunlight.

None of which, for the record, did I make up.

But I think I've found the odds-on favorite, thanks to a loyal reader of Skeptophilia who alerted me to the practice.  Today we look at:

Treating COVID-19 infections using "rectal insufflation of ozone."

If you're sitting there thinking, as I was, "Okay, that can't possibly mean what it sounds like," then yes -- it means exactly what it sounds like.  (Actually, what I said was, "You have got to be fucking kidding me.")  Doctors (I'm using the term loosely here) are trying to treat COVID and other illnesses by sticking a plastic tube up your ass and pumping your rectum full of ozone.

I read this entire article with an expression like this on my face:

Okay, brief pause to (1) give you time to stop laughing and/or retching, and (2) review a little bit of high school chemistry.

Ozone is O3 (ordinary oxygen is O2).  Elemental oxygen is, unsurprisingly, a strong oxidizer, meaning it is really good at pulling electrons away from other molecules.  In the case of organic molecules, this usually makes them fall apart.  Fire, after all, is just the energy released by rapid oxidation.

Put simply, oxygen is toxic.  We depend on it to "burn" the glucose molecules from which we get our energy, but there's good evidence that the evolution of aerobic respiration started as a detoxification pathway.  When the first photosynthetic organisms evolved (probably cyanobacteria), the oxygen they gave off as a waste product resulted in the oxidation (i.e. death) of most of the living things on Earth, at that point all single-celled microorganisms.  The ones that survived did so because they either were able to (1) avoid the oxygen altogether (these evolved into today's anaerobic bacteria), or (2) detoxify the oxygen by handing it the electrons it wanted, in most circumstances inducing it to bind to hydrogen ions and stabilize as water molecules.  This latter pathway releases a lot of energy, and the ancestors of aerobes -- in other words, most life forms on Earth -- survived because they evolved a way to hook this energy release to powering their own metabolic processes.

So oxygen is dangerous stuff, and we've just learned to live with it.  But where all this is leading is: ozone is a stronger oxidizer than elemental oxygen.  In fact, five times stronger.  It's twice as strong an oxidizer as chlorine gas, which is dissolved into pool water because it's so good at killing pathogenic microorganisms.

This is the stuff they're recommending blowing up your ass.

The "research" that the article linked above cites has the following to say, apropos of using this technique to treat COVID:

The coronavirus envelope is rich in cysteine, and viral activity depends on the conservation of these residues.  Cysteine contains a thiol or sulfhydryl group (–SH); many viruses, including coronaviruses, require these reduced sulfhydryl groups for cell entry and fusion.  Sulfhydryl groups are susceptible to oxidation, and therefore to the oxidizing effect of ozone. Peroxides created by ozone administration oxidize cysteines and show long-term antiviral effects that can further reduce viral load.  Once their capsid is removed, virions cannot survive or replicate, and the creation of dysfunctional viruses due to the action of ozone offers unique therapeutic possibilities.

Well, you could oxidize the virus's capsid by setting it on fire, too, but doing that to the viruses in someone's lungs could present a bit of an issue.

Of course, this was the thing about Donald Trump's much-quoted comments about using ultraviolet light exposure or intravenous bleach to kill coronavirus.  Sure, bleach and ultraviolet light can both destroy the virus, but something that kills the pathogens and simultaneously kills you is a little counterproductive, don't you think?

It's always the problem with showing that anything -- be it an antiviral or any other medication -- that works just fine in vitro will have the same effect, and no deleterious side effects, in vivo.  You not only have to demonstrate that the drug accomplishes what you want it to do, but (1) can efficiently get to the part of the body where it's needed, and (2) doesn't destroy healthy tissue along the way.

Rectal insufflation of ozone kind of fails on both counts, doesn't it?  Okay, it probably kills coronavirus, but they're mostly in your lungs, not your rectum, and it's highly damaging to the rest of you.

Having oxidation damage to the delicate lining of your lower gastrointestinal tract would not be fun.  Having that on top of a COVID-19 infection would be a level of misery I can only imagine.

So there we are.  What is probably the stupidest alt-med therapy I've ever heard of.  Of course, I hesitate even to say that, because the alt-med folks seem to look upon this as some sort of challenge.  Every time I think, "Okay, this is it, it can't get any more idiotic than this," they up and exceed their previous record.

As the quote attributed to Einstein so aptly put it: "The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits."

***************************************

This week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is brand new, and is as elegiac as it is inspiring -- David Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet: My Witness Statement and a Vision for the Future.

Attenborough is a familiar name, face, and (especially) voice to those of us who love nature documentaries.  Through series such as Our Planet, Life on Earth, and Planet Earth, he has brought into our homes the beauty of nature -- and its desperate fragility.

At 93, Attenborough's A Life on Our Planet is a fitting coda to his lifelong quest to spark wonder in our minds at the beauty that surrounds us, but at the same time wake us up to the perils of what we're doing to it.  His message isn't all doom and gloom; despite it all, he remains hopeful, and firm in his conviction that we can reverse our course and save what's left of the biodiversity of the Earth.  It's a poignant and evocative work -- something everyone who has been inspired by Attenborough for decades should put on their reading list.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]