‘A Sense of the Mysterious: Science and the Human Spirit’ 
by Alan Lightman

Vintage, New York, 2005, 211 pages

“I loved the grandeur, the power, the beauty, the logic and precision of science, but I also ached to express something of myself—my individuality, the particular way that I saw the world, my unique way of being.”

This is how Alan Lightman, in the title essay from his recent book, “A Sense of the Mysterious” (now available in paperback), describes the growing realization, which began in his 30s, that eventually he would leave the world of physics research and become a writer.

Now in his mid 50s, Lightman has successfully made the transition from science to art. After being educated at Princeton and Caltech, where he received a Ph.D. in theoretical physics, he was an active researcher in astronomy and physics for many years, teaching at Harvard and MIT. Since beginning his full-time writing career, he’s published two essay collections, four popular works of science history, and four novels—including international bestseller “Einstein’s Dreams” and National Book Award finalist “The Diagnosis.”

His writing is graceful and thoughtful, accessible to the general reader and personally honest, which sometimes means raising questions rather than answering them. Lightman explains how, in the course of his personal evolution, he came “to appreciate both certainty and uncertainty” and to realize that “Both are necessary in the world. Both are part of being human … the world needs questions with answers and questions without answers.” 

The 11 essays in this collection were written for various publications over the past 15 years. What unifies them is his desire to clarify for himself and others the relationship between science and art, and in doing so come to terms with his personal transformation from physicist to writer.

In the essay “Words,” he contrasts the difference between expository and creative writing: “In expository writing, you want to go first to your reader’s brain,” but “in fiction, a topic sentence is usually fatal … you want to bypass the brain and go straight for the stomach, or the heart.” The idea of love, for example: “the particular sensation out of the thousands of different kinds of love—must be shown to the reader not by naming it, but through the actions of the characters. And if love is shown, rather than named, each reader will experience it and will understand it in his or her own way.” Noting how this compares with naming in science, he writes, “Every electron is identical, but every love is different.”

Lightman acknowledges that he still lives with conflicting feelings about his transition. He confesses that he misses the “purity” of theoretical physics, the “answers” of science, “the beauty of equations,” “the exhilaration of seeing brilliant people at work, watching their minds leap.” He says, “Most of all I miss the intensity (of) being grabbed by a science problem so that I could think of nothing else” (for days and weeks at a time).

Perhaps surprisingly, he concludes, “If given a chance to start over, I would do just what I did … I would want to hear that call of certain truth, that clear note of a struck bell.”

He includes several fascinating and unusually judgmental biographical essays on well-known physicists—Albert Einstein, Richard Feynman, Edward Teller and Vera Rubin. Although he briefly describes some of their scientific work, the focus is on portraying the character and motivation of his subjects. He does not shrink from telling you what he finds lacking, even in his heroes.

It’s clear that his sympathies and interests lie with those who have been independent spirits, courageous and/or stubborn in following their own, sometimes lonely, paths—as Lightman himself was in leaving physics to become a writer. As a scientist in active areas of research, one is surrounded by many highly intelligent, interesting, passionate and admirable colleagues with little time or sympathy for those with other strong interests outside of science. It took a great deal of internal strength for Lightman to risk the disapproval of this community and leave the exciting companionship and pleasures of science to follow his own path. 

Other interesting essays include one with the melodramatic title “A Scientist Dying Young,” written during the period he was first considering various reasons for leaving physics; a look at why the physical world is so well described by mathematics in “Inventions of the Mind”; and thoughts on the special role and dangers of “Metaphor in Science,” especially the problem of how to visualize the world described by quantum physics.

Very few non-scientists appear in these pages. For such a generally self-reflective and honest book, there’s little mention of family or other friends who have influenced, supported or inspired him. Perhaps this comes from a sense of privacy, or perhaps it simply reflects his independent nature.

There is also almost no comment on the doubts, frustrations and societal pressures of creative work, either in science or the arts. This results in a somewhat unbalanced picture. By always stressing the positives and similarities, he may be trying too hard to give the audience what it wants to hear, or to please everyone on both sides of the sometimes acrimonious science-art split.

I also believe that Lightman does not adequately appreciate how much the content of science is a reflection of the fact that science is a human creation—that we are the ones who pose the questions and seek the answers that satisfy us, and that science is not a god’s eye view of the world. Recognizing that science is a human creation allows us to appreciate that science and art lie along a continuum, not in different worlds, and allows us another way to examine the relationship between them.

Perhaps his most passionate essay is the final one, “Prisoner of the Wired World,” where he expresses feelings and a problem that many of us struggle with. “Unconsciously, without thinking about it, I have subdivided my waking day into smaller and smaller units of ‘efficient’ time use, until there is no fat left on the bone, no breathing spaces remaining,” he writes. He traces the history of how the early belief in technology as “a means to humanitarian progress” became converted (or subverted) into the idea that “technology equals progress.” “By creating the Wired World and the mentality that goes with it, we have unintentionally imprisoned ourselves. … (We) have lost something of (our) inner self. By inner self I mean that part of me that imagines, that dreams, that explores, that is constantly questioning who I am and what is important to me. My inner self is my true freedom.” 

The quotation that began this review resonates strongly with my own experience and reasons for a later transition from a focus on science to art. Like Lightman, I was aware of my love of both worlds early in life. The problem is that science is a demanding partner—or master—making it impossible for most of us to be successful at both simultaneously. Yet I believe that each of us has a strong need to eventually seek our fullest creative expression.