Worn, dappled afternoons, delicately brown around the edges. The exquisite twentieth-century binding of Hamiltonian afternoons.
It is on these afternoons that I feel closest to the gentle curving at the heart of the world of Platonic forms. On these afternoons that I feel part of the highest endeavour of man, one with the quest of the ages.
Laziness: the highest ideal of human existence. The art of insinuating oneself unobtrusively into the fabric of the universe. The pursuit of the elegant and the expedient. (At higher levels of intellectual endeavour, aren’t those two almost synonymous?) But let us distinguish between the implicit and the explicit. The explicit inclusion of the ideal in our theories would lead us to embrace as equivalent ideals the sustainable and the non-invasive.
It was laziness that led man to invent the wheel. The quest to avoid work leads man to his highest intellectual triumphs. No lazy man would choose to fight a war with his neighbour when he could have him over for non-strenuous conversation instead.
It’s laziness that leads electrons to travel every path that exists to see which takes the least work. Come to think of it, laziness is actually the governing principle of the universe.
My quest as a scientist is to balance a curious interest in disentangling by hand the threads of the universe with an equal interest in seeking the high, the pure, the Platonically convenient. I’ll let my thoughts wind their way into the complexities of infinite infinitesimals without the officious hindrance of effort. Of such are the songs of existence born.
Possibly I met you yesterday. In fact I’m inclined to think it of significant probability. Significant or non-negligible, I don’t mean important, just large. Hm, I suppose large things are important in their way, things you can see form part of the fabric of your thoughts. And that makes the dimensions of the universe uncurl in your thoughts a little bit more. Nice.
The gradual yielding of correlations to synonyms. Resonances of light and language.
Glorious smoothnesses on the surface of a specious theory. Time rolled the curving of time to us, and we caught it with our machinery. Hello, LIGO. Are you listening to the universe?
Oh, hello. Have you come to sing to me again? I like listening. Lazy listening to the song of your movements. The universe is a complaisant conspirator.
I haven’t quite made up my mind about Einstein. For a scientist, I consider him insufficiently removed from sanity. Then again, there’s no getting away from his inarguably Aeschylean genius.
Forms live forever. That’s a long time.
But I believe in positional objectivity. I like you from the left. Well, I’m sitting on the left. No, no, I hope you’re not offended!
You mean so much to me, I couldn’t possibly pay you a compliment that wasn’t semantically defined. That would be untrue to you and the universe. How can what’s semantically perfect be incomplete?
But of course I needn’t have worried! We both hear the song of the particles. Of course you understand.