Reaching Beyond the Rational

For the past three weeks, TIME has been examining America's rising discontent with entrenched intellectual ideas: liberalism, rationalism and scientism. In previous articles, TIME'S Behavior, Religion and Education sections discussed how this trend has affected their domains. This week the Science section considers the repercussions for science and technology. It finds a deepening disillusionment with both, as well as a new view among some scientists that there should be room in their discipline for the nonobjective, mystical and even irrational.

IN the years after World War II, few professional people were more widely acclaimed or publicly admired in the U.S. than scientists and engineers. Together they had not only perfected key weapons for the triumphant Allies, but also compounded the miracle of modern medicine, discovered among other wonders the mechanism of heredity, and not incidentally helped give America a material standard of living higher than any in history. More recently, they capped their achievements by landing men on the moon. Indeed, such was their success that many people became convinced that there were scientific or technological "fixes" for all the nation's problems, including its most serious social ills. Even as late as 1967, after Watts, Newark and Detroit had been engulfed in flames, the dean of M.I.T.'s College of Engineering, Gordon Brown, could be heard to proclaim: "I doubt if there is such a thing as an urban crisis, but if there were, M.I.T. would lick it in the same way we handled the Second World War."

Such arrogant and naive optimism sounded questionable even then. Today it has a particularly hollow ring. For after years of sunny admiration, science suddenly finds itself in a shadow. No longer are scientists the public's great heroes or the beneficiaries of unlimited funding. Unemployment runs high in many scientific disciplines; the number of young people drawn to the laboratory in certain key areas has diminished significantly. Indifference to scientific achievement is the mood of the moment. Even such bold ventures as new voyages to the moon or Mars, construction of giant atom smashers, and journeys to the depths of the sea fail to excite a public that is half jaded, half doubtful of the future benefits of such extravagant undertakings.

In part, the turnabout came from an increasing awareness of the environmental ravages that seem to accompany technological advance. On a more philosophical level, the reversal is the result of a new mood of skepticism about the quantifying, objective methods of science. Moreover, there has begun to emerge, even within the laboratory, a new fascination with what traditionalists consider the very antithesis of science: the mystical and even irrational. Says Harvard Biologist-Historian Everett I. Mendelsohn: "Science as we know it has outlived its usefulness."

That statement comes at a curious juncture in Western history --the 500th anniversary of the birth of the Polish churchman and scholar Nicholas Copernicus. It was his dryly mathematical, yet brash book On the Revolution of the Heavenly Bodies that dislodged the earth--and man along with it--from the center of the universe, moving the sun into that place. The Copernican theory shook the most basic theological and philosophical canons of the day. Even more important, it provided the intellectual spark for the tremendous acceleration of knowledge that Western culture has since come to call science.

Under the stubborn prodding of Galileo Galilei, Johannes Kepler, Sir Isaac Newton and Copernicus' other intellectual heirs, questions of nature were thrust directly into the combative, public arena of empirical inquiry. For the first time, experiments became crucial. Theories were supported by close observation. The new scientific method, stressing reason and logic, was born. Individual scientists might still occasionally be wrong--sometimes outrageously so, as when Newton believed that the sun was inhabited. Yet it was the testing of such hypotheses, however farfetched, that caused a new intellectual excitement to sweep the Western world, a determination to explore, understand and dominate nature, which had hitherto dominated man. Indeed, such was the faith in "natural philosophy," as science called itself, that its practitioners quickly came to believe that all mysteries would eventually yield before it. Science in effect became the new religion.

The ease with which scientists uncovered nature's secrets--the laws of the planetary motion and gravity, the basic principles of magnetism, the intricacies of the blood system--encouraged such a heady feeling. The universe, the scientists claimed, was simply smoothly functioning clockwork; each action within it had a cause. Chop the actions into small enough slivers, reduce them to their "simplest" forms, and science would identify all their causes. It was a highly mechanistic view, and it became more fully entrenched with each new breakthrough by the new science and its offspring--technology.

Science did indeed bring forth a Brave New World--of transistors and miniaturized electronics, antibiotics and organ transplants, high-speed computers and jet travel. But progress came at a price. It was the genius of science that also made possible such horrors as the exploding mushroom cloud over Hiroshima, the chemically ruined forests of Indochina, the threat of a shower of ICBMs, a plant increasingly littered with technology's fallout. It is this Faustian side of science, with its insatiable drive to conquer new fields, explore new territory and build bigger machines, regardless of costs or consequences that worries so many critics.

The curent disenchantmebnt is also rooted in the growing gulf between scientists and laymen. In an earlier age, one man alone might dare take up a host of scientific challenges. Now science has been subdivided into so many cubbyholed disciplines that not even a Galileo or a Newton could keep pace with all developments. Some 25,000 books and a million scientific articles are published each year. Most of them are written in such abstruse jargon and abstract mathematical terms as to be incomprehensible except to specialists. Even computer systems seem unable to cope with the onslaught of information, to say nothing of translating it into understandable langugage. "It is quite easy to visualize a situation, perhaps in 100 years." says Economists Kenneth Boulding of the University of Colorado, "in which the whole effort of the knowledge industry will have to be devoted to transmitting knowledge from one generation to the next."

Of the spokesmen for antiscience, none has been more articulate or corrosive that Theodore Roszak, 39, a historian by profession, a cultural Cassandra by inclination, the man that Britain's New Scientist calls the "romantic at reason's court." It was he who best described the youthful dissenters of the late '60s in his bestselling The making of a Counterculture. In his latest book, skills on what he calls the West's bleak "mindscape of scientific rationality" and pleads for a return of submerged religious sensitivities.

According to Roszak, science's alleged objectivity and its attendant evils have denatured man's personal experience and taken the mystery and sacredness out of his life. In his eyes, reason is a limited human skill, only one among many. Insisting that there is also "spiritual knowledge and power," Roszak adds: "Here is a range of experience that we are screening out of our experience in the name of what we call knowledge."

IN the eyes of Roszak and other critics, each successive advance into the clockwork universe has been achieved at an extremely high cost. Under the tradition of mechanistic, scientific methodology, they contend, nature has become an object to poke, probe and dissect. "We have learned to think of knowledge as verbal, explicit, articulated, rational, logical. Aristotelian, realistic, sensible," wrote the late psychologist Abraham Maslow. "Equally important aare mystery, ambiguity, illogic contradiction and transcendent experience."

This theme is echoed by other scientists as well. say Geologist Frank Rhodes, dean of liberal arts at the University of Michigan: "It may be that the qualities we measure have as little relation to the world itself as a telephone number to its subscriber." In fact Rhodes and others are certain that the language of science is a metaphor for a limited kind of experience. Declares Richard H. Bube, a professor of materials science and electrical engineering at Stanford: "One of the most pernicious falsehoods ever to be almost universally accepted is that the scientific method is the only reliable way to truth."

Faith has also been shaken in one of the central beliefs of scientific methodology. Even the most "detached" scientific observers, says Harvard's Mendelsohn, are beginning to realize that they bring certain "metaphysical and normative judgements" to their work. In other words, scientific observations are not "theory-neutral," as scientists once claimed, but are actually "theory-laden."

Such a radical attack on science's vaunted objectivity is supported by no less a scientific dictum than Physicist Werner Heisenberg's half-century-old Principle of Uncertainty, which points out that the very act of observing disturbs the system. Writes Physicist Dietrich Schroeer in his perceptive book Phyics and Its Fifth Dimension: Society: "It seem to be just as the romantics have been claiming. The observer cannot be separated from the experiment."

The Heisenberg Principle also suggests that rational science may be limited in its ability to comprehend nature; at best it can only arrive at certain statistical probabilities in determining, say, where an electron is at any given moment. the concept that the universe cannot be known by more definite methods that such "guesswork" was so revolutionary that even Einstein could no accept it. " God does not play dice with the universe," he insisted.

Reverberations from the Uncertainty Principle are still being felt. Heisenberg has recently used it to argue against constructing even bigger (and more expensive) atom smashers on the ground that little more of a fundamental nature can be learned of the sub-nuclear world. In his controversial book The Coming of the Gold en Age, Molecular Biologist Gunther Stent brashly assumes that all basic questions in his field are either solved or close to solution. He also thinks that all scientific progress is fast approaching the point of diminishing returns. Man will never know how the universe began or what is the most fundamental of atomic particles, he says, because such mysteries remain "hidden in an end less and ultimately tiresome succession of Chinese boxes."

Heisenberg's and Stent's pessimistic prophecies are widely disputed. Many scientists, in fact, see very drastic changes on the horizon. They frequently invoke a model of scientific advance proposed by Historian Thomas Kuhn, who argues in The Structure of Scientific Revolutions that science is not cumulative, but that it collapses and is rebuilt after each major conceptual shift. Paradigms is the word he uses for those overreaching models and theories according to which each new era of science conducts its normal, day-to-day operations. Copernicus, for example, established a new paradigm of science with his heliocentric universe, overthrowing the old. Newton did likewise, and so did Einstein. Following such fundamental changes, "normal" scientists go back to work again, but with a different set of assumptions. Maslow pointed out that it is these "normal" technicians who created the stereotype of scientists as mechanical men with narrow vision. The innovative, imaginative paradigm makers, "the eagles of science," are another breed entirely.

Is science on the verge of some bold new paradigm? Convinced that it is, Physicist David Finkelstein of New York's Yeshiva University has been searching for a link between particle physics, relativity and human consciousness. "The way has been prepared to turn over the structure of present physics," he declares, "to consider space, time and mass as illusions in the same way temperature is only a sensory illusion."

Espousing an equally radical idea, Britain's Fred Hoyle believes that there may be processes under way in the universe that are totally at odds with accepted physical laws. Even so conservative a physicist as M.I.T.'s Morrison is willing to risk the ridicule of fellow scientists by participating in a symposium on un identified flying objects. "The idea of rationality is not that we should always be sober and do everything like Euclid," says Morrison. "Rationality has to include, so to speak, the irrational."

Some scientists, in fact, are exploring what once would have been dismissed as the irrational. In medicine and physiology, there is new respectability for such subjects as biofeedback-- the idea that man can consciously control such functions as body temperature and heartbeat-- and the ancient Chinese art of acupuncture. There is even a renewal of curiosity about the cataclysmic ideas of Immanuel Velikovsky, author of Worlds in Collision. A psychoanalyst turned amateur geophysicist, he attempted to ex plain stories such as the biblical account of the flood in terms of close encounters between the earth and a giant comet, a theory that conventional geophysicists totally reject.

PERHAPS the strangest realm in which there has been a new ripple of scientific interest is extra sensory perception (ESP). Not that scientific discussion of psychic phenomena is new: Freud, Physicist J.J. Thomson (discoverer of the electron), Thomas Edison and even Einstein at one time or an other seriously considered the possibility. "Sheep" is the parapsychologists' word for those who believe in ESP; "goats" are skeptics. There is evidence, at least in England, that the number of sheep is increasing and the number of goats is decreasing. A questionnaire in the New Scientist last fall drew more than 1,500 answers, most of them from working scientists and technologists. Nearly 70% of the respondents could be classified as sheep of various hues, while only 3% were really "black" goats who believed that ESP is an impossibility.

In the U.S. the first serious investigations of psychic phenomena were begun at Duke University in the late 1920s by Dr. (of botany) J.B. Rhine, who had his subjects shuffle cards and throw dice while others tried to predict the results. More recently, a few scientific centers, notably the Stanford Research Institute, have undertaken investigations of this magic-and fraud-filled arena. Even Astronaut Edgar Mitchell (unofficially) conducted an ESP experiment on his Apollo 14 flight to the moon, and now devotes himself full time to investigations of psychic phenomena. In spite of these efforts, however, experiments have been far from scientifically convincing. Only a few "psychically gifted" subjects like Artist Ingo Swann seem to make the rounds, and at least one of them, Uri Geller, has a highly questionable rec ord (TIME, March 12).

Moreover, even if it could be proved to the general satis faction of scientists that certain "endowed" individuals can trans mit messages from one to another (telepathy), predict events (precognition) or control an object by their mental powers (psychokinesis), scientists would still ask, How did they do it? What mysterious powers lurk inside them? In short, says Gunther Stent in a recent article in Scientific American, there would have to be some revolutionary new paradigm to explain what now seems to be a complete breach of elementary physical laws.

One of the few serious physicists who believe that such a breach is imminent is Columbia University's Gerald Feinberg, who suggests in his book The Prometheus Project that man may eventually find the means to achieve immortality. Feinberg thinks that psychic transmissions may one day be linked to as yet un discovered elementary particles, so-called mindons or psychons. Other scientists, however, give less credence to such will-o'-the-wisps than they give to another conjectured particle championed by Feinberg: the tachyon, which always travels faster than the speed of light, the theoretical speed limit of the universe.

Such fanciful musings as Feinberg's are hard to refute definitively, especially in view of the proliferation of weird subatomic particles discovered by physics (more than 15 at last count). At least so says Arthur Koestler, the novelist and interpreter of science who once compared Rhine's work favorably with that of Copernicus. In his recent book The Roots of Coincidence, Koestler calls on his considerable skills as a popularizer of modern quantum physics to buttress his beliefs. Matter, he notes, quoting Bertrand Russell, is "a convenient formula for describing what happens where it isn't." An absurdity? Not to the new generation of quantum physicists, says Koestler. No longer able to accept the atom as simply a miniature solar system in which negatively charged electrons blithely circle the positive nucleus, they found that the "electrons kept jumping from one orbit into a different orbit without passing through intervening space -- as if the earth were suddenly transferred into the orbit of Mars without having to travel." Even stranger notions were still to come, he says, when physicists succeeded in producing such ghostlike particles as the neutrino (which has no mass, no electrical charge, and can hurtle with ease through the entire earth). In view of all this, argues Koestler, there should well be room in the "common sense-defying structure" of modern physics for ESP.

FOR most scientists, there are already enough mysteries to contemplate without such conjecturing. Indeed, recent discoveries in astronomy alone seem to have turned scientists into what Koestler calls "Peeping Toms at the keyhole of eternity." Many of them, for example, believe that those incredibly bright objects known as quasars (for quasi-stellar) sit at the very "edge" of the universe; that possibility got renewed support only last week when astronomers reported finding a quasar that may be as distant as 12 billion light-years from earth. A dissenting minority, including Fred Hoyle, offers another startling view: quasars are nearby objects, possibly newborn, in which supposedly in violable constants such as the acceleration of gravity are not constant but continually changing. Then there are pulsars, the collapsed cadavers of giant stars that give off extraordinary pulses of radiation, and kindred black holes, which are totally invisible but act like cosmic vacuum cleaners in sweeping up any stray stel lar material in their vicinity. Where does this material go? England's Roger Penrose and Robert Hjellming of the National Radio Astronomy Observatory have dared to suggest that it might surface elsewhere, perhaps in an entirely different universe.

From such mind-boggling ideas it is a short leap to wilder spec ulations. The overwhelming majority of scientists would probably agree with Mathematician Martin Gardner that "modern science should indeed arouse in all of us a humility before the immensity of the unexplored and a tolerance for crazy hypotheses." Says Harvard's Owen Gingerich, who is an astronomer as well as a historian of science: "There might be noncausal things in the world." He adds that it is only people with tunnel vision who "think our science will go on in a lineal, explanatory fash ion. It may be that aspects of mysticism totally outside science may come back and be incorporated within its framework." The eminent German physicist-philosopher Carl Friedrich von Weizsacker believes that such a unity already exists. At his in stitute outside Munich, he is attempting to show the essential convergence between Eastern mysticism and Western science. Gopi Krishna, an exponent of Kundalini Yoga, was his guest there for six months. From their discussions, Weizsacker has become increasingly convinced that "mysticism is one of the great discov eries of mankind." He adds: "It may turn out to be far more important than our time is inclined to believe."

For all their occasional tolerance of radical new ideas, however, few scientists are ready to discard the old rationality. Even the iconoclastic Mendelsohn admits that "there is too much of use in the scientific way of knowledge to simply brush it aside."

Most scientists believe that a swelling chorus of anti-scientism could jeopardize solutions to the technological problems that so distress Roszak and other critics. "We have created the kind of world we cannot reverse," says M.I.T. President Jerome Wiesner, a presidential science adviser in the Kennedy Administration. "Too many people are too dependent on technology for everything from agriculture to distribution of goods."

Science's critics may nevertheless have performed a highly important service by putting forth their questions, their doubts about relentless progress, their special pleas for a new harmony with nature. At the very least, they have helped prod .scientists out of their old arrogance and aloofness and encouraged them to be more concerned -- both spiritually and pragmatically -- with the ends to which their quests will eventually lead. No longer are scientists likely to say, as Robert Hooke did three centuries ago when he helped found London's Royal Society: "This society will eschew any discussion of religion, rhetoric, morals and politics." Beyond that, the new critics have suggested that science does not have a stranglehold on truth, and that the cold, narrow rationality so long stressed by scientists is not the only ideology for modern man to live by. If such notions gain widening acceptance, they may usher in a new paradigm as significant as Copernicus' own revolutionary idea.

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