Authors: Professor Brian Cox
Human Universe
William Collins
An imprint of HarperCollins
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This eBook edition published by William Collins in 2015
Text © Brian Cox and Andrew Cohen 2014
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Diagrams © HarperCollins
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Cover photographs © Shutterstock (ape); © NASA (arm)
By arrangement with the BBC.
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BBC logo © BBC 2014
The authors assert their moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.
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Source ISBN: 9780008125080
eBook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008129798
Version: 2015-04-21
‘Engaging, ambitious and creative.’
Guardian
‘He bridges the gap between our childish sense of wonder and a rather more professional grasp of the scale of things.’
Independent
‘If you didn’t utter a wow watching the TV, you will while reading the book.’
The Times
‘In this book of the acclaimed BBC2 TV series, Professor Cox shows us the cosmos as we have never seen it before – a place full of the most bizarre and powerful natural phenomena.’
Sunday Express
‘Cox’s romantic, lyrical approach to astrophysics all adds up to an experience that feels less like homework and more like having a story told to you. A really good story, too.’
Guardian
‘Will entertain and delight … what a priceless gift that would be.’
Independent on Sunday
From Brian
To George Albert Eagle:
It’s your future, little boy.
To my soulmate Anna, my beautiful children
Benjamin, Martha and Theo, my wonderful mum
Barbara, my brothers Paul and Howard and all of
the ‘small creatures’ whom I am lucky enough to
have with me in the vastness.
Contents
Praise for Professor Brian Cox
Searching for Patterns in Starlight
The Political Ramifications of Reality, or ‘How to Avoid Getting Locked Up’
The Happiest Thought of My Life
A Brief History of Life on Earth
From the North Star to the Stars
Climate Change in the Rift Valley and Human Evolution
‘An Unprecedented Duel with Nature’
Farming: The Bedrock of Civilisation
A Brief History of the Snowflake
WHAT A PIECE OF WORK IS A
MAN, HOW NOBLE IN REASON,
HOW INFINITE IN FACULTIES,
IN FORM AND MOVING HOW
EXPRESS AND ADMIRABLE, IN
ACTION HOW LIKE AN ANGEL, IN
APPREHENSION HOW LIKE A GOD!
THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD,
THE PARAGON OF ANIMALS –
AND YET, TO ME, WHAT IS THIS
QUINTESSENCE OF DUST? MAN
DELIGHTS NOT ME – NOR WOMAN
NEITHER, THOUGH BY YOUR
SMILING YOU SEEM TO SAY SO.
HAMLET
What is a human being? Objectively, nothing of consequence. Particles of dust in an infinite arena, present for an instant in eternity. Clumps of atoms in a universe with more galaxies than people. And yet a human being is necessary for the question itself to exist, and the presence of a question in the universe – any question – is the most wonderful thing. Questions require minds, and minds bring meaning. What is meaning? I don’t know, except that the universe and every pointless speck inside it means something to me. I am astonished by the existence of a single atom, and find my civilisation to be an outrageous imprint on reality. I don’t understand it. Nobody does, but it makes me smile.
This book asks questions about our origins, our destiny, and our place in the universe. We have no right to expect answers; we have no right to even ask. But ask and wonder we do.
Human Universe
is first and foremost a love letter to humanity; a celebration of our outrageous fortune in existing at all. I have chosen to write my letter in the language of science, because there is no better demonstration of our magnificent ascent from dust to paragon of animals than the exponentiation of knowledge generated by science. Two million years ago we were apemen. Now we are spacemen. That has happened, as far as we know, nowhere else. That is worth celebrating.
We shall not cease from exploration,
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
T. S. Eliot
For me, it was an early 1960s brick-built bungalow on Oakbank Avenue. If the wind was blowing from the east you could smell vinegar coming from Sarson’s Brewery – although these were rare days in Oldham, a town usually subjected to Westerlies dumping Atlantic moisture onto the textile mills, dampening their red brick in a permanent sheen against the sodden sky. On a good day, though, you’d take the vinegar in return for sunlight on the moors. Oldham looks like Joy Division sounds – and I like Joy Division. There was a newsagent on the corner of Kenilworth Avenue and Middleton Road and on Fridays my granddad would take me there and we’d buy a toy – usually a little car or truck. I’ve still got most of them. When I was older, I’d play tennis on the red cinder courts in Chadderton Hall Park and drink Woodpecker cider on the bench in the grounds of St Matthew’s Church. One autumn evening just after the start of the school year, and after a few sips, I had my first kiss there – all cold nose and sniffles. I suppose that sort of behaviour is frowned upon these days; the bloke in the off-licence would have been prosecuted by Oldham Council’s underage cider tsar and I’d be on a list. But I survived, and, eventually, I left Oldham for the University of Manchester.
Everyone has an Oakbank Avenue; a place in space at the beginning of our time, central to an expanding personal universe. For our distant ancestors in the East African Rift, their expansion was one of physical experience alone, but for a human fortunate to be born in the latter half of the twentieth century in a country like mine, education powers the mind beyond direct experience – onwards and outwards and, in the case of this little boy, towards the stars.
As England stomped its way through the 1970s, I learned my place amongst the continents and oceans of our blue planet. I could tell you about polar bears on Arctic ice flows or gazelle grazing on central plains long before I physically left our shores. I discovered that our Earth is one planet amongst nine (now redefined as eight) tracing out an elliptical orbit around an average star, with Mercury and Venus on the inside and Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune beyond. The Sun is one star amongst 400 billion in the Milky Way Galaxy, itself just one galaxy amongst 350 billion in the observable universe. Later, at university, I discovered that physical reality extends way beyond the 90-billion-light-year visible sphere into – if I had to guess based on my 46-year immersion in the combined knowledge of human civilisation – infinity.
This is my ascent into insignificance; a road travelled by many and yet one that remains intensely personal to each individual who takes it. The routes we follow through the ever-growing landscape of human knowledge are chaotic; the delayed turn of a page in a stumbled-upon book can lead to a lifetime of exploration. But there are common themes amongst our disparate intellectual journeys, and the relentless relegation from centre stage that inevitably followed the development of modern astronomy has had a powerful effect on our shared experience. I am certain that the voyage from the centre of creation to an infinitesimally tiny speck should be termed an ascent, the most glorious intellectual climb. Of course, I also recognise that there are many who have struggled – and continue to struggle – with such a dizzying physical relegation.
John Updike once wrote that ‘Astronomy is what we have now instead of theology. The terrors are less, but the comforts are nil’. For me, the choice between fear and elation is a matter of perspective, and it is a central aim of this book to make the case for elation. This may appear at first sight to be a difficult challenge – the very title
Human Universe
appears to demonstrate an unjustifiable solipsism. How can a possibly infinite reality be viewed through the prism of a bunch of biological machines temporarily inhabiting a mote of dust? My answer to that is that
Human Universe
is a love letter to humanity, because our mote of dust is the only place where love certainly exists.