I also noticed that I could see colors. Some people had said that you dream in black and white, but no, I was dreaming in color.
By this time I was inside one of the train cars, and I can feel the train lurching about. I say to myself, “So you can get kinesthetic feelings in a dream.” I walk with some difficulty down to the end of the car, and I see a big window, like a store window. Behind it there are—not mannequins, but three live girls in bathing suits, and they look pretty good!
I continue walking into the next car, hanging onto the straps overhead as I go, when I say to myself, “Hey! It would be interesting to get excited—sexually—so I think I’ll go back into the other car.” I discovered that I could turn around, and walk back through the train—I could control the direction of my dream. I get back to the car with the special window, and I see three old guys playing violins—but they turned back into girls! So I could modify the direction of my dream, but not perfectly.
Well, I began to get excited, intellectually as well as sexually, saying things like, “Wow! It’s working!” and I woke up.
I made some other observations while dreaming. Apart from always asking myself, “Am I really dreaming in color?” I wondered, “How accurately do you see something?”
The next time I had a dream, there was a girl lying in tall grass, and she had red hair. I tried to see if I could see each hair. You know how there’s a little area of color just where the sun is reflecting—the diffraction effect, I could see that! I could see each hair as sharp as you want: perfect vision!
Another time I had a dream in which a thumbtack was stuck in a doorframe. I see the tack, run my fingers down the doorframe, and I feel the tack. So the “seeing department” and the “feeling department” of the brain seem to be connected. Then I say to myself, Could it be that they don’t have to be connected? I look at the doorframe again, and there’s no thumbtack. I run my finger down the doorframe, and I feel the tack!
Another time I’m dreaming and I hear “knock-knock; knock-knock.” Something was happening in the dream that made this knocking fit, but not perfectly—it seemed sort of foreign. I thought: “Absolutely guaranteed that this knocking is coming from outside my dream, and I’ve invented this part of the dream to fit with it. I’ve got to wake up and find out what the hell it is.”
The knocking is still going, I wake up, and … Dead silence. There was nothing. So it wasn’t connected to the outside.
Other people have told me that they have incorporated external noises into their dreams, but when I had this experience, carefully “watching from below,” and sure the noise was coming from outside the dream, it wasn’t.
During the time of making observations in my dreams, the process of waking up was a rather fearful one. As you’re beginning to wake up there’s a moment when you feel rigid and tied down, or underneath many layers of cotton batting. It’s hard to explain, but there’s a moment when you get the feeling you can’t get out; you’re not sure you can wake up. So I would have to tell myself—after I was awake—that that’s ridiculous. There’s no disease I know of where a person falls asleep naturally and can’t wake up. You can always wake up. And after talking to myself many times like that, I became less and less afraid, and in fact I found the process of waking up rather thrilling—something like a roller coaster: After a while you’re not so scared, and you begin to enjoy it a little bit.
You might like to know how this process of observing my dreams stopped (which it has for the most part; it’s happened just a few times since). I’m dreaming one night as usual, making observations, and I see on the wall in front of me a pennant. I answer for the twenty-fifth time, “Yes, I’m dreaming in color,” and then I realize that I’ve been sleeping with the back of my head against a brass rod. I put my hand behind my head and I feel that the back of my head is soft. I think, “Aha! That’s why I’ve been able to make all these observations in my dreams: the brass rod has disturbed my visual cortex. All I have to do is sleep with a brass rod under my head, and I can make these observations any time I want. So I think I’ll stop making observations on this one, and go into deeper sleep.”
When I woke up later, there was no brass rod, nor was the back of my head soft. Somehow I had become tired of making these observations, and my brain had invented some false reasons as to why I shouldn’t do it any more.
As a result of these observations I began to get a little theory. One of the reasons that I liked to look at dreams was that I was curious as to how you can see an image, of a person, for example, when your eyes are closed, and nothing’s coming in. You say it might be random, irregular nerve discharges, but you can’t get the nerves to discharge in exactly the same delicate patterns when you are sleeping as when you are awake, looking at something. Well then, how could I “see” in color, and in better detail, when I was asleep?
I decided there must be an “interpretation department.” When you are actually looking at something—a man, a lamp, or a wall—you don’t just see blotches of color. Something tells you what it is; it has to be interpreted. When you’re dreaming, this interpretation department is still operating, but it’s all slopped up. It’s telling you that you’re seeing a human hair in the greatest detail, when it isn’t true. It’s interpreting the random junk entering the brain as a clear image.
One other thing about dreams. I had a friend named Deutsch, whose wife was from a family of psychoanalysts in Vienna. One evening, during a long discussion about dreams, he told me that dreams have significance: there are symbols in dreams that can be interpreted psychoanalytically. I didn’t believe most of this stuff, but that night I had an interesting dream: We’re playing a game on a billiard table with three balls—a white ball, a green ball, and a gray ball—and the name of the game is “titsies.” There was something about trying to get the balls into the pocket: the white ball and the green ball are easy to sink into the pocket, but the gray one, I can’t get to it.
I wake up, and the dream is very easy to interpret: the name of the game gives it away, of course—them’s girls! The white ball was easy to figure out, because I was going out, sneakily, with a married woman who worked at the time as a cashier in a cafeteria and wore a white uniform. The green one was also easy, because I had gone out about two nights before to a drive-in movie with a girl in a green dress. But the gray one—what the hell was the gray one? I knew it had to be somebody; I felt it. It’s like when you’re trying to remember a name, and it’s on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t get it.
It took me half a day before I remembered that I had said goodbye to a girl I liked very much, who had gone to Italy about two or three months before. She was a very nice girl, and I had decided that when she came back I was going to see her again. I don’t know if she wore a gray suit, but it was perfectly clear, as soon as I thought of her, that she was the gray one.
I went back to my friend Deutsch, and I told him he must be right—there is something to analyzing dreams. But when he heard about my interesting dream, he said, “No, that one was too perfect—too cut and dried. Usually you have to do a bit more analysis.”
The Chief Research Chemist of the Metaplast Corporation
After I finished at MIT I wanted to get a summer job. I had applied two or three times to the Bell Labs, and had gone out a few times to visit. Bill Shockley, who knew me from the lab at MIT, would show me around each time, and I enjoyed those visits terrifically, but I never got a job there.
I had letters from some of my professors to two specific companies. One was to the Bausch and Lomb Company for tracing rays through lenses; the other was to Electrical Testing Labs in New York. At that time nobody knew what a physicist even was, and there weren’t any positions in industry for physicists. Engineers, OK; but physicists—nobody knew how to use them. It’s interesting that very soon, after the war, it was the exact opposite: people wanted physicists everywhere. So I wasn’t getting anywhere as a physicist looking for a job late in the Depression.
Ab
out that time I met an old friend of mine on the beach at our home town of Far Rockaway, where we grew up together. We had gone to school together when we were about eleven or twelve, and were very good friends. We were both scientifically minded. He had a “laboratory,” and I had a “laboratory.” We often played together, and discussed things together.
We used to put on magic shows—chemistry magic—for the kids on the block. My friend was a pretty good showman, and I kind of liked that too. We did our tricks on a little table, with Bunsen burners at each end going all the time. On the burners we had watch glass plates (flat glass discs) with iodine on them, which made a beautiful purple vapor that went up on each side of the table while the show went on. It was great! We did a lot of tricks, such as turning “wine” into water, and other chemical color changes. For our finale, we did a trick that used something which we had discovered. I would put my hands (secretly) first into a sink of water, and then into benzine. Then I would “accidentally” brush by one of the Bunsen burners, and one hand would light up. I’d clap my hands, and both hands would then be burning. (It doesn’t hurt because it burns fast and the water keeps it cool.) Then I’d wave my hands, running around yelling, “FIRE! FIRE!” and everybody would get all excited. They’d run out of the room, and that was the end of the show!
Later on I told this story at college to my fraternity brothers and they said, “Nonsense! You can’t do that!”
(I often had this problem of demonstrating to these fellas something that they didn’t believe—like the time we got into an argument as to whether urine just ran out of you by gravity, and I had to demonstrate that that wasn’t the case by showing them that you can pee standing on your head. Or the time when somebody claimed that if you took aspirin and Coca-Cola you’d fall over in a dead faint directly. I told them I thought it was a lot of baloney, and offered to take aspirin and Coca-Cola together. Then they got into an argument whether you should have the aspirin before the Coke, just after the Coke, or mixed in the Coke. So I had six aspirin and three Cokes, one right after the other. First, I took aspirins and then a Coke, then we dissolved two aspirins in a Coke and I took that, and then I took a Coke and two aspirins. Each time the idiots who believed it were standing around me, waiting to catch me when I fainted. But nothing happened. I do remember that I didn’t sleep very well that night, so I got up and did a lot of figuring, and worked out some of the formulas for what is called the Riemann-Zeta function.)
“All right, guys,” I said. “Let’s go out and get some benzine.”
They got the benzine ready, I stuck my hand in the water in the sink and then into the benzine and lit it … and it hurt like hell! You see, in the meantime I had grown hairs on the back of my hand, which acted like wicks and held the benzine in place while it burned, whereas when I had done it earlier I had no hairs on the back of my hand. After I did the experiment for my fraternity brothers, I didn’t have any hairs on the back of my hands either.
Well, my pal and I met on the beach, and he told me that he had a process for metal-plating plastics. I said that was impossible, because there’s no conductivity; you can’t attach a wire. But he said he could metal-plate anything, and I still remember him picking up a peach pit that was in the sand, and saying he could metal-plate that—trying to impress me.
What was nice was that he offered me a job at his little company, which was on the top floor of a building in New York. There were only about four people in the company. His father was the one who was getting the money together and was, I think, the “president.” He was the “vice-president,” along with another fella who was a salesman. I was the “chief research chemist,” and my friend’s brother, who was not very clever, was the bottle-washer. We had six metal-plating baths.
They had this process for metal-plating plastics, and the scheme was: First, deposit silver on the object by precipitating silver from a silver nitrate bath with a reducing agent (like you make mirrors); then stick the object, with silver on it as a conductor, into an electroplating bath, and the silver gets plated.
The problem was, does the silver stick to the object?
It doesn’t. It peels off easily. So there was a step in between, to make the silver stick better to the object. It depended on the material. For things like Bakelite, which was an important plastic in those days, my friend had found that if he sandblasted it first, and then soaked it for many hours in stannous hydroxide, which got into the pores of the Bakelite, the silver would hold onto the surface very nicely.
But it worked only on a few plastics, and new kinds of plastics were coming out all the time, such as methyl methacrylate (which we call plexiglass, now), that we couldn’t plate directly, at first. And cellulose acetate, which was very cheap, was another one we couldn’t plate at first, though we finally discovered that putting it in sodium hydroxide for a little while before using the stannous chloride made it plate very well.
I was pretty successful as a “chemist” in the company. My advantage was that my pal had done no chemistry at all; he had done no experiments; he just knew how to do something once. I set to work putting lots of different knobs in bottles, and putting all kinds of chemicals in. By trying everything and keeping track of everything I found ways of plating a wider range of plastics than he had done before.
I was also able to simplify his process. From looking in books I changed the reducing agent from glucose to formaldehyde, and was able to recover 100 percent of the silver immediately, instead of having to recover the silver left in solution at a later time.
I also got the stannous hydroxide to dissolve in water by adding a little bit of hydrochloric acid—something I remembered from a college chemistry course—so a step that used to take hours now took about five minutes.
My experiments were always being interrupted by the salesman, who would come back with some plastic from a prospective customer. I’d have all these bottles lined up, with everything marked, when all of a sudden, “You gotta stop the experiment to do a ‘super job’ for the sales department!” So, a lot of experiments had to be started more than once.
One time we got into one hell of a lot of trouble. There was some artist who was trying to make a picture for the cover of a magazine about automobiles. He had very carefully built a wheel out of plastic, and somehow or other this salesman had told him we could plate anything, so the artist wanted us to metal-plate the hub, so it would be a shiny, silver hub. The wheel was made of a new plastic that we didn’t know very well how to plate—the fact is, the salesman never knew what we could plate, so he was always promising things—and it didn’t work the first time. So, to fix it up we had to get the old silver off, and we couldn’t get it off easily. I decided to use concentrated nitric acid on it, which took the silver off all right, but also made pits and holes in the plastic. We were really in hot water that time! In fact, we had lots of “hot water” experiments.
The other fellas in the company decided we should run advertisements in Modern Plastics magazine. A few things we metal-plated were very pretty. They looked good in the advertisements. We also had a few things out in a showcase in front, for prospective customers to look at, but nobody could pick up the things in the advertisements or in the showcase to see how well the plating stayed on. Perhaps some of them were, in fact, pretty good jobs. But they were made specially; they were not regular products.
Right after I left the company at the end of the summer to go to Princeton, they got a good offer from somebody who wanted to metal-plate plastic pens. Now people could have silver pens that were light, and easy, and cheap. The pens immediately sold, all over, and it was rather exciting to see people walking around everywhere with these pens—and you knew where they came from.
But the company hadn’t had much experience with the material—or perhaps with the filler that was used in the plastic (most plastics aren’t pure; they have a “filler,” which in those days wasn’t very well controlled)—and the darn things would develop a blister. When you have something
in your hand that has a little blister that starts to peel, you can’t help fiddling with it. So everybody was fiddling with all the peelings coming off the pens.
Now the company had this emergency problem to fix the pens, and my pal decided he needed a big microscope, and so on. He didn’t know what he was going to look at, or why, and it cost his company a lot of money for this fake research. The result was, they had trouble: They never solved the problem, and the company failed, because their first big job was such a failure.
A few years later I was in Los Alamos, where there was a man named Frederic de Hoffman, who was a sort of scientist; but more, he was also very good at administrating. Not highly trained, he liked mathematics, and worked very hard; he compensated for his lack of training by hard work. Later he became the president or vice president of General Atomics and he was a big industrial character after that. But at the time he was just a very energetic, open-eyed, enthusiastic boy, helping along with the Project as best he could.
One day we were eating at the Fuller Lodge, and he told me he had been working in England before coming to Los Alamos.
“What kind of work were you doing there?” I asked.
“I was working on a process for metal-plating plastics. I was one of the guys in the laboratory.”
“How did it go?”
“It was going along pretty well, but we had our problems.”
“Oh?”
“Just as we were beginning to develop our process, there was a company in New York …”
“What company in New York?”
“It was called the Metaplast Corporation. They were developing further than we were.”
“How could you tell?”
“They were advertising all the time in Modern Plastics with full-page advertisements showing all the things they could plate, and we realized that they were further along than we were.”
“Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman”: Adventures of a Curious Character Page 5