Yesterday morning I went to the archeological museum. Michelle would like all the great Greek statues of horses—especially one of a small boy on a large galloping horse, all in bronze, that is a sensation. I saw so much stuff my feet began to hurt. I got all mixed up—things are not labeled well. Also, it was slightly boring because we have seen so much of that stuff before. Except for one thing: among all those art objects there was one thing so entirely different and strange that it is nearly impossible. It was recovered from the sea in 1900 and is some kind of machine with gear trains, very much like the inside of a modern wind-up alarm clock. The teeth are very regular and many wheels are fitted closely together. There are graduated circles and Greek inscriptions. I wonder if it is some kind of fake. There was an article on it in the Scientific American in 1959.
Yesterday afternoon I went to the Acropolis, which is right in the middle of the city—a high rock plateau on which was built the Parthenon and other shrines and temples. The Parthenon looks pretty good, but the Temple at Segesta, which Gweneth and I saw in Sicily, is just as impressive because you are allowed to walk around in it—you can’t go up to or walk around among the Parthenon columns. Prof. Illiapoulos’ sister came with us and with a notebook she had—she is a professional archeologist—guided our tour with all kinds of details, dates, quotations from Plutarch, etc.
It appears the Greeks take their past very seriously. They study ancient Greek archeology in their elementary schools for 6 years, having to take 10 hours of that subject every week. It is a kind of ancestor worship, for they emphasize always how wonderful the ancient Greeks were—and wonderful indeed they were. When you encourage them by saying, “Yes, and look how modern man has advanced beyond the ancient Greeks”—thinking of experimental science, the development of mathematics, the art of the Renaissance, the great depth and understanding of the relative shallowness of Greek philosophy, etc., etc.—they reply, “What do you mean? What was wrong with the ancient Greeks?” They continually put their age down and the old age up, until to point out the wonders of the present seems to them to be an unjustified lack of appreciation for the past.
They were very upset when I said that the development of greatest importance to mathematics in Europe was the discovery by Tartaglia that you can solve a cubic equation: although it is of very little use in itself, the discovery must have been psychologically wonderful because it showed that a modern man could do something no ancient Greek could do. It therefore helped in the Renaissance, which was the freeing of man from the intimidation of the ancients. What the Greeks are learning in school is to be intimidated into thinking they have fallen so far below their super ancestors.
I asked the archeologist lady about the machine in the museum—whether other similar machines, or simpler machines leading up to it or down from it, were ever found—but she hadn’t heard of it. So I met her and her son of Carl’s age (who looks at me as if I were a heroic ancient Greek, for he is studying physics) at the museum to show it to her. She required some explanation from me why I thought such a machine was interesting and surprising because, “Didn’t Eratosthenes measure the distance to the sun, and didn’t that require elaborate scientific instruments?” Oh, how ignorant are classically educated people. No wonder they don’t appreciate their own time. They are not of it and do not understand it. But after a bit she believed maybe it was striking, and she took me to the back rooms of the museum—surely there were other examples, and she would get a complete bibliography. Well, there were no other examples, and the complete bibiography was a list of three articles (including the one in the Scientific American)—all by one man, an American from Yale!
I guess the Greeks think all Americans must be dull, being only interested in machinery when there are all those beautiful statues and portrayals of lovely myths and stories of gods and goddesses to look at. (In fact, a lady from the museum staff remarked, when told that the professor from America wanted to know more about item 15087, “Of all the beautiful things in this museum, why does he pick out that particular item? What is so special about it?”)
Everyone here complains of the heat, and concerned about whether you can stand it, when in fact it is just like Pasadena but about 5 degrees cooler on the average. So all stores and offices close from perhaps 1:30 pm to 5:30 pm (”because of the heat”). It turns out to be really a good idea (everyone takes a nap) because then they go late into the night—supper is between 9:30 and 10 pm, when it is cool. Right now, people here are seriously complaining about a new law: to save energy, all restaurants and taverns must close at 2 am. This, they say, will spoil life in Athens.
It is the witching hour between 1:30 and 5:30 pm now, and I am using it to write to you. I miss you, and I would really be happier at home. I guess I really have lost my bug for travelling. I have a day and a half yet here and they have given me all kinds of literature about a beautiful beach (of pebbles) here, of an important ancient site (although in rather complete ruins) there, etc. But I will go to none of them, for each, it turns out, is a long, two- to four-hour ride each way on a tour bus. No. I’ll just stay here and prepare my talks for Crete. (They have me giving an extra three lectures to some twenty Greek university students who are all coming to Crete just to hear me. I’ll do something like my New Zealand lectures,*but I haven’t got any notes! I’ll have to work them out again.)
I miss you all, especially when I go to bed at night—no dogs to scratch and say good night to!
Love, Richard.
P.S. IF YOU CAN’T READ THE ABOVE HANDWRITING, HAVE NO FEAR—IT IS UNIMPORTANT RAMBLINGS. I AM WELL & IN ATHENS.
MacFaddin Hall
Cornell University
Ithaca, NY
November 19, 1947†
My Dear Family:
Just a brief letter before we go off to Rochester. We have every Wednesday a seminar at which somebody talks about some item of research, and from time to time this is made a joint seminar with Rochester University. To-day is the first time this term that we are going over there for it.
It is a magnificent day, and it should be a lovely trip;Rochester is northwest of here, on the shores of Lake Ontario, and we go through some wild country. I am being taken in Feynman’s car, which will be great fun if we survive. Feynman is a man for whom I am developing a considerable admiration; he is the first example I have met of that rare species, the native American scientist. He has developed a private version of the quantum theory, which is generally agreed to be a good piece of work and may be more helpful than the orthodox version for some problems; in general he is always sizzling with new ideas, most of which are more spectacular than helpful, and hardly any of which get very far before some newer inspiration eclipses it. His most valuable contribution to physics is as a sustainer of morale; when he bursts into the room with his latest brain-wave and proceeds to expound on it with the most lavish sound effects and waving about of the arms, life at least is not dull.
Weisskopf, the chief theoretician at Rochester, is also an interesting and able man, but of the normal European type; he comes from Munich, where he was a friend of Bethe from student days.
The event of the last week has been a visit from Peierls, who… stayed two nights with the Bethes before flying home.… On Monday night the Bethes gave a party in his honor, to which most of the young theoreticians were invited. When we arrived we were introduced to Henry Bethe, who is now five years old, but he was not at all impressed. In fact, the only thing he would say was “I want Dick! You told me Dick was coming!” Finally he had to be sent off to bed, since Dick (alias Feynman) did not materialize.
About half an hour later, Feynman burst into the room, just had time to say, “So sorry I’m late—had a brilliant idea just as I was coming over,” and then dashed upstairs to console Henry. Conversation then ceased while the company listened to the joyful sounds above, sometimes taking the form of a duet and sometimes of a one-man percussion band.…
Much Love,
Freeman
Urbana, Illinois
April 9, 1981
Dear Sara,*
I just spent a marvelous three days with Dick Feynman and wished you had been there to share him with us. Sixty years and a big cancer operation have not blunted him. He is still the same Feynman that we knew in the old days at Cornell.
We were together at a small meeting of physicists organized by John Wheeler at the University of Texas. For some reason Wheeler decided to hold the meeting at a grotesque place called World of Tennis, a country club where Texas oil-millionaires go to relax. So there we were. We all grumbled at the high prices and the extravagant ugliness of our rooms. But there was nowhere else to go—or so we thought. But Dick thought otherwise: he just said, “To hell with it. I am not going to sleep in this place,” picked up his suitcase, and walked off alone into the woods.
In the morning he reappeared, looking none the worse for his night under the stars. He said he did not sleep much, but it was worth it.
We had many conversations about science and history, just like in the old days. But now he had something new to talk about, his children. He said, “I always thought I would be a specially good father because I wouldn’t try to push my
kids into any particular direction. I wouldn’t try to turn them into scientists or intellectuals if they didn’t want it. I would be just as happy with them if they decided to be truck drivers or guitar players. In fact, I would even like it better if they went out in the world and did something real instead of being professors like me. But they always find a way to hit back at you. My boy Carl, for instance. There he is in his second year at MIT, and all he wants to do with his life is to become a goddamn philosopher!”*
As we sat in the airport waiting for our planes, Dick pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil and started to draw the faces of people sitting in the lounge. He drew them amazingly well. I said I was sorry I have no talent for drawing. He said, “I always thought I have no talent either. But you don’t need any talent to do stuff like this.”…
Yours,
Freeman
February 17, 1988
London, England!†
Dear Mrs. Feynman,
We have not met, I believe, frequently enough for either of us to have taken root in the other’s conscious memory. So please forgive any impertinence, but I could not let Richard’s death pass unnoticed, or to take the opportunity to add my own sense of loss to yours.
Dick was the best and favorite of several “uncles” who encircled my childhood. During his time at Cornell he was
a frequent and always welcome visitor at our house, one who could be counted on to take time out from conversations with my parents and other adults to lavish attention on the children. He was at once a great player of games with us and a teacher even then who opened our eyes to the world around us.
My favorite memory of all is of sitting as an eight- or nine-year-old between Dick and my mother, waiting for the distinguished naturalist Konrad Lorenz to give a lecture. I was itchy and impatient, as all young are when asked to sit still, when Dick turned to me and said, “Did you know that there are twice as many numbers as numbers?”
“No, there are not!” I was defensive as all young of my knowledge.
“Yes there are; I’ll show you. Name a number.”
“One million.” A big number to start.
“Two million.”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Fifty-four.”
I named about ten more numbers and each time Dick named the number twice as big. Light dawned.
“I see; so there are three times as many numbers as numbers.”
“Prove it,” said Uncle Dick. He named a number. I named one three times as big. He tried another. I did it again. Again.
He named a number too complicated for me to multiply in my head. “Three times that,” I said.
“So, is there a biggest number?” he asked.
“No,” I replied. “Because for every number, there is one twice as big, one three times as big. There is even one a million times as big.”
“Right, and that concept of increase without limit, of no biggest number, is called ‘infinity’.”
At that point Lorenz arrived, so we stopped to listen to him.
I did not see Dick often after he left Cornell. But he left me with bright memories, infinity, and new ways of learning about the world. I loved him dearly.
Sincerely Yours,
Henry Bethe
Photos and Drawings
Richard and Arlene on the boardwalk in Atlantic City.
On their wedding day.
Arlene in the hospital.
Coffee hour at Winnett Student Center, 1964. (CALTECH)
Gesturing at a Caltech Alumni Day lecture, 1978. (CALTECH)
In the Caltech production of Fiorello, 1978. (CALTECH)
The chief from Bali Hai in South Pacific, 1982. (CALTECH)
With Michelle, 3, and Carl, 10, in Yorkshire, England, (BBC, YORKSHIRE TELEVISION)
With son Carl on the day Richard won the Nobel Prize, 1965. (CALTECH)
Richard and Gweneth on their silver wedding anniversary, 1985. (PHOTO BY YASUSHI OHNUKI)
Richard Feynman began taking art lessons at the age of 44, and continued drawing for the rest of his life. These sketches include portraits of professional models, his friend Bob Sadler, and his daughter Michelle (at the age of 14). Feynman signed all of his artwork “Ofey” to make sure no one would suspect who really drew them.
Part 2
MR. FEYNMANGOES TO WASHINGTON: INVESTIGATING THE SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER DISASTER
Preliminaries
IN THIS STORY I’m going to talk a lot about NASA,* but when I say “NASA did this” and “NASA did that,” I don’t mean all of NASA; I just mean that part of NASA associated with the shuttle.
To remind you about the shuttle, the large central part is the tank, which holds the fuel: liquid oxygen is at the top, and liquid hydrogen is in the main part. The engines which burn that fuel are at the back end of the orbiter, which goes into space. The crew sits in the front of the orbiter; behind them is the cargo bay.
During the launch, two solid-fuel rockets boost the shuttle for a few minutes before they separate and fall back into the sea. The tank separates from the orbiter a few minutes later—much higher in the atmosphere—and breaks up as it falls back to earth.
The solid rocket boosters are made in sections. There are two types of joints to hold the sections together: the permanent “factory joints” are sealed at the Morton Thiokol factory in Utah; the temporary “field joints” are sealed before each flight—“in the field”—at the Kennedy Space Center in Florida.
FIGURE 1. THE SPACE SHUTTLE Challenger. The fuel tank, flanked by two solid-fuel rocket boosters, is attached to the orbiter, whose main engines burn liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen. (© NASA.)
FIGURE 2. Locations and close-up views of booster-rocket field joints.
Committing Suicide
AS YOU probably know, the space shuttle Challenger had an accident on Tuesday, January 28, 1986. I saw the explosion on TV, but apart from the tragedy of losing seven people, I didn’t think much about it.
In the newspaper I used to read about shuttles going up and down all the time, but it bothered me a little bit that I never saw in any scientific journal any results of anything that had ever come out of the experiments on the shuttle that were supposed to be so important. So I wasn’t paying very much attention to it.
Well, a few days after the accident, I get a telephone call from the head of NASA, William Graham, asking me to be on the committee investigating what went wrong with the shuttle! Dr. Graham said he had been a student of mine at Caltech, and later had worked at the Hughes Aircraft Company, where I gave lectures every Wednesday afternoon.
I still wasn’t exactly sure who he was.
When I heard the investigation would be in Washington, my immediate reaction was not to do it: I have a principle of not going anywhere near Washingt
on or having anything to do with government, so my immediate reaction was—how am I gonna get out of this?
I called various friends like Al Hibbs and Dick Davies, but they explained to me that investigating the Challenger accident was very important for the nation, and that I should do it.
My last chance was to convince my wife. “Look,” I said. “Anybody could do it. They can get somebody else.”
“No,” said Gweneth. “If you don’t do it, there will be twelve people, all in a group, going around from place to place together. But if you join the commission, there will be eleven people—all in a group, going around from place to place together—while the twelfth one runs around all over the place, checking all kinds of unusual things. There probably won’t be anything, but if there is, you’ll find it.” She said, “There isn’t anyone else who can do that like you can.”
'What Do You Care What Other People Think?' Page 9