by C. P. Snow
Speech by C P Snow delivered in 1960 to the American Association for the Advancement of Science
Scientists are the most important occupational group in the world today. At this moment, what they do is of passionate concern to the whole of human society. At this moment, the scientists have little influence on the world effect of what they do. Yet, potentially, they can have great influence. The rest of the world is frightened both of what they do – that is, the intellectual discoveries of science – and of its effect. The rest of the world, transferring its fears, is frightened of the scientists themselves and tends to think of them as radically different from other men.
As an ex-scientist, if I may call myself so, I know that is nonsense. I have even tried to express in fiction some kinds of scientific temperament and scientific experience. I know well enough that scientists are very much like other men. After all, we’re all human, even if some of us don’t look it. I think I would be prepared to risk a generalization. The scientists I have known – and because of my official life I think I’ve known as many as anyone in the world – have been in certain respects at least as morally admirable as most other groups of intelligent men.
That is a sweeping statement and I mean it only in a statistical sense. But I think there is just a little in it. The moral qualities I admire in scientists are quite simple ones, but I am very suspicious of attempts to over-subtilize moral qualities. It is nearly always a sign, not of true sophistication, but of a specific kind of triviality. So I admire in scientists very simple virtues – like courage, truth-telling, kindness – in which, judged by the low standards which the rest of us manage to achieve, the scientists are not deficient. I think on the whole the scientists make slightly better husbands and fathers than most of us, and I admire them for it. I don’t know the figures, and I should be curious to have them sorted out, but I am prepared to bet that the proportion of divorces among scientists is slightly but significantly less than that among other groups of similar education and income. I do not apologize for considering that a good thing.
A close friend of mine is a very distinguished scientist. He is also one of the few scientists I know who have lived what we used to call a Bohemian life. When we were both younger, he thought he would undertake historical research to see how many great scientists had been as miscellaneously fond of women as he was. I think he would have felt mildly supported if he could have found a precedent. I remember his reporting to me that his researches hadn’t had any luck. The really great scientists were depressingly ‘normal’. The only gleam of comfort was in the life of Jerome Cardan; and Cardan just wasn’t anything like enough to outweigh all the others.
So scientists are not much different from other men. They are certainly no worse than other men. But they do differ from other men in one thing. That is the point I started from. Whether they like it or not, what they do is of critical importance for the human race. Intellectually, it has transformed the climate of our time. Socially, it will decide whether we live or die, and how we live or die. It holds decisive powers for good and evil. That is the situation in which the scientists find themselves. They may not have asked for it, or may only have asked for it in part, but they cannot escape it. They think, many of the more sensitive of them, that they don’t deserve to have this weight of responsibility heaved upon them. All they want to do is get on with their work. I sympathize. But the scientists can’t escape the responsibility – any more than they, or the rest of us, can escape the gravity of the moment in which we stand.
There is, of course, one way to contract out. It has been a favourite way for intellectual persons caught in the midst of water too rough for them.
It consists of the invention of categories – or, if you like, of the division of moral labour. That is, the scientists who want to contract out say, we produce the tools. We stop there. It is for you – the rest of the world, the politicians – to say how the tools are used. The tools may be used for purposes which most of us would regard as bad. If so we are sorry. But as scientists, that is no concern of ours.
This is the doctrine of the ethical neutrality of science. I can’t accept it for an instant. I don’t believe any scientist of serious feeling can accept it. It is hard, some think, to find the precise statements which will prove it wrong. Yet we nearly all feel intuitively that the invention of comfortable categories is a moral trap. It is one of the easier methods of letting the conscience rust. It is exactly what the early nineteenth-century economists, such as Ricardo, did in the face of the facts of the first industrial revolution. We wonder now how men, intelligent men, can have been so morally blind. We realize how the exposure of that moral blindness gave Marxism its apocalyptic force. We are now, in the middle of the scientific or second industrial revolution, in something like the same position as Ricardo. Are we going to let our consciences rust? Can we ignore that intimation we nearly all have, that scientists have a unique responsibility? Can we believe it, that science is morally neutral?
To me – it would be dishonest to pretend otherwise – there is only one answer to those questions. Yet I have been brought up in the presence of the same intellectual categories as most Western scientists. It would be dishonest to pretend that I find it easy to construct a rationale which expresses what I now believe. The best I can hope for is to fire a few sighting shots. Perhaps someone who sees more clearly than I can will come along and make a real job of it.
Let me begin by a remark which seems some way off the point. Anyone who has ever worked in science knows how much aesthetic joy he has obtained. That is, in the actual activity of science, in the process of making a discovery, however humble it is, one can’t help feeling an awareness of beauty. The subjective experience, the aesthetic satisfaction, seems exactly the same as the satisfaction one gets from writing a poem or a novel, or composing a piece of music. I don’t think anyone has succeeded in distinguishing between them. The literature of scientific discovery is full of this aesthetic joy. The very best communication of it that I know comes in G H Hardy’s book A Mathematician’s Apology. Graham Greene once said he thought that, along with Henry James’ prefaces, this was the best account of the artistic experience ever written. But one meets the same thing throughout the history of science. Bolyai’s great yell of triumph when he saw he could construct a self-consistent non-Euclidian geometry: Rutherford’s revelation to his colleagues that he knew what the atom was like: Darwin’s slow, patient, timorous certainty that at last he had got there – all these are voices, different voices, of aesthetic ecstasy.
That is not the end of it. The result of the activity of science, the actual finished piece of scientific work, has an aesthetic value in itself. The judgements passed on it by other scientists will, more often than not, be expressed in aesthetic terms: ‘That’s beautiful,’ or ‘That really is very pretty!’ (as the understating English tend to say). The aesthetics of scientific constructs, like the aesthetics of works of art, are variegated. We think some of the great syntheses, like Newton’s, beautiful because of their classical simplicity, but we see a different kind of beauty in the relativistic extension of the wave equation, or the interpretation of the structure of dioxyribonucleic acid, perhaps because of the touch of unexpectedness. But scientists know their kinds of beauty when they see them. They are suspicious, and scientific history shows they have always been right to be so, when a subject is in an ‘ugly’ state. For example, most physicists feel in their bones that the present bizarre assembly of nuclear particles, as grotesque as a stamp collection, can’t possibly be, in the long run, the last word.
We should not restrict the aesthetic values to what we call ‘pure’ science. Applied science has its beauties, which are, in my view, identical in nature. The magnetron has been a marvellously useful device, yet it was a beautiful device, not exactly apart from its utility, but because it did, with such supreme economy, precisely what it was designed to do. Right down in the field of development, the aesthetic experience is just as real to en
gineers. When they forget it, when they begin to design heavy power equipment about twice as heavy as it needs to be, engineers are the first to know that they are lacking virtue.
There is no doubt, then, about the aesthetic content of science, both in the activity and the result. But aesthetics has no connection with morals, say the categorizers. I don’t want to waste time on peripheral issues – but are you quite sure of that? Or is it possible that these categories are inventions to make us evade the human and social conditions in which we now exist? But let’s move straight on to something else, which is right in the grain of the activity of science and which is at the same time quintessentially moral. I mean, the desire to find the truth.
By truth I don’t intend anything complicated, once again. I am using truth as a scientist uses it. We all know that the philosophical examination of the concept of empirical truth gets us into some curious complexities, but most scientists really don’t care. They know that the truth, as they use the word, and as the rest of us use it in the language of human speech, is what makes science work. That is good enough for them. On it rests the whole great edifice of modern science. They have a sneaking sympathy for Rutherford who, when asked to examine the philosophical bases of science, was inclined to reply, as he did to the metaphysician, Samuel Alexander: ‘Well, what have you been talking all your life, Alexander? Just hot air! Nothing but hot air!’
Anyway, truth in their own straightforward sense is what scientists are trying to find. They want to find what is there. Without that desire, there is no science. It is the driving-force of the whole activity. It compels the scientist to have an overriding respect for truth, every stretch of the way. That is, if you’re going to find what is there, you must not deceive yourself or anyone else. You mustn’t lie to yourself. At the crudest level, you mustn’t fake your experiments.
Curiously enough, scientists do try to behave like that. A short time ago I wrote a novel where the story hinged on a case of scientific fraud. But I made one of my characters, who was himself a very good scientist, say that, considering the opportunities and temptations, it is astonishing how few such cases there are. We have all heard of perhaps half a dozen open and notorious ones, which are on the record for anyone to read – ranging from the ‘discovery’ of L-radiation to the singular episode of the Piltdown man.
We have all, if we have lived any time in the scientific world, heard private talk of something like another dozen cases which for various reasons are not yet public property. In some of those cases, we know the motives for cheating – sometimes, but not always, sheer personal advantage, such as getting money or a job. But not always. A special kind of vanity has led more than one man into scientific faking. At a lower level of research, there are presumably some more cases. There must have been occasional PhD students who scraped by with the help of a bit of fraud.
But the total number of all these men is vanishingly small by the side of the total number of scientists. Incidentally, the effect on science of such frauds is also vanishingly small. Science is a self-correcting system. That is, no fraud (or honest mistake) is going to stay undetected for long. There is no need for an extrinsic scientific criticism, because criticism is inherent in the process itself. So that all that a fraud can do is waste the time of the scientists who have to clear it up.
The remarkable thing is not the handful of scientists who deviate from the search for truth but the overwhelming numbers who keep to it. That is a demonstration, absolutely clear for anyone to see, of moral behaviour on a very large scale.
We take it for granted. Yet it is very important. It differentiates science in its widest sense (which includes scholarship) from all other intellectual activities. There is a built-in moral component right in the core of the scientific activity itself. The desire to find the truth is itself a moral impulse, or at least contains a moral impulse. The way in which a scientist tries to find the truth imposes on him a constant moral discipline. We say a scientific conclusion – such as the contradiction of parity by Lee and Yang – is ‘true’ in the limited sense of scientific truth, just as we say that it is ‘beautiful’ according to the criteria of scientific aesthetics. We also know that to reach this conclusion took a set of actions which would have been useless without the moral motive. That is, all through the experiments of Wu and her colleagues, there was the constant moral exercise of seeking and telling the truth. To scientists, who are brought up in this climate, this seems as natural as breathing. Yet it is a wonderful thing. Even if the scientific activity contained only this one moral component, that would be enough to let us say that it was morally un-neutral.
But is this the only moral component? All scientists would agree about the beauty and the truth. In the Western world, they wouldn’t agree on much more. Some will feel with me in what I’m going to say. Some will not. That doesn’t affect me much, except that I am worried by the growth of an attitude I think very dangerous, a kind of technological conformity disguised as cynicism. I shall say a little more about that later. As for disagreement, G H Hardy used to comment that a serious man never ought to waste his time stating a majority opinion – there are plenty of others to do that. That was the voice of classical scientific non-conformity. I wish that we heard it more often.
Let me cite some grounds for hope. Any of us who were doing science before 1933 can remember what the atmosphere was like. It is a terrible bore when ageing men speak about the charms of their youth. Yet I’m going to irritate you – just as Talleyrand irritated his juniors – by saying that unless one was on the scene before 1933, one hasn’t known the sweetness of the scientific life. The scientific world of the Twenties was as near a full-fledged international community as we’re likely to get. Don’t think I’m saying that the men involved were superhuman or free from the ordinary frailties. That wouldn’t come well from me, who’ve spent a fraction of my writing-life pointing out that scientists are, first and foremost, men. But the atmosphere of the Twenties in science was filled with an air of benevolence and magnanimity which transcended the people who lived in it.
Anyone who ever spent a week in Cambridge or Göttingen or Copenhagen felt it all round him. Rutherford had many human faults, but he was a great man with abounding human generosity. For him the world of science was a world that lived on a plane above the nation-state, and lived there with joy. That was at least as true of those two other great men, Niels Bohr and Franck, and some of that spirit rubbed off on to the pupils round them. The same was true of the Roman school of physics.
The personal links within this international world were very close. It is worth remembering that Peter Kapitsa, who was a loyal Soviet citizen, honoured my country by working in Rutherford’s laboratory for many years. He became a Fellow of the Royal Society, a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, and the founder and king pin of the best physics club Cambridge has known. He never gave up his Soviet citizenship and is now Director of the Institute of Physical Problems in Moscow. Through him a generation of English scientists came to have personal knowledge of Russian scientists. These exchanges were then, and have remained, more valuable than all the diplomatic exchanges ever invented.
The Kapitsa phenomenon couldn’t take place now. I hope to live to see the day when a young Kapitsa can once more work for sixteen years in Berkeley or Cambridge and then go back to an eminent place in his own country. When that can happen, we are all right. But after the idyllic years of world science we passed into a tempest of history: and, I suppose by an unfortunate coincidence, we passed into a technological tempest too.
The discovery of atomic fission broke up the world of international physics. ‘This has killed a beautiful subject,’ said Mark Oliphant, the father-figure of Australian physics, in 1945, after the bombs had dropped. In intellectual terms, he has not turned out right. But in spiritual or moral terms, I sometimes think he has.
A good deal of the international community of science remains in other fields – in great areas of biology, for example. Many b
iologists are feeling the identical liberation, the identical joy at taking part in a magnanimous enterprise, that physicists felt in the Twenties. It is more than likely that the moral and intellectual leadership of science will pass to the biologists, and it is among them that we shall find the Einsteins, Rutherfords and Bohrs of the next generation.
Physicists have had a bitterer task. With the discovery of fission, and with some technical breakthroughs in electronics, physicists became, almost overnight, the most important military resource a nation-state could call on. A large number of physicists became soldiers-not-in-uniform. So they have remained, in the advanced societies, ever since.
It is very difficult to see what else they could have done. All this began in the Hitler war. Most scientists thought then that Nazism was as near absolute evil as a human society can manage. I myself think so, without qualification. That being so, Nazism had to be fought, and since the Nazis might make fission bombs – which we thought possible until 1944 and which was a constant nightmare if one was remotely in the know – well, then, we had to make them too. Unless one was an unlimited pacifist, there was nothing else to do. And unlimited pacifism is a position which most of us cannot sustain.
Therefore I respect, and to a large extent share, the moral attitudes of those scientists who devoted themselves to making the bomb. But the trouble is, when you get on to any kind of moral escalator, to know whether you’re ever going to be able to get off. When scientists become soldiers, they give up something, so imperceptibly that they don’t realize it, of the full scientific life. Not intellectually. I see no evidence that scientific work on weapons of maximum destruction has been in any intellectual respect different from other scientific work. But there is a moral difference.
It may be – and scientists who are better men than I am often take this attitude, and I have tried to represent it faithfully in one of my books – that this is a moral price which, in certain circumstances, has to be paid. Nevertheless, it is no good pretending that there is not a moral price. Soldiers have to obey. That is the foundation of their morality. It is not the foundation of the scientific morality. Scientists have to question, and if necessary to rebel. I don’t want to be misunderstood. I am no anarchist. I am not suggesting that loyalty is not a prime virtue. I am not saying that all rebellion is good. But I am saying that loyalty can easily turn into conformity, and that conformity can often be a cloak for the timid and self-seeking. So can obedience, carried to the limit. When you think of the long and gloomy history of man, you will find that far more, and more hideous, crimes have been committed in the name of obedience than have ever been committed in the name of rebellion. If you doubt that, read William Shirer’s Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. The German officer corps were brought up in the most rigorous code of obedience. To themselves, no more honourable and God-fearing body of men could conceivably exist. Yet in the name of obedience they were party to, and assisted in, the most wicked large-scale actions in the history of the world.