I see a little more social identity theory at work in the popular prints this weekend. A consultant for the usually estimable journal New Scientist, writing in yesterday’s Guardian has suggested that scientists suffer from an inferiority complex.
Mr. Brooks must meet scientists of a very different kidney to those whom I am privileged meet in my peregrinations. I find these people quite the opposite, in fact I would go so far as to say that our laboratories contain many whose years of study, reading and research have produced people most secure in their intellects and, when you enquire further with enormous personal and cultural hinterlands outide their scientific life. A scientist can venture into the literature, art and music and go way beyond the mere dilleante. As science becomes ever more complex and costly, the reverse is not true.
Scientists are intensely aware of the boundaries of their work, indeed it would be irresponsible of them not to be, but that does not equate to a feeling of inferiority. Sceintists are some of the cleverest people around, and they know it, but they do not claim to have the cures for all the ills of the world in ther lab coat pockets as Mr Brooks seems to suggest many think they have.
To bolster his somewhat tenuous case, Mr Brooks joins other journalists in apostrophizing the Large Hardron Collider. As dinosaurs are fascinating to children because they are large, terrifying and extinct, the Large Hadron Collider exerts an almost hypnotic attraction to journalists because it is large, very expensive, will do something way beyond their comprehension and has been constructed people who are, in the words of the Daily Telegraph’s Scientific Prognosticator ‘clever clogs’. The risk of it creating black holes has been underestimated, it seems by a minute amount of interest only those interested in the minute fractions of a minute amount.
Mr Brooks states some truths that scientists would not dispute: ‘Science is not the arbiter of truth. All it can do is offer opinions about the answers to certain questions that we ask of nature. And it reserves the right to revise those opinions in the light of future discoveries.’
Indeed. He then loads both barrels of his fowling piece, takes careful aim and shoots himself squarely in the foot:
‘Even mathematics loses touch with any notion of truth once it steps into the real world. Last May, the director of the Max Planck Institute for Mathematics in Germany, warned that financial systems were operating in dangerous territory because traders were transferring their naive notions of the truth of mathematics on to the “black box” models used to predict and control trading.’
So, a mathematician warns that those erroneously applying mathematics for their own ends risk the failure of that enterprise.
‘A few months later, we all found out just how dangerous that territory was.’
Were I that mathematician I would not be feeling inferior, I would be feeling rather vindicated. I would also question whether the current world financial crisis can be laid solely at the feet of mathematicians, which is what Mr Brooks seems to imply.
I think there’s some truth in his arguement; feeling inferior is common in any field, probably more so in science because your worth (or power to influence) depends on your previous work and its significance. The scientists you speak of have all achieved something.
Well, if this is the kind of people that New Scientist has been using as consultants, their recent cover begins to make a little more sense…
Don’t worry, Mr Darwin: despite the dirty campaign, we are well aware away that your “one long argument” was essentially right.
Mr Stern, thank you for your comments: I am currently researching a more lengthy piece about the manner in which Britain treats scientists, especially those in their 20s and 30s. Their employment conditions and remuneration seem to be extremely poor. Even thought if not published, even with a string of unsuccessful procedures behing them many a postdoc will have schiebed something, even if not recognized.
Crisian, a glass of sherry with you, sir. In the old days I only had one bulldog, name of Mr Huxley. Watching this week as an entire pack of ravening hounds have risen to the defence of the tree of life and cocked their collective legs all over the offending front page has been most gratifying and really needed no further comment from me.